THE SHADOW OF LIFE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVII, Issue 11433, 25 July 1900, Page 3

THE SHADOW OF LIFE.

. BY CHARLES GABVICE, Author ; of "A Heritage of Hate,","Nell of I Shorne Mills," " Heart for Heart," , • <: '.'By Devious Ways," "Just a - . " , Girl," " She Trusted Him," i ; . ." Better than Lifo," j. ' "•_ r y- • • etc. •: -

i'- h CHAPTER XXXl.—(Continued,) ' } One day there came a letter from Terence, and she took it to her room and locked the door, and stood white, and panting with, emotion. It was a short letter and written guardedly, as if he feared that- it might fall into other hands but hers. There .had been a battle, and he had been slightly wounded; only slightly, and he begged her not to be alarmed. There were one or two cautious words of endearment; and he implored her not to forget , their last .meeting.. He did not think' the war would last long, and he would come back as soon as it was over. Reading between the lines, Madge could discern the love that breathed in the letter. She kissed it and pressed it to her bosom, her face hot and' flushed; then suddenly _it flashed upon her that the love was not intended for her but for Irene, that he believed himself to be the husband of Irene! . Her face grew white, and she set her teeth hard. What would happen, what would he say, what would he do when he came home and discovered the trick she had, played upon him? She quailed at the thought, but for a moment only. He was a man and she was a woman—and a beautiful one. And she loved him with a passion of which, she told herself, the cold Irene was incapable. If she could have him to herself for an hour,

only one hour! She carried the letter in her bosom, and she was thinking of it now as she lay back in her chair with her half-closed eyes resting listlessly on the gems. There came a knock at the door and Lucy entered. In her loneliness, Madge had come to treat this girl, who had accepted her from the first without question, with a certain friendliness. She always kept her near her to ward off dangerous visitors; she gave her orders to the servants through Lucy, and made a kind of companion of her ; and Lucy had become attached to Madge. Like the* rest of those of whom Madge had come in contact, Lucy had noticed what she thought to be a change in Lady Irene, and at times the girl was puzzled by it; but Lucy was too well-trained a servant to ponder over the moods and manners of her mistress, and her gratitude for Madge's kindnoes and liberality dulled any suspicion she might have had. "Is that you, Lucy," said Madge. " Come and help me choose between these two silks. I like the soft one, but the other is richer, and would suit me better, I think. You may send these things- back to the jeweller's. They are not good enough; they are no belter and very little different to what I have already." She yawned and stretched her arms, as Irene had never done. " I think I will have the carriage and go for a drive, and you may come with me. We will go to Cerise's and see those new bonnets she writes about. I wish' I could have a little mauve or violet in the trimming; Ido not look well with so much black against my face. I think she might put in a little border of tulle. But then I shall look like a widow, shall I not, and I am not a widow." She stopped suddenly, and the blood rushed to her face, then left it pale. Terence was wounded; if he should die! Her heart almost stood still. "Yes, my lady," said Lucy—Madge had not yet got quite used to the "my lady," i-nd she never heard it without a thrill of triumph and satisfaction—" but I came to tell your ladyship that Mr. Redmayne wishes to see you." • Madge started, the colour left her face, and she turned away. Mr. Redmayne ! Of all the Marcias' friends, Madge most dreaded meeting him. He had been Irene's most intimate friend, would be one of the most likely to detect tho imposture. She never saw his name in the papers— the papers seined lately to be full of him—without a.' little quiver of dread. "I cannot see him, Lucy," she said. " You know that Ido not see anyone. How dare you!" "It was not my fault, my lady," said Lucy, meekly; " the r.ew footman said you were at home."

"Co and see Mr. Redmayne; tell him that lam not well." Then she stopped and set her teeth. She would have to see him sooner or later. Why not now? If he detected her, she would declare the truth, claim her right. It was no use putting off toe evil day. Her luck and her audacity haa carried her through many ordeals, it irugh', cany her through this. ' Stay, Lucy ! I will see Mr. Redmayne. Pull down that blind, draw the curtain ; I have a bad headache and cannot bear so much light. ■ Now you oan show Mr. Redmayne in ; but, mind, come the moment I ring the boll, and show him out."

" Yes, my lady," said Lucy, wondering, a little at Lady Irene's changed attitude towards Mr. Redmayne, whom in the old days sho had always been so glad to see. Sho found Redmayne in the drawing-room. He was pacing up and down, looking at the familiar objects with a subdued emotion, thinking of his coming meeting with the girl he loved with all the strength and passion of a strong and ardent nature. Would she meet him coldly? Did she still bear resentment of his treatment of her the last time they met? Not an object m the room but caused him a thrill: the chair iu which she used to sit, the piano at which she played. The man who has loved will understand how much Redmayne was moved by these inanimate things which Irene had made sacred by her touch. " My lady will see you, sir," said Lucy. Ho followed her into the dim room, and saw a slim and girlish figure sitting, almost reclining, on the couch. Even at that moment he was struck by the changed appearance of the room; something in the supine and weak attitude of the figure on the sofa seemed strange to him. She did not rise, but held out her hand limply, nervously. He took it and held it for a moment. As he did so, the sense of strangeness impressed him still more strongly; she seemed to have moved leagues away from him.

" It is very good of you to see me, Irene," he said. "I liavi tried to see you many times; but I can ■;uite understand why you should shrink from meeting old friends, why the sight of them should open the old wound of your great sorrow. But I was your father's closest friend ; I am your guardian, and I am compelled to intrude on your seclusion and your grief." She drew her haud away and covered her eyes with it. She had thrown an Indian shawl over her head, and Redmayne had scarcely obtained a glimpse of the face which was now almost completely concealed from him. Before his entrance she had swiftly wheeled the sofa with its back to the. shaded window, so that she was almost in darkness. He waited for her to speak, waited with feverish eagerness. How often had he heard Irene's voice in his dreams! But she did not speak, and lie went on : " But though I have not been able to see you, Irene, my heart has been full of sympathy for you, with the longing to console you for the grief which I share. Your father was my dearest friend; but I will not speak of him. You and I have been friends, Irene, and I have come to remind you of that. Irene, you must endeavour to bear and conquer this great sorrow of yours. It is not good for, you that you should remain in seclusion, that you should slum all your old friends—friends whose hearts bleed for you. You have avoided us all, you have kept us at arm's-length; let me beg of you not to do so any longer. Such grief as yours is, I know, inconsolable; but, Irene, there are duties which fall to our lot, duties which we may not neglect. Let the thought of those nerve you to an effort to take your place in that world in which your father bore so noble a part." He waited, but still she did not speak, only sobbed behind a lace handkerchief. _ " Last night I saw the duchess," he continued. " She was greatly grieved by your refusal to sec her. She lias" been a mother to you; her heart aches for you. Irene, you must see her; she has gone to Cannes now" —Madge could scarcely suppress an exclamation of relief—"but when she returns I hope you will go to her. She, too, has suffered—suffered in her love for Go and comfort' her, Irene,'' and find, comfort for yourself." - : -..:- ■ ■' . " ■ \. ■•" •'; He ; waited, and Madge, feeling 'she must speak,- murmured . behind her ; handkerchief: " Yes, I will." ' ...",

: Redmayne had been thirsting for (he sound of Irene's voice, but when Madge had spoken, the 'thirst was not assuaged. ; The i words were scarcely audible, the tones were muffled : in • sobs. The feeling of strangeness, of aloofness, struck him again like a chill. K " Of myself I will say nothing," he said, ■" excepting that I beg you ' not,- to ] forget that ' I am still your'? friend." He paused, and his lip quivered; he, thought of the' night, and felt that she, too, 5 must be thinking of-the night when he had drawn her to him and called her "dearest." "I claim no higher title; .but I do. beg that you will not avoid me, Irene; that you, 'wilf comei to me in all your needs, as a friend. . I am your guardian, and there must be many things I hope— I hope I can do for you. To help you, to be your friend, is the great desire of my life. Don't baulk it, Irene." " No," she murmured. He stood looking down at her silently for a moment.' Was this the Irene who, the last time they met, had clung to him, whose head had rested on his breast, who had poured out her heart to him? How changed she was! " I will go now, Irene," he said. "I am glad that I have seen you. I promised the duchess I would see you and that I would write to her. May I tell her that you will go and stay with her when she comes back?" As he spoke, the sun broke forth, and a ray fell across the sofa-upon which Madge lay. She saw, felt it, and rose to move into the shade. In doing so, she had'to pass Redmayne. Something in her movements, in the poise of her head, struck him with an increased sense of strangeness. He looked at her with his brows knit, with a puzzled, bewildered feeling oppressing him. . "Irene, you are ill—you must not shut yourself up. Think of ■ the hearts that ache for you!" . He advanced a step towards her. Madge shrank away from him. The cold hand of fear clasped her heart; the moment of detection was at hand. She shrank back until she reached the wall; then she stretched out her hand, and murmured : "Go now. lam not well; I cannot bear—" Redmayne took her hand and held it firmly. " I will go, Irene," he said. " I will no't come to youunless you want me; but you will remember what I have said?" "Yes—yes," she murmured, covering her face with her hands. She kept them there until Redmayne had left the room. In the hall, while the footman gave him Ins hat, Redmayne felt *.*e a man dazed and bewildered. Was this cold, shrinking woman tho Irene he knew and loved? He left the house, crushed by the feeling of strangeness, of distance, between them. When the door had closed upon him, Madge dropped her hands from her face and threw back her head with a sense of relief aud even of triumph ; she had deceived even the great Mr. Redmayne, Irene's closest frienu. Now she could dare anything. She went up to her room, and, with Lucy's aid, put on the priceless sables, and descended to the magnificent carriage which awaited her. The sense of satisfaction and triumph shrilled through every vein during the drive ; she actually felt herself to be the Lady, lrene whose place she had taken. There were more people in too park than usual, and every n.ow and then she was greeted by upraised hat and bow, and Madge returned the greeting with an air of confidence and security. She came back to Carlton Terrace in the best of spirits. Mr. Redmayne would not come till she sent for him—and that would not be for a long time. She would go abroad until the months of conventional mourning had passed ; abroad she might even venture to go into half mourning. On her way home she had looked in at Madame Cerise's and chosen two or three of her most charming bonnets, and had seen at the jeweller's a set of rubies which stirred even Madge's critical desire. She felt secure, almost happy. If only TerenceLucy took off her mistress' costly sables and earned the afternoon tea into the luxurious boudoir; and Madge was sitting over the fire, sipping her tea and nibbling her toast, thinking how completely she had deceived the great Mr. Redmayne, when Lucy came in, and in an apologetic way said: ) "A man—a person— to see you, my lady." Madge looked round languidly. "Who is it, Lucy?" she asked. " He wouldn't give any name, my lady," said Lucy. "He said that he wanted to see you on particular business." Madge took up her tea-cup with an air of indifference. " Yon know I scarcely see anyone, Lucy," she said. "What is he like?" "Well, my lady, he looks like a sort of working man,' said Lucy, with hesitation. Madge shook her head. " I do not know any working man, Lucy," she said. "Ask him what he wants. He had better see the butler. Ido not understand his asking for me." "No, my lady." assented Lucy, respectfully. "Ho wo'nlditft tell the butler, and he's most persistent. I think he's come begging, my lady." Madge laughed half scornfully; then i-he remenfbered her assumed character. Irene would never have refused to see anyone who was in trouble or distress. She must play Irene's part. "You can let him come in, Lucy," she said ; " but sky in the room, and take him away directly I nod to you." Lucy went out. Madge heard a soft, shuffling step ascend the stairs; the door opened, and a thin figure, holding a rough cap in his hand, entered the room with head thrust forward, and colourless eyes that threw a deprecatory glance around. It looked like a white rat, half slinking, half audacious, an embodiment of fear and cunning strangely incongruous with its luxurious surroundings. Madge turned her head with languid, haughty indifference, with a kind of amused contempt. But as her eyes rested on the servile figure, the thin face, the colourless eyes, the rat-like mouth, she shrank back in her chair, her face went deathly white, and her heart seemed to cease beating. She recognised the human rat in an instant. It was Splay—it was Slim, the thief, the coiner, whom she had last seen on the night he was arrested, the night .her grandmother's death! The apparition—for so it seemed to her— so sudden, so unexpected, that she was appalled and almost deprived of breath and the courage to meet it. Her eyes, wide open with terror, with horror, were chained to the slinking figure as it stood in the centre of the richly-appointed room—stood with its Head bent, its hands nervously twisting and turning the fur cap. For a moment, which seemed an age to Madge, she stared at it silently ; then, fighting hard for composure, for courage, she forced a conventional smile and nodded to Lucy to leave tho room. Lucy went out, but the silence was unbroken; tne slinking, rat-like figure scorned too afraid to speajc, and Madge's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.

At sight of the man, back came the past like a torrent flooding and effacing the present. She was once more Madge, the outoast, tho street girl, cowering on tie stairs of the house in Baldwin's Rents. Not years, not months or davs, but only moments, seemed to have elapsed since then. The whole scene of the night of her grandmother's death rose before her; she heard the old, woman's screech, tho detective's voice, the hollow, hideously expressionless tones of Splay as he stood handcuffed and smiling horribly. And this man, this miserable wretch, this scum of the gutter, had recognised her, had come to denounce her! It was past belief, too horrible in its grotesqueness. That the duchess, Redmayne, any of Irene's friends should have detected her would have been at least natural and almost tolerable; but that this human rat should have been the agent of Nemesis was maddening. White as a sheet, she clutched the arms of her chair and stared at him. Alarmed by tho silence, the splendour of the room, Splay raised his head and looked at her, As he did so, as his eyes met hers, a strango, puzzled expression crept into his colourless ones. Madge felt compelled to speak. " You wish to see me?" she said, trying to speak with conventional languor and condescension ; but her voice sounded hollow and unlike hers in her own ears. Splay moistened his lips and crouched a little lower. " Yes, my lady, I've took that liberty," he' said; and Madge shuddered as the familiar horror of his voice smote on her ear. " I've took.that liberty, your gracious ladyship, thinkin' as ow yo'd like to 'ear soinctliin' as 'as come to my knowledge; I'm only a poor working cove, ! not fit ter come inter this jxrerooni an' to stand afore yer; but I'm a man, yer gracious: lady, which Ulobs his dooty.' an* it's my duty to tell ladyship wot come ter my knowledge respectin' yerself." ,'•■■ -'■ - •; -■ "

s He drew Lis cap across his lips and blinked at Madge, as if she were altogether too high and splendid a personage for Trim to gaze at openly.''; Madge held her breath, ■■• - ■'■'.'■ " "You may go on," she said, graciously. " What is your name?" *i"My .name's Splay," he said. "It ain't likely you've ever,heard it, :me lady." b-Madge ' started, and looked at him half fearfully, ', half curiously.;•• Vv ~,. -"_' ;,:." I'm a cove of no account," he went on, "and it's honly Jby a haccident that I've got 'old of a bit bv hinformation as I thinks yer ladyship would like ter know of." Madge moistened her lips very much as he had done..•■'/■-,■.;'. --v-' ■■•.'■■■-'■■' ■■ - ■;' "I don't understand you," she said, languidly, her mind occupied with the 'question."- ''■':- ■ '"' >■;. '~l How was it he nad not recognised her? She forgot the years that had passed and her luxurious surroundings. If Splay had met her clothed in rags, in some slum, recognition might have been easy: but in this luxurious room, in her rich apparel, his inability to detect the old Madge was comprehensible enough. <•• -. He 'fidget-ted" with his cap and glanced from side to side. .. "It's a long ..'story,' ray'lady," he said, " but I'll try to make it clear. It's all along ov a gal I once knew called Madge." Madge rose involuntarily and stood looking at him with outward 'calm, but with a horror and a terror which racked her, heart. (To he continued on' Saturday next.)