HER MARTYRDOM.

Auckland Star, Volume XXVIII, Issue 225, 28 September 1897, Page 6

HER MARTYRDOM.

BY BEE'inA M. CLAY,

author of "Beyond Pardon," "The Duke's Secret," "A True Magdalen," "Dora Thorne," etc., etc. r CHAPTER XLIV. Lady Laura Wynyard had shown her husband one letter. There was another and more explicit one which was carefully hid from him. It ran thus: — "Dearest Mamma,—l know that a my leaving you in this manner will be a great sorrow and a great surprise. I cannot tell you why I am going, but you know that you may most safely trust me. Remember this that my return depends entirely on yourself. When that unfortunate will which the "captain persuaded you to make is destroyed I will come back at once, but not until then. I have thought of many plans by which you could let me know when this takes place, and the best, the safest, is by advertisement. I shall contrive to see the "Times" every day. When the will is destroyed send the following words for insertion in the advertisement sheet of the"Times:" 'Return without fear. I have done what you wished.' The hour in which I read those words I "Shall begin my journey home. Do not let anyone see this letter; and, above all things, do not let the captain learn that I know about the will. I shall soon see you again, my beloved mother, and then I will explain all what now must seem like a cruel mystery to you. From your loving child, "Angela." Lady Laura wondered even more •when she read that note. What could it mean ? What connection could there be between the will she had made and Angela's home? Fortunately for her, not the faintest suspicion of the truth occurred to her. She was one of those dreamy creatures who seldom realise a thing unless it is put before them in startling colours or in emphatic words. Lady Laura Wynyard thought of the will she had made and of Angela's flight from home, but could not see how they bore upon each other. If anyone had pointed out to her that the will she had made gave her husband the greatest interest in her daughter's death, and that, her own death would make him a rich man, sh3 would have been roused at once to a sense of danger, to perception of what might be passing around, to the knowledge of a terrible tragedy that was being played before her eyes while she herself was quite unconscious of it. Fortunately, she did not even ever so faintly dream of it. Brilliant, graceful and beautiful as she was, Lady Laura was not a clever woman. She was sweet, g-entle and amiable, refined and sensitive, but no one would have described her as clever. She was accomplished and well read, but she had little of that valuable quality that people call cleverness. She had the most implicit trust in Angela, and in some vague way that she could never even explain to herself, she had long had a feeling that Angela was older, stronger, and wiser than herself ; and she felt now that her daughter would not have done what she had without some urgent reason.

The best complexion was put upon Angela's absence, so as to avoid scandal. The captain, in speaking1 of Miss Rooden's departure as very sudden and unforeseen, was careful to add that she would join them when they went to town. The secret of her mysterious flight did not get known in the neighboiuiiood at all. All friends were told the same story— Miss Kooden had gone on a visit, and would join the captain and Lady Laura Wynyard in town. But. if the secret lay lightly on the household, it was a weighty burden on the minds of Lady Laura and her husband. The captain could not understand the occurrence. Angela had been so reticent with him.

"It's no love affair," he said to himself. "I should not care so much if it were. She is not like other girls. Khe has never cared about lovers. For what can she have gone away? The matter has nothing1 to do with her mother. Yet how the girl could have a secret from her I cannot imagine. They were so devoted to each other."

It was curious to see how this strong, usually careless man was affected by his step-daughter's disappearance. He did not sleep well ; he did not eat well. His usual high spirits deserted him, and he became moody and silent. He was always asking himself how much did she know, had she any suspicions concerning him, had she found him out.

To him it seemed impossible that she could have discovered anything. He had surrounded himself with precautions ;he had made himself secure behind a whole rampart of explanations. He had made it impossible that he should be taken by surprise. She could never have the faintest suspicion of him, though he was bound to confess to himself that he had not liked the look of her face on that morning when she declined to ride or drive. Had she known the secret of the will he could have understood her conduct; but she did not know it.

'•I am weak and foolish to trouble myself about the fancies of a girl — she has a thousand unknown to me."

But when he was alone with his thoughts the same agitation, the same uneasy apprehension tortured him. Had she found him out, and had she gone away to seek advice and strengthen her case ? The fear haunted him.

The captain was so unlike himself that he had no inclination to go up to town. It was of little use, he told himself, now that all his schemes ■were upset. In the depths of his dark and desperate heart he had made his villainous plans. The first and foremost was the compassing of the death of Angela. She was the one great barrier to his path. Lady Laura was a fragile, delicate woman, whose long martyrdom, he saw, must soon end. Her health and strength were failing daily. No, with Angela escaped from his power, he realised that he was in an awkward position.

If anything happened to this delicate wife of his the property would go to Angela; and the almost certain probability was that she would never either see him or share it with him in any way. Then he would be a poor man. The will about which he had taken so much trouble would be absolutely valueless. "1 have mismanaged the whole matter most fearfully," he said .o himself, with darkening brows. "1 should have been more prompt in action. There is no one to blame but myself." If Angela did not return, if she never fell into his power again, even the loss of his wife would not bring him one step nearer to Gladys Rane. The insurmountable barrier of poverty would still be between them. It was such a complete downfall, such a complete crushing of all his plans, that he could not recover himself. Notwithstanding all that had happened he would have gone up to town but that Lady Laura fell ill of a low fever, one of those subtle fevers that seem to wear the very life away, but yet cause very little outward show of illness. He was careless enough of the opinion of the world in general, still even he did not like to leave his wife ill at Rood while he went up to town for a round of gayety. He was not the most pleasant of companions during those days, and the few ignorant people who talked about the captain's devotion to his wife little dreamed how she trembled at the very sound of his footsteps, how j she shuddered at the sound of his voice. Outwardly his manner was negligently kind; but he knew how to make her heart ache with a veiled sarcasm, how, with a few careless words, to give her unutterable pain. "If I am to suffer," he said to himself, "let her suffer too." And he was base enough, mean enough, to feel some relief when he could inflict some pain on her. He had forgotten, or rather he chose to forget, that he owed everything to her — money, luxury, magnificence —that all the ease he enjoyed, the splendour that surrounded him, came from her hands. In the earlier days of their married life he had at times said a few grateful words to her, had alluded to the money as hers, had asked for her approval and advice. JS'ow he took entire possession of the estate, as though it had always been his own, managing eve-rything after a lordly fashion and consulting only his own interest.

When the fever had somewhat abated and Lady Laura was able to come down stairs, it was a dark and lowering face that met hers. IS'.o one would have called him the "handsome captain" who saw him then.

"I wish,"said her ladyship to him one evening, when he had been particularly unamiable and disagreeable, "you would go up to town, Vance. It is useless for yon to remain with me. Your heart is not here."

"That is just the kind of opportunity a woman likes," he said, sneeringly. "If I were to leave you and seek what heaven knows I want —a litle change and recreation — you would consider yourself a martyr."

"I should not," she returned. "The time has arrived when the pain of your presence is far greater than the pain of your absence."

"I am g-lad to hear that, Laura," he said scoffing-ly. "Tt shows that you are coming to your senses, and there is a better chance for me. Nevertheless,- I shall not go up to town and leave you here."

"It will not be for love of me that you stay," she retorted bitterly. "No, my dear, I have plans of my own, and it suits me to remain here," he said carelessly. Lady Laura was thinking that if he would go she would send for Mr Sansoine, and then she could soon have Angela home again. (To be continued.)