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Otago Witness, Issue 2043, 20 April 1893, Page 39

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Chapter XVII. A Haunting Dread. NERAL CONRAY slept little that night. He lay still, revolving in his mind the circumstances of Robert Oonray's death. They haunted him with grim distinctness; he saw again his dead nephew's face; he heard the evidence at the inquest, and the doubts as to how he had died.

It had never been satisfactorily cleared up. Captain Eobert Conray, a handsome, distin-guished-looking young man, who at this time held an appointment oja General Oonray's staff, had one morning "been found dead in the grounds of Tyeford Hall, where the General lived, with a bullet wound in his throat. He had been dead for hours, the doctors said, when he was discovered, and whether he had died by his own hands or been murdered remained a mystery, as his wound, the doctors also stated, might have been self-iaflicted. But no weapon was found near him, and one witness— an orderly who was passing through the , grounds with the letter-bag containing the letters by the last post for the Generalstated that about 10 o'clock in the evening he had seen Captain Conray in the grounds with a lady, whom he believed to be the General's wife. But Miriam Clyde then came forward and stated that it was she, not her sister, that the orderly had seen with Captain Conray. She had met him in the grounds about 10 o'clock, and parted with him an hour later, leaving him alive and well. She added that she was then engaged to be married to him, though this fact was known only to her sister Joan. She was asked if she had had any quarrel with him, and she said no ; and Joan had confirmed this statement. But after a while grave suspicion had fallen on a brother officer of the deceased named Hugh Ferrars. This young man was known to bean admirer of Miriam Clyde, and was said to have been passionately in love with her ; but General Conray had disapproved of his suit, and had forbidden him his house. And from the morning that Robert Conray was found dead in the grounds of Tyeford Hall, Lieutenant Hugh Ferrars had disappeared. At first this did not attract any attention. He had been on leave at the time, and only when his leave expired were inquiries made about him. But these were all in vain. He had been staying in town when he was last heard of, and his luggage was found at the hotel he had lived at, but 'the man himself had vanished. He had never been seen or heard of since the day that Robert Conray had died. He had left the hotel that day, saying he would return on the following day, but he never came back. His people were communicated with, but they knew nothing. His father was the clergyman of a country parish in Yorkshire, and daring part of his leave he had been at home. Then he had gone up to town, and they had beard nothing of him since. Presently people began to talk of him in connection with Robert Con ray's mysterious death. They had been intimate

friends, but if both had been lovers of Miriam Olyde here was a motive at once for Robert Oonray's murder. At all events a warrant was finally issued for his apprehension, but the police were completely baffled. No trace of him could be found, and he had passed away from the knowledge of his fellow men as completely as if he were dead. His parents believed him to be dead, and mourned for him, but General Conray bad never been quite satisfied on thi3 point. True, he might have been robbed and murdered and thrown into the dark waters of the river, rolling noiselessly throngh the great city, and hiding some of its misery and &in. This was the theory of the hapless country parson, who came up to town to assist in the search, and who stood hopelessly on bridge after bridge peering down into the Thamep, believing that his son's body lay somewhere in its gloomy depths.

All this had happened nearly two years ago, and had faded out of the recollection of most people, but General Conray had never forgotten his nephew's sudden death, and he lay thinking of it now, and that look of fear in Joan's eyes when he had asked her if she were dreaming of "poor Robert" had driTen an uneasy pang of strange doubt into his heart.

And to Joan his words had brought absolute dread. She had tcld Miriam she was always dreaming of Robert Conray, and now she had spoken of him in her sleep 1 A haunting fear of this had possessed her ever since his death. What if this grim secret that the two sisters had hidden in their hearts so loDg were to be betrayed by babbling words she could not control. Joan shuddered when she thought of it. She must not sleep, she told herself ; she must lie awake if it killed her. And she did lie awake ; lay pinching the white flesh of her arms to keep the drowsy feelings of weariness away. Oh I the long, miserable hours I The General slept at last, but not Joan. The gloomy November dawn found her pale, haggard-eyed, but alert. And she noticed that during the day that followed the General looked at her more than once with an expression in his eyes she had never seen there before. Could any suspicions of the truth have entered his heart ? But no, no ; Joan told herself this was impossible. Still her nerves felt shattered, and" her sleepless night had wearied her so that in the afternoon she declined to go out with either her mother or her husband, but lay down and took the"rest she so much needed— for she must not sleep during the night. Joan had set herselE this task, and for two more nights she kept to her resolution. They were the last two nights they were to spend in town, the Clydes returning to Newborough-on-the-Sea and the General and his wife to Tyeford Hall.

Joan was delicate, and this enforced sleeplessness told greatly on her health. Both her mother and her husband felt anxious about her during these last few days in town ; but Joan made no complaints. Then the wedding party broke up, and Joan and her husband started for Tyeford. She felt so weary on the journey it was all she could do to keep herself awake in the train. Her eyes closed involuntarily, and sbe could scarcely hold up her head. It was late in the day before they reached the station nearest the General's house. Then came a long drive in the dark, and by the time they reached Tyeford Joan felt completely exhausted. She sighed wearily as she entered her comfortable and well-furnished home. The General had taken Tyeford Hall when he had been appointed to the Southern District, which he commanded, and he had brought his young wife there as a bride. It stood in extensive and well-kept grounds, and from the upper windows you bad a glimpse of the sea. It was in these grounds that the tragic death of Robert»Oonray had occurred, and Miriam had never visited her sister since.

Joan thought of Robert Conray as they drove up to the house ; thought of him as she entered the well-lighted hall, as she walked up the broad staircase. To her the whole place was haunted by his memory. Yet she had never suggested to the General any wish to leave it. He had taken it for a term of years, and it ivas conveniently situated for his command, being only about half a mile distant from the barracks.

A letter from Miriam, the bride, awaited Joan. The General brought this up to her after he had opened the letter-bag. Joan put out her hand languidly to receive it, and as she did so her husband noticed how extremely pale and tired she looked. " You are quite done up, Joan," he said ; "all this business about the wedding has been to much for you; you must have a good rest to-night." " Yes," answered Joan, all the while determiued that she would take none.

" Well, what does the bride say 1 " went on the General.

Then Joan opened her letter, which was from Paris. Miriam wrote cheerfully, and there was no allusion in it to the past, whicb both the sisters regarded with such shrinking dread. She mentioned her husband's name once or twice, and told her sister what lovely furs James had bought her. "He is very good and kind to me," she added, " and very unselfish."

" She seems all right," said Joan, after she had finished reading the letter, and then she handed it to the General, who also read it, and then laid it on the table beside his wife.

" Well, I hope she will be happy," he said. " She has got, I believe, a good husband, and I trust she will make a good wife."

Joan did not speak, and then the General laid his hand upon her shoulder.

" And you, poor little woman," he said, " must go to bed directly after dinner. You are dead tired, and nothing but a sound sleep will refresh yon."

He left the room after this, and Joan then took some sal volatile to keep herself up, and dressed for dinner. And after dinner the General insisted she should retire for the night. " I have a lot of papers to go through," he said, " and it will be 12 or later before I have done. But you musb go to bed at once. Come, Joan, it is quite time you were there."

And at this moment it passed through Joan's mind she might indulge in the sleep she so much required before her husband came upstairs. She was utterly exhausted and her eyes heavy with drowsiness, and she

felt she would give almost anything for an hour's sleep. " Very well," she said, " I will go ; " and she rose and left the room, while her husband went to his library to work.

Joan was so tired that three minutes after she was in bed she was fast asleep. Asleep when 12 o'clock came and the General quietly entered the room. She was sleeping the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, and she never heard her husband's footsteps. She looked worn and white, he thought, and he made as little noise as possible, and very soon afterwards he also was asleep.

When he awoke it was the morning. He awoke with a start, and glancing quickly round, he heard Joan's voice speaking in loud and unnatural tones. He looked at her attentively, and saw by the dim light she was still asleep. She was dreaming, but her features wore an expression of great suffer* ing, even anguish. " Don't look like that— Robert 1 Robert 1" she cried. " Robert, speak to me — say one word ! "

She stretched out her arms as she spoke, as if entreatingly ; her voice was full of intense pain, and the General drew back in sudden dread and listened with bated breath.

"Robert!" she wailed out once more; " Robert I " and then her expression changed. "Why did you do it?'' she asked with startling suddenness, as if addressing some invisible presence. "He did you no wrong ; he was mine, not Miriam's— only mine 1 "

There was silence in the room after this ; a silence that the sleeping woman broke no more. But the grey-haired man by her side rose and crept away ; the iron had entered into his soul.

This brief conversation took place during their journey to Scotland, and was like many of their conversations, very simple and kindly. They were excellent companions, and Sir James always looked on the bright aide of everything. He was so genial that it became infeotious, and Miriam sometimes found herself smiling quite brightly at his (harmless jokes. His place, Kintore, was in the Western Highlands, a substantial grey old house standing by the blue waters of one of the most beautiful of the inland lochs. Sir 'James possessed a large estate here, but the principal part of his income did not aiise from the heathery hills and glens of his -ancestralfproperty. His mother had been a ffioh and only danghter of a Glasgow shipbuilder, and when his maternal grandfather died, some years after the death of his own father, it was found that the late Mr Munro, the Glasgow shipbuilder, had bequeathed, perhaps in the pride of his heart, a large fortune to "my grandson, Sir James MacKennon, Bart."

To his daughter, Lady MacKennon, he also left a considerable sum, Dntthe bulk of his money went to Sir James. Lady MacKennon, however, was a rich woman before she received her father's legacy. Her mother, the late Mrs Munro, had been an heiress, and at her death she had left everything she had possessed to her daughter. It was after this event that the father of Sir James had married her, and people said he had done so to prop up the fallen fortunes of his house with money that had been made in trade. Miss Munro (Lady MacKennon) was not handsome, had never been handsome, and was inclined to look upon fair skins and bright eyes only as snares of the evil one. She had been proud of, and deeply attached to, her well-born husband ; but she had carried many of her narrow prejudices and ideas with her to her new state. Therefore, we can understand that Sir Jamea, knowing well the nature of this stiff, somewhat selfrighteous old dame, was anxious about what she would think of his young wife. And it will be as well to tell what she did think.

It was dark, and had been so several hours when the young couple arrived at the mansion house of Kintore. A handsome •carriage had been waiting for them at the aearest station to Sir James's place, a toalf moon had shone out to partly light them on their way, and its glimmer fell on the waters of the loch as they drove by its side.

"How beautiful it seems," said Miriam, with enthusiasm, who had never been in the Highlands before. " Wait till you see it in daylight," answered Sir James, with some pride. They were sitting hand-clasped, these two, as they approached their future home, and only thoughts of happiness were in Sir James's heait. As for Miriam, she was excitei by her surroundings, and had not time to think. But as they drove up the avenue to the house she clasped Sir James's hand a little tighter in her own. " I feel quite nervous," she said. He stooped down and kissed her. " What for, darling 2" he whispered. " You are only going home." Almost as he said this, they reached the hall door, which was standing open to receive them, and several servants also appeared. Sir James spoke kindly to some of these, and then turned and handed Miriam out of the carriage, and drawing her arm through his he led her into the lighted hall. And as he did this, a spare figure in black, with her iron-grey hair plainly braided beneath her widow's cap, appeared on the threshold of one of the rooms leading from the hall, and fixed her scrutinising gaze upon the bride.

For a moment Sir James did not see her, and Lady MacKennon did not advance. Then Sir James caught sight of his mother, and with an exclamation of pleasure ran up and kissed her furrowed cheek.

"Well, mother, here we are," he said; " and this," he added, drawing his young wife forward, "is Miriam."

" So I supposed," said Lady MacKennon ; and she held out a bony hand enclosed in a black mitten ; " well, welcome to your husband's house, Lady MacKennon."

She did not offer to kiss her, and Miriam felt in a moment that her reception was not a warm one. But she made the best of it. She smiled, and put her slim hand with a graceful gesture into Lady MacKennon's. " I'm afraid Miriam will be tired, it is such a long journey," said Sir James. " I think, dear, you had better go upatairs at once, and get off your hat and cloak, and then mother, I am sure, will have something for us to eat."

" Supper is prepared, James ; I thought it was too late for dinner as it is past ten," said the dowager. "As soon as Lady MacKennon is ready you can have it."

She spoke with a strong Scotch accent, and looked a woman of very determined will. She was hard-looking, in fact, and the stiffness of her manner and appearance made Miriam feel somewhat uncomfortable.

" I shall be ready in a few minutes," she said. " Where is Ford ? You must show me the way upstairs, James." "Come along, then," he said brightly; "it's so jolly to see the old place again, mother, and to see you looking so well." Lady MacKennon's hard face relaxed. " I am pleased to see you at home," she said, " and— your wife."

" Thanks, very much," answered Sir James. " Which room is she to have, mother 1 "

"The blueroom; the best," replied his mother; and with a good-natured nod Sir James led his young wife away. In "the blueroom; the best," as Lady MacKennon had described it, they found Ford and a gaunt, grizzled, hard-featured Scotchwoman, whom Sir James warmly shook by the hand. " Well, Jean, and how are you 1 " he said kindly. "This is 1 Jean Inglewood, my mother's maid, Miriam, and she has known me since I was a baby."

"Ay, Master Jim," said the Scotchwoman with a smile. " But I beg yer pardon, my lsddy, I shouldaa say Master Jim now, but Sir James, but I have minded him since he was a bairn."

Miriam smiled, and hold out her hand to the old serving woman who had nursed her husband.

" Then I must shake hands with you," she talc! pleasantly. Jeau made her be=st courtesy in acknowledgment of this honour, and then Miriam was left 'oo the care of Ford, and presently

appeared downstairs in a charming tea-gown of pale primrose silk, fantastically trimmed with white lace and ribbons ; and her prim mother-in-law glanced at her costume with disapproval. Sir James, however, was enchanted with it, and was delighted lo see that Miriam was looking very handsome. "We bought that gown in Paris, mother. Isn't it smart ? " he said.

"I fear Paris is a very sinful city," answered Lady MacKennon, with a doleful shake of her head. Whether aimed at the tea-gown or city she did not explain. Sir James laughed good-naturedly, and then tbey all went into the handsome, old-fashioned dining room, where a sumptuous supper was laid out. The heavy sideboard was laden with costly plate, and all around were the evidences of wealth. The butler had grown grey in his lady's service, and also remembered " Master Jim," and looked with great interest on his bride. Daring supper^ Lady MacKennon relaxed somewhat, and it was evident that her son was the very pride and darling of her heart. Her eyes rested on him, and softened as they looked. Sir James, too, was fond of his mother. He got up when supper was over and went to her chair and kissed her, and whispered in her ear as he did so:

" Isn't she awfully pretty, mother ? " Lady MacKennon made no reply. She took her eon's hand and patted it tenderly, as she might have done when he was a little boy. Then she sighed softly, wishing, perhaps, that those days could come again when she had been first in her son's heart.

But she made no complaint. And when they parted for the night, and Miriam was about to shake hands with her mother-in-law, Sir James called out, "You should kiss her, mother."

Then Lady MacKennon did for a moment touch Miriam' 3 lovely face with her tbic, blush-tinted lips. " I am not much given to kissing, James —but she is your wife," she said ; and then she turned and kissed her son.

And when she went upstairs her old serving woman was waiting to undress her, and, of course, eager to discuss tbe bride. " Well, Jean, what do you think of Sir James's choice ? " asked Lady MacKennon.

" Weel, my leddy," answered Jean, " she's unco well favoured, anyhow." "Beauty's but skin deep, Jean." " Aye, but the men folks think a lot o' it," said Jeanreflectively.

" It's a snare to them," replied Lady Mackennon, shaking her head ; " a pit into which many fall." Neither Jean nor her mistress, however, could complain that they had wrought much evil by their good looks. They were both plain, hard-featured women, and Miriam's beauty was no recommendation in Lady MacKennon's eyes. Still sbe did not deny it, and she was gratified the next morning by Miriam's enthusiastic admiration of the wild and beautiful scenery around Kintore. "I shall never weary of looking at it," said Miriam ; " James, you never told me it was like this." " It is too late to see it in perfection," said Sir James, going to the window and laying his hand tenderly on Miriam's shoulder; "wait till we are here next August and September. It's splendid then, isn't ifc, mother ? " " It's like a fairy scene even now," went on Miriam ; " how blue the loch is, and the dark firs, and that great mountain towering away into the sky. And have you always lived here, Lady MacKennon ? " "Since my marriage," answered Lady Mackennon. " I came here as a bride, and will only leave it when I am carried away to my long home." " No dismal talk is to be allowed, mother," said Sir James, in his bright kindly way. " I want Miriam to enjoy her first day in her new home."

And she really did enjoy it. The weather was wonderfully fine for the season, and the whole thing was so new to her. Sir James rowed her on the blue loch, and they wandered together through the steep passes, with their grey blocks of granite standing out from the lichen and the moss. Miriam returned to the house delighted with everything ; and thus also two more pleasant days were passed. There was good news, too, from Tyeford. Joan was improving, Mrs Clyde wrote, and when, on the fourth day of her stay at Kintore, Miriam sat down in the inner drawing room in the afternoon to write to her mother and Joan, she was able to write quite in a cheerful strain. The inner drawing room was divided from the front drawing room by heavy brocade silk curtains, which were always kept closed on account' of the draught. They were both pleasant rooms, and on this day large and cheerful fires were burning in each. Miriam had finished her letter to her mother, and was busy writing to Joan, describing the scenery round Kintore and the place, when the butler raised the brocade curtains that divided the two drawing rooms, and, to Miriam's intense surprise, announced 11 General Oonray."

(To be continued.)