Our Novelettes.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XXV, Issue 1268, 8 August 1893, Page 7

Our Novelettes.

‘ BLUEBEARD’S WIFE.’ Sheila’* Stoet. • Won’t she come again P But she said I dreamt it. Did you know I put up the two chairs and climb< d up. and saw her. Such a pretty lady ! It was music—perhaps she is an angel! Was it to-day or was it yesterday when he came P ’ The sudden sound of wheels in the yard foil sharply upon mv ears, and evidently upon the child too. He stood still, looking round ejgerly, and yet with a strange terror; and then, going back to the table, he sat down with his face toward* the bed and drew the picture-book towards him. The wheels h«d roused me. They meant the return of the sportsmen, or of Myra, and I descended hastily. I could scarcely define my own feelings as I carried the steps back to the empty room and put them in 'be same place ; then I shut the organ and took my candles, leaving the gallery hastily. I did not know that I bad bid len it farewell—for some time. When I reached the lauding I heard a great stir in the hall. The two parties had arriv d together. It was far later than I imagined. I could hear Captain Danberry’s voice above the others. He had been one of the concert party. I stopped to listen for a moment, leaning against the wall, then, blowing out the candle, I went to my own room. I dismissed the maid, who looked at me curiously, I thought, and then I took out a gown from the wardrobe and donned hastily. T could hear Hubert dressing in the next room, and presently, as I was standing by the window looking out upon the loch, dark and silent now, I heard him enter. f Sheila,’ he said; carelessly, ‘ where is that Sporting News I left on my table ? I looked round and our eyes met. I forgot to answer, and he gave a little start of surprise. . \; • Why, you are like a ghost, child . What is it P * Ho came up and took one of my hands —perhaps its coldness chilled him, for he dropped it with a shiver. * Have you been getting half frozen playing in the gallery ? Como, Sheila, what is it ? * I summoned all my courage then, facing him desperately. " «Hubert, who is the little boy in that strange room ? * ■ • • " There was a dead pause. A change came over my husband’s face; it became pallid, and his eyes flashed. «What boy ? ’ he said icily. ‘ What strange room ? ’ «I heard a cry, such a pitiful cry 1 I whispered. ‘ And I found a pair of steps, and I took them and looked.’ ‘Yes.’ He was standing close to me now. As I stopped he smiled bittoriy. * Q-o on, Fatima! You looked ! ’ « And I saw a litfcje boy—ho seemed despera'ely ill and wasted. Who is he, Hubert ? Why is he there ? i Hiw is it that no one knows or talks of him ? ’ « Because I do not choose that any one should,’ ho replied icily. ‘ Since you ask for the story you must be told, and from this moment I forbid you to repeat it to nun, woman or child. I forbid you ! Disobey mo at. your peril 1 The boy ia the child of a friend Ho is insane and my friend could not send him to an asylum, where awkward questions would he asked as to his name and parentage. I am not going to give you the details of the story-not even to gvati f 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 yon coll it, for the preservation of my friend’s secret. Now you know 1 ’ « 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 piteous look, of the horrible restless walk. ‘Ho will die, caged like that, Hubert! Oh, let mo go and see him, lot me ’ I stopped, for my husband’s cruel grasp was on my bare ann. ‘You will never en'or the gallery as:-in ;do you hear? You will be utterly silent as to this story, and as to what you saw ! Do you understand ? ’ ‘ But, Hubert, it is crime! He will die ! ’ »Very well! it is no eencom of yours. Your concern is to keep your marriage vows, and obey! ’ I cannot describe the hard indifference of his tone. T seemed to grow faint and cold under it. He relaxed his grip of my arm then; and stool looking at me deliberately. ‘Do you understand Sheila ? ’ < I wish I did,’ I cried, with a sob—‘l wish I did ! Oh, Hubert, his face will han' tmo ! How cruel it is to shut him up'like that! You will kill him. you and his cruel father ! If you would only let me ——’ • That is enough,* ho said. * There 1s the gong. I have told you, Sheila, what I expect from you ; you will not dare to disobey mo, Travers has got a key to the oast wing at last, and you have paid your last visit there. 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 was next to Gerald Culverwell’s, and he talked to me, while I merely returned an absent ‘ Yes’ now and then. At dessert I suddenly found Gerald’s eyes fixed upon me with a glance of warning, and was it pity ? Myra was speaking to mo. 1 You are almost asleep, Sheila ! Poor Mr. Culverwell feels the reproach to his conversational powers.’ • Mrs. Dennys was hesita ing between banana and pine,’ Gerald said lightly. ‘I advise pine, Mrs. Dennys Bananas always seem to me * warsb,’ as ray old Donald used to say.’ I looked at him gratefully, as Myra’s scornful eyes were turned from us. • I ought to beg your pardon, I know.’ And yet I had no excuse to offer; I scarcely heard as he laughingly protested against any apology. T r •: In the drawing-room I was oblige! iq rouse myself resolutely to oscane Myra’s notice. As I was talking to Lady Huntly, Mrs Oulverwell touched me lightly on the arm. ‘Madam was asking for you, to-day, Mrs. Dennys,’ she said. ‘ Could you pay her a little visit before she goes to bed ? She would be so pleased.’ I rose at once, and she took my seat beside Lady Huntly, who was of the concert, and descanting upon Patti’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 me I had suddenly remembered something, and mv brain had seemed to reel for a monvnt. 1 A mad will —a wicked will ’ Were not these Madam’s words ? Could she help ma to dispel the doubt, the hideous thought that had entered my mind ? The old lady was sitting by the fire her bands 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 for a while on indifferent topics, till she laid her hand almost caressingly upon my hair.

* The firelight is very pretty on your hair, child I One does not often tee these gleams of gold, and I like to see them ! Who had hair like yours ? Some one—some one I loved.’ ■ Was it Hubert's mother ? ’ She shook her bead. ‘ No, hers was flaxen and pretty, bu ( it no depth or ligh'e. Ah, I remember. It was Dudley (.he poor little boy ! I remember I stroked his hair when ho lay dead—and the brightness was all out of it then ! ’ ‘You saw him—dead P * I said, bending down and taking her hand in mv cold ones—they had seemed cold all day. ‘ You saw him, Madam P ’ *|Why, yes, my dear,’ she said mournfully. ' Dead—quite d«-ad ! I lui i flowers in his little hands—violets and anemones ; they were purple anemones, I remember—deep purple—for 1 could got no white flowers, and i‘ vexed me. That was one of the saddest moments of my life, my dear, to see that little dead faee ; for little Dudley was the last of the Gulverwells in the direct line, and I was so proud of him ! ’ Bha talked on then whi'e I eat still. Dead —quite dead ; so that phantom might be driven out of my mind ! I tried not to think of the strange child in the east wing. I tried hard *o rouse myself, and I repeated Hubert’s words— * It is no concern of yours. Your concern is to keep your marrisge vows and obey ! ’ and yet I shivered as if from cold ! ##* * < # There had been a few changes in our houseparty. The Damarels and Lady Humly had gone, to give piece toothers ; but Hubert had pressed the Culver wells and Danberrys and Lucy D’Arcy to remain over Christmas, and this they had consented to do, Q-orald paying, a fleeting visit to his farm to see how things were going on. * — Nothing of note happened for a week after my discovo y. but now I did not practise in the gallery. The baize door was locked and I made no attempt to obtain the key. Between my husband and me 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 the subject of the east wing. Not that I bad forgotten. I had grown to dread solitude and had joined lately ini the talk and merriment of the guests almost eagerly, for when alone I was haunted by One face, by one thought—the thought of the child m the east wing, whom I was leaving to his fate I And yet what could Ido? I was d'eaming over these things one day as I passed through a belt of trees at the back of the lo3ge. I had gone out alone with Trevor, the collie, for a li tie walk before afternoon tea, for it was a bright and peaceful day early in December. The light was growing a little paler no", and I was wondering what the time could be, when suddenly I heard voices from the lodge-gate, aad I paused to listen. < Who should live here but Mr. Dennys ? ’ * Mr. Dennys! ’ The repitition of the name was like a sta-fled cry ; and then, in a hastily changed tone, the same voice went on, ‘And Madam —Mrs. Culverwell —is she dead P ’ ‘ Dead! No j she’s alive and hearty ! ’ ‘ Then she lives here with him P ’ * With the master ? Of course. Anything more you’d like to ask ? ’ f Yes,’ the other voice said doggedly. ‘ls Mrs Romney, his sister, hire to ? Who keeps house for him ? ’ * She does, though there’s a young mistress —little more than a girl she is. Come! I can’t s and here all day in the cold ’ I heard the gate dose then noisily and the lodge door shut, and I walked down to the wall which bounded the road to look at the questioner. She had paused ou the path just below—a fall, ruddy-faced woman, quietly and respectably dressed in a dark skirt and black cloak, with a little handbag in one hand ; the other hand she was passing in a be wildered way over her face. As I looked at her, flhn suddenly spoke aloud, as if the words broke from her. ‘Heaven help her—his wife! And little more than a girl! What am I to do now ? How ana I to get to speak to Madam ? 1 I stepped forward, and leoning over the wall, I called to her gently to look up. ‘ls it Madam Culverwell you wish to see ? Can'T take any message for you ? ’ * Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘ Could you take 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 I But you must not tell any one—not any one in the Hainiog! Are you staving there ? Are you a friend of bis - the master’s ? ’ I did not answer at first. I signed to her that there was a place in the wall where some stones had fallen by which sbe might climb up. Then I held out my band, And by its aid she was soon standing b.-side mo on the mossy ground. Then I retraced my steps through the trees to ft place where f here was a fallen lichen covered trunk, and I motioned her to sit down. ‘ I will help you,’ I said slowly, ‘ if I can, and if it is the truth that there is a wrong to be righted. Is there a wrong to be righted in the Haining P ’ I laid one 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 mo to Mr. Dennys, and I will tell you all I know! ’ ‘ I will not betray you.’ ‘ I believe you,’ she said,.‘ and I mnsfc trust you, though 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 speaking the truth ! ’ And then she began her story, her truthful eyes never leaving my face for a moment. I listened, my hands clasped. *I am called Nance Oldfield. I was a maid to young Mrs. Culverwell, and nurse to her little boy. She was very fond of me, and she dung to me ; I knew all her little secrets. How she had never loved her first husband, who neglected her and was cruel to her, and how she dung to her son—she was only seventeen when he was born—though he was like his father, with his father’s cold sneering ways. H) was very clever she thought He bd always a strange, power over her. Well, she met Mr Culverwell and they wore married, and we all went to live in his pretty villa, to which Madam, his mother, had just come from Scotland. ‘ For a time everything went well, and Mr. Hubert was high in the old gontlemans’s good graces. He and Mrs. Romney, who was a young widow, Used with their mother still, and it all looked bright and happy, though I knew Mr, Hubert teased bis mother for money just as ho had alwajs done, and she concealed his debts from her husband. Then the little boy Dudley was born, and Mr. Culverwell was nearly out of his mind with joy. He adored his heir. We all loved him except one. And then my master fell ill, and be made the will—the mad, wicked will, as Madam said ! It said ’ ~l ‘ I know what it said! ’ *lt seemed to me that everything went wrong after that,’ Nance continued. ‘ The master died, and my mistress was ailing, and Mr. Hubert and Mrs. Romney took charge of everything. They ru’ed everything, and they sent away all the old servants. Thej wanted to send me away, but my mistress stood firm against that. And then she died. On her

death-bed she made me promise to stay with the Ifr'le boy. With hep last breath she made Mr Hubert promise to keep me, and be did pomiso holding her hand—Heaven forgive him ! Well, miss, the child fell ill, and I was very worried and anxious; and it was in the middle of his illness that I had a telegram from Australia, where my only sister had just settled. She was dying of decline, it said, and I was to come at once and see h»T. My heart seemed to be torn in two. Mr. Hubert said the little boy was no' ill, not dangerously, and that my duty was p'ain. 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 w■ nt! '■ I left him ! I broke my word ! * * She was your sister,’ I said, for Nance had stepped to wring h»T hands, and she sighed with a pitiful little smile as she thanked me. ‘ Well, miss I went awav and, after a long, longjourney, I reach’ dtheirplace—upoountry it was—and I thought I should nevi r see Annie alive. And when I got there, miss, she was not even ill; it was all a lie and a hoax — a wicked plot to get me away from Cannes and the bairn ! It seemed tint my brain gave way when Annie told me she had sent no te'egram, and whot with the worry and the fever Tcaught there I was very ill for a long while. But I never gave in, and I took the very first ship back I could gel, and went to Cannes And there, at the villa, they told me that Master Dudley was dead, and that Mr. Dennys and his sister and Madam were back in Scotland.’ She paused, drawing a deep breath ; and I [waited. --if'-' ‘Well, miss, you’ll wonder what I could say or do ; but I bad a horrible suspicion and a horrible fo*r, and I wasn’t going to sit down iand let things be. I had broken my word to miy mistress, but, if wrong and wickedness had been done, I determined they shouldn’t go unpunished I ashed a great many questions, but at firtt I could find out nothing. The doctor who had attended Master Dudley was a Frenchman a friend of Mr. Hubert's—a little, smiling, oily wretch 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 bad been called in to dress my lamb for his last long sleep, and I went to her. I thought maybe she could tell if he seemed to have suffered much, and that she could explain a hundred little things, and I asked her many a question. She said he was wasted terribly, worn to skin and bone,and then she as'onished me by something. * His little arm was like a stick,’ she said, ‘and the red birth-mark that you would remember high up near his shoulder looked like a spot of blood.* i-S 1 ‘I stared at her for a moment, wondering what she meant. Master Dudley bad no such oirth-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 come to me, miss, like a flash at that minute, that Mai-ter Dudley had not died that it was not my bairn they had buried, and. that Mr. Hubeit had bidden him away somewhere, 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 to mine, and crimson with excitement. 'Ob, miss, if you had heard him, as I have, speaking so cruel and cold to his mother, and seen him watching the little boy with those awful eyes ! They to freeze my blood. And I feel sure, miss, ho sent that lying telegram. He thought I should stop in Australia, or, if I„did-eomoJback, .that I should find out nothing! Oh,'‘miss, beflp me to see Madam, and find out the truth ! * I was looking down at her eager face, my heart beating heavily. The air seemed to have grown chill, and I shivered under my furlined cloak. * Madam saw him dead ! ’ I said at last. ‘She told me so ! ’ a, 'sf"Tf*S’TT’S"T 1 * Maybe she thought she did !]’ Nance (Cried. ‘Oh, they are very miss; they could mak” 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 so 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 place like this, unless there’s evil done and hidden ? Tell me, miss—is everything opm and above-board at the Earning ? li’s a Luge place, and he is rich and does as he likes ! Or, ma>be he ha? murdered my darling, and hidden his body where no one knows ! ’ She suddenly burst into tears, and my heart seemed to sink within me. I could not speak. Presently she star'ed, glancing round with a shudder at the fast-darkenine trees. * I must go now, mias * I muat get. away while it’s dark. I’ve taken a little room near the mill, and the minis'er’s wife has given mo some fine sewing, for I’ve spent all my money. I must think how to get a word with Madam. Can yon help me to that ? You will not betray me, miss, to him ? ’ ‘ I promise you,' I siid ; * and I will try to help you. I think I can help you ; but you must wait. Give mo a week, and 1 will and you a letter to come to this place, and then I will fell you if you are wrong. .You must be wrong! ’ • - . - .. She shook her head, and then I wrote down on my table's (he name of the woman with whom she lodged. She rose and looked at mo gratefully. ‘ Thank you, miss ; I’m sure you’ll help me Good-bye I ’ * Good-bye,’ I said mechanically ; an ! then she asked, half hesita'ingly, * Won’t you tel’ me your name, miss? ’ I shook my head. ‘Not now—not no»,’ I said ; and she slowly turned and left roe. I could hear her sigh heavily as she walked away. I sank down upon the lichen-covered trunk and hid my face. I moaned as if in extremity of bodily torture. Love dies hard "; and I loved my husband! His coldness could not kill my love; but if thee lay this sin, this crime, this cold remorseless cruelty, upon his soul, could I, dared I, stand by and lot it bo ? If—if that little terrified face was the face of Dudley Culverwell; if Hubert’s story was a fabrication ; if it was true what I mysolf had said, that the little prisoner in the east wins would die or go mad unless they set him free what then ? I shivered again and again as I sat there. Hubert’s fierce grip seemed to bo upon my arm, his crld eyes seemed to menace mo. What could I do—l, his wife? And if it was all true, and ho was guilty, it seemed that only madness and despair lay before me. At last I roso resolutely. I would find out the truth, I would penetrate into the east wing, and and learn for myself, and then I would tell Hubert that I knew all, and that he must release his ciptive! And then — well, there seemed nothing beyond that but darkness unspeakable ! w * * * * (To be continued .)