UNDER OATH.

Auckland Star, Volume XXII, Issue 142, 17 June 1891, Page 7

UNDER OATH.

Eγ JEAN KATE LUDLUM, Author of i< Was Uβ Wise?" "The Minister'a Wife,' 1 "Called," otc, etc.

CHAPTER XX,

THE UNVEILING OF MYSTERY

,4.3 Montgomery turned toward tho nun, he caw her reel, and she reached out; her hands toward him groping aa though she could nofc mo. He went to her instantly an r j supported her with as much tenderness as though she were in truth one of tho gentle

gistors of tho convent

' You arc ill V he said, his voice shaken With emotion. ' Let me take you cut of this filing atmosphere.' Sho looked up at him, as sho whispered

4 \Vil 1 you remove the mask, please, Mr Montgomery '2 He—shot—mo—' 'Is it possible?' he exclaimed. 'Why d'd you not tell mo afc onco ? My poor girl ! And yon saved their lives—' She shook her head, a faint smile upon her lips as ha bared tho pallid faca to the coloured lights swinging overhead •It was nothing,' she said. If you will ceb me some water—l will be better at o nce i i_am sure—l cannot die until I Lave riHited some of—this terrible wrong— , ' Hush !' he said, gently. ' You shall not die if we can help you, my poor, brave

Hβ lifted her as though she were a child, and bore her through one of the glass-doors at tho side into a small room beyond the parlours. Here he laid her upon a couch, and hurried out for a glass of water, ordering vritio brought to him instantly in the conservatory 'room. When he returned, the nun wa? insensible among the cushions, her hand fallen from her side, revealing a dull, red stain upon the grey of her domino. With infinite pity hu raised her head to his aria and sprinkled some of the water upon liar face. One of the waiters brought in wine and set; ifc ready to his hand.

•Send Mr Mausfield and Miss Hallston here quickly!' said Montgomery, scarcely knowing what he said. Mo could nob comprehend the words of the woman, and remembered that this might he more for Allan's solving than hin own.

When they entered, Edith very white biit calm, and Allan greatly moved by tho few words of the man who delivered tho message, the nun had regained consciousness, and was, still with her head upon Mr Montgomery's arm, trying to recover her voice and "composure. U'hen her eyes fell upon Allan the colour rushed to her face. " Allan's face paled as he recognised lie i , . Bending above her, ha said tenderly : • My brave saviour, my poor little woman, how did yon come here? What brought you, of all" persons, here to-night V Her voice was weak, but she conamanded at as best she could to answer. Montgomery had sent tho waiter bo telephone for a physician at once, and prayed that one would come quickly. • I came,' said r,he soft, low voice— , I cair.e, Allan Mansfield—to save you and— the one who is—dearest to you—in the world. 1 know—thi3 —that has come must Buon come. I knew they—had not kept their word to me—that you should not—be harmed. I have watched you—since—as foe3S I oould. I would nob let them—take your life, if it were possible—to prevent ifc.' Her voice died out; in waaknesa, bub she (shook her head when they would have kept her silent. ' I must tell ib,' she said, faintly—so faintly they could but jusb catch the words. i 1 know as well as you, that I have but a few moments ab besfe. I could nob die without speaking. Had I lived, I should indeed have sought—the reab beyond the convent walla. You '—her eyen were upon Allan's face, and she made a weak attempt to reach oub her hand boward his which 1 he. seeing, knelt beside tho couch and took the weak little hand close in his— 'you did nob recognise me bhab night— fchab they brought you—to my home. I knew you from the watch you carried, ab first; afterward, I could see your—mother's faco in yours.' The voice faltered once more, and again Montgomery raised the wine tto he lips. 'He is dead,' sho whispered, v/ith a Bhudrf r, turning her head aside. 'Hβ is dead by his own hand. 1 have nothing to Bay. He deserved ib, maybe you will say, bub—he was my husband ! You do not know me, Allan Mansfield. You were a tiny child when I left your niotber'e bouse to marry that man in there.' Sho shivered, and her voice died oub lor an instanfc. 'No one knew what he was. He assured us that he was in an excellent business, and I believed him. Your mother believed him, too. When I found that he v?as a robber and murderer—what could I do? 1 could nob leave him—l dared nob betray him—and I would nob let tho woiaao who had been more bhan a mother to me guess what my life was. • You wera too young to remember me— tho maid whom your mother kept with her .—whom she treated always as though she wero more than an attendant. She was heavenly kind to me. Sho book me from tho orpban-a&ylum and educated me and brought mo up bceide her, and I would have died for her. ' When you came to me that night, I could not believe ray senses. I knew for what bhey had brought you, and I determined to save you, if there was any power in a woman's pleading. You know the result. After you were gone, I did what I could to follow your life. I was afraid of their promise. I knew that such mon would not hesitate to break thair word for thsv own sakes. They feared you because of the power you held over them, in epite of your oath. '"No one was living who knew aught of our den or our life save yourself, andbhey would pub ifc out of your power to harm them. *So we came to New York. New York is a large city, and no one would know from whab or where we came, if we did not choose that they should. Our story was plausible. We were from the West. We had made our money on a ranch, and had come to spend it now we wero older. They took U3 for what we appeared. We had money, and we bought ©ur way in. Wo have mefc you before tonig!;i:, bub you did not know it. We have been in tho same society that you have been *J, and not one among you dreamed that a. robber and murderer was in your, micbo.'

Again Mr Montgomery held the wine against the pallid lips fast growing stiff in the presence of the great Angel. His eyas v/ere marvellously sofb with the pity in his heart, and aa she glanced up to liim, a smile broke the pallor of her face. 'I have come fco take away fehe pain in your life, too,' she said, faintly. Ho ,thoaght her wandering. Death was bo close upon her, life was fading, it must be. ' You inusfc nob think of me,' he said, -. 'you must keep what strength iavo to help the doctor when he

penny you ':.

C 08135 ., ' I may not speak for your sake so much as for the woman you have wronged,' she said, steadily as eho could command her words. She saw the afcarbled look come vnto his cyos, and smiled her faiat smile. •lacaawonan and have been wronged; ehe ia a woman, too, and you have done her the greatest) wrong. You can restore the

peace, if nob the full trust and the memory of what she hae sufiered ! Only one word more have I to say to Allan Mansfield, and 1 must say that ere I speak to you. Your mother has heard no word of me from the day I lofb your home. She may think me dead, or thab I have forgotten her. She could nob dream of the truth. Do not tell her, I introab you ! I loved her, I love her still too much to let her know the depth to which I foil. Tell her lam dead, and died afc peace with all. Tell her I have never forgotten hor—that I must remember her, oven in the new world opening to me. Tell her that her name was last upon my hearb !'

Edith was weeping softly, and her hand brushed tenderly tho hair that had fallen upon the face resting on Montgomery's arm. For a moment there was no sound save the heavy breathing of the woman and the rustle of Edith's dresa upon the floor. Then the woman moved her head so that she could meet Arthur Montgomery's eyes, and said, very faintly, now :

'Do you know that you mighb have broken her heart—that beautiful woman in there who fell when she caught eight of nothing but the truest aud best and noblest of women ? Do you think ehe would have gone away from your home as she did, taking nothing with her but her beauty and innocence, a«d tho terrible burden of your cruelty—had she nob been nobler than you would ever give her credit of being?' Montgomery was intensely agitated. His faco rivallod in pallor the face resting upon hia arm. His eyes were growing wild with some great fear.

' For the love of God, toll mo whab you mean and whab you know !' he cried. He gave her of the wine to drink, .that she should retain her strength, little as it was. 'If you have pity, tell me quickly. You raupt know how much it is to me.'

* You did nob care how much it was to her !' sho said, brokenly, the lids slowly drooping over hor eyes, her lips scarce able to frame the words, ' You were cruel to her, I tell you. You did nob kuow what such an accusation is to a woman with her purity and spirit. She left your home two years ago. Slio wont away in the night, that you should never where she was until she had gona too far for you to trace her. You did nob try. You let hor go, without one effort to bring her back, without even attempting to prove whether shs were truo or false. You would have broken her hearb, but she would not let it break. She is as true and innocent and puro as the day you married her before the altar ab St. .lames, and believed her the rnosb marvellous among women.' • How do you know of this?' murmured Montgomery, between hJ3 pallid lips. 'There was a time,' wenb on the faint, faltering voice, unheeding this interruption, ' when you said you had found her untrue to you. You said you had seen her in company with another man, whom you did not know, among the trees of your homo in Canada. You accused her of treachery to you, and demanded her explanation in a way that lelb her proud spirit nothing to do bub remain silenb and bear the wrong so laid upon hor. Y"ou accused her furiously and were cruel—oh, you were cruel to her, and she was as pure as the baby in its cradle ! You crushed her woman's heart, as though it were nothing to you ! ' 1 cau tell you no more. I have no voice lefb, and you could nob hear me. The light—is the room so dark—so dark —Go to her, if you have an atom of your old manhood, and beg hor forgiveness upon your knees ; and it she will grant it, tell what I have aaid, and ask her to tell you who—she —was. She can tell you now. Tell her I am dead, and so is he. She can tell you without harm to us. She must tell you, for her own sake. .

The blood welled over the stiffening lips, and tbo half-closed eyes opened widely lor an instant. Then a flickering smile stirred the lips fast dyeing with her life blood, and bli3 hearb that had suffered more than her words could tell was at rest for evor.

Montgomery laid her gently and tenderly back upon the pillows, an expression upon his face of intense bewilderment and suriering. The arrow thab had wounded a woman's heart had entered into his own instead, and keener, sharper, more cruel than auy stab from him. Allan, half-buried in his own thoughts of the revelation the woman had made regarding his mother and the girl he had bub fainbly remembered as being aboub her when he was but a scrap of a boy, yeb felt instincbively thab there was need of sympathy for "the man before him who had grown suddenly so old and careworn. 'Montgomery, old fellow! Cheer up! Whab was she saying thab could shako you like this? Como, come, my dear fellow, leb mo give you a restorative, as you have given her,' Montgomery shook his head and turned away.

' I musb go to her ab once '.' he said, vaguely. ' Where is she, Miss Hallston V 'Mario?' Edith turned from the faco of death to the face of the living, whero tho one had nothing but peace and the other was seamod with care. Sho wont up to him and laid her hand softly upon his arm, her face very tender, her eyes wistful with unshed tears that had gathered. ' You are going to her at lasto, Mr Montgomery? You will be kind to her ? She ie so sweet and bruo and good that you must believe her. What nhould I hate done when mamma died had she nob come into my life like an angel. I saw her advertisement for such a position, and 1 could not have bad a better. I loved her from the moment I t<aw her. I love her now jusb as deeply. You cannot be cruel to her any more ?'

'You know, too, then?' he asked, hoarsely, the dazed expression still in hie eyes. 'Everyone knows of her truth except myself—the man who should have shielded her from anything the world could have hurt her with.'

' No, Ido nob know,' said Edith, in her low, soft voice, as though she would no b break the rest of the dead. ' She 'would never tell me what was the sore wound in her hearb, but I lovo her too well nob to know thab some great sorrow had touched her life. If you go to hor, be kind bo her, dear Mr Montgomery.' ' Where is she ?' he asked, half-vacantly, turning to her as though for comfort he could nob find.

'I will find her,' said Allan, quietly. He seemed to have regained his calmness as soon as he saw the agitation upon his friends. ' I will come back for you when I have found her— .

' No, no, I musb go with you !' cried Montgomery, restlessly, his eyes darkening, the pallor still upon his face. ' I cannot wait for you to find her ! J am tho ons to find her, Mansfield ! I must; go to her, if anyone should—' 'Come, then, , said Allen, Ills calmness falling upou this excited man. 'Wβ must have this brave woman cared for, and see that there is no more than we would wish let out abouc this dreadful affair. She would net wish its, and we must honour her. , • Yes, yes,' said Montgomery, hurriedly. ' We shall do all there is left for man to do for her, for what she has done for us. She is a wonderful woman.'

Beautiful Desdemona had been carried to her room, and it was some time before anyone wa3 admitted save Edith and those who were caring , for her. Edith was the first one upon whom she opened her eyes, and the wild light that shone in them softened when she knew who was bending so tenderly above her. Clasping her hands convulsively around Edith's neck as she kneit beside the bed, she burst into a flood of passionate tears—the first Edith had ever seen her shed.

'Oh. Edifch, Editb, if you knew—if you knew!' she cried, her voice smothered against her.friend's shoulder. -'You-have been always so sweet to me, and have shown me so clearly how much you love me—what will you cay when yon know the

terrible truth ? How can I tell you ! How can I bring myself to tell you—' ' There, there, Marie doaresb, , whispered tho soft, soothing voice against her ear. 'Mv poor, suffering Marie, never doubt that your Edith will love you always just the same. Tell me, if it will ease your heart, out never think for on© moment fehab I would have you utter a word that would ! make the hurt worse. I love you too woil to doubt you. Don'fc you know thab I do?' Marie lay very still for a moment, the light touch upon her hair, her passionate heart throbbing madly against the tender arm so lovingly encircling her. Then she commanded her voice, and spoke quite calmly. 'it is bitter to tell ; but I must tell it, after—what happened—in there—to-night. I musb tell you this, Edith, and then go once more where you—and he—can never find mo. I cannot boar for you—and he— to look upon ma when you have heard my disgrace. No, no; ib ia truly right thafc I telfib. Judge me as kindly as you huvo always judged me. That is all I ask—more than I can expect. 'When I was only three years old, m y brother, the only other child in our family, who was almost six times my older, quarrelled with my father. Oh !it was a terrible quarrel, Edith ! Young as I was at the time, I .still have a faint memory of ii). The next day my brother did nob como among us, and I was too fearful and shy to ask about him. No one told me where ha had gone. No one over spoko his name bub once, when my mother whispered to mo, when I was old enough to understand, and had asked for him, thab 1 musb never speak hia namo again in all my life. That he had brought some terrible disgrace upon us, and had quarrelled with father, and had boen eenb out of our home, and musb never return. That ib was (something so dreadful he had brought upon us that it would always darken my life, and ib was for the best bhab 1 should bo quite innocent of any knowledge of whab it was.

'Ot course, I was old enough to have great curiosity about what my brother had done, and although 1 dared nob disobey my mother, or aslc afterward about him, vet 1 heard soon enough what he had done. it is impossible to koep disgrace away from thoae who must sutler iroin it. I learned soon enough, but it was outside of my home that the knowledge came to inc. I went so school, of course—wo had a pretty old place oub of Montreal—and was afterward sent to a convent to be finished. Ib was there that I learned to command my temper and my pride. Tho Sisters were so gentle and so cairn always that I could not lot my passionate hearb wound them, as ab first 1 did.

' Ib was there the knowledge came to me of my brother's crime. One of my companions told me. She taunted mo with it one day in a passion, and I made hor tell me the whole truth. You cannot guess what ifc is, Edith. 1 shiver now when 1 think of it. My brother, who had beer, the idol of my father until that dreadful day, had committed forgery in tho house he was looked upon as ono of the most favoured. They did not bring -judgment against him, out of kindness and pity for my father. 'He marred his life, Edith. Ho might have ouulivod this first crime, bub he was too headstrong and had been spoiled in bis home. Nothing was too bad for him to do. Iβ was long before we found this out. It was not until two yeara ago thab bho truth was made known to mo by himself. 1 had married, Edifch. My husband was one of the most generous of men. He was very wealthy, and nothing hearb could desiro thab money would buy bub I had. ' My husband had, of course, heard of this wild brother, but he never leb the truth casb one 3hadow over our love or my happiness—until it was taken oub of his hands. My brother himself came to me ab my husband's home one night. My husband had gone to the city, and I was in the woods beside the lawn. Ib was nearly dark, and I was waiting for him tGeome back. I was lonely, and could rod roEb. A man camo to me out of this shadow. A man who ab first frightened me, ho was so rough and so hard with me. He caught mo by ray aim and held me close to him, while he whispered in mv ear. Hβ was my brother. He knew of my husband's wealbh, and demanded that I give him a share of ib, thab if I refused, he would gebib whobheror no. He know how to get whab he wanted, he said coarsely, and laughed when I shrank away from him. Oh, ib was dreadful, Edith, but I fionb him away with some of my jewels. I dared nob refuse him.

'My husbaud came upon us there. Ho did nob utter one word then, but went straight into the house, and when I would have gone to him to beg his pity, he would not open his door to me—to mo, his wii'o ! Mob until the nexb day did he see me, and then ho demanded of me who was my lover in such a manner—oh, Edith, Edith, you cannot guess the agony of ifc to me—and I could not explain. I came away tho next night. I left his house without hid knowing. I would have died rather than have let him know the truth, after that ! Bub I shall tell him to-night,' she said, softly, after a moment. 'i shall send for him and bell him, Edith, and then—then I shall go away from you all and hide, so thab he will nover rind mo, so thab you may never see me again ! I could nob moeb your eyes after you know tho truth, Edith—l could not live !'

A faint rap was hoard at tho door, and, gently releasing herself from the clinging hands, Edith rose and opened it. Montgomery was outside. He was quite white, bub calm. Ho asked that he mighb sec Mrs Castlemon for bub a moment. Edith would have sent him away, but Mrs Castleinon, rising weakly to her feet, crossed bo her side, and openod tho door wider for his admittance.

'Come in, , she said, quiofcly. 'I have something to cay to you that rausb be said now.'

(To be Continued.)