BERYL'S HUSBAND.

Auckland Star, Volume XXII, Issue 32, 7 February 1891, Page 1 (Supplement)

BERYL'S HUSBAND.

BY MRS HARRIET LEWIS.

CHAPTER V. AS TO THE PLOT. Huplick had carried out his parb in the evil scheme he and his young master had concocted, with an apparent sincerity thab stamped him as an actor of ability. He had returned to the Riffel Inn in a seeming a<_ny of grief, had implored assistance in returning to seek for his master, and had appeared actually frantic when informed that there were no guides nearer than Zerraatt, the one who had been at the inn in the morning having departed ; and that an ascent of Monbe Rosa in such a snow-storm and without guides was an impossibility. _ There was, of course, an official investigation of the supposed tragedy, but this lasted less than a day. Huplick was required to tell his story to the leading rulers ot the town, bub his testimony did not conflict in a single point with his previous statements. Two servants of the Riltel Inn whom Convers had encountered at the moment of setting oub upon his excursion testified thab they had begged the yo«"S Englishman to employ guides, but he had answered them roughly, saying thab he knew the mountains. Conyers' travellingbag was examined, bub bhere was nothing in ib which could serve as a clue to the history of the missing man—the conspirators bad seen to thab. There was a suib of clobhes in plain black, and changes of under garments—nobhing more. The investigation over, Huplick claimed his master's effects on the ground thab there was money due him for services rendered. This claim was nob heeded. The valise was retained by the authorities in view of a possible claimant in the shape of a relative. Huplick remained at Zermatb two days, and then returned to Geneva. His firsb visib here was to tho post office. ~ , He found awaiting him a letter addressed in a disguised hand, which, on being opened, was found to contain these words, in the same disguised penmanship, bearing neither date nor address : 'All well.' This was bhe message Conyers had agreed to send him from the first postal village he reached in Italy. Huplick caretullydestroyed the missive and made his way to the office of tha 'Journal de Geneve,' a leading daily newspaper. Here he told his story of his master's fate, giving Conyers' name as ' Vane Conroy.' He supported his story with a statement which he had drawn up at Zermatt, and to which were appended the names of the three guides who had visited with him the scene of the alleged disaster. His sbabement was published in bhe nexb day's issue of bhe * Journal,' and was subBbantially copied into ' Galignani's Messenger ' ab Paris at a later date—being the item which Conyers himself read at Paris, as we have described.

Having arranged for this publication in the "Journal,' Huplick proceeded to the Hotel de Russie. Conyers, on leaving for Zermatt, had left here his elegant dressingbag and small portmanteau. The valet produced an order for these things, received them, and took the afternoon boat to Ouchy. He arrived at the Villa Belvoir about sunset. The gate was unlocked, and he let himself into the garden. No windows were open upon the side overlooking the road. Huplick went around to the rear gardens. The verandahs abovo and below were unoccupied. He entered the kitchen, and found Madame Pinnet in the act of '.Skimming her pot-au-feu. j

She uttered a scream at sight of him, and propped her ladle. *So you've come, Monsieur,' she cried, volubly, in French. ' And without a warning, and here we dine bub meagrely, as ib might be a fasb-day. Tho Madame has no appebifce—poor dear ! Where is Monsieur ?'

' Where is Madame'?' responded Huplick, s I have news for her.'

' In bhe kiosk, whence she watches continually for the steamers,' said Madame Pinnet.

Huplick turned down the garden paths, bearing in his hands his master's luggage, and neared the kiosk.

Beryl was leaning upon the balustrade overhanging the water, her eager gaze following the steamer from which Huplick bad disembarked at Ouchy, and which was now on its way to Villeneuve and the intervening ports. The young bride looked slender—almost shadowy. She was dressed in white, anl her tawny hair fell over her shouldera in a great mass of kinks and waves, and looked like a red flame in the glow of the sunset. She turned her head ab the sound of Huplick'a slow footfalls, and he saw how pale and wistful, how wan and sorrowing, was her face, even while its glorious beauby Was undimmed.

She saw him even as he did her, and in &n instant the expression of her face had changed, becoming glad and beaming. She started toward him, and ab the same moment the valeb ascended the steps ot the kiosk and laid down his burdens on the marble floor, and stood before her, grave, silent, and as one overcome with a .great grief. Beryl looked upon him in amazement. ' What is the matter, Huplick ?' she demanded. 'Is Mr Conyers arrived V 'No, madam. lam alone.' The gladness died out of Beryl's face. ' Why are you here alone ?' she asked, sharply. ' Why have you brought back jny husband's dressing-bag ? When will he return?'

' I have ill news for you, madam,' said the valet, trying to speak gently, but succeeding only in being more sleek than usual. * I have brought back my master's dressing-bag because ib belongs to you now, with all its effects.'

Beryl shuddered, and her eyes dilated. 'I don't understand,' she whispered.

*No ? My young master lefb his home £n a strange and desperate mood,' said the valet, smoothly. 'He was wild and reckless, as I had never before seen him. We made the ascent of Monte Rosa. He would not have a guide. There was a snow-storm ■ —he made a misstep—he slipped and fell—' \ Beryl sprang forward, with a strange cry.

' He—he was hurt!' she gasped. • Can you bear the truth, madam ?' said Huplick, solemnly. 'My poor young master is dead.'

There was a moment's awful silence. Beryl did not shriek nor fall to the floor in a swoom, as the valet expected her to do. But she looked at him with a face in which burned two great brown eyes like fires. A slow shudder crept over her slight frame, and she sank down upon the bench without a word.

A sensation of awed nervousness stole Dyer the valeb.

' He never knew what hurb him, madam,' he said, uneasily and awkwardly. ' He fell into a well-like fissure four thousand feet deep. Here is the statement of the guides.' He gave her the document, to which the three guides had appended their names. Beryl's burning eyes scanned it, and her dazed brain managed to gather all its meaning, 'Dead !' she whispered. ' Dead !' 'Yes, madam, dead—and buried, too, for the fissure will serve as bis grave. It is impossible to recover his body/ ' Dead !' repeated Beryl. ' Dead !' She covered her face, and the valet, afber baiting a little for her to speak, stole away with his luggage, and returned to the house. The sunset) faded, and the night ; Bame, on. ' ,

Late in the evening the young wife bade Huplick be brought'to her sitting-room. Madame Pinnet ventured a remonstrance, but as Beryl passed into her dressing-room unheeding, she called the sleek valet who was in the hall outside. He entered the dressing-room, finding Beryl in an easy chair, and looking like some storm-swept

flower. • J • -U „ J Madame Pinnet remained in the bedroom, weeping softly, and lisbemng to the remarks of her young mistress and Huplick. •Tel) me more about my husband, Huplick,' said the young wife, tremulously. « Was bhere no lasb word for me ? Did he never speak my name after leaving here ? 4 Never bub once, madam, and that was on the fatal day when he met his death,' said Huplick, glibly. ' Upon that day, as we rested upon the summit of Monte Ro3a, a change seemed to come over his wild and reckless mood, and he says to me, says he, "Huplick, do you believe in presentiments?" And says I. "Why, no, sir." Then says he, "Huplick, I feel_ a strange depression," says he, " which is like a presentiment of approaching evil. And," says he, "ib may be that something is going to happen to me. If I should come to any harm," he goes on, " break the news gently to my poor wife, and tell her there's money in my desk which she is to have, and she is to have all my effects. And tell her," says he, " that I am nob worthy her tears ; that I havo been vile and wicked ; that I married her because I supposed her an heiress ; and tell her, too, that Dane Conyers is nob my real name, bub that my real name will never be known bo her. Tell her these things if anything should happen to me, bub nob otherwise." ' 'And those wero his lasb words of me?' said Beryl. 'His very lasb—excepting—Bub I cannob tell the rest. He is dead, and the words had besb nob be repeated,' said Huplick, arbfully. * I command j_u bo tell me, said the young wife, wibh a sorrowful sternness. ' Whatever ho said of me you must tell me.' 'Hesaid this, madam,' said Huplick, with feigned reluctance. 'Ho said, if nothing did happen to him, he would never live wibh you again, never acknowledge you a3 his wife ; that in fact he would repudiate you. He married you under an assumed name, and the marriage is, therefore, nob legal.' Beryl arose to her feeb, the incarnation of outraged innocence. *He said thi3—to you ?' * Yes, madam, I swear it.' * And is ib true ?' 'Ib is brue that " Dane Conyers " is not his real name,' said Huplick. 'It is true thab hi 3 marriage under an assumed name is no marriage. It is true that you were nob his wife ; bhab you are nob now his widow. Ib is brue that his story of having an income of eight hundred pounds a year was a pure fabrication. He was an adventurer, benb on marrying an heiress. Had you proved to be an heiress, as he expected, he would have retained as his own the very respectable name under which he married you.' Beryl pointed to the door. ' Leave me,' she said. ' Go !'

* Yes, madam. I will remain ab the villa to-morrow, and shall be ready to give you further particulars in regard to my master's death.' He bowed low and withdrew. Beryl dismissed Madame Pinneb, thus finding herself alone. She paced to and fro like a caged lioness. A mere child of sixteen years, brought up in a convent-like exclusion, she was innocent as a dove, pure as an angel, and upon points of law a3 ignorant as a babe. Truthful, honest, frank and unsuspicious, she did not doubt a word of Huplick's story. Her life had been so dreary always that ib was easier for her to believe that evil should happen to her rather than good.'

After a while, she caughb sight of Conyers' portmanteau and dressing-bag just inside the door. She picked them up,' and carried them to a table under tho light of clustering wax candles. The keys were attached to the handles of the luggage, and Beryl opened the portmanteau, and emptied out its contents. They consisted of clothing ; nothing more.

She opened the dressing-bag presently. Here were his dainty perfumes, his goldstoppered bottles, his carved ivory -handled brushes, and, yes, his little private tourist's diary in which she had seen him writing, but which he had laughingly refused to show her.

It was a little volume bound in creamcoloured morocco, with gold-tipped corners, golden clasps, and a tiny golden padlock. The key was gone. Beryl remembered that Conyers had worn the key on his watch-chain. There was a small iron poker on the hearth and Beryl pried off the dainty clasps, lock and all, with a relentless hand.

Conyers had scarcely written in his diary after his marriage up to the time of his recent departure for Geneva, but after the concoction of his villanous scheme he had written for several hours steadily in this little volume, making lying entries which were intended to destroy every lingering trace of Beryl's love for him—should not Huplick have accomplishod the work thoroughly.

Every page was full of references to her, her beauty, her sweetness, her wit—and her expected fortune. Then, under date of Geneva, upon the night of his flight from her, Conyers boldly avowed his rage and disappointment. .

' I shall malce sure that I get a rich wife of food birth next time,' he wrote. ' As for Beryl, shall abandon her at once. As she is not my wife, she can't expect much money from me when we part. She'll have to go back to the Pension de Bassett, and become a junior teacher. Now that her reputation is gone, England is no place for her. She will have to bury herself somewhere on the Continent, change her name, and, if the Pension de iJassett won't receive her, she'll have lo sew, or teach English, or sing at a ca_. In time, with her beauty, she'll get a husband, and so will end our pretty summer idyl on Lake Leman !'

There was more in similar strain. Beryl read it all, and burned the book upon her hearth to ashes.

The next morning, she summoned Hup lick to her in the little drawing-room.

She questioned him closely upon many points. The valet placed in her hands the early morning paper from Geneva, and she read for herself the account of Conyers' alleged death. Huplick explained that his master's name was misprinted, and declared that he should have the mistake corrected.

'I have no need of your services, Huplick, said the girl, ab length, 'and you can go today. You can have Mr Conyers' clothes and all his effects. Everything—his money and all.'

' But what shall you do, madam ?' You will need the money,' suggested Huplick, anxiously.

'However much I may need it, I will never touch a penny of his money !' declared Beryl. 'I do not yet know what I shall do. Do you know the names of any of Mr Conyers' relatives or connections ?'

' No, madam. He never told me. 1 'Now go.'

' One word, madam. Permit me to inquire as to your fubuie movements. Shall you apply at tho Pension de Bassett for a refuge ?'

' I have dismissed you,' said Beryl,

She dismissed him with an imperious wave of the hand, and he went from her presence. But he did not leave the house. Beryl returned to her room. When Madame Pinne* sought her bhere about midday, Bhe found the girl in bed, raving in the delirium of brain fever.

CHAPTER VI. ALONE. The libtle household was speedily informed of the condition of its young mistress. Madame Pinnet remained in charge of the patient, while Huplick hurried to Lausanne for a doctor, returning with a very

worthy Swiss practitioner who had.studied in France.

Dr. Rozaud announced thab the young girl was very ill, and the utmost care was requisite to promote her recovery, which he deemed exceedingly doubtful. Beryl was very ill for weeks. Life and death battled in that little upper chamber for that wrecked young life, and it was life which won ab lasb the victory. Upon the day on whicli the doctor proclaimed that the girl would live, Huplick, who had remained ab the villa all this while, placed in the practitioner's hands the sum of £50— the little store which Beryl had refused— and said :

That is all she has in bhe world. Ib was lefb her by Monsieur. Pay yourself oub of tins money, doctor, and should anything bo lefb, give ib to the lady.' The doctor took possession of the money, and on the same day Huplick departed, and was seen at bhe Villa Belvoir no more. Beryl passed through all the weary stages ot convales_er.ce, and early in November was able to walk about the house. *I take my leave of yon to-day, madam,' said tho good Doctor Rozaud, as he came in one morning and found Beryl walking on ■a b , al 9° n y wrapped in shawls—Beryl, indeed, but a wan, woful Beryl, with tliin lace, and great, burning eyes ; Beryl with her tawny wealth of hair all shorn, and wibh little rings of curls clustering aboub her small head. ' You have need of me no longer.'

*1 am almost well again, Doctor, and am anxious to go away,' said the girl, drearily. ' We hired the house for only three months, and the time expires with the present month.'

' Just so,'said the doctor, sympathisingly. • This climate will nob be good for you this winter. You do well to go away. Your serving-man placed in my hands fifby pounds of your money—' ' Which I beg you to keep, sir,' said Beryl. ' I have no need of it.'

When he had taken his leave, well satisfied, Beryl called tho housekeeper and wenb upstah*3 with her. In the girl's dressing-room were armoires filled with clothing, which Dane Conyers had boughb for her. There were costly dresses, brimmed with laces and embroideries, handsome shawls, a dressing case, and a host of prebby brifles. There were a few jewels also, nob cosbly, bub prebty, and of the value of several pounds. Beryl displayed these to Madame Pinnet.

' It's a splendid trosseau, Madame,' said the housekeeper. ' That embroidered black silk is too lovely. And thab reminds me. When you were so very ill, your boxes arrived from the Pension de Bassett. I had them put in the lumberroom.' ' Send them here as soon as you go down,' said Beryl. 'Suzanne can help bring them. These jewels and the clothing, with the exception of the plain gold set and the thin dresses, are a present to you, Madame Pinnet, for your great kindness bo mo during my illness. I have no other way in which to show my gratitude or to reward you. The articles I have excepted are for Suzanne'

' Madame is more than generous ; she is prodigal,' said Madame Pinnet, delightedly ' But whab will Madame do for clothes for herself ?'

'lhaveplenby in my old school-boxes,' was the brief answer.

The prebby outfit which Dane Conyers had bought for his young bride was divided between its new proprietors, and carried away. Then tho shabby old school-boxes were brought up, and Beryl was lefb bo herself. She remained a week longer ab the Villa Belvoir, and then went away alono.

Dressed in a blue serge school-suit, a seal-skin jacket, cap and mull, and deeply veiled, she entered a first-claes carriage of the railway train ab Lausanne, on her way to Geneva.

On her arrival at Geneva, she drove to the Hotel de la Metropole, and registered her name as Miss Starr.

Then, taking with her a few old-fash-ioned jewels which she had always cherished as having belonged to her mother— that mother whoso very name was hateful to her now—3he went out into the streets and sought a jeweler's shop on the Grand Quai dn Lac, with the idea of disposing of them.

She had a large old-fashionod watch set with small diamonds, a brooch resembling a wheel, made also of small diamonds, eardrops, bracelets and a slender chain. The jeweler remarked upon the extremely small size and bad colour of some of the jewels, the ancient fashion of all tho articles, and finally offered fifty pounds for the whole. Beryl accepted the offer without demur. The weather was bad, the month being November, but Beryl had formed a project which must bo carried oub withoub regard to the season. The next day after her arrival ab Geneva, she sot out by slow stages for Zermatt.

Arrived at thab little town, she made close inquiries after her truant husband ; visited the Riffel Inn, and questioned the waiters who had urged him to employ a guide. She was nob well enough to climb Monte Rosa, even had the weather been good, which it was not. She had had no doubt of Huplick's story ; no hopes that her husband still lived ; she did noc know why she had been so eager to visit the spot where he was declared to have lost hi 3 life ; bub she was now satisfied beyond all doubt, that Dane Conyers was dead.

She did nob mention to anyone her relationship to him, and wenb away a day or so later-, returning to Geneva.

• And now,' she said to herself, drearily, •what am Ito do? Where shall I go?'

She could not return to the Villa Belvoir, had she so wished, she having given up the little villa on leaving it.

She could not go to Mrs or Mies Graham. They had been fair-weather friends, who had fallen away from her when the dreary storms had come upon her.

She thought of bhe Pension de Bas9ebt. Ib was the only home she had ever known. Mrs Bassebb had filled bhe place of mobher to her in about the same degree that a patent artificial incubator fills the place of a mother-hen to young chickens. Beryl had been brought to Vovay, a mere babe of two years, by her uncle and a young Irish nurse. The latter had remained at the Pension with her young charge until Beryl was eight years of age, and all the tenderness and petting the girl had ever known had come from this Irish nurse. Bub bhe nurse had been cent back to her own country, and Beryl had taken her place among her fellow-pupils. Mrs Bassetb had nob believed in 'coddling children,'as she expressed ib.

' But she musb have a heart,' bhoughb Beryl, in her loneliness and misery. 'Ab any rate, she will advise mo. I will go to ber, and ask her to tell me what to do.'

In accordance with this resolve, she set oub for Vevay by rail that very day, arriving at her destination, the Hotel Monneb, before evening. As soon as bhe darkness began to fall, she put on her veil and stole out of the hotel, making her way toward the Penßion. Twenty minutes' brisk walk brought her to the well-remembered garden door in the high brick wall enclosing the schoolgrounds. She stood here a few seconds in a painful indecision, her pride urging her even now to beat a rebreab ; bub her necessities were too urgent to permit her pride to conquer. With a sudden energy, she pulled the door-bell vigorously. She heard the portress crossing the courtyard ; heard the key grate in tho lock, and the door swung open slowly. Beryl passed into the ground with a swift and nervous tread. She gave the portress a card upon which she had previously written the name 'Beryl.' The woman did nob seem to recognise bhe veiled figure, and locked the garden-door and led the way to the house. There was a light in the drawing-room in a wing at the right of the house, and other

lights in the refectory, where the pupils spent their evenings with their governesses in a wing at the left side of the building. The main edifice was dark and silent. Tho portress, after a scruitinising glance at the attire of the young visitor, ushered her into the drawing-room, and departed in quest of Mrs Bassett. Beryl's heart began to throb violently. 'How will she receive me?' she said to herself. 'If she turns me away in her anger, what is to become of me ?' (To be Continued.)