The clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1883-1888, 1886-10-06

| Il
the news of the accident that If might hav
been caused by foul play on my uncle's par1
l knew him TO be mad with trouble, and
by any chance he had discovered young Red
ruth's guilt, God alone knew what he nigh
have done. But If he spoke the truth, and
knew well that he was not man "a lie,
had deeply wronged him. Instead of at
tempting to destroy, he had actually imperil
ed his own life to save the betraver of hi
daughters honor
Gently and tcnderly, I-seeured the rop,
around him. but he moaned with pain as
raised him to launch him upward. As the
rope frightened, he uttered cry of agony
However, II was too late TO avoid the risk
and il was the last chance
Supporting him in my arms as long al
possible. | saw him drawn upward. Wher
his full weight fell upon the rope his agony
grew terrible, and think, he tainted away
for he hung in the air like dead man, witt
limbs and arms pendent l watched hin
rise slowly, and felt no little anxiety lest the
rope should yield beneath his weight; for ht
was heavy man, compared to whom George
Redruth was very feather.
however, the rope stood the test and ht
was drawn safely up the abyss. After long
interval, during which | waited in sickening
rocks quaking around me. the rope again de
scended. L seized it, secured 1t under my
arnpits, and, giving the signal was drawn
| upward.
On reaching the bottom platform, | rested
! moment: then signaled again. and rose
once more into the air. By this time the
lights in my hat were extinguished. and
| was in total darkness; but as | gained the
| middle platform, half dozen hands were
stretched out to grasp me, TIL, tottering and
trembling, | stood upon my feet.
Wildly and joyfully, the men surrounded
me, almost kissing me in their rapture at my
reappearance. | looked round for George
| Redruth. He had recovered from his faint
ness, they said, and had been helped by two
| of the men up to the mouth of the mine. But
| lying on the platform, his head supported on
Michael Penmaur's knee, was my uncle.
white and bleeding like a man whose time
/ had come.
: L knelt by his side, and took his hand. He
, looked up into my face; and saw that his
eyes were tilmy and dim. The air of the
mine, even up there, was fetid and foul, and
! / saw that he breathed with difficulty.
Hugh, my lad"' he said, family Come
| close-l want 10 whisper 10 zee. Can you
| forgive me?"
/ Forgive your cried. greatly moved.
"What have l to forgive?''
Listen, lad, and I'll tell 'eev'
He paused, his head fell back, and |
thought that he was gone; but the next mo-
ment he recovered, and gazed into my face
| again. Just then the two men who had gone
up with George Redruth re-descended, and
one of thCm held out to me a flask of brandy.
l took it eagerly, and held it to my uncles
| lips. He drank little, and the spirit SEEM
| ed to revive him.
Hugh, are you thar, my lad?''
Yes l answered, fairly sobbing.
as that your hand in mine?''
Yes, yes!''
Put down your head, and listen. / be
diving, sure enough. and afOre die want to
ha' your forgiveness. They would ha' hung
zee lad, for what did. Twas / that killed
the overSeerr'
| had guessed as much, but when the truth
came from my uncle's own lips, | started in
horror. He clutched my hand, as if fearing
that | would shrink away
"Twere all on account o. my Annie my
poor little lass. We met out on the cliff be-
yant the mine, and l taxed him wi bringing
her trouble upon her. and he said summat
that made me numbering mad. He said she
were a light lass, light and bad; and, Lawtl
forgive me! afore had time to think. |
struck at 'un wi my knife! Then he stag
| gered back-'twere on the very edge of the
! crag-and the earth seemed to give way un-
der him, and lie went Over-screaming-he
went over to his death on the rocks below
| That was how it cam about didn't mean
to kill 'un, but 'twere done like a fash o.
| lightning-and the next marning-the next
| marning-they found 'un lying, dead and
| bloody on the shore"
| The confession came in stifled whispers.
often so faint that could scarcely hear; but
| other ears heard and understood it as well as
| mine. and when he ceased. horrihed muir
mur passed from man TO mani
MAY God forgive your murmured, still
| bending over him.
| He did not seem to hear me. His eyes
| were fixed on vacancy, his hand clutched
| mine like a wise. Suddenly lie leant for
ward drew his hand from mine and pointed.
'See thereF' he cried "'Tis hisseIf all
| bloody, and beckoning wi his finger. And
wha be that standing by 'un. all in white?
Anniel Annie, my lass! Speak to father
| speak t0-speak to-fatheTp'
The last word died away IN his throat
where it met the death rattle; there was
struggle, a last CONFUSION, and he fell back
| like lump of lead.
/ L IilHk tOO MtiSt nave lOSt my StliScS lOI
a time. The next thing | remember was
standing in the open air. and staggering like
| a drunken man, with kindly arms support
| ing me on either side. | looked round wild
| ly. An excited crowd of women and men sur
rounded me; and close by, not far from the
| mine-mouth, the dead body of my uncle lay
in the sunlight, with Annie and nay aunt
| bending over il and bitterly weeping.
| sunk down upon a rock, and hid my face.
| When l looked up again. saw George Red
| ruth and his mother standing near me, and
with them Madeline.
| The young master seemed quite himself.
| though greatly agitated.
"Trelawney," he said, this is sad affair.
| Well, l owe you my life"
| looked him coldly in the face; his eyes
| sunk beneath my gaze.
mo. sir" / replied. you owe your life
to the poor martyr lying yonder, and you
| know best what cause he had TO love you -
You are right he said. ''He began the
| task which you completed When the outer
rock gave way, and the sea rushed in upon
us, must have tainted; and Pendragon bore
me to the place where you found me. will
take care that those he leaves behind are
| well rewarded
Again looked him in the face.
Too late for that | answered.
| He returned my look, with something of
the old dislike. All my spirit revolted
| against him, thinking of the sorrow he had
wrought.
1T is well for you,D | said, that John
! Pendragon did not know what know. Had
| he done so, perhaps Ire would have left you
to the mercy of the sea-"
''What do you mean?" cried Redruth, turn
Ing pale as death.
ASK your own heart. God has spared
you, and taken better man. Had you met
with your deserts. you would be lying in his
place"
Take care, Trelawney! L owe you my
life. as / said, but
You owe me nothing" / returned 81
| helped you, as / would have helped my bit
terest enemy, at such moment. But now
| that it is done, almost wish it were undone;
| and you know why.''
With an impatient exclamation. he turned
| away.
Come, mother, Come, Madeline! You
see how this fellow hates me. l would glad
ly own my debt to him, but it is useless. Per
haps, when he Is cooler. he will permit me 10
be of service to him. If not-why. / cannot
help it! Come"
Mother and son walked slowly away, but
Madeline did not stir. She remained where
she had been. with her gentle eyes fixed on
me.
George Redruth turned and saw her.
sCome. Madeline - he cried; I'VE are not
wanted here"
II think am wanted she replied. Mr.
Tresawney, shall g0?-
And as she spoke she held out both hel
hands to me with loving gesture looked
at her in wonder. Then suddenly the whole
meaning of her attitude dawned upon me,
and, taking her hands with joyful cry,
| drew her to my bosom.
Pale and trembling. George Redruth re
turned and confronted Us.
Il .sNadeIine what does this meaugs