A LONG MARTYRDOM.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVI, Issue 225, 20 September 1905, Page 11

A LONG MARTYRDOM.

By CHARLES W. HATHAWAY. Author of "A Rash Vow," "Love's Guid- ; ing Hand.' , ''Marjorie'a Sweetheart, , ' ■ '"Joseph Dane's Diplomacy," Etc., Etc CHAPTER XXll.—Continued. Vera did not speak for two or three minutes, and Esmond, leaning back in his shady corner, was content to enjoy the dangerous happiness of covertly watching the play of the beautiful, suffering fa-ce. To him there was a lifetime of pain in those wonderful dark eyes of hers- Mrs Gray said something to her, and Vera answered; then I S* Leicester claimed the attention of the general"? wife, and Vera turned to Esmond. "I was thinking." she said, "whether you received any impressions from the evidence? Perhaps you only read it as one does read things, so often, wiCHout dwelling upon any points, or remembering, a month afterward, what it was all abo-t"' "No," said Esmond; "I shared your interest in the case. I, like you." am ahvays drawn to anything into which subtieties — especially metaphysical I subtleties—can enter." Yes? You had some impressions, then—l mean apart from the eoneln- I aions arrived at at the trial?" j "Yes I don't know that I could have given them, or rather it, a reasonable explanation; in fact, I couldn't then, or even now, when the impression is ■strengthened. The judge had the inestimable advantage of seeing and near- ! ing the witnesses. I could only read j question and answer. Still, I don't think Mrs Dene spoke the whole truth m her evidence/ A sort of quiver went through Vera.

Ksmocd, with, that marvellous iatnitioii of sympathy -which is a sixth sense, felt it rarteher than saw it". "It is strange,"' she said, ia a low yoieej—-ftliat w.»<» my impression. But you say tbe impression is strengthened.?" "Since I have known Mrs Dene," said Esmond, quietly, without hesitation. '■'Pardon—l must not catechise you any more,"' said Vera, "especially about a matter of mere abstract interest—that is, to you and mc." "I am only pleased," Esmond said, 'to answer any question you wish, to : ask mc. I am sure that what I may say is safe with you. As to Mrs Dene, I don't like to speak against any woman; but she i= only an acquaintance." "Thanks for your trust in my discretion, Mr Esmond. It is not misplaced. You mean that your impression of the evidence is strengthened by your opinion of Mrs Dene?' ' '"She is, I am convinced, false to the core. I should never believe anything she said because she .-aid rt, or even j because there was no apparent motive for untruth. Eustace Carew's own ad- ' missions were more against him than i any evidence of hers." , j "Again." Vera said, "I agree with j you, even judging from her lace alone. j and not by anything that showed what i manner of woman she was. But not ! many men would think a≤ you do. Her beauty blinds them." "There i- no soiil in it," said Esmond. '"Soul! there is no need for soul: Eustace Carew, I should imagine, must have boen in every way that woman's superior; yet, though, she flung him over. ; without compunction, he, according to j his own admission, could not leave Eng- [ land without seeing her once more. Ac- ! cording to her evidence, lie came at her ! beck and call." "I wonder."' said Esmond, '"which i statement was the true one?' ' "Why should hers be false? As yon said just now, Carew himself admitted so much that was against him."' ! ""One marvels why, if he was conscious of guilt, he should have admitted so much. There are always, of course, the two hypotheses —that he did not recognise the gravity of his position, or I that he was trying the dodge of apj pearing frank and truthful. His flight before the trial hardly looks like the first. But I have always felt that there j was something incomplete about that case—something f> be explained." ""Do you mean." said Vera, ""that you are not convinced of Carew'? guilt?' , ' "I am convinced about nothing, except I that Herbert IVnc was murdered." I "'You are the first person I have heard speak of th- , subject who had any I doubt." -aid \'t'ra. I "Am I? But, you yourself have doubts." : "Oh. yes. I have very little faith. you know, in circumstantial evidence.' ■ "Xor have I. especially under a code i which closes the mouth of the accused.' i Once more the rise of the curtain put i a stop to conversation, and in the next intprval they did not return to tht subject. in the lobby, as they wtp going out who, of cour>e. had Mrs Gray on his arm. felt a touch oa hi* other 1 arm. and turned tot meet the large blue eyes of Alma Dene. "Are you goinsj to cut mc altogether?* said she, softly. I For a moment her hand was in his; j a strange thrill" wft to his heart. I ""It wasn't that,'" he said; ""you know ; it." " : '"Then come and see mc. Wh^n , To I morrow ?" Aijuin their eyes met. ; ""Yes," he said, "to-morrow." j "Very well. Au revoir!"' ! She went onward with a smile on hei full lips. "He has need to shun mc." she said, within herself, "if he wants to keep I clear of my influence. Once he comes i undor it. he is no longer his own masJ ter." / I The Sabine carriage dropped Esmond !at his chambers in Piceadillv. and when ■ she bade him good-nijht. Vera did sc j with deeper regret than she imagined I and with the pleasurable anticipation of seeing him soon again: and she had no idea of any possible danger to herself in that looking forward. It might have been better for her had j Fran Esmond been a <ir Lurian Cair; i the perils of noble natures lie often in J the very qualities which make them what they are. CHAPTER XXILL "IT HAS RUINED MY LXFE." I "Fanchette, I am at home only to Sir Leicester Sabine."' '"t->ui. maJame! , ' said Fanchette. with j a demure face bpfore her mistress, and i a wicked smiie behind the drawing-room door. Alma's tea gown, of pale green and gold, was admirably chosen; nothing could have better become her; she seated herself near the tire—one could not yet do without fires—and waited, not with any apprehension; Sir Leicester would not fail her. No; he was even earlipr than she had expected. At half-past three a servant opned the door and announced: "Sir Leicester Sabine."' "Ah! Sir Leicester."' said Mrs Dene, smiling; '"I am pleased to see you."' j She held out; her hand carples.sly. and Sabine took it in his: but Alma drew it away at once, though the door had closed upon the servant. "Sit down."' she said, coolly. ; 'and tell mc the news. We haven't met for ages, you know." Sabine was bewildered. Her greeting of last night had nattered his let him see that she was piqued and wounded. He expectpd to be received with effusion: with, perhaps, reproaches, evpn tears, and he~e he was treated in an offhand manner, as if his hostess cared very little whether he came or not. * ""i ou don'; seem very pleased to see mc," he said, as he took a chair the other side of the fireplace. "Yes. I am—moderately. What do you expect? For three years you have been abroad. You return, but you never come near me—ergo, you don't care to see mc. "Why should" I make a fuss about you *" Sabine flushed high, and looked down, biting his lip hard. Alma watched him., and smiled to herself. "You're a bit rough on mc." he said, at last. "I thought you would care, a little. Why else did"you ask mc to come?" Alma {yirst out laughing. "Keep still," she said, raising her band. '"Don't jump up and fume. I can't help laughing. You do so naively display the crass selfishness and egotism of men. You please yourself, fall in love with a beautiful face marry its owner, throw all the past behind you. without apology or word of farewell" remain abroad for years, write not a line, and then, when you condescend, at my request, to call upon mc, I am to throw myself into yonr arms though you have a wife, and weep and sob I My heart has been breaking all this time, while

yours, having already wearied of its passing infatuation, has been mating holiday wherever It pleased. What a superlative opinion you hare <rf yourself! What a poor opinion of mc!" Sabine could, not bat feel the bitter truth of all this; but a man is not osoaHy any the more humbled for knowing himself to be thoroughly in the wrong; and. the idea that Alma had really ceased to care for hfm -was horribly wounding to his seif-love. "Did you ask mc here," he said, huskily, '"to mock mc, or for what?" J "I shouldn't have mocked you. if yon ! hadn't provoked mc to it," said Alma, in !an altered tone—just a shaH*- o f badra- | age, but a veiled look from her blue eyes, the effect of which she knew., by I experience, to be potent. i "Come, don't be so black! We can be I friends, can't we? I have a right to be resentful for the past; but I am not. I ,am willing to bury the hatchet. I can't i say more." 1 "I was an idiot." the man broke out. 1 "You do well to call it infatuation—it j was no thing more; but it h?g mined my I life." He covered his face. Alma sat silent. A strange look had gathered in her eyes; there was somej thing: of scorn in it. as well as triumph. j The conquest had been even easier than ' she had hnagined. i After a pause she said, with a tonch ■of sympathy in her tone: "Is it as bad !a3 that? Is there ao happiness in your' ' home?"' I "Bah!" he said, springing up, and beginning to pace the floor, "what is there jin common between us two? She might ! have had her freedom if she chose to , take it: but her religious scruples stood lin the way; at any rate, that's the plea I she uses." I "I dare say that wouldn't stand long if she fell in love," said Alma, with a 1 short laugh. "I've heard before now of i scruples that went to the wind when ■ hearts came into play." j Sabine came back and flung himself ; into the chair again. "It doesn't much matter/ , he said, sullenly. "She never interferes with mc, that s one thing. Igo my own way." "A very commendable state «f things,"' said Mrs Dene coolly. '"I suppose she is ! equally at liberty to go her way?" "What do you mean?'" , "Nothing. I only asked a question. After all. it's just as well you are not ! free —you would marry Mrs Gray, or j some other noodle."' j '"Mrs Gray is not a widow; her has- i i band is in India." j "How obliging of him! It's a pity he wasn't in front last night. You were so taken up with the pretty stranger that you couMn't even see a sometime 1 friend. Vivian Esmond was not so oblii vious, though he had such a gloriously beautiful woman as your wife to flirt j with." j "I don't care a rush for Mrs Gray/* said Sabine, impatiently, passing over i the rest of Alma's speech. I "I don"t suppose you do. I don't fancy . it's in you to care for anyone much " i "Aima!" I "Please don't be melodramatic! By the way. what a success the reception was. ' I wish I had been there."' ; '"You would have been," said Sabine, i "but for Vera." "I don't understand." She knows no one in London, yon know-. I gave her a lot of the names, : j and among them yours, but she refused' Ito send an invitation."' An evil flash crossed the woman's! Mcc: it was gone in an instant, and she said, smoothly: i I "It's a pity you put the name down. You see. 1 never was in the set in nhich your wife moves: and then, after j all that happened three years ago j well, things looked so much" worse than j Thr v wpre. and a woman is always hard:lt judged. Society draws such fine i lines—anything may be known, sub j rosa. but it mustn't come out." I "That's true enough."' said Sir Leiees- : ter: "yet I dun't believe it was for that a Hair \ era struck your name out so much a≤ a matfer of caste. She's as proud as a Haps burg." \ "She might be one, for her princely looks. Who are her people, by the i bye?" asked Alma, carelessly. "But , never mind. She takes your rank, any- ; how, and you are Sabine. of Abbot's J Lee. Those things don't hurt mc, j Leicester. I know how I stand." j "I took it as a slight," said Sabine, I doggedly; '-though, of course, I didn't tell her so." "I should hope not. It isn't likely your wife would affect mc. I never was a favourite with the women, you know. I can get on without them. .But 1 was a little jealous of your wife last night." ■'Why?" asked Sabine, quickly. "On acconnt of handsome Esmond. I am not silly enough to imagine I can outrival her." 'Does Esmond come here often?" asked Sir Leicester, abruptly. "Pretty often.* , was the audacious • answer. "Why shouldn't he? He is j free, and so am I; and though he's ! proud enough, in all conscience, pride sometimes strikes its colours to beauty." Sabine ground his heel on the floor, and rising abruptly, crossed the rug. and threw himself into the chair by Alma. "Look here," he said, "just answer mc this. Are you in love -with Esmond?' , I Alma turned to him with a look tha bore his gaze down. "You forget yourself," she saiu, , quietly. "You have no sort of right to i catechise mc at all; certainly not in such rough fashion." '"Forgive me.' , stammered Sabine. "but I—l can't bear to think—" "That any other man may hold the place in my affections which you threw j away. Bah!" she added, with a sudden J change of tone and manner, "I am not !in love with Esmond, but I could be easily, and he with mc, if I choose— unless—" "Unless what?" said Sabine, quieklv. "Well you remember what I said just now?" "About Vera? But she—" "I didn't utter a word against her, Leicester; but a woman's being immaculate doesn't prevent a man giving her his heart: does it?'" "No,"' said Sabine, his face turned aside. Alma gazed at him steadily for a moment ; but when he looked round again, her eyes were bent on the ground. He laid his hand dn hers. She did not move, nor raise her eyes. "Alma , ." he said, "did you thfnly I ever really forgot you?" She started then, and made a seeming effort to draw away her hand. ''It is too late now,"' she said, slowly, u to talk like that."' late, Alma? You know how a man may be blinded, infatuated, carried ! away—" j "And make the woman who blinds ! him his wife? Yes," said Anna, rising and flinging off the hand that held her; "I know how that may happen i Let there be no misunderstanding. | Leicester, between you and mc." She looked at him full now. "I am -what I always was —neither better nor worse.

'"/^S , *** ,3 y° tt thought I had grown i p -worse?" • bo, Alma,: yon. -wrong mc." Her face softened." She held out her hand, and he caught it in Ms. "I ought not to be hard,* , she said, ; gwrtly; "I know that you, as well as 1, j - have suffered; and if you had been free I ' —but jroa are not, so that page is' ; closed. Now,let us drop such tsJk as i this, and return to the commonplace and conventional." "It is cruel," said Sabine, through his teeth; "it is cruel." Bet Alma, did not ask him what was '■"craeL" She had accomplished more ' that afternoon than sac had anticipat- : ed, and she knew esa«tfy the right point at which to stop, as a skilful dramatist drops the eurtaia on the first act at i • the point that will stimulate the inter- | est of the spectator in that which is to j follow. She turned asray. and rans the I belL w* j

will have some tea now," she said; have a. dinner engagement.this ev-enißgi" And when the footman came in witl* the tea, Mrs Dene and her visitor were I talking about last night's play, and I some of the people in front. ! "Ton Trill let mc come again soon?* I lie said, when he was bidding adieu. "Yes; bat -not too soon; les conveniences, you know. Oh! it is no use frowning; you mast be obedient. An revoir! 7, j "He is a puppet in my hands." she I said, flinging herself into a laateml. when she was aione. "bo! Lady; Sabine, I was not good enough foryour , Salon. Perhaps, om> day "the world. J may think that Alma Dene is quite as j respectable as Vera Sabine —a heroine j of the Divorce Court:"' { (To be Continued To-morrow^