Mineral Point Tribune

RESTORED TO REASON.

It was September, and through the lovely Kentish roads, from Westerham far away to the seashore, tramped parties of hop-pickers. Among these was a party of three, a man and woman, and a girl of about eighteen. Though the moon had been up two hours they yet trudged on, weary-footed; heedless, except the girl, of the beauties around them; she, occasionally lifting her head, seemed to drink in the sweet scents floating in the air.

Halting, and raising her arms above her head as for relief from the fatigue oppressing her, she said: "It's been a long tramp to-day; aren't we soon going to rest?"

"Oh, you're findin' it out, are yer?" growled her male companion, short and clumsily built, with an expression resembling that of a bulldog. "No, we shan't stop for the next two hours."

"It's your own fault, you know," remarked the woman; "nobody asked you to come; you wasn't wanted."

"Maybe," replied the girl quietly; "but I've got to make my living, and I thought this way would be as good as any to turn an honest penny."

"Honest!" growled the man scornfully.

"You going hop-pickin'!" put in the woman- "you as might ride in your carriage?"

"You are an idiot!" exclaimed the man.

"A precious mistake we made when we thought you'd be a fortin' to us up."

"Yes, you did," was the answer; then, as they reached the top of the hill they had been toilsomely ascending, the girl, extending her arms, uttered a cry.

"What's the matter with you now? Are yer mad?"

"It's-it's the sea!" she gasped. "It must be. How beautiful!"

Her figure, full, and roundly molded, was slightly inclined; her red lips were parted; her large, dark, beautiful eyes were dilated with an expression of reverential wonder as they gazed on the vast expanse of waters flashing beneath the moonbeams.

"Shall we go near it? Shall we?" she asked.

"Not by five miles. Come along, I thought you was fired."

The silence which again fell on the party was suddenly broken by the sound of horse's hoofs coming rapidly along a side road. Before they were aware the rider had dashed round the corner and was upon them. The tramps sprang to the hedge, but before the girl could follow their example the horse had struck her, and she staggered and nearly fell.

"Can't you people keep to the right side of the road instead of struggling all over it?" he had begun when he beheld the lovely face of the girl. In an instant he had sprung down to her side.

"I am very sorry. May I help you?" he exclaimed, in concern.

"It is nothing; I am not hurt. No, not at all;" she answered. "I ought to have got out of the way?"

"The fault was mine, but I didn't think any one would be in the lane at this hour."

"On'y tramps," snarled the man; "and a course it's nothin' for a gentleman such as you to smash a score or so on 'em. If you'd killed my gal, it ud on'y be one less for the parish to support."

The gentleman glanced from one to the other, but his looks dwelt longest on Janet. Could this girl be a tramp? Never had he seen a more graceful figure nor more charming features.

"All I can say is that I am sorry," he remarked, "and would gladly make compensation. There!" and he tossed a couple of half-crowns to the man, "that will satisfy you, I suppose." Then he turned to Janet, and continued in a lower, different tone: "You are very generous; far more than I deserve. I thank you. If I had hurt you I should never have forgiven myself."

And he rode away. Janet glanced after him. She was conscious of an agreeable feeling. Then she turned, attracted by the woman who was speaking.

"What an idiot you are, Bill! You might have made all this blessed tramp go for nuthin'! Are you blind? Didn't you see that it was the son of Mr. Bridgnorth, whose hops we want to pick?"

"Was it? Whew! Never mind, old woman, he ain't likely to say anything about it, and I am five bobs to the good."

Mr. Bill Morris was right. Not only, had it not been for Janet, would Henry Bridgnorth have quite forgotten the incident, but the harvest of hops was plentiful that year, and pickers were in demand.

The Morrises were instantly engaged and soon Janet found herself at work pulling up the long poles and gathering the hops.

At first it was not easy, and hurt to the fingers, but Janet was not of a nature to give half services in anything, and she worked with a will. Besides, she was happy.

More than once she had thought of young Mr. Bridgnorth, and wondered if he ever visited the hop grounds, but that was all. Not so with Harry Bridgnorth himself. Janet had never been out of his mind since he had seen her.

He told himself again and again that he never had beheld so lovely a creature.

"If I had seen her in a picture at the Burlington," he reflected, "the proud features, the ragged clothes worn with such dignified grace, I should have admired it, but laughed at the artist designing it 'A Tramp.' Surely such as she must have been the beggar maid who won the heart of King Cophetua."

Harry Bridgnorth, after a rather long search, came suddenly upon Janet.

She was just finishing clearing a hop-pole, and was alone. If he thought her handsome before, he found her more so now, with the red sunlight about her and the rich masses of black hair gathered neatly together low down at the back of her shapely throat.

As he stood admiring her, Janet presently looked up and saw him. A smile of recognition, free from embarrassment, came to her lips. She was glad to see him again.

"Still at work?" he remarked, advancing. "Surely there is no need when the rest have ceased?"

"They work quicker than I can," replied Janet. "As yet I am new to hop picking, but I try to do my best."

"Well, you have done enough for the present. I want you to tell me how you are. I might have hurt you very much."

"You might," she smiled frankly without constraint meeting his earnest glance: "but you did not. I told you was not hurt yesterday."

"Yes; else I don't think I should have slept," he rejoined. "I certainly should never have forgiven myself."

"Why not? It was not your fault. Perhaps you were riding too fast, but you did not expect any one to be in the lane Mr. Bridgnorth."

"Assuredly not you. But you know my name?"

"My mother knew you. She has been here before."

"Your mother! Then they were your parents?"

"Yes," she smiled again; "why should they not be?"

"Because you are so different," exclaimed Harry Bridgnorth, "I can scarcely now credit it. You are so very unlike them."

"Perhaps I may change when I am as old as they and have seen as much trouble," she remarked, with a light laugh.

"You?" he ejaculated. "You never could grow like them. Do you know how beautiful you are?"

She looked at him with a half sad, half scornful expression.

"Oh, yes," she answered: "I have been told it often enough-so often that I am sick of it. I know perfectly the value of that kind of flattery. Now, Mr. Bridgnorth, I must go, please; mother is waiting for me."

"One instant. Will you tell me your name?"

"Janet Harris."

"Then, Janet, believe me, for I am sure I understand your meaning; my words are not of the nature of those flatteries to which you refer. You will not shun me; we may at least have a chat together when we meet? I think I might have killed you. Have I not a right to rejoice that you live? and I do rejoice, indeed."

This time the color rose to the girl's cheek, her long lashes fell; his tones were so soft and earnest, that hers became less firm in consequence.

"You are very good. Indeed I would not shun you; but really I must go now."

"Good-bye, then, Janet," And after a glance around to make sure that no one was near, he extended his hand.

"Good-bye, sir," replied Janet, quietly, and not heeding his outstretched hand, she moved away.

Harry Bridgnorth watched until intervening hop poles hid her; then went off thoughtfully in the opposite direction.

"Was King Cophetua an idiot or a wise man?" he pondered. "Surely the beggar maid was not so handsome nor so queenly as Janet Morris? I must see her again?" And he did, daily.

Janet Morris had found that instead of the sea being five miles off, it was not two, and when work was over in the twilight she would hurry to the shore. Harry Bridgnorth had discovered this, and not an evening passed that he did not meet her.

At first she had treated him distantly, but conscious of her power of self-protection, finally had yielded to his coming; indeed, soon began to look forward to their meetings as eagerly as he. It was very pleasant, seated with him on the sea shore, listening to the break of the waves, or to his voice telling of so many things, or won into confidence by his pleasant manners, she herself relating episodes in her own wretched life, ignorant that her heart, which never yet had known love, was expending now beneath its influence; and she, who had drawn back proudly, mistrustful of all who were her superiors, was confiding now.

One day Janet became aware of a commotion among the gatherers.

"What is it? Is anything the matter?" she asked of one standing by her.

"Don't you know? Ah, I forgot you haven't been here afore. It's only the mad lady."

"The mad lady!" ejaculated Janet.

"Well, what is there wonderful in that? Ain't you never seen a mad person, eh?"

It was Bill Morris who spoke. He had come quickly to where she stood.

"Tell yer what, though, you'd better keep back, or them big eyes of yourn, staring like that, will irritate the poor lady. They say as how if you stare at 'em it upsets 'em like scarlet do a mad bull."

Janet shrank behind the poles, not taking the trouble to doubt Bill Morris' assertion. Her thoughts, indeed, were far otherwise occupied, for just then advancing toward them came the mad lady, a tall, handsome woman, attired in deep mourning, that enhanced the delicate fairness of her complexion.

Her years could not have been much above forty, yet her hair was white as snow, with a tinge of sunlight upon it. Her expression was mournful; but it was only when you caught the vacant look of the clear, gray eyes that you perceived reason was wanting.

Who was she? Could she be Harry Bridgnorth's mother? for it was upon his arm she leaned, and the likeness between them was great. Slowly she approached, turning her gentle gaze on every side, and ever and again murmuring with a sad motion of the head.

"Not yet; not come yet! Where- where? Not here!"

Then she passed on, and went slowly out of sight.

"Who is she?" asked Janet. "Is she Mr. Henry Bridgnorth's mother?"

"No, his aunt." Something long ago sent her crazy, and she allus comes once like that when the 'ops is being gathered. I don't mind; she's harmless.
That evening Janet Harris learned the truth from Harry Bridgnorth.

Years ago his aunt, Mrs. Auckland, a young wife and mother, had her child stolen while staying with her brother, Mr. Bridgnorth. The nurse had taken it out as usual, and all that she remembered was that she had sat down under a tree while the child played about. Overcome by the heat, she fell asleep.

"It was a lovely little thing," concluded Harry Bridgnorth. "The only conclusion we could arrive at was that it had been stolen by the gypsies. My poor aunt would have it that it was the hop-pickers, for it was the hop-picking season, and her brain gave way beneath her sorrow. When the hop-gathering time has arrived, she walks through the grounds hoping she shall find her child."

"Poor lady," murmured Janet. "It must be hard indeed to lose one you love."

Harry Bridgnorth looked hesitatingly down at her as, seated on a portico of rock, she gazed seaward. Then, bending nearer, he said: "And you have never loved, Janet?"

She did not take the question in the meaning he intended.

Shaking her head, she replied, sadly, "Never! who had I to love?"

He bent over her, his hand on hers.

"But, Janet, you are capable of love! -surely, yes?"

She looked quickly up at him, waves of color dyeing her cheeks, and strove to free her hand.

"You must hear me-I must speak!" continued Mr. Harry Bridgnorth, excitedly, passionately.

"Janet, I love you!"

He strove to place his arm around her waist; but, preventing him, Janet Morris rose. Inwardly she was agitated, but her voice, her manner, were calm and self-possessed.

"Hush, Mr. Bridgnorth," she said; "you must not talk so to me."

"And why not?" he pleaded.

"Because the love I need, you must not give; and the love you may, I will not accept."

"The love I give you is honorable and true!" he cried; but she checked him.

"Hush!" she repeated; "we will part now. You do not consider what you say. When we meet again you will have had time to reflect."

"But not to change," he exclaimed, as she moved away.

Janet determined to return to London on the morrow, but before leaving she would take a last long look at the sea; and in the morning she stole away from the hop-grounds into the lane leading to the shore.

She had no fear of meeting any one at that hour.

On reaching the sands she gazed breathless with admiration. She had never seen the sea, which was tumbling rapidly in, with the sunshine dancing on the waves as now. How beautiful it was.

As she stood a piercing scream broke the stillness: turning, she beheld on the rocks of a headland close by, the mad lady. The waves were stealing up around the base, and had surprised her.

The water as yet was shallow, and Janet dashed through the waves and climbed to Mrs. Auckland's side.

"Do not fear: there is no danger," she exclaimed, soothingly. "Come with me, we can pass through."

But the mad woman, her wild look riveted on the rising water, refused to stir. Fear was on her; she had even ceased to scream. All the heed she paid to Janet was to grasp her tightly with one hand, and point with the other to the rapidly rising sea.

"Look, look!" she screamed: don't leave me! They are coming, coming! It's death! Oh, Mabel, Mabel!

In vain Janet implored, entreated, threatened: the madwoman would not stir. The girl saw that the sea was swirling round the rocks: soon it would be impossible to wade through it, yet she could not leave the poor mad woman, and called loudly for help.

The sound of her cries startled her companion; she turned, gazed wildly at Janet, then, with a shrill scream ending in hysterical laughter, fell insensible on the girl's bosom. Janet perceived that her case was now desperate. She had no strength to drag Mrs. Auckland through the waves; she could hardly support her. Already the water broke upon their feet.

Her brain reeled. Ah, 'tis a terrible thing to die thus. Yet the girl's beautiful face was firmly set. She waited death rather than leave the mad-woman.

Again and again Janet raised her voice. Hark! Was that a shout? Yes; yes; and there was the sound of oars. A moment later a boat shot around the headland.

Their perilous position had been seen by Harry Bridgnorth from the heights, and he was one of the rowers.

"Courage, courage, Janet Morris!" he called, and seeing him she feared no longer. Silently she waited, and lent her aid to assist the madwoman into the boat: then, her hand in her lover's, followed. But after that her strength failed, and she fainted.

It was Mrs. Auckland who first recovered. Sitting up, gazing wildly around, she exclaimed:

"Where is she? Where--where has she gone? Not lost again?"

"Who, dear aunt?" questioned her nephew.

"Mabel—my child! I tell you I saw her just now: She tried to save me! Ah!" as, with a joyous cry, she beheld Janet; "she is here-my darling- found!" And, flinging her arms about the girl, she kissed her rapturously.

"Aunt, do you know what you say?" exclaimed her nephew.

"Yes, yes! Look, Harry! Oh, yes! I am not mad now! Look!" Eagerly she tore from her neck a locket containing a miniature of her husband.

"Harry, that is her father: do you think I, her mother, could be deceived?"

"The likeness is wonderful. Oh, if it were so! But, aunt, this girl's parents live!"

"You mean the wretches who stole her from me," cried Mrs. Auckland fiercely, clasping Janet to her. "Have them arrested; for I tell you this is my child--my darling!"
As Harry Bridgnorth reflected, and contrasted Janet with Janet's parents, a wild hope possessed him that the shock of the striking likeness, aided by maternal affection, had restored his aunt's reason.

He determined using his father's authority as magistrate to secure Bill Morris directly Mrs. Auckland and the amazed, bewildered Janet had been conveyed to the house.

But Bill Morris himself had witnessed that scene in the boat, and had decamped; thus only his wife was secured, and frightened by her arrest, infuriated by her husband's desertion, the woman confessed all.

Struck by the child's beauty, they enticed it away, such a child being at that time needed by a woman in London. On the Morrises' return there, however, they found the woman in the hands of the police, so had to keep the child, making a tolerable market out of her beauty, which ever obtained alms from the charitable.

"Till she grew up," concluded Mrs. Morris, indignantly. "Then she'd only do what she liked, and a hand we 'ad with her."

"You see I was not wrong," exclaimed Mrs. Auckland. "Mabel, dearest, you hear you are mine-my child!"

"Mother!" murmured the girl, timidly, yielding to her embrace.

That evening Harry Bridgnorth whispered to Mabel: "Dear cousin, do you remember that I said my love could never change? What do you reply now!"

"That I am not yet fitted to be your wife. I have so much to learn."

"And when learned?"

"Need you ask?" she murmured, with a blush.