LOVE, THE TYRANT.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 11564, 30 January 1901, Page 3

LOVE, THE TYRANT.

BY CEABLES GABVICE, Author of " The Shadow of Her Life." "A Heritage of Ha:e," " Nell of Shorne Mills," "Heart for Heart," "By Devious Ways," " Jist A Girl," " On Love's Altar," " Queen Kate," " The Out cast cf the Family," "She Trusted Him," " Once in a Life," ' Better Than Life," . : Itc, Etc., Etc. :

j CHAPTER XXX. ! Jack Gordon pondered what the parcel, ! which the young woman seemed so anxious :to conceal from him, contained; but he was ' not particularly curious, and not very much ! interested. In London one grows accus- ! tomed.to the mystery which surrounds one's 'nearest neighbour; it is quite possible to live next door to i.'man for years without knowing his name, and one feels no great surprise on discovering one morning that he is an eminent statesmen or a notorious thief. . Jack was too absorbed in his own affairs, and in his hopeless love, to bestow much attention on or to give much thought to his fellow lodger; but he did mention to Mordy Jane when he came home to dinner next day that the occupant of his former room had slipped on coining up the stairs the preceding night and that he hoped that she hadn't sprained her ankle. " Oh, slipped, did she?." said Mordy Jane, with her precocious sharpness; " that's the first time I knowed her like that." "You're quite mistaken, Mordy Jane," said Jack. " She was perfectly sober." "I'm glad to hear it," said Mordy Jane. " I haven't seed her go out to-day; but sometimes she doesn't go out till quite the evening." "I would go up and see how she was," suggested Jack. " Well, p'r'haps I might," said Mordy Jane. " Not that I like to interfere with the lodgers, especially when they keep themselves to theirselves as Miss Woods does. It's never more than ' good evening, Miss Jacob,' or p'r'haps, 'Mordy Jane,' and it's never more than 'good evening, Miss Woods, an' I hope you're well,' from me. We're always what you might call civil but distant."

"Well," said Jack, "you run upstairs, Mordy Jane, and ask how she is; that will be civil, and you can maintain the distance by keeping outside the door. I've an idea, I don't know why, that she'd rather you didn't go in; she looked so scared when she dropped her bundle, and she closed the.door upon me pretty sharply." ." Her bundle?" said Mordy Jane, sharply, " you didn't say anything about a bundle and I never saw her with one."

" Well, she may not carry it every night," said Jack. "It was a small bundle and she must have carried it under her cloak, for I didn't see it until it actually dropped." " There's what you might call a 'idden myst'ry about Miss Woods," said Mordy Jane, musingly, as she helped Jack to potatoes. "Father thinks she's in the profession because of her 'air; but I tells him you can dye yer 'air without being a music hall arteeste."

" She lives quite alone?" said Jack, " Yes, and nobody ever comes to see her, not even on Sundays; and she don't work in any of the factories here or else I should know of it. That's why I call her a 'idden myst'ry, like what you read of in the novelettes.— Father, drink yer beer before it gets flat. Father moons wus than ever, Mr. Gordon. That's the worst of the bootmaking trade; it seems as if you can do it while you're half asleep, after you've been doin' it for so many years. Now, you've just got time for a pipe, young.man, before you go back to your work. Here','* your tobacco and here's the matches."

While Jack was obediently smoking his pipe— the child, she was little more, dominated Jack almost as completely as she did her father—she went upstairs to interview Miss Woods.

She came down again presently with her ridiculous bonnet a little more on one side than usual, her childishly shrewd face red, and her chin uptilted." " Oh, she's says she's all right," she informed Jack ; " "that she didn't hurt herself last night, but that I'm to tell you she's very much obliged to you for coming down the stairs to help herat least, that's what I think she said; but she didn't speak very loud, and she kept the door closed as if she was afraid if she opened it I should rush in and steal something. I don't 'old witlyuich suspicious ways meself. But there ! different people has different ways. It's about time yout was goin', isn't it? Father you can get back to your bench again, as you're pining to. I really do believe you're never happy without a boot in your hand. There's that Tommy Rogers knocking holes in the door with his top again. Tommy!" —in a shrill voice that rang through Jack's and her father's ears and struck Tommy with sudden dismay" take that top of yours and play on your own doorstep. It'll fly into the room presently and 'it father on the 'ead, an' then you an' your top'll be tried for murder, and serve you right, too. There's too many kids in Chase-street, Mr. Gordon; they makes life a burden." She darted past Jack in pursuit of Tommy, who had recovered sufficiently to put out his tongue at her before talcing to flight, and had bolted down the street. Jack went back to his work, and thought no more of the "'idden myst'ry" of Miss Woods. He tried to think as little of Es-1 ther Vancourt; but that was impossible. It j was very hot at the docks that day, and the ! work was particularly hard; but he was not sorry for the last fact, for Jack did not care how. hard the work •.was, so long as.it was physical, and not mental; but it certainly did occur to him that it would be as well, perhaps, if he went back to Australia or one of the other colonies. But, though he had resolved not to go back to Vancourt, it was hard for him to make up his mind to put the seas between himself and Esther. Still, the idea of Australia hung in his mind, so to speak, and that evening after supper he went out for a. stroll to consider the pros and cons. He was passing through one of the crowded thoroughfares when he saw a small crowd collected round something or someone. He was passing by without any curiosity to ascertain the cause, for crowds are common in London streets, when he heard one of the bystanders exclaim: — " Poor thing! and she a widow, too ! The police ought to be more sharper!" Jack pulled up mechanically, and asked what was the matter. A lady with a cabbage and a pound of candles under her arm made haste to inform him. "A lidy has had her pocket picked," she said, with indignant sympathy. " They've been an' took 'er purse with all *er money seven an' sixpence halfpenny and a return ticket to Chelmsford, where she was goin' back to 'er son, who's lyin' dangerously ill with an incurable complaint. It's all the money she 'ave; an' she a widow, too, poor woman!" Jack looked over the heads of the crowd and saw in the middle a woman decently dressed in deep mourning, with the frill of j muslin in her bonnet, which nowadays in- j dicates the widow. She had her handker- j chief up and was crying quietly, while two or three women round her were endeavouring to console her in the fluent Cockney language, and bogging her to "keep up." Jack, who possessed a heart that was as readily, touched by the sight of a woman in distress as that of an Adelphi hero, took out half a crown and handed"it to the woman who was nearest to the plundered widow, and with a nod, and a " Give her that," passed on his way. When he got home he related the incident, omitting any mention of the half crown to Mordy Jane, who was unsympathetic -to remark, that the woman must have been a Juggins to let anyone pick her pocket, and that she, Mordy Jane, would like to see anyone trying it on with her! The following evening Jack, while walking in quite an opposite direction, saw a similar crowd, and on stopping to ascertain the cause, was somewhat nettled, though grimly amused, to find that a decently dressed widow had just had her pocket picked, and that in addition to ihe loss of her money, she had been deprived of a return ticket to Winchester, where a husband with a broken leg anxiously awaited her. Jack made a rapid calculation as to the quantity of tobacco he could have bought for that half crown, and for a moment was tempted to give the woman into custody and charge her with the ingenious fraud; but, of course, he thought better of it, and with a smile at his own simplicity and credulity, he left

the clever imposter to gather : the reward of her ingenuity from the sympathising spectators of her fictitious distress. He made rather a long round of it that night, and was entering the upper end of Chase-street, when he saw a woman dressed in black walking down the street just in front of him. There seemed to be something familiar to him about her figure, and as she turned into a small court he caught a glimpse of her face. That, too, seemed,familiar to him, and, as he saw that she wore a widow's bonnet, he recognised her as the woman he had seen on the last two evenings playing the " pickpocket dodge." The court was a cul-de-sac, and, though Jack did not know it, the resort of thieves and similar gentry. He paused at the mouth of the court and looked in absently, and as he paused the figure of a woman emerged from one of the deep doorways within, and passed him hiding her head down and walking quickly. As she passed from the darkness of the court into the light thrown by the grimy lamp, Jack caught the glimpse of canary-coloured hair, at once thought of Miss Woods, his fellowlodger, and was somewhat suprised to find that she resembled her. He walked on behind her, and presently saw that it was indeed the lady whom Mordy Jane called a " 'idden myst'ry." She stopped at the Jacobs' door, and hurriedly inserted a key, looked round furtively and anxiously, and seeing Jack close behind her, she uttered a little exclamation, a mixture of fear and recognition, and stood with a nervous, deprecatory smile on her faded face. In her hurry she had stuck the key in crookedly, and could not open the door. Of course Jack opened it for her, and with many thanks she took the key from him and went upstairs, holding the balustrade as she had done on the night he had first seen her. He noticed that she kept her left arm under her cloak, which was loose and grey in colour. She closed the bedroom door quickly, so that if he had desired to get a glimpse of the —which he certainly did not—Jack .could not have done so.

In the morning Jack told Mordy Jane of his second happening on the guileful widow. Mordy Jane nodded knowingly.

" I thought there was some take-in in it," she said; " widows, as a reg'lar thing, are too sharp to be 'ad, even by pickpockets. That court you saw her go down is called Piper's Sack; and they're a reg'lar bad lot down there."

"I wonder what Miss Woods was doing there last night," said Jack, half to himself ; but Mordy's sharp ears heard him.

" Did you see her there?" she asked. "I shouldn't have thought it of her. That's rum! Well, that makes 'er more of a 'idden mys'try than ever." Jack laughed as he lit his pipe and went out; there seemed to him so very little of the mysterious in his fellow-lodger, excepting that she carried beneath her cloak a bundle which she evidently "desired to conceal, but which probably contained nothing nore mysterious than some dress materials upon which she worked during the day. For all his hard work, time dragged very slowly for Jack, and he began to think more seriously of Australia. Though now and again he held short conversations with Ibis fellow-labourers, and smoked a pipe in a shady corner with some man who happened to be engaged on the same job with him, he made no friends or acquaintances, and always returned from the docks to the Jacobs' directly his work was over. One evening, however, he went up to the Lambeth baths and had a swim; and after his bath, feeling rather hungry, he turned in at a coffee-house and had some supper; then he lit his pipe and prepared to walk home to Chase-street. He was crossing Lambeth Bridge in the faint grey light which comes from the pallid moon which shines above London in .the summer, when he saw a girl leaning against the side of the bridge. Her attitude was one of utter , weariness and dejection, her head was leaning on her hand, her elbow on the bridge coping; the other hand hung limply by her side, and her head was drooped, and her eyes fixed on the peasoup river which flows beneath that most sordid of bridges.

There was something in the attitude, the drooping of the figure, that appealed to Jack. She looked so lonely, so dejected, such an embodiment of the weariness of the great city, that wearines which every Londoner has felt some time or other.

Jack paused, and, affecting to look over his side of the bridge, glanced at her. A shawl concealed her head and face, as it was turned from him; but suddenly the shawl slipped slightly, and even in that murky light Jack caught the glimpse of gold-bronze hail' — golden-bronze that recalled to him the marvellous colour of Kate Transom's ; just as the canary hue of the hair of the woman emerging from the court had recalled Miss Woods. " That turned out to be my mysterious lodger," said Jack to himself; "but, thank goodness! this girl, though she's got the same coloured hair as Kate Transom, can't be Kate." At that moment the girl drew a long breath was almost a sob—and, clasping her arms, let her head fall upon them with a gesture of infinite despair: then she raised her head and looked from the water to the railing of the bridge and back again. Instinctively Jack knew what that glance meant; she was thinking about throwing herself over. He strode across the roadway and laid his hand upon her arm without a'word. She uttered a low cry and recoiled from his touch, the shawl fell from her face, and to his amazement he saw that it was Kate Transom. Neither of them spoke for a moment, but gazed at each other with mutual wonder and incredulity. Her face was deathly white, her lips livid, and there was a pinched look about her cheeks and nose which Jack knew well; for he had once been one of a party which had lost its way in the bush, and been without food for three days. If he could believe his eyes, if he were not dreaming, this was Kate Transom whom he had left at Vancourt, Kate Transome alone in London, and apparently starving. She continued to gaze at him, as if she indeed were in a dream, whatever he might be, as if she were looking on a vision. Than Jack spoke her name. "Kate!" he said, wonderingly. "Is it you'/" At the sound of his voice, a look came upon her face as if she were awakening, a long, low cry broke from her parted lips, her eyes closed for a moment, then opened upon him at first with infinite tenderness, and then with a look of fear and ;<prehension, which completely transformed her face. " You ! You— last, at last!" she breathed; and she dropped back against the wall of the bridge, and grasped it with one hand while the other was pressed to her heart. '" Yes, it's I," said Jack. " This is a strange meeting! How do you come here? Why are you herealoneyou are alone, are you not'''" " Yes," she said, almost in a whisper. She was trembling now, and the hand with which she tried to draw the shawl around her head shook like a leaf; but her eyes were soon fixed upon him steadily, eyes that seemed to burn, in their agony of anxiety and apprehension, from the haggard pallor of her face. Jack saw that she was very ill, that she was scarcely able to speak, either from weakness or agitation. " Take my arm. Kate," he said; for the " Miss Transom" seemed too formal and inappropriate at such a. moment. "Let me help you. You are ill, I am afraid. She shook her head. '" I can walk," she said. j She moved forward, and mechanically he moved with her. - ' ' "Where are you going?" he asked. "Is it far from here? Are you staying with friends? If it's far, I "don't think you ought to walk, and we will take a cab." She looked at him dreamily, and shook Tier head slowly. "I have no friends; I am not staying anywhere," she said. "I have nowhere to go." The answer was given quite gravely and simply, and to say that : Jack was at first struck dumb by amazement and horror only faintly describes the effect upon him. "No friends! Nowhere to go!" ho exclaimed. " Surely you must be mistaken, Kate! Where are you staying in London —what lodging—".. .''She shook her head again, and her eyea drew slowly from his face, as if reluctant to leave it, and gazed straight before her. " I am not staying at any place; I have no friends," she said; and she spoke ! the words in a low. monotone, not of despair

nor even of complaint, but a monotone which had something of restfulness and peace and contentedness. Jack took her arm and pressed it gently, for it seemed ;to him as if she were only half awake, or in a kinu of stupor. : See here, Kate," he said, " try and explain. I find you here, on a London bridge, late at night, and you say that >■■■ you are alone, and that you've no place to go to. I can scarcely believe my eyes or my ears. I left you at Vancourt comfortable and happy—" She turned her white face upon him, and, with a strange smile, echoed the last word. "Happy—not happy! ah, not happy!" , Jack drew her arm completely within his. "Tell me all about it," he said, gently, soothingly. "When did you come up'/" ' Nearly a week ago," she said. "I can scarcely rememberl do not know. The days have passed— She shuddered. "But it doesn't matter now.''

She did not look at him, but a faint smile crept over he., face, making it weirdly beautiful.

"And why did you come up?" asked Jack. "Why did you leave Vancourt?" " I came because—" she began, dreamily; then she stopped with a slight flush. " And where have you beenwhat have you been —since you came up?" "I don't know," she answered, in the same low voice. " I could not tell you. I have been walking about all the time, ! through the big streets and the quiet ones, resting at night on a doorway or on the seats by the river slept there last night a woman gave me some food—it was a piece of breadshe shared it between.her child and me—"

" Good God exclaimed Jack. "Do you mean to tell me that you've been wandering about London for days and nights, with nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat?" She listened, with the 'same smile on her face, as if his words, his : voice, were bestowing upon her a consolation which effaced all the.; memory of those awful days and nights, and dulled her present pain and sense of weakness.

" I had a little money at first," she said, almost inaudibly; " but I soon spent it; and I didn't know where to go, so I just slept where I saw the other poor people j sleeping." "But I don't understand!" exclaimed■ Jack. " Have you quarrelled with your father, has anything happened to cause you to come up to London like this, in this helpless, solitary fashion? At any rate, whatever is the matter, you must go back: to your father; to Vancourt, at once!" She stopped, and her lips moved as if she were repeating his words, as if she were trying 'to master their meaning. Then suddenly she turned to him and grasped his arm, her large eyes dilating with fear, her pale lips trembling. "No, no she panted, "I cannot, I will not! I dare not! I left because they might ask me questions, might get the truth out of me, might ask me why— you had left Vancourt!" Jack stared at her, then he changed colour and bit his lip. ! " You— know why I left Vancourt?" he said, with a frown. She glanced round cautiously as if she were afraid they should be overheard. " Yes. 'Hush !" she replied, and her grasp tightened on his arm, her eyes flooded his face with infinite tenderness with the protective tenderness of the woman. " Yes, I know!" Her eyes wandered, her lips parted, the dreamy expression settled on her face. "I shall find him," she murmured. "London* is a large place, but I shall find him!" She took her hand from Jack's arm, and, with a sigh, drew her shawl about her head, and seemed about to move away as if she had forgotten him; then suddenly she swayed to and fro and would have fallen if Jack had not been near enough to catch ber. They had turned down a side street, one of the quiet streets of • Lambeth, and they were alone. She lay in a dead faint in Jack's arms, and as he held her he wondered what on earth he could do: call a policeman, get her into a cab, take her—where?

(To be continued on Saturday next.)