LIKE AND UNLIKE

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIV, Issue 8916, 3 December 1887, Page 3 (Supplement)

LIKE AND UNLIKE

BY M. E. BRADDON, Author o£ " Lady Audlejr's Secret," " Wyllard'a

Weird," &c., &c.

CHAPTER XLIII. "LET V-B be YOUR SERVANT.'

Valentine Belfield did not go to the Great Western Hotel after he loft the house in Lisson Grove. He was too deeply agitated to go quietly back to his hotel, and eat a good supper and drink a bottle of wine, and go to bed and rest. He knew that sleep was impossible, unless he could bring it about by sheer fatigue, as he had done when he walked from the Abbey to Bideford, and had slept the sleep of exhaustion in the bottom of tho little sailing boat. His only chance tonight was to walk down the devil of restlessness that was in him ; ho ho turned his face northward, and walked to Hampstead, and then struck off towards Finchley and Heddon, and then roamed about among fields and lanes all night, and at seven o'clock breakfasted at a little publichouse at the side of a canal, somewhere between Finchley Road and Child's Hill. It was a house chiefly affected by bargemen, and nobody took any particular notice of him, the barmaid merely remarking that in all probability he was a swell who had been on tho drink last night, and had been walking about to sober himself. He was sober enough this morning evidently, and was proof against all the barmaid's blandishments, though she had taken the trouble to tako her hair out of papers before sho carried him his breakfast of eggs and bacon and strong tea, He had eaten nothing yesterday except tho dainty little plate of bread and butter supplied by Madge, and he was faint and sick from the unaccustomed fast.

lie fell asleep by the fire in the publichouse parlour, slept through the entrances and exits of several relays of bargemen, slept amid tho odour of beer and the jingle of pewter pots, dozed on till the afternoon, and then paid his score and wont away. He made his way across tho fields to the Edgware Road, and thence to Lisson Grove, where he went into a slopseller's shop, and bought a complete suit of such clothes aa are worn by tho lower order of working men—an Oxford shirt, corduroy trousers, fustian jacket, and hob-nailed boots. He changed his clothes on tho premises, and reappeared in Lisson Grove in corduroy and fustian, leaving his own things to be kept till called for. The shopman wondered not a little at this transformation. "It's ft lark, sir, I suppose ?" he said. * Tho Proprietors of tho New Zealand HiciuliD lmvo purchased the Bole right to publish this btoiy In the Worth Island of New Zealand

"Yes, it's a lark," answered Mr. Belfield, as he walked out of the shop. " Well, I must say that I never laid eyes on a less larky-looking gent to be up to such a move as that," said the young Israelite to his fellow shopman, as he put Mr. Belfield's clothes away. "There's a lady at the bottom of it, I make no doubt, Benjamin," replied the other, dismissing the subject, which was more accurate than speculative observations are wont to be.

It was dusk when Mr. Belfield rang the bell at the Forlorn Hope. Madge opened the door, and did not recognise him as he stood facing her silently, with his back to the light. " What do you want, my good man ?" "I want to be your servant, as I told you last night." " Mr. Belfield, why are you still hanging about here?" cried Madge, in an agonised tone. " This is sheer madness."

"I believe it is next door to madness," answered Valentine, following her into tho parlour, "but it is madness that only you can cure. There's no use in my going abroad, Madge, without you. I should only carry my guilty conscience and my misery with me, go where I might—Africa, Asia, the North Pole—it would be all the same to me. There is noplace so strange, no life so wild and full of danger, excitement, occupation, that would make me forget, ho long as I were alone. Yon have the power to comfort :.ae. You have the power to lay the ghost that haunts me. You alone can kill me that 1 have repented and have expiated my sin. You have the faith that moves mountains, and by your faith I may be saved. Leave me to myself and I shall perish inevitably. There is no help, no cure, but through you." "You are mad," she said. " Yes, it is all madness. I have a good work to do here, and I cannot leave it."

"Let me stay here, then, and work for you. That is what I have come for ; to bo your drudge, your slave ; to be what Caliban was to Prospero. lam dressed for the part, you see ; you will find how handy I can make myself, cleaning windows and scrubbing flag-stonea, doing work that you and the sisters cannot do, with all your willingness to toil. And in bad cases, when a patient wants watching at night, I can do my part as a watch-dog. You don't know what I can be under your transforming power. Madge, I have no friend in the world but you." " You have your mother, a nearer and dearer friend."

"No. To my mother my life has been a lie. She only is my friend who knows my sin and my repentance. Let me stay here, Madge, and when I leave the country, go with me as my guardian-angel and my wife. Test the truth of my repentance, if you will, before you trust me. See how changed a creature I have become. How all that is vilest in my nature has been purged out of it by the horror of my secret sin. Teat me to the uttermost as your servant, before you accept me as your husband." Madge began to wavar. He who was pleading to her knew not how urgently her own heart was pleading for him, how fondly she loved him even in his degadation, stained with the shedding of blood. " I believe it would be for your own safety to leave England instantly," she said* "There is no knowing when danger may arise, but if you 'are bent upon staying in this house and helping us in our work, I will talk to the sisters and see what can be done. Our fortnightly committee meeting will be held to-morrow afternoon, and moat of the sisters will be here. If they consent to you being employed here—as a servant— I have no objection. There is a little room on this floor at the end of the passage, which yon might have as a bedroom. It is email and rather dark, but it is dry and well ventilated."

" Give me any den, any cell," says Valentine. "Do you think I care how I am lodged. I want to be near you, Madge. I want to feel the support of your presence. That is all I ask."

" You must not call mo Madge here. I am Sister Margaret." " You shall be Sister Margaret, until you are wife Margaret. And now order me about, let me begin my slavery. Give me any work there is to bo done."

" I don't think there is anything you can do to-night, but you shall clean all the windows to-morrow. Our windows have always been an affliction to me. We have done our best, bnt women are not good as windowcleaners. To-night you can take a holiday, but on future evenings we can give you some penmanship to do for us, letters to charitable people who help us. What must we call on, by-the-bye? You have a second Christian name, I think ?" " Yes. I was christened John Valentine, but I was always called by the second name, because my mother preferred it." " Then here we will call you John."

She began to prepare the tea, as she had done on the previous evening, and two of the sisters came in to fetch the trays for their patients. One was an elderly woman, the other a girl of two-and-twenty, a pale, gentle* looking creature, with a wistful expression in her large blue eyes, Madge introduced Valentine to them as Mr. John, a person who in the outside world had been a gentleman, but who offered himself to them as a servant.

If all the sisters approve, I think we may keep him here and find him very useful," she said. "In the meantime he will stay here for to-night, and he can help you both in carrying round the coal-scuttles after tea."

/ Sister Agnes, the fair girl, sat down to tea with Madge and Valentine. She had a slightly nervous manner, and . spoke rarely, but Valentine was interested in her appearance, and inquired her history by-and-bye, when she had gone back to her duties on the upper floor.

"Hers is a,sad story. She belongs to very rich people, and three years ago her life was a round of gaiety. She fell in love with an army doctor, and her family were all opposed to the match, and made her break off her engagement, He went to Egypt and was killed in the Soudan. She heard of his death unexpectedly from her partner at a dance, and for six months afterwards she was out of her mind. When she recovered, nothing would induce her to resume her old of fine clothes and parties, nothing would induce her to hear of another lover. She devotes her life to charitable work, and all the money her father gives her is given to the poor. He is very liberal to her, although he disapproves of her way of life. She spends only one day of every week in this house, but she works for us out of doors, going about the streets at night, and talking to wretched women whom few girls of her age would have the courage to approach. That fragile-looking woman has penetrated the darkest alleys about Glare Market, the most dangerous streets in Batclitf Highway, where even the police go at the risk of their lives. She has never suffered any harm, has hardly ever been inuslted by a coarse word. She has done more good than any other member of our sisterhood, although all have worked well."

"She can take your place when you have gone to the other side of tho world, Madge.' Madge shook her head with a sweet, serious look full of tenderness.

"I shall never leave my work, Mr, Belfield. I have given mysell to it as much as if 1 had taken a vow. I am very sorry for you ; I would do much to bafriend you or to be of use to you, but 1 have put my hand to the plough, and I shall never take.it away." Valentine got up and began to pace the room, fuming.

"It is madness," he exclaimed; "a woman's craze. Only a woman would ever think of such a thing. Are there not hospitals for sick women?" "There are hospitals for disease, but there are no hospitals for the weak and ail* ing—there are very few refuges for fainting aiupera. There are plenty of orphanages for the spotless children, but {here are few havens for the girls lost in the dawn of girlhood. Christ loved the innocent children, and called them to his knees ; but he had inexhaustible pity for the fallen women." So be it. You have set the ball rolling. You have begun the work. Others can carry it on." " I will not leave it to others."

" You can continue your good work in the antipodes. You will find sin in tho new world as well as in the old. There is no colony so recently founded that Satan has notlielped to people it. Come, Madge, be reasonable. Three years ago you spurned me because I dared to approach you as a seducer. You did well, and I deserved your contempt. Now I come to you in all honour; 1 offer you all I have to give—my name, my life, my fortune, such as it is. I am to inherit all my mother's property, and I shall not be a poor man. I come to you with a blemished life, stained with one hour of darkest sin. But I am not altogether vile. I have repented that fatal hour in tho long agony of months. I shall repent it all my life, Only you can make that life tolerable;

only you can heal my wounds. Be my wife, Madge ; take me with all my sins." She held oat her hand to him as he stopped in his pacing to and fro, and they remained for some moments silent, with clasped hands, he looking down at her, his eyes kindling as he looked ; she very pale and her lips slightly tremulous. "You love me, Madge," he said, breath, lessly ; "you can forget all for my sake," " I am very sorry for you," she answered, softly, "but I have done with individual love. I have given my heart and life to my sorrowing eisterß." "It is a craze, Madge; I flay again it is craze."

" You have not seen the good doneyou have not seen the altered faces. There are women now in happy honest homes whom we have picked up out of the gutter. If you were to see one young wife 1 know of, with her husband and her baby, you would not beliave there had ever been a stain on her life. He took her, knowing what her past had been, and ha has cherished her as a pearl of price. These aro rate cases; but they are bright spots which cheer us and help us onward through many a dark night." " Well, you are resolute, I suppose. You will go on helping stringers, and you will abandon me to my fate." "I do not abandon you. I will do anything in my power to help you, short of sacrificing duty for your sake. I think you are very unwise to loiter here when you ought to be getting far away from England, losing your identity in a strange world. Your wife's relations will not be satisfied for ever without certain knowledge of her fate. An investigation may be set ou foot at any momect, and the truth may be brought to light. You should be out of the way before that can happen."

" I tell you I do not value my life unless you will share it. I would rather stay here and clean windows, than riot in luxury at the Antipodes." Madge answered nothing. She felt the hopelessness of the situation. He had chosen to come there, and she had. not denied him shelter. She had taken upon herself in some wise the responsibility of his existence, since she had spoken of him to the sisters; and now she felt that his presence there would be a constant source of anxiety and mental disturbance. She would have to be perr petually on her guard, for ever denying a love which was the strongest passion of her life. It had been in her despair at resigning him that she had gone upon her mission to her mother. All that she had done for others had been the off-shoot of her desparing love for him. And now he offered himself to her ia honour, and she refused him. "If I give way to his fancy he will forget all the past, and his repentance will become a mockery," she said to herself. "I cannot stand iu the place of his dead wife. I cannot profit by his crime. How could I ever be at peace, remembering that it was murder that set him free to be my husband ?"

CHAPTER XLIV. "IS THItRK NO BALM IK GILEAD V' The coroner was a portly gentleman of sixty-five, who had fulfilled all the duties of a general practitioner in Chadford and the surrounding villages for upwards of thirty years, and who had retired on a comfortable fortune nude partly by his profession, and partly by fortunate investments in modest little branches and loops of the great railway system, which had developed into important lines. He had bought for himself an estate of forty odd acres of excellent pasture land between the Chad and the shoulder of the moor, and he had built for himself one of those essentially Philistine houses, of the streaky bacon order of architecture, which are the delight of men who make their fortunes in ooantry towns. Altogether, Mr. Mapleson was a very worty person; and when the office of coroner became vacant his name appeared at the head of the poll. Mr. Mapleson's study was a small square apartment, furnished with red morocco-bound books of reference, a whip raok, and a formidable row of boots, which imparted an odour of Day and Martin to the atmosphere. Into this somewhat prosaic chamber, Melnotte, otherwise Markham, the deteotive, was ushered by the man-of-all-work, alias butler, on the morning of the discovery in the Abbey river ; and in the briefest phraseology he told what had happened, and his own conclusions therefrom.

" You think it is a case of murder?" said Mr. Mapleson, biting the end of his pen. "It can be nothing else. There is a carpet rolled round the body, and fastened with a silk handksreheif. KothiDg has been touched since the remains were lifted out of the water ; the colours in the carpet are distinguishable, and the string of silk round it is evidently a large neck handkercheif. There can be very little doubt that the body was thrown into the water after death."

" The remains are not in a condition to be identified, I conclude." "No. Time and the river have done their work of destruction only too well. There may be other means of identification, rings and trinkets of some kind. The remains have not been touched more than was absolutely necessary in carrying them from the river to the dead house, where they are waiting for the medical examination." " And you are in a position to affirm that this is the body of Mrs. Bel field ?" "I am in a position to affirm as much, and I hope to be able to prove by circumstantial evidence that her husband murdered ber, and threw her dead body into the river between midnight and morning on the 19th of August, Bat I will not trouble you with any further details. The inquest, which you are to hold to-morrow, will, I hope, be adjourned so aa to give time for investigation. All I have done hitherto hag been done in the dark. Many more details will doubtless come to light when the fact of the murder has been made public." "Poor Lady Belfield," sighed the coroner. "Do you know that I had the honour of attending the family at the Abbey for thirty years. I remember the present Lady Belfield when her husband brought her home as a bride. She was a lovely woman then. She ia a lovely woman now—lovely in mind as well as in person. This business will break her heart."

" I fear it will go hard with her." " She adores her younger sen. I have seen her agony when he has been laid up with some childish ailment. All her world was in that sick bed. And to see him accused of murder! Mr. Maikham, if you are deluded, if yon have not ample justification for the course you are taking, you will be much to blame."

"My justification will be shown at the inquest. There must be an inquest." *' Yes, that is inevitable. I wish, with all my heart, Mr. Markham, you had never had that river dragged." "Then you would have had an undetected murderer in your midst." "Better that, perhaps, than that a good woman's heart should be broken."

It was a quality of Lady Belfield's character to invoke strong sympathy from all who were brought in familiar contact with her.

Mr. Melnotte had a fly waiting for him at the coroner's door, and drove straight to the nearest magistrate, fromwhom, after an interview of some length, lie obtained a warrant for the arrest of Valentine Belfield on a suspicion of murder. With the county magistrate, as with the coroner, Melnotte found that sympathy with Lady Belfield was stronger than the abstraot love of justice. He only just succeeded in getting the warrant signed in time for him to catch the next train for Exeter.

He was at Paddington at dusk, and went at once to the Great Western Hotel, whero he inquired for Mr. Belfield.

Nothing had been seen of that gentleman except his luggage. That bad been brought by a Great Western porter two evenings before, with an intimation that Mr. Belfield was coming on to the hotel soon after ; bat nothing more had been heard of him. Three large portmanteaux, a gun case, a roll of rugs and ooats, and & hat. box, marked V.8., were stacked in tho hall pending the arrival of the owner. " Does Mr. Belfield usually stay here when he comes to town ?" asked the dectective.

" Yes, for a night or two at a time. He is one of our old customers," replied the manager. Mr. Melnotte was at fault. That Valentino Belfield should have brought all that higgago to London and then left England without it, seemed unlikely. No purpose could have been served by bringing the luggage unless for his use. To bring it to London and abandon it at an hotel, could in no manner assist him in his flight, or tend to Ihu mystification of his pursuers. Toe only explanation seemed that he had left his property at the hotel while he remained in a state of uncertainty as to his future course. He might be knocking about London, hesitating as to whither ho should bend his steps. That he was in hiding anywhere was unlikely, since he could as yet have no more cause for fear than he had had, at any time ,

since the commission of his crime. Arguing with himself thus, Mr. Melnotte supposed that he would have very little difficulty in putting his hand upon tho missing man. He went straight from the Great Western to Scotland Yard, secured an assistant official, engaged a hansom by the hour, and started upon his quest. " London is a big place, Red way," he said, " but the big London is only an aggregate of little Londons. Each man has his own peculiar metropolis, which, is generally no bigger than a moderate-sized country town. Now I tako it that Mr. Bslfield's London is bounded on tho west by Tattorsall'a and on the east by the Criterion, on the south by Pall Mall and by Oxford-street on the north. If we don't find him within those limits, we must look for him at Liverpool, Southampton, or Plymouth." This was on the way to the Badminton, where Mr. Melnotte alighted and interviewed the porter. Mr. Belfield had not been seen there for six mouths.

"Not sinoe Lord St. Austell's 'obs, Postcard, lost the Great Ebor," said the porter, who dated most events by the .Racing Calendar.

From the Badminton, Melnotte drove to tho Argus, hard by. Here again Mr, Belfield had not been seen for months.

Melnotte drove westward, and contrived to see one of the men at Tatcersall a, though the yard waa shut. No tidings of Mr. Belfield, "That'll do for to-night, Redway," said Melnotte, considerably disconcerted. " I'll drive you back to the Yard, and then I'll go and dine and turn in for the night. If Mr. Belfield had been knocking about town in an open, easy-going manner, I believe I should have heard of him at one of those places. So I am disposed to think he has taken the alarm and is trying to get out of the country. I hardly think he can have got clear off yet, but I shall set the wires at work again before I eat my chop." Mr. Melnotte did set the wire 3 at work again to a considerable extent, just before the closing of the chief telegraph office. He telegraphed to all the ports from which a man seeking to escape from justice was likely to attempt a start, and took measures to secure attention for the fugitive,

He was up and about by times next morning, saw Mr. Belfield'a tailor, took a stroll and an early cigar in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park corner, hung about Tattersall's for an hour, looked in at & famous spurrier's in Piccadilly and a fashionable maker of hunting boots in Bond-street, and before eleven o'clock had satisfied himself that Mr. Belfield had not been seen at the West End of London since the previous Bummer. The question to be solved was what had become of Mr. Belfield after he arrived at Paddington.

In such a town as Chadford, the finding of a body in the Abbey river and the notice of an impending inquest at the Ring of Bells tavern in Little George-street, were not likely to remain long unknown to the inhabitants. Before Mr. Melnotte had goo? far upon his journey to London, everybody in Chadford knew that a body was lying in the dead-house, and that an inquest was to be held upon the following afternoon. Melnotte had imposed silence upon tho men who dragged the river, and yet it was known somehow that there were appearances about the body that pointed to foul play rather than accidental drowning, while the were those who declared that the murdered corpse was that of the missing Mrs. Belfield. Mr. Rockstone vfas one of the first to hear of the event which everybody in Chadford was tallking about. He came out of the house of a sick parishioner, where all was quiet and shadow, into the bright winter sunlight, to find a group of townspeople standing in front of the saddler's shop in earnest conversation. From them he heard what had been found in the Abbey river. His heart turned to lead as he listened. His mind had not been free from anxiety about Valentine's wife. He had been too delicate to question Lady Belfield or her sons, but he had wondered at the prevailing ignorance about the runaway wife's fate. When a woman elopes with a lover, there are generally those who know where she has gone, and who report and criticise her movements ; but in this case no one had heard of the fugitive, no one knew where she was hiding her dishonoured existence. And now this fiadingof the corpse in the river pointed at fearful issues—at the best, suicide; at the worst, murder. He thought of Lady Belfield's agony when the talk of the town should reach her; and it must reach her very soon. In twenty-four hours every fact connected with the disfigured remains yonder must be brought to light, published to the world, discussed and comD.ented upon in a tavern parlour. Friendship and love would be powerless to keep that horror from her, powerless even to blunt the edge of that anguish. There was a fly crawling down the HighBtreet on its return from the station, The Vicar jumped Into it and told the man to drive to the Abbey at his sharpest space. He wanted to find Sir Adrian before anything was known there. Andrew ushered him into the library, where Adrian was sitting at his desk, surrounded with books and papers. He looked ill and careworn, theV;c«r thought, but had too calm an air to hava heard the evil news.

"My dear Rockstone, this is good of you," exclaimed Adrian, starting up and wheeling a comfortable armchair towards the hearth for his friend and then seating himself opposite him. "Itis an age since you have dropped in upon me so early. Tell me all your parish news, and your parish wants,, if you have any any." "I cannot talk about the parish to-day. I have come to tell you of something terrible which has come to pass, and which may concern you and yours very nearly." Adrian's face blanched to a ghastly pallor, and the hand clasping the arm of bis chair trembled perceptibly. My God !" he gasped, " what is it?" "A body has been found in the Abbey river—an hour ago. 1 "How found ? Who found it?"

"The river was dragged this morning, I believe, at the instigation of Colonel Deverill's friend, Mr. Melnotte, who dropped his watch out of a boat a day or two ago, and wanted to have it found. A corpse has been found in the deep pool, near the ovpress walk, and there is to be an inquest to-morrow."

It was some moments before Adrian spoke, and then he asked quietly : " Has the body been identified ?" "No, it is past all recognition, except by circumstantial evidence; but there is a rumour in Chadford, how arising I know not, that it is the body of your sister-in-law."

Again Adrian was silent. Ho would have given worlds to be able to speak freely, to confess all the hideous truth to this one staunch friend ; but loyalty to his brother restrained him.

"My sister-in-law's fate is wrapped in darkness," he said after a very long pause ; "I do not understand why anyone should connect her with this drowned corpse." "The reasons for suoh a suspicion will come to light at the inquest, I suppose. It is of your mother I have been thinking, Adrian, since I heard of this discovery. How will it affect her ?"

"How can it affect her J I cannot see—" Adrian began, helplessly. "If it iB found that there has been foul play." "Why foul play? Should this body be identified as that of Mrs. Belfield, the inference will bo that she drowned herself."

"The people in Chadford are talking of something more terrible than that there iB a rumour that circumstances point to the idea of murder. Adrian, I must speak plainly," said the Vicar, with undisguised grief. " Suspicion points to your brother as the murderor. It is of your mother I think. What can you or I do to help her to bear the blow V "Nothing I fear. She adores Valentine. If any evil befall him, it will kill her." "Vou will do all you can to keep idle rumours from her, and yet to prepare her for anything that may happen to-morrow. Where is your brother i" " la London, I believe. " You do not even know his whereabouts ?" " No. He left here with the idea of going —perhaps to Africa or South America. It was not bis own fancy. My mother and I were anxious about his health and spirits, and urged him to travel. He has not written to me since he felt." " That is unlucky. Ho ought to be here to face tho difficulty that may arise tomorrow.' Adrian was silent. To him, who knew all, the one hope was that his brother might have left the country for ever. "Well, my dear Adrian," said the Vicar, quietly, " we must wait and see what tomorrow may bring forth. 1 think you know

that you may count upon me to do anything that lies within the compass of my will or my strength. Would to God I could see my way to being useful to you and your dear mother. I shrink from asking you questions, because I feel I am on delicate ground ; but if—if you know anything that could assure me of the falsehood of these rumours —if, for instance, you had heard of your sister-in-law since her supposed elopement— " I have heard nothing of her. It la better that I should answer no questions till to-morrow. I suppose I shall be called at the inquest ?" " I conclude so—if there is sufficient ground for indentifying the body with you aister*in« ' aw- " . * " Then I will keep my own counsel till I am before the coroner."

Mr. Rockstono left Sir Adrian soon aftfl?, this, somewhat mystified by his calmness.

[To So continued.]