THE LOST LADY OF HADDON.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 11686, 22 June 1901, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE LOST LADY OF HADDON.

BY BERTHA M. CLAY, Author of " Thrown on the World," " A Bitter Atonement," " His Wife's Judgment," "Every Inch a. Queen," " ilar-

jorio Deane," etc.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

SIX iiOXTJIS AFTEF.WARD. Not all at once is pain the deadliest foe; it grows with lime, more bitter with the .'.ears.

Six months passed. The golden glory of summer had faded: autumn had given way to the snows and frosts of winter, and as yet no .success rewarded the indefatigable search made for Lady Wyverne.

'J he detectives from London came and went. They spent three long months at Haddon. They went from there to Elmslie. They left no details of her life as child, girl, or woman untold. It lay before them, before the whole word who chose. '0 look, the purest rewind of a pure life. There Mas not a secret in it. There was not the faintest shadow of a mystery. It was pure and fair, and stainless as a lily leaf. No jealous lover could have carried her off she nail none. No enemy could have injured her. What enemies had she?—so open of hand, so loving of heart!

Six months! And during that time Mrs. Charlton's hair had whitened, and the weight of years had fallen upon her. (Sir Guy had changed so completely that, in the pale, worn, ami haggard master of lladdon, no one could have recognised the handsome bridegroom of such a comparatively short time ago.

He had done what he could. The day came when he looked blankly into Mrs. Charlton's face and told her he knew nothing else that could be devised or done. Search, advertisement, rewind -all were in vain. lie stood face to face with the fact that his wife was lost beyond recall, and he could do nothing to thai her. Slowly and sadly all further hope was abandoned. The detectives returned vexed ami annoyed. They had. felt sure, not only of claiming the handsome reward, but of having the honour of finding out a mystery that puzzled all Kngltnd. They had failed completely. They were not even able to suggest a clue to the mystery. It was so with the friends most deeply concerned—that all gave it up. lard Lynnton, of Hatherlie, was the last, and the day came when he said thee was no us,' in further effort, for had she been living they would have heard from her before now. So with the Earl of Hauton, who hat! keenly felt the grief til' his young neighbour. Even the countess, who had steadily refused to believe anything fatal had happened, took Guy's hand one day and tried to console him. saying that he could do nothing mora. Every jeweller, every pawnbroker's shop in the kingdom, had been searched : but there was no trace of the diamond ring or of the pearls. They had never been offered in pledge or for sale : so that it seemed clear robbery or plunder had had nothing to do with Lady-Wvverne's fate.

One thing added much to Sir Guy's sorrow. Tie received very angry letters from India; so angry that he was puzzled over them. Captain Charlton could not understand it. He did not say in so many words that he accused Sir day of foul play, or even of cruelty or indifference, but lie said in plain words sin- had not been cared for, or such a thing could never have happened. That, next to the loss of his wife, troubled Sir Guy most. He. who suffered so cruelly: he! whose heart was broken with sorrow: he, to whom every hair of her golden head was dear; and yet lie could not wonder. Had such a thing ever happened before?

There had been hot and angry discussions in the far-off Indian landi Gerald Wynne had wanted to come straight home, and had applied for leave to do so, but it was refused : and Captain Charlton was not able to leave his work.

" Let me live to return," the captain had said, with clenched hands. " Let me live to return. 1 shall go straight to him. ami ask him what he has done with mv sister."

" He surely cannot have hurt or injured her." said Gerald. " for he loved her." "

"There are different kinds of love." said Captain Chariton. Let that bo as it may. He shall answer to me for mv sister."

For, even there, in lawless India, where discipline is so strictly enforced, such a thing was unheard 'of. There were savage murders, cruel outrages, but that a lady •should disappear from the very heart of her home was incredible, unheard of even there.

Mrs. Charlton was vexed that her son took this, what she knew to be a prejudiced view, of the case. She understood how Sir Guy had loved tier daughter, and what her loss had cost him. For six months she remained there, not seeking to comfort him— her sorrow and his was too great for that — but helping hint to bear the load that hud fallen on him.

Claude had outlived his mother's loss, though that had once seemed doubtful. No one doubted that Lady Viola Carcw was in some measure to be thanked for that. She had been all that, was kind and assiduous. She. so haughty, so cold and indifferent, had laid aside all pride to devote herself to the little child whose life had so nearly paid the forfeit of his mother's loss. During those months she saw buf 'little of Sir Guy, neither shunning nor seeking him, but he was not insensible to her kindness. He knew, though he did not see her, that for long hours every day she was with the little one. He saw them together. She so changed from the haughty Viola he had known —caressing, tender, and gentle — teaching the boy just as his own mother would have done. Something of the halo that had once shone round that lost mother seemed to have fallen round her.

Weak words of mine cannot describe Sir Guy's feeling, his sorrow, and his amaze. You. who read, put yourself for one moment in his place. Young, happy, and beloved, his whole heart given to the wife he had won, his every thought and idea centred in her, suddenly, without word or warning, to lose her. Not by sickness that, his love could assuage; not by death; not by lingering illness or tragical accident, but mysteriously, so that he could not tell whether she be living or dead—so that no trace, no clue, could be obtained for love or money.

I have been told—how true it is, thank God, I know not—that the greatest agony a woman can suffer is to know her child is stolen and live; that every hour of the day and night she imagines it to be suffering a thousand tortures. It was so with Sir Guy. Had he known her dead and at rest, he would have felt some kind of relief. At sunrise and at sunset, morning, noon, and night, he would ask himself one question : "Where- is she?" When the winter's wind wailed and moaned, it seemed to him her voice called him in the very anguish of woe. There were nights when he woke, every hair on his head wet with the perspiration of fright, thinking he heard Magdalene cry out: "Help me, tiny; help me! I am in tortun ; help me—quick!" lie would rise then, like one distracted. He would pace the desolate rooms, lie would kiss with passionate tears the pillow on which her head had lain ; he would cry aloud for Iter, in the passionate abandonment of his grief. Sweeter dreams came to him at times. The violet eyes rained down love upon him : the beautiful, tender face kissed his own; the white hands caressed him. She was. with him again—peerless, in love and beauty. Perhaps that awakening was harder than any other. He would stretch out his hands in dumb despair, knowing it was but a am, and she was lost.

Never, in his own mind, or thought -. could he form any idea as to what: the mystery was. He never doubted her. Some men, under similar circumstances, might have done so, might have thought she was false ; that she had lied from her home. To his honour, be it told, such an idea never came to him. Had any man living put it into woids, he would have slain him where he stood.

Sane advised, him to leave home when ii was plainly to be seen further effort was all in vain. They counselled to him to seel; distraction in travel; to forget his sorrow, as lie had clone before, in change of scene, But he said. " No." When he had brought his beautiful wife home he had been so (curbed by the welcome awaiting him that he vowed to be true to the interests of Ids people, as they were devoted to him. Because his life was blighted and the mast bitter and mysterious sorrow earth kuovvs had

fallen upon him, it seemed to him no reason why bo should flee from his duties, neglect his interests, and repudiate all the responsibilities God had laid upon him. So he did not go. Where he had lost her. where he had lived with her in peace and happiness, where he had now to suffer, like a brave man and a hero, he remained. Mrs. Charlton had to leave him at last. There remained nothing for her to do at Haddon. Little Claude had passed his first birthday, and was strong. Mrs. Hilton was a most efficient nurse, and she, the mother of the hapless Lady Magdalene Wyverne. had duties at the Dower House which called her home. They patted with many tears. On the morning of her departure she said to Guv :

" Ho you remember your surprise that we should have given to one so pure and fair as our daughter the name of Magdalene?"

"Yes," he replied. "It was because an artist, a great friend and talented man, declared she had a great shadow on the beauty of her face—not of sin. or sorrow, or shame : but a shadow of some trouble, some tragedy too subtle for description, too transient to attract everyone's attention. You saw it. You know "hat I mean?" " It enhanced her beauty." he said, shrinking front the pain of memory. How many hundred limes he Led watched (hat shadow conn' and go ! "It has fust struck me," she said. "And. oh, Guy, my heart tells me my suspicion is true. That' shadow 0 which we could give no name was the shadow of an early death — the shadow of an early doom."

ile recoiled at the words. The truth of them struck him so forcibly. That was it. The strange shade that came and went, the light that never seemed of earth ; the tender gleams, half sad, half playful. Looking back through the light of memory. Sir Hugh said to himself that the face of Lady Magdalene, his wile, was the face of one who was to die young.

Was'she dead? They looked at each other while the question trembled on the mother's lips. Who was to answer it? So they parted—Mm two who had been so happy : who had suffered so strange a loss ; and Sir Guy remained alone at Haddon with his motherless bov.

CHAPTER XXIX. Till-; SALE OF DIAMONDS. Money I have none. But i have the means of raising it. Two years had passed since the whole of England had been roused by the terrible calamity of Ifaddon Hall. 'Two uneventful. dreary years—each one seemed to Sir Guy Wvverne longer than a century.

Mrs. Charlton had not revisited Haddon. Sir Guv, with little Claude,' went to the bower House, and had spout a. part of the summer with her. She frankly declared thai she hid not tin courage to revisit a place overshadowed by such a. tragedy. .Every room at Haddon seemed to her haunted by her lost daughter.

it was a. bright, clear day in April. There was i. foretaste of spring in lii; balmy air. All Nature was awakening with half jubilant life.

Lady Viola Carew walked tip and down the avenue of limes where Sir Guy Wvverne hat! first told liar the story of bis love for her rival.

The April sunbeams tipped the trees with gold. The -wind waved the tall branches, murmuring sweet words id' the coming spring which mortal ears could not distinguish. Lady Viola walked quickly up and down, her thoughts and her footsteps keeping time. There Mas deep shadow of most grave thought upon her magnificent face —a face which, despite its beauty, betrayed a heart ill at ease.

She was thinking of the vow she had registered thai summer's day, with her face drooping over the cool, fragrant grass. 11l at "ease? Ah, yes!

"Failed?" she said to herself. " Ah, no! I will rait fail. I cannot. Other people play for small stakes. Mine is life, love, and happiness." A quick shudder shook her from head to foot.

" No, not happiness'," she cried again. "That can never come to me; but life, luxury, and lovethese are all worth living for, and they may he mine now. if 1 can but manage this. There should be no oversights in such a game as that which I am playing to win."

The dark eyes that should have imaged heaven looked round on gilded branch and springing leal as though seeking inspiration ; the while, broad brow, that might have worn a queen's diadem, was contracted with thought.

" I ought to lie clever," sho said to, herself, with a hitler smile, "I have nothing but my own brains to rely upon. If they refuse to act, 1 may as well give up at once. Hundreds of ideas crowd upon me at other times. To-dav not one."

Then she paused In her rapid walk, and sat down under the trees in the same snot where she had lingered to talk to Sir Guy.

"Surely," with a bitter smile, "surely inspiration will come to mo here." Ah. me! What spirits whispered to her? Were they good or evil? What voices filled her ears? Were they from earth, heaven, or elsewhere? What strange fancies rose before her?

As the sunlight falls upon her there is not, perhaps, a fairer picture in all the world. Time has increased and developed her wonderful beauty. She is a magnificent woman, with fire and passion and tenderness all glowing in her face. Her tall figure, graceful and stately ; her wealth of raven hair, falling in waving lines. One of the old masters might have painted her as she sat there under the quivering light, and so have immortalised himself!

But what would he have called his picture? There was nothing of heaven in that face ; there --'as nothing but troubled love and conscious thought in the dark eves. The picture would have brought nothing holy, nothing serene, nothing elevating, to one's mind.

Suddenly a lurid light, not pleasant to see, came into her eyes —a scornful smile wreathed her lips. "'("hat would lie the very thing," she said. "That is the idea. I have been searching for and have only lust found. But howhow can 1 do ii? It would take money, and 1 have nor,".''

No, she had none—the daughter of an earl : the descendant of one of the proudest families in England; but penniless as the poorest servant in her father's house. Then it was that the words of an old play came to her mind. She hail no money, but she had the means of raising it. She had not a golden .sovereign, but she had some diamonds.

Sir Philip, once upon a time, had given her a diamond ring. .She had a locket from Lord Hanton. given in a lit of generosity. She had some pearls that the countess had given heron her birthday. Surely, by means of some of these, she could raise money to carry out the project that bad come to her this morning order the lime trees.

It would have to be done for her. She. Lady Viola C'arew, could nut. go into a. shop with jewels to sell. There was no difficulty in that. She had a maid. Alice Johns, who would gladly do it for her, if sha would bribe, her to secrecy.

She went from under the limes, where the light from heaven, the music of Nature, mid tie son« of the birds appealed to her in vain, up to her room, where, the few jewels she possessed were carefully stored away. She. opened the little case. There lay the ring Kir Philip hud given her. She tooV it up ill her hands, and for a moment there was a spasm of pain on her face. "It was his own fault," she murmured. " lie taught me to love him."

She could not, would not. part with the ring She took the locket and warpped it up carefully; then rang the bell for her maid.

"Alice," she said, when she appeared. "you nursed me when 1 was a child, and you have stayed with me because you love rue. ever since. During all these years, I have never once, put your-your regard to the test. lam going to do so now." " You may trust me, my lady."

" I have, no money; but I have diamonds, and you can sell them for me. I must have money, ft is a matter of life and death— at least to me. I am in imperative need of money."

"I will do anything you wish," replied Alice Johns.

" You must sell my diamonds for me." The woman made no objection. She bowed her head, meekly, as though Lady Viola, had told her to hem a frill.

" You can manage it easily," she continued. " '.jo to Lady Haul-on, ask her if you may have a few days' holiday. She will not. refuse you. Then go at once to London, and remain there until you can sell the jewels, i will pay all your expense;;."

" There is not much risk in that, my lady. I would do more for you." '" There will be this risk," replied Lady Viola, " that those to whom you offer them may suspect you have not come honestly by them. Before you accept the task, tell me—would you be willing to suffer suspicion—perhaps accusation, trial, imprisonment— for my sake, rather than betray me?''

"I would suffer even death for you. my lady, if I could serve you," she replied. " Remember," continued Lady Viola, "that if any alarm is given I cannot come forward to save you. It must never be known I need the money, If it is discovered, you will be accused of having stolen them and I cannot clear you. You understand now. .Are you willing, without reproaching me afterwards, to incur the risk?" And Alice Johns replied in the affirmative, with an immovable face. " If I succeed in what I am going to undertake." said Lady Viola, proudly, "and something tells me I shall not fail: if I succeed, your reward shall be magnificent, Alice Johns. It shall exceed your wildest dreams. If I fail, the deepest shame, the only punishment, will be yours. Once more, think, are you willing to run the risk?"

"Quite willing, even should my life pay the forfeit," she replied. "I loved you, my lady, when you were a child. You have been a good mistress since to me, and I will serve von with my life, if von need it."

'•'J.'hese are the diamonds, (let away today, Alice, You must lo.se no time. Every hour is of consequence to me. Oh, if I had but thought of this months ago; but it-is not too late."

That day the Countess of Hanton graciously awarded to her daughter's maid a. holiday that was to extend over a week if she liked. Ten days later Lady Viola held in her hands banknotes worth a hundred and fifty pounds—a. far larger sum than she had ever seen before.

She had thanked Alice, paid all her expenses, and rewarded her liberally. She sat now in her own room with notes spread out before her.

"What shall I purchase villi them?" she asked. "Will it be heaven or hell? Will it bo rapture or misery? Ah! If I could hut foresee. I have longed for this money, us men long for life. What will it bring to me? Yet, why need I ask? To secure what this may bring me I would sell my sold !"

For years her beauty had " increased. Yea is had given her ' fresh grace and strength; had added wonderfully to her magnificent charms; had improved her mind; polished her wit and her intellect; had given (to her greater tact, hut it had not decreased her wild, passionate love for Sir Guv.

If possible, she loved him more now than she had done in the first fever of her youth. She had yielded herself blindly, wholly, and entirely to her love. She had let it conquer and master her. She had made not one single effort to struggle against it. She had never said to herself it was unworthy, unwomanly; that it must be trampled upon and kept out of sight ; but she had kept it warm in her heart—she had lived upon it. She had no other thought, no other religion, no other idea, than love for Sir Guv Wvverne.

Under pretence of visiting, eareessing, caring for. and indulging the little child, she contrived to see the master of Haddon every day, and every lime she looked in his face, every time she heard his voice, her love grew and strengthened. It must be a mighty passion that can fill a woman's whole heart and soul as hers was tilled now, a passion that, if good, makes a saint ; if bad, a devil. There is no medium course, for one capable of such love, and there was no medium course for Lady Viola Carew. (To be continued.)

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]