KILDEE; Or, The Sphinx of the Red House.

Auckland Star, Volume XVIII, Issue 268, 14 November 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 LIT.

A dark night in November ; the stars ob, Bcured, a mist of cold rain chilling the atmosphere. But the lights of the city gleam out, and there is a continuous roll o carriages; he pictures to himself the curveting horses, the fair forms upon the velvet cushions inside. He hears them stop before the Sharon House which is a blaze of gas, for it is the evening of the Inauguration Ball. General Montcalm was installed Governor of the State two days before; to-night the wealth, the intellect and beauty of Wallport are assembled in the grand ball-room of the Sharon House to do honour to the new chief of state. This boy who sits alone in his dingy, ill* furnished, almost garret room above a row of shops, sinks his head on his hands and remembers how he once imagined the scene of to-night. A month ago, when lie was working" for Montcalm's election — sciibbling, "stump - speaking, lying unscrupulously, he would lie at night unable to sleep, though it was usually past midnight, because of the feverish throbbing of his ambitious brain, and picture to himself that scene of prospective triumph —his patron's inauguration as governor and the ball that would follow it, He had seen himself moving through the lighted room at the side of the governor—triumphant, envied, tho incumbent of an oflice of honour. He had seen himself leading oft the dance with Honor Montcalm—queen of the night by right of her regal beauty and her proud position. One month ago this picture had seemed a shadow of what might well be. And now ! He raised his head and looked about him, then across at the glittering windows of the ball-room. He had no part in thot gay scene. No one would ask after him, no one would miss him. He sat here at the uncurtained window with the mist of rain drifting in on his haggard face. His clothes were rusty, his hair disordered, his cheeks hollow, his eyes dull and hopeless. Was this the bright, elastic, self-confident boy, who had called himself an exponent of the Nineteenth Century spirit of shrewdness and push and wide-awake tact; who had believed in himself and in his power to compass his ends by dint of boldness and brains ? One month ago ho had been pointed out as the brilliant young journalist, the dashing boy speaker, the pet of tho probable governor, the attendant, perhaps the favoured suitor, of Honor Montcalm. And now—what a swift succession of misfortunes had brought him low. He had lost the prestige of being Montcalm's pet. Tho story of his illegitimate origin had somehow gone abroad, and in that proud old city this alone was equivalent to social ostracism. Then "The Rattler" went down. It had been foredoomed to a meteoric course. Launched with borrowed capital and much brains, but little ballast of system or practical knowledge, it (like so many party journalistic crafts) had just enough financial steam to fight through ono stirring political campaign. One of its brilliant young editorial staff had gone to his neglected law, another had run off from his debtors, another had found a place on the old but sure daily which " The Kattler " had been wont to ridicule as " the mossbacked terrapin." But Hazard had not obtained any place. With all his quick, ■versatile talent, he was known to bo nob a steady worker. He was too erratic to suit these old systematic stagers. And he had been too stinging in his satire against them. The light shafts he had sent had been too keenly barbed. Besides, he waa no longer a popular favourite. His extreme course against Heathcliff had reacted against Him, and his own haughty, capricious manners mudc him enemies. He shut himself up and wrote earnestly and hopefully. He wrote an article for a review—it was declined ; a sketch for a magazine—it was returned; a spicy article'for a New York daily—it came back with the comment: " Pretty fair, but not suitable for our columns." Then ho lost belief in his capacity. He had thought himself a genius; ifc was evident he was not above mediocrity. He found it impossible to obtain employment in his own line—he tried to get it in some other. But ho did not succeed. -To his sensitive, soro spirit it seemed that every door was barred. Ho became utterly desperate He took to drinking. His habits had never been steady : but he had not before drunk to excess. Now he took to it as a nepenthe for the mortification, the shame, the misery that had come so crusbingly in tho hour when he seemed on the high road to success. He drank, and the subtle poison made him lose his remaining energy and tho power that was still in him to rise above the fate. Why did he not leave Wallport? For one thing, he had no money. The fall of " The Battler" found him with no means, and a number of little debts hanging over him. He parted with hie books, his pictures and his watch. He left his boarding-house and hid himself in the dingy half attic several stories above a shoe-shop, whence he only emerged at night. Where were his friends in the meantime ? Ho had made few genuine friends. He was too careless, selfish and imperious. Some who came forward, he repulsed coldly; he read pity in their eyes, and ho was too proud to accept pity. He haughtily, almost rudely, feiected General Montcalm'l3 offers of help. The icy worde with which the head of the old Montcalm line had rejected any personal intercourse with the basely born scion had so stung the proud soul of the spoiled boy that he would have starved rather than tako a favour from the hands of his former patron. One day he received a letter addressed in General Montcalm's handwriting. His pale cheek flushed; he tore open the envelope; out dropped a cheque for five hundred dollars, and a card on which was written, " I)o not refuse the .enclosed; it is simply In discharge of a debt." He smiled bitterly. ~ "He would not invite me to his house; Kβ would not shake hands with me in the street; does ho think I would take his money ?° he said, as he crushed the card in his fingers. He thrust the cheque into an envelope, ftddressed it to General Montcalm, and dropped ib into the mail-box. Heathcliff s overtures met with: no better ißGeesSi The mayor's heart was full of pity for tho boy. He went to see htm ono night at hie He offered to assist him in any way he mighb j he assured him of tliodnoerttyof his motives,, feufe theembitterod boy would not believe him. He answered coldly that he was no beggar foriiionoy or forfriendahip 5 allho asked was to be leffc alone. Soon after this he quit hie boarcHng-liouso and left no word as to where he had gone. As he was never seen on the streets iit tho day, it was supposed by the few who thought; about him at all, that he had.hfb Wallpori. His "den" of frefuge was in.fchG-heafcfc of.the.oifcy. Ho sjiunnjsd cojnpa,nio n ßsp, but the rattle, and tom of the ijifcroefcßj'tbe scream and hiss of the lecorDotive/tlmfccameiip to him took .away the eenee of titter solitude. By ?at And brooded over his wrongs, or tried to

forget them in drink. He coilld no longer afford wine; he resorted to the coarser stimulant— whisky. At night he slouched his hat over his face and went out to walk the streets aimlessly, that he mk'hfe tiro himself and be able to sleep. He scurried oii like" a haunted thing, looking out from under his slouched hat —out at the windows of houses in which ho had once been a welcome visitor —at Montcalm's study, where ho had sat planning j political schemes with the general, at the opera-house, where ho had Bat beside Honor Montcalm. Every day his clothes grow rustier, his face more haggard, his energies weaker, his prospects more hopeless. One meal a day came to him from a second-rate eatinghouse which he had once scorned to patronise, for this boy was dainty to fastidiousness in his food and clothes. But his means were now exhausted. He had spent his last dime to-day, to buy the stimulant which had become necessary to bolster his relaxed nerves. He took out the little blue and gold purse which Lottie had made and sent, him on his last birthday. Nobody but little Lottio kept count of his birthdays. The recollection of her came over him to-night with a flitting pang of tender regret — a passing thought of seeking her. For she was in the city. He had seen the flaming bills on the walls announcing that the troupe to which she was attached would play in Wallport to-night. He had read the newspaper praises of the " rising young actress." " Rising " was what Ac had been called little more than a month ago. " And now." he said to himself, with a harsh laugh, "now I bid fair to 'rise' in the world at a rope's end. lam the dog going downhill, which everybody feels in duty bound to kick." No, he would not go to see Lottie. Ihe last time lie had seen her he had patronised her in his airy, en prince manner. She bad been no little hurt, and she retorted in one of her flashes of piquant anger; her blue eyes raining and lightning at the same time. It was natural she should feel a little malicious triumph at his coming down. But Lottie's heart was tender as a child s. She would pity him, and pity from her he could not bear. He would not subject himself to it. He would not go to see her. Go to see her, indeed ! He laughed selfacornfully at the thought as he glanced at his reflection in the little cracked mirror on the mantelpiece. "Hook like a tramp or a gaol-bird, he said to himself. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes blood-shot. His nerves were unstrung ; his hands trembled. He felt llaccid and miserable, " I mast have a drink," he said, and he took up the little purse. He turned it wrong-side out. A tiny coin fell into his hand. He knew what it was, though he had forgotten it was there. It was a little gold dollar—one of the three (he had given two to a child) which the purso contained when it came to him. " These are for seed," Lottie wrote, and for good luck. Mind you don't lose them or spend them, unless to bring good to somebody, else you'll lose your luck." " Losemyluck," he repeated sardonically. He turned to the window, for the band hud be»un to play in the ball-room across the street. What a glorious merry burst! One end of the long ball-room faced this street. The large glowing windows were nearly opposite where ho sat. Ho could see iigures crossing the light spaces—magnificently dressed women and distinguishedlooking men. Many famous beauties and noted men will grace Governor Montcalin'e inauguration ball. What happy faces ! Ah ! there are two young men he knows well. And there is Vaughn, now upon the "Times," formerly one of his confnns in the poor dead "Rattler." Would he himself were dead. He }iad wished this often of late. He has done more than wish. With that reckless disgust of life which strangely enough assails the young more than the old, in time of trouble, he has thought of death as a refuge. He has planned to take his own life. But how ? His keenly sensitive nerves shrink from the thought of pain, his imagination recoils from the vision of death and the grave. Ho tries to think of some way _to die painlessly. Concentrated prussic acid ? Yes, that lulls with tho swiftness of lightning, but how to obtain it? No druggist will sell such deadly poison. A shot through the brain or the breast? But what if his trembling hand sent the leaden messenger through a part not vital? People had lived with balls in their lungslived to suiler through long years. People had lived with bullets- imbedded in their brains—lived to be idiots or paralyticsfate worso than death.

To open a vein and bleed.to death, they had told him, was almost painless, but he could imagine the sickening horror of watching your own lii'o blood ilow out in a great crimson jet. Then the faintness—the numbness seizing the iimbs, Iho body, tho heart. If one might inhale an anioefchetio the iuetant the vein was opened, and bo insensible to the gush of one's red life, the sickness, and. numbness ! Penknife and .chloroform—these would do the death business painlessly. Tho ghastly thought flashed into his fevered brain as he sprang to his feat, maddened by the merry music—the brilliant scene painted on the darkness of thenipht, in which his own gay, insouciant get moved happy, and heedless of his misery. He must have a drink.

There was Lottie's little gold dollar. He had it clinched in his palm. Ifc was for "luck," ehe had said. Well, luck was gone for ever. The charm had not worked —let the talisman go. He crushed his hat over his eyes and went out into the street. He would not enter one of the glittering fashionable ( !) liqu.or shops. Ho might meet someone who knew him. He hurried down the sidewalk and turned into another street. Here he presently entered a dingy bar-roonj, before the door of which a negro was playing '' Zip Coon " on a cracked Violin. He got his flask filled, and threw the coin on the counter. The blear-eyed bar-keeper picked it up and held it to the smoky lamp. " Hain't you got a more convenient sort of money about you, young man?" he asked. " I don't like to take these gold sgraps ; don't know whether they're passin' now, and th.ey ? re mighty onhandy." "I have no other pioney,' he said shortly. " Jack, you're takin , the kid's seed-corn,", sangout a half-drunken sot, who lay smoking a foul pipe. " Ain'b yer ashamed ?" "I Irin stand it, if he kin," was the answer, followed by a burst of coarse laughter. Hazard picked up his change and escaped from the reeking den. He was sick with self-loathing. He felt degraded ; he was wounded in all the finer instincts that remained to him, but he felt no spring of hope that would help him to rise. He could not rise here,. and he had neither money nor energy to get away. He had lost the belief in himself—all his proud, airy, eelf-assurance. He had lost hope, friends, everything but life ; and of what account was life ? How useless and cowardly to cling to life when it was a hateful burden. Ho would cling to it no longer. He had still a half-dollar left of Lottie's little coin. He had thought to buy bread with ifc to stay the craving for food, for he had had no dinner. But dead people do nob need to eat. He would buy chlproform instead — he had the penknife in his pocket. The red and gold globesin the window of a druggist's shop .caught, his eye. He went in and ask^d.for fifty cents' worth of chloroform. VViiJe, tie clefk waited upon him, a carriage stopped at the door—a little waterproofed figure -alighted and entered the shop.* She ,wal}se,d to the opposite counter, ifazard paidl ho attention to ;ier,' imfc as he was'liu'rrying bufc,''slid spoke to the clerk, only to say he need not troublo himself to

•wrap up the French powder she had jusb bought, as she would drop the box in her reticule, but, the silvery voice stfuok a chord of remembrance. It was Lottie s voice. He involuntarily stopped and uttered an exclamation. She turned and knew him in spite of his slouched hat. Sho was about to speak his name, bub ho rushed out of the shop. Lottie turned to the clerk : . ' „ " Thai; is a former acquaintance of mine, she said. "Do you know where ho is stopping ?" , t "I do nob," the clerk answered. "I thought ho had left the city."

(To be Continued.)