LIKE AND UNLIKE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIV, Issue 8928, 17 December 1887, Page 3 (Supplement)

LIKE AND UNLIKE.

BY M. E. BLi ADDON, Author of "Lady'Audloj's Secret," " WylUrd's

Weird," &c., &c.

CHAPTER XLV.~(Continued.) ON THE RACK.

The brief winter day had closed in some time before the inquiry had arrived at this stage ; and the Coroner now suggested the adjournment of the inquest, to give time for the development of fresh evidence.

"The cose is a very painful one, gentle* men," he said, "an exceptionally painful one, and I should be sorry if anything were done in a hurried or precipitate manner. I believe that upon every consideration it will be best that this inquiry should be adjourned until next Friday, when we will meet again in this room at the same hour as we met to-day. The interment of the remains of that unhappy lady, whose fate we are here to investigate, can be proceeded with in the meantime."

It was some time before the room waa cleared of Coroner, jury, reporters, and audience, but Lady Belfield and her son did not wait for the crowd to disperse. They retired together by a door near the end of the room where they had been sitting, and thus escaped the crowd. Sir Adrian put his mother's hand through his arm and supported her faltering footsteps as he led her downstairs and oat into the dusky street, where her carriage was waiting for her. She spoke no word until after the carriage had moved away, and then at last the white lips moved, and she asked in tones that were almost like a wail of agony; Is this true, Adrian " What, mother "Is it true that he came to the Abbey that night ?" " Yes, it is true."

" Oh, God. And you swore that ho was not there."

"I perjured myself—to save him. I knew nothing about the fly. I did not know that anyone had seen him." " You tried to save himthat means that he is guilty—that—he killed her 1" sobbed Lady B-jlfield in broken snatches of speech. Adrian was silent for some moments, thinking deeply, deliberating with himself if it might be possible to keep the fatal truth from his mother. But it seemed to him that it would not be possible, that the mealies of the net were fast closing round him and hia brother, that all which had been done that night in the darkness must inevitably be brought to light. The only hope left was that Valentine might escape pursuit. " Mother, I have striven to keep this horror from you ; X have sworn falsely thi day in the hope that my brother's guilt might remain for ever hidden ; but after to day I feel that all is over, that the evidence you have heard must bring his guilt homo to your mind, as well as to the mind of strangers, only he is not so guilty as he may appear—he was not a deliberate murderer." And then he told his mother, briefly, plainly, unflinchingly, how the deed was done, how one moment of passion had made Valentine Balfleld a criminal; and how he had obstinately insisted upon hiding his crime, and had thus brought upon himself the ignominy of this day's inquiry. "How are we to save him, Adrian?" asked Lady Belfleld. "We must save him— God, to think of my best beloved arraigned for murder, standing in the dock to answer with his life. They would hang him, Adrian —they would haag my darlingmy idol the delight of my life. Oh, Adrian, you can help me to save him, to get him away to some safe hiding-place before the police can hunt him down. There are corners of the earth where he would be safe. I would go with him, live with him anywhere; in the dreariest spot of earth, among a savage people ; happy and full of gratitude to God, only to know that my dearest had been saved from a shameful death."

" We will do all that ingenuity can do, dear mother," Adrian answered, quietly, while his mother sat back in a corner of the carriage, her face hidden, her whole frame convulsed by the violence of her sobs. "In all probability Valentine has left England before now. The fact that. he has not written to me may mean that he is on the sea; that he snatched the earliest opportunity of getting away V The carriage was in the avenue by this time. As the coachman drew np his horses in front of the Abbey, a gig drove rapidly round the gravel sweep and pulled up in*' the rear of the carriage. Two men alighted from the- gig. One of them was Melnotte, the detective, and in the other Sir Adrian recognised a local police officer.

He took no notice of the two men until he had assisted his mother into the house, and placed her in the care of her maid, who was waiting in the hall to receive her. Then he went back to the poroh and confronted the detective.

" I am sorry to appear upon an unpleasant errand, Sir Adrian," said'Melnotte. "I have a warrant for your arrest as accessory to the murder of Mrs. Helen Belfleld. It is too serious a charge'to admit of bail, so I must request you to accompany me to Chad* ford without loss of time." " You mean to Chadford gaol, I suppose ?" "Yea. You will be treated there with all respect, and accommodated with a private room. I must warn you that anything you. may say—" " ' You may save yourself the trouble. I am not going to say anything, except that I consider that Colonel Deverill has been guilty of an ungentlemanlike action in bringing a deteotive into my house as my guest.?

* The Proprietors of the New Zealand Herald have purchased the sole right to publish this story the Nor(h. of flew Zealand. *

"Colonel Deverill's position as a father may excuse some laxity in a point of etiquette." "It was more than a point of etiquette ; it was a point of honour, Mr. Melnotte—if your name is Melnotte." "My name is Markham. I bore Her Majesty's commission before I joined the detective police, Sir Adrian. Necessity compels men to adopt strange trades. Will you be driven to the gaol in your carriage, sir, or will you allow me to drive you in my gig ? Thompson can walk back." " I may as well go in your gig. It is too dark for anyone to recognise me; and for the matter of that, everbody in Chadford will know where I am before to-morrow morning. Be good enoagh to wait while I give an order to my servant." The detective waited, taking care not to let Sir Adrian out of his sight during the brief delay. ' Adrian ordered a valise to be packed with the necessary changes for an absence of three or four days, and then sat down at a table in the hall to write to his mother, while Markham stood in front of the fire, warming his back and admiring the stately old panelled hall and vaulted roof.

It was a difficult letter to write, and Adrian could think of only one form of consolation. " My arrest may make my brother's escape easier," he wrote. " They cannot find any direct evidence against me, and on reflection, I believe it will be impossible to bring any conclusive proof against Valentine, Put your trust in Previdence,- dear mother, and hope for the passing of the dark hour. My heart is less heavy than it was under the burden of an intolerable secret."

An hour later his mother was sitting by his side in the gloomy-looking room which he was privileged to enjoy in Chadford gaol. " My poor Adrian, it is so hard that you should —you, who are innocent—who would have saved your brother's good name had he only been guided by you. It is very hard."

"I can bear it, mother. I would bear more for your sake, Would to God it had been possible for mo to pay the penalty of my brother's crime. I would have done as much willingly your sake."

CHAPTER XLVI. "I WILL STAND BY MY BROTHER." Ifc was the morning after the inquest; and Valentine had begun hia new occupation as man of all work so soon as there was light iu the dull grey sky to allow him to set about his labours. The sisters were astir at dawn, working diligently, lighting fires, sweeping the stairs, and cleaning the lower rooms. Valentine relieved them of those rougher tasks which they had performed hitherto. He washed out the back yard, washed and hearthstoned steps and window-sills, and cleaned all the lower windows. Inexperience made him clumsy, but energy and strength of will carried him through the work much better than could have been expected.

" I had no idea window cleaning was sach interesting work," he said to Madge, as she gave him his breakfast of tea and bread in the parlour, where she and the two sisters had breakfasted previously, Their morning fare was only dry bread. Butter was a luxury reserved for the evening. There was a wholesome meal ol! meat and vegetables at two o'clock. Tea was taken' between five and six, after tho inmates had been served ; and there was a supper of bread and cheese at ten o'clock. The sisters who Bat up with the sick were allowed tea and bread and butter in the course ol the night, but neither wine nor beer was drunk by any of the sisterhood, and stimulants were only given to patients when ordered by the doctor.

Valentine took his tea and bread with as contented a spirit as if he had been in the centre of Africa, and no better fare had been possible. "I'm afraid you will soon grow tired of window cleaning and of dry bread," said Madge, contemplating him with her grave, slow smile, full of thought. "You do not know me. If lam Btrong for evil, I may also be strong for good. I menn to serve you—as Caliban served Frospero, yet not like Caliban. He served for fear; lam your slave for love. I shall be ready to clean the outsides of the upper windows as soon as I can begin without disturbing the patients. lam promised the loan of a ladder from your milkman round the corner."

"That milkman is a treasure. He keeps one particular cow for our consumptive patients, and, though I believe he adulterates all the rest of his milk, our supply is always pure ; and he charges us a halfpenny a quart leas than other people pay. You cannot think how good people are to us." "I'll go out and look after my ladder," said Valentine; and he walked off in a business-like manner, wearing his fustian and corduroy as if he had never worn anything else.

A few paces from the house he met a boy with newspapers, bought a Daily Telegraph, and put it Into his pocket. "For my dinner hour's amusement," he said to himself. "I believe the working man always reserves the news for his dinner hour."

His step, whioh had been so heavy and sluggish of late, in the monotonoua leisure of his country home, was light and yet resolute to-day, as he went in quest of the ladder. He came back carrying it on his shoulder. His experiences as a sportsman had beon braced his muscles, and he carried the ladder as easily as if it had been a gun or an oar. He felt lighter in his mind, nearer happiness than he had felt since that fatal night. In the first place, it was an infinite relief to be away from the scene of his crime, and, in the second place, there was a world of comfort in being associated with the one woman whose influence could at once soothe and strengthen—the one woman who knew bis ghastly secret, yet had not turned away from him with loathing. He could never forget that kiss upon his forehead which had assured him of a woman's pitying love. He had taken no base advantage of that sign of tenderness ; he had not pressed her hand with the vehemence of a passion that will take no denial. He had been humble with her, as became him in the abasement of his guilt. And he was happisr now. toiling for her, than he could have hoped to be. Ha laboured at his task of window cleaning all the morning, one of the sisters working with him on the inner side of the windows; and the general result was an increase of brightness which seemed like the forerunner of spring. He saw something of the inmates of the Forlorn Hope in the course of his morning's work. In the front room of the first flooronce a drawingroom with French windows and an iron balcony he saw several women of various ages, from eighteen to forty, some engaged in plain sewing, others in fancy needlework, and one at an ironing board. These were the convalescents and those who had been received because of their destitution rather than on account of ill-health. In other rooms he saw the sick in white-curtained iron beds. Everywhere there were signs of careful manage* ment, cleanliness, inventive power, the ability to do much with little means. This humble institution, maintained by a few women, was more interesting than the grandest building which collective charity ever raised,

By half-past one the windows were all cleaned,, and Valentine went to the little room which had been allottod to him, the room where he had spent a sleepless night on a hard and narrow pallet, whioh the Iron Duke might have approved. Here he washed off the traces of his toil, brushed his fustian jacket, and prepared himself for dinner, hoping to eat that meal tete-a-tete with Madge. He had heard her say that the two sisters dined in the first floor room with the women, and that sb.o waited upon them. She must take her own dinner somewhere, he argued. Why not with him ?

His hopes were strengthened on going into the parlour, where he saw the table laid for two. Madge was upstairs, where the dinner was going forward. It was she who carved and distributed the food, while the other two sisters ate with their charges, and maintained the cheerful tone of a family meal. There was nothing penitential in the atmosphere of every day life at the Forlorn Hope, yet sorrow for sin was deeply felt there, and many a penitent's tears had been poured into the sisters' laps, and many a stifled sob had mixed with the prayers of the community,. [To be ocntlnued.]