THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 956, 16 May 1889, Page 29

THE NOVELIST.

THE HOUSE IN THE FELLS, OR !<■< "' HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER.

By FABIAN BELL. :

Author of "Stella," "After Long Years," "The Letter in Cypher," &c.

There's a Divinity doth shape our ends, rough hew them how we will.— Shakkspbarb.

""I cannot tell. I entered but now from the garden. Ismay ! You were with me. Speak I Tell your father, Ah !" as he saw that her face was averted from him, " what you also. Oh, heaven ! have mercy^upon me," and covering his face with his hands he groaned aloud. Ismay came to his side. 11 Is he quite dead ?" she said in a hushed, altered voice. Strangely enough, no doubt of Hugh's death had until this moment struck any of the party ; but with sudden excitement and eagerness- Robert now lifted the body in his arms, carried it to, the window, and tearing open the shirt, laid his hand upon the left side. Ghastly and pale fell the rays of the moon upon the figure of the slain man, and as the trees waved to and fro in the still night air, a flitting shadow, giving for one moment a look of returning life, crossed the mutilated face. • "He is not dead. He moves! He moyes !" cried Ismay, with frantic eagerness. " Quick 1 quick I Fetch a doctor; he may yet recover." A sudden spasm crossed Mr Clare's fape. He, too, bent forward as if to examine the corpse, recoiling, however, when his hand touched that of Robert. * No doctor can bring back life here/ he said sternly, and seizing the cord of an alarm bell which hung from the roof he rung it furiously. "Why do you do that?" cried Robert sharply. ' " To summon help 'and witnesses." Eobert sprang to his feet. 11 Do you dare then to suspect me of — of ." ! "Of the murder of your brother ? I do. | You have long hated him. This very day bitter and angry words passed Between you. You were both seen to enter the wood this evening. Who saw Hugh after his return? IdMnotf" . ' " ' "Nor I. Nor yet did 1 1 ' see him in the wood; I heard of him—nothing more," 1 Mr Clare's lip oarled goornfally,

Chapter 111. Suspicious,

OUSED from his awestruck silence by the denunciation of his uncle, Robert looked wildly up, exclaiming : . " Hush ! What i 3 that you say?" ;

Mr Clare pointed with one hand to the corpse.

" How came it here 1"

"The coroner's jury may believe that-r-I do not." t ; ; ; " Oh, fatherl " cried Ismay, losing the overpowering sense of sympathy with the dead in a new born fear for the living. "Robert knows nothing of this dreadful deed." "Silence l foolish girl. What brings, you here at this untimely hour ? You have been with him, I suppose. Where then is your sense of honour and virtue? Wretohed— lost— abandoned." " Forbear! " thundered Robert. " Me, you have accused of the basest crime on earth ; I merely say, prove it if you can. But as for lemay, she is innocent of all, and any, fault. Jjeaveher, therefore, in peace," .Then turning to the young girl he continued in a softened voice : "Go to' your own room, dear ; your presence only embarrasses us." But Ismay stood motionless as if unable to obey, waiting, as it seemed, for further developments. And during all this time a confused babel of sound had been gathering throughout the house. Roused by the loud clanging of the bell, the servants had risen from their beds and were hanging about half-dressed, anxiously asking each other what wai amiss, a question which none could answer, though vague terrors filled every mind and prompted to the wildest conj«ctures. But no one was, or could be, prepared for the tragedy which had been enacted in the east rooms, where, having vainly searched the remainder of the house for any sign of their master and the family, they now turned their steps. Ismay heard the sound of approaching feet and voices, and with a quick instinct of coming danger, placed herself between her father and her cousin, glancing in [ agonised entreaty from, one to the other. Mr Clare stood erect and , defiant. Robert turned away and covered his face with his hand — that terror-stricken face now stained with the blood of a' brother. The action was a natural one, springing as it did from grief, and the recollection of his last angry meeting with the dead man. Yet people interpreted it as a sign of guilt, and' as such it was remembered and noted ; so also was the pale, drawn countenance with which he heard his uncle declare how he had found his two nephews, the dead and the living, in the unfrequented rooms. Strange glances of horror and fear were exchanged as the servants crowded round the murdered man to examine his wounds, the position in which he lay, and the aspect of the room. In the centre of the floor were a pool of blood and , the traces of a scuffle. It was beyond doubt that here the murderer had -sprung upon his victim, that, the death fight had ensued, and the death blow been given. But how came they there, the murderer and the murdered, in those forsaken ' unused chambers 1 No stranger would have been likely to enter there, or entering : to' have found Hugh; and that no thief. had done the deed in his search for plunder there was abundant evidence, inasmuch as the watch, ring, and purse of the dead man were all untouched. Reflections such as these careered through many a busy brain, and more than one suspicion had been suggested and dismissed ere the stern voice of Mr Glare silenced for a moment all other sounds. " Saddle a horae instantly, John Grey, and go for the police.' Then ride on t6 Doctor Bently. He can do nothing, but he must be here. Meanwhile keep watch upon the murderer ; do not let him escape." Such were the fiords which fell like sharp thunderpeals on the "startled senses of the group. ' ' ' ' Ismay alone 'of all present understood them. "Oh", Robert I Robert ! Father, he is innocent," she cried. A thrill ran through the shuddering listeners as now for the first time they learned from their young mistress' words who it was that Mr Clare suspected, and remembering how much and for' what good reasons they had loved the one brother and hated the other, a universal cry broke from all. "Who says it was Mr Robert? He would

not hurt a worm."' Ismay gave them a quick grateful glance, but Robert himself neither spoke nor moved, and Mr Clare repeated his orders in a more peremptory tone than before. Then, no one could tell how or why, a chill terror crept over each of those warmly beating hearts. One by one they noticed the strange demeanour of the accused'; they remembered the squabbles that had been of almost daily occurrence between the brothers, and, althoughjthe fault had'almost invariably been on the side of the elder, yet memory recalled many sharp blows and sharper words which had been exchanged between them. What if in one of these quarrels the fatal wound should have been given and received 1 More than even the deed, itself,' this sad suspicion pained the kindly dependents, and one — the grey-haired old shepherd — stole to the spot where the young man stood apart, and whispered: ; "Sure, Maister Robin, we wish; ye well, but had ye na' better gang awa' while there's time T Robert started. "What, Reuben, you also suspect me! Then I must indeed be lost 1 Of what value is life if you, and even Ismay, believe me guilty. No,' l will not go." But Ismay, who had heard Reuben's words, now joined her entreaties to his. " Robert, dear Robert, I implore, I entreat you, go. We do not believe you guilty. Indeed, indeed we do not j but my father — you know him— he is inexorable ; he will consign you to prison, to — I know not what or where ; therefore- go, I implore you, go." " Do you bid me fly like a guilty coward 1" 11 Not like a coward, Robert — but- but — your life is dear to me " In the eargerness of entreaty Ismay had raised her v6ice, and attracted by it, her father turned, exclaiming fiercely : " Vile, shameless girl I Isitthus you address a murderer? Hence! Leavethis room immediately. This is' no place for you." " Father, he is no ■ murderer ! He is my " ™ Silence, Ismay I I command you I" interposed Robert.' Bub th c girl Wjbuld n,pt be silenced ? even' ihough Mr Clare again angrily commanded her tq auit' the room,"

. , father! I oannot go, I cannot leavening He is my husband f. ' ■ The listeners holding their very bteath for fear, a terrible pause followed this 1 announce^ ment. For a minute ho one spoke dr movjsd. Then Ismay advanced a step, and 'laying her hand on him, whom she had called husband* looked imploringly at her father as if asking forgiveness for the act of disobedience into which his own harshness had hurried her. A strange, indescribable expression crossed the old man^s face. "It is fAe, girl 1 You are deceiving me." ' ' ; ' ' " No ; it is "the truth. Oh, father, forgive me. You know how we have loved each other, and we feared you would never con» sent." Mr Clare set his teeth, and the old bad light came into his eyes. " Consent ! No ; rather would I have seen you lying as that corpse at my feet than know you the wife of that accursed murderer 1" ' • ; Ismay uttered a low, despairing wail. , " Oh, do not curse him J He is innocenthe, is my husband." , At this moment the tramp of many feet was heard without, and Reuben again drew near to his young master. "The p'lice be coming, Master Robin. Will ye no gang the noo, just to pleasure the wee bit lassie as loe's ye sac weel ?" " Yes, Robert— my husband— my love !— fly, fly !" cried his wife, wildly. " Reuben will go with you. It will be but for a time. They • must— they shall acknowledge your innocence. But to see you accused— to see you in prison, Robert— l could not bear it." But still the young man hesitated. "It will seem like an acknowledgment of guilt," he said. Meanwhile Mr Clare had approached the door as if to meet the returning messenger and his companions, and during the brief interval Ismay and Reuben had spoken, and a dozen kindly voices of those who had long kriownjand loved^him joined them, 1 in urging Robert to flight. Still he lingered, doubtful and relnotant. " I cannot leave you, Ism'ay I—l1 — I ought not. Let me remain and join in the 1 search. I shall be safe, No constable '\vUl dare to arrest me." ' ' "They will— they will, Robert 1 If you love me — if you do ' not wish me to die at your feet — go," shrieked his wife. „ And so at last, in compassion on her agony, after a hurried embrace, he went out by the glass door, and prepared to descend into the garden, followed by Reuben. Pausing, however, upon the threshold, he turned and exclaimed, in clear, distinct tones, raising . his ( righb arm to heaven: '; ' " Bear witness all, that, before ' the face of the All Seeing, I swear that I am innocent of this foul crime whichis laid tb' my charge." An instant more and, bounding down the steps, he was speedily lost to, sight in the mazes of the garden. ' ''"'■' But ere his figure had quite disappeared, Mr Clare, turning quickly reund, r saw at a glance what had happened, and' exclaimed 'furiously j " Fools ! What have you been doing to let the murderer escape you. thus? After him, if ye be men, and bring him back to the punishment of his 1 deed? ! ' ' Yet though the master glanced threateningly from one to the other of his servants, none stirred to obey his bidding. Perhaps they did not all .believe Robert innocent, I though at that time most of them did ; but, guilty or innocent, they were fully determined that one whom they had so long loved should not suffer at their hands ; therefore, as with one accord, they stood stolidly silent and immovable, leaving Mr Clare no option save to follow the fugitive himself if such were his pleasure. But, infuriated and blinded as he was with passion, even he saw that such' a course would be monstrous, and with a muttered curse of baffled hate Mr Clare tiir'ned to greet the police officers, who now made their appearance just t6o late to arrest the suspected criminal. Eagerly did he, at whose summons the men had come, tell the story of how he had found the dead and with whom, and strongly urge that pursuit of Robert Clare should be commenced at once.

rest me."

The senior officer shook his head.

" No, no, sir ; we cannot do that. You did not see the murder committed, and we have no warrant to take anyone up on suspicion ; besides, if your nephew turned out to be the wrong.man after all, as is more than likely, it might be awkward, and- we should be subject to an action for false imprisonment." " Nonsense 1" thundered Mr Clare. " I teH"you he is the man, and while you delay he may escape altogether."

The officer could not see this. Like moat of his class, he was confident of tracking his prey whenever and wherever he pleased, and making way for the surgeon, who though first sent for, was the last to make his appearance, he prepared to listen to the medical opinion. l It was short and decided.

The deceased was quite dead. He had been first stunned by some heavy, blunt; instrument such as a poker , or a thick iron ruler, and then stabbed in .the throat. A sharp penknife might have inflicted this last and fatal wound, or a small lancet, " Has life been long extinct !" inquired Ismay, speaking for the first time since her husband's departure. The surgeon [scanned her closely with his keen grey eyes. " ■' " Some time ; ,at least four hoars— perhaps more." It was now I o'clock. Ismay looked quickly up, and opened her lips as'if about to speak, then shjj started — a deathlike pallor overspread hej* face, and she turned away. At first she had fancied that at the fatal hour Robert must have been with her, but quick as thought came the recollection that it was ten strokes, not' nine, which had sounded from the distant, clock as they set out upon their moonlight walk. At the hour when the deed had been committed she | must have been making tea for her father, i the two brothers being absent. ' Where had they been 1 How had that Jn ? terval been spent ? It was 6h the 1 answer tp this question that Robert's fate ! 'no,«r hung. Could he account for the time whfch nad elapsed between his return from the wood at - 8 and his visit to the 1 JBrWniek Cave as jo; 'All ' might yet be wejK ' ' Ismay grasped the hope of his doing so with the] despair* )ng tenacity with which v drowniag ««

Catches the rope outstretched to save him', and stilled her heart to listen to 'the mut- , tiered conversation which went on round her as the policeman began to question all those who believed they could give him any information. What little he heard we . already know ; nothing conclusive, of course, but sadly sug.gestive tales oE the ill-will subsisting between the brothers, and of a quarrel in the early part of that very day — nothing more. The officer looked grave, and began to search the room for the weapon's with which the fatal deed had been committed, t But nothing could be found— no sign, no trace of the smallest instrument, in the remotest corners, behind the strange old furniture, under the pieces of carpet, in the fireplace, up the chimney— every inch of ground was thoroughly ' investigated, but to no. purpose. Then they extended the search from the room into the corridor, and on the other side out upon the balcony, and down

the broad steps into the garden. All their Steal, however, seemed wasted, until at last returning discouraged from their quest, ivhich it appeared useless to protract, the qqick eye of the emissary of the law caught the bright glitter of steel. He bent eagerly down.

On the broken stone of the bottom step lay an open penknife. A stain as of blood was on blade and handle, which bore the initials " R. C."

It might have been dropped there accidentally, or it might have been 'thrown there to escape detection — who could tell ? But there, alas! it was; and all present felt wifch a shuddering fear that it was another link in the fatal chain of circumstantial evidence. That the officer attached great importanpe to this discovery was evident, and naving taken possession of the weapon, and directed that nothing in the room should be altered or removed, the superior left one of his men to' watch by the bbdy, so that nothing might br touched before the inquest was held, and took his departure.

A blank and terrible weight laj upon those he left behind. In blind fear now that all ptimulus, of action wa3 passed, the servants crowded from the fatal room, leaving the murdered man alone with his watcher. Early as it was not one dared to ' return to his or her chamber; but, hanging closely round the kitchen fire, they spoke in frightened whispers of the murder, of Robert, of the coming inquest ; then they went on to the discussion of other murders, trials, and executions, feeding the flame of their terror until they scarcely dared to speak or move ; and when the day broke shaking off the fears of the night as a man shakes off an evil dream, they prepared for the , ordinary work of an ordinary day.

Not so Ismay, . The long hours were spent by her in ( eager, fearful watching— watching for tidings of her husband— watching for Reuben. , At last he came. . In the faint gloaming, in the cjim starlight — ere yet the eastern hills wer,e tinged with crimson— lsmay's straining eyes caught a, glimpse of the shepherd's white flock and whiter head. . ,

, " Reuben, Reuben," -she cried, ' leaning and whispering. from the window, "wait fqr me, lam coming." Then threading hastily and softly the mazes of the house, passing through phe door which nonp had thbught'to bar after the exit of the police, Ismay , hurried through the garden to the old man's side. "Reuben, is he safe?" •• Aye, lassie, safe as yersel." Then lowering his voice he added, "He is i' the Brownie's Cave." '

Ismay drew a deep breath of gratitude. " Oh, Reuben, how thankful I am that he went. The police have been here." "Aye, I thocht as much. Be they here the noo ?"

"Yes."

" No, they have gone ; bufthey have left one to watch, and, Reuben, they have found a— a penknife." " O' the laddie's ? o' Maister Robin's T "Yes." The shepherd paused a moment ere he spoke again, then taking her hand in his he said solemnly : "Lassie, this is a fearsom trial for ye, but dinna doubt that the laddie is innocent o' this bluid ; it may be that we shall na' see it proven the noo, but bide awee, bide awee, and i' the Lord's gude time it will a' be made plain." Tears gathered into Ismay's eyes. ** Bless you, bless you, Reuben, for those words ; they have made my heart almost light again. I feared that every one thought him guilty." Reuben shook his head. " I ha' kent the lad many a lang year noo. I ha' laped him i' my arms when he came to the hoose a bit bairnie, and he's a' been gude and gentle. There's na' the least token o' the murderer in him. If he telt me sac with bis am lips, I should na believe him, but he says he is innocent, and, lassie, as there's a heaven abune us, he speaks true."

The young wife's heart was too full for ought but silent thanksgiving, but after a time she said : " When may I go to him, Reuben ?"

"When and where will the 'quest be holden ?"

" The coroner's inquest 7 To-day, I believe, and here in the house."

" Aye, I thocht sac. The Robie Burns be too far agee. But it's an unco 1 Borrowfu' thing- I little thoeht to speer such i' my day, and i' the auld hoose, too ; but the Lord's will be done. '

"It is dreadful, horrible for us all to think that Hugh should be murdered. Poor Hugh 1 I have scarcely thought of him in my fear for Robert. But it is dreadful. Reuben, who could have done it ?"

" Lassie, there's am who kens ; our eyne are blinded may be, but JSe'll make it clear, and noo, lassie, I mun gang or they'll speer us t'gether. I'll come for ye i' the gloaming when the 'quest is o'er, and we'll gang to the cave and mayhap bring him hame. Keep up yer heart, lassie, ye ken where to gang for nelp," and. with a solemn upturned gaze the olii man continued his onward journey, while Ismay, comforted and strengthened, returned to the hous6.

It was strange how the conviction of that one old man in her husband's innocence soothed ismay. The Verdict of a t whole ben oh of magistrates could not ,have given her greater confidence than that one unsupported assertion; for Reuben was the first

person who had' distinctly avowed his faith in Robert, and to the young wife it seemed like an omeii of better times— if one trusted and believed him, others would do the same; and strong iri this hope, her step and heart were almost buoyant, as, after a time, she entered the breakfa3t parlour, where, everything was prepared for' the morning meal. The shatters were not closed, for in that lone house and 'country' people paid but little heed to the customs of towns, and thiough the glow of the laburnums the early morning sun entered the room| laden with the sweet scent of lilac and syringa. The song of birds came through the open window — the call of the linnet, the sweet chant of the thrush ; — all Nature was happy, fair, and peaceful— no violent storm, no wild bonvulsion had' followed the dark deeds ,of the night, so 'that Ismay' could almost have believed that it was all a gloomy and , fearful dream, and that in a f cw v momenfcs she should see her cousins enter and take their wonted seats at her side. Then with a sudden start of horror at her forgetfulness, she remembered the mutilated corpse lying in that very house, the spirit which "unanointed, unaneled," had been so violently driven Jfrom its tenement ; and putting her' hands over her face she groaned aloud, then hurriedly advancing let down the blind, ( closed the heavy ourtains and shut out the mocking lights and; sounds of the happy world without.

It was while thus occupied that a servant entered, and' starting at sight of the darkened room, apologised for having neglected it.

Ismay waved her hand as if she would fain be left alone, saying:

" Never mind, Mary, only look at once to the other windows.*" But Mary still lingered. "If you please, miss, there's a woman wants to see you."

" Who is it I I can see no one."

" I told heir so, miss, and she wouldn't be said ; she declared she must see you, and — but, Lor' 1 here she be." And Mary! shrank back as a dark figure came to her side in the doorway.

Ismay looked up. " My good woman, you should not push in here ; I cannot talk to you now. This is a house of mourning ; a heavy trouble has befallen us this night ; if you knew its nature you would not come here now."

" That is false," said the woman, sturdily advancing into the room and closing the door upon the wondering servant, ".that is false ; it is for that very reason I am come. Do you think I would otherwise have sought you ? No, never. But I come to learn the truth, for what I have this day heard has driven me well nigh mad." Puzzled and alarmed at the speaker's vehemence^ Ismay rose to her feet. " What is the matter 1 Who are you, and what brings you here ?" "I came to learn the truth," said the strange visitor again, and dropping the cloak which shrcjuded her from head to heel, , she exhibited a dark, handsome, 'distorted ; face of a strange weird beauty, ov6r which i the long hair, fell in elf-like curls. Nothing , soft or feminine or winning was there, but like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, she "held you with her eye "—her glittering,' brilliant, flashing eyes, which shone underneath her,broad brows like burning coals or lava 1 fire. It was a face to attract, and at the same time to repel— the beauty of the tiger and the cobra. Looking upon , that woman as she stood there, it, was almost impossible to believe her .capable of any soft or womanly emotion; and yeb she could love even as she hated, as few,in this, world have ever loved or hated — with all her Heart and soul, with every power of mind and will, with all her vivid, earnest life. She was one who, in olden days, would have been a witch, a sorceress, pythoness ; now she wa&but a lost, unhappy woman, one whom Hugh Clare's fatal love had deprived of 'name, fame, and virtue. ismay started as she recognised her, and exclaimed : " Judith Knigh'ton." r " Yes, Judith Knighton, young lady, since it seems you know- my name. And now,; , perhaps, you will answer my question." ' ', '''What question ? I do -not understand you." ' - . ■ A glance of withering scorn flashed from the dark burning eyes, " You are equivocating, Miss Clare, but surely you have nothing to- fear from so humble and insignificant person as Judith Knighton." " Certainly not ! Neither am I afraid. I do not know for what reason you have forced yourself upon me at this time, nor, what it is you wish me to tell you." I Ismay's quiet tone, while it carried conviction to her pompaniou, yet chafed her visitor's 1 excited spirit to its utmost bounds, and catching hold of the heavy embroidered curtain, she exclaimed : t i j " Well, then, since you must have it, I have heard that Hugh Clare is dead." | " You have' heard the truth. He was found murdered in the east rooms last night." "Murdered I Murdered I and you sit there quietly, with your pretty baby face and tell me so. Girl ! is your heart stone ? But I forget — this is not to you what! it is to ! me. Oh, Hugh ! Hugh !" and flinging her arms over her .head, the strange woman wept aloud. Ismay was much moved, and notwithstand- . ing an- intuitive aversion, went towards her, saying ; • • " Sit down, Miss I£nighton, pray sit down. lam very sorry for you. But Hugh— what do you know of Hugh ? " , " What do I know of Hugh, do you say ? What do I know of myself 1 Was he not the light of my eyes, the sunshine of my heart ? was not eveiy hair on his head dearer to me than the life of any other* created being ? Did I not worship the very ground he trod on ? Would I not rather have been a slave with him, than, the queen on her throne without him ? Would I not — have I not — given my very soul for his — and now he is dead. Murdered ! " and once more the terrible cry rose to heaven. " Hush I hush I Oh, pray be calm ; yon know not what you say." ■ " You know not, perhaps. You cannot know what it is to love as I love him. My words seem inlpions| mockeries to you* bbutt t they are solemn truths.' „1 am npt jreligious as you may be, but I love as you never have, and never can, You "talk of heaven.

■ Hngh's-love was my heavfen, and now I' have lost ifc. I would wade ; through an eternal sea of fire to win it back again, but I Oannot, for the dead are los.t for ever; " I would die too. I would kill myself, but ,1 wait for. one thing, and that is vengeance. Vengeance on the perpetrator of this foul deed, which has robbed me of him. Hugh died by a base blow given iri .'secret and alone ; but his murderer shall not perish so. He, shall be hung in the midst of a shouting, jeering, cursing crowd, and' J will look on and exult." " Impossible ! You would not— you could not be so cruel."

" Could I not 1 I tell you I could, and will. I have been robbed of the only thing which made life bearable — the only thing I loved in, earnest; and my vengeance shall equal ,my love, and that was boundless as the blue sky above. 'Nothing bat death can quell it." 1 " Did he love you so much 1 " ventured Ismay, more to turn her visitor's thoughts from her wild threats of vengeance than from' any other cause, although 1 as she spoke she could not but remember the dead man's frequent declarations of love for herself. " Who doubts it 1 "' was the passionate reply. " I>id he not vow to love me for ever 1 Did he not swear to wed me before his child was born. Ah J you shrink away. I did not mean to say that ; bat you have no need to despise me. I have not fallen so low as you think, for he swore to wed me, and he would have done it—l know he would. Oh,' Hugh I Hugh I. come back to me, come back to me." For a moment after Judith's reckless avowal Ismay shrank from her, bat strong in the. consciousness of her own purity, and feeling for her companion's grief, the ; young wife approached the wretched woman who should also have been a wife, but the latter shrank away, exclaiming as she waved Ismay off. "Do not come. lam not fit for such as you to touch." ," No, no, you must not say so. lam truly sorry for you." •• I don't want your sorrow; keep it for yourself, you may need it some day little as you think so now. But if you wish to help me, tell me who did the deed, that I may bring him to his doom." Ismay shuddered, answering evasively : " Oh, do not nurse such dreadful thoughts of vengeance. Without doubt they will find out the murderer some day, but it is ,terrible to s uspect those who are innocent." "'Who suspects? ,Who is suspected? Tell me.. I have a right. I will know. Is it a stranger— is it — -Ah, I know now; it is Robert?" Uttering a cry of agony, the young girl sprang to her feet. "It is false. Robert is innocent as an angel from heaven." With a strange satisfaction, j Judith watbhed this display of emotion, ( saying with a glow bitter sneer : • i "Ah ! it seerris that you can feel now.' Hugh might be, slain in cold blood a thousand times i and you would feel no sorrow, but now that i his villainous brother——" j , ; " Robert is no villain. He is my husband,', : burst from Ismay's ashen lips. ' ■ , ; " And' was not Hugh my husband too ? ' 1 And Judith eyed her companion with a glance ] of deadly hatred, adding in slow ,'concen- ] trated accents which made Ismay's blood run < cold : " Your husband has made me husbandless—a widow in heart if not in narde. . My I vengeance shall make you .a widow also; the s widow of a man hanged for murder— of a j second Cain." 1 " Be silent, woman ! Be silent." ; { "I will not be silent. Does not Hugh \ Clare's blood cry aloud for vengeance, and i shall I, his wife, be still ? I tell you : , Ismay i j Clare, I will" "never be silent until high j between .earth and heaven, too foul! for the one and c^st out ,from the , other, the ] murderer has washed out his sin with' his ] own blood upon the scaffold. Then, and not g until then, will Robert Clare be safe from* my 1 hatred and ever pursuing vengeance." And c with these words upon her lips, without other leave-taking or farewell, Judith Eriighton t quited the room as abruptly as she had entered i it, leaving behind her ( a, jfigure whicjh, in its t wan, terror-stricken. face and attitude bore c little resemblance to' the happy Ismay Clare a of 12 hours', before.' l

(iTo be 1 continued.)