HIS WIFE'S JUDGMENT.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVI, Issue 5496, 28 June 1879, Page 3

HIS WIFE'S JUDGMENT.

By tlio Author ol " Thrown on the World," &c. CHAPTER XV. The answer came—short, stern, unlike Sir Cyril: " I did not expect to hear from you again on the same subject, Lenore ; my mind is hurt at your persistency—l am at a loss to uuderstand you. As you will persist, 1 answer, Yea ! I was in England—l was at Barton Leonard on the day my kinsman was slain, but I left on the noon of the name day. I never intended you to know—it is the only secret o£ my life—l meant to keep it from you; but since you persist in dragging it from me against my will, I answer you. If you wish to know why I was there, why I went to Barton Leonard, what I did there, and why 1 went, look tor an old brown poeket-book of mine—a book with a silver, cl&sp ; read it, and you will understand. " CVRIL VISKNON." A short, stern letter, such as she had never in all her life received from him before. "Oh, Gladie, I am so sorry that I wrote !" she cried. " You see that he is angry with with me—he is vexed and annoyed, he will never forgive me." " Hβ is vexed that you. have found out hie secret," said Miss Beaton, "a secret that he has evidently intended to keep from you. Why should it be a secret! Re evidently has something he doea not wish you to know. Why should any man have a secret of such a nature from his wife ? I caunot understand "Gladie," said Lady Vernon, earnestly, " I have such faith in my husband that, if he said to me he had a reason why he kept any secret from me, I should believe that his reason was good, wise, and all-sufficient—l should not even wish to know it." "This is very good of you and very fortunate for him," said Miaa Beaton; but her face grew dark and her lips quivered ; her prey was escaping her. She continued, gently : " Yon are quite right in the abstract, Lenore, but this is a peculiar case, and requires peculiar treatment. If there were no shadow of danger for the future, I should be the first to say to you, ' Respect his secret, and do not seek further to know it.' As it is, I, your best, truest friend, your adopted sister, I who love you and your eon better than anything on earth, I say to you, ' Find it out, for your husband's own Bake find it out; do not rest until you know what his secret is, why it brought him home, and why ha went away without one word to those who love him.' I would, for his own sake, mind you, that you may help him when he needs help. I would have all the whole truth laid plainly before me." The evening of that same day found Miss Beaton alone and trnmphant; she had chosen one of the most solitary paths in the garden, wherein she could walk alowly and meditate at her will. She was gratified by the progress of her plot, her face wore an expression of intense pleasure ; so far she had succeeded beyond her most sanguine expeotations and she felt within herself the eurety of success, that she should reach the very summit of her dreams. The crisis was at hand ; a few hours more and she should see, she should understand how far ahe had succeeded. . Her plans were most cleverly laid-; she would not have Lady Vernon fall ill, she did not desire that; she would not have anything but the one vengeance she had mapped out for herself—and it was coming. Her great wish was to separate them ; she knew they loved each other so well, that was how they would Buffer most-thit would be a lifelone torture. She knew how Sir Cyril worshipped Ms wife--,hat it would eeem -easier to him to live without sunshine or fresh air than to live without her; life would not have one charm for him; and the same with Lenore—she loved her husband so utterly, so entirely, so completely, her love was so much her life, that without him it would be living "If all goes well," she saia, "I have secured their parting ; they will never meet in this world again ; and they will suffer— great God, how they will suffer ! —but no more than I did when he refused my love, no more than I did when I had to stand by and watch hie wooing. The cnp of my vengeance is filled to the brim, and so eweet to the taste—so unutterably sweet," she said ; but I must be cautious- one little mistake, and all would be lost." ~ "Here it is ! It feels very heavy," said Lady Vernon, " yet it is not very large ; see, I lift it myeelf easily, bat it is heavy, Gladie. I will put it on the table here, and then I can open it readily." "Where did yen find it!" asked the strange voice, qnite unlike Gladio'a,' so hoarse, and so studied ; " where was it t" " Down in the wardrobe, hidden by half a hundred things," replied Lady Vernon, brightly ; in somo strange way, now that she held the oaken cabinet in her hands, the fear of it had died away. " Where are the keys ?" she continued ; " I gave them to you, Gladie." It was one of the most dramatic scenes evei witnessed ; the magnificent room all filled with soft shadows, the bright light on the table falling on the faces of the two women, so beautiful, yet so different. Lenore's pale, but full of sweet, half-pensive loveliness; Mies Beaton's so deadly white, with a lurid fire in her dark eyes—a face that had in il just at that moment a whole drama of love, hatred, and veDgeance. Looking at her on< would have known that this was noordinarj "Igave you the keys, Gladie," repeated Lady Vernon. She etarted. ' . " Did you 1 Yes; they are here. "Find me the brass one with the lnlau oak," said Lady Vernon. Once, twice, thrice, Gladie Beaton bold ou the keys to her with a hiand that trembled si they fell to the ground. "One would fancy you were nervous, Gladie," said Lenore. * " Not for myaelf," she replied. Then Lady Vernon put the- key m th lock, and raised the lid; therewas a death like eilence in the room; outside the wim was whispering and the leaves ruetlcd, her all was silent as in the city of the I seemed to Miss Beaton that she could hea the fierce, wild beating of her own' heart the breath came in quick, hot gaepß from he lips, her eyee with their burning fire f ollowe every movement of Lady Vemon'e -white jewelled hand. Lady Vernou's beautifi face bent over the cabinet.

" The first compartment was quite empty," she Bai j. Thea she raised the blue velvet cushion, and looked beneath. " There is no pocket-book," she said, "bat there is a pistol—a pretty little pocket pistol." " A what ?" cried Miss Beaton, and Lady Vernon looked up in amaze at her cry. A what, Lenore ?" she repeated. " A pretty little pocket-pistol, that is all," replied Lady Vernon. "All!" repeated Miss Beaton, "Oh, my dear, my dear, close it—look no more." Lady Vernon gazed earneatly in the false face of the false friend. " Why shonld I do that? Ah, there is another compartment ! Now for the pocket book I" She touched the spring and raised it. Oh, Heaven ! that the sight did not strike her dead ! —raised it, and then stood for one moment as though turned to stone. In that one moment the ailence deepened. The awful pallor that came over her face was terrible to aee, while the dark eyes looking at her gleamed with fire. One'moment the wind whispered and the leaves rustled—only one moment; then a cry that might have frozen one's heart rose from those white lips—a cry of unutterable horror, of unutterable anguish—a cry that must have pierced the heavens. Then the lid of the cadinet fell, and the white hands fell powerless, motionless by her side. " Oh, Heaven ! oh, Heaven ! be pitiful !" she prayed, as she knelt, and buried her face in her hands. " Oh, Heaven, spare me, for I can bear no more !" A silence again for three minutes, that seemed long as an hour, then Mies Beaton rose slowly from her seat and went to Lady Yernon's side. "Lenore," she said, gently, "what is it, my dear ? What is in the cabinet—is it the brown pocket-book with the silver clasp? Let me see." Lidy Vernon looked np at her with dazed, half-blinded eyes. " I did not hoar yon," she said; and to an enemy leas relentless the ghastly change in that face would have appealed for pity. "What have you found there?" she repeated. " T.et me see. Let me open it. Whsit can have frightened you so ?" Then a- slow gleam of reason seemed to come to the hapless lady; she sprang from the ground and clasped her arms round the little cabinet. "No I" she cried ; " you must not see, you must not, indeed; you must not open it—l forbid you ! If I were to die standing here, still I forbid you. If you should ever try to look into this, Heaven will darken your eyes and the light will fall from them!" "My dear Lenore, how strangely, how strangely you speak," she said. "I have seen what I have seen. Oh, Heaven, be pitiful, and let me die !" " I do not know what you have seen," said Miss Beaton, " but Ido know that jrou look so ill I am sure I must get something for you, or you will die," and, indeed no more terrible Bgure than that of this beautiful woman could be seen, the ghastly face, with the awful impress of fear ; the white, parted lipa, the trembling hands, the whole frame convulsed. " I must find some wine for you, Lenore," she repeated, and then Lady Vernon clasped her arm. She pointed to the cabinet. " Don't leave me alone with, that," she replied. "I—l dare not stay." " What is in it, Lenore ?" cried Misa Beaton. "Do tell me? I havo been quite as anxious as you over the search —do tell me !" " I cannot tell you," she gasped. "Is it anything that co'.sid bring danger to—to Sir Cryil ?" asked GUdie. "If it be so, tell me quickly." A sudden shock seemed to pass over the stately figure at those words, a sudden thrill of pain, a sudden and keen chain of reasoning ; she looked up into the false face of her false friend. " Danger to my husband ! What should be dangerous to him ?" she asked. " I cannot tell; but you seemed so strangely affected, that was all. Let me go and bring you some wine, Lsnore ; you tremble so that you can hardly stand. ■ Then, when I come back again, I shall make you show me what is in the cabinet." " Yes, go," said Lady Lenore ;' " I shall be glad of something—l feel very iIL " " Xou must not mind if I am more than five minutes, I shall have to get the keys." One more prone to suspicion than Lady Vernon might have fancied that she was purposely absenting herself, and wished her victim to know for how long. She forced Lady Vernon into the easychair she had just quitted. "Best there until I return," she said. And the beautiful blonde head fell back into a worn, tired attitude ; and as Gladie quitted the room ehe heard the low-whispered worda: " Oh, God ! be pitiful 1 and let me die !" But no sooner had the door closed behind Gladie Beaton, than Lady Vernon sprang from her seat and locked the door; then stood trembling, with parted lips, almost jpahtiug for breath. "I must touch them," she aaid ; "I must take them away—l must, hide them. Yet I would rather, touch my dead husband's heart." She unlocked the cabinet, and took from it the pocket-pistol-that ehe laid on the table ; then, with hands that trembled still more, she drew from the little velvet inclosure a small parcel that ahe laid on the table. "Oh, rhy God ! that I should see them again, and thus 1" she cried. A pretty scarf, with handsome tassels— a scarf made of Roman Bilk, fine and strong, with a pretty pearl brooch—the same that she had fastened round her husband's neck on that fatal evening which seemed so long ago. If proof were needed that they had been torn violently from his neck, it was there. She had fastened the little brooch to his collar; the murderer's hand had wrenched it away in such haste that the little piece of the collar etill adhered to the brooch; the pin had apt been unfastened, but dragged away. As she stood, there looking at them, the whole scene flashed into her mind; ehe saw her mother watching them with quiet, tender eye 3 ; she saw Austin, with his fair young face and tender eyes, bent on her ; she remembered how he had returned to kies her, and had stood talking to her. The whole scene came back to her as though it had happened but yesterday. Now Austin, foully murdered, lay in his grave, and she stood there, with the scarf and brooch in her hands. Her words—her mother's words returned to her—"The murderer will be discovered sooner or later by means of the scarf and brooch." How many times had she not said this, and'now'she hereelf had found them, fonnd them secreted in her husband's room. She looked at them, her eyes distended with horror. No one else must ace them. Hastily she wrapped them in a newspaper, and hid them in the pooket of her dress. She had hardly locked the cabinet again and unlocked] the door,'.when the door opened, and Miss Beaton returned, It might have been the flicker of the light, or was it a smile of triumph on.her .face when she saw that Lady Vernon had evidently been at the cabinet again. She carried in her hands a glass filled with ruby red .wine. " You must drink this at once," she said. "Lenore; your face- is enongh to frighten one." Then she went to the table. "You must gratify my curiosity now, Lenore, and let me see what is here." She said. There was a quiet, furtive smile on her lips as she spoke. She took _up the keys : Lady Vernon made no opposition. "She has hidden them," thought Miss Beaton. "How beautifully she plays into my hands—she could not do better if she tried." Then she unlocked the cabinet, and proded to examine it.

" Lenore," she said, " I cannot find anythiDg here but the pistol ; bat even that . makes me sick "with misery. Why does ' Sir Cyril keep such' a thing about him ? Do \ you know what they said at the inquest ?" " I do not remember," Baid Lady Vernon. " It was said theree, that judging from the [ size of thebnlletfired.itwasalmoatacertainty that a pocket-pistol had been used.. Lenore —I hate the sight of this—an instinct, a cruel instinct tells me this was pointed at I Austin s heart, and killed.him. It looks to me as if it were oovered with red blood." t " You'n'eed not torture me, Gladie; if that' j pistol is my husband's, "it did hot kill Austin." . . Miaß Beaton took it up in her hands, and looked at it. '■' It is Sir Cyril's," she.-Mid, "here is his a mdngram, ' C. T. V.' — how curioualy en- - twined ; but, Lenorej there is nothing more 1 in this cabinet. "What conld have frightened e you bo?" ■..'.'. t But Lady Vernon made no answer: r' Gladie put the pietol baek again, s placed the ;,- ' cabinet in the wardrobe, and then Lenore r said that ehe would go to her own room, and 3. wonld prefer going there alone. >, He waa guilty. She had tried him in her j own mind ; she had examined every witness that coolo , speak against him, or 'ihat could

speak in his favour. She had tried every circumstance in the light of trr?th and of justice ; she had thought of every palliative, of every excuse, of any reason for which she could, in any way raise the blame from him ; she could think of none. In her own mind—her own heart—with her own judgment clear and unbiased, she pronounced him "guilty." There was no alternative—gnilty—without hope. Guilty before Gad, if not before men —guilty—yet the evidence of his gnilt must be destroyed. She took them in her hands, but the touch of them seemed to bnrn her ; she laid them down with a little cry of unutterable loathing, a little cry of anguish. Where should she hide them ! ;~What place was safe enough to hold that, which, if seen, might destroy him ? Her reason told her the best, safest, and wisest thing would be to destroy them at once, to bnrn them, and then they could do no harm. Yet she dare not, it seemed io her almost as though they were living. She dare not drop them into the flames. Cyril had saved them ; even though they were witnesses against him, she must do the same ; she sought for a safe place. Eastwood Hall was an old boilding, full of quaint nooks and corners, full of secret enpboards and curious passages. She suddenly remembered one that was here in her own room. Above the mantel-piece hung a picture a superb copy of one of Leonarda da Vinci's best pictures—behind this, fitting exactly in a panel in the wall, wa3 a little cupboard ; no doubt in the olden days of war and storm it had been used as a hiding-place for valuable plate or jewels ; a strange eye could never detect it, to one who knew the secret it was easy enough. A finger pressed tightly on the pretty rosebud, which formed part of the pattern, revealed the spring, and when the spring was touched the door flew open. Lady Vernon suddenly remembered there conld be no safer hiding-place than this. Quick as thought she took a chair, and with some little difficulty brought down the picture from its place, then she opened the door and put the scarf and breoch inside; she fastened it securely, and re-hung the picture. " Thera they will remain in all probability," she thought, " until the old walla of the house crumble intoduat." That was done. So far he was safe, and all was well. Then she had to decide on what course it would be best to pursue with him—what she should do. She could never look at him again—never speak to him more ; the hands that had slain the kindly young poet should caress her no more; she could not even look at them, those strong, white hands—so stronp, so tender she had believed ; to her they would always now be dyed in the blood of Austin Ghandos. She could never see him again ; they had loved each other too much for any half-measures, r If she saw him, out of the abundance of he heart she must speak ; she must accuse him of his crime ; she must witness his remorse, his regret, his despair, hi 3 excuses ; she must see the man whom she had always looked up to as a knight and a hero cower before her a w/etched criminal —a man stained with the deepest sin, with the greatest crime. Better to go away from him at once, and let his sin be buried between them. She could not live with him again; she had loved him too well. She could not see him; she could not sleep under his roof ; eat his bread, wear clothes of hie providing, share his purse—she conld do none of thesethings. She muet go from him, and the distance between them must be greater than the. distance made by death. " I have loved you so, my darling!" she cried, with a great tearless sob. "How shall I live and bear this?" How sweet death would have been in comparison! Never to see him again, never to feel the touch of those true, tender lips—and she loved him so. There could be no half measures now; she must go. She tried to think if it were possible that ehe could ever live with him, and be to him as she had been before. Was it possible ? No ; her whole soul revolted from the thought; it would be unnatural. She could not, she would not; nothing conld induce her. Could she speak careless words to him ? Could she eat at the same table, breathe even the same air, knowing that he had slain her husband ? And, with a keen, passionate sense of duty, she said to herself how he must have loved her to have done this terrible deed for her sake; what a passionate love it must have been; how great, how mad, hew awful, to commit even murder, for her sake; how he must have sufferod before he could have brought himself to this. CHAPTER XVI. "It seems as though everything I undertook prospered," said Miss Beaton. ''She plays into my hands as though she even understood my wishes. I ask nothing better than that she should leave him; then, tear by tear, sigh by sigh, pain by pain, he will suffer as I suffered, and I shall be avenged. Hour by hour, day by day, week by week, yeaT by year, he shall live through the long torture, and my vengeance will be complete. I could'ask no more.".. - ... Then Larty Vernon went back to her room, and opened her desk. She took out a sheet of note-paper, and wrote to her husband. The words were not many, bnt it seemed to her as though they were written in her heart's blood. ""Sou will not be surprised that I have left you, Cyril; nor will you be surprised to hear me aay that, of my own free will, I will never look upon your face again. I know all now. I know why you came to England, and what you did here may God pardon. I go to spend the rest of my life in one long prayer that God, in Hie mercy, will let me bear the burden of your sin.—Lenore." She folded the note, addressed it to her husband, aud gave it to her maid to put in the letter-bag. "He will receive it to-morrow," she said ; " but by then I shall be far away, and he will never find me." Then she went to the room where Roy lay. sleeping, and knelt down by his little beat Death held no such bitternese for her as tta hour when it came. "My darling," she said, "with all my mother's love—so true, so deep, so tender— I cannot stay with you. I shall watch ovor you from the distanoe. lam going to suffer, my darling—to suffer, and to pray. Your father's hands are red with his kinsman's blood ; it would blast mine eyes to look on him again.. I must go, my darling, and I leave you to be his guardian augel. I leave you to be the one hope and love of his wretched life. I shall aee you again. When the fever has gone from my brain, and I can think, 1 shall come to you then, and claim you. Perhaps, looking on his suffering wife and his innocent child, God may take pity

on him and pardon him." Mothers who have lost or left their ohil--1 dren know what she Buffered when ehe • kiesed the rounded limba, bo exquisite in their p baby grace; the pink, dimpled bands, the • dark, clustering curls, the sweet little face; I how she lingered over him; how she wept i bitter teare, and her white lips parted with 3 great passionate sobs; how ehe kissed him, » and blessed him, and felt that it werei a ' thousand times easier to lay her head down 3 by his side and die than leave him ; how she > took the picture of him lying there, so pretty, so sweet, and fair. Would he misa her -when he woke, and i cry for her? Would he mourn after her, and want her J Would the little hands be stretched out for her, and held out in vain ? , " 1 could not stay, my darling," she ree peated, kissing the little hands again and again; " I conld not look upon your father's f face and live." : Then she left him, and death did not hold for her a moment so bitter as that. She met a her maid, who looked up in astonishment o at seeing her mistress dressed ready for e walking.

" My lady," shecried, "you arenot going out ? It is early yet, and you have taken no breakfast ?" " I am obliged to go very suddenly, Laura," she replied. "I—l do not know when .1 shall return, or how long I may be." " But your luggage, my lady," cried the maid; " you have nothing with you." " That can be sent afterward," she said. " I cannot wait ; my bueineee ie-imperative. You can go to Miss Beaton for orders while I am away." But by the 'coquettish toss of Laura's pretty head it was quite evident that she did not intend to do anything of the kind; one mistrees, as ehe remarked to herself, being quite enough for her, and there was no other mistress to be compared to Lady Vernon. The moid went on to her duties, the mistress'to look once'more round the house where she had been so happy, where the light of her love had shone so fully on her, where all that life held of joy and bliss had fallen to her lot; then slowly she quitted her husband's house, as she believed, for ever. . . . ; An hour later, Laura,-.the. maid, went to Miss Beaton. . ", .-. ' ;'. \ "Did you know, miss," she asked, " that Lady Vernon had gone out qnite early this morning 1" " Yes, I know," replied Miss Beaton, ooldly ; " ehe has gone on some very im-

portant business, Laura. You have always loved your mi- trees, I believe I" "I hare. Miss Beaton ; no one could help it," she aaid. "Then, in her interest, I advise you very strongly not to speak of her departure before the servants. Say simply that Lady Vernon baa gone away on some business, and did not say when she should return." The girl looked quietly np into that triumphant face. " Is there anything the matter, Miss Beaton V she asked ; " has anything gone wrong with my lady f "Nothing that I knew of," she replied. " I hope not. I thought not, or you would not look so pleased." said Loura, who in her secret heart hated Miss Beaton just as much as she idolized her mistress. " I am not aware that I look pleased," said Miss BeatoD, proudly, "nor am I aware that my looks are any concern of yours." Laura retreated ; she was too well-trained a servaut to retort, but in her heart she hated Miss Beaton more intensely that ever. "I saw my lady's face," she thought, "and though her voice was quite calm there was heart-bres!; in it. I suppose that I shall never know the truth, and yet I feel sure that Miss Beaton has hurt her in some way or other—she looks as though she had." But Laura was careful ; when one after the other curious servants asked, " Where has our lady gone ?" she merely answered : " She went away early this morning en very important business." So that her actual departure seemed to create little sensation. It was with a gleam of irresistible triumph that Gladie saw the empty rooms. "Now, indeed, lam mistress," ehe said, "and I shall hold my own ; now, indeed, have I won a victory, and she who took from me my love, who has blighted my life, she shall suffer ; she s will write to me for news of her child; I will send none, alwavs pretending that the letters are lost; she will want to see me, and ask questions which I shall never answer ; and he will return to find his golden-haired, dainty darling gone. Indeed, fate and fortune have been kind to me, and I have tasted sweetest vengeance." So the day passed. Roy asked continually for his mother. Gladie was very kind and very patient with him ; she wished to win his affection, and make him love her ; he was the one means by which she was to influence his father's heart. "Mamma ia coming soon, dear," she would answer; and the head nurse turned at last to Laura, who had gone into the nursery. " I hope," she said, " that Miss Beaton is not coining to interfere in the nursery ; I shall never take orders from her, only from Lady Vernon. There is something in that ' voice of hers which makes me shudder, it is too aweet by half. Where has Lady Vernon gone, Laura ?" "I do not knew ; on business somewhere ; she seemed very hurried, as though she had been sent for in haste. She did not tell me anything about it." " Well, I judge from nothing but Miss Beaton's voice; it is too sweet, it means mischief, the very tone she uses when she cpeaks to that child makes me suspect; and remember my words, Laura, if there is mischief to any one she has made it." The next two_ days glided on gently; Lady Vernon did not return, and Miss Beaton seemed quite naturally to fall into her place as mistress of the house. Faster and faster sped the engine, londer and louder grew the whirl and the roar, fiercer and fiercer the throbbing and ihe beating of that mighty pulse. Lady Vernon sat far back in the carriage, with her eyes closed, hoping that death would befriend her and claim her. She had taken a ticket for London; she had ouce heard a gentleman say that, to be really lost, one must go to London—that it was the only place in the wide werld where any one could effectually be lost, the only place where no clue or trace could ever be found. She would lose herself in London; no one would ever find her there—it would be the last place on I earth where people would ever think of looking for her. She tried to rest her tired eyes and aching head; she leaned back against the hard cushion, and tried to realise it all—tried to understand that Cyril, the knight, the man whom she had loved, honoured, and esteemed above all other men, was a murderer —that he had cunningly, slyly, cruelly, foully murdered his kinsman, in order that he might marry her. She tried to understand that he had fallen from his high estate ixe WAS cLocrudcfly lost forovor to Ijer j and she could not realise it, try as she would. Then her thoughts grew confused ; she was no longer Lady Vernon, flying from home and husband, from child and friends—flying beoanse her great misery was driving her mad. She was back in India, where a fervid sun shone in a fervid sky ; and she saw again, as it were in a dream, the dark-faced Sepoys, with murder ia their eyes; she heard above the hissing of steam and the shrill whistle, she heard the cries of the wounded and dying. Oh, Heaven ! that she too could die. She tried to realise that ehe had left Eastwpld and her child— that she had parted' with everything she hold most dear ; but her brain burned, it seemed to her that coals of fire lay on her head. ■ Then the noises died awsy, and she slept. The cessation of all motion roused her; she was alone in the carriage and a porter stood at the door; the train had stopped i.t one of the large stations, ehe did not know which. " Will you have a cab, ma'am ?" he asked. " No," she answered ; " I will walk." She left the station-yard wondering why it ' was that earth and sky seemed to meet — wondering why the pavement seemed to rise, then fall—why flashes of red mist came before her eyes; then suddenly she oeased to wonder, and the tired brain grew still. [To be continued.]