PAPERSPAST

 

"Fetters of Silence."

(All Rights Reserved.)

BY HABOLD AVEBY,

Author of "An Armchair Adventure," Captain Swing," Out of the Running," "Fire, Look, and Steel," "In Days of Danger," &c.

Published by Special Arrangement.

CHAPTER XXlV.— {Continued).

"Was it fair to Sibyl that you should keep silence?"

"How could I have married her without telling you my true position, and so breaking a promise I made to Ronald not to betray the fact that he was still alive? How could I marry, when. I was no better than a beggar, with not a penny in the world I could call my own?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Why, by my father's will* everything was left to Ronald. He was supposed to be dead, so I inherited the property, but it turns out he's alive, therefore everything is his. The money I got when I sold out in Canada I've spent long ago. I tell you I'ni not worth sixpence."

There was a rustle of skirts and Judith Weir- entered the room.

"The doctor wants to speak to you, Mr. Hubert," she said, softly.

The clocks were on the stroke of eight when Colonel Elbridge passed through his own front door at Weldholm. Samson, who at the time happened to be crossing the hall in his shirt sleeves, halted, and viewed his master with blank astonishment, no doubt wondering where he had sprung from, as it was too early for him to' have returned by the first train from London. The instincts of the welltrained servant, however^ prevailed; he merely uttered a respectful "Good-morning, sir," and contented himself with sharing his surprise later on with the other occupants of the servants' hall.

The Colonel went straight to the library; he had not closed his eyes all night, yet, though his head was as heavy as lead, he felt no inclination to sleep. In a mechanical way he seated himself at his writing table; then, leaning back in his chair, fixed his gaze on the opposite wall, and thus remained for a time, motionless, sunk deep in {gloomy meditation.

Hitherto his thoughts had been divided between Hubert Fane's affairs and his own; now they were centred on the amazing discovery he had made in London. For him the problem yet remained unsolved, for he had still to learn what had been his wife's share in this ugly business. She would have no choice now but to confess; but why had she not done so before? Was there really any truth in Fane's declaration that Gertrude had meant to. make a clean breast of the matter, but that he himself had prevented her from so doing in order to shield Ronald? The young man might have said it-merely in the hope of making matters easier for his cousin.

"If she -tfould only have told me without being forced to speak," murmured the Colonel, "I could have felt then that all love and confidence had not been lost between us.V

He began to ponder over his married life, and to wonder now whether, from the begining, it had not been a great mistake. His generous nature made him ready to accept any of the blame which could be justly laid upon him. Was it not like courting disaster of some kind for a man to marry a woman so much younger than himself, a wife whose sympathies and interests must belong, as it were, to a different generation from his own? Yet hitherto their life together had always seemed happy enough. "She had no friends worthy of the name, and I thought she loved me."

But what was it that had happenedH Like the apparently trifling error in the accounts, which may furnish the first' intimation of huge defalcations, so there was no knowing what lay behind the mere fact of the real gems in the necklace having been changed for paste. Never for a .moment, did he doubt his wife's virtue, but into what slough of fraud and deceit might she not have been led? The Colonel roused himself. He recollected that there were many things to be done that day on Hubert's behalf. He had a letter to write, and might as well get tha.t finished at once, for Jie did not mean to inform his wife of his return till she came down to breakfast. He opened the drawer of his writing-table, and found confronting him an envelope on vyhich were inscribed the two words, "For William." For a moment he sat surveying it with a puzzled look, then a sudden idea occurred to his mind.

He picked up the bulky .packet,

and with a hand which trembled slightly tore it open, and unfolded "its contents. Rapidly he ran his eye over the opening sentence, then laid the manuscript down in front of him with what sounded like a great sigh of relief. It was true, then; this must have been written yesterday,.and before she had any chance of knowing thatt he had discovered ;ie stones were paste. Yes,. Hubert had not deceived him—Gertrude

had meant to confesi of her own accord.

For some moments the Colonel sat endeavouring to compose himself a little before commencing to read the closely-written pages which lay before him. A slight sound attracted his attention, and, looking up, he saw that his wife had entered the room, and was standing just inside the door.

"You have come back, liam—"

wn-

Her eye fell on the unfolded sheets of paper on the table, and she ceased speaking. For awhile she stood as if tongue-tied, gazing at her husband with a mingled look of suffering and apprehension.

"You have read it?"

To the question, uttered in a voice little above a whisper, the Colonel made no reply, inward emotion rendering him unable to' trust himself to speak. To Gertrude, however, his silence conveyed another meaning—she took it as an ominous sign of the attitude which he meant to adopt towards her. Advancing slowly she extended her hand, in a pleading manner, as if to lay it on his arm; then, sinking into a chair, she hid her face in her hands, while her whole frame be«ame convulsed with silent weeping. For a moment the Colonel Bat watching1 her; then the sight of her suffering recalled to his mind the words which Hubert Fane had spoken—"She had paid dearly for it since in a- long agony of remorse."

"Gertrude!"

It was not until he had spoken her name a second time that she looked up, her face distorted with shame and grief.

"I have not yet read what you have written here; that is, not more than the opening sentence, which is sufficient to show what h x is all about. I would much rather that you told me yourself."

"I can't, William—l can't tell you. Read wlfat I have written; then ask me any questions you like."

He rose from his chair and took up his stand beside her. There were no traces of anger in his voice. He might have been a father giving counsel rather than- rebuke to some loved child.

"Listen, Gertrude. Since I saw you last I have been with Hubert, and he has informed me that you would have told me what you have to confess some time ago if he had not prevented you. You have made up your mmd to give me your confidence, then let it be given wholly and unreservedly. It will be better, in every way, that you should say what you have to say by word o£ mouth, rather than in writing. One thing I know already that the stones in the necklace have been changed. They are no. longer the real ones, but imitation."

Gertrude Elbridge looked up quickly. "You know that?"' she said. "How —when did' you find out?"

"Idiscovered it yesterday. ComO, this is a painful ordeal for both of us, and I beg you not to let it last longer than is absolutely necessary for me to know the truth. Tell it me in as few words. as- you like; but for Heaven's sake, now that it has come to this, tell me all."

With an effort Gertrude Elbridgt appeared to summon to her aid all her stock of courage and resolution. "I don't attempt to excuse myself," she began in an hurried manner,^ her speech every now and again broken by the sobs which she found it impossible to restrain. "I know how wicked it was; but, oh, William, remember this, that I was young, and almost friendless. I loved you, and it was the fear of losing your love and tender care for me which made me act as I did, I should have told you at the time. I have wondered a hundred times since, as I have got to know more and more,of your kind and generous nature, why I never did."

She paused, pressing her hand upon her trembling lips. "Some few months before cur marriage I was staying at a house —I need not name it, but you will know the house I mean—where everyone was mad on bridge. The stakes were high; I lost heavily, and, attempting to recoup myself, jlayed, and lost again. In the end I was heavily in debt. I confessed 'he difficulty I was in to a woman riend; she had been more fortunate than I, and,^being just then in funds she lent me the money, saying it could be repaid any time. You proposed to me, arid we were married. The debt was still unpaid, and I feared, to tell you of it, as I knew how strongly you disapproved of gambling, especially in women. I knew that some day that small legacy would come to me, and I hoped that Clara would be able to wait—"

"So.it was Lady Letming?", interposed the Colonel, with a frown. "I thought as much."

He knew the woman well by reputation, and half a dozen stories which were whispered of disreputable transactions in which she had v een concerned. A year ago her career had ended in her disappearance from society, though for long enough before that she had been on the verge of ruin.

"I/did not mean to have mentioned her name, for it was my fault as much as hers. A time came, soon after we were married, when she herself was in difficulties, and she wrote pressing me to pay her what

aid."-

I owed. I was more than ever afraid then that the matter would come to your ears. I had a secret interview with Clara Lenning—it was when we were in London—and she then suggested that I should raise the money with some of my jewels. She told me that scores of people in society had done what she proposed I should do; that the stones they wore were paste, and that no one ever knew the differ^

ence. She said she knew a place where the gems could be sold, and imitation ones provided in their place, and where the utmost secrecy would be observed. In the end it was agreed that I should send the necklace to her, and that, she would have the change made. The money I received enabled me to pay the debt, with Ost a few pounds over.'.'

"But how came the necklace to reach Hubert Fane?"

"I am going to tell you. It was atolen with the other jewellery when we were at Greyfields. I believe. that night was one of the happiest of my life, for I believed that I should never see or hear of the necklace again, and that you would never know what I had done; but I was mistaken. Months passed; then one day I received a letter. I forget now exactly how it ran, but it was^from a man who said he had obtained the necklace from the thief, who had discovered, almost directly after the robbery, that it was comparatively, worthless, and so had sold it to him for a trifle. Somehow this man found out to whom it belonged, and. he imust have guessed that there were reasons why I should not wish it known that the stones were not real. His letter was really an attempt to levy blackmail. He said that if I would pay him fifty 'pounds he would rereturn the necklace for me to do what I liked with; and that if I agreed, to these terms I was to put an advertisement in the agony column of one of the daily papers. I was panic-stricken; I had the money in the bank, and I thought it best to submit."

And you paid it him?"

"No. For some days after the advertisement had appeared I heard nothing from him, then one night— the night Hubert came her© to dinner—l received a letter, which should have reached me in the morning. In it he said he was coming to Weldholip, that he would be at a certain spot in the garden ..at ten o'clock, and that he would give me the necklace in return for the fifty pounds in gold. He added— though it may have been merely an empty threat —that if I failed to keep the appointment he should not give me another chance. He must have known that I should not tell anyone, and, therefore, that he was safe. I was distracted. It was nearly nine o'clock then, and, of course, there was no chance of my getting the money, as I might have done if the letter had been delivered in the morning. In my despair I told Hubert, in a few words, just how matters stood, beseeching him to befriend me, m see the man, and, by a promise of the money, get possession of the necklace. What happened, I don't know. From Hubert's look when he came into the drawing-room from the garden I think there must have been a struggle of some kind. He told me that he had forced the man to give up the necklace, and that there would be no more trouble or need to pay the fellow anything. He said that he would take the ..necklace with him, and keep it, at all events, till I made up my mind what should be done with it."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all; and every word of it is true. Oh, William, say that you forgip me! You can't think how bitter has been my repent&nce; how often the very kindnesses you have shown me have been like barbed arrows that have pierced me to the heart."

"I forgive, you, Gertrude," he said, simply. "As I would have forgiven you months ago if only you had told me the truth."

She caught both his hands in hers, and pressed them to her lips. "Gertrude, you have no idea, I suppose, who the man was with whom Hubert had the encounter in the garden?"

She looked up, astonished at his tone, and shook her head.

'It was his own brother, Ron-

"Ronald!" she echoed, with a dazed look. "But he is dead."

"Yes, he is dead," answered the Colonel, solemnly. "He died at seven o'clock this morning."

'Shall you be long away, Hubert?"

UA month, perhaps, but not more Sibyl. His death—the inquest—in fact,, all this wretched business has knocked me up. I^ritchard himself says that I must get away for a change?'

The short. November day was drawing to a close; they had paused in their walk on some rising ground, and stood beside a gate gazing out over a landscape now growing grey and blurred in the fading light. For some moments th<fre was silence, which Fane was the first to break.

(To be Continued.) F.S-—26.

No matter how unfortunate you believe yourself to; be, you will always find someone willing to change place? with you.

Pāwhiri ki konei kia kitea tēnei tuhinga ā-nūpepa

He mea mahi aunoa e te rorohiko tēnei tuhinga. Kāore anō kia tirohia, kia whakatikangia rānei, he hapa pea o roto. Ka taea te tirotiro i te hōputu taketake, te pānui rānei i te whārangi katoa.

Mō te tuhinga nā te rorohiko i hanga

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