CASTLE MARY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIII, Issue 7782, 30 October 1886, Page 3 (Supplement)

CASTLE MARY.

BY L . T. of Thrto( „ Author of " Scamp and^

CHAPTER XXII. jK » s IE ' « ST ° BY. far from jk n > *• very far from THAT J 6 "*' howe *; nt> As Jennie lay feeing broken a ] t 1 e fjjlt herself as i» 1 kap ? 5Z „f doubt or misgiving crossed her '^Ir.Wn.e.ybe.ie.edinherhand- ■ husband, and .11 the little misgivings wh?eh tad to" hers during .be two years of w wealed marriage were now at rest, for ■ a f liberty at last to confess everyshe was at liberty thine to her dear old mother. Vshe.a,^ too excited to sleep, and , As she lay i j ahet^,Dg lt3 abe bought over the history of been' a comu.onplace tory Hers had . f , • j ha a attracted the enough; th beautiful j>m | attention of humble origin, had a way Pries, for all head hi£h, and a certain look 'of holding her DreV ented allv one approaching her except with the most subtle and de ka' who called himself Robert Wilson knew how to play this wary "_ ♦. he knew how to say words which would cot offend—ho knew how to treat This proud and shy creature with reverence ; and hen—oh ! wonder of wonders—his own worldly and callous heart was caught. He discovered that he loved the dressmaker's country apprentice: the knowledge even came over him that life without her would be unbearable, and that one of her smiles and one glance from her dark, sweet eyes might }>e better to him than gold or position. He married her under a feigned name in a little church in the neighbourhood of Hammer" smith, and then for the first time he told her that he was a gentleman by birth. "I belong to a county family,' ho said, «'and they will never forgive me for doing what I have done for love of you. Jane, until you can come to them a perfect lady in manners as well as in mind." . Jane Wilson, after her three months in London, knew strangely little of the distinction of class. She was not greatly impressed by the fact that her husband was » gentleman by birth. It was quite enough for her to know that he was her Robert, and the one being whom she loved with a 1 her life and strength. She was, however, pained at being forced to conceal her marriage from her mother, but Robert's word was law to her, and «he submitted to bis word Borrowfully, though without a struggle. De Clifford did not grow tired of his wife ; he came to see her two or three times a week at the tiny house in Hammersmith where he had established her. She was contented with very little, and thought it a treat of treats to ride with Robert on bum.ays to Kew Gardens, and to visit the theatres once or twice with him in the dull time of the year. He was careful never to take her; anywhere where his friends could possibly recognise them, for he believed that if his marriage were now known it would seriously injure his prospects. It was very easy to keep a girl like Jane in seclusion. She fretted, it was true, when Robert was not by; but when Robert was present her heart was so full of him, and so rested by him, that to sit by his side or to walk down dusty Hammersmith with her little hand resting on his arm was quite enough for her bliss. She never asked him any questions as to where he worked nor where he lived : these questions she quickly found were distasteful to him ; and hers was a wonderfully trustful and not at all curious nature. De Clifford, however, did not cease to love her. He had married her under the rose, but with all his grave faults he never meant to be anything but true to her ; he never meant but that the day should dawn when he could present her to his friends as his wife, noble by reason of her wonderful beauty. He meant to be true to Jennie until that dark day when the sudden temptation came to him to act the part of another man, and to secure an immense fortune. Then the evil thought came into his brain that under the false name his marriage with Jennie might be proved invalid. In any case he believed that Jennie could not discover Robert Wilson in the person of Henry De Clifford. Swiftly did the fell temptation grow, and before he had been a week at Castle Mary he had made up his mind that Jennie must be put away at all hazards. And yet he still loved her alter his miserable fashion. There was not a particle of greatne«B in his love; he would not sacrifice riches or position for her sake, but she still had power to make his heart beat, and to bring the look of tenderness to his eyes. Be felt that he must now see as little of her as possible, and he was pleaeed with her willingness to banish herselt to Devonshire. Jennie fell asleep at last, and in the morning rose early. Harriet," she said to her little maid, "I am going out to do some shopping this morning, and you shall come with me, and help me to carry baby. We will lock up the house and have quite a holiday. You'd like to come for a ride in the Hammersmith omnibus, would you not, Harriet ? 1 want to buy baby a cloak and hood ; t»nd we'll go along Ozford-atreet, and peep in at the shop windows." "Yes'm," replied Harriet; " I likes pressing my nose agin' them shop window.* uncommon, only if I might make bold to say it, ma'am, might we ride on the outside of the 'bus?" "Oh, yes," said young Mrs. "Wilson, clapping her hands joyfully, " and baby shall have such a view of the town. Do you know, Harriet, I have got a secret, but you must not be told until your master comes. 1 wonder now if you will be very unhappy ; but I must not tell you just yet. There, run and get baby ready. We'll Lave our lunch at a restaurant, Harriet." The giddy prospect of a ride on the outside of the Hammersmith 'bus, and unlimited cakes afterwards, was quite enough to turn Harriet's brain ; and she wasted no time in pondering over possible future griefs, but flew away to dress baby in hia white pique pelisse and hat. Mrs. \\ i son pat on her one best dress — a soft pearl-grey cashmere—a little real lace scarf, and a shady black hat, with two soft roses peeping out from among its lace trimmings. She and the baby looked aristocratic enough for any position, and people stared at them as they sat on the top of the omnibus. But no one dared to speak to Jennie, as she satin perfect unconsciousness, with her dark eyes gazing straight before her, and her thoughts full of the little Devonshire home and the look of welcome on her mother's face, She waa hearing not the noise of the busy London streets, but the gay chatter of the little brook as it rippled merrily past the cottage door, and her heart was full of Robert and Roly, and her mother. At that moment there did not seem to be a cloud in her horizon. CHAPTER XXIII. .'SIGNING HIS DEATH WARBANT. De Clifford had very comfortable rooms in Jermyn-street. He sat now in his cosy Bittingroom, furnished according to the strictest canons of aesthetic art. He sat quite still, neither reading nor writing. He was evidently expecting someone. The time was evening, and a softly-shaded lamp shed a gentle lustre over the scene. Presently his servant quietly opened the door of the room and came ia. "Well, Thomson, do you want me?" "A person has called and wishes to see you, sir," replied the man in a wooden voice. " What sort of a person ?" " A ragged individual, very ragged, what I should call a scum of the earth. He didn't give no message, only that he wanted to 'ee you. Shall 1 show him up, sir, or dismiss him ?" "Did he give his name," asked Do Clifford." "Icouldn't readily frame it, sir. Michael . Reilly, or something to that effect." " Oh, I see ! I know the fellow ! A poor Irish begger. Show him up, Thomson ; I'll 8C l 1 '" or a moment or two." Thom«on respectfully withdrew, and a foment or two later the irishman, Michael V, i iHy, looking a little more tattered,_ a {"tie more worn, a little more despairthan he had done when Henry De U'fford parted from him at Castle Mary, entered the room. He came forward with a ambling step, and stood trembling and Co * e A kfore his tormentor. "ell, O'Reilly ! That will do, Thomson, you may B j, ut the door, £ ou have done you."

"Yes, your honour." "You have kept a strict watch at the West Indian Docks No one the least like me has arrived there, eh ?" "No one the least like your honours beautiful cruel self has set foot on shore from any ship that touched the West Indian Docks," answered the man. "There, your honour, wouldn't I know him a mile off? It isn't likely that Michael O'Reilly would overlook that sight." " Well, well, good, my poor fellow ; good ! As long as you do my bidding you are absolutely safe, O'Reilly, you know that. While you do my bidding you also receive my wages, so you need neither starve or fear. There is not the least occasion for you to look so remarkably cowed, man ; you were never in loss danger than now. I would beg of you for your own sake not to go through the world with tho expression you now have on your face. It says as plainly as if you spoke the words, 1 deserve to be hanged ; come and hang For goodness sake, O'Reilly, cheer up man.^ " I may be missing the child a trifle," said O'Reilly. " Nancy was as the vein of my heart to me, your honour, and I can't but think of her lying so cauld and so still under tho soft say." "She might have a worse bed." answered De Clifford, in indifferent tone. " However, I didn't send for you to-night to talk about your domestic affairs. 1 sent for you because it is necessary that you should put your hand to a certain paper which I shall write, and then read aloud. You have got to kiss the book and sign the paper. This is absolutely necessary for your safety. You may seat yoursolf while I write what is necessary." The terrified man dropped on to the edge of the nearest chair. De Clifford, very calm and composed, opened a drawer in his writing table, took from thence a large sheet of notepaper, and wrote a few sentences rapidly. He read through what he had written once or twice ; a sardonic and very evil smile began to play around his thin lips. "That will fetch her," he muttered, half to himself; then he motioned to O'Reilly to come to his side. " Stand there, yon dog, you scum of the earth 1 Now, listen to these words. i oil have got to sign this paper, or I take you before the nearest magistrate by the iirat light to-morrow morning." De Clifford bene over the page and read to the tortured man the following sentences "I, Michael O'Keilly, of the county of Donegal and the parish of Castle Mary, Ireland, hereby declare on my most solemn oath that I am guilty of the murder of one Farmer Pratt, of the farm of Ling, iu the same parish and county. I hid behind the hedge and I shot Farmer Pratt on the Sth day of March of this present year. I mean's to kill him, and I shot him with my father's old gun. I hated him, and I meant to take his life. I threw the old gun behind the hedge, and 1 hoped it would never be found. After the murder I hid in a little shanty half-way down the limestone cliff, and I kept my daughter Nancy with me. lam now in London and my daughter Nancy ii with me here. I never meant to tell the truth, but to hide it from everyone; but the English gentleman has dragged it from me. And he promises that I shall be saved if only I confess the real truth. These words are all Gospel truth, so help me God." Da Clifford read these awful sentences in a slow and sonorous voice. When he had finished O'Reilly had dropped on his knees, and, covering his face, swayed himself abjectly from side to side. "Can you write?" demanded the master of the slave. "No, no, no, your honour; and never, never could I put the rope round my neck by signing that awful wicked paper." " Then I shall lock you into this room, and take you before the first magistrate I find tomorrow morning. The rope will be round your neck in a few weeks at the farthest from this date, if you do not siern the paper. There will be very little difficulty in convicting a man who has already confessed that he is guilty." " Oh ! your honour, spare me, spare me. You are too cruel, too cruel." " Sign the paper, and you are as safe as I am. You foolish fellow, you don't suppose I am going to show this paper to all tbe world. No, 1 have a reason for wishing for it, I have a use to make of it; bat I swear to you that nothing written here shall harm a hair of your bead." " And the lie must stand too about little Nancy ; my loving one, my darling, who lies under the cauld say. Must Ia ay that she is with me in this dreadful wicked place when she is up with her mother in the beautiful heaven, where I shall see nayther of them no more Must that lie remain too, your honour ?" " Not a line of this paper must be altered, O'Reilly. Here I will write your name, and you must put your mark under it. Come, you anger me with this folly and this delay. I have a good mind not to trouble you about that carcase of yours. Here, fellow, take the pen." O'Reilly placed his trembling fingers round the quill pen, made the necessary sign on the paper, kissed a small testament which De Clifford handed to him, and then sank back in a half swoon against the nearest chair. De Clifford folded up the paper, locked it into his cabinet, and rang the bell. "Thomson," he said, when his servant appeared, "take this man downstairs and give him a glass of beer. Here is five shillings, O'Reilly,; I will try and help you farther when it is necessary. Good night, good night. lam glad you have got constant work at the docks." O'Reilly and Thomson quitted the room. De Clifford rubbed his hands softly together. "I think I see my way pretty clearly now," he soliloquised. "Ma! ha! Miss May, I have got you, you pretty, imperious, saucy creature, in a very nice little trap. What a pity I am not iu love with you ; what a pity that all my real affections are given to that beautiful, queenly Jennie. Well, 1 can at least enjoy myself with Jennie in Devonshire tor the next few days. I think, ! all things considered, I may keep back that precious letter from little Miss May for that length of time." CHAPTER XXIV. JOHN HUMPHREY. Just about this time when De Clifford was rejoicing in the success of his ill-laid plots, and his miserable victim O'Keilly was pacing the large West Indian Docks and looking in vain for another face as handsome and as cruel as De Clifford's, and while a bright-eyed girl in Ireland was going in fancied security upon her way, little knowing or suspecting the mine which was being laid for her destruction, a man who looked very like the rest of his fellowmen, stepped quietly one evening off a large vessel on to the pier at Southampton.

He was a tall, rather slender, and very dark man, but it is quite possible that he might have stepped with safety on to one of the wharves of the West Indian Docks without exciting any suspicions on the part of the watcher who may have stood quite near, for Hal de Clifford and his cousin Henry were no longer startlingly alike as of old. Ten years of life in the West Indies had thinned and aged the face which used to look so unruffled and so uncareworn. Hal had also gone through a severe illness, an illness which had brought him to the very borders of the grave, and from which he had recovered as if by a miracle.

He had recovered, he was a hale man apain, but his terrible sufferings, and the still more terrible prostration which followed that raging fever, had hollowed cheek, and had brought out several grey hairs on his dark head. He wore a beard, too, and it is extremely likely that now he and his cousin Henry would have found it difficult to change places with each other. Their outward lives had produced an alteration in these two men; their inner lives had done still more to effect a change. While Henry had been clutching at the bubbles and broken fragments which men call riches, and had been steadily going down hill after these vain and perishable toys, Hal had given riches but few of his thoughts ; he had been trying to reach out his hands to high principles and lofty aims ; and a certain dream, very sweet and pure, had kept his thoughts from even wishing for the low and poor things of life. In consequence of these higher aims, which the man ever sought after, his eyes still retained their old serenity and beauty of expression, his lips had sweet lines round them, and his smile was very cheering. His face at a glance showed a sympathetic spirit: it was the kind of face to which a ruined and broken down and sad man would have turned instinctively for help; it was the sort of face that no woman need fear, and children liked to look at.

From Henry de Clifford menintheir trouble and women in their despair would shrink away, children had a natural antipathy to the man ; in short, there was now a great difference between the two cousins.

Hal de Clifford spent the night atone of the Southampton hotels. The next day he came up to London. He was feeling cheerful, hia heart was beating tranquilly, lightly, and yet with a certain undefined exhilaration in his breast. He was glad to see England once more. London was certainly not to his taste, but even London he tolerated, for he knew it meant home, and home was not withoutits charms. Hal had come back to find himself practically a very lonely man. Two of liis brothers had died during his stay in the Barbodoea ; his father, old Lord Roscoe, had also been laid in the family vault beside I his ancestors. Lord Roscoe'u poverty, pressing enough during his lifetime, had come to a culmination at his death. The next Lord Roscoe had to meet dobta, arrange heavy mortgages, and he all too soon made the discovery that the only chance of retaining Castle Koscoe as an inheritance for his son was to let the old placo during the boy's long minority, and live abroad as cheaply as possible himself. Hal's remaining two brothers were serving their country in different parts of the world, and Hal, the youngest of the family, when he returned to London, found himself practically without a J friend. He felt quite certain that Henry must be in town. Ha had neither lost his affection for, nor his interest in his early chum, and he felt convinced that if he called at the groat firm of Smedley and Ross he would see the young man whom he used to love, coming to meet him with outstretched hands, and glad eyes, and words of delighted welcomo. De Clifford longed to meet his cousin, but yet he refrained from going to him. The fact is he ivas preparing for himself a little piece of exquisite manoeuvring. He was concocting a very innocent little plot, and to carry this out successfully it was necessary that no one should know of his return to England. De Clifford had brought with him several photographs, photographs of one face and figure. They lay carefully folded up and put'aside in his portmanteau. This fact proved nothing; but a greater fact remained, that the little face pictured so cunningly in the photograph had somehow got into his heart. He gave very little thought to the fact that the girl would bo rich ; riches had never weighed a great deal iu this man's calculations. There are some people iu this poor world of ours to whom gold has not any very great attraction. De Clifford was one of these rare beings. He had never seen Mary Fitzgerald since she was a child ; but fie had formed an ideal woman out of this child, and out of those photographs, and he was very honestly and genuinely in love with his ideal. The time had gone by when he might have expected a letter and an invitation to Castle Mary. He know, however, that a letter bad been sent to his cousin Henry, telling him that he, Hal, was as good as dead, and although a second letter had quickly followed the first, proclaiming the same man well aud hearty, and about to return to England, yet he felt that false reports might have reached Castle Mary, which would account for the delay in the hoped-for letter. So much the better for his purpose. He had a very strong conviction that the Squire would keep to his original intention, aud invite him definitely to come and woo his daughter; but being very much in love with his ideal, he preferred to woo her j in the ordinary fashion, aud without any | background of a father's influence to urge on his suit. His plan, therefore, was to visit Castle Mary as a stranger, and this plan he was going to put into execution without any delay. He put up his traps at a quiet little hotel in Dover-street; then taking a handsom he drove off to a fahionablo tailor's. He ordered a rough suit of tweed clothes such as a man would care to wear when fishing. This ho desired to be put in hind immediately, and sent to his Dover-street address. "Can I have them to-night?" he asked, carelessly. " No, sir ; that is really impossible. " Well, then, to-morrow — to-morrow afternoon—not an hour later. I want to catoh the night mail to Holyhead, and I must have the clothes. Can I have them ? or shall I go elsewhere 1" " You shall have them by five o'clock tomorrow evening, sir," replied the tradesman. "They are to be sent to Dover-street Hotel." " What name, if you please, sir?" Da Clifford hesitated, a flush of colour rose to his bronzed face, then he said abruptly : "Name! Oh, name. Humphrey, yes, Humphrey will do—John Humphrey, Esq., Dover-street Hotel." The man jotted down the address, inwardly commenting on the stranger's hesitation, and determined not to leave the clothes in question without payment. De Clifford jumped once more into his cab, inwardly blaming himself for his clumsiness. " Of course, I must assume another name," he soliloquised. " What a stupid fellow I was never to think of it—Humphrey, John Humphrey, will answer my purposo as well as anything else. I'll go and order some visiting cards with my new name on them this moment." He went to a stationer's, gave the necessary order, and then returned to his hotel. When he reached his bedroom he unpacked a certain much worn portmanteau, took out a little case, and looked for a moment or too with atrong appreciation at nine photographs which represented the growth from childhood to womanhood of one very pretty and fascinating girl. " I feel certain that I shall win her," he said to himself, " for the very simple reason that she has won me." He locked up the photographs once more in this portmanteau, and sauntered out for a stroll. The hours seemed long to him, for he was something of a foreigner, and Londou, with no one thai he knew to greet him in the midst of it, was not very home-like. In the neighbourhood of Castle Mary he would assuredly feel at home. [To be continued.]