The Welfleet Mystery.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIII, Issue 57, 8 March 1902, Page 3 (Supplement)

The Welfleet Mystery.

By Mrs^GEORGIE SHELDON.

CHAPTER XLV.

SIR EDWARD STEWART.

"How can I help loving you?" she cried, clinging to him then; "but I heve never dared to admit it, even tc myself, until now. I have sometimes felt as if I had forfeited my right to every joy in this life, and I have never expected to become the wife of any good man. I believed that I had utterly' blighted my own life, and though I know that God has forgiven me, and has given me grace ancl strength to rise above my former weakness, yet I believed that I must always live alone- so I had planned to cultivate and make the most of my one talent, and for the rest, devote myself to the good of

ethers."

"You may still do that, my purehearted Sylvia," Edward Stewart said, drawing her tenderly to him; "you shall devote yourself to me first of all, and then to the 'good of others' to your heart's content. You may cultivate that glorious voice ail you will, but you must not sing to gratify the capricious public, for I cannot have a price set upon the voice which I love so well. My darling, cur tastes are very similar; you love to help the poor, and weak, and erring— so do I; and together we will do all the good that we can in the world — but first of all, you must belong wholly to me."

"It was you who saved.me. I owe my life and all that I am to you," Sylvia said, tearfully, while her beautiful brown head drooped until it rested upon his shoulder. This unexpected, this wonderful joy which had been sent to her, made her feel very tumble.

"You owe me nothing, my beloved. All I ask is your love, and to have you always with me in my horne —to feel that you belong to me, and that I have the absolute right to shield you henceforth from every care and sorrow. Sylvia, look up, dear."

She raised her face trustfully to his.

"You are to be my wife?" he added "Yes, since "

"We will not have it qualified," he interrupted, smiling. Then he added, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes:

"But are you not afraid to trust me so unreservedly? You know nothing about me or my antecedents." "^o; I am not afraid. You are to me the noblest man alive," she returned, a glow of tender pride lighting her whole face. "I shall have to tell you that Lady Sylvia Stewart, wife of Sir Edward Stewart, of Marlow Park, Worcestershire, will be the pride of the county," he said, watching her closely to see how she would receive the intelli-

gence. "Sir Edward Stewart?" she questioned, in an astonished tone, and losing some of her rich colour. "I did not know —I had no idea —I am afraid," she faltered, growing confused and startled.

"Be afraid of nothing, dear one," he said, tenderly touching her lips with his own; "the daughter of Nathaniel Houghton, so well known and so honoured as the rector of Allendale, is above reproach, and well fitted in every way for the position which she will henceforth occupy. Yes, Sylvia, I am a baronet, and heir to a large estate in Worcestershire county. This was left me by a very wealthy uncle, who died a few years ago, provided I would quit a seafaring life and settle at Marlow Bark. I have no near relatives, and when I went there to live, I felt lost in the magnificence surrounding me, so I came to London for a while, went into some snug rooms which I tried to make as near like a trim vessel as I could, for I had always loved the sea, and it was quite a trial to be obliged to give it up; but," folding her close to him, while a brilliant smile lighted his fine face, "all is now suddenly changed, and life, as a landed gentleman, promises to be very bright." The sound of Mr "Gregory's step in the hall interrupted their conversation at this point, and as he opened the drawing-room door, Sylvia would have stolen away to be alone with her new happiness; but Mr Stewart, divining her intention, caught her hand, thus detaining her, ancl, leading her directly up to their host, said, with a smile:

"I beg your heartiest congratulations, my dear sir, upon having this morning- secured a treasure. Miss Houghton will become Lady Stewart at as early a date as I can persuade ncr to name."

Mr. Gregory smiled. "I have not read the signs of the times amiss! I have been foretelling, to my own heart, this denouement, consequently I am not at all surprised. I do, however, congratulate you most heartily, and predict for you not only a life of happiness^but of great usefulness also," he said, shaking them heartily by the hand. "But," he continued, a merry twinkle in his eyes, "for an old bachelor's establishment, I must say I think there neems to be an unusual amount of the matrimonial element in the atmosphere." Mr. Stewart and Sylvia both laughed heartily at this sally. "True," replied Sir Edward, "it does seem as if the whole family had become inoculated with it —except yourself, perhaps. Are you not fearful that the disease may prove infectious in your case?" ; Mr. Gregory, still smiling, though there came a sad, wistful look into his eyes, shook his head. "Contagious diseases seldom strike twice in the same place," he said. Then, with a tender melancholy he added: "You, who are so interested in music, of course know about the 'lost chord.' My dear friends, there are lost chords in human lives which can only be recovered, and the harmony restored, in.heaven." Then, with another pressure of their hands, he turned abruptly away and left the room, more moved than they had ever seen him before.

There was general rejoicing over the engagement when it was announced; and Theo, first consulting with Mr. Stewart, or Sir Edward, as they all now insisted upon calling him, planned a grand dinner-party to celebrate the event.

"You have friends, I know, to whom you would like' to introduce Miss Houghton," she said, "and I will send for Mr. Edmonds and his mother, the Misses Lovel, Lady Dilborough and family, for I want them all to know her."

"Yes," Sir Edward said, "he had a number of friends in London to whom he wished to introduce her before his marriage, and it was certainly very kind and thoughtful in Miss Lander to arrange it for him."

CHAPTER XLVI

JOHN KNIGHT'S CONFESSION.

The day of the dinner-party which Theo had arranged in honour of Miss Houghton's engagement to Sir Edward arrived. The house was garnished in every possible nook and corner with the choicest flowers and vines, while the air was redolent with their perfume. Mrs Edmonds and the Minor Canon, with the Misses Lovel, arrived in the morning; Lady Dilborough, with her sons and daughter, came later; while about half an hour before dinner Sir Edward Stewart's friends were announced.

They consisted of the Hon. Sidney Balfort, his wife, and two daughters; a gentleman of literary note and his young wife, and Sir Ealph Hurlburt, with his wife and son.

Mrs. Edmonds, at Theo's request, assisted her in receiving:, and the beautiful girl in the finest of India muslin, embroidered with tiny moss rosebuds, and wearing no ornaments whatever, seemed prettier than ever before.

Josephine loked like a stately lily in white nun's veiling, trimmed handsomely with white satin, with simply a great bunch of crimson carnations in her belt for ornament.

Sylvia Houghton was beautiful _in a heavy silver-gray silk, trimmed with white hand-made Spanish lace, and wearing a magnificent set of diamonds—Herbert Knight's gift as a testimonial of his gratitude for her tender care of him during his longillness.

She was an elegant-looking woman. There was an air of refinement and dignity about her which impressed everyone at the outset, while _ her sweet face, with much of its girlish beauty still lingering in it, but softened "and ennobled by her suffering and her "conquest," won all hearts, and she was the cynosure of all eyes during the evening. Sylvia received her honours very sweetly. She was as calm and selfpossessed as if she had been a favoured daughter in her own father's house, and never once betrayed anything of the emotion which at times would surge through her breast as she recalled the day when Sir Edward had -rescued her, in a half-con-scious state, from the street, and compared it with the present hour. Herbert Knight had seemed much better during the last day or two— so much so, that he had insisted upon mingling with the family, and actually felt able to endure the excitement of meeting the company who had been bidden to the dinner-party.

He enjoyed watching the people from his snug corner, and almost forgot that he had been,ill at all as he gave himself up to the excitement of the occasion.

"I believe I am going to get well, after all," he said to Theo, as she came and sat beside him a little while after dinner.

"Of course you are going to get well, Bertie!" she said, astonished. "I hope you haven't had any doubt about it. I'm sure I haven't!"

"Well, but when a fellow hasn't strength to move his little finger without having to groan over it, he can't help thinking that it wouldn't take a great deal to wilt him entirely; and then, when you were all having such good times getting ready for this affair, it was rather tantalising, and made.me a little blue, 1 own, because I couldn't be in them, too.'*-

"Poor boy! I am afraid we have neglected you of late," Theo said, xegretfully, while she stole her soft hand slyly into his in a sympathising way. '•j\ To---no, indeed; please don't think I am complaining." he said, quickly. "I've no business to monopolise everybody's time and attention. You have" all "been as kind as could be to me, and I know I have made heaps of trouble first and 'last. I've sometimes been tempted to think that it would have been just as well—excepting for Guy's sake, perhaps—if 1 had never been picked up at sea. 1 seem to be such an odd, useless kind of a stick."

"Bertie Knight! you shall not talk so!" Theo cried, grieved and indignant, while the tears sprang quickly to her beautiful eyes. "Have you no feeling for me, when you are every bit as dear to me as if, you were really my brother? Just hear him, Josie!" she said, turning to "her friend, who; had approached them at that moment, and whom she had addressed in this familiar way of late. "Isn't it rank treason for him to talk in any such way?" "I did not hear Mr Knight's remark," she replied, stopping beside him.

"He says," Theo continued, "he is an odd, useless stick, and if it had not been for vindicating Guy, it would have been just as well if he had not been picked up at sea."

A startled look leaped into Josephine's eyes, a sudden pallor swept over her face, and her hand closed over the fan which she carried with such force as to break one of its delicate sticks in twain.

It was only for a moment, how-

ever, that her self:possession was thus disturbed; then she was her colm, well-poised self again.

"I suppose," she said, very g-ravely, "that God had some wise purpose in allowing Mr Knight to be restored. He doubtless has some work for him to do in the world, as He has for all His children; and it seems to me that we have no right to question the Providence that surrounds .us with so much to be thankful for, even if it is mingled with some suffering."

Then she passed on, but not before both her listeners had marked the look of pain in her eyes, and the slight trembling of her under lip as she ceased speaking.

Theo and Bertie involuntarily turned and looked into each other's eyes.

Then, all at once, a new, light leaped into the young man's face, and a long-drawn sigh escaped him—a sigh indicative of surprise mingled with a new-born joy.

"Well, Bertie, I do not think it will be absolutely necessary for you fo remain an 'odd stick' all your life, unless you perversely choose to be such," Theo remarked, dryly.

Then she, too, glided away; while he sat in his quiet corner in a "brown study" during the remainder of the evening.

John Knight remained in a very critical state for several weeks after that scene in the courtroom.

After he was removed to the hotel, and restoratives administered for his recovery, it was ascertained that he had had a stroke of paralysis.

At first it was thought that he could not live, for he remained in an unconscious state for several days.

At length he began to show signs of returning life, though they were •feeble at first; but, as time went on, he gaiued a little from day to day, until he began to recognise those about him. Then he began ti try to talk, and was at last able to make something of his needs and wishes

known

He could not, however, move either hand or foot; his body was absolutely helpless. His head alone he could turn, though feebly, from side to side, upon his pillow.

This return to consciousness was like the last flickering of a candle before going entirely out. His physicians said he might linger in this state for some little time, but his recovery was out of the question. One morning he surprised his attendants by asking where his nephew was. He was told that Bert was a guest in the house of Mr Gregory, but was himself still something »f an invalid. "Is he able to go out at all?" John Knight asked, in his broken way. "Yes—to ride for a little while at a time," they told him. "Send for him. I want to see him," he commanded. The message was taken at once to Mr Gregory. He looked grave, and hesitated at first about communicating it to Bert, but flnallv thought it best to tell him that John Knight wished to see him.

"I will go at once," the young man responded, promptly. "My friend, how will you go to him? He is very feeble, and the least excitement * would prove fatal t« him. Can you go with peace and forgiveness in your heart?" "Certainly," Herbert Knight replied. "I cannot believe that John really meant to do me harm—that he premeditated taking my life. I know that he must have been jealous of me for a long time, feeling that I had everything and he nothing. Then his passion for Theo deprived him of all reason for the time, and -when I retorted so hotly upon him, he lost control of himself and struck me almost before he was aware of what he was going to do. Then, like many, another man who has taken life in a fit of anger, he sought to! hide the 'deed. I believe that opium was at the bottom of all that was wrong about Uncle John, and I can much more readily forgive him for the personal injury to myself than I can for the cunning and villainous plot which he laid for Guy," he concluded, with some heat. "I wish I could feel as confident as you do," said Mr Gregory, gravely, "that he never premeditated any evil to you; but I cannot." "Well," answered Bert, with a sad sigh, "whatever he. may have done or been in the past, he is helpless and suffering now. The same blood flows in the veins of both of us, and I will not presume to pronounce judgment upon him. If I can do anything for his comfort, I will gladly do it." So he went to obey the request of the sick man. When John Knight was informed that his nephew had come, a look of fear for a moment convulsed his face; then, with an effort at selfcontrol, he said, with his stiffened lips: "Let him come in." ?Tot a word was spoken as Bert entered and advanced toward the bed. The two men—one so near the grave, the other so recently snatched back from it—looked into each other's eyes, while their faces were more like" the faces of the dead than the living. Eye was fastened to eye, one filled with pity, the other with remorseful appeal. Then, all at once those livid lips began to twitch, and a voice so hollow and unnatural that no one would ever recognise it as belonging to John Knight, said: "Bert! Oh, it was opium that did

it!" - "Yes, John, I believe it was," Bert answered, in a low, grave tone. ! "Ah! then you knew that I used it?" pursued the sick man, speaking with-difficulty. "If it had not been for that cursed drug I should never have been the man that I have been. It warped my affections; it benumbed my faculties; it made me like a very demon. I did love you, Bert, when you were a little fellow; there was no pretence about my affection, for you then; your childish prattle was like music to me; your love for me used to thrill me with delight. Sit down, and let me tell you how I became a—fiend."

Bert obediently drew & chair and sat down beside him; then he said, gently:

" I am afraid you are not able to talk. Let it;all 'go. Ido not wish you to get excited.''

"No;"l cannot let it all go, and I must tell you now, or never," he answered, decidedly.

Then, after a pause, he resumed, speaking "very brokenly but in a way to show- that he had arranged in his mind beforehand just what he would say. "One night, when I was quite young, I was in London with a j friend. We were passing one of j those dens where those addicted to 'the habit go to smoke opium, or use jit in other ways. 'Let us go in \ and see how they manage the thing, | just for the sport of it,' said my friend. I assented, and we entered Ithe vile place. It was disgusting in the extreme, and yet there was a fascination there which made us linger in spite of .t. Some were seated about the floor, propped against the wall, their eyes rolling, their faces like the faces of idiots, and the pipes through which they had been inhaling the poisonous vapour just ready to fall from their mouths. Others, who had become helpless and entirely unconscious, except ior the wild visions which were flitting through iheir brains, were lying at full length i.pon a wretched bed; while one, iot so far gone as the rest, sai, in a broken rocking-chair, babbling cf the wonders through which, in imagination, he was passing. Never had I listened to anything so weird and fantastic, arid my friend and I stood spellbound beside him. 'Do you suppose it, is real.to him?' he asked. 'I'm sure I cannot tell,' I said. ' Let us take a whiff at a pipe ourselves and see,' he suggested. The woman-—a veritable old hag— ■nho was waiting upon her customers, caught his words, and before we fairly realised what we were doing^ we were sitting upon a rude couch, pipes in. our mouths, and inhaling the baleful drug. I had strange, wild visions, and the sensations were delightful. I suppose the old woman knew the tricks of her trade, ancl just how to lure her victims on to destruction.

That was the beginning of my folly. The taste clung to me; it was rather pleasant than otherwise, and its effects even more so. I went again and again to that place—always secretly, for I was ashamed to 1 aye any one know of my weakness. Often I dreamed that I had acquired sudden wealth; that I was surrounded with every luxury that heart could wish; my every desire gratified, every whim indulged. It was but the intense desire of my normal condition realized in vision. All my life I have rebelled at the poverty which has cramped my ambition and des'"*es. It was after awaking from such visions as these that my treadmill sort of life, the monotony of my existence, the loneliness and lovelessness of my lot, forced themselves upon me with tenfold power. My disposition began to grow sour; I came to feel that there was no justice in a world where things were so unequally divided. It was at such times that I began to reason and murmur over the difference between your lot and mine. You had no business, I said, to have so much and I nothing. This feelingstrengthened within me as you grew older, but I endeavoured to maintain an affectionate manner toward you, even though every day my heart was growing more bitter _ against you. This pretence was comparatively easy until I began to—to —entertain that absorbing passion for—her! "

The expression of agony which looked out from the eyes of John Enight a.s he thus referred to his love for Theo testified to the reality and depth of that passion.

" But," he went on, after resting a few moments, "as the time -approached for your marriag-e I found I had less and less control over myself. Here again, I thought, you were to have more than your lawful share. I knew that you did not love her with a tithe of the strength of affection which fired my heart for her, and the very thought that she was to become your wife almost drove me frantic. At such times 1 indulged more and more in the habit which had gained such a relentless hold upon me, striving, if such a thing were possible, to drown my misery. "On the day previous to that dreadful nig-ht I had indulged in a more powerful dose than ever before. My nerves were weak; the least thing irritated me to the last stage of endurance, ancl I had less control over myself than usual. The wildest thoughts and visions regarding you flitted through my brain, and yet they were chaotic. I had no definite plan; I only felt that' you were supremely happy and blessed, while I was the most wretched man that walked the earth. It was all wrong—all wrong. Those words rang . continually in my ears, and somehow I grew to wishing that you were out of my way. •

"This continual compainson of my lot with yolirs made me wild; the same blood flowed in your veins as in mine; we were descended from the same family. Why, then, should you have everything and I nothing? Why should all your life have been filled with sunshine, your future arranged for you Without a thought or care on your part, the love of the most beautiful woman in the world—for such Theo Lander was to me—secured to you, while I had been obliged to grope and drag through all my life as best I could, -leading an Isolated, loveless life, even in the midst of a crowded city?

"I know that I was morbid, but I could not help it; and many a. time when my nerves were weak ancl sensitive from the effects of opium,- I have felt as if I could strike yon dead when you would look into my face in your happy, trustful way, and make some light, jes- g speech to me, T do not think I _ really had formed any definite plan for that night —I know I had not; yet I know the Evil One was helping me to work out a purpose regarding you, but the events of that evening drove me to desperation.

"I disliked young Walton and his handsome sister exceedingly; and I was enraged beyond measure that you should be willing to effect a reconciliation, although T knew it would not do for me to show anything of that rage. I had hard work to hide my anger during the hours which we spent with Mr Edmonds, and it did get the better of me so far as to make me leave before you were ready to go.

"I wandered about in the- darkness and storm all the time you remained

there, cursing my own gloomy fate and the happiness of others around me. The manliness and generosity of young- Walton maddened me, and I longed to do him some injury to be revenged upon him, more especially as I had already discovered the secret love which he entertained for Theo.

"I was on the opposite end of the bridge when you reached it with him —the broken earth there I had kicked up in my anger; the blood I afterward smeared upon the rail for a purpose—and while you were helping him look for his hat, I fled toward home. Iv a little while I heard you coming, aud I turned back to meet you, and then it seemed as if the Evil One himself must, have helped on'what followed.

"My hat, as you know, was whirled from my head to the very door of the crypt, and in that instant a mad purpose seized me. I had just had some keys made to fit both ' entrances —I hardly stopped to analyse for what, and yet I do know that in my opiumdiseased brain some dreadful wrong to you had been g-radually taking shape. Now, I thought, as we stood there by the crypt door, I would entice you into that place; I would then confess my love for Theo, and threaten you with confinement there unless you would relinquish all claim upon her hand, and promise to take yourself out of Welfleet for ever, leaving the field clear to me.

j "Had I but known that your engagement was even then cancelled, all would have been well, and what followed would never have happened. I did not mean to do you any personal injury then. I had' no idea that I should strike you down and murder you in my ang-er; I only meant to keep you there until you should yield to my will. But you enraged me first by your pity and generosity; all my life I had struggled for my bread, and there, at that late day, you offered me sympathy, and a share of your abundance. 1 had so long brooded over my fancied wrongs that your prop&sition drove me almost insane. Then, when I retorted by flinging my love for Theo in your face, and you so fearlessly and inddg-nantly proclaimed me the knave that I was, my passion mastered me, and I struck you that cruel blow."

The man glanced remorsefully,. as he spoke, at that small, white seam over Herbert Knight's temple, where that ponderous key had come so near proving fatal to his life.

"When you fell," he resumed, "I was appalled. I worked over you an hour trying to bring- you back "to life; but you gave no sign, ancl I believed that you were dead. Then, with a horrible sense of guilt—the feeling that I was a murderer—oppressing me, I began to consider how and where I should hide the evidence of my crime.

"All at once it occurred to me that young Walton was the last one seen with you, and that the crime could very easily be fastened upon him. I should thus be revenged upon him, though in a secret way, and he would be effectually removed from my path, and I could take my own time, and way to win the woman I so devotedly loved. My courage and strength returned with this view of the case. 1 carried you to the well, first removing your watch ancl other valuables, for I meant to use them to direct suspicion where I wished it to fall; then I wound that long black silk scarf about you and carefuliy let you down into the place—l was not callous enough to throw you in.

"When I undertook to pull my scarf out again I found it had caught upon a ragged rock, and I had' to give it a forcible wrench to disengage it. Then I stole out into the darkness and storm again, and fled to my own rooms to pass the remainder of the night—you can imagine how.

"After the first excitement caused by your disappearance had died away I went-again into the crypt one night to carry some bags of lime—quicklime. Clipper had once told me, in a careless, half-jesting way, that quicklime would eat even a person's bones. I remembered it, and to hide sfill more securely my crime, and to prevent the discovery of your body until I had matured my plans, I went to the heap which he always keeps ready for his use, took away considerable of it, and threw it into the well. There, the whole story is out now —I have told it without sparing myself, and laid bare all the horror of it; but, Bert, I lay it all—all my downward course—to that one early mistakethat one rash act of throwing myself in the way of a terrible temptation; to the reckless trying, 'just for the fun of it,' the effects of a deadly poison upon my system. I have' been a slave to opium ever since. I do not know whether there was an hereditary taint in my composition or not, which made me a more willing victim than others; I only know that I never should have led the life I have led; I never should have sinned as I have sinned, if I had kept away from that den, where &pium smokers have been made by the score." (To be concluded next week.)