SERIAL STORY.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 6371, 20 November 1907, Page 2

SERIAL STORY.

“RODERICK STUTELEY’S TRUST,” OE, THE SQUIRE OE WESTHAEL By EDITH C. KENYON. Author of "The Hero erf the Black Shale Mine;” u Sir Claude Mannerley.” ''Love's Golden Thread,” Etc., etc. CHAPTER XlX.—'(Continued.) She stood alone, John was the only human being in the wide world who was dear to her; she loved him with tho first love of her young heart. And hexmouth wan to condemn him. All day in tho quiet house the thought of it had filled her mind with anguish. People might get over the fact of the imputed motive, they might even accept Beckett’s explanation of ins carrying a pistol, but her father’s dying accusation? No, they could never get-over that. John would be condemned to death—condemned to bo hanged by the neck until he were dead. And all her life—all her life afterwards she would know that it was her evidence that did the ghastly thing. She would be always, as long as she lived—and she might live forty, fifty, oven sixty years—the most miserable of women. The thought had occurred to her more than once that day that it would bo well for her if she could die. If she were dead, she could not. repeat that damning evidence. To lead a miserable life, or to die suddenly in tho hope that by so doing she would leave a loophole of escape for John? Which would be tho better? She knew which she would choose, if it were not for the thought of One above. Her life was His. Could eho lay it down unbidden, in tho face of His commandment, “Thou shait do no murder?” Ah, it was because suicides forgot Him, and do not realise His claim, that they lightly, away the breath of life. Margery rushed out of doors to escape w - hat elic felt to bo a specious temptation. And now tho wretched creature on the beach appealed to her womanly, kindhearted nature.

“If I only could know what to do,” sobbed Mopsy. “I have no friend to go to for advice. Lady—” she broke off, looking up pleadingly, with wistful eyes: "Oh,” she cried, "if only I could toll you all about it! Do you think. Miss,* you could condescend to listen? And could you advise me? It would be such a charity.”

"Pbrhaps I could,” said Margery; "here is a stone. Sit down beside me on it, and 1 will listen.” She seated herself on that great rocky boulder as she spoke, signing to 'Mopsy to take the place beside her. "Don’t hurry,” she eaid; "tell me slowly all about it.”

Thus adjured, Mopsy sat down and began speaking rapidly and with excitement about her happy home in the great woods by tho Hudson River in America, and how she took care of her little brothers, and loved the artist, and did not cai'O for tho hunter Jan. But Jan, wild man that ho was, carried her off with violence, married her, and brought h(?r across the sea to England. Then she told, wearily, of their efforts to obtain work, their sinking to the level of tramps, and worse, tho death of their first baby, the tears they shed over its dead body, the struggle they had to keep the present one alive; but in all the changes of their lot, she, had learnt, in all these trials, and many more, to love her husband. Then she stopped short, and burst out, "Lady, if I tell you any more, will you promise me that you will keep it all a secret? Ucar lady, do, please, please promise poor Mopsy.” Margery, in her sweet sympathy, never imagining for one moment that tho poor creature's tale was about anything which could in any way concern herself, or John, readily promised. Then Mopsy continued: "One day, not long ago, I saw the gentleman I had once loved and his friend. Seemingly they had come over to this country. They had grown very fine and mighty, and tho friend, as nice a young man as ever was, had fallen in love with a beautiful ladv. Oh, she was a picture—she was that! My word, you never saw such a queen! You Giuiie, ah! but you d say .so yourself, Miss, if you had but seen her,” she- continued, without in the least recognising the girl she was praising in the sod, mournful lady who was listening to her. "Well, that evening I heard Jan, my husband, and his friends I plotting to break into the big house where the pretty lady lived.” "Oh!” Margery's exclamation was involuntary. For the first time she began to suspect whereto the woman's story would lead. * . Mopsy looked startled. "You promised to keep it all secret,” she said, anxiously. / "Yes, yes, of course. "Well, said Mopsy, "I knew they would take firearms, and if the pretty lady, or anyone, got in their way, there might be murder done. And I hoard the men plotting—plotting—and something in me seemed to say, 'You must save that pretty lady for tho sake of Mr Beckett's friend.' .So I slipped out. It ■was very late at night then, and X ran towards the big house. And as I did so I hoard a shot, and there on tho sea-coast not far from here. Miss, there stood a man with a pistol in his hand. Something made me go up to him, and

1J found that it was Mr Beckett's friend." ; She paused, wiping her eyes with, the | corner ox her worn shawl. ! This disturbed the baby, who began ito whimper. The woman rocked him in her arms, saying, "Hush, then; hush, thou. Did. it cry then, did it?” after the manner of fond mothers and nurses. "Weil, and what took place then?” asked Margery, who could scarcely hear the suspense she was in. "I told him—Mr Baker, Miss, that was his name—just what was going to happen. 'You must stop it. You're armed/, said I. *1 heard you shooting. 'Yes/ ho said, 'it was a whim of mine to fire at something white over the sea. I thought perhaps it was a gull. In the moonlight it looked like one/ Then ho began, to question mo all about the plot tho men had made, and he asked mo kind questions about myself, too, and promised not to tell anyone ‘ who had warned him. And then, all at once, ho looked at his watch, , declaring it was alter midnight. Then ho left me. X went back to tho covered waggon, whore I and tho .women were to sleep that night, and I lay down, but never closed my eyes. In the middle of tho night I heard Jan's signal, and got up and went outside to him. Then ho said estrange words to me.” She paused. "lio on,” said Margery breathlessly. " ‘Murder had been done up at the big house/ Jan said; the wrong party had been caught, and the murderer had got away. 1 touched him—Oh!”—she shuddered—“Ho told me,” she added hurriedly, "that he and his pals were going a long way, to another State —X mean, county. Miss, and ho said where X was to meet him in about a fortnight. The time is up to-morrow, lady.” “You haven't told mo all.” Margery laid liei* hand firmly on Mopsy's, and looked searchiugly at her. "How can I, Miss?” said Mopsy, touchingly. "How can I say it?” *‘l will say it for you,” said Margery gently: “your trouble is so great, because you know that that night's work is—not ended, but that poor Mr Baker lies in prison awaiting his trial for murder. And you know—-you know well that he may bo hung—ho, an innocent man, your Mr Beckett's friend, whilst tho man who did the deed, your husband, lives, to rob and plunder, ay, perchance, to kill other people.” "Yes,” cobbed Mopsy, swaying idly t> and fro—"yes, but he is my husband.” "That is true, but a wicked, guilty "Stop, Miss, stop.* He is—he ia all that; but I cannot boar to• hear you say it—” /‘With hands steeped in blood/' persisted Margery, "a mind hardened to crime- 4 "” "But ho cried with mo over our dead baby,” interrupted Mopsy. "Oh,” sho wailed, "was there ever such trouble as this of mine? I cannot go to him! I cannot! And I cannot betray him to the police. And I daren't let Mr Bolter die without a word. I wish I was dead! Oh, I do! X wish I was dead!” The tears rolled down her cheek upon the baby, who also began to wail and cry. Margery tried to quieten them both as best she could, and as she did so her mind was puzzling over the matter.

‘Listen, you poor woman,” she said at last, "our English law will not allow you to give evidence, against your husband. But you might testify that you warned Mr Baker about the burglary, I think. That would corroborate his story. You/know none of them would' believe ho had been warned.” "If I did, Jan and the other men would kill me,” muttered Mopsy. "No, I daren't split on them, I. daren't. X wish I was dead. My word, I do. I can't do nothing. Mr Baker'll die, and I shall be haunted all my life. I'll never bo happy any more. See now. Can I be? No, you know I can't. I'd belter end it all!”

Margery felt struck with tho curious Similarity of tho poor woman's thoughts with her own. She felt impelled to tell her of tho better thoughts which had come to her.

forget/' she said, earnestly—you forgot there is. a God. He Who made yo»\, and gave you that most pre-cious-gift of life. He loves you, and do knows all about your distress. Ho will help you if you ask Him. And you must not. break His laws. He said, Thou shalt do no murder'—putting an end to your own life would bo self murder.

“liut I can’t ever be happy if I live.” No matter; you can be good. And you have your baby/’ She touched the infant caressingly as she 6poke. It turned its little face to her and emiled. Mopsy looked interested. "Yes. I have baby,” she conceded.

‘And you must not let Mr Baker be sentenced to death,” said Margery. “Just think; you have it in you power to eave him." “How?”

‘You must be brave and clover. You must go to your husband. Plead with him, argue with him. Beg him, entreat him to give himself up to justice, and tell the truth about Mr Baker." ‘‘But be won’t,” cried Mopsy; ‘‘ho never will."

"Well, you must try and make him. There is nothing else to he done.” "But he won't.”

"You must try and persuade him,” said Margery, but her heart sank within her as she spoke. "I'll do what I can,” said Mopsy, rising; "I’ll do my very best.” "God bless you.” Margery, who had risen also, stooped and kissed poor Mopsy ou the brow "God will help you. I shall pray for your success.’’ Mopsy nodded. "Maybe He’ll hear you," she said. "I’ve thought sometimes He doesn’t heed my prayers; but then, that’s perhaps because Jan’s such a had one.”

"You must do what is right, and He will hear and help you," said Margery. “Hfere is money,” she added, slipping a well-filled purse into her hand. ‘‘Take it. No, not a word. You may need it. If you get ■ John, Mr Baker, sot free, I will provide for you for life.” ‘‘■Miss, do you mean it?" “I do most certainly.” "And shall 1 be able to go back to father—home—America?” “Yes yes.”

“Oh, lady, may Heaven bless yon!” cried Mopsy, kneeling at Margerv’ feet and kissing her dices humbly. Maigery-raised her very gently. “Now go," she said; "go asd do yoolr best.”

Mcpsy turned and went slowly away. It was*no moans an oasy task that tiU’o had pledged henself to do. Jan's temper grew wovss every year, and now ih&t his bt'e would bo endangered iu tills matter, he would be* a dangerous man to deal with.

Margery stood looking after her. She remembered ali at cucc, that she did not know the woman's name. That frai 1 , bout creature had it in her power to save John by her evidence. But was st likely that she would do it? Alas, no! Tho difficulties were so great and so numerous; her loyalty to her wretched husband would prove an immense obstacle. I’rom her account, he seemed a most strong-willed, unscrupulous man. Nothing was more unlikely than that he would yield to his wife's persuasions. "Oh,” said. Margery to herself, "I fear I shall never see that woman again. Shalll follow her? But no, instinct tells me that if I appear to doubt her, the words I have spoken will cease to influence her. Yet if only X could secure her presence at the Assizes, if not her husband’s, h owtliankful I should bo! But for me to tell the police about it would be treacherous, and would be breaking my promise to her. And she cannot be made to boar witness against her huebuud. There is nothing to be done.” There was one thing she could do, however; she could pray. s}ho resolved to do so day and night. CHAPTER XX. AT THE ASSIZES. "John Baked, do you plead guilty or not guilty—of wilful murder ?” The rest of the words John could not hear for the loud buzzing in his oars. The Court seemed to be 'going round; the figure of the judge mixing up with those of the barristers, the lawyers with the spectators, the jurymen with the witnesses, and last but not least, Margery Stuteley, looking deathly pale, with the housekeper and some maids from Wcetham Hail. John, was being tried for his life in the Town Hall at Lewes, after a short but severe illness whilst in custody. The murder of the last malo Stutoley of Wostham had caused no small stir in the quiet countrywide.' Roderick Stuteley, of late years, had not -been a very popular man. The many bereavements he had sustained had made his neighbours desirous of sympathising with him, and they had felt pained because he seemed to resent their sympathy and to dislike their visits. He had shut himself up with his grief, and lived an unsociable, misanthropic life. Still the horror of his murder at flighttime, in a particularly peaceful part of the country, was such that the keenest and most painful interest was aroused. The court, therefore, was crowded, not only with Westham people, but also with others from neighbouring towns and villages. Who had murdered the Squire was a foregone conclusion with more than two-thirds of the people-pre-sent. Men and women leaned forward and stood on tip-too to get a sigo of tht. “palo villain” in the dock—tho base man who, in rage at not being able to woo the daughter, had executed fatal vengeance on nor father. And next in interest to John was the scarcely less palo heroine of this ghastly drama, Margery Stuteley, tho girl who had to appear as chici witness against her former lover—the girl who, in defiance of public opinion, had visited him in prison, so far a> speaking to him through a grating in the presence of others could bo called visiting him, and had openly expressed her belief in his innocence. The general sympathy; for Margery would have been greater if she had not so evidently taken the side of the accused. It woo a fine Hay day. Bright sunshine stole-across the court, ligating up the eager, curious faces of tho crowd oi onlookers, resting on the clever, relined countenances of the barristers and lawyers, and on tho pale face and yellow hair of he prisoner in tho dock. ("He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on tho good/') With an immense effort, John pulled himself together, aifd .answered in. a weak but distinct voice, "Not guilty.” Then he looked at Margery, for the first time that day, steadily, and sheendeavoured to smile, but could not lor the terrible fear that was tugging' at Her heart. There was so much circumstantial evidence against him, and fio litle—so very litlo—to be said for him. All that they had been able to do was to engage the services of a very able young, barrister, tho Honourable Archibald Sindon, to be his advocate. He had undertaken the case with- some unwillingness, for the witnesses on tho side of the defence were for the most part conspicuously, absent. Beckett hod striven‘hard to get John's mother there, thinking that sho might be .able to throw some iigixt upon tiio reason of tho deceased s hatred of her son, and that something might come out of that. But all his telegrams and letters had been in vain. Neither John's mother nor her .husbanu were to bo found in California. .Bargery had sought in vain for Mopsy on ail sides; Beckett, in whom she had partially confided, had told hoi; the young woman's name, and had assisted her in tho search. They had set a private inquiry office to work, and done eyveryhcr husband Jan were to be found, thing possible. But neither Mopsy nor Margery had not told Beckett that biopsy's husband ha*i shot Mr Btuteley, but had only imparted to him tho fact that both these two vagrants knew who had fired the revolver. More than that she did not feel at liberty. to disclose, and had felt some qualms of conscience at having told even that. But then John's life depended on it. To the very last she and Beckett had hoped one of the pair would bo found. But in vain. No Mopsy and no Jan could bo heard of. (To be continued in to-morrow's issue.)