RIGHT AGASSI MIGHT

Auckland Star, Volume XLIV, Issue 77, 1 April 1913, Page 10

RIGHT AGASSI MIGHT

THE DRAMATIC LOVE STORY OF ':• JOHN STEAND, M.P. ; By FA—.-TItSKT, Author of "T7i.c Vow,'! "TJx; Home Secret tariff' "A Wife by Purchase," etc., etc. ~~ CHAPTER XVL Strand immediately .became, .immersed, in work, and to his astonishment lie found, that Lady Cora .was not' eonthi-' nally occupying his thoughts. His chambers on the floor below those of Cobden had been furnished, and he had taken up his residence in them. But he by no means neglected his foster-father, taking his meal 3 with him arid Joyce whenever he had the chance. And he was deeply moved when he saw that Cobden was making a determined effort to break off his habit of drinking to excess. A .'. j

Joyce was behaving with infinite tact. Although she said, nothing, sliij ; '.realiscd how great a struggle was taking place,- and she did everything possibleto help her uncle. When she saw that he was uneasy she would bring him a cup of fragrant coffee, which she could make to perfection. And a grim smile would come to his face as he drank it. The Purple Peacock knew him less and less, for Joyce wanted to see something of London, and there was none but he to take her. He found himself listening -to her gay chatter with increasing interest, and blessed the Providence that had' sent her to him. Of course it was impossible for him to rid himself at once of a vice that had held him in its grip for • years. There were set-backs, but, although Joyce knew of them, she said no word. A peaceful mind had worked wonders in the young girl. The lines of sorrow and anxiety had disappeared from her face, and she became the picture of health, and to Cobden's mind she was very lovely, with the beauty of a pure mind, and sweet nature. One night he was smoking his pipe in front of the fire—Joyce was seated close to him—when John arrived. His face was 1 worn and tired, and he sank back into a chair with a sigh of utter weariness.

•'How's it going?" "The best meeting I've had. But there's news for you. It's to be a threecornered fight. They've sent Sylvester to oppose mc." "The deuce they have!" Cobden blurted out, and then looked deprocatingly at _Jqyce. "It wasn't really bad: language, my dear, and the occasion excuses it." "It's odds on my losing the seat. But that's not all.. The fight is going to be a dirty one. ."Southwold said he would crush mc, arid he's going to make the attempt." "Of course, Sylvester ha 3 no chance." "I know, but he has a safe seat in the country to fall back upon." "You'll have to retire from politics and fall back upon the making of a fortune," Cobden said, .with a grin. "Miss Mason was canvassing for mc to-day, and I must say she has a wonderful way with her. A woman can do a lot, if she has the knack of talking to please/"•;;•. .-.•/.; •' -„■•'.'..' :"".^." 4 ;...- ---"I wonder if I could help you?" Joyce said, impulsively. "Of course you can," John answered, heartily. "A pretty face often carries more weight than the soundest of political arguments." "I'll take you to Mid-Ham," Cobden said, dryly. Very soon .Joyce went to bed, for she imagined that John had something to say to her uncle, and in this she was

right. "'Sylvester is accusing mc of having betrayed' the party. I can't say that lie is telling deliberate lies, for his accusation contains that grain of truth which makes rebuttal difficult. But 1 expect they are prepared to go much farther before the fight is over."' '"John, you must be ready for anything. Southwold is the instigator of this attack upon you. You defeated him onee —more than that, you refused his offer of friendship, and he's not the man to forgive. Gerald Southwold is capable of anything when he takes the gloves off. If things go too far I shall have, to intervene." "What do you. mean? You've hinted long "enough, and the time has come for plainl speaking," John said, firmly. '"I believe you're right," answered Cobden. "and he walked over to the sideboard. Strand watched" him intently as he took out a bottle of whisky and then a glass. '"It's a miserable story I have to tell —and-1 don't like it." • -■ • ■ His fingers held the cork, and he stood motionless for a minute. "Xo, I won't," lie said, with a sigh, and hastily replaced the bottle in the cupboard. "No one but a man would have had the strength to do that," John said, in a low voice.

"I'm afraid it's too late, my boy—but I'm beginning to have a little hope. And now for the story. I was younger that you when I first met Miriam. She was just such another girl as Joyce, just as sweet and as 'affectionate. Her parents were very poor, and she was obliged to earn her living as companion to a cross old dowager. Vee both fell madly ia love with one another. I was getting on at the Bar. and my prospects were of the brightest. One afternoon she came to tea in this i room." He paused, and looked round for his glass, and sighed. "My great friend was Gerald Southwold. He, too, was at the Bar, anil nursing a constituency, for, like you, lie was consumed with ambition. As fate would have it, he came to see mc when Miriam was here. Even in those days he was reserved, and f did not notice that he paid* her any particular attention. I hope the story doesn't bore you?'' lie said, with an apologetic smile that was infinitely sad. "Go on," John said, curtly, for he could see tragedy ahead. "I lived "in") a fool's paradise. I did net notice that Miriam had changed. She was always affectionate, but afterwards I remembered little things. The day of our marriage was fixed, but once I found her in tears, aud she told mc they were I tears ci happiness. I had asked Soutbwoid to lie my best man, and he consented. V\"e were-% have been married in the Tempb'Church. 1 was popular in those daysT", and they said I was the coming t*v-\ I'd heaps of friends, and this I •• *_i was filled with presents." I off aud moistened his lips I in?-, tongue. John was listening I attention, but he dared 1" - H *° rdI beyo D n—™S of our w edding-day ■ this amolfteye I Tras the happiest ■ the quantity— breakfasted at that ■ ing period last &£ ■ tons were for ■ wealth ports, and 36,881 \. ■ ports. - .. . ""S.

table and sat down to await my best man. Eleven o'clock struck, and 1 stood at the window, there watching for him to come. A quarter to twelve and I became impatient. I thought some accident must have happened to him. The ceremony was to have taken place at twelve. I hastened to the..church, for I was afraid of being late for my bride. There were crowds of my friends there—l can still hear the clock chiming twelve.- Five minutes, ten minutes, and a friend offered to go for Miriam. And still 1 .could only think that it was an accident that had detained her." lapsed into silence and stared moodily into the fire. Then he rose and : with-bent shoulders, went to a deed-box, which he unlocked. . - '"The friend brought mc this letter. Read it." John took it, and saw that it- was stained and blurred. "York. —How can I tio you this terrible .wrong? But .1 cannot help it. 1 have fought and struggled to conquer this mad.passion, but it is stronger than myself. I cannot marry you, York, when every beat of my heart is for another. He.; tells mc that I should be wronging you as well as myself, and 1 must believe him. But, dear, I am heartbroken, for •I- know how you- will.suffer. It is only at the last minute that I have given in. There was no time to prepare you, and— forgive mc, York —1 am going with the man I worship, but I am a miserable woman. Forgive mc, dear."

John placed the letter on the table and said no word.

"That night saw mc drunk for the first time. Drink was the only thing that would give mc forgetfulness. My briefs were returned, and I spent every hour in searching for her. i went to Southwold, and he received mc with apologies for having failed to turn up.

" 'But I suppose you found a better man, when you got my message?' he remarked.

"I told him that I had received no message, and then went on to explain what had happened. He expressed the deepest sympathy, and, like a fool, 1 believed him. He even made suggestions for finding Miriam; and I still believed him to be my friend. After a time 1 returned to work. Briefs came in, and I fought my cases successfully. But when night arrived I sought the only way to forgetfulness—in drink. And once I turned up in Court intoxicated And that was the beginning of my descent to Hades."

"Where does Southwold come into the story?" John asked, when he paused.

"It was two years before 1 heard anything of Miriam," Cobden contiilue.i. "'One day a man called at my chamber?, and told mc that a dying woman wished .to see mc. • 1 was taken to a men. 'street" in Fulliain/and in an attic Ifoutul Mi iain—dead. Her face was thin auJ wan. It was. too evident that she h-ii! suffered, and afterwards the doctor'tola mc that she had slowly starved to death. I followed her to the grave, an.i then I returned to the attic, where 1 had noticed a shabby writing-case. 1 broke the lock, and in a few seconds 1 knew the truth." Cobden's voice had taken a harsh note. "Gerald Southwold was the man." "My God!" John muttered, and there was no irreverence in the calling upon the Deity. , y , "I gathered a great deal of the story from the letters I found, but not all. It v was .the usual thing. -A man ..had given way to his passion, and "hid quickly become tired of his plaything. "He had not married her?" "Such men as Southwold do not marry their victims." "Why didn't she go to him for assistance 7 ?" "Miriam was a proud woman. She preferred death, and I honour her for it." "It is dastardly. A man who committed such a crime ~deservc3 punishment," cried John, fiercely.

"Southwold shall receive his punishment —when the time is fit," Cobden answered, and there was a deadly menace in his voice.

."Did you go to Southwold and de nbunce him?" •-. i

"Yes, and I was received quite calmly —and defied. He denied nothing."

"The blackguard! All along he had professed friendship for you. The man is capable of anything." ' "And yet he is Prime Minister."

"Why didn't you publish the truth? You had his letters, and he could not have defended himself."

Cobden evidently found some difficulty in answering the question.

"i decided to punish him, but to choose my own time. In. those days he was onty a man of promise. I have watched him rise, and have gloried in each step upwards, so that his fall shall be the greater.

- Strand looked at him in horror. It was not the kindly man he had always known—this man with' the undying hate in his eyes.

"It is a terrible story, and I can't blame you for what you feel," said John, gravely.

"You owe mc something, John. 1 have watched you with care —1 have stinted you in nothing, so that you should become a worthy instrument ol my vengeance. You .won't fail mc? Surely you are moved by what you have heard ? You have always loathed injustice. You have hated the oppressor— and can any punishment for Southwold he too great?" "Wouldn't it be better to leave hia punishment to God?" John asked, in a low voice. Cobden laughed, and there was a horrible note in the sound. "You shall he God's instrument," he said, and again went to the deed-box. "Look at this photograph. Look at the sweet face. That girl was the Miriam I loved —pure-minded and innocent. And she was changed by Southwold into a Magdalen —an outcast—and she died in a garret, starved to death. John, can't I move you to share my hatred of this man?" he wound up, passionately.

"It is a terrible thing —to deliberately plan ;i man's ruin." "But such a man! Is he deserving .of any sympathy? John, you aren't going to fail mc?" Strand could not withstand his fosterfather's final appeal, being deeply moved by his story. .

""Southwold deserves punishment, and if I can help in his downfall —I will," he said ,with/ "grim decision, and as soon as the words_were spoken his hand was seized in a convulsive grip. ■ "I knew it-hat L could count on. you. And now, do you blame mc for advising you to not to trust Southwold?" "You could have done nothing else, and I am grateful." To be'continued daily.