THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 12759, 9 January 1905, Page 3

THE ELEVENTH HOUR.

■ ■"■■■-.•.... [PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

BY SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY. BART., Author of " The Red Chancellor," " The Fall of a Star," "The Heiress of the Season," etc., etc.. etc.. CHAPTER XlX.—(Continued.) It was not till the middle of the'afternoon that Paul returned. "Bad news?" Faucouberg cried, with the l livst glance at his face, j ITuscombe's breath was labouring with ! even the short ascent of the stairs to his ! room, and he sank down wearily iii bis J chair."" "lain -sorry to have been so long," I he said breathlessly, " but I was taken j rather ill after leaving Brook-street; my stupid heart rather left me in the lurch, and .1 thought if I did not- turn in and see our friend Dr. Cromford 1 might have some difficulty in getting home. And lie would not let me go ; insisted on my lying on a sofa, for over two- mortal hours, It was unfortunate, as I wanted to get back quickly, although I have nothing much to tell you.'' '* You saw her?" " For a few minutes.'' ;' " Sybil la hits told her the whole story " She,practically admitted at any rate thai she knew it." Fauconberg's hopes were breaking fast with the reticence of each .succeeding answer. "And it is all over with mc?" After a moment's hesitation came the reply. " I very much fear so. But—'' "Yes?'' "I was rather puzzled. Tligre seems to bo some other and stronger reason for her decision than the love passage with Miss Caspari. But I could not find out what it was." " Not-Keneagle?" " No. ' Something to do with yourself. She —Miss Evandale —said that much, but would not be mere explicit. She said that there was an impassable gulf between you." " Ah !"' Faucouberg sprang up with a cry of despair. " She said that? "But what— what- can the gulf be? Not- the mortgage business ; she knew that yesterday, and told me 1 had behaved honourably and all that. Paul., what lies has that jealous fiend been telling her?" The other shook his head. "I do not know. She would tell me no more. Our interview'was over in a very few minutes." " But I will know," Faucouberg cried desperately. " .She shall tell me. I will not let the matter rest so and have my life turned to miseiy and my character blasted in her eyes by that woman's tongue. I have done all 1 could, ami it is not fair. 1 have, suffered enough, but this is beyond endurance, I am oil' to Brook-street." " Not now?" Hascohibe expostulated. " I feel sure it- will do no good ; you will not be admitted. She said—" "Ah, yes? You have not told me all." "I am keeping nothiug back. Only that she did not mean to see you again." : " She shall see me !" " Sybilla Caspari will be here to-night for the conceit. We may find out from her. I [will—" 1 "From her!" Faucouberg cried scornfully. I "She will lie. to us> as she has lied to Bar- • bara. No,-1 will know what this gulf is ; I i will be heard in my defence." He took a sheet of paper and wrote a few lines on it. "Don't stop me. Paul. I must do it now. "[ will not live under this cloud a moment more than I can help. 1 have seen everything ready for to-night. You have nothing to do but to take it easy till eight ! o'clock."' He went up and laid his hand affectionately on Paul's shoulder. " I am so cony you are not well, and an; a brut© to send you fagging for me. You must restnow, and I will take your work for the next week." He went quickly to the door. " I haven't my fare,'' ho said. '"Lend me a few shillings just for this mice. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't so urgent, not seeing how 1 can ever pay you back. "Jack, Paul said, as he gave him the money, ." don't forget- yourself. Remember, she has a right to say ' No.' " . " You may trust me," he returned. "But I must put myself right." So he went- without another word. At Brook-street he was-told that Miss Evandale was not at home. * " Will you give this note to Miss Evandale?" ho said insistently, taking the denial in its fashionable sense. "1 have come from St. Cyprian's nodtel, from Mr. Hascombe, and it is most important that I should .see her for a few minutes." f The man assuied him, dropping into a more natural tone, that Miss Evandale was really out, but that she should have the note the moment she returned. This assertion Faucouberg was forced to accept and turned, chafing, from the door. He walked moodily up the street cowards the park, resolved to wait about and return to the house later on. His temper did not allow him to realise that he had little warrant for forcing himself and his explanation upon the girl who seemed to desire neither. He only felt in the bitterness of his soul that he had been maligned ; his pride, the old pride of the Fauconbergs, was roused, and this, coupled with the sense of a crushing and, he believed, totally undeserved disappointment, flooded his mind and swept away every other consideration. He threw himself on a bench just inside the park and waited. From wiieie he sat he could just see the house in Brook-street and would know if a carriage stopped at the doer. But Barbara Evandale was notdriving that afternoon. By a lucky chance, .since lie was keeping watch in another direction, he happened to see her coming towards him across tho roadway. Site hod a dog with her and was walking slowly, evidently without an idea that her lover was so near. With a thrill of almost fierce satisfaction he sprang, up and went quickly towards the gate to intercept her. Then she saw him; her face changed—lie could tell that; she called to the dog and turned from her path so as to pass on the other side of the lodge. But in his mood her evident wish to avoid him had no weight. With a few quick steps he was by her side. "Miss Evandale! I must -speak to you for a moment." She returned his salutation very coldly, and her face, though flushed, was set against him, he .saw that. But she- had stopped, and now replied, without any further show of feeling: ; 'I saw Mr. Hascombe this morning and told him all that was needful." "No, no," lie protested. "You have heard lies of me. That woman, Sybilla Caspari, has slandered me to you. In fairness you will let me answer and defend myself?" She looked at him sympathetically, with a little wist fid reproach, and he took hope. But her words dashed it. "Miss Caspari told me nothing but. what I might perhaps have guessed, it is quite, useless to discuss the matter. Anyhow, £ do not wish to, and 1 am sure you will respect my wish. Now I must not stay. Good-bye." His heart sank at the words, which seem- i cd the knell for all life held sweet for him. i "Then wo are to be strangers?" he asked j blankly. ! She was looking away over the mad. pre- J pared to cross. "' I think it is better," she answered. " Yes, it is belter." ! "It is very cruel," lie remonstrated. "I am condemned unheard." "The cruelty," she returned, "is, unhappily, unavoidable, and it may not be only you whom i! will touch. Defence is useless where there is no accusation, 1 have made a mistake, that is all. J am to blame, I know, and am very, very sorry. But that is all. It mast end there." Her voice, her speech maddened him by their very incongruity. She was not formed to talk thus. He had never seen her look so lovely; the contrast between her words now and those she might have uttered— why, only yesterday she had spoken to him ; almost of love—the torture was exquisite, ! the pang all tin greater from the hopeless- j ness of expecting relief. [ "Then you will not hear me?" he said j almost apathetically in his despair. " All is ■ over''" ! She gave a little- grave bow of acquiescence . and next moment was crossing the road. He stood irresolute between a desperate impulse to follow her and a sense of utter, hopeless discomfiture, and every second that he staved lessened the chance of speech \ with her again, till it was gone. His eyes i , were fixed on her till she reached her house

I and went in; she had never glauced back or even hesitated, as he told himself- ho was a fool to expect somehow that she would. Then he turned and walked away up Park Lane as'in a dream, carried along ! in a hopeless void, not knowing or caring whither. At length he found himself back at the j hostel. a How ho arrived there he hardly knew ; his vague idea had been to wander in an opposite direction. Yet somehow an indefinite, although active, purpose had led him. there, and by degrees it took practical shape in his thoughts. It was to see Sybilla; to sot fie the account with her. It was but little after eight o'clock when he reached the hostel. The concert, which was taking place at the schools a few hundred yards away, would not be over till half-past nine. 'Ho could not well speak to Sybilla. (ill the end, and did not want to see her till the lime for speaking came. So he went, up through the deserted building to Htusconibe's room to wait there. Ah !he could not bear the place. The memory of yesterday's sweet presence was suggested by many things in the room, and now mocked him past endurance. So, restlessly, he. was turning to the door again when "there came at if a knock and he opened it to admit the matron. May 1 come iti for a minute?" she, asked. "You are- not at the concert, matron," he remarked in listless surprise. "No," she explained. "Poor Fantham is bad again, and J could not leave him alone in the place. 1 am glad you have come in, Mr. Faucouberg, for 1 wanted to s,.y a word to you on the. quiet about Mr. Hascombe. 1 don't know—l am sure you must have noticed the. change in him?" "In his health? Yes. lam sorry to say I have. He told me he was taken ill up West to-day. But then, he never spares himself, never .gives himself a. chance. However, now I have insisted upon taking his work for the next week .so that ho can have a good rest." He spoke drearily, wondering what his performance of another ;md better man's work would be like. He did not notice the curious smile on the matron's face. "Mr. Haseoinbo does work too hard." she said knowingly ; " but it's not work that has brought the change for the worse." Faucouberg looked up at her apprehensively. _ "What then?" _ "I thought you. if anyone, would know, sir," she replied. "Anyhow, it's been quite plain to me for some time past. It's on account of Miss Caspari." "Ah!" In spite of more absorbing thoughts his interest was now compelled'; for his own observation, selfishly disregarded, confirmed the matron's words. "Mr. Hascombe has been a different man since Miss Caspari began to come, here," ; sho continued. "At first the change was for the better: he was so happy and his health seemed to improve, and then—well, it was just the other way. I think tho lady has not behaved well to him.' She must have led him on, for at one time she i seemed to favour him and was always in i his company, but latterly she seems to'have j dropped him, and thai is the cause of the I trouble. .. Of course, it is no business of mine, Mr. Fnuconborg; only we're all so fond of Mr. Hascombe; there couldn't- Ire a. much nobler life or a liner character, and I can't help speaking ft, you as Lis friend.'' "I am glad you have spoken." he stiid. with an etl'm t to master the self-accusing sadness in his tone which she would not have understood. "Bur it- is hard to see what we can do." " lie has been badly treated, Mr. Faucouberg: 1 am sure of that." "I am afraid so. Yet how can we help him'.'" Ah, the ironies of the world! How they mock us with their clear views of how easily till might go right—if only they did not seem to take a devil's pleasure in going hideously wrong. "It is a. delicate matter," said the matron, with the kindly concern of one who, in spite of a life spent amid the constant misery of oilier people, has not let a crust of callousness grow over her heart. " But sometimes it happens that outsiders can by a little diplomacy put these matters right. Mr. . Hascombe is too sensitive, and he will be content to suffer—tilt the end comes. You may see a chance of doing something, j sir: if not, 1 have relieved my mind by speaking to you." . "'! "Thank you. matron. D will do my best," he replied, with the conviction in his heart that his undertaking was in vain, more utterly hopeless than he might confess. "I have been round with Miss Crisedale to Denton-street," the matron said, tactfully leaving the subject on which enough had been said. "We got together her poor father's few belongings and brought them here." She pointed to several parcels on a table by the wall. "So now the rooms can be given up at once. I had the things brought up here for safety, sir. Oh. and there was a revolver which belongs to them, only I had it kept separate for fear of accidents. It Mas on the mantelpiece; I suppose Mr. Hascombe has put it away for safety." " Very well, matron/' he said, and she left him. (To be continued daily.)