KILDEE; OR, The Sphinx of the Red House.

Auckland Star, Volume XVIII, Issue 256, 31 October 1887, Page 6

KILDEE; OR, The Sphinx of the Red House.

BY MAY E. BRYAN,

Author of "The Bayou Bride," "The

Fugitive Bride," &c.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The funeral of the supposed Miss Gon7.aU>, fiancee of Mayor Heatho'lff, was largely attended. The remains of the poor factory girl received a stately burial, and more than one heart was heavy with grief as they were lowered into the earth. Mine. Jean and her husband stood hand in hand looking on with tears streaming down their faces. Monsieur had brought all the flowers his little garden boasted. Ho put them on the coilin just before it was lowered. Miss Faust, sitting alone in HeaihclifTs carriage at a distance from the grave, heard tho clods fal with a strong shudder and sob behind her double veil.

HeatliclifV himself stood beside the grave. Ins hub drawn over his oy««. He had not slept for main- hours : his heart nehed for i he loss of the girl who had so endeard herself to him—who was to-day to have been his wife. He had meant to cherish her tenderly; in oaring for her happiness, in seeing her ripen under kindly influences, he had hoped to find compensation for what he had lo*t in losing the supreme love of his life. , , i His face was blistered, his hair and beard scorched by the fiery ordeal of the last night. One arm had been so badly burned that he was forced to have it in a sling. Honor Montcalm saw him from her carriage. She watched him furtively from behind her veil, and in her heart she formed a resolve. . , That evening she went to her father in his stud v. He laid down his pen and looked up anxiously ab her as she came toward him in her white dress. " You are looking badly, ray dear, sou have nob gotten over that horrible fright. It has made yon lo*e your roses." " Some others have suffered a far greater loss from lasb night's disaster, dear papa. I came an hour sinco from the funeral ot the girl who lost her life:" "You ought nob to have gone out; it was imprudent". "Papa," she said abruptly, " is your heart very much set upon being Governor?" He looked at her with much surprise. " Why do you ask such a question ?" " I should not think you would care so much for the honour ; you were in public life so long. You held a national position ; this state office must nob seem to you an honour to be greatly prized." "It is no mean honour to be put over such a state as this by her people's dioice--rriy native stale, too. Bub what are you aiming at ? You have some point you want to make. Come to it ab once. Don't beat about the bush ; ordinary women do that, and you are not an ordinary woman." " Forgive me, papa ; I will come to the point. I want you to withdraw from the gubernatorial campaign — withdraw in favour of Mr Heathcltff." " The man whom you were obliged to reject because, as you told me, he was unworthy to be my son-in-law':" "The man, father, to whom I owe my 15r e _ w ho, because of you and me, has lost his young bride and a part of his fortune." " How because 61 you and mo?" "Oh, papa, you must know ib was those disaffected workmen who burned his houses ; and they were wrought upon to do ib by the inflammable speeches' and misrepresentations of Hazard Hall and his kindred spirits, working for your election— workingoutsidej-ourknowledgeorauthoi-ity, I know—bub still working for you. And through me Heathcliff lost the woman whom to-day he was to have married. It was my bitter misfortune that I swooned from the stifling smoke and the shock oi fright—and in saving me she was left to perish. It is bub justice that we should do . what we can to make up for what he has lost through us." The general listened to her with a changing countenance. His keen eagle eye 6earclied her face. "Honor," he said as length, "do yon still love Ira Heathcliff V" A wave of crimson swept over her face; her eyes flashed a little. "Father," she answered, "'can a womar have no other motive for wishing a just act to be done to a man '/ You have taught m« to put honour above love. _ I considei that your —that my honour is concerned in this matter. This man has lost heavilj through us. He has saved my life, at nearly the cost of his own. There is onlj one reparation we can make him—let him have this office which is much to him— whose foot is but just on the.ladder ol political importance, and but. little tc you who would stand near its top. But for you, his election would be sure. Under these circumstances, does not honoui require you to withdraw f The general was silent. His daughter's arguments affected him less than hct simple wish. He had never disregarded her wishes. : At length he said : " You don'b know bhe magnitude of what you ask, my dear. This thing has gone a good way. My friends have not spared any pains on my behalf. I have no right to withdraw from this contest" without "consulting them.. I promise you that I will lay the matter before them, and if they think I can honourably take my name from the ticket, I will do it," . She came nearer to him and said earnestly: "Father, if the money that has been spent for you by your friends is all that stands in the way of your withdrawal, cannot I reniOVe that ? Remember I have grandmother's legacy. Ib is mine, you said, to do wibh as I please. It is in _tocks or bonds or something, it and. repay your friends. Cancel your money obligations to them." " Honor, remember this is nearly all your fortune. Are you really willing to have it sacrificed ?" "I am ready to; have i.b used?--.by my father in cancelling obligations that stand in the way of his fulfilling a duty" The general looked at her with misty eyes. Bub he thought it necessary to curb her too generous impulses.. "For a woman of good sense, you have very Utopian ideas, "toy child." "They are nob Utopian, my father. You taught them to hie ; that was years ago. Of late—father, don'b let selfish, reckless spirits influence you in this matter. I know how they will sneer. They sneer at every, feeling of obligation higher than mere self or party interest." " You aye meaning Hazard Hall. Poor fellow; you always have been hard upon him. You can never do justice to.that gifted boy. You_are prejudiced—jealous, my Honor.'-. , " It Is nob personal jealousy, father. True, I have always been first in your heart, and deemed this was,of Trighfc my. place. And I have -felt-a little forsaken "and thrust out of late*; Slit ibis hot this ; it is 1 that I do not want thatiboy—gifted* I grant-you—to inoculate you with the poison Of-.hiS lax principles, bis -narrow- : t#lt -^eekih'g'J.; h_S recklessness of tho claims?andirights of any who may chpnee td.?§tahd hi his way. This may be t!io "spin, of the new-- -polrtusal you, iriy father, belong to

the old-fashioned school, which recognises a higher motive than selfinterest, which looks to the good of the people whose suffrages may have placed you over them. In the vocabulary of that purer school there is still such a word as honour—honour that refuses to take unfair, advantage, or to make use of a stepping stone unless it be clean ; honour that bears on its shield the grand motto ' noblesse oblige. ' In the face of that motto my father cannot but withdraw his claim to this office in favour of a man whom ho has unwittingly injured and to whom he owes a heavy obligation—his daughter's life." The light of the full moon came iv at the window, and sin* stood in its soft stream, tall, pure, stately. Tho moonlight seemed to emanate from her. General Montcalm stretched out his arms and drew her to him. It was long since he had held her so. He was proud of his high-souled daughter, yet he was not prepared to grant her request. "What a capital pleader at tho bar was spoiled when Fate wronged you in the matter of sex, my love," lie said, when he had pressed his soldierly moustached lips to her cheek. "'Almost thou persuadesb mo'—nob quite, my dear. "I inusb consult my friends ; it is their due. If I can obtain their concurrence I will withdraw for your sake."

" For honour's sake, papa." " For honour's sake—and Honor's," he said, smiling as he kissed her once more, and put her gently from him. With this promise she was forced to be content.

Hazard Hall dropped in next moraine as usual, and the general broached the matter of the withdrawal to him.

" It is what I expected to hear," cried the young favourite. "It is your daughter's work. I recognise a woman's quixotic notions in the scheme. I know Miss Honor's lofty, bub, pardon me, wholly impracticable ideas, and I felt sure she would suggest this folly to you. Folly ib would certainly be. You are sure of being elected. You are the man the state wants. What does that fellow Heathcliff, with his machinist mind, know about administering state affairs ? Then you are bound to your friends. You are pledged to your backers. You owe something to them, and to the exponents of independent party views. You aro the backbone of these. You were late in coining out; then your friends rallied around you—heart and soul—and purse. How can you go back on them without dishonour ?"

" The money obligations would be repaid, of course,' the general said, coldly. Hazard looked ab him quickly. _ Instantly his shrewd thought divined that Honor Montcalm had offered her money to repay her father's backers if he should retire from bhe field. Ho uttered an inward oath. He set it down as due to her unquenched love for this hated Heathcliff. Would[her folly undo all his work in this campaign—make null the aims he was so confident of obtaining ? He saw his game about to be lost and instantly resolved on a bold throw. Ib was rather premature, but he would risk it. He threw up his handsome head which had been bent in thought, and walked up to his patron. "General," he said in his penetrative, impressive way, "before you haul down your colours in favour of Heathcliff, let me ask you how a patriot, devoted to your state, will like being; instrumental in putting over that state, as its ruler, a man who is accessory to a black crime—a man who harbours as his mistress a woman who is the murderer of her husband ?"

The general started as though a shell had burst at his feet.

"Hazard Hall," he cried, "what do you mean ? Speak ; are you simply mad, or do you mean my brother's murderess." • " I mean Laura Montcalm, who is concealed in this city by his honor—the Mayor of Wallport." "Do you make that assertion recklessly, or have you a shadow of proof ?' "I _peak what I know. In one week from to-day my proofs shall bo ready. Postpone your withdrawal until then, and if I do nob substantiate what I say, then lay your sure chances ab Heathclift's feet, and I'll toss my chapeau in honor of the Machinist Governor." ,

" The proofs of what you say. Give them to me now. What is office or anything beside this—this debt I owo my brother— to bring his murderer to punishment ? Don't trifle with me, boy. Where is Laura Montcalm ?"

" In ono week from to-day, general." " Swear to me that she is in the city."

Hazard thrust his slender fingers into his breast-pocket and took out a small leatherbound pocket-book. Opening its clasped pages, ho took out and uncoiled a very slender tress—a few hairs only—but quite long and bright gold in colour. "This hair was growing on Laura Montcalm's head a few hours ago," he said. Then in answer to General Montcalm's fierce eager look, he said t " In a week, general, I promise you shall know all. Promise me in return that you will not withdraw from the field in the meantime."

"You have my promise," the general answered. (To be Continued.)