A SORE TEMPTATION.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 41, 17 February 1900, Page 3 (Supplement)

A SORE TEMPTATION.

•By JOHN X LEYS,

Author of "In the Toils," "The Lindsays," "The Broken Fetter," "A Million of Money," "The Thumb-print, etc.

'Copyright.]

CHAPTEK XII. A CATASTROPHE

Campbell could scarcety believe his jars. Was it possible that the man who had treated him so kindly for the iast two months had spoken 'those cruel words ? He gazed dumbly at his uncle's face for a few seconds, and seeing there no signs of relenting, he slowly turned round and left the room in the same way that he had entered it. He would not even go upstairs to pack tip the clothes his uncle had given him. He had only one desire — ■ft) be away from that house. But before'he had taken a score of steps he heard his uncle's voice calling to him, and he stopped at once—stoptied, turned, and, went slowly back ao-ain. Even in the flood-tide of his anger the old mail had remembered the wretched condition his nephew had been in when he first came to the Grange. He knew that he could have ]j[ttle or no money, and that it was a'cruel thing1 to drive him out into the ■flight without the means of reUvrning>o London. But there was no time to be lost. In a fewr seconds Campbell, }ie knew, would be beyond his reach. So he went to the window and called Irim, and returned to his chair. , "Did you call me, sir ?" said Campbell's voice at. the window. The quiet, •uncomplaining tone of the. man's toice appealed to the squire's sense of pity, but he hardened his heart. "Yes, I called you." he said, opening one of the drawers' of the writingtable as he spoke. " You have beliaved well, since you came, until togay, and I cannot let you go into the world without a penny." Campbell, who had stepped in at the svindow, drew back. "If you still think me capable of doing- what you accuse me oi!, I would rather not take charity from you, .thank you all the same." "As you like, but I think you are a fool," said the squh-e grimly. "You know your own business best." '" Goodnight, then, sir, and thank you for the many kindnesses you have shown me since I came to your door," said Campbell, turning back to the •window. ""He is only trying to come round me again," said the squire to himself. Then the next moment : " Come, don't be a fool. You know r you want something to go on with, and I should be sorry to think that I let you leave iwithout anything 1 in your pocket." Campbell' hesitated, and his uncle tpoli an envelope out of the drawer, and began fingering something inside, it. Then, hearing a. footstep somewhere, in the house, he rose, and with an effort made up his mind to do a generous act. Instead of taking one hank-note out of the envelope, as ho lad intended at first, he thrust the envelope itself and its contents into his nephew's hand, saying : " There, take it and put it away safely. No one .shall say that I sent a relation of jnine to.the- door to starve." "Stop sir ! A small sum will serve jny turn !" "No, no. Take it,, and go—go at pnee !'■' .It seemed almost as though the old man. were afraid of being caught in the act of giving something to his nephew ; for he -would scarcely listen to the words of thanks that Campbell stammered out, but pushed him out of the window, and without stoppingto fasten it hurriedl3 r returned to his seat. Campbell strode . rapidly away. Many emotions, battling' with each other, surged in his breast ; but the chief fact that was present to his consciousness was that he was once more an outcast, a man with no home or settled place of abode, no friends, no means- of earning his living. There was nothing between him and destitution but the money his uncle had thrust into his hand. Was it a banknote or a cheque ? If a bank-note then the squire must have given him at least five pounds—a sum that was not to be despised. He fingered the envelope in his pocket. It was thicker'than he had supposed. /It was only natural that Campbell should be anxious to know how much had been given him. He stopped at a ,gate, and making a little cleft in the tipper bar with his knife, hfe Jit a wax vesta and stuck it into tTie cleft, so that it burned like a taper.' "Then he quickly drew the envelope from his pocket and'examined its contents. He found that the envelope contained six bank notes.. The first was. for five pounds; the second was also for five pounds; but the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth were for one hundred pounds each. . Trembling with excitement, Campbell tried to count the notes a. second tame, When the vesta suddenly went out. As soon as he was in the dark again he doubted whether he had read the .'notes rightly. Surely his uncle, exasperated with' him as he was, could never have intended to. give him all that money? With fingers that in Bpite of him shook a little, he lit another vesta, and stuck it in the cleft of the wood.' Yes—there could be no doubt of it., He had in his hands a larger sum of money than he had ever seen before in his life. Four hundred and ten pounds! As soon as his bewilderment had subsided Campbell turned and went back in the direction of the Grange. He walked slowly, for he scarcely ■knew, what he should say to his uncle; hut he felt that he could not leave without trying' to express his gratitude for this generous gift. He had thanked him for what he supposed ■was a five-pound note, and he had ielt at the time.that-his words had been cold and inadequate. He wanted to assure the squire once more that he had never insulted him, never knowingly presumed upon his favour, and that* he was -truly grateful for his last gift.. He went forward slowly, hoping that the old man would not misinterpret his returning, and trying to clothe what'he had to say in fitting AYords. .-.-.■ In the meantime the squire had not \ teen left alone. Campbell had scarcely left the house when the library door opened, and Richard Cardale entered the room. It was his step the squire had heard when he hurried Campbell away. The -old man, looking up at his nephew,,saw a scowl on his face, and his own face fell. It was only occasionally that lie was able to

put down the young man's insolence. He did not feel fit for a struggle that night. Cardale had made up his mind that he would know whether his uncle had. really disinherited him or not.- /He was tortured with anxiety, and had determined that he would ascertain the truth at once. He thought he would be able to bully his uncle into showing- him the new will, if a new will had been made. Pulling- a chair up to the fender, the young- man sat clown, and for a few minutes sat staring- into the fire without speaking, while the squire busied himself with putting away his papers. Suddenly Richard Cardale wheeled round in his chair. "What were you and old Drew so busy about the other day? He said this with perfect coolness, as though he had the right to ask the question. The old squire shot one sharp glance at his nephew from under his shag-gv eyebrows, and w^ent on with the arranging of his papers without answering a word. "Look here, uncle," said the. younqman, when he. saw that he was not going to get an answer, "I don't want to pry into your private affairs, except so far as they concern myself. 1 want to know what I have to expect, that's all." Still no reply. The old man might have been stone deaf for any sig-n that he heard what had been said \o him. Cardale's temper was beginning to give w ray. "Don't you think I'm worth answering, sir?" said he, after a pause. "No; because I consider your questions grossly impertinent." "I thought you'd say that. Now, just let me try to show you that you are wrong. Just try, to 'put yourself in my place. How would you* like tobe kept in the dark like a child, and have no idea where you stood? Before this drunken scouridrel you say is your nephew—thank heaven he is no relation of mine!—turned up, we were the best of friends, weren't we? I'm sure you wouldn't have found a more united family anywhere, though we had our little squabbles now and then. Well, this fellow comes out, of the workhouse and plants himself upon you. Instead of giving him half a sovereign and telling him to go about his business you take him "in, and make as much of: him as though he were your long-lost son. You take the. account books away from me and g-ive them to him, and it looks as though you meant to make him your heir. "Well, I told you how he behaved to-day at the Duke's Arms; and if you don't believe me you can ask anyone that was there if I didn't tell'you the truth. And what I want to know is: Is he going to have the inheritance I've worked and slaved for all these years?" A g-rirn smile flitted across the old man's face as the words "worked and slaved for" fell on his ears; but he gave no other sign of attention. "If you mean that things are to g-o back to their old footing- you have only to say the word, and no son could be more to his father than I will be to you. But if you have torn up your will, and made a new one, putting that rascal in my place, I'll thank you to give me a few hundred pounds and let me try .my fortune at the Cape." "I think you have said something of that kind before, Dick," said the old man, dryly. "I have; but this time I mean it, by heaven!" "You mean what? That you will go to the Cape?" "I mean that I willknow what sort Of will you have made!" cried Dick, in a sudden burst of fury, starting to his feet. "You are not going to fool me any longer. Did you, or did you not, make a new will the last time Lawyer Drew was here?" "And what if I did? Is there, any law against a man making- a new will?" "No; and I shan't interfere with you making whatever will you like." "That's very kind of you," said the old man, sarcastically. "But I must see it." "Oh, you must see it, must you?" "Yes, I mean to." There was a quiet ferocity in 1 the young man's tone that made the old squire tremble. But he would not give in. "Don't be a fool, Dick. You shan't see the will unless I choose, and I don't choose. So there's no more to be said." Richard's face turned very white. He turned without a word and left the room. The fact Was that the squire had welcomed Campbell's.residence at the Grange as a means of delivei'ing himself from the bondage into which he had slipped. For many years he had chafed against the treatment young Cardale and his mother meted out to him, but he had neither the moral ■ nor-the physical strength to assert himself sufficiently to tell them to leave the house. He was secretly afraid 'that they would not obey him, that they would defy him and get the better of him, and that the result would be that he would be more their slave than ever. He could occasionally insist on being- obeyed; in fact, a stranger listening to one of the squabbles to which Richard had alluded would probably have come to the conclusion that the old man was not only well able to hold his own, but was a bit of a tyrant. But he could keep up the struggle. When he roused himself sufficiently to put ;his foot down, Mrs Cardale and her son always yielded—but they made up for it'afterwards. The squire liked Campbell, who never tried to bully him, but was always ready to' serve him, and grateful for any kindness shown to him. It took the old man a long- time to choose between his two nephews, but at length he did resolve to make Campbell his heir. Richard's suspicions were Well-founded. Mi; Drew had prepared a will, which had been duly executed, under which Richard ■Cardale was to have a legacy of £5000, his mother an annuity of £200, and Campbell the rest of-.the property. For some time the squire had seen that it would be impossible for these two rivals to go on living in the same house any longer. One of them must go They had both at different times expressed a willingness to depart but it was only natural that Campbe 1, whoTas to be his heir, should remain, with him. Besides, he was infinitely a peasanter man 'to live fth . than Richard Cardale. Richard had oiten. expressed'a desire to go and try his fXne at the Cape. Well he should have the chance now. He should have Sr hundred pounds to start HM*. and more if 'that was not sufficient. The o"d man felt that he had borne his nephew's tyranny long- enough. The sooner he was off the better. Then came Richard's slanderous accusation. It raised the old mans wrath to boiling point. He scarcely, stopped to consider whether it was true or false. To think that this ne er-do-well, whom he had picked as: it.

! were out of the ditch at the roadside, whom he had sheltered and fed when ihe was homeless and starving, and , treated almost as a son, should dare to boast in public of bis favour! That he should be already counting- upon his death, reckoning the months, perhaps, till the old man was lying- quietly in the churchyard, and himself reigriing- at the Grange. It was too .much! In a few minutes the current of the .squire's thoughts and affections ! had changed entirely. He dreaded seeing- Campbell, and yet he contemplated with satisfaction Ihe prospect of turning- him out of; doors. Of course, he would deny the charge. But'of course it was true. He had at first intended only to give Campbell a few sovereigns, to enable i him to go oft! somewhere out of his sight; but at the last moment, as he fingered the, banknotes, he had relented, and made the two nephews change places, as it were, giving Campbell the money he had destined for Richard. But Richard Cardale had no idea of the effect his words had had on his uncle's mind/ If he had only been ei/n----tent to wait and bide his time, he might' have reaped the full reward of his perfidy, But he was tormented with anxiety to know the truth. He could not rest; and the liquor he had swallowed that day, both at. the inn and since his return, had made him reckless. He had gone to his uncle resolved to know the truth, and the old man had simply defied him. This was not to be borne. The young man rushed out of the room, and went into the hall, where he knew- that pistols were always kept, loaded, in case of a night attack by burglars. They were old fashioned, double barrelled affairs, such as are seldom met nowadays. He reached up for one of them and took it down. It need scarcely be said that no ! thought of killing the old man was ju ; his mind: but he intended to give him I a. g"ood fright, and compel him to show him the will without move ado. He went back 1o the library, walk- : ed straight up to the squire, and held the murderous weapon within a yard of his head. ' "Look here, uncle," he said, in n, voice thick with passion and alcohol, | "you've fooled me long enough. I've | stayed here doing your bidding more years than I can count, and I know j no more of what I have to expect than ■ I did at Ihe end of the first twelvemonth. This won't do any longer. If you don't produce that will, and swear to change it if it's not fair to rao, as ' true as there's a Ood in heaven, I'll fire!" The last words had scarcely left the I madman's lips when the long French ' window was torn open, ;Qul Campbell burst into the room. Cardate, on Reeing" him, started back, and gave a shout of rage. His finger trembled en the trigger. The pistol exploded; and the old man, throwing up his arms with a faint, whining cry, sank down in a heap on , the floor. CHAPTER XTTT. A FALSE MOVE. For one morwent Campbell stood stock still with consternation; the next he was at the squire's side, trying to raise him. But the old man was a- dead weight in his hands, and Tie thought it better to lay him flat on the floor. His face and his white hair ; wei-e untouched, and Campbell hoped that he was more frightened than hurt. But his eyes were closed, and so they remained. There was a small round hole in his waistcoat, and with a sudden terror Campbell tore it open. Then lie saw a red stain on the shirt, and shud- j dered. Putting a. strong compulsion on himself he inserted his hand between the upper and under folds of the shirt- j front and felt for a heart-beat. There ; was. none. Again he felt, this time more carefully. There was not the smallest flicker of movement; the old squire was dead. All this time Richard Cardale had been standing exactly where he stood j when Campbell burst into the room, I literally paralysed with horror. He stared down stupidly at the silent figure on the carpet; and when at length Campbell rose to his feet he could only gvisp out: "Is he dead?" "Yes. he is dead, you—you MURDERER!" At the sound of that word Cardale dropped the pistol on the ground and sprang1 to the window. Campbell dashed after him, but at the window he stopped and went back ) for the weapon, which he supposed was a revolver. He was determined that the assassin should not escape. There was still a barrel to fire, and, springing to the window, he shouted to Cardale to stand. There Avas no response. Campbell stood an instant listening. There was no sound but j that of flying- feet. He rushed to the j bell, pulled it violently, then leaped , through, the. open window and raced j down the avenue after the criminal. As a j'oung man Campbell had been .a fast runner, and lie had no doubt I that he would soon overtake Cardale, and force him at the muzzle of the remaining- loaded barrel to come back I to the house. But he soon found out that he was not the man he had been. His breath began to leave him, and he was forced to change his pace to a fast walk. As soon as his breath came back to him he started off again; but in a short time he reached the main road, and there he stopped short, notknowing which way the fugitive had taken. As he stood there, irresolute, the pistol still in his hand, he thought lira heard a sound in a plantation on a rising ground to his right, and without pausingl to think he plunged into the underwood. "After going perhaps fifty yards he stopped to listen. Not a sound was to be heard. The trees were ,thiclc — mostly young- larches and firs—and the night wind sighed through them with a sound as of weariness. The darkness was intense. Mysterious sounds came out of the wood, and suddenly Campbell was struck with the thought that- it would be a dreadful thing if he were to lose himself in the wood and be kept all night wandering- round and round in that thick darkness. He did not feel easy till he got in sight of the road again, and stood looking into it, resting his arms on the fence that separated it from the plantation. It was evident that there was little use in going after Cai-dale that night. It would be better to go 'back to the Grange and see if he could be of any use. He would not sleep there, since his uncle hal turned him out of doors; but it would be necessary to go back and remain for the inquest. . And then, as he tried to collect the events of the evening- in his mind, a strange,horrible thought came to him. What if Cardale, instead of fleeing for his life, as he had supposed he was doing, had gone to fetch the doctor and the constable? What if he should

boldly assert that, he, Hector CampObeli, had shot tiie 'squire? A tremor came over the man's body at the mere thought. He sat down j among some bracken that grew a.t his feet to think out the thing quietly. Suppose, then, Ca.rdale, had wit and cunning to secure himself against the consequences of his ei'ime. :'by laying the blame on him, how was lie to disprove it? It was one man's [Word against another's—not even oath ; against oath; for if lie were accused it j would be useless for Mm to bring- a I itionniter-c'hsarge against- the accuser. iHe would not even be listened to. Itwould seen) to be merely the reckless lying of a desperate man. Then, what light would the surrounding' circumstances .throw, or 'seem to throw, on the matter? No one | knew of the quarrel between him and his uncle, it was true. But if he appeared before the coroner, lie might— j nay, he almost certainly would—-be j asked the question; and he must ansjwer truly—must answer that his uncle had been so grievously offended with I him that he had turned him out of the I house. I Then he remembered the money— jt'he four hundred and ten pounds he .carried in his breast: pocket. Would 'anybody believe that his uncle had given him these notes? Would it not look very like as if he had stolen thorn? The thought shook him, so ithat he put, his hand on his pocket | with some wild intention of destroying | the notes. Hut, he could not bring" I-himself to do that, for they were all that stood between him and starvation. The pistol was still in his hand. Who was to say Mint lie, wa.s telling1 the truth when he said that he had only picked it up after the d^i-d had been done, with the- intention of compelling-It-he real murderer to return to the house? Would not everyone think that he had in reality carried the weapon unconsciously in his hand from the moment when he had taken his !uncle's life? There wa.s another consideration that not unreasonably weighed witii Campbell a- good deal. Cardale was among friends and neighbours, while he himself wan a stranger, it was imore likely that the stranger would be looked upon with suspicion—it was |almost certain that Cardale's word (would be believed in preference to his own. On the ot'hcr hand, Campbell knew very well that if lie were to flee he ' would be an outlaw from that time forth. The best he could hope for would be an obscure- life in some projvineial town, lie must change his name, and skull; from town to town he found a place of refuge, unless lie left the country altogether. Either way there was ditliculty and danger, but'Campbell could not help thinking1 that tilt' danger of remaining behind was a-hundredfold greater than the danger ot! Hying. If he stayed he risked all, his wry life, on the chance, of the jury believing him. It was like a hunted animal coming voluntarily to tight in a pit. On the other hand, if he fled he had two chances. :Most likely he would .succeed in evading the police. But if not, he would be able to say that, although innocent, he had not dared tp stand his. trial because he knew that appearances were against him. These various considerations and arguments did not occur to the mind of the unhappy man in regular order, but came tumbling over one another, like "bricks from the wall of a fallinghouse. Sometimes his courage rebelled against the shame of flight. Some-' times it appeared to, him that if he did not fly he could not (hope to escape the scaffold. He was still undecided, still weighing this danger against-that, when he noticed that there was something hard and sticky, like caked mud, on his right hand. He pulled a handful of bracken to wipe it clean, .when it occurred to him that it must be blood! It couldbe nothing' else than the old man's blood that made his hand unclean! There must, be blood-stains about his clothes, too, he told himself, if there were light; to see them by. That horrible thought decided him. If he. hud stopped to think over the matter calmly, he", would have seen that the blood-stains were certainly not conclusive evidence against him. They could mean no more than that hie had come in contact with the murdered man after he was shot. But it is little wonder if the darkness, the loneliness, the agitation of mind, t'hc r,ens:e of his complete friemllessness, overpowered him. He made up his mind that the risk of remaining behind was greater 'than the risk of flight, and a. risk too great to be run. He ,imist go. First of all, he removed the copper cap from the muzzle of the loaded bai-rel of the pistol, and then with one sweep of his arm sent the weapon flyin«- far among the trees. Then he rubbed his right 'hand'among the grass and bracken till he. nearly rubbed the skin off. Then he stood up, and prepared to get over the fence. But- iust -then the sound of voices caiK'ht his car, and he thought he had better wait till the travellers passed by It did not-at the time strike him as odd that there, should be footpassengers on that lonely road at such an hour He crouched down among the bracken till they should go by. ".Presently he started. It was Richard Cardale who was speaking. • "Of course, I rushed down in shirt and trousers, and there was Ulie old man lying stretched out on the floor, the lamp burning and the window open. "J can't tell" you how I felt. It was all I could do to go up to him and see if he wasdead." "And was he?"'said.another voice. Campbell recognised it as that, of a medical man who lived not far from the Grange. ' "As far as I could tell lie was quits detitl." "Dear me! And then?" "The window was open and I went out and heard the noise of a man running. I ran after him, but he goli into the woods and I lost him. Then I came on for you." The voices died away. Campbell, .crouching at the other side of the hedge, felt a cold sweat conic over. him. So his enemy had grained another advantage. He had already denounced him. Who would believe his story if he were to go back? It would seem plain to everyone that he had returned.because he thought that boldness offered the best ehanc of hist ultimate escape, and that his accusation of Cardale had been made simply to save his own skin at the expense of nn innocent man. Yet. he knew that if 'ho ran away .lie would b? thenceforth nn outlaw. What finally, caused Campbell to make up his mind was the possession of the bank notes. He.hod nothingno witness, not; a scrap of writing—l to prove that they had been given to him. The mere fact that they were

found in his possession would be held a proof that !be had committed the imii'der. If he destroyed them still they would be missed (for, of course, the bank manager would say that the squire had got them from the bank), and it would be supposed that he had hidden them with the intention of keeping' them till the affair of t'lie squire's death had blown over. . There was not much time to spare for arguingl the question. Campbell was not morally a strong* man, and ho felt .ineapa.ble of deciding" the matter for himself, and he had nobody to consult. In an agony of indecision be looked up at the sky. There was a moon, but heavy clouds were drifting across her path. It was alternately bright moonlight and shadow. Just then the moon was obscured. About a quarter of a mile off, the lane by the side of which Campbell was now standing opened into a broad high road. This road ran between the town of Melford, at which there was a police station, and Crowbridge, where there was a railway junction. In any ease he must go to the corner of the. road and the lane met. And he made up his mind that if at the moment 'he got to the road the moon remained hidden by clouds he would turn to the right, walk straight to the police station at Melford and tell his story. Probably lie would be detained in custody, but! that would scarcely matter. if he went to the police station he would have to' stand his trial some time or other. Hut if, on reaching the high road, the moon was shining" bjriglut and clear he, would turn to the left and do his best to catch, the night mail Ihat passed through Crowbridge about I\vo o'clock' in the morning. He (bought it was pretty certain that the authorities there would not be warned in time to prevent 'his catching- the mail train. What he should do after that he did not know: but he knew that il' he meant to fly he must catch that train. fn a second or two-he had scrambled through ihe hedge and was striding off in the direction of the high road. He had not gone fifty yards when the dee]) shadow that, had been hiding copse and field lightened. He looked up. The moon was visible, shining through a fleecy cloud. A little more and she was sailing across the unspotted blue. lie did not know whether lie was glad or sorry. At an even, rapid pace he walked on, wondering whether the moonlight would last till he reached the. corner. Ft did not. A large black cloud was rapidly approaching. It came up and the moon plunged into it and was gone. Campbell turned and looked behind him. The sky was deep in clouds. No blue appeared in the direction from which the black masses were coming. The thing was decided. Tie began to.think of the words in which he would tell his tale to tho police inspector on duty. 'Would it b« necessary, he wondered, to repeat al? that the old man had .said to him? If not, at what ljoint should he begin? Before he could answer the question the corner came in sit; Jht. He sighed and insensibly be.'ni: his steps towards the right-hand side, so as to save a unce or two in rounding the corner. Tie was close to Ih^ corner—six: stepr, more nnd ho would be there—when t'lie shadow thnt rested everywhere suddenly brightened. He. walked steadily on. "By the time the six stfMjs were taken he was in the moonlight, A glance nt iho heavens +old him that the moon ban nnpenrerl mi the fringe of the mass of c7oud. which was +rnvellinc south as well ns pastwarris. ITcr s'loT'Ous ■''ape was visible but for i moment, nnd the ragp^d Wlfye or the. grnn+ olou'l ao'nin overshadowed hfv. ■Rll+ in tlmt ''nßtan+ Cp^ obeli's fate Tind b«pr> decided. He rViA r\r>f, -pmise «r nifpr his sten by ■>. lirvVp breadth, li"t bendiprr now +0 the left he marched on to Crowbrido'e.

(To be cowtinued.l