Our Novelettes.

Bruce Herald, Volume XXIV, Issue 2499, 4 August 1893, Page 6

Our Novelettes.

• BLUEBEARD'S WIFE.' 1 Sheila's Stoet. ' Won't sbo come again ? But she said I ; dreamt it. Did you know I put up tho two chnirs and nlimbi d up, and saw her. Such a pretty ludv ! It was music— perhaps she is an ' angel! Was it. to-day or was it yesterday when he came ? ' The sudden sourd of wheels in the yard foil sharply upon my carp, and evidently upon the child too. He flood still, looking round oacerly, and yet v> i'h a strange toiror; and then, going back to the table, he sat down with his face towards the bed and drew tho picture-bcok towards him. The wheels had roused me. They meant tho return of the sportsmen, or of Myra, and Ir*e;cenued hastily. I could scarcely define my own feelings as I carried the steps back to the empty room and put them in the same place ; then I shut the organ and took my candle?, leaving the gallery hastily. I did not know tl at I had bid len it farewell— for some timn. When I re ched tho landing I heard a groat stir in the hall. The two parties had arriv d together. It was far later than I imagined. I could hear Captain Dar, berry's voice above the others. He had been one of tho concert pnrtv- I stopped to listen for a moment, leaning against tho wall, then, blowing out the candle, I went to my own room. I dismissed the. maid, who looked at mo curiously, I thought, and then I took out a white gown fiom the wardrobe and donned hastily. I could hear Hubert dressing in the next room, and presently, as I was standing by the window looking out upon the loch, dark and tilcnt, now, I heard him enter. ' SheiJa,' ho eaid, carelessly, ' where is that Sporting News I loft on my tablo ?' I looked round nnd our eyes met. I forgot to answer, and he gave a little start of surprise. ' Why, you aro like a ghost, child ! What is it ? ' He came up and took one ct my hands — perhaps i's coldness chilled him, for he dropped it with a shiver. ' Have you been getting halffrrzen playing in the gallery? Come, Sheila, what is it P ' I summonod all my courage thon, facing him desperately. ' Hubert, who is tho little boy in that s' range room ? ' Thee was a dead pause. A change came over my husband's faco; it became ptliid, and his eyes flashed. 'What boy?' he said icily. 'What s' range room ? ' ' I heard a cry, such a pitiful cry ! ' I whispered. ' And I found a p lir of steps, and I took them and looked.' ' Yes.' He was standing close to me now. Ao I stopped ho milled bitterly. 'Go on, Fatima ! You looked ! ' ' And I saw a littlo boy— ho seemed d< spera'ely ill and wasted. Who is he, Hubert ? Why is ho there? H>w is it that no on-> knows or talks of him ? ' ' Beciuse I do not choose that any one should,' ho replied icily. * Since you ask for the Btory you rnUßt be told, and from this moment I forbid you to repeat it to mm, woman or child. I forbid you ! Disobey ane at your peril ! The boy ia the child of a friend Ho is inaano and my friend could not send him to an asylum, whore awkward questions would be asked as to his namo and parentage. I am not going to give you tho details of tho story— not evon to grati'y your curiosity. My friend leaves England in the spring for the States, a' d then he will come here for the boy and take him with him, and my charge will be over. I had him put in the strange room, as you cjII it, for the preservation of my friend's secret. No v you know ! ' ' He will not live till the spring if you leave him there,' I cried, ignoring the extreme coldness in my husband's voice, thinking only of the child's piteou? look, of the horrible restless walk. 'Ho wiU die, caged like that, Hubert! Oh, let mo go and see Jura, lot me ' I stopped, for my hiißbnnd's cruel grasp wa* on my bare arm. 'You will no\cr en'erthe gallery ag ii ; do you hear? You will be utterly silent as *o this story, and as to what, you saw ! Do you understand P ' * But, Hubert, ifc is crime ! He will die ! ' * Vory wi 11 ! it is no concern of yours. Your concern is to keep your marriage vowe, and obey ! ' I cannot describe the hard iud'fferonco of his tone. I seemed to grow faint and cold under it. Ho relaxed his grip of my arm then, and stool looking at mo deliberately. 'Do you understand. Sheila? ' ' I wish I did,' I cried, with a sob — ' I wish I did ! Oh, Hubert, hii face will haut fc me ! How cruol it is to shut, him up like that ! You will kill him, you and his cruol f thor ! If you would only let me ' 'That is enough,' bo said. 'Thero is the gong. I have told you, Sheila, what I expect from you ; you will not dare to disoboy mo. Travers has got a key fo tho east wing at last, a--.d you have paid your last visit thero. Now let us go downstairs ; are you ready ? ' 'Yes,' I said dully ; and we descended. I do not, think that night's dinner was longer than usual, but it seemed endless tome. My seat waa next to Gerald CulvorwellV, and he talked to mo, while I merely returned an absent ' Yes' w>w and then. At desert I suddenly found Gerala's eyes fixed upon mo with a glanca of warning, and was it pity ? Myra was speaking to mp. ' You arj almost asleep, Sheila ! Poor Mr. Culverwell fools thb reproach to his conversational powers.' 'Mrs. Dennys was hesita ing between banana and pino,' Gerald said lightly. ' I advise pine, Mrs. Dennys. Bananas always seem to me ' warsh,' as my old Donald used to say.' I looked at him gratefully, <is Myra's scornful eyes were turned from us. ' I ought fco beg your pardon, I know.' And yet I had no excuse to offer ; I scarcely heard as ho laughingly protested against any apology. In the drawing-room I was obliged to ronss myself resolutely to escape Myra's notice. As I was talking to Lady Huntly, Mrs Culverwell touched me lightly on the arm. 'Madam was nsking for you, to-day, Mrs. Dennys,' she said. ' Oould you pay her a little visit before she goes to bed ? Sho would bo so pleased.' I rose at once, and she took my seat beside Lady Huntly, who was speaking of the concert, and descanting upon Palfci's diamonds. Perhaps here might be a little help. I was thinking, as I crossed the hall swiftly, and knocked at Madam's sitting-room door. I would ask her one question. For while Gerald Culverwell was talking to mo I had suddenly remembered something, and mv brain had seemed to reel for a mora-nt. ' A mad will — a wicked will ' Were not these Madam's words ? Oould she help ma to dispel the doubt, the hideous thought that had entered my mind ? The old lady was sitting by the fire her hands folded in her lap, as I entered, and she looked up and nodded at me kind'y. ' And how is your cold, my dear ? ' She seemed unusually bright, I thought ; I took a low seat beside her, and talked for a ; while on indifferent topics, till ehe laid her , hand almost caressingly upon my hair.

' The firelight is very pretty on your hair, child ! One does not often fee these gleams of gold, and I liko to see them ! Who had hair like yours ? Some ono — some one I loved.' ' Was it Hubert's mother ? ' She shook her head. ' No, hen wus flaxen ar.d pretty, but it had no depth or ligh's. Ah, I remember. If was Dudley llp poor little boy ! I remember I stroked his hair whe.i he lay dead — lad the brightness was all out of it th»-n ! ' 'You caw him — dead?' I said, bending down aod taking her hand in mv cold ones — they hud seemed coir] all day. 'You saw him, Madam ? ' 'J Why, yes, my dear,' she said mournfully. ' Dc-ad — quite dead ! 1 lull flowers in bis lifrlo hands — violets and anemones ; they were purple aremonen, I remember — deep purple — for I could got no white flowers, and t' vexed me. That was one of tbe saddest, moments of my life, my dear, to see that lit tie dead face ; fur liule Dudl-y was the lant of iho Culverwells in the direct line, and I was bo proud of him ! ' 8113 talked on then whi'e I sat still. Dead — quite dead ; co that phantom might be i'rircn out of my mind ! I tried not to think of the strange child in tho east wing. T tried hard '0 roue myself, ami I repeated Hubert's words — ' It is no concern of yours. Your concern is to keep your marriage vows and obey ! ' and yet I thivered as if from cold 3 ***** There haa been a ftwohr.nges in our housepaity. The Damarels and Lady Huntly had gone, t > give pi* co toothers ; but Hubert had pressed U 0 Culvei wells and Danberrys and Lucy D'Arcy (o romtiin over Christmas, and tliis ch<y had consented to do, Grerald paying a Heeling visit to his farm to ace how things were going en. Nothing of note happened for a week after my disco vey. but now I did not practise in the gallery, the baize door was locked and I mado ro attempt to obtain the key. Between my husband and mo there seemed to be a deep gulf, widening as the days pissed. He had gone back however to a kind of careless indifference, and we had never again mentioned (ho subject of tl c east wing. Not that. I had forgoden. I had grown to dread solitude and had joir ed lately in' the talk and merriment of the guests almo.-t eagerly, for when alone I was haunted by one faoe, by ono thought— tho thought of the child in the east wing, whom I was leaving to hia fate! And yet what could 1 do P I waa dreaming over these things one day as I passed through a belt of trees at the back of the lolge. I had gone out alone wiih Trevor, Ihe collie, for a It tie walk before afternoon tea, for it was v bright and peaceful day early in December. Tha light was growing a little paler now, and I was wondering what the timo could be, when suddenly I heard voices from the lodge-gate, and I paused to lia'en. ' Who should live here but Mr. Dennys ? ' ' Mr. Donnys ! ' The repitition of the name was likn a sta-tled cry ; and then, in a hastily changed tone, the same voice went on, 'And Mad im — Mrs. Culverwell — is she dead ? ' 1 Dead! No ; she's alive and hearty ! ' ' Then ehe lives hero with him ? ' « With the master ? Ofcourse. Anything more yo/d like to ask ? ' * Yes,' the other voice said doggedly. 'Ib Mrs. Romney, his sister, he re to ? Who keeps hou?e for bim ? ' ' She does, though there's a young mistress — little more than a girl she is. Come 1 I can't sand here ell day in the cold ' I heard tho gate olose then noisily and the lodge door shut, and I walked down to the wall which bounded tho road to look at the questioner. She had paused on the path just below — a fall, ruddy-faced woman, quietly and respectably dressed in a dark skirt and black clonk, with a little handbag in one hand j the other hand sho was passing in a bewildered way over her face. As I looked at her, shfl suddenly spoke aloud, as if the words broke from her. 'Heaven hop her — his wife! And little more than a girl! What am I to do now P How am I to eot to speak to Madam ? ' I stepped forward, and leaning over tbe wall, I called to her genMy to look up. ' Is it Madam Culverwell you wish to Bee ? Can T take any message for you ? ' * Yes,' she said eagerly. ' Could you tako a message from me, 'young lady ? Oh. I think Heaven would bless you. if you would help me ! You might be helping to right a bitter, bitter wrong ! But you must not tell any ono — not any one in the Haining ! Are you staying there ? Are you a friend of his -the mastf r's ? ' I did rot answer at first. I ngned to her that there was a placo in the wall where some stone* had fallen by which she might climb up. Then I held out my hand, And by its aid she was soon standing beside me on the mossy ground. Then I retraced my steps through t.ho trees to a place where there was a fallen lichen rovered trunk, and I motioned her to sit down. ' I will help you,' I said slowly, 'if I oan, and if >fc ii the truth that (here is a wrong to be riehfed. Is there a wrong to be righted in the Haining ? ' I laid ono hand upon her shoulder, and she looked up at me with frightened sorrowful eyes. ' Heaven help me ! ' she said. ' I don't know. Swear not to betray me to Mr. Dennys, and I will toll you all I know ! ' ' I will not betray you.' ' I believe you,' she said, ' and I mnst trust you, (hough you are a stranger. I don't think you'd put my life in danger, or maybe more than mine, with those kind eyes ! I swear to you by Heaven that I'm speakiag tbe truth ! ' And thon Bhe began her story, her truthful eyes never leaving my faco for a moment. I listened, my hands clasped. 'I am called Nance Old field. I was a maid to young Mrs. Culverwell, and nurse to hor littlo boy. She was very fond of me, and she clung to me ; I knew all her little secrete. How sho had never loved her first husband, who neglected her and was cruel to her, and hoy she olun^ to hjr son— she was only seventeen when he was born — though he was like his father, with his father's cold sneering ways. Hi was very clever she thought Ho hid always a strange power over her. Well, she met Mr. Culverwell and they were married, and we all went to live in his pretty villa, to whioh Madam, his mother, had just oome from Scotland. ' For a time everything went well, and Mr. Hubirt was high in the old gentlemans'sgood graces. He and Mrs. Romney, who was a young widow, lived with their mother still, and it all looked bright and happy, though I knew Mr. Hubert.! ease 1 his mothor for money just as he had alwass done, and sheooncealed his debts from her husband. Then tho little boy Dudley was born, and Mr. Oulvdrwell was nearly out of his mind with joy. He adored his heir. We all loved him except ono. And thon my master fell ill, and he made the will— tho mad, wicked will, as Madam said ! It said ' ' I know what it said ! ' 'It seemed to me that everything went wrong after that,' Nance continued. ' Tbe master died, and my mistresß was ailing, and Mr. Hubert and Mrs. Romney took charge of everything. They rued everything, and they sent away all the old servants. The} wanted to send me away, but my mistress stood firm againßt that. And then Bhe died. On her

death-bed she made me premise to B Lay with tbe little boy. With her last breath she made Mr. Hubert promise to keep me, and he did promise, holding her htnd — Heaven f orgive him ! Well, miss, the child fell ill, and I was very worried and anxious; and it whs in the middle of his il'ness that I had a telegram from Australia, where my only sis'or had just settled. She was dying of decline, it said, and I was to come at once and see her. My heart seemed to be torn in two. Mr. Hubert said the little boy was no* ill, not dangerously, and that my duty wos pain. And he paid up the hundred pounds my mistress had left me, and saw about a ship, and, though my heart was breaking to part with my own darling, I Wi nt ! I left him ! I broku my word ! ' * She was your sister,' I said, for Nance had stopped to wring her hands, and she sighed with a pitiful little smile as she thanked me. ' Well, miss I went away and, after a lon^, longjourney, I reach" dlhoirplice — upcountry it was — and I thought I should nev< r ccc Annie slive. And when I got there, miss, she was not even ill ; it was all a lie and a hoax — ! a wicked plot fo get me away from Cannes and the bairn ! It seemed thi tmy brain gave way when Annie told me she had sent no te'egram, and what with the worry and Ihe fever I caught there I was very ill for a long while. But I never gave in, and I took the very first chip back T could get, ond went to Cannes And there, afc the villa, they told mo tbat Master Dudley wos dead, and that Mr. Dennys and his sister and Madam were back in Scotland.' She paused, drawing a deep breath ; and I waited. ' Well, miss, you'll wonder what I could say or do ; but I had a horrible suspicion and a horrible four, and I wasn'r, going to tit down and let things be. I had broken my word to my mistress, but, if wrong and wickedness had been done, I determined they shouldn't go unpunished I ashed a great many questions, but at fmt I could find out nothing-. The dootor who had attended Master Dudley was a Frenchman, a friend of Mr. Hubert's — a lilfcle, smiling, oily wrefoh that I hated, and he would tell mo nothing - , except that the bairn was dead. I was almost giving up in despa r when I heard the name of the woman who had beeu called in to dress my lamb for his last long sleep, and I went fco her. I thought maybe Bhe could tell if he seemed to have suffered much, and that she oould explain a hundred little thingß, and I asked her many a question. Sho said he wos wasted terribly, worn fo skin and bone, end then she as'onished me by something. ' His littlo arm was like a stick,' she said, 'and the red birth-mark tbat you would remember high up near his shoulder looked like a spot of blood." * I stared at her for a moment, wondering what she meant. Master Dudley had no such Dirth-mark ; and then she described it more fully — like a strawbberry, she said it was, and I sat staring at her growing cold and hot. It seemed to como to me, miss, like a flash at that minute, thafc Mat-tor Dudley had not died that it was not my bairn they had buried, and thnfc Mr. Hubeifc hid bidden him away tomewhere, so as to take the property ! Oh, what villainy, what villainy ! ' She uttered the last words more loudly in her excitement, and in terror and anguish I grasped her arm. ' Oh, hush, hush ! You ate mad to say such things! ' ' You don't know him as I do,' she whispered, her face raised fco mine, and crimson with excitement. ' Oh, miss, if you bad heard him, as I have, speaking so cruel and cold to bis mother, and seen him watching the little boy with those awful eyes ! They uaed to freeze my blood. And I feel sure, miss, lip sent tbat lying telegram. Hethoughtl should etop in Australia, or, if I did come back, that I should find out nothing! Ob, miss, help me to see Madam, and find out the truth ! ' I was looking down at her eager face, my heart beating heavily. Tho air seemed to have grown chill, ond I shivered under my furlined cloak. ' Madam saw him dead ! ' I said afc last. ' She told me so ! ' ' Maybe she thought she did ! ' Nance cried. ' Oh, they aro very clever, miss ; they could make her believe she saw him ! If I could see her, I could ask her questions ; but how am I to manage it ? If Mr. Hubert saw me near the place, he'd have me driven out ; he'd manage bo that I should never see her or speak to her ! T'-e woman at the lodge has orders to let no one in, unless the names of the people are sent in to him ! What does that look like ? Why does he shut up the placa like this, unless there's evil dono and hidden P Tell me, miss — is everything open and above-board at the Haining ? It's a huge place, and he is riob and does as he likes ! Or, mnj be he has murdered my darling, and hidden his body where no one kno*s ! ' She suddenly burst into tears, and my heart seemed fo sink within me. I could not speak. Presently she started, glanoing round with a shudder at the fast-darkening trees. ' I must go now, miss ; I mußt get away while it's dark. I've taken a little room near the mill, and the minister's wife has given me some fine sew'ng, f or I've spent all my money. I must think how to get a word with Madam. Oan yon help mo to thafc P You will not betray me, miss, to him ? ' ' I promise you,' I s*id ; * and I will try to help you. I think I oan help you ; but you must wait. Give me a week, and I will Bend you a letter to come to this place, and then I will tell you if you are wrong. You must be wrong ! ' She shook her head, ond then I wrote down on my table's the rame of the woman with whom bho lodged. She roaeand looked at me gratefully. ' Thank you, miss ; I'm sure you'll help mo. Good-bye ! ' ' Good-bye,' I said mechanioally ; snl theu she asked, half hesitatingly, ' Won't you rd me your name, misß? ' I shook my head. ' Not now — not no *.' I said ; and she slowly turned and loft me. I could hear her sigh heavily as she walked away. I sank down upon the lichen-covered trunk aud hid my face. I moaned as if in extremity of bodily torture. Love dies hard ; and I loved my husband! His coldness oould not kill my love ; but if the-e lay this sin, this crime, fch's cold remorseless cruelty, upon his soul, could I, dared I, stand by ani lot it be P If — if thafc lifcfclo terrified faoe was the face of Dudley Culverwell ; if Hubert's story was a fabriofcion ; if ib was true what; I myself had | Baid, that the lilfcle prisoner in the east wing I would die or go mad unless fchey set him free i — what then P I shivered again and again as I pat there. Hubert's fierce grip seemed to be upon my arm, bis c >)d eyes seemed to menace me. What could I do — I, his wife? And if it was all trup, and he was guilty, it seemed that only madness and despair lay before me. Ab last I rose resolutely. I would find out the truth, I would penetrate into the east wing, and see and learn for myself, and then I would tell Hubert that I knew all, and that he mußt release his ciptive! Ani then — well, there seemed nothing beyond that but darkness unspeakable ! ~ # # * (To be continued.)