GLADYS GREYE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXVII, Issue 8270, 31 May 1890, Page 3 (Supplement)

GLADYS GREYE.

BY EEBXJIA M--CLAX, Author of "Mwjorie Dearie," "AHeart'* Mof* '• In Low's Crucible," " Another Blanks Wife," "A Heart's Bitterness,"&c^<fec r &c.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE REPUSTANT ON

fr was impossible for Gerald to judge correctly of what had passed betw-son the father and daughter, and, though he: knew the selfish character cf the man well enough,

he could not imagine anything qif'te so heartless as the words which had driven

the woman he loved out into the sireefcs. That she had been to her father, and had pone away again in a perturbed state of mind, was clear from the evidence of the ulster, lying on the floor— indeed, but expressive of the utter woe of the woman who had worn it and gone away unconscious that it was no longer on her. And the wretched old man who had wrought the work of desolation could not tell him a word, though he tried by every means in his power to gain seme information from him, by sign or glance. The old man could have done it had ho been disposed, for lie still retained his mental powers, though every physical part seemed to have succumbed to the blighting stroke : but his cunning told him tivat to reveal to the stricken Gerald the part he had played would be to forfeit those benefits which he saw might, come to the father of the woman who was yet loved by the man who had wronged her. Then Gerald, having tried by every device his ingenuity could suggest to obtain information from the old man, desisted, and, while waiting impatiently for the valet to bring a physician, tried to think where Gladys would go from her father's house. Then it was that the insidious words of tlve scheming woman he had left at, the castle came to him. At the first lie repelled them angrily : but in his desperation he reverted to them and, at the hist, made up his mind to seek her at the rooms of Wilmot, telling himself in a sort of excuse foi admitting the possibility that she might be there, that, it would be natural for hor to go to Wilmot merely as a friend. When the physician came ho was obliged to wait and hear his opinion in order that his haste to leave might not give ground for the gossip which it was his great anxietv to hush. But as soon as he could be took his leave, giving orders that all should be done to aid the old man and to spare no money in his behalf. There was a tierce anger at himself in the mood in which he turned his steps toward the chambers where he knew Wilmot pur tip when he did not care to open his town house. His better nature told him not to go, that Gladys would not go to Wilmot, that even if she did it would be in a way that would keep her name safe from any chance of gossip, that Wilmot was too honourable to permit, the chance, even if Gladys in her distress and despair should forget what she was doing. But still he went on, his rapid pace telling the state of j his mind, and all the time conscious that he was in a state to do murder if the provocation came. I

Wilmot's valet said his master was not at home : but Gerald, with a reckless disregard for the proprieties, pushed past him ami searched every room in the suite, cursing himself the while more like an insane man than one who should have had possession of his senses. Then he turned upon the astonished valet, who knew the friendly relations that had always existed between his master and Gerald, and who had not thought to resent any liberty taken by the latter, and asked hoarsely : " Where is your master?'' " I don't know, your lordship. He went out. saying he did no: know when he would be in." '•Had he any visitors before he went,

Out '!" He did not dare to ask if Gladys had been there. Even his mad fury revolted at the idea of admitting in words what he had permitted to overrule his reason. "No, sir." "No one? Notnot—a lady, perhaps. Think, Henry I Here is a five-pound note. It's a— —bet, you see, between me and — and a friend of both." " Upon my honour, your lordship, no one has been here to-night except yourself. Lord WUmot was intending to leave town for Italy, your lordship, but something detained him, and he will not start until to-

morrow."' Something had detained him ! To-morrow be would leave for Italy ! The blood rushed to his eyes, and his head reeled. What had detained him? Why to-morrow for the sudden departure ? In Ids madness he did not stop to think that Gladys was not one to do such a thing. He only thought that he had wronged her, that she had refused every offer of reparation from him had refused to marry him even though he would agree not to remain with her. He recalled how it was said by Julia that everyone had noticed that Wilmot was madly in love with Gladys; and he could remember now that it must have been so. The many things they had said and done together, and which had seemed so harmless when it was certain that he, and he alone, was the god of the girl he had wronged, now came back to him, and it became a certainty that Gladys bad refused his offer of atonement because ehe knew that she could find a refuge with Wilmot, who would gladly give her his unstained name. A sort of frenzy overcame him, and for a moment he thought to remain in the chambers until Wilmot returned, and there settle the question as to which should have the right to protect the woman they both loved. But, as quickly as the idea formed itself in his mind, another one displaced it. Gladys had refused to accept anything from him. He might kill Wilmot, bat that would bring Gladys no nearer to him. Likely enough, he thought. It was to ; escape "him that she had left her father. Perhaps, even, she had been in the rooms when he reached them, and knowing, from - her father's condition, that he would be incapable of acting as her protector, she had ■ fled to one who perhaps had already offered her his love. He could not refrain from thinking then that it was certainly peculiar that Wilmot had left the castle-so suddenly.

But his frenzy was gone now, and he left the apartments and wandered at random through the drizzling rain, his dark mood leading him, as that of Gladys had her, to the dark, rolling waters of the Thames, and fate took him to the spot where she had stood and thought to hide her shame in the Hood beneath.

And him, too, the guardian of the public morale accosted suspiciously ; but on seeing that he had to do with a gentleman, ho apologised, saying, with a short laugh : " We have to keep a sharp look-out for suicides. Had one, pretty nearly, only a few minutes ago. You might 'a seen her as you came or. A nice-looking gal as ever I see. Ah, them's the kind. The pretty and respectable sort. When one o 1 them's betrayed, they generally ends it here." " Are there many of that wort?" inquired Gerald, hoarsely.

"Bless you, yes, sir. Generally they're the ones that never meant to do no wrong. Maybe a promise o' marriage, or, often enough —they're inneroenb, an' never ask no ouestions—it's a mock marriage." * "Mock marriage?" repeated Gerald, in a whisper, wondering at himself for talking to a policeman, bub seeming unable to go away. "Yes. Maybe the man's already gob a wife. That's the worst sort. A man like that's a cur 1 He'd do anything mean, he Would !" " Oh, Heaven !" cried out Gerald, and walked away with so strange a reel in his walk that the policeman stared, and then broke into a little laugh. " Well, if that ain't a sell 1 Me a talkin' to him straight, and him drunk all the time." Drunk with remorse, yes. The man's words had brought all that back to him. In his pursuit 01 Gladys he had been devoured by the one idea of finding her and forcing her to accept his atonement; and every obstacle in the way of that, it had seemed to him, was a legitimate object for removal. He would have killed Wilmot in hia mad passion, and would have walked red-handed through London ; but the despair of thinking that it was for Gladys to choose, and not for him to dictate, had led him to the river, and there he had learned again the bitter lesson-of remorse which he had forgotten. Even in his remorseful mood, however, to was like, th& slumbering volcano, and*

had die met Wilmot then there would have been some rash, mad act committed ; bat predominant in his thoughts was the conviction that he had been a base scoundrel, and that it was for him to accent whatever Gladys might see fit to do. He no longer believed that she liad done aught that she should not do, though he was convinced that when ho heard of her again it would be as the wife of Wilmot.

That would mean the inevitable disclosure of his treachery toward hoc, though it seemed forced upon him a l * lie contemtemptated it that Gladys would never reveal to anyone what had happened. She had said, during that last interview, that she loved him, and no one know better than he the loyalty of the woman ho had wrecked on the tempestuous sea of his passion. Would Wilmot marry her, not knowing what had occurred ? Well, she might tell him under pledge of secrecy. But no, no ! ten thousand times, no !

He could satisfy himself with no thought. No conclusion was satisfactory. Ho could not think of Gladys as otherwise than noble, and yet the idea was firmly rooted in his mind that she would seek in Wilmot the protection that she would never again pormib him to give her.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE FAITHFUL FALSE ONE. He would not return to the castle while it was full of guests, but, trusting that Julia would accomplish her task of sending away the guests during the next day, he determined to remain in London until twenty-four hours had passed. Nor would ho any longer seek Gladys, the feeling being deep-rooted that he would seek in vain, or finding her, would only meet with a rebuff, the greater now that she had selected another to protect her.

Ho could not sleep, but, like a lost soul, wandered about the streets until the grey dawn came. Then ho took a train into the country, buying a ticket for the first one leaving, ascertaining by a glance that the destination was for some remote point, and intending to ride until he was tired, when he would get out and wander whither chance directed. And. chance directed that the cars should take him to the little station where the Boar's Head was situated.

He heard the name of the station with a shudder and a sort of loathing of himself; but lie obeyed the first impulse of his nature and stepped out of the car, paying no heed to the remonstrance of the guard that he was not near his destination yet. Then he went to the Boar's Head, and, with a singular perversity, knowing it would be torture, he ordered a breakfast, and ate moodily of the breakfast which the delighted host laid before him.

Mine host did at first venture a question or two, in a most respectful manner, as to the health and happiness of my Lady Dashleigh ; but the dark stare which Gerald returned him for his sole answer dampened his desire for information, and the breakfast proceeded in gloomy silence, the obsequious Kansome occasionally entering the apartment and silently going out again.

After the breakfast, as if he would pub his endurance to the test, he turned his steps to the little church where they had been married, and as it was open, he stopped inside and looked once more at the altar ho had desecrated with his false vows. Little wonder certainly that he knit his brows fiercely and muttered curse after curse on himself for what he had done.

Then he rushed out of the peaceful little edifice, so crowded with accusing memories, and strode out into the woods whore-he had walked that day with Gladys when she was a frank, guileless schoolgirl, and he traced step after stop as they two had taken them that day ; and at last the memories there, too, went near to driving him mad, and he dashed off at a furious pace into the country walking on and on to forget: bub it was impossible. The past was with him, and he could not shake it off.

And then came a curious puzzle to him. He tried to think of her now as the loved one of someone else —someone who loved her with the right of a lawful husband ; but that was something he could not seem to realise. He could hate Wilmot with all the bitterness of an unreasonable passion ; but realise Gladys as anything but the sweet girl, playing the part of his wife, he could not. it was always what she had been and never what she would be.

At last, worn out with fatigue and kick of food, he sought an inn and stayed the night there, rising long before dawn to take a train back to the castle, and arriving there before even the grooms were up, uncertain then whether to turn away or not. Then, for the first time, came to him a thought of the woman who had held the right to his love and name, but who had never had either, and who now lay dead in one of his poorest cottages, like enough to fill a pauper's grave if something were not done to prevent it. But even then it was not for her sake, poor creature ! that ho mode up his mind to save her that last degtadation, but from the thought that it was what Gladys would wish him to do.

He had been pacing in and out among the trees as these thoughts came to him, but as he made his decision he went up to the castle and roused some of the servants, who sleepily let him in, staring at him, as iPseemed to him, as if they suspected all that was in his mind, all that had been torturing him since the fateful few moments in the cottage. He knit his brows darkly, and, bidding them curtly send his valet to him, wont straight to his room. He would not ask any of the lower servants if the guests had left the castle ; but it seemed to him that the whole air of the place was desolate, as if it had been hurriedly emptied of its occupants ; but if it were full to overflowing and Gladys were not there, it would seem desolate to him.

" Who is here ':" was his first question to his valet.

"Only Miss Meredith, your lordship. She saw the last of the guests away, and it was so late then that she remained here overnight, intending to go away this morning." " Tell her maid that I would be glad to see Miss Meredith at her leisure and convenience."

" Yes, your lordship. Shall I do anything for your lordship?" "Get the bath ready, and some breakfast ; that is all."

After he had bathed, ho ate his breakfast in his own room, and then went down to the drawing-room, where he paced back and forth, waiting impatiently for the appearance of Julia, who seemed to him now as his only friend and dependence. The fury and madness of the hours of yesterday had completely gone from him, and in their stead was a dark, brooding melancholy, visible evidence of the storm that had ragod within and might rage again. For no one else would Julia Meredith have done what she had already done for him, and for no one else would sho have roused herself from the slumber which her astute maid had interrupted at the message of Gerald's valet. She neglected no one of the little arts of the toilet which she had already learned to depend upon, and Gerald had not been waiting long ere she tripped lightly down the great staircase and looked in at him, studying his mood before he was aware of her presence. When he did see her, what a triumph it was for her to see the cloud lift, even a little, from his lowering brow. "You have been very kind," were hisfirst words.

Now was the critical time for the plans she had formed, and no one could be as well aware of that as she ; therefore, instead of answering him with some set phrases, making light of her services, she did that winch she thought most likely to win a continuance of the confidence which she knew she had gained. She looked up at him with eyes brimming over with sympathy. "lam sorrry there was any need of my kindness ; but glad I was at hand in your hour of trouble. Have you found her, Gerald ?" "No." He walked abruptly to the window looking out on the terrace, and stood there, gnawing his moustache. She turned white and red with the uncertainty of the next step, and then glided up close to him. " Forgive me, Gerald, for opening the wound again. I would nob do it if it were possible to avoid it; but there is yet more to be done to save her name from the consequences of her step. Prying eyes must be blinded, gaping mouths gagged, until you have succeeded in finding her." " I shall not try further," ho said, curtly. Her eyes gleamed with a sudden passion of joy ab his words ; but she lot him see nothing of it, turning her face away from him until she bad conquered the tell-tale witness of her malignity.

" But, Gerald," Bhe said, laying her little hand on his arm, and speaking earnestly, " forgive me if I anger you; but do nob forget that whatever she has done, she is a woman and entitled to your forbearance. Remember! her good name is her all. Do not you be the one to let-any stain corao upon it. I)o not be angry, Gerald she was my friend, and I loved her."

The fatuity of man ! The weakness of him '. Not two days ago he would have been ready to warn Gladys against her, and now, here was he beguiled by her, persuading himself himself that he had misjudged her; warming toward her with gratitude for defending Gladys against himself. " You are a good friend, Julia. No one can be more anxious than I to save her name. What shall bo done V She bit her lip, but showed no other sign of discomfiture, and even that sign he did not see. She turned toward him a face full of concern.

** I do not see how i can suggest anything, Gerald. I know so little ; but tell me what you would have mo do, and you shall see that 1 will not fail you." " What to do ?" ho repeated. "By Heaven, Julia I don't know. If I could only tell you all ! But, no, I cannot do that. Hear me, Julia. 1 did you an injustice. I believed you wore not my frieud, nor Gladys'. Now I know I was wrong, for you .have proved it to me. Forgive me that." "No need for that, Gerald," she answered, softly. •' You are very generous," he said, absently. Then resumed, "I would tell you everything, but the secret is not my own—it is hers." Julia's lip curled scornfully with'the consciousness that) the secret washers too —hers to use as it, seemed best to her. Gerald went moodily on : "This much 1 will tell you, that she has gone from me. for a fault of my own, and that it has been a just, though a bitter, punishment lor rue. She did what you, what any true woman would have done, and there is nothing for me bub submission. " "And is there, no hope that she caa be persuaded to return to you ?" " None. Why, she left behind her not only all the jewels and money that I had given her, but even left enough of the jewels that had been her own before she was married to pay for the clothing she was obliged to wear. She burned before my eyes the deed of settlement that 1 had given her. She has gone out into the world penniless rather than accept a penny from me. Do you think such a woman will ever return to me V Never 1 I know her well enough for that." A gleam of malicious joy shot out of the pale blue eyes at this recital of what Gladys had done ; but she could not be quite satisfied until she knew if ho hail any clue ; to the whereabouts of Gladys. " I know," she said, softly, " that Gladys. is determined : but i know, too, that she loved you devotedly. Tell me whore she is, or where you think she is to be found and I will go to her, I will find her, if' that be possible, and will talk to her as a woman can." " I do not. know where she is." " Nor .suspect ?" The sudden, fierce fight that shone in his eyes, the convulsive wave of fury that swept over his face at that question, told her that the seed of suspicion she had sown had taken root and grown. Even she had no thought that Gladys had really gone to Wilmot. She had studied the two too faithfully to admit the suspicion into her own mind. " Suspect!" he said, with a sort of grinding of the teeth. "Suspect! No, I suspect nothing ; but," and ho drew a long breath, "I will say this, that no matter what may happen, Gladys will be in the right and lin the wrong. I want you to remember it, Julia ; for I am going away— going where no one I know shall ever see me again, and I desire that someone shall be able to wry for me that anything Gladys may do in the future will be right. Will you remember this?''

"Going away!" and Julia paled at the thought. Where was her finely wrought fabric them ':

" Yes, 1 could not remain here.''

" But you will tell me where you are, that I may let you know of anything that happens ':" "What would be the use? No. I will go completely away from the old world." Julia shut, her white teeth close. He should not escape her so. Her subtle brain sought a way to hold him, at least, by the slight thread of correspondence, She pretended acquiescence. "Perhaps it will be best: but, Gerald, will you let. me say something ?" " What you please.'' " Before you went, to London, I said something about Wilmot. Forget that. It was wrong. I know Gladys so well. He loved her and would have done anything in this world for her ; but I am .sure she never more than respected him. Indeed, she once said to me, ' Wihnot is a man to respect, to seek in trouble, but it seems impossible to think of loving a man of that sort.' "

"To seek in trouble cried Gerald, almost beside himself. " Yes, that is it. It is that that makes me fear myself. I sought him the night I was in London, Julia, and had I met him I think I would have killed him ! Why I cannot remain here is that I could not submit to seeing Gladys. Bah ! why do I task?" 'But, Gerald, 1 know you are mistaken. Listen to this: Go away, if you will; bub leave me your address—sealed, if you prefer—so that I may write to you only in case of Gladys going to Wilmot for help. I know she never will. You know it yourself ; but you cannot think clearly now, for she has gone from you ; but when you arc away you will remember what Gladys was, and you will know that sho ivever could, never would, do as you suspect." "Julia, you are a good woman !" and ho took her hand and carried it to his lips.

There was no gallantry in the act, nothing but a fervent thankfulness that she had given him such comfort ; but a bright red spot burned in each cheek of the deceitful woman, who, even as she exulted in the act, vowed to herself that ib should be through her supposed loyalty to Gladys that she would work her final ruin. "I am not good, Gerald," she said, lowering her head ; "but I love Gladys, and—and—i cannot forget what you and I once were—boy and girl together." She studied his face as she spoke, but saw on ib no consciousness of the hidden meaning in her words. .She clenched her hands, as she thought that he was so absorbed in Gladys that he could nob be touched by any word of hers that did not bear on that one subject.

"There is another tiling, Julia," ho said, presently. " What is that?" "It is something — " He hesitated. " Trust me only as far as you will, Gerald," she said, meekly. "1 won Id trust you entirely, .Julia, if could. This is something Gladys—Gladys would have had done had she remained. There is a-—a woman lying dead in one of my cottages, Smal ley's cottage, or Smiley's, I have forgotten. She is a young girl. She must be —buried decently —not in the place allotted to paupers." " Yes, Gerald ; I will see to ib ab once." He gnawed his moustache in silence for a few minutes. " She may as well be put; in the lot belonging to the family —the Dashloighs. I will write tho necessary order. This seems strange to you ?" " Yes, Gerald ; but I neither question, nor shall I think of it again. It pleases you to have it so, and I will ho contrive it that no one shall think it odd. I can arrange that part better than you could. Do not give yourself any further concern about it. I will see that she has a proper but unostentatious funeral. Is that what you want?" " That is it. Some day you shall know everything." "I have no curiosity; or, if I am so much of a woman, it shall never trouble me further. You need never tell me anything, Gerald, excepting that you are satisfied with what I have done." "I will tell you that now. I can never be grateful enough to you." "And, in the meantime, what shall- be .said of Gladys to inquirers V He knitted his brows. "Hay that her father is ill, aiKHhat she has gone to rmrse him. Ho is ill— paralyzed. The story will suffice for atime." "And after that it may bo given out-. i that she is on tho Confcinenbwith you. Ib., 1 will then rest with her to. contradict) thoi

1 story, if she chooses, and if not, you will have done your best to preserve her good name." " Well," he said, musingly. "It is .groping in the dark; but perhaps that is the beat that can be done." They separated then, he going to his room to prepare for an instant departure, and she to confer with the housekeeper about dismissing all the unnecessary servants and closing the castle. She would have asked him again about Iris address, but a glance into his moody face told her that it would be better to trust him with bis tlioughts yet awhile. In a few hoars they met again, both ready for departure from the castle. He was more than ever moody, and made no effort to conceal it. She was filled with a torturing anxiety; but bore a smiling, cheerful face. " Good-bye, Gerald," she said, extending her hand. " Good-bye,"be responded, mechanically, and thrust his hand into his pocket, drawing forth, as her quick eyes saw, two pieces of paper. "Here," he said, "is the order I spoke of." She took it and looked expectantly toward the other piece of paper, which she now saw was an envelope, directed, and—. he turned it over—sealed. " I. will do all that wouldyou wish," she said.

"Thank you." He turned the envelope over in his hand several times in a sorb of uncertainty that was agonising to her, and said, slowly, " This is directed to you. You will not open it until you hear something of Gladys?" No, I will nob open ib, Gerald," she answered, and her heart beat with a wild ■tremor of delight. " Good-bye," he said again. " You have proved a good friend, Julia. I shall never forget your kindness." He shook her hand, or rather pressed ib, and was gone. She watched the carriage that took him until it was out of sight. Then she tore open the envelope and devoured the fewlines inside. " I shall have something to tell you of Gladys when it suits me," she said to herself, while a wicked gleam darkened hoi* faded 1 blue eyes. The lines contained, the address she had asked for, and the 1 address was : " Thale, in tho Hartz Mountains." It was there he had taken Gladys when he had first betrayed her with the mock. marriage. [To be continued.]