CHAPTER X.—A SAD STORY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2471, 24 July 1901, Page 65

CHAPTER X.— A SAD STORY.

S Mrs Brooke made the offer to explain some of the mystery which surrounded her past life. Major Selby, with the quick generosity which was part of his character, shrank from inflicting any further pain upon this unhappy woman.

" It will only distress you," he said ; " you have been tried enough toda}" — tell me some oilier time." "It will be painful,"' she answered, with ?, far-away look in her eyes, as though her memory had travelled back to other scenes ; " but I am used to pain ; and I wish you to think of me, not as that man who has just gone out must think of me : I wish you to believe that circumstances alone have dragged me down so low." " Mrs Brooke, I will believe no ill of you ! " She smiled a wan and sorrowful smile. " You are young and warm-hearced," she said ; " but I know very well how extraordinary my conduct must .seem, and I owe you some explanation at least — you who saved my life. But I cannot tell you all my story ; I cannot even, tell you my father's name — as that would involve others in my disgrace — but I will tell you this much, he is a gentleman — a man of rank aad position, and I am his eldest child." " And will you not now seek his protection? " asked Jack earnestly. " That protection Avas denied me long ago. From the time of my unhappy marriage my father utterly discarded me, and now — now, with this terrible shame hanging over me, I would rather die than go near cry old home." "What "Hill you do then?" said Jack, almost sternly. " Not seek the wretched man, surely, whom, I believe, if he did not try to murder you him?elf . stood by at lea^t and saw it done ! " Mrs Brooke -shuddered. "Do not fear," she said. "I pray God I shall never «cc his face again."' "" Have you no friends, then, to whom you can go? '' "' I have none ! But let me tell you what I can : " When I was about six years old my own mother dipd, and my father, a few years later, married <*gain. My stepmother was not unkind to me, but she never loved me as '•lie loved her own tv. n becutiful golden-haired little girls, and my father also loved tke children of his second wife better than his first. I longed for love, but I never got it They did what I suppose they thought their duty to me. for I was well educated and cared foi ; but both my father and hi* wife gave all their re.d love to her children, and had very little ■"ympithy for me. I grew up Mius at home u.ntil I was past 16, and at that age I became very delicate, and the doctor ordered me to live fbr a timp by the sea. "My father bad 3 maiden sister who lived at — no. T must not name the place — at one of the south-country water-ing-places, and she offered to take charge of me, and I went to her. and soon regained my strength. I as with Aunt Isabel nearly a year. She was a kind vroman. and I was her god-child, and her namesake ; but she forgot, in the revolving months that I passed undei her roof, that I was growing into a woman, and she only looked upon me as a child. "She had a young and giddy maid, and this girl and I were allowed to go about the town and on the sands as we l'ked. One day we had wandered along the shore for some distance, and were siting on a rock that jutted out into the sea, when we suddenly heard people calling to v.«, and looking round, we say the incoming tide hsd nearly surrounded v*. " There was no great danger, but i gentleman whom I had often seen on the sands and on the streets rushed through the water to our assistance, and, taking a hand of each, he pulled us through the advancing waves, and though we escaped with a verj* slight wetting, it gave the person who had helped us a claim to our acquaintance. " Major Selby, can you jmess who tiiis

was? On this slight accident the who T e of the terrible misery uhioh has come to me began. 1 was not quite 17. I was pleased and fLattered to have a" admirer, whose admiration had so romantic a conimencernent. We used to meet "Oh! could I blot out those days for ever! The days and years that have passed since then ! But this can never be — never, never ! " " And this person was Mr Brooke ? "' asked Jack, in a low tone. "Tbi<s person was Mr Brooke, the man who persuaded me to marry him, who luhied my young life. He was good-lool:-ing, and he had a winning tongue, and J was little more than a child, and when h« toM me he loved me, and asked me to be his wife, I gladly promised. I believed 1 loved him. I was happy in his love ! " "And you married him?" " I married him. I urged him. to asl, my father's consent, but he assured me i( would never be given. My father was a man. of rank, and my lover admitted he had a lower social position. But he appealed to my generosity and my love. Would I allow worldly advantages to part us, he asked, if my heart v, ere his? " It 'seemed to me then to be noble and self-sacrificing to give up everything for him. No one had loved me at home, anil this man seemed to love me very deeply. My poor aunt never looked after me. She was taken up with her visiting list and nobles. She thought I was a child amusing myself by playing on the sands, when in reality I was listening to a dangerous, designing man. " But T need not speak of tlrs auv more ; it is enough, I married him. And whey my father heard the story, he swore he never would see or speak to me again. In vain my husband wrote to him ; in vain I entreated forgiveness by my hu&band'e commands. My father wrote to me I had utterly disgraced myself, and that for the sake of my young sisters my dishonoured name should never more be mentioned in his household. He wrote also to my hupfoand, but b.e never showed me that letter, and bitter execrations burst from his lips as he read it. " This all happened five years ago. Major Selby, in these five years nvy youth has died, ovly heart has broken. Gradually I learned the bitter truth : the man who waa my Imsband long ago ceased to love me, and I learned — learned what he was ! More I cannot tell you. By something which I discovered here I excited the anger of thf Frenchman, Pierre, who for two years had lived with us. This wretch took advantage of that one visit you paid to North Hall — of that accidental meeting we had on. the cliffs — to poison my husband's ears against me. and make him believe the basest lies ! " "And I have brought this on you." paid Jack, deeply moved. "Oh, my mad folly — my selfish " folly nearly cost you your life !" "They made this the excuse-; but do not blame yourself. I was in the way ; I knew too much, and I liad entreared my husband to let me leave him for ever. But Pierre thought this dangerour — I knew too many of their secrets ; and so he persuaded my husband that our brief and slight acquaintance was the cause of my wishing to leave him. And in a moment of mad passion — of jealous, half-drunken, passion — the blow was struck which they both believed had killed me! "I cried for Dorothy, and struggled for my life," went on Mrs Brooke, shuddering and coveiing her face with her h.mds ; "I see their murderous faces btill — the hate, rage, and vengeance on the one, the fiend'sh malignity on Pierre's. I had entreated my husband to break loose from this man — he "was the temptei — and his was Pierre's revenge." "And you will not give the&e wretches up to justice?" "I cannot. For my father's sake — for the sake of my beautiful young sisters, now grown to womanhood — I — T cannot tell, or make public the dark secrets of my life. Major Selby. these two men believed me dead : I wilh to be thought dead ; I wish to take a new name and begin a new life. Will you help me to do this, help me to earn my daily bread? I do not care how humbly." For a moment or two Jack made no answer to this appeal. He was biting his lips ; his face was very pale ; lie was forcing backward the thought it would be unand immanly now to utter. "When I firsi recovered consciousness after that dreadful blow," continued Mis Brooke, a little tremulously, "I felt as if I could never >>gain raise my heed. But I am better now ; and I see it is neces--;vy for me to rouse myself, foT I cannot | ;>ny longei intuide myself or> your father's j hospitality. I think 1 could be a govcrue^b to young children," she added, with a sort of gentle dignity, "for i can play and &ing a litle ; or 1 could be a com pinion to some invalid lady." "Yen will find it a hard life, I fear,' said Jack, in an agitated voice. "My life has been a hard one ; but 1 have no choice. Poor Dorothy tells me even my rings must have been taken from my fingers by that wretch, Pierre."' "And what about the othei wretch?" said Jnek. passionately, turning round and facing hei — "the wretch that struck down the young .girl whom he had deluded into a shameful marriage ! My blood boils, Mrs Biooke. when I think of him, and that he should escape — leave you there for dead. And yet you screen him!" "I screer him, not for his sake, but for the sake of my own people — my lather's honour. Major Selby," and Mrs Brooke arose and went nearer Jack, and laid her hand lightly on hi& arm, "I have trusted you — trusted to your honour as a gentleman — uid you must promise never <o reveal what I have told you. My father Lolds so high a position in the world, I think it would absolutely kill him weie he ever to know the real story of Ins daughter's fate." "'And you ask me ' "I ask you," continued Mis, Biooke, "to let the dark secrets of that night rest for evev in silence. And I ask you, too, ' she 'added, Mitb. her taint, &dd sjaodp. "tQ hs^

me now to find some way of livelihood, for lam absolutely penniless. For this reason—at least, partly for this reason— l hare tiusted you with the real story of my marriage — the real history of how I became connected with the bad and wretched nlan with whom 1 came here, ftnd who for a time lived in your father's house. I could hot; ask you to help me unless you knew something more of me than as their associate ; and I did nab. (wish you also," she added, more softly, "to have so bad an opinion of !me, as it was only natural you should have." 1 "Why do you say this?" answered Jack, deeply moved. "From the first time I saw you " "Then you will help me?" said Mrs Brooke, quietly interrupting the agitated Ycung soldier. "I thought as you have been a good deal about the world, you might know someone — some officer's wife, t-erhaps — whose children I could teach." "Do not think of this, at all events," said Jack, struggling to speak quietly. "You are not v/ell enough to leave here — io talk of going into the world. Of course I shall do anything— everything I can for you . I—i—have cost you so much already, ■lie continued, pacing the room with restless steps. "When I think how nearly your ■lifa was sacrificed by my intrusive folly, I can never forgive myself." " Nay ; you must not say so ; you were only the excuse. But do not let us speak j of it any more ; I can liever forget I owe t my life to you." I .At this moment a loud rapping was heard ! at the outer door of the room where tins conversation batween Jack Selby and Mrs Urooke was going on — this room being a Binall sitting room on the same corridor .tvbere Mrs Brooke's bedioom was situated. "I beg your pardon — I beg your paidon," jaid the squire, now opening the door, and jnesentin« his face and Tiis brown wig inSide. "Hops I don't interrupt you ; but Jack, my dear Jack, can you give me change for a sovereign? There's a fellow downstairs wants to be paid for some repairs, and I haven't got any silver."' "I -think I can,"' rinswered Jack, producing some change ; "at least I've got some in" my own room, and I'll go and get it for you, father." "Thank you, my dear fellow ; thank you. * And then, as Jack left the room to get fas money, the squire went up to Mrs Ifcoeke, Mrs Brooke." lie said, "and so you've been having a little talk with Jack, eh •: "Yes. I've been talking to him." "Didn't talk much to the chief constable, cli? You didn't tell him very much?" j "I told him what 1 could. Mr Selby. And Huvv\ when I have the opportunity, let me thank you for your great kindness and hospitality to me during — this distressing affair." Sow the squire was a gallant man, ikough very prudent withal, and Mrs Biooke was a very pretty woman, and as ' she spoke, his inclination urged him one ' \fay and his prudence the other. I . "Very kind al you, I am sure, to say ' bo, Mi's Brooke — Diily too happy to have ibeen of some use to a lady. Of course, there are circumstances. — circumstances vrbick "' I "1 cannot explain, Mr Selby ; but as I j shall be leaving here almost immediately, i. want you to understand how truly grate- ' ful I am Tor your great kindness."' | AgaiD the struggle took place in the equhe's heart, and he nervously fidgeted with his wig. "I am sure I hope you won't hurry _ away," at last he-blurted out. "Of course j — ao offence meant, you know, Mrs, Brooke ' — out of course I should be gtod to have J this affair satisfactorily explained. For j yi-urself. personally, you know, my dear madam, I can only express my admiration — and, I may say, respect j but " " I understand all you feel, Mr Selby. Mysteries are not pleasant things, and I | only wish it were in my power to explain this one ; but " j Jack now re-entered the room with the silver i-for the squire in Irs hand, and Mrs . Brooke then snid .she would return to her orcn. room. " I have been thanking your father for ail his great kindness. Major Selby," slie added, jr.sl as she left, " and telling him I- must now leave Yarbrough." I - "Very scry, I am sure,"' said the squire. ' as she disappeared. j But she was scarcely gone when he went t,o the door and carefully shut it, and then went back to his son's side. "Jack,"' he said, mysteriously, lowering his voice. '" truth is, I'm not sorry, I'm glad. I wish she was safe out of the house." " I don't think you ."should spy that, father."' " My dear boy, I am older than you are, and I've had experience with women, Jack. Yes, my dear fellow, I know their ways and their wiles, and no man is safe beside 'em. This is an uncommonly pretty wo- j man, Jack, but shady — mark my words, | shady. Constable Dunne thought it very dark declining to mention her fa-mily name — no familj name to mention, in my o>wn j opinion. An adventuress, I believe. So. take care of yourself, my dear fellow, don't get involved ; don't get led away by a hand- . some face." " She is not a woman to try to lead any j ons astray, I can assore you, father. She is very reserved." fl All put on, Jack — that's the way with , 'em. They look so sweet and innocent and ' handsome — by Jove ! that's the worst of i*, and they confide their pretty story to i any man. they see admires 'em, and so on. ' But ii won't do. Look out for a nice girl, ' Jack — a girl who«e people you kr.ow some- I thing about ; a g':l who's got no mysteries nor secrets for her pedigree, but an honest father and mother tlrat she's no need to blush for. That's the so:t that I want you to bring here when you bring your bride, Jack. A pretty, medest girl. What d'ye say to Mary Graham, now? She's a bonny lass." ( " She's a very nice girl, father, but I've at thought of bringing her here, " replied J*ek 4 slightly c^lourin^ \ " aad I am sure^l

also, you misjudge Mrs Brooke. S>he has been unfortunate, most unfortunate ; but slie is not what you think." John left the room after he said this, and the squire, during the day, confided in his comely housekeepers ears that he had given Jack " a hint. " "I just told him my opinion, you know, Mrs Jenkins. Jack's a fine fellow, a warmhearted, honest fellow, but just the fellow for a pretty woman to make a fool of." The widow only smiled a litle pen'ive smile in reply. She was wondering if the squire's heart was too stout a fortress ever to 'be won.