UNDER OATH.

Auckland Star, Volume XXII, Issue 140, 15 June 1891, Page 3

UNDER OATH.

! By JEAN KATE LUDLUM, Author of "Was He Wise?" "The Minister's Wife,' 1 "Called," etc., etc.

CHAPTER XVIII. AT THE MASQUERADE. . The summer had passed. Midwinter had come. Ifc was bhe height of the season in New York. Edith Hallston and her friend wero, as usual, the centre of their acquaint, ances. They were full of life, and had one of tho mosb brillianb houses in bhe city. There was never a dull moment for any one in their group of guesbs. Both bhese beautiful women wero the beat of hostesses. There were few who sent regrefcs to an invitation from them. Ifc was at a masquerade at which Edith and Mrs Castlemon, Allan and most of those who met at the Adirondack hotel were present. Edith waa dressed as Ophelia, and very beautiful she was, with her brilliant eyes shining between the slits in her gauze mask. She was full of lifo, and the tantalising whispers she uttered in many ears, as she glided among the guests, set many a smilo upon incongruous faces. For instance, even odious Blue Beard could not help softening to her, and pretty Red Riding Hood's wolf gave up much of his ferocious expression when she leaned behind his chair to whisper a laughing taunt. Mrs Castlemon was Desdemona. She could net have chosen i>, moro perfect character for herself. Her exquisite complexion and large, black eyes were full of the dreaming supposed to characterise the woman to whom Othello poured oub his tale of adventure. Many of her friends had guessed who she was ere the ma3ks were removed. Mr Montgomery, as a robber of the olden time, had long ago discovered who the beautiful woman was. And Mr Montgomery took occasion to stab her with other than a poisoned dagger. There is tragedy off the stage sometimes. ' You cannot deceive me, Edith,' whispered alow voice beside the forlorn Ophelia, as she was flitting past Julius Ccesar. ' You couldn't deceive me if you were hidden in the countless wrappings of a mummy. I should discover you wherover and whatever you were. They say that love is blind, bub I doubb it.' '_!ou should have proof before you swear !' was the gay whisper, as Ophelia, with her romantic bouqust and incongruons air of melancholy, disappeared among the maskers. | ' And even Desdemona can be gay!' said a deep voice to Mrs Castlemon, as she stood for a moment beside a group of palms at one end of the long rooms brilliant with lights and costumes. ' The years bring solace to many sore hearts. Even the Moor can say that. What has treachery to do with eternity?' Even under tho mask the agitation on the beautiful face was seen by the keen blue eyes searching her face. She lifted up her head for a moment as though she would brave anything that could come upon her ; but there was such a sickening feeling of horror and pain upon her that the beautiful proud head slowly drooped, and the shadows fell over the pallid face under the mask. Her hands were convulsively grasping a fold of her dress, but not an answering word did she attempt to utter in her defence. 'Did Miss Hallston's beautiful friend think she could hide herself for ever from the eyes of the man who had sworn that all woman are false and cruel, and certain fco draw their own destruction upon them if given but time? Did the charming Mrs Castlemon not feel assured that there musb come a time of reckoning, when even her cold pride would falter and she must face the world at her worst ? Did the woman whom men flatter and worship—pah ! — think that all men are fools ? Desdemona was false ! It is an excellent character for this charming widow to assume. . Mrs Castlemon turned upon him suddenly, all her old spirit in the flaming black eyes behind the mask.. She reached out one small, white hand in scorn, and cried, in her hushed, sweet, exquisite voice: ' Robbers are often murderers ! Your character was well also chosen, Monsieur Robin Hood ! The Moor was treacherous, or Desdemona would have never been so cruelly murdered. She had a hearb, as he proved wifch his dagger! Wound as you will, noblo robber, there is always balm in the knowledge of one's innocence ! The poor little princes in the tower were more to bo envied than the men who put them out of the world 1' A scornful laugh fell faintly from behind the robber's mask, and the broad shoulders were disdainfully shrugged. ' Words ! words ! words ! What are they ? Is there any woman who is not proficient in such ? The dagger is somebimes moro kind than bhe king, 0 beaubiful Desdemona !' ' And who mourned for the woman when she was dead ?' asked the low voice, thafe was now quite steady and sweet, bub with a note of pain that would have struck anyone who loved her. ' Could the Moor bring back, by his bitter cry, the life he had taken ? When one is dead, one can never come back to grant forgiveness or take the love that is offered too late. A noble man would be sure of the worst ere he accepted such from the lips of anyone againsb one he loved. Ophelia yonder may better sympathise] with you in your fine sarcasm, Sir Robber. Desdemona can think of nothing bub tho wonderful tales of Othello.' Sho seemed to drift away from him with indescribable grace, and melt among the throng. Many masks addressed her, and soft, whispered words gave tongue to a heart that could find no words to utter love beyond tho shelter of masks. The man she left by the palms watched her almost unconsciously. What was there in tho musical voice that rang through the words ? Was he growing sentimental ? Were Allan Mansfield's words coming brue of him, that the nature of many men had been changed after five-and-tbirty ? He laughed contemptuously as he turned away to join the merry maskers, and there were pretty words and pretty eyes to answer his sallies as he went here and there rather aimlessly, with the recollection of those few sharp words under the palms. He had laughed to himself during Allan's visit to him the previous summer, when they had sent their invitations for the gay party to come to his estate. The party was successful, and made the old house ring with gaiety. There were bright oyes and sofb laughter, and voices through fche rooms and upon the lawn; but the brilliant eyes of yonder Desdemona and the fair Ophelia were not among them. He had been obliged to detain Allan by sheer forco of politeness, when it was known that neither of those beautiful women accepted the generous invitation extended them, together with their friends. And he had gone back to the Adirondack Hotel after all, before the month was up 1 Ho was pretty certain thab the invitation would not—nay, could not be accepted, but he had a daring soul under his frank manner, and if those women dared accept, he certainly dared extend an invitation ! He gnawed his moustache rather savagely as ho went on through the crowd, scarcely answering tho soft whispers thab floated past him.' His oyes, dark with some angry thought, followed the beautiful Desdemona

among the brilliant groups. He did nob understand why she should so have overcome his pride ! She was still the Mrs Castlemon she was the summer before ! She had not changed any more than he had changed. Bub had he nob changed? Certainly there had been no such restlessness in his heart when he saw her, so beautiful and so cold, among the mountains. She bad seemed so indifferent fee him, why could nob ho keep bhab cold feeling in his hearb toward her ? Surely she had given him reason to hato her, to despise her, to shut her out of his life as completely as one could shut out for ever tho memory of a beautiful dream. He would have made an excellent Moor, with his frowning brow 3, as he went down the room, scarcely stopping to answer the drifting words around him. There was something so fierce and so unlike himself in his very step, as he passed through bhe crowd, fchab he was unrecognised by all, save that one woman. ' Humph !' he said to himself, his eyes still following the beautiful mask, 'but I made her suffer ! There aro stabs keener than the touch of a dagger, in fcrubh, my charming widow.' Afber a while he passed along [in the shadow of the outer staircase, and stood moodily watching the gay crowd floating through the room under the soft gaslight and the more tender flicker of coloured lanterns among the palms and at the entrance to bhe conservatory beyond. It waa a gay scene in truth, but his hearb was too dark to take, pleasure in such. He was fighting over 'again an old battle, and ho was fearing defeat as he stood in the shadow. ' How many men would believe her and let the past die,' he muttered, and still his eyea sought for the proud, graceful figure among the others. 'How such women muse laugh at the fools who swear by them. If sho were true, she would be worfch ib, though,' he added, savagely. ' Bub she isn't brue, and a man is a fool indeed, who would brusb her. She truly should talk of daggers. And the conscience of the princes in the tower must comfort cer like the sting of a serpent.' Again he laughed shortly, and Bavagely gnawed his moustache. (To be Continued.)