A REMORSELESS ACCUSER

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 8681, 14 March 1914, Page 10

A REMORSELESS ACCUSER

[Published bt Special Arrangement.] [All Rights Reserved.]

By EDGAR PICKERING, Author of “Dick Beresford’s Wife,” “Was She Guilty?” etc., etc.

CHAPTER XLV. AT MABLETHORPE

“We look before and alter. And pine for what is not: Our binoerest laughter With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.” —Shelly.

The village of Mablethorpe, which ifrom year’s end to year’s end had (slept peacefully through the centuries, had aroused itself at last, and put on an appearance of life and gaiety, , for (Sir Esmond Wilmot, tho owner of the Village, lord of the manor., and master jof one of the finest estates in the country, was to be married in Mable■thorpe Church in a few days, and it •was only right and fitting that MableVhorpe should .rejoice. . ,: . . Hither had come the bride-elect with Miss Montmorency, and it was with a .profound sense of relief that tho latter Iliad left London. She was not altogether satisfied with the state of ,alfairs. There was an air of uncertainty about , everything, and her [thoughts were disquieted by a great, (many considerations. It had been im‘possible for her to forget the visit she had received from the elderly woman ■ who brought the work to her house, land whoso strange excitement 'shown iupon hearing of Sybil’s approaching (marriage was not to be understood. [Moreover, Miss ~ (Montmorency was sincerely grieved and anxious with re'gard to Devereux, of whom she had ■ beard nothing except the news of his | dangerous illness. She, had been successful in keeping Sybil' in ignorance ‘of the tragic event, but ■oven this fact served only to increase Miss Montmorency’s mental trouble. In fact, she :was beginning to doubt it iwould not have been better to have . told Sybil everything, and risked whatever tho consequence might have been. I lit was too late now to.think of all this., ’ Tho, wedding day was close at hand, and nothing was to be done except for Miss Montmorency to maintain a 'cheerfulness altogether foreign (to her. feelings, and to appear satisIfiodi. ■■ , . , . And although Sybil viewed her approaching, marriage with apprehension 'and distrust, she also had assumed a 'contentment with her lot. ■ The house which Wilmot had prepared for ■ her visit to Mahlethorps was a pleasant one; there was a novelty in her position rather pleasing to her, and she had almost schooled herself into forgetfulness of the past. With all the strength of ’her mind she held back the thoughts of those happy days in Brighton; or the man whom she had loved; tne nearness of the day when she would ‘utter the words that would bind her to [auother making her resolute in forbidding memory from having its way. Three days now only remained'before her marriage. There was a triumphal archway erected at. the entrance to the church; flags were waving in the village street; there was a stir and movement about the place telling the villagers’ interest in. the forthcoming proceedings, for the school children were to be treated to games, and old folks entertained at a feast, and at Mablethorpe House, which stood some half a mile from the church 'the wedding guests were; beginning to assemble. i ’ ~ , T ,., , It was the afternoon, and Wilmot had walked over to the house, finding Sybil alone, for' her companion “had gone into the village half an■" hour ago, and taking Sybil in his arms he kissed her fondly. • ) . ' • “I hope you are satisfied'with the temporary home I have .provided for you, dearest,” he said- “You shall 'exchange it for one more worthy of you in a few days. I can scarcely realise that our wedding is so near at hand; the. happiness seems too great. “You have, been very kind to me in everything,” replied’Sybil, moving away from him, with the pretence of arranging some flowers, and he noticed the action, understanding it. The wonjAji whom he was about to wed did not love him. There was nothing Warner than thanks in her words, and his brow grew heavy with anger. “I have thought 'of you in everything,” he continued; “but I see no return from you, Sybil. Is your heart so cold that it is satisfied with simply thanking me?” “X am sincere in my thanks,” she answered. “You have been very generous. There is nothing left for mo to wish for.” “Love which is all from one side cannot exist for long. I had hoped for a warmer welcome than you' have given' me,” he said. “I have given the best it was in my power to give,” she replied. He made no response, for his anger was almost mastering him; but a quarrel would- have been inconvenient. “I Bin, afraid I cannot stay longer,” he said at last. “When- one has a houseful oT guests, oHe cannot neglect them. I shall expect - you at Mablethorpe House to luncheon to-morrow, Sybil. I trust you will not disappoint me.” There was a tone in the words which Sybil resented. “Would her future life be the happy one that Belle, Montmorency had foretold?” she thought. “I will come,” she said, rather curtly. Then he kissed her cold cheek again, and turned away. Though he had won the woman, her heart was free.

Mablethorpo House was . gayer than usual the next night.: There was dancing in the big hail, and the guests were merry. Wilmot, in spite of the annoyance which he felt at Sybil’s coldness, was laughing with a group of friends, and the Honourable Jack Devizes, who was to be his best man, was busy amongst the dancers, having assumed tiie office of master of ceremonies for the evening. A band, hod been brought from the neighbouring town, and everyone was at the height of enjoyment. Sybil and Miss Montmorency had driven over, and received a right royal welcome, and oven the ladies ■ agreed that the woman, who was to be Lady Wilmot was one of the most beautiful they had ever seen. As for Miss Montmorency,. they fere dubious, .for her speech and manner were different from

what, they quite liked. She attracted all the men, and this unpardonable sin caused one of the ladies to declare that she considered Miss Montmorency to be an over-rated person and a dreadful flirt; but of all this the merry actress was unconscious, as she kept her keen watch on Sybil, and marked the indifference with which Wilmot’s bride accepted her position. “ I’m more than half sorry,” mused Miss Montmorency, “ that I helped Wilmot and persuaded Sybil to accept him. She’ll regret marrying him to her dying day. Ho and. she will never be happy together, for she is as much in love with Devereux as she ever was. Lucky for her that she doesn’t know the truth about him, because nothing can prevent her- marriage with Wilmot now. And when she is safely married I hope I shall never be worried like this again. I’ll get heck to town when the ceremonies her© are over, and they ■have started on. their ■ honeymoon. (Honeymoon,, indeed 1 A fin© honeymoon Sybil’s will 'be, and I am to blame for it.” .... The last post had been brought into the ball at Mablethorpe, .and the letters distributed, amid much fun and laughter- .There, was one for the master of the house, addressed in an old-fashion-ed, crabbed handwriting, and he took it up/with a curiosity not to be resisted, jesting tlie while. Then his laugh died away, and his brow darkened, as he muttered a fierce oath and thrust the piece of paper out of sign •

CHAFFER XLVI. A STRANGE FOREBODING. “. . . that thought Exerts my spirit, and my present Are lost in dread of greater ill. —Congreve.

Mrs Conyers stood reading a letter she had received one morning, and as she came to the end of it a piquant little nod of her shapely head expressed approval of the contents of the epistle. It was from Prince Garstein, written from Pans, where he had been living since his duel with Lord Dev-e----reux, which, after a brief and perfunctory inquiry, had ceased to interest any one, although the wounded man lay at'death’s door in Calais. . The letter contained some instructions which Mrs Conyers considered m deep thought. She was advised to leave England and await the result or Devereux's dangerous wound, it ne did .not recover, from it, and the chances were unfavourable, her-way would be clear. She could marry Prince Garstein if Devereux died, and meantime she would live abroad, either in Italy or Spain—she had not decided where yet; she wo'uld be safer there than in London, for a suspicion had cn-wn strong that Wilmot’s attitude towards her meant danger. The part she had taken in Sir George Wilmot s murder presented itself in a new light, and a fear had begun to haunt her that she might be suspected of the crime; Wilmot had betrayed her to Sybil Montagu, argued Mrs Conyers, and he was capable of denouncing her as a murderess. The thought caused her to stamp her foot angrily, and mutter some' fierce words of rage, hut these served no purpose other than to embitter her afresh. ■ She was amply provided with money, for Garstein in answer to her appeal, had sent her a large sum. and this would enable her to live comfortably wherever she might decide to take up her abode. He and she would not meet until Devereux died—if he 1 survived his wound, Garstein wrote, they would never see each other again, but he should always remember'her with feelings of affection and admiration, and regret that fate had separated I them, at which Mrs Cqnyers tossed her head contemptuously as she read. It [was a manly, straightforward letter 'that the Russian had written, .and apart from the determination expressed in it that, he and the woman he loved must henceforward he as strangers unless her husband diel, the con‘tents satisfied her. There were directions in it as to a suitable place where . she might live, and beyond this the promise of sending her more money. Having concluded her perusal, Mrs Conyers gave a glance round at her luxuriously furnished room. There was no reason why she . should delay a day longer than the time which would be required to dispose of her furniture and pictures. These would realise a, subjstantial amount, and save her an infiInite amount of trouble by being sold; } yet she. hesitated before doing this. ■That vague fear, was beginning to harass her once more. People might ■wonder at her selling .her goods, > although there was nothing unusual in doing so. There might .be questions asked; inquiries made regarding her. True, she had few acquaintances, arid these knew her as Mrs Conyers only; but even these would gossip and . hint when they heard that she had broken up her home in AVestbury Mansions. And then her, mood changed. What had she to fear ? Why should she dread anything? It was unreasonable to suppose Wilmot could he such a madman as to endanger himself, by denouncing her; it was weak and cowardly of her to harbour the thought of his doing this, and she laughed as she remembered that stormy night, when ho and she had stepped out from the room at Wilmot Lodge after the murder. Yes, she woyld-see about selling her furniture that very day—the disposal could be effected without attracting any notice, and afterwards she would go to an hotel until she left England. It was strange how really important matters had become half forgotten, and this trifling one of selling her furniture forced itself into her mind. It seemed as if she were indifferent as regarded her husband’s fate now; unconcerned as to her future. Devereux woiild die—the letter at least held out no hope of his recovery, for Garstein had received daily information from Calais; but it was of no interest to her to know this there was neither regret nor satisfaction at the thought; Even the prospect of eventually becoming the Princess Garstein had lost its charm, and only the eager desire to he gone possessed her mind—to put herself beyond reach of recognition—to get somewhere away from the haunting sense of danger; not that she really 'feared, she told herself; there was. no danger; there could be none; hut she must be gone. She would leave everything, give a plausible reason for quitting the flat; arrange for her return, although this would be never. Yes, that would be better than disturbing the rooms—rif she sold the furniture it would realise only two or .three,hundred; she flid not need the money, and there would~be some tiresome hindrance in her movements. ’ „ , And so swayed, now by dread which came numbing at her for an instant, and again by a courageous contempt of it, Mrs Conyers prepared for her journey to Italy or Spain, undetermined which. Her maid had left her service some months ago to become, assistant in a theatrical company, as Vivienne Talboys’s letter to -Miss Montmorency had explained, and Mrs Conyers had reolaced her by a servant engaged abroad, who knew nothing of her mis-

tress’s affairs, nor of the curious wandering existence she had led for the past three years. Yet, although there' was a sense of security in the secluded life she enjoyed, Mrs Conyers was accustomed of" late to experience occasionally a moment or two of keen dis-! like for it. The very quiet of the rooms had become, irksome to her. the loneliness of them oppressive, and she would be glad to get away. There had been one or two callers that afternoon on which she stood re-' reading Prince Garstein’s letter, and now that she was aiono the imperative need to ho gone seemed stronger than| ever, for all that she would have' some difficulty in giving a reason for the feeling. It might have been the idle gossip of her visitors upon a mysterious crime that had recently been committed in a town in France—the talk had interested her —the details of it were eagerly listened to —which had influenced her mind and brought back a crowd of memories. Or maybe her nerves were affected by the even dulness of the flat, or it was strange how the thought of moving, of going tar away, thrilled them. Glancing at her handsome face in the mirror, Mrs Conyers gave a laugh at the reflection, and then frowned as she observed the unusual pallor of her cheeks. “I’m different from my usual self,” she murmured, “and can’t explain why. One ought to be contented—Devereux will trouble me no more—l shall hear of his death shortly” ; and she laughed again. “Garstein adores me as much as ever, and there will be nothing to prevent my becoming the princess with a fortune that will almost satisfy me. Why should I trouble myself to undertake a long, tiresome journey alone?” As If ,to convince herself that her fears were groundless, and the breaking up of her comfortable quarters unnecessary, Mrs Conyers put the question aside for a day or two; but it was impossible to forget it. By slow degrees it regained its ascendency over her, becoming more importunate than at first, and urging her to delay no longer in leaving England. It angered her anew as she recalled Wilmot’s, sneering look and words, and to think how powerless she was to resent them.' A hatred of him, deadlier than any she! had felt before, took possession or her, 1 mingled with the nameless fear that agitated her mind. i

. A feverish haste had come now in the place of tho calmness with which she had considered her position a few days ago, and she began making preparations for her journey at once ,in spite of the mocking consciousness that there was “no need to hasten.’” There was no more thought of selling, her furniture; it would be an unwise; thing to dismantle her pleasant rooms ; she would be returning to them presently—in a month, say—when she was tired of living in Italy or Spain —whichever country she might go to. The packing was done at last, and every preparation completed for the' journey. She was going to-morrow, and the last evening she would spend in Westbury Mansions for some time had arrived. The haunting fear troubled her no longer, the unrest of mind had vanished, and the remembrance of what a brilliant future awaited her returned. Devereux must surely be dead by this time, although she had heard nothing further from Prince Garstein, but she would have a letter presently. She had written to him two days since, and his answer] would come promptly. Then the recollection that she expected some friends that evening, with whom she had promised to dine, at the Savoy, occurred to her. It was a strange thing co have forgotten the appointment till that moment, and she laughed softly to herself as she looked up at the clock. . ■ Seven. Her friends had promised to "all for her at seven, and they would drive together to the S'avoy. It would he a very pleasant little dinner, and afterwards they were going to the theatre. Yes, that was the arrangement—she remembered it all now—j there would be four of them —three, ladies and a gentleman—old friends, all. - They would bo here punctually; and Mi's 'Conyers rose from her chair, caking up a cloak to throw over her’ dinner costume.

Pausing ip the act, a smile came intei her face, for she heard footsteps outride.the room. Her friends were punctual to the minute, and she moved to | tho door to open it. ■ There seemed some delay—the footsteps had halted and her hand was stayed in turninp the handle of the door. It was opened from without, and, her visitors entered the room. But not those whom she had expected, and she drew back with a gesture of haughty surprise. What business had brought these two stange men to her rooms? Who were they—what did 1 their stern, determined, looks mean? One of them had advanced, placing his hand on her- shoulder, saying something which seemed to be deafening her. ■

“I arrest you.” Those were the words there were others which brought a burning flush to her cheeks and stayed her heart-throbs for an instant. “Murder” was one of the words uttered, arid then , all her fierce courage arose in defiance of them. With a glance that neither quailed nor changed she stood regarding the stranger, listening as he spoke.to her, a sneer being on her lips. There was no shrinking now,, no fear betrayed, no motion exhibited beyond . a little incredulous lifting of- the arched brows, although it seemed, as if. an icy grip were choking her. Then she- and the two men were driving away from Westbury- Mansions in a cab. How altered everything in the streets seemed. She began wondering why the passers-by did not look into the cab —why she was in. it —why one of the men kept his grasp on her wrist? And then the awful recognition of everything came. The cab had stopped after entering a paved yard, and she was told to alight. There was a stone wall staring at her with blind eyes, and a gasping sigh escaped her lips. She was a prisoner. She was charged with the murder of Sir George Wilmot. How quickly the time had gone since she stood waiting for her friends to go with them to that pleasant little dinner at the Savoy. There had been a going through whitewashed passages, where the wire-framed gas jets burnt coldly, and now she was in a cell, hut her dauntless courage had never wavered. She was alone, trying to realise the horror and ignominy of, her position,’ her whirling brain refusing to be stilled. (To be continued.)