"In Double Harness."

Auckland Star, Volume XXXV, Issue 88, 13 April 1904, Page 9

"In Double Harness."

i ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)

By ANTHONY HOPE. Author of "Dolly Dialogues," "Prisoner of Zenda," "Rupert of Hentzau," etc., etc

ULAFTER XII. AMJ THKllt WORK. I By this time yo-ar.g Walter Blake had cot only clearly determined what he! wanted and meant to do, he had also convinced hirr.-eii ...f his wisdom and | courage in wanting ar.d meaning to do it. : p c . lVii .;,,: Mind. Iμ- declared, to the] jJisaTPPflhir '■'■"•■'■ '• '=■'■ i"i-s<inu iiu-ident*. i Ihcu , •'•-'■:■• painful iViiiun-*. There] would be :i -u!!,i:.l. and there would bo j an a v.-k«.i i ■-■■' :ni.-..mf..r!:51i10 period— j a pi-orisi.-na! r-cri -1 h i, ..■ !iiV settled j down on :*-_n< w a;-i t;m- imr-. rhat : *a* -ir.. o ".I: - ,■.<*<• '.ho ::: -<• , o f hrn-fii ;■!;•: -i:\vum - w.»- exceptional, j ■~, -w !:;v.-- an.' .'.i-tum-. were made] fc -;,;, P ~.:;::..:.•...■-. Ho did not con-1 demn t::e '.■■•- :■'•■' .-.i-tum- wholesale. but \\e v.j* «-.;;•.: i —in- when h cJ , o «, .-- ■:..::!!. fill ! f h.;d the wi-iom ; -'-i '':.' ■■■■.■.rag.' ;r> act on whai ! fee p , r ,. ■~.;. ::.. -v,-:- adnutted thai very if v; ' >-'- wciv really exceptional.| and to'ik t "•■•■■ crcdii for pcrceivinjr j thai tin- '•:•■' l'-.illy was. Tie did not tike Hramii-y mi . :u-;-umt a< all. tber tvhj! ':■■■ was <;,■,<: wliat he might do.! Grantlrv -r.-m.-.l To hi-.i negligible, lie; confined hi- c< n~i'.leratii'ii to Sibylla and j hhnsflf- ancl t>ie fx«--f>jitinnal nature of the f "2?e v;1 ~ "bvious. He was a prey! to his r o :;dy emmion* and to his facilf*! Pesiies ma-queuuled as ren.- j spr=. and urtfpiTiiTPil impulse* the decent cloak of a high resolve. If he i Maid havi- put the ca-e like thai tn| himself, i- might not have seemed so , plainly exceptional. Kp was never more convinced of hisj wijtloni and courage tiian when he li«-1 tened to Cayiesliam's conversation. They ■n-ert> rarecor.r-e ;i:i.l flub acquaintances.! and hod lunched together aT Caylefha:n"s flat <>n the Sunday on whii-h .Tuh.n i Facshaw went to T.adv Harriet's hoii-e | in order to ~h<<\v her the error of lirr j tray?. Blake glowed with virtue a; he I listened t" hi- friend'- earthy views andj jEpasurecl his fricnii's degraded stand- ' Brd- a.eainst his own. -The ore duty.- said Caylesham.! somewhat circumserihi?ig the domain of; Dorality. a= his habit wa~. "';■= to avoid l a row. Don't get the woman into a' l scrape." From gossiping about Tom : Courtland. they had drifted into discuss- ■ ins , the converse rase. '"That really sums it all up. you know."' It was a ehillT day. ar.d he warmed himceif luxariously before the fire. ""I don't ?et myself up as a pattern to the youth.; but I've never done that, anyhow."' Virtuous Blake would have liked to j rehparse to him all the evil things he; I bad done —the imannr--. The hypocrisy,! the degradation he hud caused and ; shared: but it is not possible to speak, quit.- 1 so plainly to one's friends. "Yes. that's the gospel." he said sar- | testically. "Avoid a row. Nothing else, ma';pr-. Joes it V | "Nothins; else maiirrs in the end. T Eear.." -miied Caylesham good-natured- ' h'. i.-ODscious of the sarcasm and rather atnu-ed at it. "A- long as there's no: row . thin-;- -fttlo down again, you ■ T'.ut if there's n row. see where you're i eft ! Look what you've got on your ■ liand=. by Jove! And the women don't -vir.r a row either, really, you know. ! They may talk a- if they did —in fact. | they're rather fond of talking as if they ' did. and they may think they do some- j tini' , -. But when it conn , .- to the point, j they don't. And what's more. they; don't easily forgive a man who gets I them into a rorr. It means too much to , them, too much by a deal, Blake." "And what does it mean when there's i no row?"' "'Oh. well, there, ot r-ov.r-o. in a certain j ! Knse you have mc." Cavlesham admit- j j t?d with a candid -niilo. ""If you like j j to take the moral line, you do have mc. j of course. I was speaking of a world j Jis know it: and I don't suppose it's! j ever been pirtirularly different. Xot in j [ my time, anyhow. I ran an-wer for i thai." ' ! "Yf.u're wrong. Caylesham. wrung all i j iorr.nj.-h. If the thing has come to such s point, the nnly lionest thin.? i> to seel I it through, to face ii. to ii:k. i the mis- j take, to put tiling- where they ought io havp l>''Pii from the beginning."' "Cariia'i And how ai "■ you going to' "Thrrf"- only "no wpy if ill ing it. ,, Caylesham'? smile broadened: he pull Ifc his long movstache delicately he | " r! b. my dear 1- v:" He hvisiir-.i in :i" gentle, comfortable Way. and drew his coat right up into the ;mail of hi- bar-k. ' ; -'h. my d L ;ir tr.y:' , he murmured , ecnin. Vothing .-mild have made Walter! Biake feel aioie virtuous and more wnrageous. ' "The only LoneM anfl honourable ' he :n-i.-i'."i—"the only self-res- J pwiing ihing for Loth." convert the world to that, and r.i ;hir.k atom it." "What do I i-are about the world? ( - enough for mr- to know what I T ;"flk and lenl about it. And I've no snjuiow of doubt." p- ' its lace !iiishfil a littlt? and iie spoke < X: QeT heatedly. ."I wouldn't interfere with your con- j ;Kuon.> for tiie world, and. 'as I'm a 1 •avhelor. I ,!,.„": mi,,,! th-m." lie was ! looking at Übfc..' rather keenly now. ! fre-adering what made the youig man the subjf-ct so much "to 'heart. «at ii i ,ver.- you IM k-ep them in the , heretical stage. I think." t % laughed a-ain. 3r ..! turned To light | -igar. Blake '.\a- -making too o:ie ' Cgarette after :.r..-.Thor. ~~ii,-kly and i wrvonsly. Cay!.->liain looked ( lo\vn on \ a goo.l-lnnuMured smilr. He „,"■ • voun - in ■■■ h-.lf-conirmptu-i » BB fas!. lO n. and «,„,;,! | I!I1P been sorry i ' 0 him make a f..,.l ~f himself out I W.I OUT."' ""!"•: not goincr tn .!-'; v..il am- o;,i-s- ! tlr "i~ ho -,i 1 .-.' it' •' v - iaiii. , r.ougli I may nave nn ] jj. "-s'iUt you i:i my head. lint I'm ■ !t y ntarly twenty' years older than \ •■ 1 fancy, and I've knocked about i bit. and I'll tell you one or two ! truths. \Vh en you talk like that, ! -; assume that these things last. dotft "J f ne c «« = ; -'t of ten. they all '" l don t say that's nice, or ami-I d ; d ;^° r elevat cd. or anything else. I t make human nature, and I don't adiuire it. But there it is

i I —in nine eases out of ten, you know. And it' you think you know a case that's ■ the tenth " Tin-, v.r.s exactly vhat Blake was i sure lie did know. ■ "V-. what then?" he asked defilantly. I "•Well." answered Caylesham, slowly, I "vim hi- jolly sure first before you act on that impression. You be jolly i will sure iirst—that's all." He pausc'u j and laughed. "■That's not moral advice, Jor I wouldn't set up to give it. But it's a ; prudential consideration." "And if you arc sure?" '"fc'urc for both, I mean, you know." ! '"Yes. sure for both." "\\ ell, the i you're in such a bad way that y.nr'd better pack up and go to the Himalayas or somewhere like that without an hour's delay, because no- ■ thing else'il save you, you know." Blake laughed, rather contemptuously. ""Alter all, there hay? been cases " i '"Perhaps—but 1 don't like such long odds."' '"Well, we've had your gospel. Now j let's hear how i t's worked in your own case. Are you satisfied with that, L'ayleshain?" He spoke with a sneer that did not j escape Cayleshnm's notice. it drew ] another smile from him. I "That's a honso question—l didn't j question you as rtraight as that. Well, I'll tell you. 1 won't pretend to feel I what 1 don't feel; I'll tell you as truly as I can." lie paused a moment. "I've had lots of fun," he went on. "I've I always had plenty of money; I've never i hr.d any w<.rk to do: and I took my i 'Ha —lots of it. J didn't expect to get jit for nothing, and l haven't pot it '< for nothing. Sometimes I got it cheap, p.nd sometime;*, one way and another, it mounted to a very stifT iigure. But 1 didn't -hirk settling day: and if 'there arc any more settling days, 1 won"i >hirk them it" I can help it. I don't think I've got anything '" cc.m- ---! plain about. ■' He put his cigar back injto his mouth. ".So. 1 don't think I have." ho ended, twisting the cigar between his teeth. Whai a contempt for him young Blake had! Was ever man so ignorant of his true self? Was ever man bo sunk in degradation and so utterly unconscious of it? Caylesham could look back on a life spent as his ha.l been—could look back from the middleI jijre to which he had now come, and find > nothing much amiss with it? Blake surveyed his grovelling form from high 1 pedestals of courage and of wisdom — absolutely of virtue pure and undetiled. "Nothing very ideal about that!" ' ; Good Lord, no! You wanted the ' truth, didn't you?" ', '""Well I suppose I thought like that • once—l was contented with that once." ""You certainly used to give the impression of bearing up under it,' , smiled i Caylesham. "But things are changed I now. are they?" "Yes, thank <Jod! Imagine going on ! like that all your life!" Caylesham threw himself into a chair I with a hearty laugh. ; "Now we've gone just as far as we '. can with discretion." he declared. '"What do you mean by that?" asked Blake, rather angrily. "Well, I'm not an idiot, am I, as well ;as a moral deformity?" '"I don't know what you're balking ;-.bout." "V: , . 5 : but 1 know what you've been ! talking about, Blake. I know it rs-ll gx- ! tion about the Himalayas, which did i pn-e to ask." Blake rose with a sulk\" air and I tossed away the end of his cigarette. I "And what's that?" "The lady's name, my boy,"' &aid Caylesham, placidly. This talk was fuel to Blake's flame. It showed him the alternative —the only I alternative. (lie forgot that suggestion about the Himalayas, which did 1 not. perhaps, deserve to be forgotten.) And t!i" alternative was hideous tn him now —hideous in its 10.-s of all nobility, o> all ih« Meal, in its cynically oneneyed acceptance of what w;'.s low mid base, lip would have come to that but for Sibylla. But for him, even Sibylla — Sibylla mated to Grantley—might ] have come 1o it also. It was from such | a fate as this that they must rescue one ! allot her. One wi*e decision, one courageous stroke, and the thing \v:'s d;>:ic. ; Wry emotional, very exalted, he <-on- > trasted with the life C'ayleshara had led tliv , life lie and Sibylla were tn lead, j Could any man hesitate? With a. new j impetus and with louder self-applause j hi- turned to his task of persuading Si- j by.la to the decisive step. Part of the work was accomplished. \ Sibylla had cast Grantley out of her j heart : she disclaimed and denied both ] her love and her obligation to him. The i harder part remained: that had been j I half done in her vigil by the baby's cot.. Bi'.t it was ever in danger of being un- j I done again. A cry from the boy's lips, i the tr'.iatfui flinging of his arms from ! d<l v to day, fought against Blake. Only j in tho-c gusts of unnatural feeling, | those spasms of repugnance born of her j iiu-' i , '. was phe in heart away from i.he child. On these Blake could not rely. nor did he -cek fo. since to speak of them Lror.ghl h.T to instant remorse: but. left to be brooded over in silence, they might help him yet. lie trusted his old ! weapons more —his need of her love and . ]i,■ i- need to give it. Ciiylcshain's life !gave him a new instance and added strength to his argument, lie told her of the m.r.n. though not the man's name, sketching the life and the state of niin'l it brought a man to. •"That was my life till you came." he sai'i. "That was what was waiting for. .r. Am I to go back to that?' He could attack her on another side, too. ■■And v. ill you Ike the sort of life i that man h;i- m ;de women live? 1-s that ii" for you? V' ii can see what it would Ido tn you. Veil would get like what i he's like. You wnuld come down to his ! level. First you'd share his hes and his I intrigues- perforce, while you hated them. Gradually, you'd get to hate J them less a:id less; they'd become normal, habitual, easy: they'd become natural. At last you'd see little harm in them. The or.ly harm or hurt at last would be discovery, and you'd get cunning in avoiding that. Think of you and mc living that life—aye, till each of us loathed the other as well as loathing ourselves. Is that what you mean?"

f'iXot that, anyhow -not that." she said in a low voic-e, her eyes wide open and lixed questioningly on him. '"If not that and not the other, what then? Am I to go away?'' But he put Caylesham's alternative in no sincerity. He put it to hot-only that she might thrust it away. If she did not. he would spurn it himself. "And where should i go? Back to where I came from—back to that life?" s-he could nox tell him to go away, nor to go back to that life. Sha suit silent, picturing what his life and what her own would be through all the years, tiie livelong years, when even the boy's love would be bitterness, and she could have a friend in nobody because of t.he great, sad secret which would govern all ! her Ii)"e. i "I can't tell you. I can't decide toi day." I Again and again she had told him j that, lighting against the final ar.d the ; irrevocable. Ho long as the idea wa.s ! possible and in her thoughts, she could j fly to meditating on it and rind some I consolation there. Delay was possible J to her. but not abandonment. But l>hike was urgent now. wrought up to an effort, very full of his theories land his aspirations, full. too. of a rude ' nntf.m! impatience which he called by many alien names, deceiving his yon , 1 M-ul that he might have his heart's de- ' -ire. and have it without let or hini drance. He launched his last argument, I a last cruel argument, whoso cruelty seemed justice to a mind absorbed in its own selfishness. 15nr she" had eyes for . no form of selfishness save Grantley's. To a-k all did m>! seem selfishness to her: i; was asking nothing or 100 little that she banned.' "You've gone too far." he told her. "You can't turn buck now. Look what you've done to mc since you came into my life. Think what you've tnught mo to hope and believe —how you've le, mc count on you. You've no right to think of the difficulties ot thr> distress now. You ou'_rkt to have thought of all that long ago." It was true, terribly true, that she ought to have thought of all that before. "Was it true that she had lost the rijjht to arrest her steps and the power to turn back? '"You're committed to it. You're bound by more than honour, by more than love. You'll bo untrue to everybody in turn it you falter now." it was a clever [ilea to urge on a distracted mind. Where decision is too diilicult, there lies de.-pcrutc comfort in being convinced that il is already taken, that facts have shaped it. and previous actions irrevocably committed the harassed heart. '"You've made my love for you my whole life. on knew you were doing it. You did it with full knowledge of what it meant. 1 say you can't draw bade now."' He had worked himself up to a pitch of high excitement. There was nothing wanting in his manner to enforce his words. J.'is ease was very exceptional indeed to him: an 1 so it seemed to her —believing in his love because of the love she had her-elt' to give, yearning; to satisfy the hunger she had caused, to make >appy the life which depenriod utterly on her for joy. and the man who could tell her and made her feel and bring before her eyes how absolutely . he hung on her. The long fight, firs! against Grantley, I latterly against herself, hud »".Q4TUJMmI almost broken her. She had no power, left for a great struprglo nprainst. I>.t| lover now. Her weariness served his ( argument well. It cried out tonTt*"Toj throw herself into the arms which were; so eagerly ready for he;-. One way or the other anyhow t'-p battle must be ended, or surely it would make an end! of her. But where was an end if she stayed with Grantley? That life was all struggle, and must be fo long as it endtirel. I Who could find rest on a flinty wall? She was between that monstrous impge she had made of her husband, and j the shape which Elake prosoni<'d to hrr as himself —far more alluring. nol a whil ! less false. But for the faisencss of either she had no eyes. "I want your promise to-day." lie said. '"Your promise I know you will keep." He had become quiei now. There was an air of gra v e purpose about him. The excitement and ardour ):;>d done their work with her: this succeeding mood. or manner (for ho had lost all distinction between v.Tiat ho fell and wlini he j made himself prom to feeli. had its place, p.nd was well calculated to er>:n-| plete his victory. "I will send you my answer to-night " i she said. "It means all that T am—everything I in the world fo mc. Remember that." And he urged her no more, leaving with her these simple, sincere-sounding i words to plead for him. That was whai Ihe answer meant to ! Ijliii. What would il menu to Grant ley i Inmson? She asked Jierself that as she I snt silen' r.ppos.'tr to iiiin at dinner. It ! chanced thai I hey wore alone, though ] of lati* si;: , had schemed to avoid that, j And to-night she r-onld not speak Io ' him, ci.nld say nothing at nil. though ; his raised brows and satirical glance challenged her. Things might br- uncomfortable, bill why lose either your tongue or your manners, (irantley seemed to csk. Y< n might have a grievance (Oh, real or imaginary ns you please! i against your husband, hut why not converse on topics of the day with the gentleman at the other end of the table? He seemed to be nblc to do his part without any effort, without any diiliculty to avoid open war. r:nd ye; never to commit himself to any proposition for peace. All through tho years, thought Sibylla, he would <J.o on suavely discussing the topics of the day, while life went by. anil love and joy and all fair things withered from the face of the earth. The servant?. disappeared, a:ul Gr.-.ntlcy's talk became less for public purposes. ""I wonder how okl John has got on with Harriet Courtland?" he said in nn amused way. "He was uncommonly plucky to faca her. But, upon my word, the best thing from some paints of view would bo for him to fail. At least. it would ho the best if old Tom wasn't such a fool. r>ut a> soon as Tom sees a chance of getting rid of one woman, he saddles himself with another." '■Could lie have got rid of Lady Harriet '.'"' "'They might have nrranped a separation. As jt is, there'll be an open row. I'm afraid." "Still, if it nuts an end to what's intolerable *:" she suggested, as she watched him drinking his coffee and smoking his cigarette with his delicate satisfaction in all things that were good. "A very unpleasant way out," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Would you have endured what Mr Courtland couldn't?" He smiled across at her; the sarcas-

I tic note was strong in his voice as he asked: "Do you think mc an impatient man? Do you think I've no power of enduring 'what I don't like, Sibylla?" She flushed a little under his look. "it's true," he went on. "that I endure vulgaritj- worst of all; and Har-., j riet Courtland's tantrums arc very vulgar, as al! tantrums arc." "Only tantrums? Aren't all emotions, all feelings, rather vulgar, ley?"He thought a smile answer enough j for that. It was no good arguing j against absurd insinuations, or trying i to show them up. Let them alone; in | time they would die of their own absurditj'. "Grantley, would you rather I went away? Don't you find life unendurable like this?" "I don't find it pleasant," he smiled; I "but 1 would certainly rather you didn't go away. If you want a change for a few weeks I'll endeavour to myself." "I mean, go nway altogether." "Xo, no, i in sure you don't mean anything so Forgive mc. Sibylla, but now and again your suggestions are hard to describe with perfect courtesy." She looked at him in :i wondering way, but made no answer; and he, too, was silent for a minute. "1 think it would be a. good thing," he WPnt on. "if you and Frank betook yourselves to-Milldean lor a few weeks. I'm | «o busy that I cm sec very little of you j here, and the country air is good for j nerves." "Very well, we'll go in a day or two. You'll stay here?" "Yes, 1 must. I'll try to get down now and then, and bring some cheerful people wi.'h mo. Blake will come sometimes, 1 da.esay. Jeremy won't till he's rich arid famous, I'm afraid." In spite of herself, it flashed across her that he was making her path very easy. And she wondered at the way ho spoke of Blake, at his utter absence of suspicion. Her conscience moved a little at. this. "Yes, I'm sure you'll be better at Milldean," ho went on; "and—and try to think things over while you're there." It was his old attitude. lie had nothing to think over—that task was all for j her. 'I lie old resentment ovc.came her momentary >hame at deceiving him. "Are they so pleasant that I want to think them over?" "1 think you know what 1 mean; and j in this connection 1 don't appreciate re- | partee for its own sake,' , said Grantiey wearily, but with a polite smile. A sudden impulse came upon her. She leant, across towards him and said: "Grantley, have you seen Frank to- j day ?"' "Xo. 1 haven't to-day." "I generally go and sit by him fer a little while at this time when I'm free. ' Did you know that?" I "1 gathered it, , ' said Grantlev. "You've never come with mc. nor offer- ; cd io." "I'm not encouraged to, volunteer 1 things in my relations with you. Sibyl- , la.'' "Will you come with mc now?" she asked. She herself could not tell under what ; impulse she spoke— whether it wore iv j hope that at the last he might change.' or in the hope of convincing herself that i he would never change. She watched , him very intently, as though much hung on the answer that lie gave. Grantley Seemed ro weigh his answer, | too._ looking at his wife with searching ! eypi; v *i'here wifs a patch of red on his j cllPfks. Kvidently what she had said ; stirred him. and his composure was ] maintained only by an eilort. At last | he spoke: ■■I'll! sorry not to do anything you ask j cr wish, but as matters are 1 will not' come and see Frank with you." "Why not?" she asked in a quick half | whisper. His eyes wore very sombre as he p.ns- j wered her. ''When you remember th.it you're my : wife, I'll remember that you're ihe mo- ■ ther of my son. Till then you are an ! honoured and welcome guest in this I or in any house of mine." Their eyes met; both were defiant, neither held a hint of yielding. Sibylla drew in her breath in a long inhalation. "Very well, I understand," she said. lie rose from his chair. "You're pfoing upstairs now?" he sug!:es(ed, ;is though about to open the door. * | "I'm going, but I'm not going upstairs to-nijtht," she answered as she rose, "'i - shall go and write a letter or two in- j stead." He bowed politely as she passed out of , the room. Then he sat down at the ' table again and rested his head on both j his hand?. 11 took long —it took a very long while. She was hard to subdue. J Hard it was. too, to subdue himself —to ! be always courteous, never more tb.au permissibly ironical, to wait for his victory. Yet not a doubt crossed liis mind j that he was on t lie right track, that he nm=t succeed in the end. that plain reason and frood sense must win the day. But the tight was very long. His face looked haggard ii the light as he s-it : alono by the table and told himself to i persevere. And Sibylla, confirmed in her despair, \ bitterly resentful vf the terms he hud j proposed, seeing the hopelessness of her i life, fearing to look on the face of her j child lest ihe pain should rend her too ! pitilessly, sat down and wrote, her nn- : swer to \J"alter Blake. The answer was j the promise he had asked. | The images had done their work—hers j of him and his of her —and young Blake's fancy picture of himself. (To be continued in Saturday's Supplement). ■ - ■ ■