A DOUBLE LIFE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9124, 4 August 1888, Page 3 (Supplement)

A DOUBLE LIFE.

BY HELEN CRAM ('TON DALE. CHAPTER XIX.— (Continued.) A REALISATION. " It is nothing—nothing!" mrulamcsays,in a thick, hoarse voice, as Mr. Swelkins eagerly asks the reason of the outcry. " Only a sharp, shooting pain at my heart, monsieur!" and then under her breath, this: "The vision—Mees Rose's vision! Grande Dieu! it has come to pass !" And so it has ; for there are the dripping trees and grey sky, there is the light coming down between the hills, and hero the vault with the two ill-mated coffins lying side by side. ' " Dear Heaven ! she said that a coffin and a graveyard would exercise a powerful influence over her future," goes on madame, in a hushed voice, "and so it has—God knows it—so it has !" She has time to say no more, for the sexton and his mansoaking wet—make their appearance, the bell tolls out anew, and, through the dripping rain and slanting light, the two coffins are carried away. Madame goes after, and, leaning from the carriage window, sees them placed in the wooden cases and screwed down, sees them lowered into the yawning holes prepared for them, and, like a satue, sits and watches until the earth is piled up, and Mr. Swelkins comes forward to tell her that all is over.

She makes no response, save to sink back into her seat with a sigh, then the carriage swings round and goes rattling homeward, and for an hour the horses beat their way along, with the wind in their teeth, before Darkendale is reached.

Madame alights at the steps and goes straight up, then, to the chagrin of Mr. Swelkins, who has hoped that she "would ask him to have a drop of wine just to warm" a fellow's bones after that infernal drive," she opens the door, closes it abruptly, and, without so much as a backward look, quietly disappears. It is after five o'clock and twilight is fast shutting in. Her first thought is the sick room, and thither she goes. Darkness is deep, and the hall clock is striking eight when she comes forth again and goes suddenly down the long gloomy, lampless staircase into the shadowy stillness below, and outside the storm is driving madder and stronger than ever. The kitchen is her destination, and she is just turning toward the rear staircase, when something brings her to a dead halt, with a fluttering, nervous cry. A crash of thunder has just boomed through the night, but it is not that which startles her, a blaze of lightning has just made all the windows stand out through the darkness like great sheets of silver, but it is not that either, for she stands there long after both have ceased ; one hand resting against the wall, the other curved about her left ear, bending forward in the attitude of one breathlessly listening. The wind and the rain are roaring steadily, but over and above all else sounds the rapid clatter of a horse's hoofs. A half minnte passes, they come onward—louder, nearer—then they stop, there is a hurried scamper, a second of awful expectancy upon her part, and then—the door-bell peals forth two sharp metallic strokes that sound awful in the stillness and the darkness of that drf'-adful house.

A nervous tremor seizes upon liar, she stands like a fawn hemmed in by hounds —breathless, frightened, not knowing' which way to turn—not knowing what to do. " Man, Diai! who is it?'' she gasps, in a wavering voice. Who comes here tonight? What do they want, and— Again! Heaven protect mo ! I must answer !" She glides along through the darkness and feels for the matches beside the newellamp, finds them, strikes one, applies it, and presently the hunch of crystal and silver callus 011 the newel-post bursts forth agleani with light—a stalk of luminous lilies in a sheaf of silver leaves. She goes down the hall and straight to the door as the bell peals forth for the third time, her lingers tremble as she turns the key and draws the bolt, then the door swings open suddenly, a gleam of light goes out, ;i gust of storm comes, and then : "Mini Dieti! you, m'sieur? you—you?" she almost shrieks as something steps suddenly across the threshold, and the gas jets flickering down, flame on the wet figure and white face of Mr. Ned Dane. CHAPTER XX. "IF ANY CALM, A CALM DKSr.UU.' He shuts the door and turns toward her —nervously, rapidly, like a man beside himself—and even then she finds time, to remark how haggard and ill lie looks, how feverishly his eyes glitter. "In filename of Cod ! answer me—tell me —is it true?" he says, in a throttled voice. " i have just heard, but I won't, believe — I can't." She knows to what he alludes, and with a faint cry bows her head between her palms. "Yes, m'sieur!" she answers. " The >> would not tell you beforeyou were too ill —but it is true !" He reels from her with a sort of groan, and leans his forehead on the newel at the foot of the luminous lilies. There is a moment's pause—a moment's utter silence, and then : " You believe it?" lie says, looking up suddenly. " You believe that—that child could do—what they say? Merciful Lord, if 1 could but have been at the inquest—-if L had only learned of this before it was too late. 1 cannot and 1 will not believe that Floy Remington is guilty !" A dead - hite pallor shuts down over madame's face; she turns away her head, and so : " M ees Remington is innocent, m'sieur !" she says, in a faint voice. " 1 feel—l — 1 know she is !" lie whirls around and throws out his arm with a gesture wholly theatrical. "Innocent !" lie, repeats, in a strident voice. "1 would to (Jrid I might stand before the man who dares to call her guilty. Most merciful Father Were they men, those blockheads who brought in a verdict against her, and— Oh, why was I kept in ignorance, why was this dreadful thing guarded from my ears? Heaven alone knows when 1 should have learned it had .1 not overheard two of my servants talking of the tragedy an hour ago. One was the butler—l called him to me and bade him tell me what lie knew, and then—then—l think I mii have gone mad —i don't know, but it is all a blank until 1 found myself galloping along upon a horse with neither saddle nor bridle, and the rain beating down in my face. And they say that she is guilty — that child—upon the evidence of her letter. They say — My <iod ! do you know to whom she alluded in those fatal lines? It was to me —to me !" " You, m'sieur ?" " Yes, to me ! It was by an accident — through her hands —that 1 was hurt upon the bluff, and she, poor child, lied, believing she had killed me. ' " M'sieur !" "it is true, I tell you—true! She has been slandered, villilied, insulted, but I will drag the truth to light; 1 will have that horror lifted from her name, and though she never can be to me what I had hoped, this I fell you : I will clear her of the lie before this night is over. Where is her mother? Where is Mrs. Remington ? Together we will go before the authorities and vindicate her misjudged child. Where is Mrs. Remington, madame ? Tell me, that I may seek her at one !" She falls away from him with a nervous groan, realising that half the story is vet to be told. " M'sieur," she begins, but her voice dies out and leaves her and her lips move in silence. "Mrs. Remington—where is she?" he says again. " Answer me, madame—where is Floy's mother ?" "M'sieur, won J)icu ! how shall I toll on ? Madame Remington—she is dead !" " Dead!" in an awful voice. " Oui, out, m'sieur; dead on that same tragical night.—dead of the poor, long soolferiug heart," and then, in a few nervous sentences, she tells him how, like a wanderer, that poor mother found her way to the cabin in the woods and died there alone before the breaking of the day. He stands like a rock and listens to it, his lips compressed, his hands shut, his eyes growing larger as the story proceeds ; then silence falls once more, and then, abruptly : " Alone !" he says in an intense voice ; " she has not, even her mother to lean upon now, poor child, but, thank God, she litis me ! And if I cannot claim a nearer and a dearer title, I will at least stand her friend and take up arms in her defence. Fools, fools ! to set that verdict against a child. Open the door, madame, and let me out at once !" He takes a step forward as he speaks, but madame's hand reaches out imploringly, and madame's voice, strained and hoarse, cries out : "M'sieur, you cannot, you do not mean that you —- Ah, ma foi! answer me, tell me : What is it you mean to do ?" " I mean to clear her !" he answers with a passionate gesture. " I mean to acknowledge all that passed between us that night, ;o show those fools what her letter really meant; and then, if there is power in money, let the real murderer tremble. I will reopen the case, I will hire the best detective skill the world can produce. I will drag this mystery to the light of day, and put the real assassin upon the scaffold. Open the door, madame —open it at once and let me go." He springs toward it as he speaks, but even so she is before him. A shriek rings down the hall, a pair of frantic arms reach out across the doorway, a white face confronts him with a horror all unspeakable, and then, with a wildness almost maniacal: "M'sieur, you must not —shall not!" breaks out madame. "You know not what you say, and—oh, my God ! you know not what you would do. Bring the mystery to lightopen the case anew—" Her voice breaks with a sort of scream, and before he can speak, before he can fairly understand that she is barring his passage, she gees down at his feet and wildly clasps his knees. " M'sieur !" she continues in that same distrait way, " m'sieur ! would you commit

a murder in cold blood ? For that you will do if you attempt the thing you suggest!" " A murder !"

Oui —! a murder—the wickedest and most brutal of murdersfor so sure as you do drag that mystery to light, you will kill Mees Norma ! Oh, hear me—hear me, in pity ! You do know so vair little of this horrible thing, and I beg of you do not act in blindness. Gome with me, m'sieur, into the music-room. I have something you must see before you speak of leaving this house, and, oh, for my sake, for your own, for Mees Norma's—even for the sake of that all-peetiful God who looks down upon us now—l beg, I implore you. Come !"

He can see by her manner that she is in dreadful earnest; he can dimly realise that there is something dreadful yet to come, and in a, nervous voice he gives the answer she desires.

She flies by him to the music-room and lights the gas-lamp, and when he joins her, he finds her on her knees frantically scattering t he contents of the music-rack.

What she seeks is a bundle of newspapers tied with a bit of tape, and almost in a moment they are in her hands. "I took them from Patty," she says, as she holds them out. "I meant to burn them, but the undertaker came, and I pushed them in there, and Heaven must have made me forgetful for this end. Tomorrow they shall be but the grey ashes ; but to-night—ah, to-night m'sieur shall read them. See ! they are copies of the Bay mouth Gazette containing a report of the inquest—telling all the dreadful story you have yet to learn. Take them, m'sieur, and read them through. I shall stand in the hallway until you call." She does not wait for him to answer; with a rapid movement she puts the packet into his hands,"goes by him, closes the door, and stands like a shadow in the hallway. The clock points to half-past eight as she comes out ; she glances at it, then, like a restless spirit, swings around and begins tramping up and down the long corridor. A half hour passes ; still she paces, still silence reigns. Nine" point the long hands on the dial plate; no sound but the rustling of paper, and the restless footsteps of madatne —a quarter after—half-pastthen, without hint or warning, the door of the music-room swings open quitely, and—never to be whiter, never to be one atom more corpselike when they shut the collin-lid above him —so, in the gaslight, madame sees again the face of Neil Dane.

She utters a faint, stifled cry, and goes toward him with both hands outstretched.

" M'sieur !" she begins, appealingly ; but she has need to say no more, for she knows before he declares it that the mystery will never be dragged to light by his hands, and the detectives will never be brought to Darkendale by his money.

He makes no reply to her appeal —beyond a gesture —but goes straight to the mantel, and, leaning his forehead upon it, stands a long while, looking down into the empty grate, quite silent—thinking.

It is two full minutes before he looks up again, to find madarae standing in the centre of the room, with her face buried in her hands, forlornly and silently weeping.

He goes over to her, and taking her head between his palms, lifts it until her face looks straight into his.

" 1 think that you are the noblest woman on earth, mariame," he says; "and, if beauty were due alone to goodness of heart, you would be the loveliest. Hod bless the truest soul 1 ever knew. You are right, Fitine : the story must never be revived, for Norma's sake. She treasured her father among the saints of the earthit would kill her to know he was one of the foulest sinners. God help Floy—God help Norma ! This shame must be buried !"

"And Mees Norma? Ah, m'sieur, we must get her away from this dreadful place the instant she is well enough to be removed, it would be less cruel to stab her to the heart than let that shame come to her, and now—now —"

She breaks away from him with a gesture of repudiation, and stands oft'with a halfpained, half-imbittered look upon her face. " And now what will be the good of keeping it, if after all she must be killed?" she goo on. " The doctor says she is in that state of utter prostration that the least shook when she is improving will surely prove fatal : and what shock can be greater than the one that will come from your hands ?"

"From mine? What do you mean, madame ?"

" You no longer love her—you have as mooch as avowed that Meos Floy won your heart from the girl who was to have been your wife, and whose very life is bound up in you. Ah ! m'sieur, do you think Mees Norma will survive that shook? Did I not so often hear her say she would sooner die than lose your love, and almost at the altar's foot, you forsake her. Oh, m'sieur, have peety on my poor darling. She could be no dearer were she my very own. Have peety, Mr. Dane, and do not crush a heart that beats alone for you. Break with her now, and you strike her head so surely as we two stand here to-night, Oh ! peety, peety— see, m'sieur, I kneel to beg it. What could Mees Floy be to you now? She is gone— von cannot find her—for I fear she will destroy herself, and if you could, what goot it do you'.' To clear her you must kill Mees Norma, and you could not marry her until she was cleared. Besides. I am sure she cannot love you—that leetle childtoo young to know why God gave her a heart. Oh ! be merciful, m'sieur—save Mees Norma —save her, 1 implore !" The strained, excited voice gives out, and stooping suddenly as she uttters that last cry, lie lifts her to her feet. You have shown me my duty twice tonight, Fitine," he says, "and for the second time .1 submit to your guidance." '' JI on. Dim', m'sieur, do you really mean—''

" That I know Floy does not love me, that she would not be my wife even should I find her," he finishes, "for the thing Norma prizes so highly, Floy Hung away that night on the blurt'. I am bound by honour to Norma Tressylian, and for her sake I will not break the bond.

''It' the old dream lingers—no matter! she shall never know it. I shall try to be a good husband if 1 never am a loving one, but lie: 1 husband 1 will be, if we two are living when the day that was set for our wedding comes around !" " Oh, bless you, m'sieur for ever bless you !"' responds madame, hysterically. "It is life, hope, everything you give her now. Hark ! the storm is dying down. It is as though even nature ceases to weep in this great goodness you have promised !" " It is more as though the storm, like my heart, has spent its strength in that last great convulsion and is sinking down into apathy!'' he answers, with a sigh. "It is growing late now and I think I had better return home. Good-night and God bless you, madame. After this I will come daily to see how my bride-elect progresses !" "And I, m'sieur, will guard her with redoubled care !" smiles madame, as he takes her hand at parting. " With such an outlook she cannot die —Death dare not claim her now !" He answers not, but goes in silence, to keep his word and come to-morrow and every morrow afterward until the end. CHAPTER XXI. Till: FIRST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY. But in spite of madame's assurance, Death seems to draw nearer to that "couch of pain" with every passing hour ; as the days come and go, Norma Tressylian grows nob better, but steadily worse. The Baymouth doctor is sent away and a Boston practitioner established in his place, and from that hour it is a bitter battle between Science and Death. But the fever does not abate, the wild delirium will not abdicate, and so it goes on day after day for three long weeks, until there comes a night when even madame is put out of the room, and the doctor, watch in hand, stands breathlessly beside the bed, waiting for the awful crisis. Downstairs in the music-room Mr. Dane paces back and forth, and listens anxiously for the first sound ; in the upper hall madame kneels with her face buried in the windowcurtains, praying with all her strength that the wavering balance may turn toward earth ; outside the moonlight lies, just as it lay upon that other night when the shadow of death fell, and inside there is a stillness that is awful, so utter is the absence of sound. Five minutes pass and it is not broken ; ten—fifteen —twenty— an hour, and then madame hears the first sound. It is the creaking of ,a door, and as she springs up she sees the doctor issue from the sick room. He puts his finger to his lips as she comes flying toward him, then :

' ' Sh—h—h ! she is sleeping still," he says, softly. " Not a breath, not a sound. The crisis is passed, and a gentle perspiration has broke out. She will live !"

Madame answers not. In silence she turns her face to the wall and offers up a prayer to Him who hath said : " I am the resurrection and the life !"

When the morning breaks over Darkendale there are fervent thanks for still another blessing, for the eyes that so long have been looking into darkness and death are bright now with the light of reason, nor is madame shocked when the lips that for three weeks have raved ask now for Neil Dane's presence.

He comes on tip-toe, and almost utters a cry as he sees her lying there like a snowwraith in the white pillows ; a wreck of the beautiful Norma she was, with all the roundness gone from her face, and all the roses vanished from her cheeks ; a poor, pale shadow that will never again be quite the perfectly healthy Norma Tressylian of three weeks ago.

But there is something pathetic in that bloodless face and wasted frame that touches a spot which that "other" Norma never reached, and, going softly to her side, he lays his bearded lips upon her sunken cheek.

She folds her wasted arms about his neck and looks up into his face with those solemn umber eyes, and then, without speaking, she lets her head fall against his bosom, and so forlornly weeps. "Hush, Norma, hush, dear !" he says, tenderly. "You mustn't —you have been through the dark valley and it is all bright now." " It will never be bright until I am away from this dreadful house, Neil," she says, with a note of deathless pain in her poor, weak voice. " Oh, please take me away, won't you, Neil? I— want to go where I shall never hear the name of Darkendale again." "So you shall, dear," he answers. " When you are strong enough to bear the journey I shall take my little wife away to some happy place, where she will find her roses and her smiles again. We will take dear, faithful Madame Benvarde with us too, little girl, and we shall be very happy— I know we shall—building a new life—in a new and beautiful place where the shadows of the past can never find us out." She looks at him with a smile that is sadder than tears. " Come what may, I have been blessed !" she quotes softly. "You are very good to me, Neil. I will try and get well, and I know I shall improve, remembering what is to be, when I am strong enough to go." And, as though there is some spell of necromancy in the knowledge, she mends rapidly after that —so rapidly that even madame is surprised when she is able to sit up at the window and watch the far off sea —more than surprised when, before a fortnight passes, the invalid walks along from her bed to the deep, soft window-seat and waves a greeting to Mr. Dane as he canters up the drive. So the pleasant summer days drift and pass, bringing new happiness with growing improvement, until there comes a day that Madame Benvarde never forgets, for that afternoon Korma Tressylian goes down to the drawing-room for the first time since her illness, and comes back an hour later —Norma Dane for life.

It has been a quiet wedding, performed by a minister brought down from Boston, and his wife and Madame Benvarde are the only two witnesses, for Neil has taken every precaution and is stealing a march upon the rattle-pates and clatter-tongues of Baymouth.

It is half-past five when the wedding ceremony is solemnised ; it is nine when Mr. Dane himself drives the bridal party over to Vanderlyn Station —on the branch road ; it is a quarter after when the night express whirls them all off to the city ; it is ten when Mr. Dane's own servants receive word that his estate is to be sold, and they are no longer required, and it is morning when Baymouth opens its eyes and realises that Darkendale is deserted, and they have been cheated out of the long-expected pleasure of seeing " how Miss Tressylian will take it when she's able to be about again." Where she has gone, what has happened, why she left so suddenly, are things they ask but never learn. Only this they know : As suddenly and mysteriously as the tragedy began, so it has ended, and the epilogue is not for their reading; for through the years that come and go and make green those two mounds in the lonely graveyard, Darkendale, like a house accursed, stands bleak and lone and desolate under summer suns and winter stars, and holds its secret well.

PART SECOND: AFTER FIVE YEARS. I have another lifo I long to meet, Without which life, ray life is incomplete; Oh, sweeter self ! like me art thou astray— Striving \\ ith all thy heart to find the way To mine. Straying'like mine to find the breast On which alone can wearied heart find rest !

—"Led Astray."

CHAPTER XXII.

"NOT THUS IN OTHER DAYS WE MET." " Half-past seven and not here yet! It is very strange. I wonder what can have kept him ? He promised so faithfully to be home at six, arid surely he cannot have forgotten. Dinner is all ready, I think you said, Fi, fine ?"

" It has been waiting this half hour, Mees

"Norma."

" It is very strange—very strange," with a sigh. " I don't know what to make of it, and somehow I am foolishly nervous tonight. I hope nothing has happened, Fifine. You don't think that can be the cause of his absence, do you ?" " Oh, no, no !" responds madame, utterly scouting the idea. "If anything had befallen Meester Dane we must surely have hear it before this. We are not"—with a smile— *' so vair far from civilisation that we no can receive a messenger, mi/jnoniie. Some friend — some beesness may have claimed his attention, and doubtless he come presently. But there ! Come from the window, petite. The night air is vair damp, and with that coughma foi ! come away !" "I will close the window then, if you think the air is bad for me," returns Norma, reaching up and drawing down the sash as she speaks, " but I prefer to remain here. I can see the gates, and I shall know then the first instant he arrives."

" Shall I ring for lights ?" "No ; I like the dark. Besides, the moon will rise presently. I can see its rim just over the trees now." " But is there nothing I can get for you, mignonne ?" " Nothing !" " And you will not dine—" " Not until Neil conies !"

Madame makes no responsewith a sigh, she glances back at the shadowy figure in the window, then she opens the door and quietly lea ves the room. It is a pretty room—even in the deep dusk of the May night you can see that— with an arching ceiling, frescoed in arum lilies on a silver ground ; white fluted silk is on the walls, with panelled mirrors framed in silver filagree ; white axminster is on the floor, white flowers are in the parian vases, white busts and statuettes stare spectrally out of the deepening darkness —it is all quiet, all still, all so soft and solemn and white that you only think of moonlight and snow.

A wood fire burns in the polished grate, but a carefully-placed screen shuts out its glare ; there are four large windows curtained with heavy, soundless white silk, an arch that leads from this snow-drift boudoir into a sleeping-room beyond, another arch that opens into a sort of miniature conservatory, and here, with the flowers about her, and her face pressed close to the window pane, she stands. The moon comes up presently, and the glancing light strikes into the room, falls on the white walls and white carpet, on the silver filagree, and the white-and-silver furniture, on the blossoming plants, on her as she stands in their midst, and — Good Heaven ! is that the Norma Tressylian of five years ago ? that shadow standing there as still and white as a ghost stepped out of the dead and buried past! She is dressed for an evening entertainment, for an opera cloak . and a jewelled lorgnette lie on a chair close by, an elaborate combination of purple velvet and lilac silk infolds and falls about her wasted, shadow - like form, diamonds are on the poor, pale hands, in the illusion drawn thick and full about her throat, and a glittering crescent holds a few white rose-buds in her coiled-up dark hair. Rich and abundant as ever that hair is, but the face it frames tells a story of its own. The beautiful roundness that it once had is now for ever gone— temples and cheeks are hollow, the eyes sunken, the brow drawn and shiny, and a hectic, scarlet spot stands out upon each cheek-bone. She does not speak, does not move.

For fully half an hour she stands looks down on the winding drive leading up from the gates, on the park that stretches out upon all sides of the house, then her eyes shift to where millions of twinkling lights sparkle through the distance—tha "shining lights of London that gem the city's crown " —then, with a sigh, she turns wearily, and sinks down in a deep chair. Eight o'clock," she says, glancing up a3 the timepiece strikes. "He has forgotten and I wanted so much to hear. Idelette before she left London, but I suppose I may as well change my dress, and resign myself to the inevitable. It is too late now."

and

There is a copy of the Times lying on tho floor beside her chair.

She picks it up, and glances mechanically at the flaring letters that stand out tha boldest on the page.

"Her Majesty's Theatre. " CLOSING NIGHT OF THE OPERATIC SEASON* AND POSITIVELY LAST APPEARANCE INT LONDON OF THE CELEBRATED AND WORLDRENOWNED PRIMA* DONNA,

" Mademoiselle Idelf.tte." She throws the paper from her with a sisrh, and glances again at the clock. "Yes, it is too late now," she says. " Even were he here, he would have to dress and dine, then to drive from St. John's Wood to Her Majesty's Theatre— The second act of the opera would be half over before we reached it ' Besides—''

But further than that the sentence never goes, for she hears the sound of wheels upon the drive, and, with a nervous abruptness, she starts and goes back to tha window.

The moon has glided behind a cloud—tho drive is too dark for her to see distinctly— and by the time the orb of night floats out into the clear blue sky and all is light) again, the carriage has passed under tho porte cochere, and is beyond the range of vision.

"It is Neil at last!" she says, fluttering about and lighting the gas lamps until the room is one blaze of brilliancy, " Yes, it is Neil, for I hear his voice, and— Hark ! What is that he is saying? Go for a doctor !' Then something has happened !" Yes, it has. She becomes aware of it) at once, for there are confused sounds in tho hallway, the scuffle of many feet, the jar of many voices, and then someone comes flying up the steps, two at a time. She falls back against the gasping, breathless, silentthe flying feet come 011 and up, reach the passage, turn toward the boudoir, the knob turns, the door opens, and then:

Thank God !" she says, in a palpitating voice, as her husband appears upon the threshold. " Thank God, you are safe. My heart stood still with terror !"'

]To be continued.]