HIS OWN ENEMY.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1682, 25 May 1904, Page 4

HIS OWN ENEMY.

MARY CROSS. Author of * “Under Sentence,” “A Woman's Victory,” "False Witness,” “A Dark Deceiver,” etc.

CHAPTER XVIII. "I am chained To one great load of guilt; the burden I have dragged through life has been unseen, But not the less immense its weight.” The red-letter night has come, and for the first time in my life I am in a theatre; with us come Ifrietncl© of Agues’s, an R.A. and liis wife, a dreamy brunette whoso face looks from the majority of his paintings, compelling one to realise ■ thie_ truth of -Rossetti’s words, that beauty like hers is genius; a bronzed war-correspondent, 'The scar on his face, not a disfigurement, rather a grace,” telling as it does of a deed of vafloiur which has made the world ring; our publishers, and Mr Erio Harden. Altogether the party is a distinguished one, and comes in for a share of public attention, many glasses being levelled at it, many bows being exchanged. Etrio points out celebrities, politicians and diplomats, profession all beauties, and others whose names I have long revered. To my dazzled eyes wonderful is the spectacle, the multitude of faces, the flash of jewels that give back ray for ray to every light that touches them; the sheen of silk and satin, the rich draperies and gorgeous colourings; the hue and fragrance of countless flowers; all possibilities lie beyond that solemn curtain* mnd invisible music adds the last charm.

Slowly the curtain rises, and my attention is drawn magnetically to the stage. Hew strange to hear the words I have written thus spoken, to see the characters I have conceived living and breathing before me, to behold the scenes I have dreamt actually presented, .and potent to thrill and to move others. A sense of power is mine, the unmistakable throb of victory that compensates for every year of labour, every hour cf thought. As the last words are spoken Eric’s hand touches mine. "Well done, Violet,” he Whispers, “well done!” And this is reward enough for me.

There is an outburst of applause, generously led by the great dramatist Everard himself, and a. ■ hot mist rises before me, the theatre seems swimming round, my heart heats with excitement and triumph. "They are calling for you,” Brie tells me. “Bow, dear; it is alii you have to do.”

Somehow I contrive to do it, feeling hot and cold at once, frightened, abashed yet exultant'; grateful for the shade and retirement afforded by the heavy curtains, for the reviving fragrance of Eric’s flowers, scarcely able to respond to the congratulations of my friends. Agnes mischievously whispers that the tooth is out at last, and I admit that it did feel a little like a visit to the dentist.

There is now an intervalduring which some places are vacated, programmers ruisrtle, fans wave, a low hum of conversation pervades the vast auditorium. My eyes have by this time grown accustomed to the brilliant light and the many faces, and I am able to single them out individually. Alii at once I see one I know, one which wakens a myriad of painful memories. Why is the man here? Why does he follow me? His presence wheresoever I go cannot always 'be coincidence, chance, or accident. What explains it? Ho its/ looking at me in a gravely studious way, contrasting with his usual alert watchfulness, and does not avert his eyes when mine meet them. The old sensation of being searched through and through is again mine, then his glance travels to Mr Harden’s face, and does not again geek me. What have I to fear? Why should the presence of Lawson, the detective, be a source of disturbance to me? Certainly it is evident that for some object of his own he is following me. At the worst it is that he suspects me of being concerned in the Benotar 'tragedy, and' out of the suspicion trouble may rise. There is, however, oss® beside mo now on whose strength I can rely, in whose wisdom and faith I trust, tlio sustaining presence of him whose iloyailty has stood a severer test. My eyes look elsewhere, then are stopped, fascinated by a brilliant party immediately opposite. Mrs Quenton, massive and majestic as ever, with the arched brows that give/her a perpetual air of dignified surprise, leans back leisurely fanning herseilf, and beside her is Madeline, a young queen in the centre of an adm/Ang court. _ Beautiful she is, with 'ihat ineffable air of lofti-

tude and purity which none other can assume. Her features seem even more perfect, her lily-and-rose colouring more transparent, her tapering arms, her lovely neck and shoulders have all the lines that delight sculptor or artist. Our eyes meet, and her slow exquisite smile fades from her lips, the corners droop in a still disdain, the blue eyes give me .one i look of bitterness and anger, inoompre-1 hensiMe and unreasonable. No other token of recognition is vouchsafed. I cannot interpret her expression to my own satisfaction. Gratitude I have not sought, nor love, hut that her enmity should extend itself least of a.ll to me. What a puzzle she is, what a contradie- J tion! lam looking at her calm, set pro- | file when there is a little stir among those behind me, a slight movement, the rustle of a dress, a hand on mv arm, and a low voice murmuring a eongratula- ' tion. Who hut Lil would thus obey the' dictates of her warm impulsive heart? Who hut Lil thus set at naught the - verdict of appearances ? I shrink into the shadow of the curtain that my wet eyes may not he seen. lam vaguely conscious of Sir John in the background, looking preternaturally solemn as he,, greets Agnes and Eric, who contrive to draw our friends’ attention from Lil and me for the moment during which her hand presses mine, and she looks the friendship and trust she cannot utter, j "God bless, you, Lil,” I say, with the j utmost difficulty forming the words, my j lips trembling, my voice low and un- j steady, and then she is gone, but in my i heart is a new sweetness, a deeper calm, | If I have saved her guileless, loving | heart one pang I have done well in- j deed, and am more than rewarded. [ Nevermore may the old, light, happy j intercourse he cturs, hut between us is a -, bond that will not be severed, , an j affection no outward, seeming can de-! stroy. Kinder is the would than men! deem it, f onder and braver and more | faithful are our fellows than the pessimist preaches, judging all by his own narrow standard, seeing aM through the shadow of himself. Does Lil’s action explain, her sister’s anger? Involuntarily I look at her, to see that she has turned pale; her eyes fixed on Eric, who is bending down to address me, make the only colour in her face. Then she sinks languidly hack, raising a jewelled scent-bottle that makes a line of light as she moves it. "The heat is very trying,” Mrs Quen-1 ton murmurs, swaying her fan. "So is Lil,” returns Madeline, with suppressed indignation. "Really, mamma., wo cannot tolerate or overlook these demonstrations. You must speak to her. She does what she pleases with John Lorimer, and neither of them seem to realise the position at all.” "Experience, my dear, has taught me that it is best to leave Lil to herself and the consequences of her absurdities. Under the circumstances, one would havo expected Miss Grant to withdraw borsch and her play from public notice. I can’t say that I admire effrontery.” "Well, you should at least remonstrate with Eric, mamma, for the sake of old times, if for no other reason.” “Men of genius must have their amusements as well as commoner mortals, Madeline, and Fluid Harden in vory well! able to pro tee L himself; no one more so. She is a handsome girl, I admit, and is beginning to know it. Ah, weSl, I daresay she will soon have all the notoriety she wants.”

“But Eric Is wasting time and talent, perhaps spoiling his whole future for her pleasure!” “Wyniard soon released himself, and I credit Eric with having as much brain,” says Mrs Quenton, coldly. ‘T don’t oaro to interfere in that kind of thing, and if ho whites to, he his own enemy, he must he.” The music is now heard again, and people are resuming their places, conversation is subsiding, for the interval 19 almost over, and the play of the evening in Avliick Adelaide Verrard appears will? soon have begun. The voices, the whisperings cease, the stir of dresses and fans and flowers end®, and the whole audience assume an attitude of fixed attention, every eye turned in one direction- with silent, eager expectancy, the curtain rises on a moonlight scene, a marvel of setting, a wonder of scenic art. Low, sweet strains of music are

drowned in a storm of applause that rises to greet this empress of the stage’. A glance at my programme has told me that she plays the part of a man. These beside me slightly start and glance at each other as she appears. Eric folds, his arms, and extracts every atom of expression from his countenance; and I look at her as she pauses In the centre of the stage, compelled to silence and delay by the tumultuous greeting, a smile half triumphant, half mocking fading from her face. Then the great theatre, the crowded tiers, the stage itself melt away from mei. and I see a garden "fairer than aught in the world,” dewy in the silver moonlight, fragrant with slumbrous flowers, silent under the spell of night. I see the shadow of a grey tower falling across a clear space, an open window amid trembling ivy. a girl crouching terrified behind the concealing buellies. and this —this figure, this face, with its mimic likeness. tot Erio Harden, the same pale colouring, the same blackness of brows and hair. I am back in the garden of Benotar, on the night of Lord Wyniard’w murder, looking at the very being who then appeared, freezing me then as now with deadliest terror. At last and films I see again that long-haunting face and form. As one may fee! before death, conscious of a mortal chill in the heart’s innermost core, am I. Faint yet fascinated, I hear her voice though net the words she litters. They are to me as sounds indistinct and far away. I see no figure, am conscious of no presence hut hers, until she goes, and only then is the hideous speU broken, and my eyes are able to withdraw their strained gaze from the stage. I hear the applause break forth anew. There is a ripple of eager criticism, exchange of opinion, comment and question., all over the house. Friend leans forward to friend, nods approval or frowns discontent. I sit. like one turned to marble, paralysed, as one in &, trance conscious of all external things, but powerless to move or speak. "There seems not a pulse in my veins to dwell,” and the boatings of my heart are slow, heavy, and painful. I hear Agues and Erio speaking, and can only sit still and be silent. If lam as white •as I feel, ghastly indeed must be my appearance. “If you like flattery, Mr Harden,” Agnes says, “you have just 'beheld it iu its sincerest form ”

“Yes. For once I see myself as others see me,” lie replies. “'Dost like the picture?’” she asks. “Immensely. ‘A tiling of beauty is a joy for ever. 5 Still. I thought Miss Verrard had a higher estimate of her art. Do you see Everard? He is looking alii sort of apologies; as if I should hold him responsible for a woman's spite!” Erie turns to me, some jesting inquiry on his lips, which dies in the first syllable as our eyes meet. “Violet, what is it? What has happened?” “Was that really Adelaide Verrard?” “Certainly. Couldn’t you penetrate the disguise?” . s t “Why does she caricature you? 1 ask. T “‘To make me ’umhle,’ perhaps; I don’t know. Does it hurt you to ©ee me ns the villian of-the piece? Do you think it hurts me? Is it that that is troubling you?” I don’t answer, for I hardily know how. Not here eon be told the story of that mid-night scene. Horror and iloathing fill me, and the theatre seems a great wheel slowly turning round and round.

“Is it a long play?” I ask him. “There are two acts more, hut we will go at once if you wish. Are you ill?” “No, not ill. I am anxious to go Don’t notice me, Eric. Can you get some water without drawing too much attention to, me? I foil t want anyone to think that I am ill or faint 5 One can always trust, to him to understand one’s wishes, nor does he torment with questions of speech or look. Behind his composure and self-possession I qju ©haltered. When the curtain goes up again, I do not attempt to follow the drama. My thoughts are far, indeed, from that counterfeit tragedy; the blacker one of actuality fills all'my, mind. What am I to do?. What can I.

what should I do? Accuse tills woman t wronged by Wyniard, Who under all her triumphs 'has carried this secret in her Shot lie art, who through all flattery and plaudit has heard the voice of remorse, whose fame and all "beside is only dead sea fruit, across whose pathway falls one dark, terrific shadow ? Can Ibe silent, knowing that another is accused of.her c.-me, not knowing to what extent his future here and hereafter may he influenced by the false charge ? That it anay block for him the avenue to a higher career of honour, a vaster field of help and usefulness, tarnish forever his name, be a reproach to his children ? To whom may I tell this, whose counsel dare I seek? How would Eric judge her? I sit’ through the play passively, these thoughts, these speculations alone filling my mind, and thanks to him, my pre-occupation is unobserved. When all is over I hear the applause renewed again and again. I see the heavy curtain held back that she, a tall, slight creature, paillid exhausted, spent by the final demonstration of her power, may bend again and again before an enthusiastic house. I see Everard ootw his thanks with the ease and grace of custom, then borne away by a train of admiring friends, one laurel mere among his many.. The green curtain falls into its place, the orchestra strikes up a florid march and as I .turn away from the noise and the glare and the crowd, I feel like one rouseer from an evil dream. Alas, that so much of reality should be in it! We are in the wid9 crimson corridor, with its bronzes and __ p'hotcgrapihs and playbills, when Lady ” Crombie passes with the haughty grace of a Diana, Mrs Quenton following staling at vacancy. Though both ignore us, they are well aware of our proximity. At the exit a man is standing, so placed that he can see all who leave, and as I again recognise Lawson an involuntary shudder passes over me. Eric draws my arm closer, looking down with his own land smile.

“Fresh air at last-. You will be all right now,” he tells me, guiding me skilfully through the throng, and returning many greetings as we go. As we are near the carriage, Lawson conies forward swiftly, but with perfect outward respect. “Miss Grant,” he says, eagerly, “you remember me? May I have a word or two with you?” Eric answers for me, not showing the surprise he must feel. “It is very late, and Miss Grant is greatly fatigued. Your business must •wait until a more seasonable time.”

“It is of the utmost importance,” Lawson urges, looking at me, and Eric returns:

‘•'Nob so,important that it cannot keep until the morning.” “"Will you see me, then, to-morrow, Miss Grant?” eagerly Lawson asks. ‘•'Yes,” I return, “as eagerly as you please. You know Where to find me.” The little delay has passed unnoticed by the rest of our party, and we drive smoothly onwards. Eric holding my hand in the friendly obscurity with the strong reassuring clasp that has lightened a heavier and. a darker hour. When We part he looks , closely at me, reading the trouble of my mind. “Dan I help you?” he asks. “Not yet,” I * answer. “This scarcely concerns myself.” “Good-night,” he bids me. “Go and sleep all tho worry out of your eyes.” But sleep is impossible for me. I hear the chiming of every hour, all the strange noises that echo through night's stillness, the faraway rambling of carts,* ; the occasional tread of a passer-by, ghostly sighings and stirrings not to be accounted for. What will tho morrow bring forth? I lie sleepless, wondering this: recalling the bygone night at Benotar, its everv incident as vivid and distinct now as then ; thinking of tonight’s revelation, of the hot and crowded theatre, of the one figure Which solves for me, at least, the past mystery. What does Lawson want with me? Does he. seek or does lie bring tidings of Lord iWyniard ? Does lie mean to act upon suspicion? Well, “bright day, the long desired.” will answer these questions for me, perhaps shape mv conduct for me, too. Will this woman ever speak of her .own-accord, and clear the innocent? Her silence has been maintained through all the tortures of remorse, .through all the horror of herself that must have filled her. She has dragged her horrihle burden without word or sigh, but how long will her strength en- , dure ? How long will mind and brain and nerve bear so awful a strain ? 1 have seen her face as it actually is, I have caught a glimpse of the real through, all the false, wan ana wasted hinder the paint, eyes hollow and sunken, with a wild light no adulation has kindled, lips dry and strained, form emaciated. Miserable she is for all her ’ fame and fortune* In the -very arena of her victories herself stands forth and conquers her. She hears above praise -and blame alike, above Flattery's soft seductive accents, above the trumpettones of fame, above the homage of a world, blood that cries aloud for vengeance and will not be denied, an everlouder and mol's threatening voice ; claiming back a stolen life. From the contemplation my soul shuddering. How welcome is j .the morning light, how gladly I hail another day, after a grey night of grey- ; er thoughts.

“Wild dissipation doesn’t agree with ;

you at all events,” is Agnes’s greeting, -“and I confess to being rather done up myself. I would like my excitement spread out thinner. There was too much for one night, between your play, Ever&rd’s drama, and Miss Verrard’s new departure, which I don’t admire. I think Mr Harden was the least concerned of us all, however. Let us see what the papers nave to say about it all.” We open the morning paper which is lying on the breakfast stable, and turn eagoftly to the column of theatrical news. My liri-le share in the night’s proceedings comes in for a brief hut satisfactory notice. The greater drama is analysed, criticised, and compared to an extent that leaves the writer small space in which to pass judgment on the actors. He sums up in the following sentence: “About Miss Verrarcl s acting there can,“of course, be only one opinion, but her imitation of a popular celebrity is in more than questionable taste, and is decidedly to be condemned. We understand that Mr Everard has protested against it.” “My sentiments to a ‘T 9 !” exclaims Agnes. £am about to put down the paper when my eye is caught by Eric’s name in a paragraph in the “gossip” column. It hints more or less intelligibly at his intended marriage with a popular /lady novelist, whose father, led a certain unfortunate expedition in 186—. How are these things found out ? “I hardily think that this should be made public property,” I sav, colouring.

“There’s no such thing as privacy in these days,” Agnes declares. “You clever people must pay your penalties. When a woman has distinguished herself, everybody has a right to knew all about her. If sorrow befalls her, someone records tier every sob, and tells the public how weill or ill she bears it. Her dearest joys, her most sacred griefs, are only matter for the paragraphist, £ co.py’ furnished by a kind Providence to keep our own correspondent alive.” Wo are in the studio, Agnes finishing a picture commissioned by Sir John, and I revising my last chapter, when to the door comes the knock I have all the morning been expecting, and the maid tells me that Mr Lawson is waiting to see me.

“An interviewer?” asks Agues, mischievously and I answer, “Yes; of a kind!”

Air Lawson is in the sittingroom, reading the titles of the books on the shelves; literary studies he suspends on my entrance to give me a respectful salute. It is, I think, more respectful than ever, just as hie scrutiny js more keen, and bet-rays a different kind of interest.

“I am sorry for last night’s intrusion. Miss Grant,” he begins. “The fact is, I was a trifle excited, and wishing to communicate my -discovery to Lord Wyniard as soon as possible, I wanted your confirmation ; though indeed it is hardly necessary.” “You have made a discovery, then ?” I ask. “I w r as in the theatre last night, Miss Grant, as of course you know.” “You usually are where I am, I have noticed,” I reply. “Not without a motive, as you may suppose," he says, quietly, and I look at him straightly. “You suspect me of complicity in a crime. Is it not so ?”

“I did at first, I don’t deny,” he answers, candidly. “I hope that my surveillance has nab caused you any annoyance ?”

“No. I think it dawned upon me only last night that you had some vital interest in my movements. I recog- , nised you at Ardenlui, and in the theatre, and have not noticed you anywhere else, though I daresay you have seen me often enough.” “That is so,” he returns, with a slight smile; “much more often than you were aware. I am glad, -however, that you did not notice it, and it may be as wall to tell you that Lord Wyniard knows nothing of it. I acted on my own responsibility there, without consulting hinn because I believed he would not approve, of the course I took.” “On what grounds do you suspect me?” I ask. I wonder what he means to do.

“I did suspect you, Miss Grant. The suspicion died some time ago, though I resolved to watch you even more closely a new theory having started in my niiiud. I thought it possiMe that you might be screening someone. A person who will Shield one will shield another; a person who will sacrifice herself once willil do it again. You must excuse my saying that consequences to yourself of any such procedure don’t appear to enter into your considerations at all.”

“l knew no more of the Benotar tragedy than I'told,” I assure him, “and the silence I kept regarding it was, as you know, the result of accident and circumstance, not of design.” ‘Yes. I dhould hardily think you would wish to screen a person who acted with such cold-blooded deliberation, and left the innooent exposed to the danger of suspicion. Lord Wyniard’s •position was nob without its perils, I assure you; but he could prove his alibi; you could, not. You admitted your presence on the very scene during, the very time of the murder, which might have cost .you dead.Yj Miss Brant. The guilty

party was not in the least likely to come forward and save you. Well, I say, that thinking you might be endeavouring to save someone at your own cost, I have kept my watch on you; and at last is daylight.” 1 look anxiously at him, feeling my heart tremble. “You remember telling me that the man you saw resembled Mr Harden? You remember describing him ?” he goes on. “Weill. Miss Grant, I was studying Mr Harden’s face in the theatre last night, more than ever puzzled, never having seen a man who resembled him far enough to be mistaken for him; and then Miss Verrard came upon the stage —his double. It startled me nearly into a shout. I can tell you, and everything seemed to be made -clear alii at once, so quickly, so unmistakably that I could scarcely take it all in. Then 1 saw the effect her appearance had bad on you, and knew that you had recognised her. Yes, it’s daylight at last. I’ve got my hand on the clue.” “Dan one bo sure?” I ask. “Sure? The wonder Is that some such solution never occurred to me before, but I have always been searching for a man —on the wrong scent altogether. I presume you had no idea then or after that the person you saw was a woman P” ho asks, a trifle sharply. “Not the slightest. I was completely stunned; I never imagined a woman being concerned in so horrible a crime.” “Ah-h-h! Well, I . might have suspected Mise Verrard, but she cleverly reported herself in the Riviera on sick leave. Her theatre was closed at that time, and I read of her departure in more than one paper, and my suspicions were drawn •elsewhere. I daresay she did go later on, when her work wasdone. She would need some sort of re-

cruiting after it. She owed his lordship a bitter grudge, no doubt. TLs marriage was the hardest blow he could deal her. She did believe, in spite of all her astuteness, that he would marry her only, not another person. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Miss Quenton had bad gome trouble through her; but she went to head-quarters it would seem. It is all quite Clear to me now. She has been staying near Benotar among the summer visitors, under another name, passing herself off as an invalid or an interesting widow, or anything ©ls® that she is not. In those sort of quiet places, where people keep early she could come and go pretty rnuoh an she pleased. When others in the house have been asleep and supposed her to be as innocently occupied, she has been prowling about Beinotar watching and uniting for her opportunity, so disguised that if seen no one should connect a woman with the tragedy, least of all Miss Verrard. The whole tiling shows wonderful deliberation and cunning,” he says, with a kind of grim admiration.

“Almost the cunning of insanity.” “Almost. The disguise was very clever, the imitation of another individual quite an inspiration—of the Devitl, to be sure. By all accounts, she has no love for Mr Harden, and she may have had some idea of squaring * with him, tioo.”

“ That is what I can’t understand,” I return; “how or why she ever dared appear in the same disguise again.” “Perhaps it is wnai no one ever will quite understand, Miss Grant; but, you see,- she was not aware of having been seen by anyone, and the lapse of time since the murder lias made her ieel secure. It is certainly curious that tho verv means she took to protect herself

should in the long run betray her. It Beems to be an unwritten law that even-

tually the majority of criminals do betray themselves. Some are driven to „ confess, others can’t keep away from the Boene of their crime, others will haunt the grave of the victim. Revelation comes in the strangest ways, and often the merest trifle leads to discovery, pulls down the strongest wall of precaution the cunruingest. hand can build. This one betrays herself in a not very common way.” He looks into his note-hook, as if finding something interesting within, ■ and resumes meditatively. “I have communicated with Lord Wyniard, and I suppose he will come back. I shaill keep a watch on Miss Verrard, whilst certain inquiries are being made. Of course, you will be able to repeat your . statement, and swear to her When necessary.” The horror of what it all means 1 comes upon me. As I think of that wretched woman, and the dreadful retribution She has prepared for herself, I grow sick and faint. The net is fast closing about her, and she goes 'on unconscious, still in her false deceptive security. Mr Lawson glances at me, then takes up his hat preparatory to departure. “If I find it necessary to call again within a few days, shall I find you here, Miss Grant?” he asks, and When I anBwer yes, he gives his civil how, and goes. Is it possible that I may he called on to swear away the life of a fellow-crea,-ture? Dreadful is the thought. No matter how guilty, how sinful she may be. Who would not shrink from the fulfilment of so stem and terrible a duty? It is a relief to find that Agnes has gone out, for my mind is unable to fix itself on anything else. Nervous, over-excited and unstrung. I can but walk to and fro, wishing that I' had no share of this awful responsibility.

The usual assortment of lions are roaring in Lady Larimer’s room, and Lil is magnanimously devoting herself to the expounder of the newest thing in creeds', who according to the flippant has given her services to the Lord because no man is desirous of them. Everard, the dramatist, is keeping a perpetual ripple of laughter astir on a little lake of admirers surrounding him. Sir John is cast to the tender mercies of the eldest Bliss Darriodh, at present on a visit to town, and both are looking in one direction, where smiles Lady Crombie’s , flower-like face, and Eric Harden’s clear, pale features stand out with their usual distinctiveness. “Did you see the para,graph in this morning’s ‘Search-light?’ Is it really tme?” asks Grace Darrioch, with her aggravating way of emphasising every other word. - “Harden does not deny it,” Sir John » replies.. “Oh, dear! that dreadful girl! . He is such a handsome man, too. It is such a pity.” “{He can’t help his looks,” says Sir John, charitably, and Miss Darrioch gives a. girlish giggle. “Oh,’ Sir John, now really ! But isn’t he throwing himself away?. Someone Should remonstrate with him. Can’t he be reasoned with, can’t he he saved?” “I don’t ask those questions, my dear Miss Darrioch. I think it extremely bad form to meddle with other people’s religious feelings, you know.” “You altogether misunderstand me,” she rather unnecessarily protests. “I mean that he should not he allowed, to wreck his career. If there were nothing .eke against the girl I understand that poverty stares her in the face.” “Poverty doesn’t often get such a face to stare .at,” says Sir John, and Miss [parriodh’s foot plays atseersst fcaataak <m the floor. _ ... Madeline is looking at Erie with her lovely, languid eyes, and. the hint, of fatigue in her manner which is highly becoming to herself, if not very flattering to her host and hostess. “Who is responsible for that paragraph in the ‘Search-light?’” she asks. “I mean the paragraph referring to you and Violet Grant.” „ “Some lover of the back-stair, I suppose ; but only suppose—l don’t know.” “It must have annoyed . you very much;,” - she says, sympathetically. “Frankly, it did. I hate to have my privacy intruded on, and in matters of that nature especially.” “And to have your name sio connected with such a person, too,” she murmurs. “Perhaps Mis 9 Grant' herself is the author of it.” “I don’t flatter myself that she is quite so"proud of me as you imply.” “You don’t mean to say that there is word of truth in the statement?” cries * Madeline, her voice energetic if low. “lb is perfectly true that I am engaged to Miss Grant.” Madeline turns a little pale. She lets one hand drop slowly to her side. “I cannot congratulate you,” she says. _ {C I thought you were more ambitious. iYou are indeed your own enemy.” Ho responds only by the uplifting of his straight brows, and she, surveying ; :A fffnj, searches in vain for any trace of the passionate boy-lover of her youth in .'or;the odd, impjUsiv© man. “Are you sure of yourself?” she asks, On ta low tone. “Do you know ycur own . nund?,’*

“I do; and find pleasure ini the intimacy.” “If the. paragraph is true,” she says, with a slight sneer, “you are less exacting than I fancied. Perhaps your motto its, ‘To err is human, to forgive divine!’”

“Have you ever noticed,” he asks, pleasantly, “that those who most admire forgiveness are those who least deserve it ? The sinner, not the sinnedagainst, preaches the loveliness and joy of forgiving. Forget and forgive ! cry those -who have done much they would gladly erase from their own and others’ remembrance. Pardon is a lovely thing —to those who have clone a great deal that needs pardoning.” “You' are cynical; hut that you always were. Well, possibly not always, and possibly it is for the sake of the Erie Harden we used to know that I would prevent you spoiling your life if I could.”

“It is good of you to take any interest in me,” he says, gracefully. “It appears that no one else does,” she returns. “No one eke seems to care.”

“I hope to remedy so melancholy a state of affairs. Will you excuse me if I try to snatch a word with Everard ? He is in a rage about the interpretation of' his masterpiece, and thinks I am the same. I want to .assure him that I hold him guiltless.” Later on, Lady Crombie has to endure a rebuke from her mother. That admirable matron entreats her not to make herself so conspicious with Eric Harden.

“It is in the worst possible taste, during your husband’s absence, too,” she says, “and When everyone knows you are ao variance. When does Sir David return, or when are you going to him ?” “I can’t stay. He does not write do me. With his usual politeness he has left the one note I sent him unanswered.”

“But isn’t that very strange, my dear ?”

“He is not like anyone else,” returns Madeline, indifferently; but a vague uneasiness with regard to her husband’s silence does for the first time trouble her. .

“Of course, you never can tell,” he consoles himself. “I never thought he’d want to run away with another man’s wife, I’m sure! i hope, once this affair i 9 settled and his Innocence established to ‘the satisfaction of everybody, he’ll marry Miss Grant, though maybe she deserves better."

I have been in a mental fever since Lawson the detective’s visit. Every day I have dreaded his return, or to hear of Adelaide Verrarcl’s arrest-. I cannot hope to escape being called on for testimony against the unhappy creature. Other -thoughts, too, trouble me. I gather from what Lawsou has said that Lord Wyniard’s presence here wild he necessary. By this time, indeed, he may be on his homeward way, unless he declines to respond to the summons. This is hardly likely when one considers how much he has at stake, and how naturally anxious lie must he for the solving of the mystery, the clearing of his own name. Will he and Madeline be again thrown together? Will he, questioned ae he is sure to be by Sir John and Lil, keep silence as I have done? Hard and hitter is the ordeal before him, and perhaps he may shrink from it and avoid it. Ah, if the “Ella” had but steered another course that bygone summer, if he had hut kept out of temptation and danger, not to-day would the thought of meeting his old friends fill him with shame and pain, not to-day would the darkness of contemplated dishonour intervene betwixt firm and those loving hearts.

CHAPTER XIX. Can she be worth The life her folly hath destroyed, The mind her falsehood mars?

Sunset glories ebb aiwa.y from Stanekirk, and Twilight, the grey-eyed child of day and night, wanders through the quiet, peaceful village scene. Her shadow seems to fall darkest on a gaunt old house standing bare in a flowerless garden, two goats tethered on a grassy wilderness in front. A path runs from the door to a gate on which a woman is leaning, straining her eyes through the gloaming. Her figure has once been upright, but the burden of years is at last beginning to bow her shoulders, and the eyes are dim and feeble, furrows in the stern face have deepened, and the rigid -lines of the mouth have relaxed into the quavering impotence otf old age.

“Come away, grandmother!” rings out a shrill voice. “You’ll he taking another colld and keeping folk awake all night with your rheumatism again!” The accents of authority fall from the lips of a comely young woman who stands in the open doorway, a trim, brisk person in a-neat print gown with broad linen bands at the neck and wrists, and hair shining as if it has been lacquered, whom neighbours describe as “such a sensible girl—no nonsense about her/’ and, one may add, mot much tenderness either. “Stephen is late,” says grandmother, not altering her position. “Your standing there won’t'snake him any earlier,” returns the other, “If

he’s not as ho should be when he does come, he knows what he’ll get- from me. A passer-by, to whose ear the words have floated through evening stillness, surmises that the knowledge may not be altogether pleasant or comfortable to the absent one. “Come away,” repeats the sharp young voice, as the old woman stii.l loiters. “You might spend your time better than in watching for' a man that knows the way homo as well as your-. self!” 1 “I’ve always plenty to do,” protests Mrs Greig, indignantly, and Mrs Stephen retorts:: "Yes, with the tongue, grandmother; but you keep your hands idle enough!” Grandmother turns round to say' feebly that in her day young folks had more r,espect for their elders, and were better guided. | “Likely,” agrees Mrs Stephen; ‘but it’s my day now, grandmother. You’ve had yours, and not done much good with it that I see, either for yourself or anyone else. If I am not to do better for my grandchildren than drive one out of the house to dear-knows-what, and another to taking drink, I hope I may never have any! If it isn’t business that’s keeping Stephen, he’ll wish it had been before I’m done with him. I’ll have my husband a sober man or know the reason why. I’ll see if I can’t undo yet what you’ve done. Time tries aill as frost tries kail 1” Grandmother falters up the path, with a backward glance, and makes an effort to assume the reins of government by saying that Stephen will likely bring someone home and therefore supper should he ready. “Oil, no, he won’t,” declares Mrs Stephen; “and _ if he does, they’ll go away a! the lighter without supper. Come away; you’re aye ahintfc, like the coo’s tail.” Grandmother at length meekly obeys, and the door is sharply shut. “Stephen, whoever he may he, has a grey mare in his stable,’ ” the loitering passer-by murmurs tio himself, as.be resumes his meditative stroll. _ i Mr James Lawson has found in the. contemplation of this little pastoral a momentary relief from heavier thoughts and complex reflections. He has come to tills locality to pursue his inquiries into the Benotar tragedy, and he believes that he has now fitted the last hit into his difficult mosaic. He has traced Adelaide Verrard to Monifieilds, whither she has come as a newly made widow in the deepest otf crape and woe—each effectual masks. He has found the little one-storied cottage where she tas lodged with two gentle maiden ladjefy who are yet, happily uncroioscious of gruesome interest about to attach f; . to their- homo. He has stood only tte morning in the reiy rooms occupied byi

her, and looked through the window whence she has stepped. The spot has been well-chosen, being lonely and secluded. A narrow path strikes across the fields to a road used by wood-cut-ters, and winding through the forest of i Benotar to one of the many entrances to the private grounds. Here has been no one tio watch her, no one to suspect. All the privacy and solitude needed for the accomplishment of her purpose have been secured. Whilst the innocent, im- ! suspecting old maids slept, she in her safe disguise has been watching until the fateful hour of opportunity came, fateful not alone for her enemy, since in slaying 'him she strikes herself a blow not less deadly, hut productive of longer pain, more intolerable agony, “which |is generally the way with people who take vengenauce into their own hands,” I Lawson wisely soliloquises. “It’s won- , | derful though how circumstances con- ; spired to help her. 1 “There was Lord Wyniard now, known jto owe his brother a . grudge, ! known to have parted from him in anger, his innocence depending on an old servant’s evidence. There was Miss Grant on the very spot for no reason, if one isn’t to believe that she was providentially led there that justice might be done, and the innocent should not suffer. It’s a queer case. By, jove, things looked just as black against either of them as they do against Miss Verrard now. If she owed him a grudge, ed did his brother; if she was present-, so was Miss Grant. She may be able to give some excellent reason for being there in that hour and in that get-up; she may have seen him and feared that suspicion would direct itself to her—pshaw! Is it likely that a third person would be there that same night at that same hour ? Out of fiction coincidence is never carried so far. Still, if she declares her innocence, discovers a motive of her own for hanging about the place as Erio Harden, asserts that she found Lord Wyniard dead, and that fright kept her silent? Miss Grant did not see her deal the blow, | after all. Circumstantial evidence in- . voilves a good many in this transaction* Why, I even had my doubts of Mr Soropo -himself!” . . Thoughts such as*' these are rising in, my mind, which strays _ far from the written page' lam revising or ric s rnnaarine when I hear an arrival and Presently'« told that a gentleman wishes to see me-a stranger the maid sa-vs whose H’ciiniOj according t'O himself, “doesn’t matter.” I expect to see any person hut the one who actually comes. I am thinking that my visitor may be a wandering amateur,one of the many who come with MSS., criticism, and advice; or perhaps a publisher; or perhaps, _ I think with a sinking heart, some emisl sary from Lawson, I come to a stand-

still, hob and cold all over, as the possibility 'of my visitor being Lord Wyniard occurs to me. Yet how the thought is! How could he, why should he seek me in this manner? Igo into the room with an enforced courage, and , to my utter astonishment find there Sir David Gromhie. He looks thinner and paler than ever, hut more wiry, and holds, himself more erect. He evidently has found the'air of Ems beneficial. '•'Well, Miss Grant,” he says, rather awkwardly, and I relieve him of his hat and stick to which he is clinging desperately. I wonder whether lie has come to vex me with questions I cannot answer, to reproach me. of to remonstrato. I can find no motive for his coming to me other’than these. Yet, why should he care ? He looks closely at me, then x'ound the room, smoothing his chin with his long bony fingers in a reflective way. “You are thinner,” he says. “You seem to have been ill. I see a difference in you.” # . “I ana quite well now, though,” I tell him. Perhaps he does see some alteration in me. Weeks of happiness cannot restore that of which months of anxiety and trouble have robbed me. “You have had your worries,” he says, ratner grimly, interrupting my question as. to his own health, “and, I suppose, a hard enough battle to get on.” “I have been very lucky, Sir David. The harder the battle the greater the victory.” He is silent for a few moments, then he resumes, with some abruptness: “Neither Lady Grombce nor anyone else knows of this visit. In fact, no one knows of my return from Ems yet. I have some private business matters to attend to before I make my arrival known, and I wanted to ask you one or two questions. Very likely you will tell me I have no business to ask them; hut, o<f course, you need not answer unless you choose.” “I am afraid you will not ask me anything that I con answer,” I warn him, hoping that this may prove a sufficient check, and that he will not trouble nm. ‘Til'try,” says he, with dryness. “To begin: It is true th it you are going to be married to Eric Harden, or is it only idle gossip? Come; surely you can answer that!” . ' “It is true, .Sir David,” I reply, my eyes ' turning involuntarily to ~ Eric’s ring with the ruby burning like a heart. “H’m! Were you -engaged to.' ■ him when you came to Ardenlui, pray ?” - “No; I have been engaged only a few weeks,” I sfy. I don’t see the drift of his questions, nor as yet why I should decline to answer them, if X don’t admit his right to put them. ~ “Indeed! Then "he asked you to marry him after you left 1 iny house?” “He did,” I say promptly. At this reply Sir David flashes on me the sharp, suspicious glance I know so well. “Their you must have told him he begins, with some excitement, but does not end his sentence. 'He breaks it off abruptly, looking at me hard. “I must have told him what?” I ask. “I mean he has not known in what manner you left Ardenlui/ and with whom. Ho was abroad at the time, and perhaps the story of your imprudence ' had died out before iris return, and you have thought well to keep your own counsel.. If you will allow an old man : to advise you. Miss Grant, you will not

conceal that episode from Eric Harden. Be the first to tell him of it.” O “SirfDavid, he had heard of it before he caane. to me with bis proposal, as he said himself, from false and cruel lips, from kind and true ones. He knew all that the.world knows, all that I can and ever will tell, before he asked me to

be bis wife. He trusted me nobly. Hie came to me in my darkest hour, in face of the Whole world, and without one’ doubting question. I could give no explanation. and he sought none. Braver love, stronger faith, never Trill he diown in-the world. If I had been unworthy, I should have died of shame before such demotion as Ms 1” k > • “And do you think in time he won’t insist on an. explanation P Do you think he -will not use his rights as a husband to compel you to speak ?” “T trust, him no less than lie trusts me, I know that he will never ask me. since he .knows that if I could tell him I would.” • ,

Sir David looks at the ground, rubbing his hands'together slowly. “Weil, he’s,a better man than I thought him to be ”he says, in a- grudging' tone; £P but he is a puppy for all that, and an insolent puppy, too. I am .not given to whims and prejudices, I don’t take unreasonable likes and dislikes as most people do, but I say that, whatever Eric Harden is to you he was

an ungrateful young scamp to me, and deserved only what he received from : me.” / •

' i£ Y'Ou misjudged him, Sir David, and .his pride would not allow him to correct yourmistake.” -• “I don.lt think bo,” he says, sourly ; “butwe’ll not argue about it. iNaturally, you think him perfect; tome he is only a self-satisfied young fop. Puh! x why do you have your room filled up with flowers? I can hardly breathe for the smell of tliem; you surely know how unwholesome it is;! Will he be kind to you?” - *•> “Kind! I cannot pioture Eric Harden

as unkind to any living thing,” and Sir David grunts contemptuously. '‘Hadn’t you better have married hord Wyniard ?” he asks, folding Iris arms. “I don’t mean that- as an impertinence, Miss Grant; but if you think it is so, don’t answer it.” “I think it better to marry the man I care for, Sir David.” “What lraa become of the other ?” “I know nothing of his movements.” Sir David surveys me silently, leaning forward in his chair, his grey eyes peering from under his shaggy brows. How thin he is! His face has sunken much, leaving the cheek-bones more sharply prominent. “Willi you not tell me the reason why you left my house as you did, Miss Grant?” he asks. “I am an old man, and you might do worse than trust me.”

“I shall never tell anyone. Sir David. Some day T hope that that will he so well understood that no one will ask me.”

“You are very firm. I hope Lord Wyniard will be as discreet. But it may be as well for you some day that one besides yourself. should know the truth of the matter.” “Then you also have some faith in me ? You do not accept the world’s version, nor judge me by appearances ?” A moment or two elapses before he replies: “I don’t. Not because I have learnt to my sorrow the deceit of appearance, not because I have no exaggerated faith in you or in aii3 r woman, or in any man, for that matter. I will tell you why I don’t condemn you if you will trust me with the truth.”

“Is there any reason why I should tell you what I will not tell my promised husband ?”

Instead of showing anger, he laughs,

“None whatever. You-are obstinate enough in a silence that has cost you dear. But you have had one friend through all, lam sure. There lias been one who has done her utmost to shield you with her own spotless fame, to silence gossip and slander, who has defended you and upheld you. Lady Orombie has shown the world that she at least does not condemn you. She has taken care that your punishment shall not he too heavy.'” There is something so peculiar in the tone of iris voice, in the smile which drag& his thin, pale lips apart, in the glitter of his faded eyas, that I feel onuied and frightened and shrink from him. , “Answer me!” he says, his , brows running in one fierce line, and his clenched, hand striking the arm of his chair. '“Have you not expected that she, your oM friend, the innocent cause of your- faitail meeting with Lord Wyniard, would brave everything, defy perhaps wen me, to protect 3-011 and support you?” “To allow oneself to expect anything is a weakness I have overcome, Sir David. I try not to anticipate good or ill, grief or pain; but to accept each quietly as it comes.” “That is no reply, and I do not like evasions, Miss Grant. I want to know on what terms you and my wife are,” he says, in the same angry accent. “Why -ask me?”'

“That 1 may not need to ask her. Has Lady Orombie-. one of the purest and loveliest of earthly creatures, in any way associated with you since your flight from Ardenlui? Has she allowed herself to be seen with you, entered your house, or permitted you to enter hers?”

Now, indeed, his questions and his manner verge on the offensive. “I assure you, sir, that she lias not,” I reply, proudly. “Lady Gromhie ignores my existence as completely as 3mu wouldwish, and I shall never, intrude myself upon her.” “You resent her’ treatment of you?” he sharply demands.

“Why should I? Our ways are far apart.” “God grant they always may’ he,” he exclaims, rising as he speaks., I am content to be misjudged, and I look at him only in silent mournful ness. Surely’ I eh all not he much further tried! He walks up and down the room, muttering to himself, stands a while at the window, and then conies back to me. He lays his hand on my shoulder, and speaks, in quite an altered tone. “Do you think, my girl, that this will never come between you and your husband?—that some day you may not wish to tell him all?”

I cannot answer him. My throat swells. and. tears rise. Hie unusual gentleness touches me beyond expression. As I glance hurriedly at Ins thin bloodS ess face with its frame of scanty hair, his gaunt and meagre figure, a vast pity for him fills my heart, banishing every more selfish thought, more personal feeling. “Well,” he says, hurriedly, beginning to button his coat, “you have told me much that I wished to know, and I have satisfied myself that you are happy and content. Few of us are, with greater reason to be so. Is there anything I can do for you?—anything you want?”

“Nothing, Sir David, thank you with all ray heart.” There is something in the kindness of those who are habitually cold and narrow more touching than in that of the naturally warm and generous and open. “Harden has money, I suppose?” he adds. “He is not taking' -you into poverty, not beginning life with the 'idea

that what is not enough for one will amply suffice for two?” “It is l not likely.”

“What is likely except sin and sorrow and trouble? Don’t take the man too much on trust. Ho may prove an adventurer who wants to live on his wife’s brains. He may he conscious that his powers are waning, and design to use yours to provide for his old age 1 . You earn telil him I said so if you like!” “I shall only tel! him that you were land to me when many hold that I have forfeited every claim to consideration and respect,” I reply.

“Yes, you left my house in a strange way, and I shall never forget it. You did not show much consideration or respect for your host and hostess, did you?” He turns abruptly to the door, with his former unpleasant smile. “Will you send me one or your hooks?” he asks, more agreeably. “Write my name in it yourself.” “Glladly, Sir David. Where shall I send it?”

“To Ardenlui. I slian’t stay in London longer than. I can help. There are fools enough in it without me, God knows!” lie exclaims, paying himself rather a doubtful compliment, and so .goes away, leaving me puzzled and wondering, with tears mot aill of pain, not all of bitterness in my eyes. . k Sir David has always had an odd sort

olf liking for me tf but I have thought his feelings would have been changed after my departure from Ardenlui. His visit certainly is a surprise to me, and no less to Eric, whom I tell when he pays his usual call.

“Poor old man,” he says, thoughtfully. “Sometimes I think he is less happy in Iris marriage than he expected to be. I wonder why lie is acting in his present mysterious way and not staying with his wife? By the bye, have you heard anything more from that detective ?”

“Nothing more,” I reply. I have, of course, told Eric of Lawson’s visit and what it means. The tulle has filled him with an incredulous horror. He has no liking for Adelaide Verrard, but lie has not believed her capable of so awful a crime.

Erie goes home meditatively through the Park, now almost deserted. Some few vehicles roll ' by.. some few pedestrains pass, some few loiter here and there, as if keeping an appointment or killing time. Presently he sees a man idly lingering by the Serpentine, the sight of whom thrills him; with a feeling that clenches his firm white hands and locks his teeth fast together. , He passes with his head erect. Whether the other recognises a well-lmown tread, or looks round merely by chance is not apparent, but look round he does, and without

difficulty overtakes Erio, who has neither quickened nor slackened his pace. “Harden, won’t you speak to me ?” be Bays, btist soul in bis eyes, and Mir Harden utters the, under the circumstances, moot aggravating of commonplaces. “How do you do?” be asks, politely, with a. meaningless society smile, and looking through Hard Wyniard to invisible regions far away. “I was on my way to your chambers,” ■ says Wyniard, “but possibly I might not have been admitted.” “I scarcely expected the honour. Indeed, I did not think you would return here.” “It is not for long. I hear that you are to'marry Miss , Grant, Brio,”, he adds, after a slight pause. f< Tflhere is no reason why you should not.” “I* have not asked your lordship for that 'assurance,” replies Eric, who at the moment realises Sir John’s description of him—a granite peak with joe on it. ‘‘Others need it- more than I—the , friends who have warned me against •HKi'h marriage, tried to dissuade me from it, and pity me most deeply for thus blighting my own life.” Lord - Wyniard colours. He puts his hand on .the railings, so supporting himself. “I know that I owe reparation,” he Bays, -humbly. “My whole being revolts against the injustice and cruelty to her, and yet how powerless I seem! I would made her my wife, hut she refused. No other atonement seemed possible.” “I understand her refusal,” says Eric. &Nb* circumstances would he strong enough to compel her to be false to herself.” ' “I presume she has told you everything?” says Lord Wyniard; _ “that to ' you, at least/ she has explained her action P” * “I have not sought I understand her nature so well that from the first I have been sure' that she sacrificed herself to save someone else. Per- ; haps I suspect who is screened , by her silence.” , • ... “Do you blame me for being silent too?” asks Wynia'rd. 5 “I cannot judge,” returns Erie, slowly. “You may not know what, silence has cost Miss Grant, what reproach and . * contumely have been heaped on her, how friends have deserted her, hpw in mind and body she has suffered. I will not' judge whether the person for whom all this has been endured is worth it.” f{ lt was not for one, hut for many,’* cries Wyniard, eagerly. (To be Continued.)