HELEN OF THE MOOR.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 14947, 21 March 1912, Page 4

HELEN OF THE MOOR.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

. ««»~ —-—- , BY ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW, iuthora of " The Paignton Honour." " The ,' " Shulamlte," "Love, the Jester." Etc.. Etc.

COPYRIGHT.

CHAPTER XXXllL—(Continued.) " Let me tell you everything, in my own way." responded Morley slowly. "What I have already spoken, and what is yet to come, is a. tale that racks my heart, that hurts me more than words can tell. For, Philip. I have stepped from hell to bell. I have won my freedom, "but it has been at tho cost of "knowledge for which even my freedom is no recompense. It would have been better, far better, bad I died in ignorance." Drops of sweat stood upon tho man's brow; he was suffering, and suffering acutely. "Let mo tell you my story in my own way," he wont on after a pause, " and then you will see, as you have already seen, how the pieces of tho puzzle fit together." Forgive mo if I caused you unnecessary pain," muttered Philip, as he sank down again to his old position upon the grass by Morley's side. " It was tho thought' that 1 am to learn something about the girl at the inn that excited me. And now-^-even now— can half divine what you will tell me. Can it be truecan it* indeed, be true!" he muttered the words more to himself than to his companion. "And first, about the bed of Procrustes," Morley continued. "You have •asked me what 1 know concerning it. It's » .story you are already acquainted with, so there is no need for me to repeat that. I was told all about it by my own father, and I have seen the family records of which Lord Ivaynour spoke to you. For many generations there has been a room at Wendlesham Manor which has always been shut up, and never occupied. \\*e used to call it the haunted room. It was here that the bed of Procrustes was kept, and the stories in connection*' with tho loom all date back to the time of Godfrey Tarrant. That is all I know. The auctioneer lias no respect for so-called haunted rooms, and I -was far too much occupied when my property was sold to give any thought to the matter. That's now it must have happened that my wife's brothers came to purchase the bed, and moved it, together with other articles, to j their house, tho' house which, no doubt | you rightiv surmise, was converted into an inn by Mr. Marden, It is news to me, however." to learn of these strange happenings in connection with the bed, and I am quite at n loss to account for them." "And now to return to my own story. The last thing I told you was the revelation made to me by my fellow-convict as to. the tragic death of my wife's two brothers, and that I, unsuspicious fool that I was, never suspected that tho woman whom they had released, and who had fled out upon the moors, was my wife. I had given her up as lost to me for ever, and I tried day after day, night after night, to eradicate every thought of her from my mind. But I could not do it. I had loved her too well, too devotedly. And sometimes .' von will think me morbid and absurd— felt—yes, I felt j that she was not far away from me, that " she was wandering round the prison walls and calling upon my name. "But I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, and, as I said just now. it would have been best for me if I had died in ignorance. The long years passed. God . only knows how,' and at last the day came when I made my escape. I told you when we met upon the moorand it was but the simple truth— it was with no thought of gaining my freedom that I turned and ran. I saw my' opportunity and took it. But in my heart there was the longing that I should draw upon myself the bullets of my jailers. It was death I sought, not .life." " But death was denied me. You know the incidents of the two horrible days that followed. How I m;fde for Wendlesham, thinking to throw myself upon tho mercy of Lord Raynour, how I was seen . and | chased back to the moor by one of his i (Servants, how. while striving to make my j way to a safe place of concealment I burrow with an underground cell which I I had discovered when a boy, and which, at that time at least, had "never been explored bv any other living soul—l was lost in the fog on the borders of Torren Mire. " It was here that she found mcmy wife, though I did not know her. How should £ have recognised my Helen in that wild, dishevelled creature whose face .'. I could hardly distinguish through the .mist? She led me across the marsh, and she evidently wanted me to follow her, but I was suspicious, and I feared a trap. As soon as I was safely across the bog I sped away intending, "yes, intending to conceal myself from my guide. So it was that I came to the spot where you found me. And when I awoke from the heavy I sleep into which I had fallen it was to learn from you how a mad woman had stolen my convict clothes and had gone to her death in my stead in Torren Mire. ."And even then I did not know, I did not guess, that it was my wife who had . sacrificed her life for mine!" Once more he paused and wiped bis "brow with his handkerchief. He had a way of clasping and unclasping his fingers, as he sat leaning forward, his hands between his parted knees. It was a restless, tireless movement, and against his own „will..Philip seemed compelled to fix his eyes upon those bony, writhing fingers. He would have* liked to make some remark, but looking into the man's face he realised something of the agony that Morley appeared to bo suffering. " How did you learn the truth ?" Philip ventured to say no more than this. " It was very soon after you had left me," Morley continued at last, "and it happened thus. I gathered my strength together as best I could, and set off across the moor in the direction of Tavistock. But I was dead beat, halfstarving too, for I had hardly partaken of food since my flight, and it was with difficulty that I,could trail one foot after tho other.— Oh, if you knew the pain or it i My feet were sore and swollen, all my limbs ached, and I was shivering with fever. I staggered on, however, and then I found myselffor I knew the way so well that I had been able to take the ' shortest route—in that unfrequented part of tho moor where was the barrow with its hidden cell of which' I have spoken to you. I decided that I must crawl in hero and rest, thai not another step could I' take until I had slept again. " I sought for the entrance to the barrow, an entrance that had been skilfully hidden away among the rocks and boulders that strewed that part of the moor. And then I noticed signs which indicated to me that the secret chamber of which I was in search was no longer a secret as it had once been. There were tokens that it had been visited, and that quite recently. "J. told myself that this was, after all, very natural, and meant nothing more than that the barrow had been explored by others than myself, and in all probability had become of interest to .tourists. However this might be. I could go no further, and before anything else sleep was . a necessity. ( "So I made my wav down the long narrow path, where I had to crawl on my hands and knees, to the inner chamber, and then I understood. I had discovered the lair of the wild woman of whom you had told me, of her who had given her life for mine. "It was probable then, as I vaguely realised before closely inspecting the place, that no one else knew of her den, and that, sho beincr dead, I could rest here without fear of interruption. "A little light streaked into the place through & hole in the barrow, and be- ! sides this I found some candle-ends and matches. There was food, toorough ■ food, such as she-must have received from the peasants of tho moor— half- ' rvm< * as ' I was I ate ravenously of • this. ;. In one corner of the chamber there , . wis a heap of feminine garments, most of JR2J?" out, stained with %» mire of ui© moor, and discarded.' - " 'i

"It was not till after I had slept, throwing myself down almost without realising what I did, upon a bed of leaves and straw, that I was able to fully understand and arguo out with myself tho exact meaning of everything. I haven't an idea how long I slept; it may have been for hours. But I remember distinctlyand it was tho first thing that struck mo as extraordinary—that upon waking and sitting up, I saw that there was another bed exactly liko that upon which 1 lay at the other'side of the cell."

Philip could restrain himself no longer. Ho had gathered much from his companion's manner, and he had guessed the rest. "It was her bed," ho cried, "my fairy of the moors, the white girl of the inn. It was with Wild Barbara- that she had lived, among tho barrows and dolmens of a dead and gone past. No wonder that she could not speak to us, that she could not tell us whence sho came!"

" She was tho child of Wild Barbara," said Paul Morley, with slow emphasis. " She was tho child of Helen, my wife. She is my daughter."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

There was something almost appalling in tho tragic simplicity with which Paid Morley made the revelation. " She is my daughter," be said again and again, almost as though ho were unable to go beyond tho great, the incontrovertible fact. And suddenly he leant over and seized Philip by the arm. "Do you understand all that it means!" ho muttered in a voice that was almost inhuman in its intensity. "At that time I knew nothing of the apparition at the inn. It was only to-day that you told me of that, little thinking as you spoke how all that you said applied to me. For I realised at once that the strange, wild girl, attired in a garment that seemed to bo made from a sheet, her waist girdled with grass and rushes, she who could not speak nor mako herself understood, and whom the doctor took to be mad, I knew at onco that this was my child, tho daughter of my wife Helen, Helen herself by name." The hot hand resting upon Philip's shoulder seemed to send an electrical thrill through his whole body. He was rent by . '.range, by conflicting emotions. At one moment ho "wanted to laugh, at the next there was a great lump in his throat, and lie lifted his hands to either side of his neck, first compressing, then dragging convulsively upon the flesh as though he felt himself to bo choking. For he had striven so hard to put the strange girl of the inn from his mind. He had told himself that she could be nothing but some poor mad thing, and that to give another thought to her was but proof of tho most outrageous folly. But now he knew her as the daughter of his father's friend, as a Tarrant of Wendlesham. the oidy living being who still had a right to the" name.' But why had sue been unable to speak? Sho had been living like a savage of Central Africa, and with one who was avowedly mad. Was she mad herself in very fact? Trembling he put the question.

" The doctor from Lydford said that sho was mud," he muttered, though it was more to himself than to his companion ; "but that was because of her strange attire, and, perhaps, because she could render no account of herself. Ho took it for granted that she must have como from ono of the neighbouring asylums. .Of course, he failed to find that sho had dono so, but how came it that she could not talk? She was not mad? Tell me"— in his turn ho grasped Paul Morley's arm —"she is not really madT' "No," returned the other; "she is probably as sane as you or I. But she had lived for many years in silence with a woman who could not speak. She must have forgotten ail that she had ever learnt of civilisation. And think what that must have beento have lived for years and years in silence!'' Paul Morley buried his face in his hands. "And think what it is for me," he muttered; "the greatest horror of all —for I have found a daughter, one who has the right to bear my name, and I cannot, I dare not, claim her, Her father, Spencer Tarrant, is a dead man, and I, Paid Morley, am nothing, and can never be anything but a stranger." Sobs shook bis body, and it was a long while before he could take up again tho Interrupted thread of the story. Evening was drawing on, and the sun, near to setting, caused the little lake at their feet to shimmer with gold and silver. Philip kept his eyed upon tho water as though lie were deeply engrossed in the light effects. It was a vague and half-uncon-scious effort to counteract the intensity of his feelings, to give, some relief to the strain upon his nerves. For what could he say to comfort, to console—what hopes could he hold out for the future ''. Here was a father who had found his daughter, and yet, by the intervention of a cruel and malignant fate, was unable to make himself known to her. " When I met you on the moor you spoke of your wife—not of your daughter,'.' was all that he could find to say. Paul Morley drew himself up, and as if by a great effort, brought his voice under control. " I did not know of her then," he said, "for the child was born some months after my wife was taken from me. I was never told that she had borne a child. Oh, the cruelty of those two men, her brothers "well they deserved the fate that overtook them !"

" How did you find out that your wife's companion, the other occupant of the barrow, was your daughter? How did you learn that Wild Barbara herself was your wife Helen? I am still in the dark as to this.

Philip asked the questions, anxious to bring his companion's mind back to tho essentials of his story. It was better that he should speak, it was better for Philip to hear his voice than to listen to those long, pitiful sobs. "I will tell you." Morley relapsed Into his wonted position of melancholy resignation. " I think I described to you how, on awakening, I noticed that there were two beds of dry leaves and straw in the barrow. But, of course, at that time I knew nothing whatever about the girl who had made mysterious apparition at the inn, nor liad I yet any suspicion that Wild Barbara, as you called her, was my wife. Tho truth "was revealed to me through a kind of diary which she appeared to have kept, writing at length quite rationally during the first years of her voluntary withdrawal from civilisation, but later on giving signs of the approach of her brain decay. During the last year or so of her sojourn upon the moor the diary had been left untouched. "I found it, a series of common ruled note-books such as are sold for the uso of school-children, hidden away under the mass of clothing and discarded bric-a-brac. The writing was yellow with age, and not always decipherable.' An empty ink-bottle lay there too, and some pen* and pencils; tho ink had been spilt, and had soaked into one of those white sheets from which Helen and her daughter seem to have made their clothing, evidently preferring these to the rough hut moro civilised garments which lay about the place. " I sat down, with mere vague curiosity at first, to. read what was written in those note-books. There was an old threelegged stool, which had evidently como from somo farmhouse, and upon this I set up my guttering piece of candle. Imagine my feelings, the intensity of my horror, as I read and learnt that I had found my way to the spot which had been my wife's home, a prison more terrible, perhaps, even than that which I had left. When I learnt, too, that not only she, but her child—the daughter of whose existence I had no knowledge— these two women had become as savages, wild and undisciplined, within a- few miles of what should have been their rightful home, of nil the comforts and luxuries which were their right. (To be continued dally.)