SAVERNE’S DOUBLE

Northland Age, Volume IV, Issue 47, 13 July 1908, Page 2

SAVERNE’S DOUBLE

(Orpylßht.)

OB THE ANVILS OF THE ALMIGHTY,

By J. Monk Foster.

PART IS. I V CHAPTER XXX. COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. ~ "What is it now ? ” he asked, surlily, as he paused and turned on his march towards the bolted door. "Como back and sit down, sir. There is no reason why you should burry away like this. And what I have yet to tell you is of greater Interest to you than all that has gone before." He stared at the woman with a puzzled and annoyed expression ; wondering what new devilment she might be up to now, for her face had undergone a subtle change. There was something in it now he aould not fathom ; and her voice trembled now with exultant excitement she was doing her utmost to keep under. Reluctantly he went to the rocking Chair he had filled before ; she dropped into her own arm chair, nearest the table and opposite him, ana ho demanded again :

"What Is it now ? Thero aro reasons why I shouldn't be kept here any longer than is absolutely necessary as you know. And now say quickly what you have to say and let me go." "Oh, thank vou," she gibed. "But there is reason, too, why you should stay. I merely thought it would be a pity to allow you to run away, hugging a misconception ; so I am going to do what you so seldom have done—tell the truth." "What do you mean ? " he queried lowly, a thrill of fear running once "Have patience and you shall know. Once, and not many years since, Pick Fell, I was only a bit of put tv in your hands, Dick, and you could mould me as you wished. One consequence of that was that I had to sup sorrow with a big spoon afterwards, and the misery and degradation of those days aro burned in-

to me. But it is my turn at present. I've a strong hand now, and I*ll make you squirm and writhe a hundredfold *for every wrong and pan* you’ve inflicted upon me." "What do you mean ? " he asked, hoarsely, half-startling from his chair "Haven’t I done all you wanted me to do ? You have the thousand pounds we arranged for, my promise for the rest of the money ; and your signed declaration Is here in my pocket. Hang It all, woman, what more can you want?" "Nothing from you. I have all I want at present. The thousand I got from you will make the rest of my plans easy. You are going to discover. Dick Fell, that hell has no fury like a woman wronged, and ■corned, and that she can scheme and play for her own hand as well as a successful swindler." 'Jiave you lied to me—duped me?" hesf thundered, sitting upright in his chair, his eyes fired by a baleful light, his face black with menace. "You’ve guested it first time," was her mocking response. "Smart as you are you have been fooled easily by the woman you once fooled. How do you like the part of victim ? " "Curse all this nonsense ! " he cried starting to his feet. "Let’s have no more of it, I tell you. Now, In a few words and plain English, what do you intend to do ? " "I intend to expose you as soon is I can—see you running away like pk common thief from the quiet and „.. pleasant village where you had arranged to settlo down for life as a fatleinan. It will be pleasant, gon’t It, to scuttlo away and leave rhe Woodlands, the cotton mills, all 7our prospective wealth, and more ;han all the beautiful and good lady fou were going to put to shame by /marrying? And in case you dare rtop here to brazen it out, I will lave you in gaol under a week." "You devil ! You fool ! " he fumed, keeping his flaming passion flown a great oflfort. "To iplte me are you going to cut off your own nose ? If you do this what will become of the thousands ©f pounds I was going to give you ? Thlnlf of that, you ass ? *• "Ass yourself ! " she retorted, pale-faced now and trembling, yet not at all dismayed by his towering bulk ami threatening attitude. "Aod haven't I thought of it all ? Is Mr. Thurston-Saverne the man who made over to you fifty or sixty thousand pounds, likely to leave unrewarded the woman who saves him and his sister from being swindled and dishonoured ? No ; I am safe here. I think." » M G[ve me back those notes or I will choke you ! M he thundered, hoarsely, as he strode towards the place where she stood. His rage and fear were at white heat then, and no longer under control. "Another step, Dick Fell, and I'll ahoot you like a dog ! " she cried, venomously ; and the right hand she raised from the folds of her dress held a small revolver levelled at his breast. "Did you think I was silly enough to play such a game with you, with nothing but my tongue to match against your brute strength?" He sank back cowed, and seeing, too the suicidal folly of any struggle, or murder. He was foiled, outwitted, beaten, and he sat there in the gloomiest despair seeing nothing in front of him but the intolerable and ignoble flight she had pointed out. Noting his silence she went on gibingly : "When I came here folks pointed out that the place was a lonesome one for two women to live in alone, and impudent beggars were plentiful, they said, thieves as well ; and so I bought this pretty thing, never thinking at the time that it would save me from one worse than any thief. Now. I have done. Dick Fell, and you may clear out/' He neither moved nor spoke but the look on his face was that of a woulA-he murderer chained down by his own impotence. "You had better go and save fV iplf while you can,” she contin-

ued. "If you think to change me, your time will be wasted and if you dare to try and rush me I'll shoot ! Ana even should I miss 3*.ou, where will you be ? While if I kill you that paper in your pocket will be enough to clear me," He rose slowly, looked at her and the pistol, and then strode towards the door, an invertebrate giant of a man crushed, overwhelmed with despair. With the unbarred and unlatched door in his hand he turned again to the white-faced woman saying clamantly : "Molly, have you no pity ? "* "Pity ? " she shrilled forth with impassioned virulence. "Pity for the rogue who robbed and deserted me ? Pity for the knave who sworq never to acknowledge his wife or live with her again ?No ! Go your way and I hope we may never meet again ! " He slid out, the door closed, and then, with a low, gasping cry, she collapsed in her chair, an inert hand resting on the table, with the revolver under her loose fingers. The distracted man plunged into the darkness, and, avoiding the high road, sought the open moorland. There, alone, and safe from prying eyes, he seated himself to think. Absolute ruin stared him in the face. The morrow might prove late for flight ;he was almost without funds, had little ready, money at homo ; only one refuge offered itself—the clemency and forgiveness of an outraged wife. At all costs he must make his peace with her. He stole back like a thief in the night, found the coast clear, the light still shining through the win-dow-blind, the door on the latch and with a gentle tap and the face of a scourged penitent, he entered, closing the door softly. He marked her pose, noted the revolver under her hand ; but she regarded him not. "Molly," he whispered, "I will do anything—be your slave — if you will only spare me. Say you will, and I will never leave you again." There was no response, and he waited a moment in irresolute susl>ense. Then something curious in her attitude startled him ; ho glided forward on tip-toe, gripped the revolver so loosely held, and feeling safer then, he called to her more loudly. Next instant her ashen face and dropped jaw revealed the amazing truth.

"She is dead ! The excitement—the old trouble—heart disease ! What an escape ! And now to collar those bank-notes and get away unseen."

It was but the work of a few seconds to unbutton the bodice of the dead woman, thrust his hand inside, grasp the tumbled bundle of notes, shove them into his own pocket and with one last look at the still form, the table, its lamp, and the revolver upon it, he slid out into the darkness, making his way homeward swiftly and by unfrequented ways. Just on the stroke of nine o’clock the cotton master was safe back at home and in his own private room, a trifle pale and agitated still, but otherwise no worse for his recent adventure. Unseen by the servants he had slipped in by the front entrance. In a couple of minutes he had stirred the fire, changed his coat poured out some whisky, made himself at home, and then rang the bell. A maid appeared, seemed startled on seeing her master there, and mumbled out words to that effect.

"I came home a little while ago, Mary, and seeing no reason to disturb any of you I came to my room" he said, in his ordinary casual manner. "But where is Mrs. Robinson please ? " "She left home shortly after you did sir," the servant replied. "A lady friend ctdled to see her, Mr. Saverne, and they went out together. If you returned before Mrs. Robinson did I was to say that she hoped you would excuse her, sir."

"Oh, that is all right," he said, amiably. "Now, will you kindly oblige me with a little hot water and sugar ? There is lemon here, I believe—and remember, Mary, that I will not take supper till Mrs. Robinson returns.’*

She thanked him, glided away, attended to his needs, and presently the master of the house was comforting his inner man and perturbed nerves with a stiff glass of whisky punch. A little later, with a closed door behind him, he had taken that document from his pocket which the dead woman had signed, the cluster of bank-notes, too, and locked them in his safe, then had flung himself into an easy-chair near the fire, to smoke, sip, and think. Had ever a man gone through in a single hour what he had been called upon to face that evening ? Less than half an hour ago he had felt broken and ruined, hovering on the very brink of hell, and then out of the depths of his frightful despair he had been plucked as if by a miracle.

And the woman who had vowed to expose and break him on the wheel of public obloquy had been stricken down suddenly, awfully, with her vengeance unfilled. But that dread summons of the Almighty did not serve to remind the transgressor of the uncertainty of human hopes, nor did it avail to point out to him the peril of the quicksands over which he was treading. He had room and time to £hink only of one thing. He was safe again and free—free to keep all he had won ; free also to grasp, enjoy, cherish the sweetest woman on earth who was daily growing more willing to trust herself in his hands. Was it a wonder that his blood danced in his veins, and that his mind wove happy, fancies ? The chief, the greatest of all obstEbclea in his path had melted away ; an impending storm had passed off, leaving clear, blue sky. He was a man once more, cool, alert, strong to do and dare everything to .consummate his ends.

Wrapped in these thoughts, he had smoked cigar after cigar, had mixed for himself glass after glass of whisky ; and when the burning down of the fire told him that a considerable period of time had fled, he glanced at his watch to find that it was after eleven. Thinking then that his housekeeper must have returned, he was about to ring the bell, when a sharp tap came to the door, and Mrs. Robinson bustled in. "I am so sorry, Mr. Saverne," she cried, "that I was called away during your short absence from home. But a friend came, and as I did not expect you to return so early, 1 took the liberty of running down to the town for an hour or so.”

"The servant explained, and it was quite right, Mrs. Robinson.

And now, li you please, * twin take a little snack of supper.'*"Yes, sir; you shall have it at once. But I am so upset by some dreadful news I heard in the village." "Dreadful news, my dear Mrs. Robinson ? Whatever has happened, pray ? " he asked, with evident concern, wondering if what he knew could have readied her ears. "Yes, awful news, Mr. Saverne. You remember Mrs. Fell—the poor woman who came here ? Well, she was found to-night between ten and eleven, sitting dead in her chair." "Indeed ! Now, I am sorry to hear such tidings, Mrs. Robinson. But has she been til ? She seemed well enough, I thought,, when she paid me that vißit. But who found her ?U

"Her daughter, and another millgirl, Fannie Rogers, who had been at the theatre together at Moorclough. When they got back to the cottage about twenty-five minutes to eleven, there was the poor widow sitting in her rocking-chair, dead and cold as a stone."« "Poor little woman ! How sad to die like that with no one near her ! And that reminds me that the widow’s daughter Is employed at my mills. Well, I must really insist on assisting the poor girl, although her mother declined all assistance, as you know. ‘And then that other girl Rogers, would bring the news to the village ? ”

"Yes ; that’s how it was, sir,'* the housekeeper said. "And now that you mention it, Mr. Saverne, I recollect that Mrs. Fell did say, something to me about an ailment ol hers."

"Ah ! she was suffering then, although she did keep up such a brave show. What was it she said, Mrs. Robinson ? '* "It was something concerning heart troubles, Mr. Saverne ; and those things do take people off quickly, as you know.” "Yes, yes. Well, such things will happen I suppose and it behoves us all to be prepared,”• he remarked, sympathetically and philosophically. "Now, bring me a little supper, please. A morsel of anything cold and handy will do, you know.^ CHAPTER XXXI. r A MISTAKE AND A FLIGHT. On the day following that series of episodes at Lane End Cottage all the talk of the Moor Green gossips centred naturally around the little woman there whose end had come so suddenly and dramatically. Although Mrs. Fell and her daughter had been living in the village only a short time, circumstances had served to make her name and the girl’s familiar to many who had not known them personally.

Even when the woman had cOme to the place months before to identify and bury her recreant husband, Dick Fell, alias Mat Rainford, some knowledge of her remarkable story and wrongs had been spread abroad; and later, when the dead miner’s supposed widow and stepdaughter came to reside permanently there, their appearance had set many tongues wagging anew. But the woman had been quite open respecting the reasons which had induced her to settle down at Moor Green. Most folks thought the widow had acted wisely in taking such a step, and when it had leaked out at length that the new chief manager, Philip Ruflord and Mrs. Fell were relatives by marriage that had seemed an additional excuse for her presence in the neighbourhood.

Somewhat earlier than usual Mr. Aaron Saverne had walked down to his mills on the morning following his unexpected deliverance from a threatened damnation, which at one time had seemed so assured, absolute and imminent. There his officials had spoken in a casual wayi of the sad and abrupt end of the "poor widow v?oman ” in Moor Green-road, and had seen nothing out of the common in the event.

At breakfast time also intelligence of Mrs. Fell’s death had spread to Moor Hall, and Simon and Leah had received the news in the way of people whom it did not effect. It was only afterwards when Mr. ThurstonSaverne went down to the colliery office and met his chief there, that he was reminded of something he had once heard and almost forgotten. "Good morning, my dear Rufford," he began even more genially than usual. "I daresay you have heard of the sudden death last night of a widow woman named Fell ? '- “I heard of the sad occurrence last night as I sat up reading, and I afterwards went to the cottage for an hour or more."' ‘‘That reminds me, Rufford of something I had forgotten to mention before. This Mrs. Fell, was the widow of a miner who lost his life in our mines last year—the man had deserted her and was working here under another name—and it runs through my mind that some one must have told me that you and the poor lady were related." “That is so, Mr. Thurston-Saverne, but only through marriage. I once told you that my father was in partnership with his brother, and that brother, my uncle Edward, was Mrs. Fell’s first husband." “Ah, I see. And there is a daughter by the first husband ? Now if I can do anything to assist the motherless lass, you have only to speak, Rufford.’* “Thank you, sir ; but it will not be at all necessary to trench upon your generosity. There is one favour, however, which I ask you to grant me in connection with Mrs. Fell’s death.” “What may that be, Rufford ?

“The inquest will be held tomorrow afternoon, and if you can spare me for an hour or so I should like to be present, sir."

“Of course. Take the afternoon my dear chap. But there are no complications in the case, eh ? " “I do not apprehend any, Mr. Thurston-Saverne. The woman was subject to heart affection of some kind, and her death was clearly due to that cause. But my cousin Susie Rufford, is a very modest young woman, and as her mother's death has upset her a good deal, I desire to see her through the inquest, which she must attend." “Certainly. Well, you can take all to-morrow and the next day also if you wish, Rufford." On the afternoon of the following day the inquest on Mrs. Fell was held. In a roomy apartment of the nearest public-house the coroner, his jury, the witnesses, and a few outsj4pl’g were gathered* and in less

than an hour tne wnoie proceedings had terminated.

Miss Rufford and her workmate, Fannie Rogers, had Spoken o? the circumstances under which they had left the deceased on Thursday evening to find her sitting in her chair dead on their return from the theatre. Other persons called in later, had testified as to the position in which the dead woman was found • the local doctor who had made the examination gave evidence that death was due to heart failure superinducing syncope, which was indubitably due to fatty degeneration of the organ indicated.

The medical man also stated that only quite recently the dead woman had consulted him for heart troubles both Susan Rufford and her cousin, Philip Rufford acknowledged that their relative had suffered for some years from the affection named ; and after such conclusive evidence the finding of the jury was never in doubt.

Only one question of any moment had been put by the coroner himself to Mrs. Fell’s daughter. On the table beside the deceased a loaded revolver—the one produced—had been found. Could Miss Rufford explain its presence ? She did. The cottage was lonesome, tramps were frequently passing the four cross-roads at all times, and her mother, a shrewd and prudent woman, had purchased the weapon for safety.

“Death from natural causes,was the verdict.

An hour after that the mill-owner, sitting in his office at the mills, was made acquainted with the results. One of his clerks, on some business in town had brought the news, which had filtered presently through the c fishier to the ears of the man chiefly concerned. A most blessed feeling of heavenly relief had settled down then on Aaron's heart and mind. While he knew that he was practically innocent of having brought about Mrs. Fell's death, ho was yet fully alive to the fact that stress of excitement produced by him had accelerated her end ; and it was impossible for him not to remember that, if the world could only learn what had taken place inside Lame End Cottage that evening, ho would be adjudged morally her murderer.

But reflection on that point did not seriously disturb the man snatched from shameful exposure and utter ruin. Hl9 system of ethics had no fine edge to it, and he could only gloat over the fact that this “visitation of God " had swept the road clear of all dangers and difficulties, and that he had but to swoop onward now to the final and crowning triumph—marriage with Leah.

As to the realization of his consuming dream of love he had scarcely the least fear now. Had not the peerless beauty herself suggested that if by word of hers the gates of paradise could bo opened to him, that word would be uttered soon ? And in deep content and ardent hope he was waiting. After the burial of her mother, which only half a dozen people had attended, the girl had gone to resido with her village companion. Philip had suggested to Susie that he might arrange for her to lodge with him, if she cared ; but she preferred to go to Fannie Roger's home. So the cottage had been given up, the furniture sold, and the proceeds handed over to the comely mill-girl. It was about this time that Miss Thurston-Saverne again saw her brother’s manager with the handsome lass she had previously noticed at his side in the lane that evening, when, as an eavesdropper, she had seen him hand her money and kiss her.

On this second occasion she ran across the pair face to face. It was dusk once more, and coming from the village Leah met Rufford and the handsome lass close by the Hall gates. Her heart had grown heavy as lead at the sight of them, her dear face had frozen itself into a hard mask, and scarcely noticing his smiling face and raised hat, she had swept past disdainfully. It was only later that she weis to learn how unnecessarily she had stabbed herself and misjudged Rufford, and how, in consequence, she had been more kind than wise in fanning into a flame the hopes that her

“dear cousin, Aaron Saverne," cherished regarding herself. And in the meantime the spring days glided away q'uietly, but not uneventfully, although the smooth surface seemed to indicate that. April passed with its fleeting sunshine, shadows and gusts of rain. May came in with its wealth of green verdure, flowers, and odours, and less fickle blue skies ; and each of the chararters with which this story is mainly concerned pursued the accustomed tenor of his or her way.

Not once since he had last set foot inside Lane End Cottage had the cotton master turned again to the written statement which Mrs. Fell had signed or to the bundle of banknotes with which he had striven in vain to gag her, and which he had afterwards plucked from her bodice, where she had placed them. Often enough he had seen notes and documents lying there secure in the safe keeping where ho had thrust them ; but some feeling of repulsion had so far kept his fingers from both. Now, however, one evening in mid-May he overcame his repugnance sufficiently after fastening the door of his study, to unlock the steel stronghold, bring the accusing things forth, and throw them on the table. Ho examined first that sheet of foolscap containing the dead woman’s autograph, and was minded to destroy it there and then ; but another impulse urged him to keep it. So he folded it up and laid it aside. Then he raised the cluster of tumbled, rustling bank-notes setting them orderly and straight, one upon the other and running the number of them over at the same time.

Suddenly a cry of annoyance fell from his bearded lips, and he hastily counted the notes again. Nineteen only. Where could the twentieth be ? He strode back to the safe ransacked it through, butvcould find no trace of the missing note. A minute later he had gone through the pockets of both the coats he had worn that evening and had found it not.

Then, suddenly smUtten with fear he had cast himself l»to his chair to ponder this new problem. What had become of the missing banknote ? Had he lost it, or—good God —left it inside the dead woman’s dress when he had torn the others away ?

a com sweat gatnerea on ms orow as he sat there pondering that question. Oh, what a blundering ass he had proved himself in not counting the notes the instant of their recovery. Now it had vanished—it was the last of the series, and the highest numbered of the score—-and the Lord alone could say into whose hands it had fallen ! Under his breath he cursed his own stupidity and careless haste. Upon that missing slip of paper how much might hinge ? For the note itself he cared less than nothing. What was a mere fifty pounds to him ? Were he only assured that some indifferently honest person had found it, then he would be more than satisfied. Thinking the whole matter over calmly, he felt compelled to conclude that he had left the missing note in the dead woman’s breast on tearing the others from it. And in that case who was likely to have found the missing token ? In all likelihood one or other of the neighbourly women who must have been called in to "lay out" the dead, prepare the corpse for the medical examination, and, later, interment. His heart leapt joyously at that idea, and he hugged it to his soul. To such people fifty pounds would represent a small fortune and would be hoarded up until such times as it weis considered safe to change it. Yes, it must be so, he told himself. That Dr. Bimson had not discovered the note was almost certain. Had he done so the fact would have been made known at once, some notification of discovery would have bruited about, and the valuable piece of paper itself handed over to Mrs. Fell's daughter. But weeks had passed since the woman's death, and never a whisper of any bank-note had reached him. By making inquiries at the different banks at Moorclough he might learn if any one had paid in or cashed such a note as he had lost ; but to adopt such a course might end in throwing certain suspicion on himself and to advertise his loss* could have but the same result.

No, the note was gone, and, curse it ! It weis better to let sleeping dogs lie, and he had no desire to set on foot investigations which might ultimately be directed towards himself. So he composed his fears, walked carefully for a number of days, with his eyes and ears wide open, but whoever had got it, the missing fifty-pound note was not brought out to make a sensational stir. And meanwhile Mr. Aaron Saverne had been unremitting in his patient wooing of Miss Thurston-Saverne, and his unflagging adoration of thatsweet and noble woman. He was at the Hall almost every day or evening now, and was no longer chilled by the sight of Philip Rufford there.

For some reason or other the chief manager of the Moor Green collieries had ceased to visit the Hall ; and while delighted at the absence of one whom ho had once deemed a possible rival, he was too shrewd to inquire as to the cause of that. It was about this time—the end of May—that Thurston-Saverne had occasion to speak to his sister. “Leah," he said one morning at breakfast, “do you know what I heard last night while in Moorclough ? " “How should I know Simon ? " “That you and our cousin were to be married shortly,"* he cried, with his pleasant smile of disdain. “Now who, save Aaron Saverne himself could have given rise to such a rumour ? Of course I nailed that rumour down as a fabrication at once"

“Yet it i 9 quite possible, Simon, that I may marry my cousin,"- she replied softly. “What ! Marry him ? " he demanded. “And what, pray, my dear Leah, of that other man ? "■

"I have seen reason to amend my desires regarding him, dear," she replied, her eyes on her cup, her face paling visibly under his look. “Oh, so you have changed again ? Well, I'm blessed if you are not a very woman like all your sex." “Spare me, Simon ! " she pleaded. “Some day I will tell you the truth.' l

That very evening while walking through the grounds after dinner, he was noar the entrance gates, when he saw a hansom roll up and a lady alight. Next moment the cab had rumbled away again and he was facing a closely-veiled and stylishlyattired woman almost under the lamp, but just inside the gates. “You will pardon me, madam," he said to the shrinking woman, raising his hat, “but may I inquire your business here ? I cun Mr. Thur-ston-Saverne, but perhaps you do not seek me."

“No, sir," was the faint reply. “I wish to see your sister." “Good God ! " burst from his amazed lips. “You are Salome Fairfax ! And what do you want here ? "

“Yes, lam Salome Fairfax ! " and the woman flung back her veil, revealng a white, beauteous face. “And (I havo told you why I am here. Because we are not friends can I not see your sister ? “I crave your pardon ! " he cried ironically. “Come, and I will take you to Leah, Miss Fairfax."

She dropped her veil and side by. side they paced the dusky avenue, speaking no word till the house was gained, and not even then. But in another minute the proud and spirited beauty was sobbing in Leah's arm*, while Thurston-Saverne was Bmoking gloomily in his own den. There his sister burst in upon him half an hour afterwards. “Simon, you know that Miss Fairfax is here, but you do not know why she has come."" “I neither know nor care, v he growled. “She has fled from the man he did not dare to marry—could not marry, loving you. She has come to cast herself on my mercer—yours, Simon—till Sir Miles and Lady Fairfax take her in. She is broken-hearted, dear half-crazod with all she has gone through during the past few months" “And whose fault is that ? " he asked huskily. “When a proud and scornful woman chooses her way she must abide by the consequences afterwards, my dear Leah." “But when a proud and mistaken woman is humbled to the dust, Simon, it is our duty to forgive." “Has she sent you here to plead for her ? "

“No. I stole away to tell you this. Simon, Salome is a changed woman. Won't you see her ? Just for a moment, pray ! "

aare not ! 1 win not flo it ! Heaven knows that I cannot help loving her, and I should only make a fool of myself ! Keep her here, Leah if you wish, but I dare not face her now. Later, I may see her, before she leaves. Now go, dear."

To be Continued,