By Devious Ways.

Auckland Star, Volume XL, Issue 205, 28 August 1909, Page 17

By Devious Ways.

By CHARLES GARVICE

1 lAuthor of "Lorrie; or Hollow Gold," "The Marquis," "A Modern Juliet," "Heart for Heart," etc.)

CHAPTER XXXII. Aβ his footsteps died away, Nora went |o the window and opened it, and, leaning Igainst the side, drew long and painful Jreaths, like one gasping after threatened luflocation. It was all over! At that moment ehe femembared the parting scene with Denis. Bhe had said to him that her father Would stand as a barrier between them, ttat there might be some stain on his name Which, though all else were equal, would tender her unworthy to be his wife; but ehe had never euspeeted the truth —for she felt that Foyle had spoken truly. She had forgotten the mystery enshrouding her parentage. She had only thought of rising nearer to Denis. And she had risen. There would have been no disgrace i.l his marrying "Olive Merton," to whom Lord Vernon, the son of a Duke, had offered his hand. But Nora Fawsett the name sounded hateful, shameful, loathsome in her ears—the daughter of a convict! Yes, it was all over. She leant against the window, with closed eyes and writhing hands. Surely the cruellest fate that had evor befallen woman had come to her lot! An hour ago she was all that Foyle had painted with such devilish eloquence—famous, honoured, loved. And, now! She uttered a faint cry, and dropped to the floor, her face hidden in her shaking hands, in •ntter prostration.

But Nora was Nora still; one does not kill the courage of a brave woman, even when the dagger is as sharp and as poisoned as that which Foyle had used. What should she do? Not yield! She almost laughed—wildly;, hysterically— tt the mere thought of yielding. She rose after a time, and began to pace the room. Better disgrace, shame, death itself, than that. No j there was only one course open to her. She must act as if she were indeed dead; she inuet give up all that she had won— everything; her profession, fame, friendships—and fly. For such as she was— for one marked with so indelible a stain ' —there was no place in the world of (honour and good name. As she had come to London—nameless, friendless, unknown —so she must leave it.

The decision was almost instantaneous; but it hurt none the less. To give up everything, to become a wanderei On the earth, not as one -who hopes, but carrying a burden of despair which could only grow heavier with each succeeding day. It was hard, hard and •bitter; but there was nothing else for Iher. She tried to form some plans, but ehe felt too confused, too crushed, to make any; and, at last she dragged herself to bed, to lie awake, and. palpitating, with the namelees horror of (Poyle'B presence and voice haunting Iher like some evil spirit. In the morning, Dora, looking up from the breakfast-table, was struck, as INora entered, by the change in her. "My goodness! Olive, dear, what is |he matter?" she exclaimed. "Do I look so ill?" aeked Nora, with £. wan smile. "I feel ill." "You must go to bod at once, and let pie send for a doctor!" said Dora, trying to hide her alarm. . But Nora shook her head. "But you must! You look to mc as jf—as if you were sickening for something. And all so suddenly, too! I ■will go down to the Duke'e and tell them you cannot play." "I shall he all right by to-night," said Nora. "We are aways all right when the time comes for us to po on, you know. I think I am a —littlo tired, and jjrant rest." But she would not go to bed. She had had enough of the torture of lying still with Spencer Foyle's voice ringing in her ears. She went out, and, almost mechanically, she wanderd on to the Embankment, where Dora had found her. The day was cold—'bitterly cold—but ehe felt burning hot, and as If her blood had dried up. How long •would it be before she was wandering her way once more, once more hopeless and friendless, staggering under Jier burden of shame? She was back in time to dress for the theatre, and was driven down, as usual. She hoped to reach her dress-ing-room unnoticed, and cover the pallor of her face with the friendly mask of powder and paint; but th o young girl who was her understudy, was •tanding near the door, and exclaimed, •ympathetically, at sight of her: — "Oh, Mis 6 Merton! Are you ill?" ■he said. Olive emiled, and drew her into the Worn. "I am not very well," ehe said. "You look dreadfully ill!" said the girl. And she was so attached to Olive that it did not occur to her that Olive's extremity would be her, the underrtudy'6, opportunity, until 'Nora said, quietly and pleasantly: "I will play to-night; tmt I may pot be able to do bo to-morrow " "Oh! I hope " Nora looked at her gently. "I know you do," she eaid. "But, all the same, you must be prepared. You ■mil remember the little things I have told you ?" . "Yes—yes I But, dear Miss 'Merton- " "—And you know where to find the costume. See, I will give you the key to-night before I go; and you will use Mis room, and all my things " The girl looked at her almost reproachfully. "I wish you would not talk like that! ijpp as if—ac if j* ou wero g° in g t° '% wish I were!" thought poor Nora, puc she emiled, and said: T. don't think 1 am going to die. »W it 13 as well that you should be prepared for my being unable to play. Bay nothing to anyone, dear, but come COwn early to-morrow, and go over your part to-night. There! I'm lowSpirited, you see." It wae said afterwards that Olive Jr rton never played better than she Played that evening. There were plen- *> oi tears, and more than the usual peering, as she was called twice before le °urtain, a t the end of her great icene. Sh c stood downcast, as usual, wider the etorm of applause; but for ene moment she raised her eyes, and •eemed to sweep the house. And there jere some, wise after the event, who wclared that there was "Farewell" in * fl e glance.

She went back to her room, and slow J ranged her costume for her own oresa, and having given the key of her n rd *° be to understudy—who took " with a mixture of eagerness and reiuotance—she was leaving the theatre, -wnen Sedley came up to hor. *te, too, was struck by the change in «« appearance. >»'tssri° U Ured to ' ai S ht < iss Merton?"

"Yes," said Nora, simply. "I'm Borry!" he said. "You look fagged. That scene takes it out of you, doesn't it? Yes, I'm sorry, for I was going to ask you to give mc half an hour this evening. I wanted you to come and have some supper with mc at one of the restaurants. But I suppose you wouldn't have come, anyhow; you've got some swell party on, of course?" Nora had an invitation to a reception, "swell" enough in all conscience; but, of course, she had given up any intention of going. Something prompted her to accept Talbot Sedley's offer. Perhaps the impulse was born of the desire to get away from herself and her misery, even for a short time. She did not know—ah! why is it we never know? —that the hand of Chance—the long arm of Coincidence—was beckoning her. "I will go with you," she said, as simply as before. "Come on them!" he responded, marching by her side. "Hadn't you better get your hat ?" she said, with the ghost of a smile. "Oh—ah, yes—l forgot—thanks 1 ,, he said. He got the harmless but necessary hat, and was calling a cab; but Nora stopped him. "Let us walk," she said. She felt as if she could not sit still in ft cab. They went to a quiet restaurant in the neighbourhood—one of those places frequented by the artist and journalist— a place in which one can talk as well as eat, and Talbot Sedley carefully ordered the supper. But his care was thrown away, for Nora could only make a pretence of eating. Sedley scarcely noticed her want of appetite ; he was so absorbed in the business which ho had in hand. "Look here," he said, leaning his elbow on the table and looking at her, "I want your advice about my new play." Nora stared and smiled, and, in his brusque way, he made haste to add: "Oh, no! not about the construction, or anything of that kind; but upon a matter of— well, yes — taste and conscience. Nora leant back and smiled again. "You are a better judge—" " —Oh, no, lam not," he cut in. "I'm a man; and a man isn't in it in a question of taste or conscience with a woman. And you are the kind of woman whose taste and conscience a fellow can swear by—that's why I ask you. See?"

"I am very much flattered," said Nora, "A compliment from Mr. Sedley—!"

"Yes; I know I'm a bear and a boor; but, all the same, I set a high value upon your good opinion and your judgment. Look here, Miss Merton, is a man, a playwright, justified in using' an incident, a series of incidents in real life, things that have happened to a friend, for a story or a play?"

Nora tried to concentrate her attention on what lie was saying; but it ■was hard work. The daughter of a convict! Goodbye, Denis, forever—forever—forever! rang in her heaet like ainell.

"I don't know, ,, she said, rather wearily. "It all depends on what they were."

"Nothing discreditable to the friend to whom the things happened, or, of course, I shouldn't use them," said Sedley. "I'll tell you. May I smoke? Can't think, talk, without a pipe. Thanks." He lit his well-seasoned briar and stared at her, beyond her, thoughtfully for a moment; then he started: "Here you are: a young fellow I know —one of the best that's made, by the way —a good-looking boy with a heart of gold, one of those youngsters that keep a man's faith in humanity alive, don't you know—gets into a scrape down in the country. Don't know what kind of scrape it was, so I shall invent one. Sure to have been about a woman, by-the-bye!" Nora smiled. "Poor Woman! What sins are committed in thy name!" she murmured. "Good! I'll use that some day, if you'll allow mc! What a clever girl you are, Miss Merton! Well, he gets into a scrape, and his uncle, with whom he lives, and' whose heir he is, cuts up rough, and turne him out of doors. Scene 1. , ' Nora nodded. " —Young fellow came to London to see mc. We had been great pals, and he hoped that I should be able to help him to get something to do. But what the deuce can you find for a young swell who has been brought up—well,like a swell 1 He'd tried a profession, and cut it; and I couldn't help him to anything else, though I tried my hardest. For I was fond of him; and I am still, by George! Now—and here's where the interest thickens—one night a man turns up, a queer sort of customer, who joins us at supper—the lad and mc, you know—and in the course of conversation, lugs out a packet of opals. Opals! Says that he has got a mine of them out in Australia somewhere, and actually proposes that the youngster should go out with him as a partner, share and share alike." Nora grew faintly interested. "It sounds like a novel or a play," she said. "Of course! That's why I want it!" retorted Sedley. "But you wait! Well, I try and throw cold water on the s heme. I suggest that the youngster will be murdered—all sorts of things; but he's full of pluck and enterprise, and he laughs mc to scorn—and he accepts." "Did he go? This is a real story?" asked Nora. "Real, actual, true! He went. Before they went, I made them sign an agreement—a fair and square thing— and I made him promise that he would write to mc if trouble ensued—in fact, write to mc in any case, if he could. For I was fond of him, as I have said." "And has he written?" "Nary line," said Sedley, rather sadly; "and I'm anxious—very anxious! But there's the story. Now, can I make it into a play without offending against good taste, and all that? Speak, oh, sybil!" But Nora did not speak. She could not decide. "You see what I could do with it? And the things I could do with it makes mc a little—no, a great deal—uneasy, for they might have played him false, or some fellows over there might have attacked thpm, and my lad have been done to death; or, here, again, the man he went with may have told someone over here why they were going, and that someone may have been a villain, and follof'ed them— s I should make them do in the play, see? And, in fact, I ses all sorts of trouble and danger before poor Denis."

Nora started, and her face went white as she stared at him.

"What name did you say?" she asked breathlessly.

Talbot Sedley bit his lips.

"Bother! I did not mean to tell you his name! But it's out now, and, after all, I don't know that it matters. I can trust you, Miss Merton. My yOUng friend'e name is Denis Dennison, and he is the nephew of Lord Dennieon, of Marishannon, in Ireland." Nora Was an actress, be it remembered, and So had the pull over the ordinary woman, who would certainly at this juncture have screamed or given herself away by some expression <of her amazement and emotion. She was an actress, and so she was able to supples* all signs of the storm which had sprung up within her bosom, and to regard Talbot Sedley with apparently calm and polite interest. Ho, good man, being absorbed in the rtory of hie young friend, and the possible plot of his play, ! was, like your author all the world I over, quite unobservant of the lovely face opposite him. "Marishannon! It's a pretty name," said Nora; she wondered how ehe could speak so calmly and quietly. "And you do not know why Mr. Dennieon quarrelled with his uncle!" Sedley shook his head. "No j both of them being Irish, and the young cub as proud and hot-tem-pered as they make 'em, it would not take much to set the pair by the ears." Nora drew a breath of relief. Denis had not told- of their love —not even to this friend of his. "And where is ifc Mr. Dennieon has gone?" she asked. "What" —her heart Seat fast—"is the name of the place?" "Ah, that's what I don't know!" said Sedley, rather gravely. "Of course, the man who took him wouldn't tell mc or anyone. When you have an opal mine in your Ibaek garden, you inatiijj^- l--keep the particular spot quiet, lest otYier men should climb over the walla. Denis himself did not know where it was." "He trusted this man?" said Nora, crumbling a piece of bread under her taper fingers, and apparently quite interested in the operation. "Entirely. It was that or not going." "How do you know the aort of man he was? I suppose you had good references with him?" Sedley shook his head. "No, I asked Oh! I played the ' business roan * for all It -was worth, but the man refused all information about himself, and any kind of references. I fancy there might have been something shady in his past " "And you let Den—your friend go with him, alone, to a wild country " Sedley cut in, with a grim smile: "It wasn't a question of 'letting,'" he said. "The boy was resolved to go, and—ah, well, you don't know him, or you'd understand that all the talking in the world wouldn't turn him. And I did talk. I cackled enough to jaw the hind leg off a donkey; but it wa» all of no use i he meant going, and—• he goed."

"Have you no idea what part of Australia they went to?" she asked.

Sedley smiled. "You're quite interested!" he remarked. "That augurs well for the play—if I do It!"

The colour rose to her face for a moment, and her eyes became downcast.

"Yes, I am interested," she aaid is i strange story."

"Isn't it? The only clue I have to their whereabouts is a remark dropped by Culmer " "The man who owned tihe mine J" He nodded. "Yes —that it was on the road to or from Ballarat." Nora murmured the word after him. "And you have not heard?" "No; of course there is plenty of time. And—'and yet I am anxious. You see, when I wae thinking out the plot, founded on this true incident, I began to see what might actually happen; and every time I think of Denis—ithank God I'm a busy man, and can't afford to think of my own affaire, or my friend's, very oiten—l get an uncomfortable feeling where my heart is eupposed to be: though Miiss Yorke says I have none." Nona smiled at him so sweetly that the place where Sedley's heart ought to be grew warm. "What a lovely creature it is!" he thought."No wonder they all fall in love with her!" Then, aloud, he went on:' "Of course, it may turn out all right, and tie lad may come back rolling in money, stuck all over with opals like a heathen idol, and will laugh my fear to scorn, in the pleaeant way he has, or " He paused. "You see, it would be so easy for some scoundrel, if he knew what you and I know, to follow them and play the mieohief." Nora's face paled—it had been rather flushed —and ehe caught her breath. "You —you don*t suspect any one!" she asked, as calmly as ehe could. "No; oh, no! In my plot —I mean the plot of my play—l've made a gentlemanly villain discover their secret and follow them." He paused a second or two, and looked at her curiously and apoipgetically. "1 wonder whether you will be offended if I tell you who it is I have taken ac a model for my villain?" Nora smiled and shook her head. "Is it a friend of mine?" she asked. "Well, yes it iej that is, he is an acquaintance. I believe you have seen a great deal of him lately." "Who is it?" she asked. "Mr. Spencer Foyle," said Sedley, innocently. ■ Nora leant back; tihe decorations on the wall opposite her danced and jumbled together; she felt a sudden faintness. "I think I should like a glass of wine— if I may have it," she said, as distinctly as she could. She had refused it through the supper. Sedley signed to the waiter; champagne was brought, and Nora drank come Spencer Foyle! Was it all coincidence! or a providential warning? "I have no objection to—your taking Mr. iFoyle for the model of your villain," she said. "And—and he is no friend of mine. I know him!" There was a significance in the words which, of course, Sedley did not see. "I'm glad to hear that!" he said, with satisfaction and relief. "To tell you the truth, that gentleman, though he moves ■in 'the best society,' doesn't .bear the best of characters." "You know something against him!" said Nora. Sedley shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, a little—yes," he said. "The man's an adventurer, and not over-scru-pulous—your adventurer rarely is. Scruples don't pay. He'd make a splendid villain, with that face of his, and that cold-blooded, cynical smile." "Yes," said Nora; and the little word dropped like lead from her lips. "And now—tell mc you opinion—deliver your judgment!" said Sedley. Nora bent her head on her hand and seemed to ponder. "You do not want your play yet?" she said. "Oh, no; thanks to you and Miss Yorke, the present one is in for a run."

"Well, then, I ■will tell you, write to you, after I have considered," she eaid.

"Right!" said Sedley, in hia abrupt i fashion. "I rely on you. What you gay, I shall be, oil, lung—l mean, gueenl"

Nora reached for her sealekin jacket,

"Mr. Sedley, l=l want to thank you," she eaid. He started; he thought ehe meant for the cupper; "for all your goodness and kindness to mc. But for you, I should never have bad my chance, never have" succeeded. If—if—at any time you Are inclined to think mc ungrateful—don't do so. My heart is full of gratitude, and will be as long as I lire "

"Oh, stop!" he said, with all a strong man's ehynees. "The boot's on the other leg—mine, I mean. It's I who hare to thank you. And 1 shall have to thank you still more when you make a success of the newplay—if you decide th*t it's to be written, by-the-way. Don't speak of gratitude, or I shall have to grovel at your feet, and that would upset the waiters! Why—oh, I say, you're not going to cry?" he broke off, in horror and alarm; for the lovely eyes had suddenly filled with tears.

"No, no!" she eaid; and she drew her hand across her eyes swiftly, and forced a smile. "Only—only I want you to remember that I was grateful, and that, whatever happens, I was not insensible of your kindness. I'll go now. I've enjoyed my supper; and—and—your story interested mc very much."

"Well, I won't keep you," he said, eyeing her rather anxiously. "You look tired again, now; and I think you ought to be in bed. I'm a selfish pig to have kept you so late—and worried you all the time, too!"

He called a hansom for her. and put her in—with a gentleness unusual with Mr Talbot Sedley—and Nora drove home.

(To be continued next Wednesday.)