IN CUPID'S CHAINS.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIX, Issue 129, 30 May 1908, Page 17

IN CUPID'S CHAINS.

f r ' CHAPTER XL. . Thane, after parting with Silas Fletcher outside the Chase gates, rode at jbreak-neck pace across the moor which stretched between the Chesney Park and rflie Grange, lie was one of" those men v±o whom, in periods of excitement and /peril, rapid or violent action of some ! kind is absolutely necessary. .Shut up in his smokingroom or in one of the ' luxurious apartments of the Chase, he would, ho felt, have gone mad. But the tearing rate at which he galloped , indued his overstrained mind with a fictitious strength, and braced him up to work out the problem of his fate. And it was a terrible problt-m. Before him •vrere only two courses: to "face the music," defy Mary and her damning evidence, or seek safety in flight.

If lie took the latter course, he must throw up the sponge, bid farewell forever to rank, position, wealth. Well, he could do that, not without a pang, for— with all deference to philosophers—rank and wealth are very good things, and a man who has once possessed them is not likely to yield them without a struggle; but in relinquishing them he must relinquish that which he held as far dearer and more precious. Sybil Belamoor.

It was of Sybil he thought as he rode at break-nook pace across the moor. He loved her with all the passion of which a. strong and a daring man is capable; he ]oved her—well, not better than himself, tot next to himself; and if he threw up ihe sponge, and, yielding to Mary's entreaties and warnings, took to flight, he jmist lose Sybil forever.

The thought maddened him. He drove ihis spurs into the horse, and struck it *vith the heavy hunting-whip every time ihe thought of the fair, faultily faultless face"' which he had kissed so often, and wEich, but for this untoward blow of fate, would soon have been his.

For hours he rode over moor and road, thinking deeply, fiercely; but still the problem remained unsolved.

He had eaten nothing since the dinner ■at The Grange on the preceding night, tut he had drunk often, and his brain 4>urned, his veins tingled.

At last, when he was some miles from The Grange, an idea, a hope, sprung into Mb mind. She loved him. She had said so a hundred, a thousand times. Only ■last night she had vowed that, come what might, she would love him still and cleave to him for '"better or worse. - ' s~he. a young, pure, unsophisticated girl, pould not he false. Suppose—suppose he put her devotion "to the test? Suppose he went to her and told her—not all—he shuddered as ■he thought of the "all"—but just enough of his past history and his present peril, and asked her to fly with him? Surely she. who loved him, could not refuse? He would do it—yes. he would do it! Bhe would stand the test, he was sure, She would cleave to him, now that the -*"-worst" had come. He would rely on love and womanly devotion, and {place himself in her hands. T The instant this resolution had formed Rtself in his burning brain, he turned the horse in the direction of The Grange. , ..Spattered with .mud and the. A foam iwhieh the horse had thrown from its ■mouth, he dismounted and asked for Lady Sybil, and was ushered into the boudoir. She was Ijing on a couch beside the fire, her favourite screen in her hand, a Eoft bear-skin rug over her feet. "Why, Xorman," she said, without Tising, but putting out her left hand languidly. "1 did not expect you this afternoon. Dear mc. how hot you are! and how muddy! Why do you ride so Siard? Have you been hunting?" "No," he said, and his voice sounded larsh and dry—"no. the hounds did not meet to-day. I have come over to see you on business, Sybil." •'Business?" she laughed, softly. "What c ridiculous word. It sounds as if you had come for a bill, or —I don't know what. Do sit down, though you'll spoil any chair you sit on, for you are all over mud. You ought to have got brushed, fiir." "There is no time for trifling. Sybil," <be said, his fingers closing- over her dainty hand in a way that she always disliked. "I am in trouble." "Trouble ?" Her blue eyes opened upon shim with lazy, sleepy surprise. "What trouble? The idea of you having any trouble, Norman!" "The idea may seem strange," he said, standing beside her and devouring her with his dark, restless eyes. ,"But it is a true one. for all that. I am in trouble Sybil." "Let mc fetch mamma," she saTd, stretching out a hand toward the bell. "She i≤ awfully good at trouble of all lands. Not that she is sympathetic— quite the reverse—but she always is so cold and calm. I take after her. I think." "I think you do," he said, with a faint touch of bitterness. "But don't ring; the matter concerns you more than it does your mother; and she could do nothing— nothing. Sybil, do you remember what Jou said last night? " "I said so many things," she murmured, ihiding a yawn behind her screen. "You said, with your lips to mine, that, come better or worse, you would , Jove me—cling to mc still." so I did." ** And meant it ? " he demanded with Sfeverish swiftness. "Of course," she responded, yawning fcpenly. He bent lower till his lips almost touched her shell-like ear. ~ Sybil, 1 have bad news for you. The Worst has come. Wait; don't move. Let toe hold your hand: let mc touch you ftnd feel your sympathy, your love. 1 say the worst has come; I am in trouble, iv danger." "Trouble? Danger?" she echoed, her clue eyes wide open, her lips apart. "Yes, Sybil, strange things have happened. That—that man, Harry Kichtoond, has—has charged mc, or will Charge mc, with being —being a fraud and an impostor. He says, or will say at the trial, that I, and not he, am Harold Ihane, the esca-ped bushranger " Srhe would have risen, but he put his lot hands upon her shoulder—her white, tare shoulder, for she was dressed for fiinner— and held her in her place. "He will bring evidence to prove his. assertion, and—and perhaps he will sue- ' ceed. If—if so, I —l shall be an outcast. I shall be no longer Lord 2Vorman, heir to the earldom of Chesney, but—but a fcriminal flying from justice! " She struggled with his detaining hand, Snd rose and stood' looking at him, he lips parted, her fair face white and ter-fror-strieken. wDo you understand?" he said, : hoarsely. " Forgive mc tor telling you I fhis so—so suddenly.' lam a brute not .

BY CHARLES GARVICE. (Author of "The Marquis," "Lorrie, or Hollow Gold.")

to—to have tried and broken it oradu-α-uyj but lam worried and—and upset And—and, Sybil, my dearest, my love x want your answer to this question: If—if tins man should prove the winner—if he »dou d take everything from me—if ho should prove mc to be—be Harold. Thane, wouW .you-will you love mc stand by mc still? Kemember, you said last night only last night—that you wouid do so. i-or better or worse,' you said. Sybil, L—l love you—God only knows ho"w 1 love, dote on you! You are mv life mv heart's blood! I—l would do" anything to keep you—anything! Yes, murder itself! "

She shrunk a little, but only a little. With white face and distended eves she looked, at him lixedlv.

" Is —is this true?" dropped from her blanched lips at last. He glanced at the door, then fell on his knees and clutched at her white satin ■ e l S ~ Clutehecl at il a downing man might at the edge of the rocks on which a v s . ho P es of salvation depended. ~ Sybil," he answered, huskily, " it is! lam Harold Thane! lam "not Loni Lechmere; lam an impostor. But 1 am stnl the man you loved —the man you promised to marry—the man you— , ' She tore her dress from Ms 'trmebling fingers, rending the delicate, costly satin, and shrunk back from him as if "he had been a leper. "'You—you are not Lord Lcchmcre?" she panted.

" No," he ?aid. " For God's sake, listen to mc, Sybil! lam still the man you loved and swore to stand by; I am not changed. What does all the rest matter to you and mc, dearest? Oh, my darling, my only love! Stand by your word, your vow! Leave England with mc! ily love shall make you happier than ever woman was yet! My love shall shield you. cover you! For God's sake, do not desert mc, Sybil! There is nothing else for mc en earth, or in heaven, but your love " His voice broke.

" You are not Lord Lechmere! " she ' panted. "You are—what is the name? —Harold Thane J A common criminal! i shall not be the Countess of Chesney! You—you beast! " Her voice shook with the fury of rage and disappointment. '■ Don't touch mc! Dare to lay a finger upon mc again, andi I—l will—" she stopped and broke into a wild, hysterical laugh. " You come and tell mc this! You—you confess yourself to be an impostor, a vile criminal! You tell mc this. , and ask mc to—" She laughed again! and the laugh cut him like the lash of a whip. "You must be mad! \ es. you must be mad! I—Lady Sybil Oelamoor— fly with you! You—you—a convict!" The laugh floated through the room j again. - Yes, you must be mad! Don't dare to touch mc! " for he had stretehei out his hands to her in an imploring gesture. "Get out of my sight! Leave the house this moment! " She stamped her dainty foot. " Go at onec, or—or I will call the police, and give you in charge, you impostor, you thief! " The words struck him like hail. He rose, hi.s face white, his lips livid, and approached her with murder in his eve* ! Passion ha sit? revulsions. "Keep keep back!" she cried. Mamma! mamma I"' *nd her hand went to the bell. He seized it and held it in a "rip of iron, and hi* eyes met her scornful, furious ones with a stare of revolted love ■ with hate, fear, contempt: then he forced a laugh—"the laugh the devils in hell. ' '■Hush! Hush!'' he -oid. hoarsely. "I am only joking; I—was only trying y ou -My dear Sybil, how foolish you must be! Of course it was only a jest. A sorry one. I'll admit. Only' a joke. I— I carried it too far. Forgive mc." '"-■*■— a jest!" she faltered, white and red by turns. "Yes," he said, smilinjr, but with the awful expression still lingering in his eyes, "it was too severe a trial. Of course you enuM—could not keep your vow. It was too ridiculous!" Ho laughed again, and his hand closed ovrr hers in a hot, spasmodic grasp. "Don't be frightened. Go and sit down. Just say you f-orgive mc, and I will take myself off. You will forgive mc, Sybil?" She sank back on the couch and fanned herself with the screen, her colour still earning and going. "Really, Norman, you—you are too bad!" she said, "with a flickering laugh. "I —I—though you were in earnest! hat an admirable actor you would make!" "Shouldn't 1?" he said, with a smile. "Almost ;;s good a. one as you. There. you are all right now. Give mc a kiss t;> prove you have forgiven my idiotic joke." She drew a long breath as she held up her face to him, and he bent over her. took her in his arms, and, straining her to him, kissed her on the lips—kissed her so fiercely, so passionately, that she "winced and struggled out of his embrace. "You—you hurt mc, Norman," she said, pettishly. "Do I?" he said, with a strange smile. "Well, I will not hurt you so again. Good-bye." He left the house and Tvent to the stable. "Do you want the horse at once, my lord?" inquired the groom. "He seems a bit done up, and a rest wouldn't do him no harm." Thane looked at the man vacantly, as if he scarcely understood himj then i'~> said, absently: "Does he? Very T.vell; I'll come for him in—in an hour or two." He walked out of the stable-yard and stood at the entrance to the avenue, looking about him like a man in a dream, or dazed by some sudden shock; then he went slowly down the avenue and into the road. There was a moon, but the clouds wctp thick, and the light was vague and uncertain. He walked mechanically through the semi-darkness until he had gone some miles. The striking of a stable clock roused him, and he looked at his watch. It was nearly the hour at which he had appointed to meet Mary. Pie started as if he dad suddenly recalled the appointment, and stood motionless, leaning against a fence. So he stood, biting his lips, and staring at the ground for a quarter of an hour; then, looking round from right to left with a cautious, watchful scrutiny, he struck through the woods for the plantaWhen he reached the part of the road at which she hid stopped him on the preceding night, he drew into the shadow of the trees, wiped his face, which was covered -with a cold sweat, and in a covert, secretive fashion unbuttoned his coat, and taking a revolver from his pocket, exawined it carefully. As he -was doing it, he heard a light step coming down the road, and with a

quick, nervous gesture he slipped the weapon into his pocket again, and rebuttoning his coat, stood expectantly, with a forced smile on his white lips; but there was no smile in his eyes. (To be continued daily.)