MASTER AND MAN.

Auckland Star, Volume XLVII, Issue 7, 8 January 1916, Page 18

MASTER AND MAN.

(By Alice and Claude Aikew.) CHAPTER XXVIII. Without a moment's hesitation, and regardless of danger, Denis sped down the broad staircase and rushed across the hall. One of the Germans in the dining-room had struck up a song, the chorus of which was repeated with much gusto and clattering of glasses. It was a song about wine. The fellows were anxiously awaiting the arrival of a fresh supply. Biit Denis did Tiot pause or think of going more warily. Berthe was in danger. He had not the smallest doubt of it when he reached the door of the boudoir, for he could hear her voice raised in angry protest, and he could hear, too, the coarse laughter of the man. He burst open the door, and as he did so a shot rang out. Berthe had kept her word. It was a dramatic tableau that met his view. Berthe stood there, her cheeks aflame, her eyes flashing with wrath, a commanding figure in her black gown, and in her hand she still held a emoking revolver. The German officer was standing a few feet away. He looked dazed, and he was rocking from side to sMc. His lips were drawn down and dribbling a little—he had the appearance of a drunken man who had just met with a great surprise. He turned his head ab Denis burst into the room, his fingers clawed the air, and then he sent up a raucous shout, took a step forward, and fell prone upon the ground. 'The beast—the beast—l've killed him," panted Berthe. Denis seized her hand. "Quick!" he cried. "Let us escape—if we can." But escape was impossible. Denis recognised that at once. The sound of the revolver shot—the man's cry—had given the alarm. The door of the dining-room was thrown open and the Germans poured out. There was nothing to be done but to face the inevitable. Very quietly Denis took the revolver from Berthc's hand. She abandoned it to him, hardly knowing what he did. "Denis," she whispered, "this is the end." "Yes." He repeated her words. "This is the end." "Never mind," she murmured faintly, so that he hardly heard her. "We dio together—you and I. I am content." The next moment rough hands seized them. The revolver was snatched from Denis , grasp. "It was you who fired —you?" Someone who appeared to be in authority was speaking. "Yes, it was I." Denis spoke quite quietly. "Xo —no!" A sharp cry went up from Berthe. "It isn't true. I fired at your captain because he insulted mc. I was justified " "Silence!" The command came in a voice of thunder. "Take that woman away." The order was obeyed. Berthe was carried, struggling and shrieking, from the room. '•Let mc die with him. I am the guilty one. If you kill him, kill mc too!", The door closed behind her. For a few moments her pitiful cries were etill audible outside, then all was silence. The man who had taken command —ho wore the uniform of a lieutenant — turned to a couple of his companions who were kneeling by the side of the fallen officer. He put a question in his own language. "Er ist todt" (he is dead), was tha laconic reply. The lieutenant shrugged his shouldars. Then he turned to Denis. "And you, too you shall die," he said. "I do not know now you came here, but you are a verdanter Englander. As for mademoiselle —it appears that she loves you—she shall see you die." Denis paled. The threat against himself left him unmoved—but he was afraid for Berthe. No time was lost. Denis, recognising the utter futility of argument, remained silent. The Germans harangued each other in their own language and seemed to be working themselvee up into a state of excitement. The two men who

were holding Denis twisted his wrists painfully. He wondered vaguely if they were discussing pome form of torture to inflict upon him. Well, thie was the end. Did it matter ypry much? Molly" had failed him. IThere was nothing that he really cared to live for. He glanced at the dead man lying ptark 'upon the ground. The brute! He wished he had really fired the ehot himself, or that he had had the time when the revolver was in 'his hand to bring down one or two of his companions. He hated especially the swaggering young lieutenant who had pronounced his sentence —not for that reason, but because ihe wae a typical Prus' sian—braggart and bully. They led him from the room, acroee the hall and out to the wide terrace before the castle. It glistened white in the full, •wintry moon, and the trees upon the elope of the hill stood up gaunt and sharply silhouetted against a purple, star-epangled sky. There were lights in the distant village, and the night was full of ominous sound—sound that betokened the presence, close at' hand but invisible, of a great sleepless army. The blight of war was in the air. Denis drew a deep sigli. The world was very beautiful if it were not soiled by man. Denis was led down the terrace till he was some forty yards from the broad stone staircase that led up to it, then, at a word of command from behind, his two captors halted. "Release the prisoner." They did so, after turning him round so that he faced the speaker. "Leave him standing where he is. Withdra-w." Again the command rang out sharply. It was spoken in the ■bombastic tones of the young lieutenant. The two soldiers retreated. Denis found himself standing alone, unguarded —but with half a dozen rifles already levelled upon him. And he caught his ■breath and Shuddered, for in the front of the little group, between a couple of his destined executioners, tightly held by her wrists, stood Berthe. The lieutenant had uttered no idle threat. She had been brought out to see her supposed lover die. She was silent now, but in the moonlight Denis could see the white agony of her face, and it cut him to the heart. And now the lieutenant was speaking again. His tone was jocular—he was enjoying himself. "You English have long legs, and they say you can use them. Now is your chance. Kun for your life,"

But Denis stood stock still. He had no intention df providing |his enemy with any such amusement—even had there heen the faintest chance of escape. "Run—run!" A shot was fired. A bullet whizzed past within an inch of Denis' shoulder. It wne an intentional mies. A cry —a moan—went up from Berthe, but thaft was all. Denis had not moved. He stood with folded arms, waiting. They would weary of this folly coon. "Run, Englander, run!" A peal of rough laughter—then , a bullet grazed Denis's hair. The next moment came an utterly unexpected development. The wood which, upon this side, came up close to the terrace, separated, only from it by a narrow strip of lawn, suddenly belched forth flame. Hoarse cries ' jof surprise and rage went up from the . jGermans —Denis could hear them above ~ the din of the fusillade. For a moment 'hie brains reeled, and then he under- ] stood. This was a surprise attack upon the chateau. The British—if it were the British—had crept up through the wood and had somehow contrived to win to ' this point of vantage. The Germane were taken wholly un- , awaree. Escape was impossible, for it was coon evident that the chateau was . practically surrounded. Confusion • reigned among them. Some dropped down under cover of the parapet and returned the fire; others who were un- ; armed rushed swearing and shouting , into the house. i Borthe had escapee from the men who (held her. She ran swiftly along the terrace towards Denis, who, for his part, , was standing in comparative safety under the shelter of a high flower vase, .of which there were many upon the , I parapet, and besides which, as luck would have it, he had been .placed. No bulJets fell about her; perhaps, in the moonlight, she had been recognised as a woman. ' "Kill the Englishman—it is he who was the spy—he!" The German lieutenant shouted out i the order, and immediately one of his i men fired—hurriedly and without care- . ful aim. i "Berthe!" cried Denis in an agony of alarm, for as the shot rang out he saw , that the girl had thrown herself directly , into the line of fire. She was close to , him—nearly in the arms which he had , opened to receive her. He did not realise at firet that she , J was struck—he knew that ho himself : had escaped unscathed. He seized and , thrust her behind 'him, fearing that the shot would be repeated. ] But it was not. There was no one Jto repeat it. A moment after he had ] fired the German soldier wae shot down, [ and, almost simultaneously, the lieuten- ! ant threw up his arms, and with a enarl of wrath that ended in a moan of pain collapsed in his turn. ( ! Then someone hoisted a white flag. The firing ceased and the British— there was no doubt naw as to their being British—came running acrose the ( open space towards the terrace. But Denis saw little of this nor of what transpired during the next few minutes. For Berthe had eunk to the ground and she had whispered to him J that eho was dying, and that there was nothing that ho could do, and bhat all she wanted was that he should put his 1 arms about her and hold her till the 1 ,end. IHo had obeyed her, for he quickly ;'realised that ehe epoke the truth. He . pillowed her head against his breast. J where ehe might have heard the I agonised beating of his heart. For this woman, in her youth and strength and ) beauty, had given up her life for him. She was sinking fast, but there was '' something that she wanted to say before -' her lips were closed for ever. She lay i very still and her eyes, glazing with death, looked up pitifully into his. ' "Denis," she murmured, "I want you to say that you forgive mc." "Forgiie you—I!" He found it hard ' to speak articulately. He bent over her ' so that he could just feel her fluttering ' breath upon his check. : "I deceived you—l never sent a mes- ! sage to Molly. She probably believes that you are dead—she must have heard ' so. Don't you understand, Denis? J ' wanted to keep you—l wanted to make you love me —instead of her—for, oh! I > loved you so—l loved you so!" ' Denis felt a cold sweat settling upon 1 his brow. But this was no time to 1 blame, no time even to think. The i mantle of death was optspread and near > to fall. ' He could only murmur her name— I "Berthe—Berthe!" > "Perhaps there may still be time—for you and her." The girl's voice was r hardly audible now. "I hope so—with • all my heart. But, Denis—say you for- ' give me—for the love of God, before I die, say you forgive mc." ' His soul was racked with an infinite ! pi*-}'- ' "You have saved my life twice," he ! cried; "you are dying for mc. Oh, ' Berthe, what have I to forgive? But if you wish mc to say it " "Yes, yes." "I forgive you. God bless and take you, Berthe." "Kies mc, Denis. Let mc die with your lips to mine." J He bent and kissed her—and so she 1 died with her last prayer gratified. A I pagan prayer perhaps, for it placed the human love before the divine—but her face was peaceful—almost smiling—when I Denis laid her town, and God could not have been very angry with her, for He , had spared her pain and given her, in , death, her heart's desire. i The scene had taken but a few minutes. And when at last Denis looked up it was to recognise that the terrace i was swarming with his fellow-country-I men, and—could it bo possible?—with his own regiment—the South Kents! [ He rubbed his eyes, for there was 1 something still more amazing yet. Several men were approaching him—they I were familiar figures to Denis, though they had not recognised him-yet, and in the half light that now prevailed—for a cloud .was shrguding the modn —were evidently under the impression that he might be a German in spite of hia uniform—familiar figuresrr-comrades in arms—but one among them—could it he ' possible?—surrfly Denis , eyes were deceiving him? i A moment later he knew that he was [ not deceived. He sprang forward with a 1 loud cry of amaze. i "Jim! My Gqi— Jimt" ; And Jim echoed the-cry. : "God Almighty, if it isn't Mr. Denis! 1 Alive when we all thought him dead! • Oh, heaven be praised!" ! Thus Master and Man, who had each • believed the other dead, were reunited. And the face of the dead girl, lying so • still at their feet, wore its smile,n smile ' of infinite peace and understanding.

CHAPTER XXIX. "And now I think the* matter is settled quite satisfactorily." Lewis Merton laid down the pen with which, in the presence of the solicitor who had been called into draw up the marriage settlement, he had just affixed his signature to that important document. He glanced up at his future father-in-law with a complacent smile upon his full lips. "From the moment your daughter and I are made one squire," he fcaid, "the mortgage upon the Dorrington Estate ceases to exist. The property remains your own, unencumbered, and wi'li of course, eventually pass to Molly. It's lucky that I only hold Chelmsley Court upon lease since we shall some day take up our residence at Dorrington. I think you will also admit that I have been generous in other particulars." "You have been most generous — Lewis." Mr. Strafford- brought out the Christian name with obvious difficulty. His affairs were being straightened out for him, yet he looked a man who' had been broken by a heavy blow. He no longer held himself straight—erect—his back was bent and he had lost the look of sprueeness that used to characterise him. His cheeks were sunken, and one would have said that he was not destined to remain for long fhe master of Dorrington Hall. "You will be good to Molly?" he murmured after the lawyer had taken his departure. "She will be your wife to-morrow —and —and " He broke down, unable to speak the words that were upon his 3ips. Merton laughed. "You mean that Molly doesn't really love mc very much? —that her heart is buried in a grave somewhere in France? Of course, I've taken all that into consideration." He waved hie hand easily. "I've spoken to Molly about it. I understand how she feels now and can make allowance. We've fixed that up 'between us. Later on —well. I've every confidence in myself. It won't be many weeks before Molly lias forgotten all about her first lovo and is as happy as the day ie long." He spoke with typical 6elf-«ssurance. Let it be added that he quite intended to carry out his part of the contract. He wanted his wife to be happy. There was nothing upon earth he desired so much as to win her love —as well as that of which he was already assured, her esteem. And to gain this end he had decided to sweep away all dangers that might mar her path. He had an abundance of wealth, and co he proposed to retire into private life. There were to be no more hazardous speculations, no more secret dealings with doubtful characters; above all, no more treacherous negotiations with the enemies of his country. Merton fully realised the danger of the latter under present conditions, and now he was prepared to abjure the means by which he had laid the foundations of his fortune. Of course, the task had not been easy, and it had cost him a good deal of money. There were many interests that had to be satisfied before he could feel himself secure. But he flattered himself that he had dealt with every one of them. Tatham had always been a menace; but now Tatham was paid oft", and those incriminating papers, which he. had to like a leech Tiad been S'ifely returned to Merton, who had consigned them to the flames. Tatham himself had sailed for America, and was out of harm's way. Even Hilda Ellis, in spite of her proclaimed" hate, did not seem to him a real danger. She held sueu peculiar views, and had she not voiTcii *o him that she would not be the one to compase hia undoing? He could not profess to understand her character, but he felt that ehe would keep her word. She had, indeed, repeated her promise quite .recently with the sijme little ominous shrug of the shoulders that had irritated him so much on a previous occasion. "Go on your own way, my dear Lewis," she had said. "I shnll not interfere with you, but—l ©hill be in at the death." It wasn't a pleasant way of looking at things, but Mertou saw no ground for apprehension. Before setting out for home that afternoon he had a few words with his fiancee. She was sitting alone in her little boudoir and gazing absent-mindedly at the .ire when he entered the room. She seemed to spend a great deal of her time like,that, and Merton wished that she would find something to occupy her-, self with. It would .be more healthy lor her, he thought; still, as she woe always eoft-voic«d and pleasant with him, he honestly believed that she was not acting against her will in marrying him and that ho only needed a little thne to win the love he so ardently desired. And in the meanwhile she would be his—his!

She had not even resented his kieses, though something in her atti'.ude had compelled him to restrain the would-be passdon of them. She would not kiss him in return, however, though she had promised to do so after they were marTied. When that had happened—so she argued with herself—nothing mattered, and her duty wae obvious towards a man whom she had no reason to dislike. But till then she belonged to hersef. Merton had only looked in for a minute or two, he said, as he had much to do at home. But he wanted to tell her that he had signed the important document. "Thank you," she said, looking up with a faint smile; "I'm sure father will be most grateful." "And you, Molly?" "I am very grateful, too." She spoke with conviction; ehe meant what she said. ' '

They spoke a Ettle of the wedding the j next day. It. was, of course, to be a very quiet affair. Only a very few of ! the nearest friends had ibeen asked. A ■ cousin of Molly's, of whom ehe was very » fond, was to be her 'bridesmaid—the only [ one —and Merton had asked a young . neighbour to be his beet man. He would have liked a big wedding to which half . the county had been invited, but reluej tantly admitted that, under the circum- ( stances, it was impossible! 5 "Then we shan't meet again—till to--1 morrow," he said as he got up to go. He . 'bent over her and kissed her cold lips. . "Won't you kiss mc, Molly—not even 3 now?" he pleaded, t "To-morrow," she promised faintly, 2 and with that ho had to he content. j It was well for him that he did not j sec how Molly robbed her pale lips when she was left alone. To-morrow! How she hated the word, 2 how she dreaded the moment! If Ruth had been with her she would t have put her arms around the neck ot 1 j her faithful maid and found some solace, 3' 'but ac it was she had no Ruth to turn 3 i to. The girl had left Dorrington, on c I some excuse, a couple of days ago, 2 ! "But I shall be back for the wedding, c ! Mies Molly," she had promised. "Oil, 1 i you may ibe sure of tliat. I shall be . back before the wedding." ° Merton walked slowly down the drive. c ;As he reached the gates he was met by t ' a telegraph boy hurrying up towards the B •, house. "Who's the telegram for, Tommy?" he j inquired. "For Miss Strafford, sir." k Something, he could hardly cay what, j : inspired Merton with suspicion. He a j wanted to know what that telegram was B j about. 3 i "I'll take it to Miss Strafford," he said. y ! "I'm going back to the house. You may J, ' give it to mc." I The boy yielded it up without hesitar ; tion, then, gratified with a sixpenny bit, • ; turned back and disappeared, whistling, j J through the gates. 3 ' Merton hesitated ■for a moment and than opened and read the telegram. At' , the sight of the signature his darj J kened and an oath escap6d his lips. v I "My reported death a mistake. Molly, for heaven's sake postpone wedding—s«e j mc first. Am returning England quickly t I ac possible, but fear delays in travel." r j The message was signed "Deni3." Merton swore again, then crusiied tae j flimsy paper in his hand. t j "Return if you will, curse you," he [ i muttered between his teeth. "You'll be } i too late." a j He thrust the telegram into his pocket, J! I and when he reached home he dropped 9 i it on the fire. 3 (To be concluded.)