BETTER THAN LIFE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIX, Issue 9010, 15 October 1892, Page 3 (Supplement)

BETTER THAN LIFE.

• BY CHARLES GAUVICE, Author of "On Love's Altar; ofc, A Fatal Fancy," "She Trusted Him," "Paid For," " Klaine," etc. CHAPTER XXXIII.-fContinufd.) Levondale got up for a moment, then sunk down again, as if unable to stand. " You seem surprised still ; don't believe me, perhaps ; think I'm somebody else?" She laughed. "What shall I do to convince you? Tell you when and where you did me the honour of marrying me? Where wo spent our honeymoon— jolly, wasn't it? — the whole particulars of our first quarrel ? Don't you remember it? I do, as if it was only yesterday. I know you got my monkey up, and I throw the cutlery about. A knife caught you across the hand. I can see the scar still." She pointed to the scar that Ida had noticed the first time she saw him. Levondale drew a deep breath. "Why—how—have you done this?" he demanded, almost inaudibly. " Done what?" she retorted, with raised eyebrows. Then her manner changed, and she half sat up and laughed long and shrilly. " Oh, isn't it good, good, good !" she exclaimed, with malignant enjoyment. " Was ever a man so completely sold ? How have I done it and why ? Well, it's been a lot of trouble, but if it had been ten times as much, I shouldn't have begrudged it; for this moment pays me back for everything ; even the long months of waiting ; and I've counted the days, I can tell you, my dear Laurence! Why have I done it? You must be a fool to ask the question. Don't you know? I've done it target my revenge —to get you in my power and under my thumb !" He made no sound, bub leaned back and still gazed at her. He pointed to the folding-doors. " Who—who was that I saw ?" he asked, hoarsely. Her face was grave for a moment. "My sister Martha," she said. " You've forgotten her. She was like me—especially at the last; but I should have thought you'd have known the difference. But, you see, you were so anxious that I should die, that you were easy to be deceived. The wish was father to the thought. It's easy enough to make a man believe when he wants to believe, and you wanted very much, didn't you, eh, Laurence?" She waited a moment, but he was silent, dumb with horror; and after the pause she went on : "It was a capital trick, and cleverly carried out, though I say it. Lord, I'd give ten years of my life rather than miss your face to-night ! It's a treat—a treat ! But I don't see why you should be so cut up, after all. It isn't as if you'd gone and married again, is it?" He rose panting. " You devil ho breathed. The expression of his face startled her for a moment out of her insolent triumph. She drew a glittering something from behind her, and held it toward him. It was a small revolver. " Keep where you are ! Don't come a step nearer, or—or I'll shoot you !" she said between her teeth. " I know you'd like to murder me, and I am prepared for you." He scarcely glanced at the weapon, but went to the window and threw it open. He was suffocating -choking. She lowered the rovolver. " 1 say it isn't as bad as if you'd married again—eh, Laurence? That would be awkward, wouldn't it? By the way, isn't that pretty girl I saw sitting next to you the same young lady you were flirting with down in the country ?" He came back to his chair, bub stood, gripping it hard. " She is my wife—my wife! You know ib !" he said, hoarsely, in a voice of powerless rage and agony. 1 She laughed and nodded. " Bless you, I know that !" she said. " I've been abroad, keeping out of the way for fear of accidents—l might have been seen, don't you know?—bub we have had the .English papers regularly, and we read all about your marriage and the lovely countess. The * lovely countess !' Oh— oh !" and she threw back her head and laughed mockingly.

Levondale stood with bowed head. [ "Yes," he said, "you are a fiend, not a womannot a woman ! Only an inhuman monster could have pleasure have carried out such a hellish conspiracy." She put up her hand with sarcastic repudiation. ''■'.'' "Conspiracy? What are yon talking about?" she demanded with feigned surprise and indignation. " It is a conspiracy 1" he said; almost to himself—" a vile plot for the ruin of—of an innocent girl! The law will protect her ; it must—ib shall?" Judith sat up and smiled at him — smile of conscious power. " I don't know what you're talking about," she said; "I fancy you don't yourself. I can't help it if, wishing me dead, yon mistook my sister for me." Levondale wiped the sweat from his face. " The law will protect her," he said again, almost to himself. He was thinking of Heaven ! of Ida ! "If by 'her'you mean the bit of a girl you've married—no, not married; committed bigamy with '.—I should say she won't want protecting. It's me your wife —your wife, my dear Laurence—who'll have the law on her side 1 You've deserted me, and gone and married another woman—" He put up his hand. "Silence!" he said sternly. "I understand your triumph. I realise the plot of which and she—have been the victims; but I tell you that the law will stand between her and your malice. You passed off that poor dead woman as yourself. You and your confederate, Swayne, carried out the infernal scheme with every form and detail. The letter you sent to me purporting to come from your deathbed—" She smiled. " Where is it—where's that letter ?" she said quietly. He caught his breath. It was not in his possession. In an instant he remembered that Swayne had picked it up from the table and returned it to his pocket. The certificate of death— burial certificate ?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Pardon me, my dear Laurence. They were made out in the name of poor Martha. I've seen 'em— 'em. I'll show them to you, if you like." He gripped the edge of the table. " You forget," he said, hoarsely, " the night 1 came here that Swayne told the dumb woman who I was. She will be my witness." Judith laughed mockingly. "Pooh! The woman is my devoted slave. She swears — wilt swear — that Swayne told her you were my husband, and that you would see to the funeral of your sister in-law—nob your wife. Besides, if you thought it was your wife you were burying why didn't you put her name and title on the tombstone f' Levondale was speechless. "You did? Perhaps you don't know. You haven't taken the trouble to go to pay a visit to your dead wife's grave. No ; I thought, not. If you had, you would have seen that the tombstone says, 'To the memory of Martha Markwood'nob to 'Judith, Countess of Levondale.' " What could he say or do? He sat, turned to stone, horror, despair, gripping his heart. "The villain !" broke from his quivering lips. "Who? You, who have deserted your wife and committed bigamy ? Oh, you mean Mr. Swayne ! But you make a mistake, my dear Laurence. What has he done? Nothing. You don't mean to say that anyone would believe the cock and bull story you'd try and tell them ! Nobody would believe a word of it. Why should they ? A respectable solicitor lend himself to such a barefaced trick you pretend has been played on you ! What's his motive? Y'ou can't suggest one. Bah ! my dear Laurence, you're sold completely. You're in a cleft stick, as we used to say at Oxford ; and, if I didn't hate you as much as I do, I should feel inclined to pity you— I should, indeed." v * She paused for lack of breath, and eyed him with eyes greedy of their triumph, and anxious not to miss one look of agony in his face.

Well?" she demanded, after a silence which lasted some moments. " What are you going to do? Here, just throw me over that cigarette-case, will you ?" He took no notice of her request; perhaps he did not hear it, and, with the revolver still in her hand, she rose and got the case and lighted a cigarette. "Have one? Better; nothing like tobacco when you're completely up a tree and flummuxed." And she tossed the case to him. It fell on the floor, and he let it lie there. " What are you doing to do she repeated, dexterously sending out the smoke in a ring from her pursed-up lips, and eyeing him from under her lids. " Or, rather, I suppose I ought to ask you what I'd better do? I know what 1 ought to do ; prosecute you for bigamy. I ought, indeed. And—l—know—that—l won't," she added, slowly, as if the prospect possessed a charm for hen He looked at her, his face grey and wan. " Yes," he said, " your hate, 1 know, renders you capable of anything ; and I do not plead for your mercy. But you are a woman, Judith ; there -must still be some spark of womanly pity, mercy, in your bosom : and I plead not for myself, but for —for one who never injured you—one as innocent as a child, an angel—" His voice broke. " You forget. I'm not a woman, but a devil," she retorted, with a smile. " And as for your innocent chid—no, angel, wasn't it?—what do I care/for her? What does the first wife ever care for the woman her husband has committed bigamy with ? Pooh ! I'd see you and her in the dock tomorrow, without a pang ! What!"—she leaned forward and puffed the smoke at him, her breath coming hot and furiously, one of her rages rising rapidly —"do you think I've any pity in me? Da you think I've forgotten all your cursed pride has made me suffer? Do you think I've forgotten how you've trampled me under your feet—in heart and mind, if you haven't in reality ?—how you've cast me off—your wife—your wife ? No, I shall never forget ; and while I remember, I sha'n't be able to know what pity is ! My dear Laurence, I've got you under my feet mow, and I mean to keep you there !" CHAPTER XXXIV. Her half-suppressed fury had not touched Mm. He rose calmer than he had been all through the interview. He felt as a liontamer feels—that one falsß step, a stumble, one sign of fear, may be fatal. She dropped back and smoked her cigarette with suppressed fury. "Suppose," she said, presently—"suppose I was to say to you. that you must remain here—here, with your wife—that you must leave that chit of a girl you've deceived, and return to me ? You couldn't refuse, you know. What could you do— eh ?" and she laughed. He confronted her sternly. " I should kill you and myself," he said, with terrible calmness. "I dare say," she assented—"anyhow, you might kill yourself. I can take care of myself, as I've proved " and she touched the revolver significantly. He looked beyond her into vacancy for a moment or two. " You have had your revenge," he said, " and revenge is sweet; but money is sweeter to you. I am prepared to .buy your secrecy." He spoke slowly, as if weighing every word. She laughed. "Is it? You're wrong. But what are you going to propose? A beggarly few thousands a year, I suppose." " Ask for what you please," he said, deliberately. He had arrived at a decision : he would give her half—three-quarters—nearly all his income, if she demanded ib, and with the remaining portion would leave England with Ida. In some out-of-the-way spot they cduld live hidden from the ken of the crowd in which hie darling had shone so brilliantly. She would not mind, she would not ask a question, if he begged her not to do so. It was the only course left to him. This woman must be bribed into silence— absolute silence. And Swayne, too, must be bribed. So far as he is concerned, Levondale could count upon the element of fear; he could be threatened into silenoe. " Ask what you please," he said, " as you know it is impossible that we should live together." She was silent for a moment or two, then she looked at him insolently. " I agree with youfor once," she said. "No, Fm not going" to insist upon your leaving her and coming back to me—though I you couldn't help yourself if I did -insist,

you know!— I don't mean to be altogether deserted. I've been leadingaverydiferenb life lately to the old one, and I rather like being respectable and all that. I shall go into society. I can afford it now, for I mean to have half your income, whatever ibis, my dear Laurence."' ' He inclined his head slightly. Good, you shall have it," he said. es," she said, with a nod ; " and you and me, me and your 'wife,' can be friends." •' u .' He started slightly, and his face darkened. "That is impossible," he Said, in a strained voice. We shall leave England—" ' .■'■: " Oh, no, you won't," she retorted coolly ; " that won't suit my book at all. I'd rather you stayed here. 1 want to see a good deal of that girl of yours, the * lovely countess ;'" she laughed. " You are driving me too hard," he said, quietly. " I would sooner see her dead than-" * "She should be contaminated by me?" she broke in, with swift passion. " What! Why, who is she, I should like to know ? I'm better than she is ! I'm a lawful wife— a legally married woman—while she —" He strode a step toward her, and the expression of his face awed her, notwithstanding the revolver. " Keop your temper, my dear Laurence," she said. "Try and remember who it is you're talking to. After all, I sha'n'b do your 'wife' any harm. As I said,"l'm a respectable woman. And, come to think of it, perhaps I sha'n't care to see much of her ; she isn't the sorb of girl I care for. But I'm not going to bury myself any longer. That's flab. I'm going out into the world, and I don't mean to be cut by you—my own lawful husband—when I meeb you. I'm tired of going about by myself, and I shall want you to take me to the theatre, and so on." He stood looking down at her. No part of her scheme of revenge was more fiendish than this, and she knew it. " Yes, that will be the best way of worki ing it," she said. You can introduce me as Mrs. Mark wooda widow, an old friend of yours — who's been abroad for some years." He made no response. " I shall take a small house in Park Lane or thereabouts, and entertain. Oh, you needn't be afraid ! I sha'n't disgrace you and ths ' lovely countess.' I know how to behave myself, and it would be rum if didn't, wouldn't it, seeing that I'm the rea Countess of Levondale ?" He went to the window, that the cold air might cool his burning brow. "It is impossible!" he said, almost to himself. "lb would be intolerable !" She heard him, low as he spoke. " Oh, no, it wouldn't 1" she said, coolly. " Anyhow, you've got to try it. After all. if you prefer it, I can out with the truth. " I can tell the whole story, and claim my rights. A nice kettle of fish that would be, wouldn't it? What would become of the ' lovely countess' then ? You can takoyour choice, Laurence. I might make it harder for you, you know. All I ask is that you should treat me as an old friend. Dash it all ! that isn't much for a wife to ask of her husband," she added, with a mocking laugh. He left the window and came and stood before her again. "It shall be as you say," he —and though he was the vanquished and she the victor, there was in his white, haggard face, and in his voice, a touch of such true dignity that she looked up at him with something approaching awe and admiration— it shall be as you say. It is for you to dictate terms. lam at your mercy. I do nob know whether I can endure the ordeal you have put upon me. I think it probable that it will drive mo to despair. I have appealed to your pity, Judith. You tell me you have none. Take care lest you drive me too hard ! For myself—my own happiness— am indifferent; bub for her"— he paused a moment —" for her, when the worst comes, 1 might fight to the last!"

She nodded defiantly. " I dare say you would. Oh ! I know you're gone on her, and that you'd do anything to put me out of the way. But we don't live in the days when a man or woman could be put away quietly. They make a fuss about it now, and, as I said, I'm going to live for ever. Here I am, your wife, and there's she—the other thing ! You've got to make the best of it. I sha'n't open out and tell tales—not unless you drive me to itand there's no reason why we shouldn't be all happy together." She smiled and nodded with evil complacency. Levondale took up his hat. " Half a moment," she said, leisurely. " The sooner me and—your wife are introduced the better. There's a quiet little party coming off nt Lady Starbright's in two nights' time. You'd better get Lady Levondale— Lady Levondale ! ha ! ha ! —to get a ticket—card—for me. Mrs. Markwood, you know— your old friend." Levondale's hand closed spasmodically over his hat-brim. "You insist?" he said. x " Will nothing short of this satisfy you ?" "Nothing," she retorted. "I insist. Going? Well, goodnight." Her eyes flashed with triumph. " Things are altered a bit since we last met, aren't they, Laurence ! Do you remember flinging the money down on the seat so that you houldn't have to touch me ? Do you remember threatening to call the servants and have me put out?" She laughed. " Why, come to think of it, I'm treating you and her too well. I'm letting you off too easily. 1 could walk home with you, and turn her out, couldn't I, eh ? Yes, it strikes me you ought to go down on your knees and thank me, instead of standing there scowling at me, like an executioner. Well, good-night, and don't forget the card for Lady Starbright's. Oh ! and look here ! you can send me a cheque—a big one—to-morrow morning. I've got some arrears to pick up, you know ; the money you didn't send me while I was dead." He left the room, her mocking laugh following him down the stairs. As he fumbled at the lock, the deaf and dumb woman came down the passage and opened the door for him ; and, as she did so, he saw the reflection of Judith's smile of malignant triumph in her fishy eyes. He walked home, and let himself in with his latchkey, and went straight to his dressing-room. Pacing up and down at times, and at others sitting in his chair with his head bowed in his hands, he tried to realise to the full extent the awful position of affairs. Surely, no man had ever before been placed in such a terrible, soul-crushing situation ! Whichever way he looked, only misery and anguish and shame lay in wait foe the" woman he loved, his darlitisr, for whom he would willingly lay down his life. There was no escape—none ! He was under the foot of a woman with the nature of a tigress—heartless, pitiless, and moved by the hate of a fiend. The dawn crept coldly between the curtains, and fearing less Ida should wake and miss him, he undressed and went into the next room. As he did so he caught sight of his face in the glass. It was haggard and grey, and he stared at it with apprehension and fear. At all costs he must drive that awful expression from his face— the face every look of which Ida studied and knew so well. He stood foroing the despair and misery from his eyes, and the lines from the corner of his lips, and then went into the next room and approached the bed. Ida was lying, her head upon her arm, her face upturned, the dark hair spread, a mass of silk, upon the pillow. She was asleep, and the soft lips were curved with a peaceful, happy smile. The smile, her loveliness, struck the wretched|man to the heart. With a low cry of agony he dropped on his knees beside the bed and hid his face in his hands. She moved slightly, and her hand touched his head. " Laurence !" she murmured, half in her dream, and in a tone that never failed to thrill him to the heart's core. "Laurence, dearest!" "Ida!" he breathed, soothingly, and he bent over her to kiss her. But as his lips almost touched hers he stopped. '""** A caress, a kiss, a touch, would be an insult to her now. He had no right right ; she was nob his wife 1 ««Weren'b you very late last night, Laurence she asked, as they sab at breakfast together the next morning. The butler and footman had left the room—for both Ida and Laurence liked to have their breakfast quite alone— and as she asked the question she looked ab him with tender anxiety. He could scarcely lift his eyes to her face, so fresh, so beautiful, so innocently happy. - «"•■ , ..-;;";,' •'-'';;/>-• -

"I was rather, dearest," he replied, trying to speak carelessly. ?"I got a cigar—" - ■. . • , -. . "I know," she said, laughing ; "a cigar and a book. I wonder why it is that men are so fond of reading into the small hours. Papa is just like that, only he hasn't the cigar. But you ought not to have sat up last night after being so unwell. Are you quite right this morning, Laurence ? You look rather pale." "That's owing to the book—or the cigar," he said, smiling, while he loathed himself for the falsehood. "I am quite right this morning—right as ninepence." Ida laughed softly. " What's the origin of that phrase ? she asked. " Why should ninepence be righter than, say, a shilling or eighteen pence?" ; He shook his head. ; -~>-■■■■■■ i < " It's the same kind of question as that respecting, the sand-boy, who is always, you know, jollier than other people, though why no one knows." "I was thinking last night," she said, as she poured out tie coffee, "that perhaps London wasn't agreeing with you, and that we had better go back to Levondale. Shall we, Laurence ? You know I am ready to go there, or anywhere—with you. I make that a condition—absurd, isn't it ? I ought to have got tired of you long before this." " I should think so," he replied, hiding behind a smile the agony.her loving trifling cost him. " They say that married folk generally get sick of each other before the honeymoon is over. I suppose we are the exception which proves the rule. By the way, Laurence, she went on, with mock gravity, " if ever you should get tired of me I hope you will have the kindness and the common sense to tell me so. I should be dreadfully cut up, but I should much prefer to know the truth to going on living the kind of lives some husbands and wives live." " Very good I'll tell you," he said. " I'm glad you mentioned it." " That's a bargain," she said. " Mind, I expect you to keep to it. And I warn you, I shall know in a moment the very first moment you get tired of me." "How would you know?" he asked, scarcely conscious of what he was saying. She laughed at him scornfully. " Why, by the look in your eyes the very touch of your hand. I wouldn't want to wait until you fell in love with some other woman." He winced and looked down. " Don't speak of such a sacrilege, even in jest," he said, and his voice sounded almost stern. She looked at him with surprise. " Why, as if such a thing were possible !" she said ; then she laughed. "Do you know, Laurence—l'm afraid you'll think me vain and conceited, but it's the truth — should as soon think of entertaining the absurd idea that you. would get tired of me, or fall in love with another woman, as that I should weary of you and nourish a passion for another man ! "No more breakfast ? Laurence, you are not well Let us go home—to Levondale, I mean." How thankfully, how gladly would he have assented if it were possible ! But already the chains which bound him in such terrible bondage began to clank and gall. " I'm afraid we can't leave London ju3t at present," he said. " Why not ?" she demanded. " Well, I've promised to speak in the House on the Weights and Measures Bill.' She laughed. "What do you know about weights and measures, Laurence ?" " .Nothing. That's why I'm going to speak," he said, with forced levity. " Then, again, there is—is the Starbright dance." Ida shrugged her shoulders. "That need not keep us," she said, " though Lady Starbright was flattering enough to say that she had got it up for our benefit.' " We had better go," he said. He took the Times, and unfolded it and held it before his face, then laid it down again. What was the use of trying to hide behind it? He could not go through life with a newspaper as a screen between him and her loving eyes. So he looked straight before him, and at her, as he said :

" By the way, Ida, do you think you could get a card for a friend of mine?" "Of course," she said—"for twenty, if you want them. Who is it? Not Bobby? He has one already. In fact, Lady Starbright is going the way to spoil Master Robert Dunbar. The way she pets him and puts up with his cool impudence is disgraceful ! I shall have to speak to her about it. One cannot have one's only brother utterly spoiled without lifting up one's voice in remonstrance. But who is your friend, Laurence ?" She put the question carelessly, and intent upon her dainty coffee-pot. " She is a Mrs. Markwood," he replied, slowly, and without attempting a feigned carelessness; for he knew any such attempt would not only be futile, but betray him. "A lady !" said Ida, with faint surprise. " Mrs. Markwood ? I don't remember the name." " You do not know her," he said, calmly, although almost beside himself. " She has only just come back to London from abroad, where she has been for some years." " Really And she is an old friend of yours ? Where did you meet her, Laurence ?" ' He fought down the bitterness of revolt against his fate, and answered calmly as before : "I met her by chance, the other day, and she"—he paused for half a second— " she expressed a desire to know you." " How nice of her ! Is she nice, Laurence ?" He made a gesture which might pass for assent. "Is she old or young? Old, I suppose, though I don't know why one should always imagine a ' Mrs.' to be elderly. Do you know her husband He got up and fetched a book from the shelves " Her husband is dead," he replied, with his back to Ida. " Yes ; I knew him. She is not old— rather young." "Poor woman !" murmured Ida, softly— " young and a widow ! Of course I will get the card for her. I will drive round to Lady Starbright this morning. And hadn't I better call on Mrs.— What was the name, Laurence ?" " Markwood," he said ; and his voice sounded harsh and strained in his ears. " Rather a nice name," said Ida. " And she is nice, you say ? I'll take the card to her, Laurence. It will be a sort of introduction. Shall we have her to dinner? Just a little party of half a dozen" " No, no !." he said, scarcely knowing what he was saying. "She— rather be quiet, I think." "But she wants to go to the Starbrights' !" He put his hand to his brow, and took up his letters. She got up, and pub her hands over his eyes', and laid her head on his. i "Now wait a moment before you dive into those letters and disappear from the surface for the next half hour. No; you forgot that you haven't told me her address." He paused a second or two. Could he go on with it ? Was a life of endless falsehoods, of ceaseless deceit, possible, endurable ? ■ " Mrs. Markwood i©?taying at 22, Clan-brook-street, for the present," he said. " Perhaps it isn't necessary for you to call. You could send the card to her." "Oh! but why shouldn't I call?" she paid. " I should like to be nice to this old friend of yours, Laurence. I haven't had many opportunities of this kind, as yet.*' And you'll see how really nice I can be When I try. I'll go to Lady Starbright, and then straight to Mrs. Markwood's ; and I'll try and get her to come and dine with us. She shall be an old friend of mine, if she likes. There ! now you can go to your letters ;" and, with a kiss, she left the room. V Levondale let his head fall upon his hands, and groaned. Judith's revenge had commenced ! [To be continued.]