FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1756, 1 November 1905, Page 3

FICTION.

THE CRIME OF GLORIA DARE. ■ » ——

By ESTHER MILLER, Author of “What Was Her Sin?” „ “Tho Sting of the Wasp,” “A Prophet of the Real,” “Quicksands of Life,” etc., etc.

(All Rights Reserved.) CHAPTER XXII. - ‘ OH, MY LOVE!!” The captain -did not like the weather. He was an Italian who spoke English well, and he confided to Holdemess in the language dr the nautical Briton that it looked “dirty.” V“I have seen that your ladies are good sailors,” he remarked. “It is well. There are many who will be very ill, 1 fear, before we reach Naples!”.

He smiled, revealing a gleam of white teeth under a black moustache, and left his English passenger. Holderness leaned on the taffrail with folded arms, close to the shelter of the smoking-room. His overcoat was buttoned up to his threat and his cap pulled over his eyes. He watched the seething waters with something of Joyce’s sympathy, but with a little anxiety too —the anxiety of knowledge. It , was a rough night indeed, and he had women with him; he would not have cared for himself. The captain seemed to know his business, however, and he had no vreason to doubt the seaworthiness of the boat herself. Nevertheless, he wouid have been, better pleased if this brief voyage, which, he had proposed, had passed off as tranquilly as it had promised at the start. The treacherous iviediterannean was earning its reputation. He had many adventures in his time, but always alone. As he recalled them, conjuring strange visions out of the chaos of sea and sky, he realised for the first time what a difference it made to a man to have only himself to look after or_ to have a woman always at his side—a woman, for whom to feel the nervousness no personal adventure could inspire. It gave him a novel thrill, a painful thrill, the dawning sense of responsibility which the wilderness of this night at sea brought ifrnlth. If Joyce, for instance, had been with him on one two or three occasions which returned to his memory! His heart throbbed, his lips 'compressed. No, to love —even to love happily—was not all bliss. The ' sweetest emotion in life might bring an agony as deep. The more he cared for the woman the more he would suffer each time illness or accident threatened her. A grand passion might make a coward, in fact, of a man who had never known the meaning of fear. He imagined what it would be like to watch her dying, to see a run-away horse knock her down, a wheel pass over her body, the sea swallow her. And the horror itself _ would be rendered still more horrible if be were helpless—too late,' or in ignorance of her danger. It was Joyce,'not Gloria, who figured in all these tragedies of his imagination, and he was so entirely possessed by them that when a woman, muffled from head to foot, glided suddenly to his side like a shadow, he turned to her with a cry of impassioned relief: “Oh, my love I” He put his arm round her, and she held up her face, and it was Gloria’s. A chill went through him. He had forgotten himself in a dramatic moment created hy the storm, and the disappointment of finding that it was the elder sister, not the younger, he pressed to his heart was indescribable. His lips quivered, his eyebrows grew nerveless. but he did not release her; in the dim light she to whom he belonged could not see the expression which woulcl have stabbed her to the heart. The words he had intended for Joyce had been uttered in a maimer so spontaneous, so intense, that they had caused her the greatest happiness. “I was growing chilled and nervous all alone,” she said. “I am glad I found you. Justin.” “Where is Joyce? I thought she was with you.” “She left me.” . She rested her head on his shoulder. “What a wild night, and the sun was shining and the sea quite calm this morning.” “Yes, a wild night,” he repeated, absently ; “and the sun was shining, as you say, and the sea quite calm this morning. Changes occur so quickly. One never knows what mav not happen from one hour to the next.” “What are you talking about, Justin?” “Life, and death, and change.” She raised a gentle hand and stroked cheek. “You are serious to-night, love.” “Sometimes one gets close to nature,” ho answered. “Do you ever feel like that?” “Yes,” she said, “when I saw your fade after you fled from the wood, when I told myself: T will die for him/ when we met again after ten years, and when you told me that you loved me still.” “All the great moments of your life belong to me!” ‘‘Every one of them.**

He was moved yet restless; the riot of the night was in his blood, and his bondage chafed him. “Where is Joyce?” he asked again. “'Watching the sea. She likes the storm; I don’t.” “'She resembles me so much in some ways,” he muttered. “Resembles you—a girl like that!” “Yes; don’t you see it? -No, I suppose not. What likeness can there be, of course, between a woman of her age and a man! She is an opening flower with the bloom of youth and innocence upon her, and I who have seen and known so much..” “I am glad you appreciate her,” said Gloria, simply. “I was sure yo-u would be good friends when you came to know her well.” He stared at her through the gloom with burning eyes, and laughed. “I know her well enough for that.” “And she thinks a great deal of you.” “Does she say so?” “Yes. She has told me several times how fortunate I am. Poor child, I am so sorry she has lost her own lover.” ‘T wonder how sor.iy you are?” he said. “People—women-—say these things lightly. What would you give to restore him to her?” “Everything I have in the world,” she replied, “except you.” ■, “‘You will not except me?” “Are you laughing at me again ? You know you are dearest of all. Fond as I am of Joyce, I would sacrifice her a thousand times to you. If she and the rest of the world were drowning before my eyes in one sack, and you were in another, and I could save one of them and only one, it would be yours. I would give an eternity of heaven, if necessary, for a single year of earth with. you. Light oi my eyes, soul cf my soul, no man was ever loved as you are.” She pressed closer to his side in her untroubled security. He was stricken to stone, and could say nothing at all. But the wind and the waves spoke for him, and their message, to his ears at Least, was plain. It w*as the message they had borne to the girl crouching on the upper deck in the teeth of the gale: “Life does not last for ever; there is death-—there is death!”

CHAPTER XXIH. “TEARS OF THE STORM.” A hand grasped Joyce by the shoulder; Holderness was leaning over her. “'Come below at once,” he said, harshly. “Are you mad ? Do you wish, to be blown overboard? A wave might carry you away.” Her face looked white and pinched in .a passing gleam of moonlight. She smiled faintly. “I like it.” ’ “You ought to have had more sense.” “Don’t be angry with me.” “Yes, I will. You know very well the risk you run in being here. Come!” He took her by the wrist and almost lifted her to her feet. A strand of her hair, dank with spray, blew across his face. He led her t'o the companionladder, clasping her firmly with one hand, and holding on with the other. He breathed a sigh of relief when he had her below. “Where is Gloria ?” “She has gone to bed, and you had better follow her.” The saloon was empty, and there were no voices to he heard anywhere, only the creaking of the the muffled roar of water, the many indescribable grunts of a steamer rolling in a heavy sea. The girl looked round her with an odd little laugh, throwing the hood of her cloak back and shaking her curly head free. “The other people seem, to have turned in very early. I am afraid some of them are feeling ill, poor things.” “It is nearly midnight. Gloria would have had more consideration for herself and me, than to have done the stupid thing you did.” “Oh, do let me alone,” she said, and her lips quivered childishly. “I haven’t felt so happy for weeks.” “Haven’t you ?” He gave her a curious, strained look. “The noise, you know,” she whispered, “the noise everywhere. One couldn’t ■think.” She turned away. “Goodnight.” “Your, eye-lashes are glistening,” he said. “Yes —the spray.” “Is that all?” ‘Tears of the storm,” she whispered. “Oh, it is a glorious night! I shall always love the sea for this.” “You are not a coward, Joyce.” “Oh, no.” She laughed a little, leaving him. “That sort of thing isn’t in the blood, is .it?” She disappeared, her hands outstretched, reeling as the vessel lurched, her pale face like a camoe between her dark and the sombre cloak; and the man stood idly for a moment, leaning against a table. Only a few lights had been left on, and the long saloon with its empty tables and rows of empty chairs looked almost ghostly—an effect which was heightened by the silence within, and the noise without. “For two minutes I held her in my arms again,” he told himself, “and felt the beating of her heart and her breach, on my cheek.”

He was disinclined to go to bed for some reason —the reason of that restlessness, perhaps, which he could not overcome, yet it seemed foolish to remain up." The last passenger had retired some time ago, and it was impossible to walk about that slanting deck. He was vaguely conscious of being a little out of himself to-night, and balance above all things was demanded of him—sanity, self-control. It was to be hoped that he would sleep off this spirit of rebellion, and awake once more reconciled to his destiny. v. CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE FACE OF DEATH. _ Gloria was aroused by Joyce undressing, and opened sleepy eyes. “How late you are,” she said. “I forgot the time. I should be up there now if Justm had not fetched me.” “The boat is rocking a great deal,” murmured Gloria, ‘but the strong air has made me feel as though I could sleep, through anything. Do make haste, and put out the light.” “I won’t be long,” responded the girl. She was taking the pins out of her hair, and the light gleamed on her slim rounded arms and throat. Her hair fell over her shoulders at last in a dark cascade which rippled below her waist; she might have been a mermaid. She finished undressing as quickly and as quietly as she could, and got into her berth. Probably she was worn out for she had never dropped asleep as easily in her quiet, comfortable bed at Ci-miez as she did to-night. She slept like the dead while the wind increased in violence, and the waves mounted higher and higher, and the buffetted -"essel creaked and groaned. It was about two o’clock when she was awakened suddenly by a violent shock. She sat i. ■*r heart 'beating violently, and wondered what had happened. The storm had increased, and mingled with the roar of the elements were the shouts of men and a trampling overhead. She thought the vessel had stopped by the change of motion, and stretched out her arm to turn on the electric light, but something had gone wrong, and the switch did not act. It was very dark. A sudden fear seized the girl; the atmosphere was unnatural. “Gloria,” she cried. “Gloria, are you there ?”

“Yes. Do you think there is anything .the matter?” The elder sister’s voice was anxious. “If I had my dressinggown, I would 'get up and see.” “It’s so dark,” said Joyce. “Oan’t you find the light?” “It won’t turn on. I wonder if we ought to dress ? There is such a noise; one cannot think.” They were both sitting up with ears strained, when the door opened unceremoniously, and they could just distinguish the silhouette of a man s. head and shoulders. It was Holderness. “Are you there, Gloria—Joyce ? Throw on some clothes quickly—quickly whatever you have that is handy and warn. 1 will wait outside.” “Has there been an accident?” asked Gloria, _ _ , . “Yes. Keep your beads and make haste. It will be aU right. I will take care of you.” TTia voice was cool and decided; ne left the door ajar. . “Our cloaks and shoes,” whispered Joyce, “and the rugs. I don’t ihink we had better wait for anything more.” They were both out of bed groping for their things, with trembling hands and beating hearts. They were ready in a moment. A woman’s hand slipped through the -man’s arm. i “Are you there too, Joyce? “Yes.” “Follow closely. It may be a question of lowering the boats.”

“Oh, Justin —-boats in this sea!” cried Gloria. “We must be thankful we’ve got them,” he replied grimly. “A ship's boat can stand a lot—you’d be surprised.” “What has happened?” “We have been blown out of our course, and struck & rock. There a hole somewhere, ano the water is coming in.” On deck the wildest confusion reigned.

There were a number of steerage paa- | sengers, chiefly Italian workmen retura- | ing home, and they swarmed everyJ where, obstructing the movements of [ the crew. They were ugly customers ! to handle at a crisis, and Holderness saw exactly what would happen. He put his arm round each of the women of his life, and 'held them fast. He might have to fight for them presently, and his teeth were clenched and his muscles braced. ' - . ( The boat is were being lowered by this time, and the order was given that the women and children should go first. “There will be plenty of room for everybody, if you will behave quietly and in order,” shouted the captain in ' Italian and 'French. ' ’ . - j _ But his assurance was disregarded or disbelieved. The idea had somehow got 1 about that there were not enough boats for all, and that the first-class passengers were to be given the preference, so directly the first boat reached.the water there was a frantic rush for the gangway, as Holderness had anticipated, and there were oaths and shrieks, and. presently knives flashed. » I Against that stampede, as of frenzied i beasts, one man could do nothing. Holderness simply drew Gloria and Joyce aside, and waited, screening them with his body. | A couple of pistols quelled the riot at last, but too late. One of the boats had capsized through clumsiness in ; launching it, a second had broken adrift altogether, a third, overcrowded, sank I beneath mere weight of humanity, and ; in an instant the terrible sea bubbled I and boiled with heads and writhing arms, like the mighty witches’ cauldron of a dream. - ■ -

“Oh, my God,” murmured Gloria, and. closed her eyes. ' Joyce said nothing; she only looked at Holderness, and he looked at her, and throughout it was to the girl, nob to her sister, that his gaze turned most frequently. “I am going to leave you for a moment,” he said, huskily. “Don’t stir -from this spot tiU I return.” “Come back soon, Justin,”' cried Gloria. . “Yes—yes; wait here.” He disappeared, and they clung together. - The same thought was in both minds:- ; “If something, should happen to him; if he should not return, if a i second panic separate us all for ever!’* “Oh, Joyce, what will become of usP Are we going to be drowned? I don’t

want to die.” v - “Perhaps we shall ibe saved,” said Joyce, but she did not think so. “I have had such a bad time, and now on the very threshold of marriage.” The woman sobbed wildly. “I can’t die,” she said, “not yet—not yet! Why did we undertake this terrible voyage? It is as though a curse were on me. We might -have gone overland safely. What would a little fatigue have been compared with risks like this!”

“For heaven’s sake don’t say anything of that kind to him; it was his idea.’’ “Of course not; need you teH me that? Would I wound him, I who love •him with every fibre of my -body! Oh, Joyce, pity me to-night! You have your life to lose, it’s true, but what is that compared with the cup at my lips i which may be snatched away at any I moment ? Put yourself in any place, j and imagine what it must feel like to withstand thirst, and be offered the draught you long for, only to lose it again!” She grasped the girl wildly, and threw up her white face to the sky

whence a cold moon was looking down, j “I will not die, not till he is mine. I | will, not die!” j It was hell in the raging water, the raging wind, the ugmg passions of these women’s hearts. Joyce could have shrieked with the blast which strove to tear them, from each other, and the - stanchion to which they clung, and. J cast them overboard together—victims ' alike of a devouring element and a j devouring love. It seemed to the girl | as though she must tell the truth before she died, as though hands were on her throat forcing out of her the secret she and he had kept with such unswerving duty. What was anyone to her at this moment except him? , Even death was nothing. She wanted | to cry: “He is mine, not yours. In i the next world he will come to me-1 | She had no sister; in the face of this

peril all earthly ties save one slipped from iher like a garment for which she had no further use. Why should she die in the background as she had lived j grant the dignity of greater anguish to Gloria? The cup of wine was hers by light—hers equally the crown of martyrdom. He came hack to them- suddenly. “At last!” he said. “Thank God there is a boat ready for you at last, and X shall bo afolo to soo you. out ox this.” „ “You are coming with us, Justin? It was Gloria who asked. ‘‘No—unfortunately!” “What do you mean?” “This boat is for women and children only. I shall follow ini another.” - “We shall he separated! It is impossible to keep together?” “I fear so. It cannot be helped. You must he brave and take care of each other.” “I shall not be brave without you, said Gloria. “I want to stay with you. I would rather go in the men’s boat with you than with the other women. If we are to be drowned we should die together at least.” 7 1 _ ' “We are not very far from land, ana there is a chance of being picked up.” 2He was hurrying them towards the gangway. There was indeed no time to lose. But amid: : the babel Joyce hoajxl something winch. mane her r&J I back with a gasping cry: “Gloria, Gloria, did you hear that? “What?” Holderness caught the girl almost roughly by the arm and thrust her torcannot stay here talking, Joyce. Go on, I tell you!” . “No no!” She struggled with him. “Gloria, they are saying there are only enough boats for the women and chiiaron ; the men must be left behind! (To be Continued.)