CRIME'S REVENGE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 118, 19 May 1892, Page 10

CRIME'S REVENGE.

BY MRS MAYA ONES FLEMING, Author of 'Shaddeck Light,' 'Wedded, Yeb No Wife,' Lost for a Woman,1 ' A little Queen,'' A Wonderful Woman,' etc.

CHAPTER VII. (Continued). i While Mr Thorndyko, with his hat pulled low over his browa, walked homo to tb, obscure hotel at which ho chose to stop, Norine was up in her room, alone with hd tumultuous heart. She had complained of a headache and gone at once. The plot. WaV nob altogether fatae-her brain wn« wMrUng-her heart throbbing in a witt tamult, half terror, half delirious c ehghb, chad como back to her he loved herj she was going to bo his-hw wile 1 For over an hour she sat, hiding oven in thj dusk her happy, flushed face in her■ handj with only this one thought pulsing through all her being-she was to. bo his wilei. J Bv-and-by she grew calm and a bio to think. No thought of going to bed, £ doing anything so commonplace as sleep, occurred to her. She wrapped herself in shawl, seated herself by the window, anj so for hours and hours sat motionless. And so, when dawn came grey and ovorcast.J at 11 found her. Moon and stars had waned, the night had slipped by like a swift dream, and facing tho clear light of the new daj she could ask herself at last what woa . she was about to do ? Was Jove worth all she was about to givo up for ifc-liome, friends, a good man's trusb, her own souls truth and honour? Was Laurence Thorndvke worth more to her than all the world beside, more than the peace of her own conscience ? Kiehard Gilbert loved her, honoured her, trusted her ; she had taken his gifte, she had pledged heraelf to be Ins wife" This very day, dawning yonder over the hills of Maine, would see him here to claim her as his own for ever. And (vas one sight of Lawrence Thorndyke's face, one touch of his hand, one h-eductivo tone of Ills voice, sufficient to make her fling honour and truth to the winds, desert her best, hjr only friends, break her plighted husbands heart, and make her memory a shame tod pain to them all forever? Oh, whttftja wretch she was ! what a cruel, selfish passion this love she felt mu3b be ! j The sun rose up between the fleecy cloud?, rilling the world with jubilant brightness ; the sweet scents of sunrise in the" country perfumed tho warm ajr. Norine threw up her window and leanßd oub. worn and fevered with hor night's vigil. That meeting under the trdes seemed a long way off now ; it was as if she had lived years in a few brief hours. Presently there was a rap at the door, and Annt Hetty's voice outside spoke. ' Are you up, Norry ? Is your headache better, dear ?' 4 Much better, aunfcio — I'll be down directly.' ' Breakfast will be ready in ten rninutea,' snid aunty ; and Norine cob wearily up, r>ni! bathed her face, brushed oub her tangled curls, shrinking guiltily from her own pallid face in tho glass.

' How wretchedly haggard I look,' she thought, drearily ; ' if he saw me now.' Sho wont downstairs. Aunt Hetty nearly dropped the sweet-smelling plato of hot mufiins ah sight of her.

' You're whiter than a ghost, child !' ehe cried. 'You told mo you were better.'

'I am better, auntie. Oh, pray d»n't mind my looks. Last night's headachohas made me pale—l will be well as ever after breakfast.' ;•, ; But breakfast was only a pretence as far as she was concerned, and the clay tore on and the fair young face kept its pallid, startled look. Sho could do nothing, neither read nor sew ; she wandered about the house like a restless spirit, only shrinking from that Bluebeard's chamber wkore all the wedding finery was spread. low was sho to meet Mr Gilbert?—and the floating .hours wore hurrying after one another, as hour 3 never had hurried before.

The afternoon sun .dropped low, tho noises in the field grew more subdued, the cool evening wind swept up from the'distant sea. Norine sat in the wicker chair in the garden under the old apple tree and waited —waited as a doomed prisoner might the coming of the executioner. A book layidle on her lap—she could not read, she sattiiere waiting—waiting—waiting, and schooling herself for the ordeal.

Presently, far o(F in the white toad rose up a cloud of dust; there came the rolling ot wheels, she caught a glimpse of a carriage. She clasped herhands over her beating heart, and strove to steady herself. At last it was he ! Out of the dusty road came a burgy, whirling rapidly up to the gate—ouboi the buggy came Richard Gilbert, his eagerfaco turned toward her. His quick eyo had caught her; she rose up to meet him, (aim in the very depth of desperation. Mr Gilbert sprang out and caught both her kinds in his.

' My dear, clear Efirl ! My own Noiine ! how glad Icm to be with you once reore ! But how pale you look. Have you been ill ?'

* Oh, no—that is—only my old friend, headache. Kere come Aunt Hetty: and Undo Reuben to welcome you.'

She drew back, thankful for any diversion, feelingl hob and cold by burns,! and not daring to meet his eye. Their laughter, their gay greetings, wero oiily a confuse I hum in her ears ; she was looking at cho clump of hemlocks, and feeing— oil, .-uch a false, treacherous, gujlty

crentme !

' Kow dazed you look, little girl!' her happy lover said, laughing ; ' am I sum an Of.'re then in your sight?'

Ho drew her hand benealh his arm,-with the air of one who assumes a right, an:l led her to the house. They were ilone in tho parlour, and she was tiying tt call her wandering mind to order, and listen to him and answer his questions. She could see with terror chat he was watching her filready with grave, troubled byes. What was it—this pale still change in'iher 1 Broa'lnf her approaching marriage—miiden timidity—or worst of all, was the thought of the 'youth who had smiled and Mho rode away' haunting her still ?

Tea-time came and was a relief ;! and after tea. Mr Gilbert proposed a walk. Norino took her hab passively, andlwent out with him into the hushed and placid twilight. The pale primrose light was fading out of tho western sky, and a rising wind was tossing the arms of the ■hemlocks, where she had stood with another lover laai; night. ?

Changes in earth and sky told of coming storm, but no change in the pensive, drooping tace beside him had tongue to tell Richard Gilbert), wise man and lawyer! that this night was to shipwreck all the sweetest hopes of his life.

It was a very silenfe walk. Thoy strolled along i-'io lonesome road, with the prifnrose light growing greyer and greyer 'th ough the velvety meadows, where the quietfeows grazed. Something of the dark shadows deepening around them seoraed to stfial into the man's heart, and dull ib with tameless di-end, bub there waa no voice |n the rising wind, in the whispering trees, in tho creeping gloom, to tell him of what \tas so near. - j

A very silent walk—the last theyirould overtake. The little talking done, ijr Gilbert himself did. Ho told her thubill his preparations for his bride, all his arrangements for her comfort, were made. /Their home in New York's stateliest avenue was ready and waiting—their wedding! tour would be to .Montreal and Niagara, jmless }S Tonne had some other choice. Btjt she would be glad to see once more the quaint,

not"? deaC °ld Canadian town—would she

Yes, she would ever be glad to see Montreal. No, she had no other choice.' She shivered as she said it, looking far off with blank eyes that dare nob meet his. -Niagara would do very well, all places were alike to her. It was growing cold and dark, j abruptly this—' suppose they went

Something in her tone and manner, in |>er want of interest and enthusiasm, hurt him. More silently than they had come they recrossed the darkening fields. The moon was rising as they drew near the house, rending its way through dark and jagged clouds. She paused suddenly for a moment, with her pale face turned toward it. Mr Gilbert paused, too, looking afc tho loworing sky. 'Listen to the wind,' he said. «We will have a change to-morrow.' 1 A change !' she said, in a hushed sort ot voice. ' Yes, the storm is very near.' ' And you are shivering in this raw night wind. You are white and cold ac a spirit, my darling. Come, let us go in. His but'gago had arrived—a trunk and valise stood in tho hall as they entered. The sister and brothers sat in holiday attire in the keeping room, but very grave and qniet. The shadow that had fallen on Richard Gilbert in the twilight fields seemed to have fallen hero, too. Norine sat at tho piano, her face turned away from the light, and played the melodies ho asked for. From these she drifted gradually into music more in accordance with her mood, playing in a mournful minor key, until Mr Gilbert could endure tho saddening sweetness no longer. 4 Your music is very melancholy, my dear,' he said, quietly. ' Will you not sing us something instead ?'

1 Not to-night, I think. I find my headache has not altogether departed. If you will kindly excuse me, I will retire.' She rose as she spoke, lighted a lamp, and, wich a brief good-night, was gone. It was not yet ten o'clock, but there was little inducement to linger now.' Mr Gilborb owned to being rather fatigued, took his light and departed. Before half-past ten all wero in thoir rooms, the doors and windowa secured for the night. By eleven all were asleep—all save one.

Norino sat by her window, her light shaded, her watch (one of Richard Gilbert's presents to his bride-elect) open before her, gazing out into the gusty darkness, and waiting. Her bands wore tightly clasped together, silent, tearless sobs shook her at times as remorse swept through her soul, and yet not for one minute did she think of withdrawing from hortrysb. But she would nob fly witn Laurence Thorndyke— no, no ! Every best impulse within her cried out she would nob, she could not. She was a wretch for even thinking of it—a wretch for going to this meeting, bub she would only go to say farewell for ever. She loved him, but she belonged to another man ; it would bo better to die than to betray him. She would bid Lauronce Tliorndyke go tonight, and never see him any more.

Tho threatening storm seemed drawing very near. The moon was half obscured in denso clouds ; tho wind tore round the gables ; the trees tossed their long, green arms wildly aloft. Within the house profoundeat silence reigned.

Half-past eleven ! .the hour of trysb ; she aaemed to count the momenta by tha dull boating of her heart. She rose up, extinguished her lamp, put on a waterproof, drawing the hood over her head, took her slippers in her hand, and opened the door. She paused and listened, half choked by the loud throbbing of her heart, by guilty, nameless dread. All was still—no sound bub the surging of the trees without; no glimmer of light from any room. She stole on tiptoe along the passage, down the stairs, and into the lower hall. Noiselessly she unlocked the door, opened ib, and was out in the windy dark, under the gloom of the trees. One second's pause, her breath coming in frightened gasps, then she was flitting away in the chill night wind to meet her lover. She reached- the gate, leaned over it eagerly, straining her eyes through the gloom.

'Laurence!' she said, in a tremulous whisper. ' Laurence, Laurence ! I have come.'

' My own brave little girl !'

A ball figure stepped forward from beneath a tree, two warm hands clasped hers, a beloved voice spoke, a moustache swept her cheek.

' Norry, you're a trump, by Jove ! Come out ab once. All is ready. You must fly with me to-night. 1

But she shrank back—shocked, terrified, yet longing with all her soul to obey. ' No, no !' she cried, ' I can never go— never ! never! never ! Oh, Laurence ! I have come here to bid you good-bye for ever !'

His answer was to laugh aloud.. His face was flushed, his blue eyes gloaming—Mr Laurence Thorndyke, bold enough ab all times, had primed himself with brandy for to-night's dastardly work, until ho was ready to face and defy gods and men. ' Good-bye for ever !' he repeated. ' Yes, that's so likely, my darling. Come out here, Norrv—come out. I've no notion of talking with a five-barred gate between us. So old°Gilbert came down to his wedding this afternoon, didn't he? By Jove! there'll be no end of a row to-morrow, when the cage 13 opened, and the bird found flown.

'" For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wesd the fair Ellun of young Loch> invar." '

He laughed recklessly aloud, singing as he opened the gate and drew her out. ' Not if I know it, Norry. No dry-as-dusc, grim, solemn owl of a lawyer for my little Canadian rosebud, old as the everlasting hills, and priggish as the devil. No, no! we'll change all that. Before morning dawns you and I will be safely in Boston, and before another night falls you'll be my blessed little angel of a wife— tho loveliest bride from Maine to Florida, and I the most blissful of bridegrooms ! All is ready—here are my horse and buggy —the tip-train leaves in an hour—one kiss, my angel! one last look at the dull old circle that has shut my pearl of price from tho world co long, and then—lee them catch us who can !' Either the excitement of his triumph, the French brandy, lovo, or something, had set Mr Laurence Thorndyke half wild. He drew her with him, his arm encircling her wai3b, heedless of her struggles, her passionate protest. 'Can't go? Oh, that s all bosh, my darling ! You've gob to come. I love yon, and you love me—sounds like a child's valentine, don't it?—and you don't care that for old Dick Gilbert. No clobhea? Oh, hang the clothes ! There's lota in Boston. You don't want to break my heart, Norine, do you ? If you don't come I'll shoot myself before morning—l svrear I will! You want mo to shoot myself, do yeu? I can't live wibhoub you, Norry, and I don't mean to try. After we're married, and the honeymoon's over, I'll fetch you back to the old folks if you like—'pon my sacred honour I will ! N Tob a word now, my little angel! I won't listen. Of course you've Bcruples, and all that. I think the more of you for them, but some day you'll thank me for not listening. Here's the buggy—get in, get in, get in !' He fairly lifted her in as he apoke. Stunned, terrified, bewildered, she struggled in vain. He only laughed aloud, kissed her vehemently, caught up the reins, and struck the horse with the whip. The horse, a spirited one, darted forward like a flash ;' there was a girl's faint, frightened scream. «Oh, Laurence. let me go ! A wild laugh drowned it—they flew over the ground like the wind. Norine wap gone. His exultant singing mingled with tho crash of tho wheels aa they disappeared :

' She is won! they are gone over brush, brake, and scar, ... They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Lochnivar.' [To le Continued.) i