The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1887-09-24 00:00:00

Phyllis and Henrietta, too, added their good wishes
and sent gifts and dainty cards to Biarritz, and there
was a quaint parcel, oddly done up and queer of
shape, which being opened was found to come froUL
the ferry house, and to be a present from Barney
Grubb and his mother. Barney's gift was character-
istic —a rustic basket very prettily carved and put
together, and filled with ferns and mosses from the
woods on the other side of the river. It was
cunningly packed and protected, so that nothing had
been injured, and seemed to spPak to Helen of English
woods and greenery with a voice that made her eyes
fill with tears and her heart beat with a mingled re-
membrance.

Flowers from Frank's grave,' she said to Mrs.
Chur •hill, when she showed her the basket. They
will always be the to me.'
Barney should have thought of that,' Mrs.
Churchill said, admiring the pretty basket. I dare-
say his only thought was to get what looked beat.'
I don't think so,' replied Helen, unrolling a parcel
that had been carefully fastened round the bottom of
the basket, and revealed a neatly-knitted pair of fine
woolen stockings and some cuffs—' with Mrs.
Mordaant's grateful duty.' Barney is a man of fine
perception and intelligence, for all his ignorance, and
he knew what I should like.'

The basket was hanging in the window of Helen's
pretty room, getting the soft, sweet sunshine to re-
vive the plants that were somewhat withered by their
journey, when she was sitting on the shore thinking
about them and through them of other things. The
quietude that always comes after great excitement
seemed to he settling down upon them all now. Mr.
Jarvis and his family were back again at Campsie
House, and things at Hillford seemed to be going on
pretty much as usual. Helen had fancied since her
illness that, for some reason or other. Mr. Jarvis
wished to keep her out of England. She had told
Mrs. Chutchill about it, and the same thing had
cro4ed that lady's mind.
She did not say so to Helen, but argued that it must
be for her health's sake; that in the spring they would
all go bails, with very little to remind them of what
had passed, and the miserable story of poor Frank's
loss almost forgotten. It seemed as though Mr.
Gayford did not mean to go back at all. Mr. Jarvis
mentioned him in the Christmas letter. The gentle-
man who had taken his place was still there, and the
Lawyer had heard that, through the death of a relation,
the Rev. Horaea had come into a considerable sum of
money.
'No one seems to know quite where he is,'he wrote.
'Letters have been received from him from different
places. I don't think Milford misses him very much
now. At first, perhaps, there seemed a blank; the
sentimental young ladies and the soft-hearted old
ones, who used to delight in crying over his sermons,
feel a void in theie hearts I have no doubt ; but the
generality of the townspeople are not broken-hearted.
I daresay you think me very unfeeling to write of a
good young man like this, but I have my own reasons
for feeling very grateful that he is out of England.
When we have a chat together perhaps I will tell you
why I want to compare notes with you anent some-
thing I gathered from you one day. Anyway, Mr.
Gayford is lost to Hillford for the present; he appears
to be wanering over the face of the earth, as if he
had the restlessness of Cain upon him.'
' The restlessness of Cain l' Helen repeated to her-
self. Ca's' ! the first murderer—the man who
murdered his brother! Ah, what a horrible thought;
I must be ill, weak, doting; but it is there. Ah,
gusrdy, dear! why did you write it? The restlessness
of Cain! How the words haunt me I Who are you ?
What do you want?
There was a step upon the shingle by her side, a
scrambling of unaccustomed footsteps over the slippery
rocks, and a man stood before her, a wild-looking
man with burning eyes and haggard face, but a face
she knew only too well—Horace Gayford, whose
name was on her lips, and whose image was in her
heart, with horrible fear and dread for its companion
there.
Helen could not scream, could not speak; the old
horror and dread mixed with something more in-
finitely puzzling than either. A sort of inability to
evade or shrink from the man was upon her in full
force, and she could only put up her hands as if she
would have pushed him away from her. She toak in
every detail of his appearance, the deep mourning,
somewhat frayed and rusty now, as if the wearer
cared very little for his personal appearance, the worn
face and thin hands like claws that he extended to-
wards her. One of his gloves was off, and she could
see a mourning ring—a memento, doubtless, of the
lost Frank. His linen was as spotless as of yore, his
fastidiousness in the matter of small things had not
left him. He would have taken her hands in his, but
she shrank back.
'No!' sho gasped. ' Ah, no; do not come near
me
Not come near you!' Helen shrank at the terrible
light that was in his eyes as he spoke. Not come
near you, when I have wandered half over Europe
waiting for this opportunity. Not come near you,
my darling! my wife that shall be?'
Are 2,01 G mad, Mr. Gayford, or am .71'
It seemed to Helen as if someone else were speak-
ing and not herself. Her horror and loathing of the
man before her had never been so great as now; and
she could hardly force herself to speak the words that
would repulse him.
Neither of us,' he said, coming closer to her, so
close that he was almost touching her as she sat; if
he did touch her she felt as if she should die, and with
a sudden effort and bound she sprang away from his
side and gained the summit of a tolerably high rock
from which she could see and be seen if anybody
came along the beach. She could not escape by the
other side of it, for there was a sheer descent of
twenty feet or so on to the jagged rocks below, and
a fall would mean dreadful injuries, if not death. But
the action of getting there seemed to break the spell
that had been on her, and give her back her power of
thought and action.
Come back,' he said to her entreatingly; yen will
be killed if you venture further in that direction.'
How do you know P' she asked. What do you '
know about this place? Don't come say nearer: don't
Jere to address me again as you did just now, or you
shall see which I fear most, your touch or the rooks
yonder.'
Sit down again, and hear me,' he said sadly.
Heaven knows I did not mean to frighten you; but I
have waited—and God knows I have waited till my
very soul has sickened for the sight of you. You ask
me what I know about this place. Ask the rocks and
cliffs, ask the sands on the shore yonder, how I have
watched and hoped for news of you. I had to go
away; but I could not stay, I came back, and the
opportunity has come, and I can speak.'
I cannot listen to anything like what you said just
now, Mr. Gayford.'
'But you must listen. What have I lived for but to
say it? Helen, I love you; love you with a love that
the poor lad who is gone could never have felt for any
living woman—a love that was as the breath of my
life; a love that came between me and everything
that a man holds most dear. You were my heaven
when I preached to the fools that were so easily
gulled. You were the pitying angel that I pictured
whenever I had to talk about heavenly messengers;
to be without you, to fancy a world where you were
not, was hell enough to make agony for a pulpit
di script ion.
How dare you talk to me in this way?' Helen
said, lo )king him full in the face, without fear now,
but not daring to move lest the old horrible influence
should come back and stop her. 'I always thought
you a wicked man; now I know it. How dare you
pretond to b 3 a Christian minister with such dreadful
thoughts in your heart?'
• Dreadful thoughts! they were thoughts of you—
thoughts of love and happiness whenever your bright
image was there. Helen, from the first moment of
our meeting you were mine and I was yours, even
then, when your future was said to be decided. I
laughed in my sleeve, for I knew better. Do you
believe in destiny. 'den, I do, and I knew then
that the time would come when you and I should
stand together in the world free, to be all in all to each
other.'
I am listening to you, Mr. Gayford,' Helen said,
valiantly, because you bar my passage, and I cannot
help it; but your wild words mean nothing to me. I
shall be glad when it pleases you to let me go.'
You will not go till you have heard me. I have
waited for this opportunity—waited, all with what
heart-sickness none can never know who have not
endured it. I heard of your illness, and watched for
news of you ti 1 the people about must have thought
I was mad. I did not go to the house because—well,
for reasons which I cannot explain now; but I think
I went mad one night when they told me you would
die.'
I never was in danger,' Helen said, quietly; weak
and low, but not /IF ar death; it was a mistake to think
so—l know that now.'

Thank Heaven for that,' he said, fervently. 'At
least, thank the Power that arranges all things. My
heaven is here upon earth, where you are. Nay, you
shall listen to me; I could make you, if I chose. Ah!
you wince. You know it. But it shall be with your
own free will that you hear what I have to say. Even
when I knew that you were to be his wife, when
the hateful tie between you seemed too strong to
be broken, I loved you to distraction. Through all
the weary time since ay love has never ceased, and
when I saw you slighted by him and neglected —'
'Stop, if you please,' Helen's calm, sweet voice said,
in a quiet tone, that stilled even his tempestuous
speech, ' you are uttering falsehoods, and you know it.
Your cousin was never inattentive to me. He never
neglected me in any way. He is dead now. But I
will not have his memory aspersed. He was my dear
brother, and I love to think of him as such.
• But he forsook you, and—'
'He did not. He was realy to carry out our
parents' wishes to the utmost The breaking of the
bond came from me alone. It is no business of yours,
Mr. Gayford, or anybody, else's, that I know of; but
it is as well that you, his kinsman, should know the
truth,'
She looked at him with utter scorn and loathing, as
she spoke—a scorn that would have been enough to
send any man in his senses away from her side at
once and for ever, but he was so blinded by his
ae s si
ignoredo n , so
hfrearnt ic
horrorin hisof
himdesire
an tdo
went obtain o hisn end,not
in thateet.
her eyes, but looking beyond her ovet!the shining

sea.
You know how I loved you; I made you know it.
You know, too, how I hid my passion. You know how
I strove to keep our poor boy straight, and at your
side. You know-
'l know you have been false to him as vou were to