HEART AND SWORD.

Otago Witness, Issue 2360, 18 May 1899, Page 49

HEART AND SWORD.

By JOHN STRANGE WINTER, Author of " Bootle's Baby," " Beautiful Jim." "A. Magnificent Young Man," " A Bom Soldier," " The Colonel's Daughter," " The Soul of the Bishop," " The Other Man's Wife," " Regimental Legends," '' Cavalry Life," " Strange Story of My Life,!' " He Went for a Soldier," " Mignon'a Husband," •to.

[COPYRIGHT.]

CHAPTEB XXVIII.— ILL NEWS TRAVELS APACE. T had never been the custom of the Arcftdeacon and Mrs Alison to stay with Kit when they found tnemselves in London. They frequently came up for what the Archdeacon called the inside of a week, when they always dined with her and paid her several morning or afternoon visits, but they invariably put up at the same quarters in a small hotel in Jermyn street. On this occasion, howevei, when Maitland had brought in some tea, and Mrs Alison had laid aside her voluminous garment, Kit asked where they meant to stay, and as she had ordered a bedroom to be got ready, whether they would care tc use it." "I have told them at the bureau that probably I shall have guests for dinner this evening," she said, " and the room is there if you wish it. You see, I did not know whether you or the Archdeacon or the girls would come ; or- -or — indeed, whether it might be anyone else." Mrs Alison's proud face quivered at the possibility suggested in this "speech. " My dear, we have, as you know, always gone to the same place in Jermyn street, but if you have really a bedroom for us we thought that it would be better for you — didn't you, Freddy, dear — if we were to stay here for a day or two. It would show the whole world that we are for you and with you. What do you think?" "Dear Mrs Alison," said Kit, "I don't know what 1 think; I only know that I can never thank you sufficiently for all that you and the Archdeacon we and have been to me. "Iho loom it re&dy, and I shall bo more than jglad, if you will oocupy it*. You

won't mind dining at 6 o'clock with me. will you?"

"My dear, we mind nothing," said Mrs Alison ; " nothing at all. We came straight here, so that oui modest luggage is actually downstairs in the office ; we felt that we could not lose one moment in getting to you. Any time that suits you for dinner will suit us, and painful as it is to think of pleasure just now, we would like to go to the Grosvenor to-night to ' show ourselves, so that people may know from the very first what our feeling is towards you." Kit . glanced at the clock. There . was just time to telephone to the theatre before the box office closed.

" Excuse me, I will telephone now," she said ; and going across the room rang the telephone, bell. In a few minutes the message was sent and answered, and then Kit rang her own bell for Maitland.

"Maitland," she said, "the Archdeacon and Mrs Alison are going to stay here tonight. The' room is ready, is it not? " "Yes, madam; all ready."

"Very good. And tell them in the bureau that there will be two extra for dinner."-

I "Six o'clock, as usual, madam?" asked ' Maitland. | , "-Oh, >yes, 6 o'clock." I ' There was a third very tiny sitting room in Kit's charming flat, and this communicated witn the large room which had .been' prepared for the visitors. " Dear Archdeacon," she said, " you . have only to turn this handle to make this room as warm as you wish, and you can smoke here, or do just what you like. I think, ' if ' I may suggest, Mrs Alison, you ought to lie down for an hour, because you have been dreadfully upset to-day, and a little rest must be good for you." j "I would like to -write a letter, Kit, dear," Mrs Alison answered; "because the | girls are waiting so anxiously to know, how you are. I may send them your love? " i "My dearest love," said Kit, hei lips quivering again. " But do rest, dear Mrs Alison. You will find everything for your letter, but you should rest." " 1 will, my dear ; I will, indeed." As the door closed behind Kit the lady turned to the Archdeacon.

".Freddy," she said, "there will be a heavy day of reckoning, foi oui misguided and unfortunate son. To think that I was ever set against such a maiTiage ! " "And yet, my deal, it has not turned out well," he said, with his wonderful air of child wisdom.

Thus released, Kit went back to her chair by the fireside. Although in a certain sense the presence of her father and mother-in-law was painful to her, she knew that their intention towards her was good, and that their worldly wisdom was worth its weight in gold. Nothing would stand her in such good stead as the fact that im-' mediately upon .the receipt of the news ot their son's elopement with another woman his father and mother had betaken themselves instantly to his wife, and had remained . with her through the first bitterness of the separation. And it was better, mind you. She was not the heart-broken, deserted wife that the Alison family pictured ; the two had drifted away from each other so completely that it was little more to her than a wrench when she found 'that he had given her up entirely for another woman. They had not lived together sufficiently long at a time for matrimony, to have become a habit with them, as it so often does with those with whom the fires of lovt have burned out as completely as the fire has burned out in any extinct volcano.

They dined quietly together, and by tacit consent did not any of them allude to the tragedy which had just loomed upon the family horizon. Kit went off to the theatre at her accustomed time, and sent back the little brougham that she used that her guests might go later, that is to say, in time for the performance. Everybody saw them; everybody who knew anything ot Miss Mallinder's domestic concerns, of her private life, knew that her husband's father and mother were up in the big box usually kept for royalty and distinguished persons.

"I say, Brandon," said Gifford Cox, as he came into the wing ready to go on when he had his cue, "do you see that the Alisons — the Archdeacon and his wife — are up there? "

" Yes, I knew they were coming ; I knew this afternoon. Miss Mallinder telephoned to know if there was a good box empty." " Then it isn't true? " "What isn't true?" "Oh, haven't you heard?" " No, I've heard nothing."

" I had better not say — perhaps it isn't true," said Gifford Cox, shutting "his mouth tight, and wishing heartily that he had not let slip even those few words. Then h« received his cue, and passed on to the stage.

Aubrey Brandon stood there idly watching the play, and conscious that a clerical figure and clean-shaven pink clerical face occupied the middle seat in the big box opposite.

"What the devil did he mean?." his thoughts ran. " 'Then it isn't true.' Tso\v, what could the fellow mean by that? " He was so curious that when Gifforcl Cox came off and disappeared in the direction of his dressing room, he followed him, knocking at the door and walking in in his usual friendly style. " 1 say, Cox," he said. " Sir ! " said Gifford Cox, looking round from the dressing table with his hare's foot in his hand. "I say, Cox." '• Sir ! " said Cox, smiling. " Yes, I know ; but, Cox, wliat did you mean just now? "

"About what?"

'■ Well, ahout something not being true when you found that the Archdeacon, and his wife were in front? "

Gifford Cox applied himself leisurely to the improvement of his countenance.

'■ Look here, old fellow," he said at last. " I let that slip. I wish I hadn't said anything."

"But what did you mean?'' " How curious you are ! Well, if you must luure*. I met a fellow in St. James's

street fco-day who had just arrived from Ireland. He told me that there wa» the devil's own row at Bandon Towera — the Duke ot Bandon's place — because Gregory . Alison - had . run away with the Duchess's cousin — a very beautiful girl, considered one of the most " beautiful girl* in Ireland." Aubrey, Brandon gave vent to a long, low " whistle. " But "as hit father and mother are . here, jt v hardly likely to be true."

"My dear fellow, " liis father and mother being here in that, way quite unexpectedly is about the most complete confirmation that you could* possibly have "of such a story. I know Miss Mallinder expected that he would come for the first night "on Saturday ; because she told me particularly; to keep a stall in the second row for him • the stall he generally has. Jove, what -an upset if it's true. And what a darned fool Alison must be ! " ; "Well, don't give me as the authority, that's all," said Gifford Cox. "It may, be true, or it may not. I only tell you for what it is worth, and as that chap told me. Do you know the father and mother? " T

"Oh, yes." "Then you'd better go up and pay your respects to them."

"I will." That's a good idea,"" The idea was no sooner received than acted upon. < Aubrey Brandon went round to the little private-" door which gave 'access *- to tlie front ot the "house from the stdge and made* his way to the box'm which were . the' Archdeacon and Mrs Alison. They'received him with much cordiality, praised the play, ' and said ' sxtremely -pleasant things of the management generally and' of Kit in particular.

"Are you staying in town long?" Brandon asked. "No, only a few days." " Won't you be here for our premiere on Saturday? "

"I am afraid not," said the Archdeacon, " Saturday is an awkward day for me, you see."

"My dear, I think we ought to come," said Mrs Alison. "Will there be room?'"

"Well, as a matter of fact, .there won' 6 be room ; but we must manage to make it," said Aubrey Brandon with a laugh. "We are always rather hard put to it on a first night, and this time there is an unusual rush for seats. Miss Mallinder kept one stall for hei husband ; but lam not sure whether she kept two or not. I will ask her." . .

" No, no ; don't ask her, ' said Mrs Alison, rather nervously. "No — I will tell her that if it is convenient — she understands nu so well, you know, Mr Brandon-r-1' shouldn't like to put her about -in any way, she has so much on hei mind just now. . I will tell her myself that possibly, if she can do with us, we will remain in town' for the 'occasion."'- ••> ... • ••„..• . The lady's eagerness and nervousness wera so- apparent that Aubrey -Brandon went out of the box- presently- fully .of. opinion- that* Gifford Cox's story was- true. He went back to his. place in the wings> and stood, there watching Kit narrowly. - • • ' And presently, when she came' off, she said to him, ' • - " • -

"I see you've been up to speak to my father and mother-in-law."'

"Yes," he replied, "I have been trying to persuade them to come on Saturday. I think they "would like to." C

"They said that they did not think itwould be possible when I asked them," said Kit in reply. " What about my box?"

" Oh, we have put four people in that. Did you keep one stall or two for your husband ? "

"I kept one," said Kit shortly; "but ha won't be -here. "

"Really? Can't he get leave?" For a moment she looked as it she waa going to bre?k down, then by an effort she pulled herself together and said: " Look here, Aubrey, you may as well know first as last. They' only want to come on Saturday night out of kindness' to me, and to give me their countenance. Gregory has left. me!"

" Then it is true ! " he exclaimed.

"Then you had heard it. Ah! I might have* known that it would not bo a secreb long. Yes, it'e all true. Then w.e must find room , foi them somewhere, because it is just as well that the world should know that they didn't blame me and that they mean to stick to me. How can you manage it?", "Oh, well, there is the one stall; and there is sure to be another leftoi brought back, again- or something. I' will change the seats about so that they have-sfcalls togethei. We can't give them a 'box," they're atfgone; but I'll manage it all right." " That will be very nice," said Kit ; "they will quite understand. It if much better that they should be here. And now, Aubrey, don't talk to me about it. I can't go into details. Just treat me as if it hadnlt happened, will you ? " "My dear, of course I will," he replied. "I won't even say what I think." "No, don't."

She put out her hand and laid it gratefully in his, then turned and went off swiftly to her dressing' room. Two minutes after Gifford Cox, came off - in his turn.

"Well?" he said, ''have you found anything out? '

" Yes, yes ; it's all true enough ; but she asked me to treat her as if it hadn't happened. They're here"— with a jerk of his thumb towards the royal box — " they're here so that they may let the world knowthat they are standing by her." ",What is she going to do?" GiffordCox inquired. c

"To do? -I don't know that she's going tr dc anything. What do you mean?" 'I mean is she going co iiyorce him?" '' I know nothing — I don't know. I only know that th> whola story is true. She looks pretty cut up, naturally sh< is cut up ; and she begged me to make no fuss, to treat her exactly as if nothing had happened at all. I can't tell you anything '' Oh, it's all right ; I'm not curious. I only asked in a natural kind of way, oldl fellow," said the other, a little hurriedly. " One can't help being interested in such things, you know, particularly when, thgj]

tome into one's- own immediate sphere, into tone's own 'inner circle. I can't understand ■what a fellow could want more-—but he always seemed to me an ill-conditioned sort Jof a brute." "You knew him, didn't you? " " Oh, yes, I was his fag at Eton. I liked him no bettei then than I like him now. Well, 1 must be off." And he, in !his turn, went quickly away. Perhaps never had the famous terrace fecene been enacted so beautifully as on that {memorable evening when Kit had but a few hours before been made aware of the enormous change which had come about in

(her life. Yet Gifford Cox did not by word or look give her the smallest indication that ihe had heard the latest news. He talked jto her during the little time that they had to make talk — lovers' talk — only of the most impersonal and distant subjects, and >yet as he drew her hands against his breast [she could not help feeling that his heart Was beating in hard, irregular throbs which ■contrasted strangely with the measured jquiet of his tones. Something told her that (the knew, a.nd yet he said nothing of what //was- uppermost in both of their minds. !, Such events, however, are not kept long secret from the world. Before another day

!had gone by it was very generally known dn London thaf Miss Mallinder's husband ' -iiad" left her for another. Then, little by

'little the whole story came out ; of how &c had-been quartered not far from Bandon .Towers, how he had got enamoured of the Jbeautiful cousin of- the Duchess, then how

they had flown together. Nor was it long ibefore, the world knew — not the outside /world, of course, but that inner ring which j 'constitutes one's world in London — that {Archdeacon Alison had taken his beautiful to a celebrated lawyer to find what ohanct there was of her obtaining an immediate divorce. Chance of this there was, of course, none ; and so the man Of law quickly informed the dignitary of '/the church. He explained to the Archdeacon and to Kit the process by which in time she might be released from a bond .which had already been broken, but from /which she was not free. "Dear Archdeacon," said Kit, when the moan of law had finished speaking, " you can do just what you think is right, iust /what you think is best. For myself, I don't care one way or the other ; I will Ido anything that you like or that you

"But do you mean to tell me, said the ffi.rchdea.con, indignantly, " that in a. case hi this kind where the desertion is appafrent, where it is absolute, where the own family, his wife, all ae'cept it as ah' accomplished fact, do you onean to tell me that you have to go through the formality of proving legal desertion and all that sorb of thing? " "Indeed, I do, Mr Archdeacon," *aid the fawvp.r - '

"It is an iniquitous thing," began fh'e. I&rchdeacon. "Ah, the law of divorct is in a very iniiquitous state, but it is the law, and one. anusb abide by it. I have -seen be much misery and unhappiness from this veijy, ■point that I would but too gla-dly have the ' Saw altered. There is, however, no help &ov it, and the very wisest thing you and Mrs Gregory Alison can do is to simply, [put the matter into our hands tc carry through in the way which will be the least annoying to her. It is a question of time, and nothing can alter that so long as all" the parties are alive." " I really think that would be the best," feaid the Archdeacon anxiously. "What 'do you say, my child?" "I don't care, Archdeacon," said Kit; **you can do as you like." "You would rather be free " ''Yes, *I would rather be free, because I 'can never take Gregory back, and it is better that he should be able to marry the lother lady as soon as possible, because, > juntil he does so, of course he must remain at variance with you and his moifcher." " I suppose," said the lawyer, turning with a deprecating air tc Kit, "I suppose jthat you would not like to plead cruelty?" " Cruelty ! From my husband ! " she extelaimed; then laughed outright for the first time since the news had come upon her. *' I could hardly do that," she said ; Gregory was never unkind to me in his life."

(To be continued.)