CHAPTER V.

Waikato Times, Volume III, Issue 172, 14 June 1873, Page 2

CHAPTER Y.

Remote from public road or dwelling. Pathway or cultivated land ; From trace of human foot or hand. At Llanbelig Station two trains from London daily stopped — the one a train corresponding with the night mail fronv Euston, at 7 a.m. ; the other at four in the afternoon. Had the correspondence of tho 7 a.vi. train with the night mail' ;- been aotual as well as theoretical, Robertsdn wpuld have arrived at Aberhirnant early in the morning, long beforethetelegram from London reached the banker's clerk. But the mail was delayed ; and Robertson had to spend the night in a signal-box, beside the pointsman's fire, in the middle of ahowling wilderness of junctions and sidings backed by mountains of slack and slag, and lit up by lurid sulphurous flames from hideous belching furnace-mouths. His first impressions of wild Wales were by no means favourable 5 and when be reached Llanbelig at about five in the afternoon, he was wretchedly tired, wearied, and disgusted with his journey, and praying only«for rest and refreshment. The station at Llanbelig was a wooden hut perched on the top of an embankment ; behind it was a deserted slat© quarry ; in front, the river JMijdol foamed and fretted in a bed of splintered rocks 1 whist beyond the river, the ground sloped gradually upwards into round-backed, snow-covered mountains, whose top* were hidden by heavy lowering clouds. ' When the train had passed on, the dense mas»e» of smokeand steam emitted by its labouring engine, lit up by the last straggling rays of sunlight into a dim fuliginous glow, a* it. toiled up the steep incline, Robertson sat down on the top of his portmanteau and looked around. A tnelancholy looking man — a very hermit among railway porters — came and asked him for his ticket. ' How can I get to Aberbirnant ? ' 1 Well, indeed,, you can walk over the mountahat-'-Yeryv bad way.' ! ' What conveyances are there t ' ' There's a coach at seven in tho morning ; capital coach, sir j very good, indeed- I—yes1 — yes sir.' * And when can I get a chaise or a fly ?' 'You must order one the day before, from the hotel at: Aberhirnant 5 very good hotel, sir— capital — yes, sure.' ' Bui I must get there to-night.' * Well, you can't, unless you walk. 1 'How far is it?' * Eigteeen miles — the mountain vay, sir — very bt&way,. sir.* Now an eighteen miles' wallf in the morning to Robertson, fresh and vigorous, would have been a very practicable and enjoyable thing ; but to him worn and jaded, the prospect of eighteen miles over these bleak inhospitable mountains was unendurable. Just then, he heard the beat of horses' hoofs, and saw, coming up the valley towards the station, a carriage and pair. 'Anybody for us Johnny, bach? 1 cried a dapper littlem&n, jumping out of the carriage as it stopped at the foot of the bank. ' No one, uatees-thia gwlonnedig [gentleman] here belongs to you." c *Dear, dear, tre expected a gejitteuian too ; but be- hasn't, come, it seems.' The little man narrowly eyed this fair-haired, tall youag ' fellow, clad in light overcoat, who was, sitting on hii portmanteau. ' You seem to have missed your carriage, sir ; can we giwyou a lift anywhere, sir ? * * Oh, if you would, I should be so much obliged. I want to go to Aberiiirnant.* ' We are going that way, and will take you with pleasure. ' Robertson jumped into the carriage ; his portmanteau was put 'on the top, the door was slammed to, and they rolled, swiftly away. The contract between the roar and rattle of the noisy train and the smooth easy motion of the carriage had uponRobertson the effect of producing a sound and placid slumber.. He noticed neither tho flight of time nor the changes of theweather, but slept a most delightful, restful sleep; When he awoke, it was with a start and a sense of coldneit, and misery. It was intensely dark, and quite still.. Somemoments elapsed before he could remember where he was'; but when he did so, and found thit the carriage h*d stopped^ that his companion had left him, he let down the carriage--window in some amazement. A great rush in upon him of snow and cold icy air madahim put it up quickly. Where could he be ? 'What coul&' have happened ? He felt for the courier bag in which hecarried the documents authorising him to take possession of* Arthur Rowlands' stock and books ; it lay by his side. Hehad fancied that it hung round his neck by a strap when howenjb off to sleep, but he must have been, mistaken. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he peered through ' tUo glass front of the fawiag*, uid tried to make out where.he was ; bat nothing was Visible except the driving snow.. Tho coachman had gone as well as his companion. There must have, been an accident — a trace had broken, or the' pole; or something had happened which had necessitated* taking out the horsea and going ior assistance. They would*: be back again in a few minutes, no doubt ; meantime, howould have a pipe. Tho pipe was smoked out, but still no one came. Robertson fell asleep again, &r how long he never knew ;. when, he , awoke,, it was quite light. The snow had ceased j the moon, was gleaming through the hurryft>g~~clouds : it was intensely cold— -he could feel that — he would jump out, and see how. matters stood. Clearly enough, the pole was gone ; a bar was broken : they had taken away the horses, no doubt, to. the nearest blacksmith, perhaps miles awuy. It would have been more polite had they awakened him and (old him of the occurrence ; but, after all, probably they meant well by leaving him to sleep through it. He was wide awake »ow^ vigorous and refreshed by sleep : why should he sit freezing in the carriage tiU help came ? He would push on, on foot._ Although, for the last few days, the weather had been?, warm and pleasant in tho lowlands, yet on the high plateau on which, without knowing his bearings, young Robertson stood, the snow lay thick, matsed into deep drifts by the* wind, in the hollows of the xocks, in every sheltered nook.^ The fall that had just occurred had covered all the ground with a uniform sheet of white, ao that the banks and drifts. were undistinguishable in the hazy moonlight ; but the fall had been so light, that the wind had swept it away from the raised causeway on which the carriage stood, and the road? might be traced, a dark line waving upwards into the recesses, of the hills for miles ahead,. > *If I follow this road,' said Robertson, l I shall surely cometo Aberhirnant. I've no doubt it lies just over that risingground in front. The carriage was going ' to Aberhirnant^ If I follow the direction in which the carriage 'points, thetrack is plain enough j I shall surely come to Aberhirnant, myself.' The reasoning was good ; but there was one fatal error lathe premises. The carriage had been wheeled off the road", to afoid the chance of any other vehicle running into it, and on to a side road, which pointed directly for the higher mountains. It was no mere care track, however, that Robertson took to. It was a hard pared ctwse.way,. whiph rang under his feet as he briskly stepped out, humming'tohimself some favourite tune — rang with a hard metallic ring in the sharp, frosty air. Fourteen hundred years ago, that road had echoed to the footsteps of the grim legionaries of" Rome ; and save for the passing shepherd, or tho wandering tourist, no other footstep* had resounded; upon it., till our hero began his perilous march, boldly striding' forth along the Roman way. Ho was upon the Sam Helen. Hours elapsed ; the sky had clouded over again, the snowfell fast, the clouds were rolled away, the moon shone <fcut ; still the carriage stood black and deserted by the road -tide, the driving snow gradually piling itself against it. There was no trace of footsteps now — no track visible on the waste ; nothing but a white winding sheet of snow, covering and concealing all. Utter silence and solitude brooded over the desolate hills. But in the very stillest and most solemn hour of the night, there appeared.a light on the very xerge of the gorge which led up to this plateau whereon the. carriage stood, a light which gradually waxed brighter, till it become, resolved into two lights ; and presently there were hfard — or would have been, had there been ears to hear — the ring of harness and the muffled boat of hoofs. Soon a wagonette, drawn by four horses, drew up alongside the carriage ; the leaders were the horses which had been taken out of the carriage. In the wagonette were the coachman ; John, the banker's clerk ; a postboy, who was driving ; and William William*, the blacksmith. 'Now, sir,' said John, jumping out, and opening the carriage door. ' We've been a long time 1 but we lost our way, indeed, and couldn't get back to you. Anwyl dad! WUiam ! Thomas ! The man's gone ! Where can he be ? ' They all shouted and ballooecl > but no sound came back: to them ; the very echoes were lost in the soft snowfolds . 1 Well indeed,' said Williams, ' I believe she's gone up the Sam Helen. If she has, she's lost ; she never get back < again.' John throw himself on to the snow. The man was lost, then? On such a night as this the most skilful shepherd might fail to find his way ; how n.ucb smaller the chance for an inexperienced traveller. And tho death of the youth) was on his hoad. He never had any thought of burling him ; lie only meant to detain him, to gain time; and now that he had possessed himself of his papers, he would have been harmless for a while. How* terrible- would bo, not so much the death of the youth, a« the ever-tormenting thought that would haunt him continually— the ever-accusing £ question his conscience would always reiterate ! John jumped to bit feet. • Come, let us go and lo«>k for him ; now, in a minute. You and I William j you know the country, and all the paths.' William shook his head. ' I would not go on the Sam Helen nt night-r-no, not for hundreds of pounds.' ; Why not? Come, William, bach! Come, machgenU* 1 will not come, John Jone«. If you *i»h to get rid of your life, you can go,' ' What danger is there ? ' ' I wijl not tell you about the bog« along the Sarn—boga

if jou mils tlie tract, yon »ink like a stone in treacle I[o f I will not tell you of the mountain-side," where the track M broken aw ay, and you step on the wrong stone— Poof! yon dro*n in the pool at the bottom. No, my friend, I will tell >ou of nothing at all ; but if you go that wiy, perhaps jou meet Selen, ek#V • The men drow neaaJotm in awe. 4 Well , »nd if we meet Helen 1 ' ■Williauii shook his head. * I ihall not tell you here ; pcrhapt the hear me, eh,? But for that bonnedig, you never nee Eoro but her bones— never. If she were my kinsman, I wouldn't d»re to look for her. Helen has got he." up in the mountains. M«r the Lord have mercy upon her soil ! 1 Amen! * saufthe other* devoutly. Tliey harnetwd the two hones to the carriage, repairing the broken bara by ropei, and made their way slowly along the track by which they->had come, shouting every now and then in shrill melodious calls, if haply tho cries might chance to reach the cart of tho lost. By the fitful moonlight this dark procession, * .creeping over the snow-covered ground, seemed to take the likciie»s of a funeral ; and these melanoholy waitings, heard in the stillness of the night, might well hare been the coronach of the departed toul.