Our Novelettes.

Ellesmere Guardian, Volume XII, Issue 1172, 5 August 1893, Page 4

Our Novelettes.

• BLUEBEARD'S WIFE.'

Sheila'! Stobt. ' Won't she oome again P But she said I dreamt it.. Did you know I put up the two chairs and olimbed up, and saw her. Such a pretty lady ! It was musio— perhaps Bhe is an angel I Wai it to-day or was it yesterday when he oame P ' The sudden sound of wheels m the yard fell sharply upon my ears, and evidently upon the ohild too. He stood still, looking round eagerly, and yet with a Btrange terror ; and then, going baok to the table, be sat down with his face towards tbe bed and drew the picture-book towards him. The wheels had roused me. They meant the return of the sportsmen, or of Myra, and I deecended hastily. I could scarcely define my own feelings as I carried the^ steps back to the empty room and put them m the same place ; then I shut the organ and took my candles, leaving the gallery hastily. I did not know that I had bid len it farewell — for some time. When I reaohed the landing I heard a great stir m the hall. The two parties bad arrivd together. It was far later than I imagined. I could hear Oaptain Danberry 's voice above the others. He had been one of tbe 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 white gown from tbe wardrobe and donned hastily. I oould hear Hubert dressing m 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. ' 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 I What is it f ' He came up and took one of my haods — perhaps its coldness chilled him, for he dropped it with a shiver. * Have you been getting half frozen playing m the gallery P Oome, Sheila, what is it ? ' I summoned all my courage then, facing him desperately. ' Hubert, who is the little boy m tbat strange room P * There was a dead pause. A ohange came over my husband's face ; it became p.llid, and his eyes flashed. • What boy P ' he said icily. ' What strange room ? ' ' I heard a ery, such a pitifnl cry ! ' I whispered. ' And I found a piir of steps, and I took them and looked.' ' Yes.' He was standing close to me now. As I stopped he smiled bitterly. 'Go on, Patima ! You looked ! ' • And I saw a little boy— he seemed desperately ill and wasted. Who is he, Hubert ? Why is he there P How is it that no ono knows or talks of him P ' • Beoause I do not choose that any one should,' he replied icily. ' Since you ask for the Btory you must be told, and from tbis moment I forbid you to repeat it to man, i woman or child. I forbid you ! Disobey me I afc your peril ! The boy ia the child of a friend. He ia insane, and my friend could not send him to an asylum, where awkward question* would be asked as to bis name and parentage. lam not going to give you the details of the story — not even to gratify your ouriosity. My friend leaves England m the spring for the States, and then he will come here for the boy and take him with him, and my charge will be over. I had him put m the strange room, as you oall it, for the preservation of my friend's seoret. No* you know I ' ' He will not live till the spring if you leave him there,' I cried, ignoring the extreme coldness m my husband's voice, thinking only of the child's piteous look, of the horrible restless walk. 'He will die, caged like tbat, Hubert! Oh, let me go and see him, let me ' I stopped, for my husband's cruel grasp was on my bare a r m. ' You will never en*er the gallery agiin ; do you hearP You will be utterly silent as to thia story, and as to what you saw ! Do you understand P ' 1 But, Hubert, it is crime ! He will die ! ' ' Very wpII ! it is no concern of yours. Your concern ia to keep your marriage vows, and obey ! ' I cannot desoribe the hard indifference of his tone. I seemed to grow faint and cold under it. He relaxed his yrip of my arm then, and stood looking at nae deliberately. 'Do you understand. Sheila ? ' 4 1 wish I did,' I cried, with a sob — 'I wish I did ! Oh, Hubert, his face will hau_t me I How oruel it is to shut him up like that I You will kill him, you and his cruel f ither ! If you would only let me-^— ' ' That iB enough,' be said. ' There is the gong. I have told you, Sheila, what I expect from you ; you will not dare to disobey me. Travers has got a key to fhe east wing at last, and you have paid your last visit there. Now let us go downstairs j 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'e, and he talked to me, while I merely returned an absent ' Yes' now and then. At deseert I suddenly fou.d Gerald's eyeß fixod upon me wi ( h a glance of warning, and was it pity ? Myra was speaking to me. • You are almost asleep, Sheila ! Poor Mr. Oulverwell feels the reproach to his conversational powers.' 'Mra. Dennys waa hesita'iug between banana aud pine,' Gerald said lightly. * I a .vise pine, Mrs. Dennys. Bananas always seem to me ' warsb,' as my old Donald used to say.' I looked at him gratefully, as Myra'g eoornful eyea were turned from us. ' I ought ta beg your pardon, I know.' And yet I had no excuse to offer ; I scarcely heard as he laughingly protested against any apology. In the drawing-room I was oblige! to rouse myself resolutely to escape Myra's notice. Ab I was talking to Lady Huntly, Mrs Oulverwell touched me lightly on the arm. 1 Madam was asking for you, to-day, Mrs. Dennys,' she said. ' Could you pay her a little visit before Bhe goes to bed P She would be so pleased.' I rose at once, and she took my seat beside Lady Huntly, wbo was speaking of the concert, and descanting upon Patti'a diamonds. Perhaps here might be a little help, I was thinking, aB I orosso . the hall swiftly, and knocked at Madam's sitfcing-room door. I would ask her one question. For while Gerald Oulverwell was talking to me I had suddenly remembered something, and my brain hai seemei to reel for a moment. ' A mad will — a wioked will ' Were not. these Madam's words P Oould she help me to dispel the doubt, the hideous thought that had entered my mind P The old lady was sitting by the fire, ber hands folded m ber lap, as I entered, and she ' looked up and nodded at me kindly. ' And how ie your cold, my dear P ' She seemed unusually bright, I thought ; I took a low seat beside her, and talked for a ; while on indifferent topics, till che laid her j . hand almost caressingly upon my hair. j

' The firelight is very pretty on your hair, ohild ! One does not often ccc these gleams of gold, and I like to see them ! Who had hair like yours P Some one — some ono I loved.' ' Was it Hubert's mother P ' She shook her head. * No, hers was flaxen and pretty, but it had no depth or lights. Ah, I remember. It was Dudley, the poor little boy I I remeinbor j I stroked his hair whe__ he lay dead — and the brightness wan all out of it .__< m .' ' 'You saw him — dead?' I said, bending down and taking her hand m my cold ones — they had seemed oold all day. * You saw him, Madam P ' '|Why, yes, my dear,' she suid mournfully. 'Dead — quite dead ! I bid flewers m his little hands — violets and anemones ; they were purple anemone*, I remember — doep purple — for I could get no white flower?, and il vexed me. That was ono of the saddest, moments of roy life, my dear, to ace that, little dead face ; for little Dudley wai the last of ihs Culverwells m the direct line, and I was so proud of him ! ' Sha talked on then whi'e I sat still. Dead — quite dead ; bo thut vbantom might be driven out of my mind ! I tried not to think of the strange ohild m the east wiDg. T tried hard to rouee myself, and I repeated Hubert's words — ' It is no concern of yours. Your concern is to krep your marriage vows and obey ! ' and yet I shivered aa if from coll t There had been a few changes m our houseparty. The Damarels and Lady Hunlly had gone, to give place toothers ; but Hubert h\d pressed tho Culverwells and Danberrys and Lucy D'Arcy to remain over Christmas, and this they had consented to do, Gerald paying a fleeting visit to his farm to see how things were going ou. Nothing of note happened for a week after my discovery, but now I did not practise m the gallery. The bai_e door was looked and I made no attempt to obtain the key. Between my husband and me there seemed to be a deep gulf, widening es tbe days pissrd. He had gone back however to a kind of oareless indifference, and we had never again mentioned the subject of the east wing. Not that I had forgotten. I had grown to dread solitude and had joined lately m! the talk aud merriment of the guests almost eagerly, for wben alone I was haunted by one faoe, by one thought— the thought of the child m tbe east wing, whom I was leaving to hia fate! And yet what, could I do ? I was dreaming over these things one day as I paned through a belt of trees at the back of the lolge. 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 m December. Tha light was growing a little paler hot, and I was wondering what the time could be, when suddenly I heard voices from the lodge-gate, and I paused to listen. * Who should live here but Mr. Dennys ? ' ' Mr. Denny. ! ' The repitition of the name was like a sta-tled cry ; and then, m a hastily changed tone, the same voice went on, ' And Madam — Mrs. Culverwoll — is she dead P ' ' Dead ! No ; she's alive and hearty ! ' * Then she lives here with him ? ' ' With the master ? Of course. Anything more you'd like to ask P ' * Yes,' the other voice said doggedly. 'Is Mrs. Romney, his sister, here to P Who keeps house for him ? ' ' She does, though there's a young mistress — little more than a girl she is. Come ! I can't stand here all day m the cold ' I heard tho gate olose then noisily and the lodge door shut, and I walk: d down to the wall which bounded the road to look at the questioner. She had paused on the path just below — a tall, ruddy-faced woman, quietly and respectably dreseed m a dark skirt and black cloak, with a little handbag m one ha* d ; the other hand she was passing m a bewildered way over her face. As I looked at her, sho suddenly spoke aloud, as if the wo-ds broko from her ' Heaven help har— -his wife ! And li ile more than <* girl ! What am Ito do now ? How am I to get to speak to Madam ? ' I stepped forward, and leaning over the wall, I oalled to her gently to look up. 'Is it Madam Culver well you wish to soa p Can T take any message for you ? ' 'Yes,' Bhe said eagerly. 'Could you take a message from me/young lady P Oh. I think Heaven would bless you, if you would help me I You might be helping to right a bitter, bitter wrong ! But you must not tell any one — not any one m tbe Haining 1 Are you staying there P Are you a friend of his - the master's P * I did not answer at first. I signed to her that there was a place m the wall where some stones had fallen by whioh she might climb up. Then I held out my band, _.t.d by its aid she was soon standing beside me on the mossy eround. Then I retraced my steps through tho trees to a place where there was a fallen lichen covered trunk, and I motioned her to sit down. ' I will help you,' I said slowly, » if I oan, and if it is the truth that there is a wrong to be righted. Is there a wrong to be righted m the Haining ? ' I laid one hand upon her shoulder, and she looked up at mo with frightened sorrowful eyes. ' Heaven help me 1 ' she said. ' I don't know. Swear not to betray me to Mr. Dennys, and I will tell you all I know ! ' ' I will not betray you.' ' I believe you,* she said, ' and I mnst trust you. though you are a stranger. I don't think you'd put my life m danger, or maybe more than mine, with those kind eyes 1 I swear to you by Heaven that I'm speaking the truth ! ' , And then ehe began her story, her truthful eyes never leaving my face for a moment. I listened, my hands clasped. 'I am called Nanoe Oldfield. I was a maid to youog Mrs. Oulverwell, and nurse to hor little boy. She was very fond of me, and ehe clung to mo ; I knew all her little seorets. How she had never loved her first husband, who negleoted her and was cruel to her, and , how she olu_4 to har son—she was only seventeen when he was born — though he was like his father, with his father's cold sneering ways. He was very clever she thought He had always a strange power over her. Well, she met Mr. Oulverwell and they wer« married, and we all went to live m his pretty villa, to whioh Madam, his mother, had just oome from Scotland. ' For a time everything went well, and Mr. Hubert was bigh m the old gentlemans's good graces. He and Mra. Romney, who was a young widow, lived with their mother still, and it all lookei bright and happy, though I knew Mr. Hubert teased his mother for money just as he had. alwajs done, and she concealed hia debts from her husband. Then the little boy Dudley was born, and Mr. Oulverwell was nearly out of hia mind with joy. He adored his heir. We all loved him except one. And then my master fell ill, and he made the will— the mad, nicked will, as Madam said ! It said ' * I know what it said ! ' 'It seemed to me tbat everything went wrong after that,' Nance continued. ' The master died, and my mistress waa 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 against that. And then she died. On her :

death-bed she made me promise to s'-ay with the little boy. With her last breath Bbc made Mr. Hubert promise to keep me, and he did promise holding her html — Heaven forgive him ! Well, miss, the ohild fell ill, and I was very worried and anxious j and it was m tbe ! middle of hia illness that I had a telegram from Australia, where my only sister had just j settled. Sle was dying of decline, it said, nnd I was to come at once and sco h( r. My heart se.i_.e_ to be torn i-i two. Mr. Hubert sail the little boy wrs not. ill, nor. dangerously , and ] that my duty was plain. And he paid up the hundred pounds my mistress had loft me, and saw .bout a ship, and, though my heart was breaking to part with my own darling, I j w.nt 1 I left him ! I broke my word ! ' ' 3ho 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 lons', longjourney, I reaoh'dtheirplace— upcountry it was— and I thought I should nev r see Annie s'ive. 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 1 It set mcd thi tmy brain gave way when Annie told mo she had sent no telegram, and what with the worry and tbe fever I caught there I was very ill for a long while. But I never gave m, and I took the very first ship back I could get, and went to Cannes And there, at tho villa, they told me that Master Dudley was dead, and that Mr. Dennys and his sister and Madam were back m 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 fear, and I wasn't going to fit down and let things he. 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 first I could find out nothing. Tho 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 me nothing, except that the bairn was dead. I was almost giving up m deapa r wVen I heard the nime of the woman who had been called m 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 mueb, and that she could explain a hundred little things, and I asked her many a quesH- n She said he was wasted terribly, worn to sk in and bone, and then she as'onished me by some! hing. ' His little arm was like a stick,' she said, ' and tbe red birth-mark tbat you would remember bigh up near his shoulder looked like a spot of blood.' ' I stared at her for a moment, wondering what Bhe meant. Master Dudley bad no such oirth-mark ; and then she described it more fully — like a straw bberry, she said it was, and I sat staring at her growing oold and hot. It seemed to come to me, miss, like a flash at that minute, that Ma.-ter Dudley had not died, that it was not my bairn they had buried, and thut Mr. Hubeit hid bidden him away somewhere, so as to take the property 1 Oh, what villainy, what villainy ! ' She uttered the last words more loudly m hor excitement, and m terror and anguieb I grasp. d her arm. ' Oh. hush, hush ! You are mad to say such things ! ' I ' You don't know him as I do,' ehe whispered, her face raised t-> mine, and crimson Tviih excitement. 'Oh, miss, if you had heard bim, as I have, speaking so cruel and cold to his mother, and seen him watching the little boy with those awful eyes ! Thßy used to freeze my blood. And I feel sure, miss, he sent tbat lying telegram. He thought! should stop m Australia, or, if I did come back, that I should find out nothing ! Oh, miss, help me to see Madam, and find out the truth 1 ' I was looking down at her eager faoe, my heart beating heavily. The air seemed to have gr >wn chill, and I shivered under my furlined oloak. ' Madam saw him dead ! ' I said at last. ' She told me so I * ' Maybe sbe thought she did 1 ' Nance cried. 'Oh, they are very clever, 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 P If Mr. Hubert saw me near tbe plaoe, he'd have me driven out ; he'd manage so that I Bhould never see ber or speak to her ! The woman at the lodge has orders to let no one m, unless the names of the people are sent m to him ! What does that look like P Why does be shut up the placa Hke this, unless there's evil done and hidden P Tell me, miss — is everything open and above-board at the Haining p It's a huge place, and he is ricb and does as he likes ! Or, ma^be he has murdered my darling, and hidden his body where no one knows 1 ' She suddenly burst into tears, and my heart seemed to sink within me. I could not Bpeak. Presently she started, glancing round with a shudder at the fast-darkening tre<?s. ' I must go now, miss ; I must 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 sewing, for I've Bpent all my money. I must think how to get a word with Madam. Oin yon help me to that P You will not betray me, miss, to bim ? ' ' I promise you,' I said ; ' and I will try to help you. I think I oan help you ; but you must wait. Give me a week, and I will send you a letter to come to this plaoe, and then I will tell you if you are wrong. You must be wrong ! ' She shook her bead, and then I wrote down on my tablets the ram. of the woman with whom she lodged. She rose and looked at me gratefully. ' Thank you, miss j I'm sure you'll help me. Good-bye ! ' * Good-bye,' I said mechanically j and then sbe asked, half hesitatingly, ' Won't you tell rr.e your name, miss ? ' I shook my head. • Not now — not now,' I said ; and sbe slowly turned and left me. I oould hear her sigh heavily as she walked away. I sank down upon the liohen-oovered trunk and hid my face. I moaned as if m extremity of bodily torture. Love dies hard ; and I loved my husband ! His coldness oould not kill my love ; but if there lay thia sin, this crime, this oold remorseless cruelty, upon his soul, could I, dared I, stand by and let it be P If — if that little terrified faoe was the face of Dudley Oulverwell ; if Hubert's story was a fabrication ; if it was true what I myself had said, that the little prisoner m the east wing would die or go mad unless they set him free — what then P I shivered again and again as I sat there. Hubert's fierce grip seemed to be upon my arm, his old eyes seemed to menace me. What could I do — I, his wife P And if it was all true, and he was guilty, it eoemed tbat only madne.s and despair lay before me. At 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 tbat I knew all, and tbat be must release his oiptive! And then — well, there seemed nothing beyond that but darkness unspeakable 1 # # # (To be continued.)