NOVEL

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 352, 5 February 1903, Page 2

NOVEL

CHAPTER XlL—(Continued.) ff'She is—engaged to some one else?' omething in her voice as she said the words asd for a moment ra"sed her eyes to his, made hia heart beat quicker as he replied. • Heaven only knows 1 I don't know on what terms she is with him—the man. I fear—l fear they're net happy ones—a secret generally spells a sorrow—l fear that she must have anxieties—troubles—that I can't save her from, though I'd give the world to help her.' That moment's glance of Clarice's gazelle-like eyes, that seemed ehining through a mist, bad melted into his heart; and now, looking on her delicate pale fair face, so pure, so fair, with the sef tjthrill of her sweet voice in his ears, all the bitterness and anger and suspicion seemed to be washed away in a flood of pity and passion and faith. He felt 'lf she be false, then Heaven itsslf s untrue !' 'Clarice?' he broke out impetuously, ' Clarice—let me call you Clarice for once, for this first, last tune I—you know—you must know it's of you that I am thinking, it is because I care too much for you that I'm going away.' She still looked down, her hands were clasped in her lap, and there was a suppressed thrill and tremor in her soft voice as she answered «Why must you go ?' 'Will you forgive me,' he said, 'if I allude once, and only once, more, to the subject I promised not to name again? The man you met in the g&idoa that night—with whom you were talking—l recognised his voice, his figure, at the Circus the other day.' She had turned deadly pale now, and he saw her twist her clasped bands tighter. ' You recognised. No ! no! it was your fancy I' she si»id hastily, with a deep breath. ' No, it was no fancy,' he said, but with more pain than reproach or resentment in his tone.. 'So now I know that—that you are not for me. I have no hope.' 'Then there is no more to be said,' she replied in a low voice; he could not but fancy that if she had not carefully kept it low and steady it would have trembled. 'There is!' he protested suddenly and impetuously. 'There's one word more. Clarice! tell me—couldn't you—can't you —trust me P* 'Have you—have you said anything—a word aboat this to any one ?' 'Do ytu ask me that?' he rejoined almost sternly. 'Do you suspect me of breathing a syllable to any living soul ? If you can think that of me, there is indeed no more to be said between us!' * I don't—l don't think it of yen,* phe protested impulsively; he noticed the alight instinctive movement of her hand as if she wonld have reached it out towards him, and as instinctively and impulsively he caught it in his own and held it fast ' Tell me at least is there—is there any hope for me?' 'There cannot be while—while things are as they are. If it had been otherwise * a ,' If yon had been free ?' he urged. ■fc* lam free!' and her frank eyes looked ft arleealy into his 'Are you free of heart as well as cf band?—free for a man to hepe to win you, heart and hand ?' .'Yes, for a man that would trust me! But there is no such man.' 'There ia! I will trust you. But can you not trust me P Heart and soul I'll help you in any difficulty if you'll only show me hoir. 1 see you have anxieties. I belitve now the secret, the trouble is not your own. Give me the right to help you!' He pleaded urgently, and not without tope, a growing hope. For at least she listened to his plea, listened, and did not rueent tr repulse it Her breath came short as if her heart were boating quick in the conflict. ' Y u know so much already,' she said at last, with a sort of surrender in her tone, ' that ptrhaps—perhaps * f fc" Don't trust me for that reason,' he broke in as she paused hesitatingly. 'Not because I know so much already! My knowledge, the little, the very little that I know, will never pass my lips. I'll even blot it out of my heart. Trußt me—be- . came you can trust me. Tell me, that I may help you, if mortal man can help; and if I can't help, be true and silent and c*i cieet till death.' She d-ew one quick sighing breath, and 1 hen aa if making up her mind to a daring su-p, vanquishing a difficulty once and for all, she replied more firmly than tefoiet • Shall I tell you who he is that you saw ? *Y a, Clarice,' he said, simply, 'dearost, let me call you so, for you are dearest to n e—tell me—trust me.' He waa as pale as she was in the sus-peui-e and anticipation of the disclosure.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] Th.e M y stery oi A Moonlight Tryst,

By Iza Duffus Habdy, Autnor of *,MacGiloroy's Millions,' &o, &j.

[ALL BIGHTS RESERVED.

Clarice reflected a moment; then, as if an idea occurred to her, she drew her hand from bis, rose up, and went across the room to a large old-fashioned bureau, opened it, unlocked a drawer, and took out a morocco case, which she brought back to him* It contained an exquisitely painted picture, evidently a portrait, of a group of three children, a girl and two boys, apparently all within a year or two of the same age. He looked at it carefully and with curiosity.? 'Who are these?' he said. ' Thfa lovely child in white is—was—you ?' •Yes.' 'And this boy—is it your brother George? YeaP But who is this other boy? I always heard you had no other brother. Then who is this ?' •He was more like a real brother te me than George. Did you ever hear that my father had been twice married and had a daughter by his first marriage P' He shook his head, and she continued. 'My poor sister Blapche was nineteen years older than I; and she was married before I was born; she was left a widow early, and lived with us for a great part of every year; and her son Harry and George used to play in the same nursery; we were all within a year or two of the same age; and Harry and I were always very fond of each other.' She broxe off her narrative, and asked him with a sudden questioning glance, 'Do you remember the name of Oakley ?* 'N—no, I don't think so. Of course ifß a common name; one has often beard it.' 'You have seen Sir Henry's niece, Mrs. Thorold?' she resumed. 'Do you remember that name—know anything about her?' • Now I come to think of it,' he cogitated, ' I can't say I remember clearly. I was abroad, you see; I've been abroad so much, but it seems I do remember vaguely seeing something about a "Taorold case' in the English papers. Didn't Thorold kill somebody ?' ' No,' she answered in a low tone. *lt wan'—her voice trembled—' it was—poor Harry—killed bim !' Gerard started, fairly thunderstrioken, as the full meaning of the revelation flashed upon him. •My poor girl!' he said, in impetuous sympathy, «what a grief—what a terrible sorrow you have had to be*ar!' There waa no touch of recoil or horror in his tone, only an honest outburst of tender compassion for her trouble. ' I see all now,' he wont on. ' And now you will tell me how I can help you in this matter.'

She looked at him with a light of somathißg warmer than gratitude la her eyes. ' I will tell you all,' she said. «Harry and Agnes—Mrs. Thorold now—were boy'and girl sweethearts. He was passionately in love with her. He told me once that he could not remember when he first began to love her; it was all his life J And I believr, I know, she was very fond of him, but her people objected, and mischief was made between them. Agnes was very lovely—you cannot imagine what she was ia those days—a creature all bloom and sunehine, a little bit of coquette in pure lightness of heart—perhap3 just a little willul, a little exacting and ovrr sensitive —a sweet, lovable, adorable spoilt child, who thought the world was made for her, and so fresh and simple of heart she thought all things were what they seemed. She never suspected anyone of mischiefmaking or motive; it never occurred to her that any man might be thinking of her little fortune in seeking her Hugh Thorold certainly made ardent professions of lovo to her, but I am positive Bhe never would have listened to him if trouble had not ben made between her and Harry. Other people thought of her money, it she did not; Harry was sore and sensitive; he was hot-tempered and she was high-spirited. Well, to make a long Btory Bhort, my belief is that Agnes simply fell into a trap set for her. Hugh Thorold was supposed to be better off than he was; he was a better match anyhow than our poor boy; her people wanted her to make a better match; and she made it, poor girl!—made it in haste and repented it at leisure. I believe the iepentance bepan very soon. Thorold was like his brother—you have seen John Thorold ?' ' Yes, last night. a burly brute,' remarked Gerard!, wTOse impression was perhaps somewhat coloured by the possibly biassed opinion which Clarice's tone made unmistakable. 'By all accounts Hugh made poor Agnes's life miserable,' Clarice centinued; he drank, he squandered her money, he balhed h<r, he was savagtly jealous if she even looked at or spoke to another man. Of coarse Harry was the especial object ot his jealously, and you may fancy how riatry felt, hearing about his treatment ct Agnea. though I must owa it always stopped josfc short of being bad enough

for her people, who had a horror of Bcandal, to encourage her to seek a separation --till one day in one of his rages he lifted his hand to her, strack her, Agnes, who had never heard a rough word in her life until she married him! She left him then; her people were abroad, and she came to her most intimate friends, mutual friends of ours, indeed they were connsctiona by marriage of both our families —which had always been a aort of link between uu. Poor Agnes could tbink of nowhere else to go; she was a girl who had hardly ever taken a step alone; she came to Mrs. Robertson's; as ill-luck would have it I was staying there at the time, though she did not know it, and Harry came there to see me. It was the purest accident, but when Hugh Thorold came after Agnes the next day he would not believe it to be the mere chance it truly was. So far from being a planned thing, it was a surprise—a contretemps that embarrassed and fairly dismayed us all. It had just been arranged that Harry mast go away; he must not stay now that Agnes was there without her husband, and without his knowledge or consent. And then, just then before Harry had time to say good-bye, Thordd arrived. There was a dreadful scene—-' she paused as if in painful memory. 'He made false accusations against; Agnes and insulted Harry. I took Agnes upstairs and Mtb. Thorold told Harry to go at once, and after a little while she managed to get Thorold away—but, moat disastrously, Harry followed or met him, It was on a lonely country road, Harry was hot-tempered «nd impetuous, wrought almost to medaess for Agnes's sake, feeling that he was utterly powerless to help ber, that anything he could do would only make matters worse. Thorold taunted him, accused and insulted Agnes. I never—no one ever—heard exactly what passed between them at the fatal interview. Oh, it is too dreadful—l can hardly speak of it even now.' ' Don't—don't distress yourself,' Gerard urged earnestly, »there is no need to put it into words. I sec—l understand what happened— your brother nephew was carried away, and did not know what he was doing.' bhe bent her head in assent, with a eoit of shuddenng breath; he felt the hand which he had impulsively caught and held had turned cold.

•He—Harry—,zot away abroad/ she went on in a low pained voice, ' before be could be arrested. He fled not so much to save himself as for Agnes's sake. He would have stayed and faced it if it bad not been for the thought of her. For him to Btand in the dock charged witn the murder cf her husband—it would have meaHt madness or death to her! She never would have survived the horror of it. A« it was, it nearly killed her. Poor girl! sne was innocent of any wrong or intent of wrong, but I know she lives with the thought always at her heart that it all lies at her door—her husband's death, Harry'B life-lonq; exile and hourly danger. She does not know—ices not dream of hie return. I dare not—dare not tell her. I have had t© deceive her—to deceive everybody.' 'lt ifl hard—hard—cruel for you! Why did he come back ?' *lt waß' madness,' she admitted. 'lt seems that he grew home-sick, reckless; he longed for the sight of his native land, longed to hear something of Agnes. But I never dreamt he could venture on this rash step of returning here. I was the only one to whom he could turn. My father is a good, true man, but stern. Harry had his faults, poor boy, and they were just the faults for which my father had no sympathy. He thought Harry was careless and idle and extravagant; he was impatient with him—used to tell my sister she spoilt him. Then he was almost broken-tewrfced by the scandal, though it was hushed up as much as possible ; he was furious with Harry for bringing it on the family, and George was furious, too, toe never had any mercy or pity fer Harry; and we dare not trust my poor mother. She is too nervous and easily up3et; she could not keep anything from my fathor. So I have had it all to bear alone. My poor sister Blanche is gone. I always think she died of a bicken heart, though the doctors called it by another name. She charged me alone with her last messages to her boy in case I Bhould over see him again; she knew I was the only on« with whom he would communicate, that I had stood, and would stand by him through all.' ' It is like you, loyal heart and 'ne!' he said, and ventured to kiss the hand he still held. ' But now take comfort and couragf—things may not be so bad. No one has recognised him, or knows that he is here ?' 'Not a boul—unless—l fear that Mr. Frayne recognised his voice.' • Frayne P Oh, he's a good sort,' rejoined G9rard, who nevertheless was a little taken aback. 'We can keep Frayne quiet. He has no reason to blab.' 'No, ho would not betray Hirry for Agnea's sake; he knows well that any discovery would be like a death-blow to her.* 'Then there is little to fear,' he rejoined, endeavouring to speak more reassuringly than he felt. 'Hie —ar present occupation lessens the likelihood of his being recognised by anyone able to identify him. Tae Circus moves on the day after to-morrow; in one day more he will be out of this neighbourhood and the danger will be over. Now what we have to do is to get him abroad again, he will consent, I suppose P' ' I think I can induce him to leave England again now. He realises the danger more than he did at first, he knows that he must not and cannot see Agnes. He has seen me and heard all that I can tell him. Hi had a dream of making a new life for nimself under a disguised appearance and a changed name, but I have been urging and entreating him to give up fo reckless, dangerous, mad an idea. •Ton are right; as you always are; it would be utter madness I' said Gerard emphatically. *He must go abroad, and go at once; there is no peace for you, no ■safety for him, while he is here. We mußr think how it can best be managed. You must allow me to help in any way I can. For instance, the—the sinews of war will probably be required—and some —3ome little advance would be useful to him when he gets abroad while he is looking about him and making his way. Far away, in some foreign country, he will g' ton all light, have no feat! You have honoured me by your trust, and now —you will think there are no limits to my requests—l ask no more. I ask you to let me help you—io give me the right to help him Give me only hope, and let me st r ire you. Euart and soul, I'm at yoUr service. Say that you'll give me just a grain o* hope ?' (To be continued.)