CHASM.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3296, 15 August 1911, Page 3

CHASM.

A RECORD OF PLOT AND PASSION.

(By L. T. Meade, author of “A Son of Ishmael,” etc.)

CHAPTER XXIV.

TELL ME THE TRUTH!

“What an inconvenient question, and at such a time!” he exclaimed. “I want to go out. I cannot talk of love now.” She ran up to him, slipped behind him, shut the door, and then stood facing him. v “Answer me,” she said. Her heart was heating hard. “Everything in all the world depends upon your answer. Can you by any chance get to feel not sorry that you married me?” “Not sorry?” he said. “Yes; can you get to feel glad?” “Glad!” he cried. “Yes, yes! Speak, speak!” “Glad that I married you!” he repeated. “Speak, Luke ! Tell me the truth.” She clasped her hands tightly together. There was an imploring expression in her eyes, her lips were trembling. “Glad that I tied myself to you!” he continued. “Good heavens! what are you made of? Let me go.” He pushed her roughly aside, opened the door, slammed it after him, and ran downstairs. Clara listened with a wild expression on her face until his retreating footsteps ceased to sound. Then she fell on her knees, clasped her hands before her face, and burst into a passion of weeping. “The die is cast,” she said at last when she rose to her feet. “I am his wife, and I love him, but I will oppose him through thick and thin now—he has himself to blame.” A few minutes afterwards, quite calm and cold and placid-looking, the new mistress of No. 250, Harley Street, swept downstairs. She had already changed her travelling dress for one of black velvet. This dress had a long train. Round her neck she wore a scarf artistically arranged. The scarf was of rich old Spanish lace. Her face, very pale, rose above its picturesque surroundings, looking haughty and well. The footman was decidedly impressed by her. The butler, however, knew better. “She ain’t a lady—don’t tell me!” he said. “Oh, she is,” cried the footman. “Didn’t you notice her ’aughty hairs? Yes, she’s a lady, and no mistake. Most probable she come to grief with her first, and took up Tarbot as better than nothing. She’s a marchioness at the least.” “Marchioness you!” said the butler. “Don’t talk folly.” Tarbot was waiting impatiently for his breakfast. Clara swept to the head of her table, sat down with what the footman was pleased to call a marchioness air, and poured out the coffee. The servants left the room, and the husband and wife were alone together. “I shall want a maid,” said Clara, raising her eyes to Tarbot’s face. “A maid!” he exclaimed. “You! What in the name of fortune for?” “I, as much as another,” she answered. “Do you suppose I can attend to my own clothes and the thousand and one things which a woman ought to do for a fine lady? Whatever I was in tne past, I am now your wife and a fine lady, and as such I must have a maid. I shall go to Mrs Mount to-day and secure one.” “As you please,” replied Tarbot. “Now I have eaten enough, -and must be off. Don’t expect me to lunch. After I have seen my patients T shall drive round to the hospital.. To-morrow, of course, I shall be in to receive patients from ten to one as usual, but today I am simply going to announce my return to town.” “By the way,” said Clara as he rose from the table, “what about Miss Evershed ?” Tarbot gave an involuntary start. Clara noticed a sort of quiver which seemed to run through his frame. He was standing with his back to her; now he turned slowly. “Miss Evershed, why?” “When is she to be married?” “I dont’ know. I have heard nothing either of her or Pelham for the last fortnight.” “You will find out something today?” “Probably, as I intend to call to see Mrs Pelham.” “Is Mrs Pelham still in London?” asked Clara. ‘Yes, the house is her own.” “That’s a good thing for you.” “Why do you say so?” “Because I know it.” “It is a good thing for me,” said Tarbot slowly, “a very good thing. I thought of that when I arranged other matters. Good-bye, Clara; expect me when you see me.” (To be Continued To-morrow.)