The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1887-11-05 00:00:00

SATURDAY, NOV. 5, 1887.

1 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
NOBLER THAN REVENGE.

- BY THE
Author of "The Heiresg of Athertone Granje."

CHAPTER XLI.
SEEN IN THE TWILIGHT.

' Now came still evening on, and twilight grey
Had in her sober livery all thin,gs'oTa-,d ;
Silence accompanied, for beasts and birds,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk. 311 LTON.

ARE you hurt, sir?'
Not much I think; thank you; I need not trouble
you, you are very good, but indeed there is no need
for you to help me.'
All this in a hurried sort of voice while Barney
was brushing the dust from Mr. Stone's coat. That
gentleman soon recovered himself, though he seemed
not a little put out by his fall; he was just such a
person as had been described to Barney. Eccentric
looking and rather odd in manner, but his oddity soon
wore off, and the two were presently talking earnestly
and on matters of importance as it seemed. One or
two peop'e passing through the wood, as they walked
side by side, saw them and remarked that Barney had
seen the strange gentleman at last.
wasn't that Jack's master?' Mrs. Mordaunt asked
as she saw Mr. Stone walk away from the ferry after
her son had put him over.'
'Yes.'
'You have met him at last, then ?'

Yes, it was an accident; he had a fall out yonder,
and I was just by. I fancy he was trying to avoid
me, and slipped in turning round.'
What should he want to avoid you for, you don't
know him, do you?'
'I do now; perhaps he mistook me for someone
else. He seems a reserved Bert of man, blt I shall
see more of him, in future. lam going to do BDMEi
little things for him, so I expect he will come here
now and then.
I wonder who he is,' Mrs. Mordaunt remarked ;
she was curiouq, after the manner of her sex.
6 If he wants ea to know lad will tell us,' her son
said, quietly. I aney, mind I don't know anything
abcut him, that ne is a man who is disgusted with
the world, and wants to be let alone. I dare say he
has been cheated or ill-used in some way; he's a nice
spoken gentleman eneugb.'
Mr. S,one did visit the Ferry-house after that day,
and made himself very agreeable to Mrs. Mordaunt ;
he and Barney held long conclaves together, from
which she was excluded, but she would as soon have
thought of trying to fly as cavilling at anything her
son did. If he and the gentleman chose to have their
secrets it was nothing to her. Mr. Stone was a very
nice man, and not above taking a cup of tea with
her now and then when he was tired, as he often was
from his long walks.
He was a little eccentric certainly, and had a queer
way of vanishing out of the back door when any one
came in at the front. A nervous man, no doubt, and
shy of strangers. A lot of gossip he managed to hear
at the Ferry-house. Mrs. Mordaunt was not a very
talkative woman, but she remembered all she heard,
and Mr. Stone managed to draw her out wonderfully,
and to get from her all she heard abnut Hillford
affairs. He was rather inclined to be disrespectful
about the ghost, the uppermost subject in all Hillford
gossip just now, and even made a pilgrimage to see
it in company with a boat load of people bent on the
same errand. No ghost came to reward their trouble,
and Mr. Stone laughed and turned the whole matter
into a jest.
Whatever Mr. Stone'J private opinion might have
been, it certainly seemed to Barney's mother that ever
s'nco his meeting with that gentlersan, he himself had
come round to the popular belief that the wood was
haunted. He never jested on the subject now, nor
expressed disbelief when others spoke of the unquiet
spirit. All he would say was that he had never seen
it.

The 'ratter was common talk now, however the
ladies at Fernbank might shut their ears and refuse
to listen to the stories that went about. There were
stories, and Mrs. Churchill had serious thoughts of
going away altogether, and letting her pretty house
to some one who had no interest in the haunted wood.
Live it down,' was Mr. Jarvis's advice when she
told her trouble to him on one of his visits. It is a
silly imposition, and the perpetrator of it will get
tired in time.' _

But it worries Madge so, and--'
Let Madge come to us if she is nervous, the ghost
will never appear to her I expect.'
I don't know, she wants to go to the wood to look
for it, so many people have seen it now; and then there
is another thing, Mr. Gayford has come back, and I
don't know why, his presence makes us uncomfort-
able. We are uncharitable, I daresay. but he seems
associated with all sorts of dreadful things, and we
can't meet him as cordially as we used to.'
'Mr. Glayford has a knack of making people feel un-
comfortable,' the lawyer said, gravely; 'I wish he
was at the other side of the world with all my heart
—I wish _

Wish what, Mr. Jarvis?'
I was going to say something I had better leave
unsaid I think,' was the quiet reply, 'and yet it is
always uppermost. I wish he was as good a man as
he professes to be I wish I could believe he knew
nothing of all the trouble that has happened to us.'
Do you mean, Helen?'
I do. What else he may have on his conscience
rests between himself and heaven; I cannot bring it
home to him, but I believe from my heart that he
could throw some light on the mystery of our poor
girl's disappearance if he would; and there are other
things, but time will show—time will show.'
He seemed strangely worried and irritable in speaking
of Mr. Gayford. Mrs. Churchill did not of course know
the private reasons he had for disliking that gentle-
man, nor of the unlucky infatuation of poor Phyllis.
Are you going to call upon him ?' she asked. He
is never going to preach again, we hear.'
never want to look upon his face again,' Mr.
Jarvis said, testily. Preach, faugh ! the very idea
makes one shiver ; the man is an atheist ; he believes
in nothing; you will know when the end comes to all
his wkqedness.'
Mrs. Churchill wondered a little to hear Mr. J aryls
express himself so strongly, but Horace Gayfor d had
been having a talk with his client, Mr. Stone, and for
some reason or other that person did not like the
look of the parson, as Barney Grubb always called
the popular clergyman. He had b en out to the ferry,
as he often went when he was at Hillford, and called
on Barney, who was sitting talking to a gentleman,
who, when he turned round, showed him the face of
his reserved client. He looked from one to the other
for a moment, and then walked into the house with a
curious smile on his face. _ _

• At last,' he said, 'you have made Barney's ac-
quaintance, th n ?'
Yes,' Mr. Stone replied; I was foolish not to do
so before; he is lik ly to be of great use to me.'
And you may trust him.'
'That he may, sir,' Barney said, with a glow of
pleasure shining over his face; 'thank you for saying
it.'
I always like to recommend honest folks,' the
lawyer said; and your mother, Barney ; is she in
Mr. Stone's confidence, too?'
No, sir, she's a woman,' was Barney's quiet
answer, and Mr. Jarvis laughed.
‘A.I4 thlrefore not t )tn ,rusted, eh ?'
She'd be trusted if the business was mine, sir, but
it isn't.'
You are quite right, Barney. With you for an
ally, and no gossiping tongues to make mischief, my
client here will get Ws bus'ness done much more
quickly than alone. I have more than once thought
of advising him to get you to help him.'
I'd rather have Barney than any man I know, un-
less you could help me yourself,' Mr. Stone said from
the corner of the room where he v/as sitting as usual
in the deepest shadow he could find; he is a better
ally even than Jack.'
• Ah, where is that young gentleman?'
He is away for a while—he is faithfulness itself—
but just at this time I cou'd not trust him; he is too
mercurial, so I have sent him to school, at least what
he calls school. He is going to be a good servant.'
You have been a lucky friend to him, Stone. Will
you put me over the river, Barney, lam going to Hope
Farm ?'
Barney arose nothing loth, and Mr. Stone took his
leave and sauntered back to the town.
I should have made bold to come to you in
London, sir,' the ferryman said, if you had not
chanced to come here to-day. I'd a little matter to
talk to you about for myself.'
'lndeed, Barney; what is it? By the way, has
Mr. Stone told you all about the business that keeps
him here? He wanted just such a man as you to help

him.'
6 I believe so, sir, and I think I can help him; at
least I believe so. It is not about him I wanted to
speak to you; it's Mr. Gayford, sir.'
What about him?'

I hardly know, only I think—l have reason to—
that be cc uld tell you something about Miss Ramsay
Se was the last that saw her. He must have been at
the place where she was when she went away, or met
tier afterwards.'
%%hat do you mean? How do you know? - Tell
me all about it,' exclaimed Mr. Jarris impatiently.
was sure I vv, right, he was in Biarritti—the
scoundrel!'
Rather impolitic words to say, perhaps; but every-
thing about Horace Gayford exasperated Mr. Jarvis
beyond measure, and he knew Barney was discreet.
All I say to you is private, you know,' be said
with a halt smile, as if regretting his hasty words.
Of course, sir.'
. Now, then, what do you know?'
Will you please to look at that, sir?'
Burney produced a small packet from his pocket,
and untoidedit carefully. It was not much, only a
bow f ribbon with a small brooch in the centre; a
twisted silver monogram, in a style very fashionable
just.then, when young ladies had their monograms
engraved and out and fashioned into brooches and all
m.nn, r of trinkets. It was a little thing to tell any-
thing. that how of plain black ribbon with the silver
levers in the centre. But Mr. Jarvis recognised it at
once; he remembered Helen's fancy for the fashion,
and tier looking at some designs in his presence, which
wajt torwards worked out for her.
I have seen that before,' he said. 'How did it
come into your possession? and what has it to do
with Miss Ramsay's loss?'
Mr. Gayford dropped it somewhere about his lodg-
Inv,' Barney said, somewhat sheepishly; for, indeed,
the possession of the relic was not Strictly_ according

He made straight for the wood, on the other side
from the river, passing the place where he deponed
to having seen his cousin for the last time, and along
the long dreary road beyond it, under the shadow of
the trees that edged the wayside. He struck into the
wood close by the Hope Farm, whither Mr. Jarvis had
been bound when Barney showed him the bow of
ribbon and Helen's brooch, and walked quickly through
the darkness towards the river, to which the whole
wood shelved down in a series of terraces, lovely in
the summer, and beautiful in the winter daylight; but
eerie and echo haunted now that there was no light,
and every branch threw a ghostly shadow.
There were noises, too; leaves crackled as he stepped
on them, as if they would fain have published to the
whole world that there was someone there who
wanted to walk in secret; and the trees rustled like a
legion of followers, all anxious to see what he wanted.
The birds seemed disturbed by his presence and twit-
tered in their hiding-places, as if their nerves were
on the rack; and rabbits peeped out and listened, and
scuttled back again, with a rustle and crackle that was
worrying and scaring in the extreme.
More than once the walker paused, thinking he was
followed—paused with a white face and beating heart
that showed how anxious and disturbed he was. But
he was quite alone. There was no sound of human
footEteps on the air—no sign of human presence in the
darkness around. His way did not lead him past
Girton's Hole. The spot he wanted to visit was a
-good half-mile away, in an uninteresting part of the
wood, where the thick trees and underwood grew
right down to the river's brink so thi kly that to pic-
nic there, or spend any time there was impossible.
When the water came in sight and hearing through
the bushes, Horace Gayford stopped and took out his
lanthorn.

T
INIIIIIM6
I al

This is the twisted oak,' he said. lam sure of it.
Yes; here is the mark I made—a mark known only
to myself, and I must go down here, right under this
branch. I remember it perfectly. Bah! How the
stuff has grown since then. So much the better for
me. It shows that no one has been here—that my
secret is safe.'

Showing a light now and then, that he might not
fall over the gnarled roots of the trees and maim him-
self, he reached the water's edge presently, and sat
down to rest a moment. He could hardly sit upright
for the overhanging branches; but there was a clear
space in front of him, and the broad river, gliding
quietly along, looking glassy and solemn in the half
light. Before him was a deep pool, and a slight whirl I,
in it—a pool made by the breaking away of the banks,
and a curious subterranean hollow, made by the
hands of man at some time, most probably.
It looked black and gruesome, as Horace Gayford
bent down over it, feeling under the overhanging
bank for something he had placed there when he was
the most popular preacher in all the country round.
For a moment or two, he thought what he sought,
was not there, and his face took an almost agonised
expression, to light up again directly with extreme
satisfaction.

It is all right,'he said to himself, softly. What a
fool I am.'
It was the end of a rusty chain he held in his band,
and he pulled it cautiously and silently till something
to which it was attached came slowly to the surface
of the water with a gurgling sort of splash, and lay
within reach of his hand. Very carefully he reached
over and took hold of it, dragging it up and laying it
on the ground beside him.
It feels heavy he murmured. I suppose it is the
water. It has been here a long time.
It was a canvas bag, a common rough thing, such
as may be seen in the country, doing duty for a valise
very often, and was tied together at the mouth with
a piece of wire. It had had a fastening of its own at
some time ; but it was old and dilapidated, and had
been fastened securely enough, but roughly, with a
bit of copper wire.
'lt's all right,' Horace Gayford said to himself. It
has not been touched. Now then, Mr. Jarvis, you
can do what you like.'
Ha looked round at a slight rustle' that seemed to
his excited ears something different from the sounci
of the leaves and the voices of the birds. But there
was nothing to be seen. Bab !lam a fool,' he sad;
to himself. There is nothing here. lam as much
alone here as if I were on a desert island. Now for
it.'
There was a man within a few paces of himl
watching his every movement as a cat watches a
mouse--a man who chuckled to himself as he saw the
wire untwisted and the mouth of the bag opened.
What will he do now?' he said to himself as the
other turned on his light the bett-r to see what he
had come to fetch.

'I must be careful,' Horace Gayford muttered. 'I
must leave nothing.'
He put his band into the bag, and drew it out with
an exclimation of rage and alarm. Dead lowes, all
wet and clammy from their immersion in the water,
bits of wood, a stone or two, and some rags were all
the bag conta'ned. Whatever had been there, what
ever he had come to the wood to fetch with so much
secrecy—had been removed, and nothing was left to
him but the horrible knowledge that it had fallen
into someone else's hands.
With a bitter curse, he shook the bag and turned
out all that was in it. There was not a vestige of
what he had hidden—nothing but the wet leave,
sticks, and stones. The man watching could see his
face quite distinctly as he bent over the clammy heap
in rage and terror.
'lt's as good as a play,' he muttered; good as
any play. Lord! if he only knew, I wouldn't give
much chance for my life if he could get at me. Not a

thing of 'em all left; all as safe as if they were locked
up in his box at home—only in a different place. It's
worth a fortune, that it is, to see him. What's he
going to do? He ain't going to drown himself,
surely.'
No. Horace Gayford was not going to drown him-
FEU. He was only seized with a curious feeling that
the thing he wanted might be there after all. He was
feeling all round in the water with a long stick, to see
if there was any trace of any thing else there—an,te
other bag or parcel that might be his. It was a feel-
ir g born of despair, and it amused the watcher.
amazingly, and made him chuckle to himself and rub
his hands through his untidy, hair with much glee.
Fish away,' he said, under his breath. There be
no bite; the fish are a I hooked and ready for the
cook, my man. Ali, I thought_ it was no go; he's
off.'
Horace Gayford had given up his vain search and
put out the light he had been using, and for a moment
he threw himself face foremost on the ground and
gave way to despair. Then he rose up, and seemed
to collect himself a little.

I must get away from here,' he said, half aloud.
must get home and think.'
He stumbled away in the darkness, which seemed to
him to have grown denser and blacker, and gained the
trodden path, with a thousand horrible fears and an-
ticipations assailing him. He was confused and
agitated, and missed the path by which he had come,
taking instead the one which led to the ferry, and
which would lead directlypast Girton's Hole. He was
so full of his own thoughts that he was not aware of
his mistake till he had come into the open space round
the hole.
It was still dark, there was no moon for a good
while, and the shadows seemed deeper and blackei
there than anywhere else in the wood. He stumbled
on with a cold shiver passing over him, and a feeling
of Lnging for the earth to hide him, the river to
swallow him up, or something to happen to him which
should deliver him from the weight that was upon
him. He was not physically brave enough to seek
death; yet he had the suicide's instinct upon him at
that moment, and only missed 'the leap into the
dark' by a spasm of bodily cowardice.
This cursed place I' he muttered. How have I
g,t here? I must have missed the path. Ah !'
The exclamation was a groan—a hideous outcry of
terror. He was in sight of the hole, on the very spot
almost where they had picniced orr that sweet summer
day that seemed ages ago now, so much had happened
since. 'there was the hoarding; he could see it quite
distinctly, for there seemed to be some sort of light
about it—ft faint glare that came from a source he
could not see, and in the midst of it, clear and sharp
in outline, with every feature as plainly visible as if it
Were noonday, was the form of Frank Hatherleigh !
It was no fancy. It was there, looking at him
with a mocking smile on its face, and the clear honest
eyes he remembered so well looking straight into his
as he gazed with horror that could not be described.
It seemed to him that his cousin moved, and was
coming towards him—still surrounded by the faint
light that appeared to be nothing earthly. It was
mor than he could bear, and, flinging up his hands
as if to keep the terrible apparition away, he bank
insensible to the ground, and knew no more.
Mr. Jarvis was perplexed and uneasy. He did
not tell his wife what was worrying him. He
had come to the conclusion for some time past
that Horace Gaylord and none other was
accountable for the disappearance of his cousin, but the
want of direct evidence that would convince anyone
else, and the difficulty of bringing such a charge home
to If na had prevented his speaking.
He was ready to act upon what he knew when the
time came and everything was ripe. This new
evidence of his complicity in the loss of Helen Ramsay
was perplexing him not a little. Phyllis was ill, too
—the girl had drooped and pined. Ever since the
return of the 'parson' to Hillford she had not been
the stme. The evil influence was at work again. No
one had said a word to him,as he was ignorant of her
escapade when she was at Hillford with the Churchills,
but he could see it, and though he said nothing he was
none the less anxious and alarmed.
You are tired to-night,' Mrs. Jarvis said, as he
threw himself wearily on to the sofa, after his return
by a late train.
yea. I have had all sorts of odd worries cropping
up— something anent that poor girl that 1 canaot
fathom yet.
What is it?'
He told her just what had happened, and how he
bad been to Horace Gaylord and taxed him with being
privy to Heleu's disappearance.
• I never thought of him,' Mrs. Jarvis said. 'The
Churchills did not know of his being in Biarritz, of
cour3e.'
'No, and he denies it. It is a tangled skein, and a
melancholy ending to a bright young Life?
Two bright young lives. Is it not a singular coin-
cidence? Do not look so worried. Here are your
letters ; shall I put them away in your own room toll
to-morrow ? You don't want any more business letters
to-night:
'No. I may as well read them. They won't be