The Kenilworth Advertiser. — 1879-12-27 (Kenilworth, Warwickshire, England)

MIIICTIE—" Murkroyd Sturmrigg's voice was very low and oily now—" I am advising for your good. Do not distress yourself my friend— I would not hurt your feelings. —Well, well, if you would rather be alone for a. time, you shall leave me. But don't fret Marcus—don't fret, lam your friend."  Marcus staggered to the door. "My God," he moaned, "I am punished for my folly." "It's the best scheme, by far the best," soliloquised Mr. Sturmrigg, throwing himself back in his chair, and pulling vigorously at his cigar. He's so fond of young Fairhead, that if I made him part with much more of his wealth, I believe the cld fool would commit suicide, rather than leave his nephew penniless, and I should be baulked. But by this plan—this very pretty plan, we secure everything; and the young 'un will be as much under my thumb as his uncle. As for the girl—" He caused suddenly. The door facing him, leading to the cupboard, containing Mr. Twibell's magazines, suddenly opened. Kissie Queerie, with ashen cheeks, her very lips white as marble, a strange, terrified look, and uncertain steps, approached him. Steadying herself by the table, she stood over him.  "You are ill," he cried confusedly, for he could not meet her stony gaze; half rising, he continued, "can 1—"  "You can do nothing," she said, in freezing tones, "but answer me. I have overhead your conversation with my gnardiad. Do I understand, that, if Golden Fairhead, does not marry the woman you call Jane Sturmrigg, you menace Mr. Twibell with some terrible punishment ?" He hesitated, then he blurted savagely, averting his eyes the while: " You may understand this, that if Golden Fairhead marries you, Marcus Twibell shall be the hangsman's Christmas guest." It seemed as though she would fall. For a moment she swayed; a convulsive clutch at the table saved her, A.ligLt-1:1-143 tinge overspread her face,  "it is not possible," she muttered dreamily. Like most bad men, fiturmrigg could not meet the gaze of an innocent, injured woman. Her intense emotion, instead of softening, maddened him. He felt, too, uncomfortable in her presence; so he fell back upon a craven hearted villain's last resource—bluster.  I'll tell you what Marcus Twihell did—the good, gentle Marcus Twibell ! He murdered my wife!"  " No, no, no, no !"  . . "He was found guilty by an Australian jury. By my help he escaped. A reward was offered for his re-capture. A word from me, and he ends his life upon the gallows. If you doubt me, go and seek him now—see him shaking in every limb and ask him if what _I say is true or false."  "One word from you," she echoed in a weird, far-off voice, "will send him to the gallows. But you will never speak that word," very earnestly this.  "It remains with you. You can save him !" "How ?" eagerly.. "Swear never to marry Golden Fairhead." Her whole frame seemed to leap into life. She answered with intense energy. "I E Wear before God! Ran and tell him. Tell him there is no danger for him. Do not lose a instant—do not let him suffer another second's agony. Run," she screamed excitedly, "and give him comfort. You don't move! I tell you I swear before God.".  Sturmrigg, with a gratified smile on his heated face. left her.  "Dear -old Gnardy," she moaned hysterically, "you have given me all your love, I will give you all mine. To think," she continued, feverishly pacing the room, "that I might have brought a blight upon your good heart. Thank God! thank God!! that I have strength of mind to save him." The rush, and crash, of her fierce, varying emotions had well-nigh deprived her of reason. "But Goldy," she continued, "Goldy, what will he do? Has he courage? No, no, he will never give me up. He said so to-day. But he must, and he shall. I will not live to bring so black a shadow upon his life, and upon my own. I will not live to destroy Gnardy's life, which has been so much devoted to me. . . . I will leave them. They shall never find me. . . . Then Goldy—ob, my own Goldy I—cannot tempt me. . . . I will lose no time. . . . He may return quickly. . . . He would stop me—he would make me be his wife. . . . How full of peace the white ground looks to-night. . . . lam coming to you, snow, with a heart oolder than you are. . . Good-bye, dear old home—good-bye, good-bye." She sank upon the centre of the floor, and her small fair head fell into her hands. "Oh Goldy, my love—my own dear, dear love!" she murmured piteously—oh ao piteously ! The light in the library grew fainter and fainter; then-died altogether. Far away through the window, was a vast expense of snow clad plain.