The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-01-09 00:00:00

CHAPTER XLVIII.
IN THE', CHURCHYARD.

THE church dock struck eight while George Ingestre
sat on the tombstone, waiting for Catherine to come
out. At the last vibration, the doors opened, and the
peal of the organ warned him service was over. He
drew back farther into the shadow of the tower, and
waited for Catherine to pass by..

She came at last; her dress- almost touched him;
the tall, graceful figure glided by, and he followed it
without fear.

She did not return by the same road she came, but
went round the east side of the church, into a way
less frequented than the High-street. It was a shorter
and quieter path than the other, therefore she chose
it, little dreaming who was grateful for its solitude
beside herself. He strode up to her side, and the cry
came straight from his breaking heart—
"Oh, Catherine! why have you left me
It was too dark to see her face, but she did not
utter any cry of terror or surprise as she heard that
mournful wail, and felt his hand on her shoulder,
slowly, but surely, bringing her to his heart.
"Catherine, Catherine! why have you left me?"
Those mournful and passionate tones were not to be
resisted. With a low sigh, she rested her head on his
great heaving chest—his beating heart—and only
said—

"Thank God for this ! "
"Catherine, you love me ? "
"I love you."

And they did not speak again until she lifted her
head from its rest, and placed his hand upon her
shoulder; for he could scarcely stand—he was trem-
bling all over.
. .

"Ay, that is right, my Catherine; rm very weak,
hold me up."
_ _

"Oh, Mr. Ingestre, forgive me! I have done you a
great wrong."
"A great wrong, my heart! Tell me what it is. I
think lam going mad, but I will try to be sane. A
great wrong; what is it?"
"Yesterday evening a woman came all the way
from London to tell me a lie about you. I believed
that shameful lie, and left your house ; because, think-
ing it true, I could not stay in it, or ever see you
again."
"Ha! she told you a lie, and you believed it. How
then, Catherine, eh ?"
"I walked to Lowrnoor, and took lodgings for the
night with the dairy-woman, meaning to leave by
the first train for London; and I was on the plat-
form, waiting, when a gentleman came up to me in
great haste. He introduced himself, and said he was
your first cousin, Ingram Ingestre, and had some-
thing important to communicate about your affairs.
At first I would not listen; and he. then said, I
know why you leave Redfern like this—l knew it
last night; and now I have come to tell you that the
person whose tale drove you from it lied grossly. Mr.
Ingestre—George Ingestre—has no wife living; he
was not married to the mother of those two children.
If you choose, I can bring a witness to prove it. She
was not his wife; and, although again,t my own iu-
terest, I assure you of this. And, to confound the
machinations of a devil, I tell you, do not forsake
George Ingestre; take pity on him.' Then he went;
and I— ! I returned to Lowmoor, certain that you
would look for and find me at last."

"Find you at last! Nearer--nearer tome! there,
hold my hand: •;Found you at,last 04, Catherine!
how could you leave me? Cruel, e-rnel ! " _ _

His eyes were hidden on her shpulder, and his
heartbroken sobs _shook his frame. Without another
word, she led hiaeback into the -now deserted 'grave-
yard, and they sat down on the nearest tomb.
It was both cold and damp, and the grass beneath
her feet was _like a bit of marsh, it was so wet and
oozy. But what did that signify? They were to-
gether, his arm fast round her, her hand in his; and
cold and damp were things unfelt.
To him that seat on the tombstone seemed a velvet
couch, for there he could press her to his aching
heart, and lean his head upon her shoulder. She did
not speak again until his strong emotion had sub-
sided—until th)SO terrible sobs had ceased, and his
great frame no longer shook like a leaf torn by De-
cember winds. Then she asked after Cleland.
"I have found her, Catherine; she is safe—at least,
I know where she is. And now, tell me again, my
darling, what Ingram Ingestre said—tell me again;
I did not hear correctly."
George, he told me of a great sin you have com-
mitted. He told me that the poor dead boy—dear
ROSS—and his Sister were not your legitimate children;
and that the mother, who is living now, had said so
herself."
Here Ingestre burst into a loud laugh; ended it,
began another, and another, until Catherine thought
his wits were gone.
"Ah ! the hand is clear enough in this, my
Catherine!" he laughed. "So Ingram told you that,
and she, the mother, swore it? A pretty one she is!
Ha, ha! have you seen her, my own? have you seen
the sweet mother of my children? Only one left now.
Thank God, the other is gone! Thank God, I say,
with all my heart, the other is gone ! " Here he stood
erect, and lifted his hat from his head, as he repeated,
solemnly, "Thank God, he never lived for this! But
have you seen her—the mother ? " -

" fes ; it is the woman you have called Mrs.
Faunce."

"It is. She has a white face, and masses of
yellowish hair. That is the woman. She is a
drunkard : she took to drinkin.: a year after we- -we

agreed to live together as man and wife. She bore
me the children, and then I left her. I couldn't live
with a drunkard, Catherine, who invited the raff of
the streets to her bouts in my drawing-rooms. At
first I tried doctors, and, finding them useless, a mad-
house; but the fools turned her adrift, and swore the
was sane. Then, in a drunken fit, she stole a man's
watch—that was in Ireland—and was sentenced to
seven years across the sea. She returned eight months
ago, and you have seen her, Catherine. Very wrong
of me to live with such a woman, wasn't it?" he con.
tinued, with a curl of the lip; "but I couldn't well
help myself,, you see, when the thing was once done.
But now lam going to have a wife. Catherine, for-
give me! forgive me, my heart! and make men better

"Oh, Mr. Ingestre ! you have been a bad—a ban
man, indeed !"
"A bad man, indeed," he repeated; "but a better
now—now that I have you. See, my own—think
what my life has been; such a castaway thing, no
good influence near. Only the weight of this fearful
woman round nly neck; the dread of the filthy crea-
ture turning up again, and looking my children in the
face, to tell them that she—that loathsome she was
their mother. It has made me drink, and made me
swear; it has made me careless of God and man.
But I am not young now, my ill life is half spent;
and I crave with all a man's might for something
better, something worthier; and that may come to
me through you, by your teaching, by your presence,
by the kind love in your deep eyes. Catherine, you
will take me into your heart; you will fold me round
in its great love; you will be one with me, in this
world and in the next? Catherine, you Will be my
wife?"

There was a short., fierce struggle in her heart, it
was but natural--a desire to revenge her past suffer-
ing on him now, battling with the passionate love that
rose up to meet his own. For one brief moment
only; love triumphed; she put her hand on his, and
said—

"I will be all you wish me; I will forget the
seventeen years of agony I have suffered by your
wrong-doing; I will forget all I have heard since; I
will inquire :nto no other errors of the past. Only
let the future be clearer—only be what you wish to
be--a wiser and 'a better man, and I—l will never
repent that you made me your wife at last. For all
these years I have kept my love to you, and for very
conscience' sake would neither love nor marry any
other. Yes, I will be your wife, when and where you
please."
"Catherine, I have the license in my pocket now.
I brought it down to-day, the ring as well."
"See, I have the ring on my finger now, that you
married me with before. I will have that again."
She did not see the spasm that crossed his features
as he said—

"Let me look—which is the finger? Ah, I see;
made out of a golden moidore. I won't have it."
And he slipped it off her finger, and flung it away
among the graves. 'We'll have a new ring and a
new wedding; and, Catherine, I'll put it on to-morrow
morning, please God, at eight o'clock, in Redfern
Church. Will you be there? Stay; are you too tired
to walk home with me to-night? it is only six miles.
We shall be at Redfern by twelve o'clock."
No, she would not do that; she would remain at
Lowmoor for the night, and be at the church by
eight o'clock to meet Mr. Ingestre. She would rise
early, and walk.
He was not satisfied; he could not bear to leave
her. "Six miles apart, and he not knowing what
might come to her! He had so much to say; would
she not walk back with him those short six miles "

No, she would not; and he was forced to be con-
tent. They must part, too, at the corner of the road,
for she had no wish to be seen with him at night, in
a place where he was so widely known.
"Than good-bye, Catherine good-bye, until to-
morrow morning at eight o'clock. If Ido not see
you then I shall be mad. Nay, mad is but a faint
expression of what I shall be. Ah ! I cannot, canaot
leave you."
And as he held her hands tightly to his heart, he
thought of a face he had seen that night, and a clammy
sweat burst out upon him.
"I shall lose you yet," he said; "if we part to-night,
something will take you from me."
"Impossible. We believe and trust in each other.
Nothing can come between us now. What should ? "
His only answer was a groan, half checked.
"Go, George, go. Good night—good-bye."
He stooped down, and kissed her with a wild and
passionate sorrow. •

"Yes, go ? " he cried, "go ! leave me—tear your-
self away, or we shall never part. To-morrow, to-
morrow! Oh, Catherine! forgive me."
"For what ? "
"For loving you."
She laughed a low, silvery, happy laugh.
"Forgiven r
"For being a selfish, brutal wretch—for being a
daring, reckless man—tempting God's wrath; daring
men's punishment."
"To-morrow morning, my heart. Good-bye."

And she glided from his grasp, and left him there
on the gravestone, watching the darkness into which
she had merged.
Darkness, indeed, for him, when he knew that the
dense shade before him no longer contained her—that
she was, in truth, gone from him once more. He
tried to think calmly of the future he should wed
with to-morrow—of a future this very night had
given a darker, deeper shadow to.
"Does not the Evil One work for ma ? " he cried
out to his accusing conscience. "Fate bids me—
compels me to this act. To-morrow, Catherine—for
better or for worse. Heaven knows which it will be.
And now for Redfern!"
Half an hour after, he was riding furiously out of
Lowmoor, with the same expression on his face as
when he sat watching Time in his room the night
before—watching the hours as if he hated, feared, and
yet longed for what they, were hurrying up.
But George Ross was a desperate man then, and
grinned savagely at the horrible thoughts which
assailed him—thoughts which must have made a
fainter-hearted man quail. Some men ars so far de-
based as to sin with great relish: they are never More
happy than when sacrificing at the altar of their evil
deity. George Ingestre was not one of these men.
Never, for one instant, did he forget to hate the evil
thing he was committing, and himself beyond all;
but—strange inconsistency of humanity !—as little
did lie mean to turn away from it.
"No,' he cried; "with Catherine I will wed my
fate, no matter what it may be I If she can be happy
and unconscious, what matters the serpent in my
breast, gnawing my very heart out? Am I not a
man—a great strong, sinewy man, and can I not
bear? I will ! "
He fiercely spurred his horse, and grinned again—
in agony.
(To be continued.)

THE POLICE AND THE PUBLIC.
--
At the Marlborough-street Police-court, London,
on Saturday, Michael Sullivan, a labourer, was charged
with being disorderly and assaulting the police.
Police-constable Ash, 195 C, said that he was on duty
in Marshall-street, about one o'clock that morning,
when he saw the prisoner and several other men
standing at a door. They were shouting and making
a great noise. He ordered them to desist, and to go
indoors at that time of the morning; but the prisoner
said that it was where he lived, and that he should do
as he liked, and he stepped on to the step and defied
him to touch him. 'Then he turned round, struck
him on the side of the face, and ran down a passage
and up a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs the
door was fastened, and he could not get any further.
Witness caught hold of him, and they struggled until
the prisoner fell down the stairs into the back yard.
Again they closed, and the witness was struck and
kicked by the prisoner and a number of lads who
had congregated. Two other constables, 219 0
and 378 0, came to his aid, and they were ill-
treated in the same manner. Witness was struck
on the head by the prisoner with a constable's lan-
tern, aud he tried to bite him, and he had to draw his
truncheon in self-defence. The prisoner said that
195 C interfered with him first by catching hold of
Jim, and being a little excited through drink he took
his own part as best he could. It was a concocted
affair by the police. John Lewis, a tailor, said that
he was in bed in the house, and heard a great row in
the .back-yard. He procured a light, and, on going
down,. saw the two policemen acting brutally and
shamefully ill-using Sullivan. He considered it to be
a disgrace--- Mr. Mansfield: Don't tell me what
you consider, but what you saw. Witness, continu-
ity', said that he saw a policeman bring him from the
yard and shove hint through a door into Mrs. Wes-
ton's back room, and then on to a bed in which two
or three children were lying. The children screamed
frightfully, and then the officer drew his truncheon
and struck Sullivan, and in the struggle which ensued
iome of the furniture was damaged. The other
constable shouted for assistance, and a third
officer arrived. Witness did not see Sullivan
either strike or kick the police, and certainly there
was no occasion for Ash to draw his truncheon.
He seemed to have lost his temper entirely. The
landlord of a- public-house and about a hundred
persons congregated,and,,asfhmtearwe,it, and or somessinfgtheco time
there t
of
ftrhe was considerableeTlicetheycried
uproar in the neighbourhood.
The prisoner said it was not true what Ash had said
that he tried to bite him, fJr he had only two teeth
in his head. (Laughter.) Mrs. Weston said that
the constable aggravated Sullivan, who was the worse
for cirink. He pushed him violently into her rcom,
and on to the • bed where her children were sleeping,
and she saw Ash deliberately strike him with his
truncheon, when there was no one but them inside.
The prisoner observed that instead of wishing to
assault the police, he had always done his best to
protect them. He had never been in the dock before.
Mr. Mansfield: It seems to me that the disturbance
was originally caused by the policeman and the man
struggling together after the latter bad been im-
properly taken into custody. It could not be re-
garded as an aisault upon the constable, and the
nrisoner must be discharged.
a"

The Smithsonian Institution in America contains
the small nugget of gold, a little larger than a pea,
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those discoveries in California that have added nearly
1,500,000,00ad015. to the world's stock of precious
metals. The nugget is kept in a glass case, and is au
object of curiosity to aii