Beneath Their Feet.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 701, 10 November 1909, Page 2

Beneath Their Feet.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL AR RANGEMENT

By Iza Duffus Hardy.

Author of "The Lesser Evil," "Mac Gilleroy's Millions," "Man, Woman and Fate," "Oranges and Pomegranates," "The Butterfly," etc., etc.

COPYRIGHT.

I Hi PIER J X-Continued. One skeleton is generally regarded as the proportion per feast, but Cara Brantynham had two. St. Quentin also was aware of the death's head among the roses. He found his social duty of agreeability uphill work tbat morning. He was disturbed and annoyed by his knowledge of the position, and especially by his own enforced part in it. The sound of Dusenbury's low, rich-toned laugh, the sight of his dark smiling face across the table jarred on him, irritated him. The fellow was not deficient in a sort of meretricious good looks, in a dashing swaggering style that might possibly take some women's fancy—though St. Quentin never would have thought Rhoda Freweu would have been one of them —he had managed to attain a certain veneer of conventional good manners, but it seemed to St. Quentin that everyone except the infatuated Rhoda must recognise that it was only a veneer, and a thin one at that. On this occasion he was at his best, taking great pains to make himself generally agreeable. St. Quentin burnt to unmask him. But lot here, not now, not in the presence of these two women. He-looked across the table at Alice. Why had he not been told off to take her in? he wondered, discontentedly, aggrieved. She was wearing an almost severely simple black dress, with white roses and pearls, but there was colour enough in her own flower-like bloom; and against the black of the dress, the white of the rose, the cool opaque purify .of the pearls, the warmer white of her round throat and arms showed exquisitely fair. She was looking her loveliest; but how seldom he succeeded in catching her eye! Often it had happened o.f late that their looks had instinctively, unconsciously sought each other in a momentary flash of mutual understanding, but now he watched in vain for the smiling glance to meet his own.

ever woman was. And in one moment a man's word might hurl her down from this proud position—down to the very gutter, where these her guests would draw their silken skirts away from her. Yet the skeleton at her feast was not so much the fear of humiliation, ruin and disgrace, as the dread of losing the husband who was her lover still. If she could but keep George's love and faith, the rest might go!

By some curious flash of memory, between her and this brilliant scene there floated the picture of the little cottage home in Florida—of herself cooking the supper, and George chopping wood. And oh ! she thought, as one looking back past the flaming sword into a lost Paradise, if only this could all vanish like a dream, and he and she, just they two together, their day's work done, sit down tired and happy by the log-fire! Her thoughts were in a wide whirl, but she smiled and spoke mechanically when it seemed necessary that she should speak and smile.

Sometimes it seemed that the lights and the faces wavered before her eyes, but she held fast with a sort of numb persistency to the thought that she must not faint.

Notwithstanding the undercurrents of disturbance and trouble in the minds of more than two of the party, the stream of conversation bubbled and babbled full and free, and now and again it happened that the subject of the strange accident at Parklands came to the surface; indeed it was a matter of personal as well as general interest. Almost every one had a narrative of some curious incident of a landslip or a subsidence to relate, some of these anecdotes modestly imparted to a neighbours ear alone, others given out for the entertainment of the table in general. "Do you remember the H subsidences ? There was a curious, really comical incident happened in the Market Square there- Some draymen were rolling barrels of beer down an incline when the earth gave way, one of the casks disappeared and were never seen again!"

St. Quentin looked at her 'now and then with a mingling of compassion and wonder—wonder at her self command, wonder at what she thought, felt—above all, what she meant to do ? He pitied the unhappy woman, he would almost as soon have struck a child in arms as put her to public shame. He saw a very bad quarter of an hour before him when he saw her alone—as see her alone he must. He would not betray her unawares, unwarned, behind her backfyet he felt this could not go on! He had an uncomfortable feeling of guilt towards his old friend and comrade George Brantynham, though his conscience was clear of any thought save ; for Branynham's good, to spare him as much as possible. Then, although he had no particular personal regard for Rhoda Frewen. she was a woman, and a woman of his world; he could not look on and see her cruelly trapped.

"i 'e~total collapse," remarked the humourous member of the company without whom no table is complete. ''Then there was that case at BrierIcy; two whole cottages collapsed and fell into an o!d shaft, and an old bedridden woman was killed."

CHAPTER X. Cara was but little relieved when the dreadful dinner was. over and she had to ieave those three men at the table together, fortunately however to some extent parted by the presenceof ethers. - In the drawing-room she found the duty of entertaining the most distinguished ladies amongst her guests facilitated by Dorincourt's domestic inclination to dwell on nursery details of "the savings an<f doings of her grandchildren, and Mrs Parkland's readiness not only to relate her adventure over again for Lady Brantyham's especial benefit, but alsc to follow it up by anecdotes of other wonderful escapes which she seemed to regard as the reward of virtuore.

Nobody took much interest in the fate of the old bed-ridden woman, but there was a kind of general feeling to the effect that if such things could h3 men to a Parkland of Parklands, wLo was safe ? and Miss Frewen ascertained from her neighbour, and imparted to the table in general the cheering information tf at pan of the road between Brantynham and Bishopsleigh lay over an old disused mine, and was in all probability honeycombed with closed shafts.

w/ought mood, it seemed that the subject was curiously, even sinisterly, sywbollca! of her own position. So bad the seeming solid ground given way like a hollow shell beneath her feet at the sight of the man living whom she had deemed dead. She looked down the table at the glitter of lights and jewels, the soft she;n of silk and lace, (he shining array of silver and glass and flowers, a feast of colour and fragarnce—she heard the buzz and babble of voices and laughter, caught the words, if not the sense, of some courtly compliment Lord Dorincourt was murmuring in her ear.

She sat in this stately English home, fair mistress and flattered hostess, a woman to be envied it might seem, if

Presently when the men joined them and each drifted in the direction of the metal that seemed to him most attractive, the old General, Sir Giles Germaine sought his hostess, and Lord, Dorincourt having engaged Miss Frewen in conversation, Mr. Dusenbury followed in the General's track, to Cara's dismay. However between the two there seemed to be safety, and Lady Brantyham devoted herself to Sir Giles as far as she could without challenging Dusenbury by any absolute discourtesy of neglect; she simply dared not risk rousing his temper by any open slight. The old General would have been flattered if he had known how eagerly, almost desperately, his beautiful hostess was striving to detain her by his side, but her endeavour was frustrated by an appeal from Lady Dorincourt to the General's authority on one of his own especial subjects, a summons not to b- ignored. Sir Giles being thus called away left Cara to the mercy of Dusenbury, who had managed to take ap a position that cut her off from the rest of the party. "Bless the good dame!" he said with a g!ance in the direction of Lady Doringcourt. "How neatly she's given me a chance of a word with you!" He spoke with a pleasant smile, as if making some amusing remark to his hostess. "Well, Carrie, you queen it bravely!" he went on. "I'd like a

few of those sparklefs! I think I'll have them too! You wouldn't grudge me a few, would you, Carrie, to keep the rest?" V

Cara coudd scarcely draw her breath; she fanned herself to conceal the quivering of her lips; she strove to speak, but her voice was almost choked and inarticulate, and all she could utter was the piteous, feeble protest, "I wish you would jnot talk to me!"

"Not now, and here —eh?" he replied. "Well, I don't want to upset you, Carrie. We'll choose another opportunity—when there ain't so many eyes upon us." He saw he must not drive her too far; it was not to his interest to have a scene then and there. "That St. Quentin's looking at us," he added. "Does he remember you?" He was still smiling that so-ciety-smile; but a piercing inquiry gleamed for a moment in his eyes. "He knows you," she murmured, evading the question. "I know he does," with a muttered oath that was in gruesome contrast to his soft smile, his courteous attitude. "And you, too. Can you square him, Carrie ? I've an idea that you can. See here, when can I see you quietly, tq, talk things out?" ' "My time is not my own," she said in a low, hurried voice. "I cannot make any appointment." "I am afraid you must," he rejoined determinedly. "Don't tell me that a woman's wit can't make opportunities. Look here, either you' name time and place this evening or write to me and make an appointment. You can write to me safely, "directed to Beechwood. If I don't hear to-morrow I shall write to you, and say what I have to say plain!" "You must not!" she gasped in terror, and the feathers of the fan she held before her downcast face trembled.

"Then tell me now, when and where I can see you quietly." . She hesitated a moment, half-re-coiling, half-catching at a reprieve, if only for a day, her mind too terrified and agitated to think or plan clearly. "I will try and stay at home to-mor-row afternoon,' 3 she murmured at last. "Mr. Brunton is.going to take us for a motor drive to JJitchley Park. I will try and excuse myself." "That's it. Motoring isn't good for your nerves, and you might catch ecld. I'll be here to-morrow afternoon. I suppose, my young lady," with a sardonic gleam in his smile, "joins the motoring party. Yes —I see she's looking at me," perceiving that- Miss" Frewen's keen and clear-seeing blue eyes were turned in his direction. "She's wondering what we're talking about, eh, Carrie?" j

"Go to her —do go to her at once!" pleaded Cara; "or she will wonder why you^don't." "All right. I'm a regular Nelson for doing my duty, specially by your charming sex —always was, wasn't I, Carrie ?*"Well, the arrangement stands for to-morrow afternoon, then ? I always enjoy the country at all seasons," he added* v in a conventional tone, as Lord Dorincourt drew .near, and Sister Anne, watching on > the Tower, did not hail the cloud oj dust on the highway with greater relief than did Cara welcome the interruption. Having got rid of Du'senbury. she managed, after as brief a time as was compatible with courtesy and caution, to steer his lordship in Mr-s. Parkland's direction during her conversation with Dusenbury, and she felt that she must speak, to him before the evening was over.

She could not, would not, let him go without a word signifying what course h=>. had in view, without entreating—nay, ensuring his silence, for she simply dared not contemplate the consequences if she should refuse her entreaty. But surely he would not! He was kind, honourable, chivalrous; surely he could not obdurately insist on wrecking and destroying her life! For love and fear made the unhappy woman self-absorbed and short-sight-ed, her only idea was the passionate clinging to her purpose, to keep her secret from George. Right and wrong were blurred together in her mind; her only thought was to make one desperate effort to win St. Quentin's silence and support before her interview with Dusenbury.

working her way towards him with an aimless and accidental air,, and presently came to what she hoped looked like a casual pui.se beside him. However, it might appear to indifferent lookers-on, St. Quentin was well aware that she had sought him out intentionally, and on this hint he took the initiative. "I am glad to have the chance of a word with you, Lady Brantynham," he said. "I must speak to you." "And I to you,' she responded.

"When ? and where ?' he rejoined. "We can hardly have any private talk now," glancing at the buzzing groups within a few yards of them. "No, we must find some other opportunity," she said and he could not fail to perceive her ill-disguised nervousness, and anxiety. "Let it be soon," he urged. "This position is intolerable; things cannot, must not, go on like this," with a stern glance in the direction of a group composed of Dusenbury bending devotedly over Rhoda Frewen, and Sir George pausing with some smiling remark beside them. She looked, too, with a concealed shudder* Hastily resiling her appointment with Dusenjury, the necessity of seeing St. Quen r tin rn private first seemed to her the only thing she could do. , "Can you call to-morrow morning?' she said, her colour going from rec to white, "and if you could come in by the lodge gate, I will try and be in the garden by the rosery." "I ' will be there," he said. "Will about twelve o'clock be convenient to you-?" ' Their voices were pitched so as not to reach the general company, but nevertheless quite audible to any one close at hand, and it chanced most unluckily that the last person they desired to overhear -a word they said was closer than either of them dreamt.

Although St. Quentin, looking along the conservatory, had found the bird flown, she had not flown far, only into the library which adjoining the draw-ing-room, also opened into the glasshouse, and now returning, her gauczy dress and light step falling, unheard> ; upon the soft matting which carpeted the conservatory, Alice Brantynham heard, clear as thunder, the appointment made between thes£ two., She stood still as if a .thunderbolt had stricken her indeed. ■ •

The thorn-pricks of doubt, wonder, suspicion, had hurt her, but what were they to this dagger-strpke of conviction —[knowledge! which now stabbed her to the heart! No room for doubt now as to some secret understanding between St. Quentin and her brothers wife. And what word could that secret spell that was innocent ? They, standing together on ; the threshold with their backs turned to the conservatory, had not heard her, did not dream that she was near. If they should turn and sese- her, and know that she heard, she felt that she must drop and die of shame. Shamed through all her nature for them—the shameless who knew no shame —she shrank back in silence —then turned and fled.

CHAPTER XI. The clock § struck twelve. Alice Brantynham unconsciously clasped and even clenched her hands as she counted the strokes of the hour which Douglas St. Quentin and her brother's wife had appointed for their meeting. Only a little while ago, looking out of the window, she had seen Cara sauntering in a leisurely and aimless manner across the lawn, loitering here and here to pick a flower. Alice had Jrawn back from the window with a tingling of shame, indignation, revolt against her own instinct of reluctant interest. What should she care whether her brother's wife carried on some secret understanding with his old friend St. Quentin and made appointments to meet him in pivate? What, save for that dear brother George's . ake ?

When she looked again,, Cara had passed on out of sight. Alice fancied she caught a glimpse of the last flutter of her grey dress vanishing in the shrubbery along the path that led towards the Rosery. She, too, had noted the time, the hour of noon, and was true to the tryst, as doubtless he would be. Until now Alice Brantynham's had been the charity that thinketh no evil. But now the serpent of jealousy had stung charity and faith till, writhing under well-night mortal wounds, they failed and seemed to die in her soul.

St. Quentin also was anxious for an opportunity of speaking to her, had been anxious for it ever since their interrupted conversation two days before; but his solicitude was divided ; it was not only for his friend Brantynham's sake, not for Rhoda Frewen's interest, not only in pity for Cara, that he desired to come to some understanding with the latter. He was troubled about Alice's possible misinterpretation of his interview with her sister-in-law—the seeming difficulty of coming to any explanation with her. He was eager for a word with her apart, although he could not, at the present stage of affairs, compromise Cara by any clear explanation to Alice, if it should prove that she had indeed misjudged him from what she had seen. He had observed Alice taking Miss Farquhar into the conservatory to show her an orchid, and when a little later one of the stray men of the party followed the two girls, and presently came out with Miss Farquhar, unaccompanied by Miss Brantynham, St. Quentin thought lie saw his opportunity, and lost no time in making his way to the conservatory—to find the bird flown, the place deserted. While he lingered on the threshold, feigning to admire a palm, and debating with himself whether he wou.'d pass along the conservatory, which extended the whole length of the house, and look into tke other rooms J opening on to it, his hostess* was

She took up some fancy work and tried to occupy herself mechanically—to hold her thoughts in. leash from following that path to the Rosery, from wandering in wild wonders and speculations, what could those two have to say that must be said in secret? She did not know how long she sat there striving by the automatic occupation of her fingers to calm her mind; but it was probably a much shorter time than it seemed to her before.hef brother came into the room with a telegram in his hand and a concerned, though not deeply, disturbed expression.

"Here's a wire, Alice," he said, unnecessarily, as the familiar pink paper displayed itself in his hand. "Poor Aunt Henrietta's gone."

"Aunt Henrietta —dead?" said Alice, shocked. "Yes —died suddenly—heart failure. The doctor told me she might go off suddenly like the snuff of a candle, and here, poor soul, she's gone. Of course, there'll be a good deal for me to see after. I think I'd better go up to town this afternoon. Cara's somewhere in the grounds. Will you just run and tell her, Ally? And here, you'd better take the telegram and

show her. Of course we can't join the party to Ditchley this afternoon. If you don't want to go I'll go myself,"* he added after a moment's pause, good-naturedly, but surprised at the lack of his sister's usual ready responsiveness. Never had he known Alice to be so much as a moment be Kiadhand ia willingness to run on any errand of his. Heart and hand she was ever prompt to carry out his slightest wish.

"Oh, no, George, of course I'll go," she protested hastily, holding out her hand for the telegram. Which was it she wished to spare? Her brother or St. Quentin or Cara? She could not have told. She did not know herself. Her only impulse wat> at all risks to prevent George from breaking in unexpectedly on the interview she had overheard secretly appointed between his wife and his old friend. In spite of her resolution to hold aloof and afar, she found herself driven to the very step that of all others she had determined to avoid, the intrusion on that spot at that hour. The sting of burning curiosity that tingled in her heart was conquered by the feeling of fierce recoil that clogged her steps as she went her way to the. Rosery. It was at some distance from the house ,in a remote and sheltered part of the grounds, approached by a winding path through the shrubbery, and surrounded by a belt of lawn

(To be continued.)