EVENING TIME.

Otago Witness, Issue 2647, 7 December 1904, Page 63

EVENING TIME.

The sea-roll o'ei the. -wooded hills Is booming deep amd slow, And melancholy murmur fills The vast, dim. vale below. JPar down from Rangiha.ea.ta falls The solitary stream; Deep shaded where slow echo calls, - Where ferns and foliage gleam. A thousand tender songs are heard, Echoed from, fell to fell, "■^hile birdie unto drowsy bird His vesper thought doth tell. The amber light from slooe and spire Dies, and the vale is dim. The clouds are tinged with ruddy fire, The spirit's deep, slow hymn For ever goeth forth to God, Th« hungry human cry: " O Father, give us grace to live, The awful night is nigh. " We struggle' -with- the ■wrong -svitiiin, Out pleading seems how vain, For O! we yield us unto sin Again and yet again." The fire from slope and crag and cloud Hath wholly died away. Again before Thee we are bowed, At dewy close of day. A whisper in the woods is. heard; '" To cleanse and to redeem, To die for us, th' eternal Word Came, and a Living Stream " He ever floweth forth to those Who struggle in His strength; He will disperse our subtle foes, And be our Lord at length." The sea-roll o'er the wooded hills Sounds from the roclty bars. Darkness the wide, deep- valley fills, The wild is domed with stars. / — CBAKUCB OSCAA PAUIES. .Rangihfieata,' November 24, 1304.

had been submissive at that "time. Those moments of submission are either the making or the marring of a woman's happiness, and of this fact she was aware — she knew not how, — and she felt happy in the thought that sh© had brought some happiness to him. She wonderedl if it gave her any happiness to reflect upon the fact — she supposed that it was a fact, though not yet accomplished — that it would not be in his power ever to know that she did not return that love which he had for her, and which he had expressed! with admirabjp-emphasis, though without the utterance of a word of love. Of course, she did not conceal even from herself the fact that she loved his loving her. She could never forget that he loved her — that he was still loving her. It was on this account that- she had been so stricken with sorrow when she learned that he had fallen ill — it was on this account, and 1 not because, as she had at first fancied, she held herself, following a curious line of thought, responsible for his illness, having, by making that dreadful resolution never to see him again, challenged that ironical demon known as Fate to take her at her word. She had sat in her room since she had left the dinner table. Her mother had gone to bed the moment she had gone upstairs, and the general impression that seemed to prevail among the others of the Curlew's party was that nothing better could be done. ' Whatever evil might happen to their host, they themselves would obtain the certain good of an extra three hours of sleep. But she remained) by the window of the room off which her bedchamber opened, thinking her thoughts and finding some measure of consolation as the night deepened just before the rising of the moon. Everything was very , quiet in the building at this • time. The mail steamer's passengers, who had been at the 'hotel for four or five days, had taken their departure, and before 11 o'clock had come the •last of the negro waiters had left the billiard room. The stillness within the building was- the stillness of death, Claire thought, and the muffled sound) of the ' opening and closing of a door at the other side of tlie gallery corridor did not take j away from that impression. From without ' ! there came only the strident chirrup of the tree lizards. The moon, waning towards the last quarter, did not rise until late, but Claire was still sitting at the window when the great plumes of the palm tree at the brink of the tennis ground became softly outlined against the mother of pearl sky above the mountains, and the shadow of their tufts began to creep up the wall behind her. The moon appeared', its dazzling brilliancy half-smothered by the foliage for a short time, but soon asserting itself above the line of trees. She started at that first moment of moonlight. There, just free from the shadows, stood the shadowy figure which she had seen following Philip Trent two nights ago. Once again it appeared before her eyes as a shadow ; once again its coarse outlines puzzled her. It seemed to be swathed in a cloak or some such garment, draped after no recognisable scheme of draping. It had the bulk of a man, but if.ifcwas a man he was concealing Irs head by the muffling of his garment. Indeed, . as she saw if, the thing suggested nothing so forcibly as a shadow — the gnarled shapeless shadow of a short, stunted tree. It stood there as motionless as the trunk of the great palm, and Claire watched it with the fascination which comes> from something wholly horrible or unreal. She felt that if it had moved she should have cried out with terror. All at once, before the moon had passed far over the foliage, she saw someone leaving the hotel and walking acrossi the moonlit space to the figure beside the palm, and in anpther moment she recognised Stephen Urquhart. He quickly crossed the space, andi then the thing moved, and Urquhart came to a standstill. Claire heard him say some words, but in so low a tone as made it- impossible for her to gather what he said. A laugh came from the other. Two bats whirled through the moonlight above the great palm, swooping and whirling now and again close to the jalousies of her window. Once she caught a glimpse of the beady eye of one of them — the sharp white teeth of another. Stephen spoke again, but not a word was audible to her, and if he was answered by the other she could not tell* She" heard 1 no voice except Stephen's. Then she saw an arm — it looked like an arm — raised, and pointing to the tower of the hotel above the porch. - it seemed as If the arm in the act of being upraised had carried with it some of the drapery of the figure; but in a moment she saw that it was not the soft drapery of a garment, but a curious, leather-like attachment, exactly after the pattern of a bat's wmg, but enormous — curving in scallops from a claw-like finger to the foot. Stephen said something— Claire made out the words "Not yet" and "Martinique " 98$£B *i s fc»Bd j%i she sa,w him ja*

in among the black, sprawling shadows of j the trees, the other stepping back beside ' him. j Two of the West Indian vultures — the ' Jim Ci*ows — which act as the scavengers j of almost every town and village in the i islandu from Trinidad to Cuba, flapped I lazily through the moonlight from the Blue Mountains — she heard the winnowing of their wings as they approached — and , settled upon the bough of -the tree known -as the Guinip (gallows). The bough shook > for some moments beneath their weight. ! The two bats still whirred and whirled ! in their fantastic dance. I Claire, before leaving Ireland, had often ! thought over the stories which she had • read of the West Indies — of the terrors • attached to the story of the islands from j the day of the discovery' of the first by j Columbus — the torturing of the Caribs, ; the Spanish atrocities, of the pirates who had turned these paradises into pandemonium. She thought af the terrors of the slave ships, of the Yellow Jack, of • the hurricanes that had devastated island after island, of the earthquakes that had swallowed up towns;" and of tidal waves . that had swept over Port Koyal, only a j mile or two from where she was sitting, and many another city as notorious as the Cities ot the Plain. She had read also travellers' tales of how the mystery oi the devil-worship of Central Africa had been brought by the slaves to the West Indies — of the unspeakable incidents 61 the black arts of the Obi men, and) the human sacrifices /of Hayti. Until now, however, she had never seemed to realise anything of what the name of the West Indies must have meant to such as had I sailed thither in the old days. But all that she had experienced within the hour which she had passed at her window — the mystery of that shapeless nightly visitor who had vanished into the monstrous place of shadow; the weird arrival of the pair of black vultures that j were' swaying on the branch of the Guinip - tree — caused her to see in a moment a j picture lurid, monstrous — diabolic- stains j I of- led and black. The vision of tlie Valley of Dry Bones had come to her. She had reached the Valley, and had seen the dry bones ; but she had not realised what they meant until in a moment there had been a- great moving among the bones ; they had begun to move together, and now appeared before j her eyes a ghastly amiy — fieshless, fright- j ful. She threw herself on her knees at the I open window andt prayed — prayed for protection for Philip Trent from every power ! of evil. _ She had a vague consciousness i of the presence ' of evil around her ; she could not define the evil, but she felt that she was breathing of its atmosphere ; she felt as if she had looked up to the sky of moonlight, and had seen stretched over half the heaven a dread figure such i as she had seen in a "picture of Pestilence — a vast, hovering shape, with a death's head seen above a black, flowing robe. She prayed that she, too, might be delivered from the powers of evil, and while she was still on her knees she heard the faint silvery chime of the carriage clock within her bedroom. It rang the four quarters .and then the hour of midnight. She was sensible of a curious change passing over the world when she looked up without rising from her knees. There was .a mist passing over the moon, and it had the shape of a flying figure with a long, trailing garment. It fled away into the distance, and after it went the two black vultures — flapping up. the valley of the Blue Mountains towards the great eastern peak known as Mont Diablo. *' • • • * His face was white and haggard when he came to her the next day It- was the afternoon. Th© rumour had been passed round that Philip Trent had had some sleep ; but Sir Ellis, who had passed through the hall, had merely shaken his head whejn questioned by Colonel Gilford. "Come with me for five minutes," whispered Stephen, and she rose and led the way upstair His hand was still on the door of the room off which the two sleeping apartments opened when he spoke. "Claire; — Claire !" He took her- by the hand nervously. "He is dead — he is dead," she aaid in a whisper. "No — no ; but it is a matter of hours," he replied. "I told you yesterday that he had been talking about you — yes, a great deal. The poor fellow! .Poor fellow! But to-day, ever since the morning—^one moan — one wish — it may be strange — Crofton says he has known several cases before^ — it would make him happy — yes, for an hour or two ;he cannot last longer " "You have said nothing ; how pan I give him an hour's — a moment's — happiness?" said Claire. "Good heavens! I thought I had told you Claire, it is the one hope of 'a man at the point of death — nay, even while we speak, — he wants you to go through the ceremony of marriage with him." She looked at him for a moment with wide, wouderinjj ejeSt j t was aiE t?

him that she did not grasp the meaning of his words. She looked at him, then gave a laugh — not the strident laugh of the hysterical woman, but a natural laugh..' Then "she dropped into a chair and becamr, silent. "You understand, Claire? — you understand?" he said, taking one of hei hands and holding it in both his own. "The poor fellow ! I know ' that he loves you — I told you that — he loves you, thinks only of you at this supreme hour — oh, yes, ! Crofton has told him the truth — a matter |of hours. It is not a foolish fancy, by any means. He never was saner. He I wants you to inherit all that he can leave. ' IHe has no relations ; he loves you ; you • would bear his name. How could I tell" '. him whether you would consent or not? But you are noble, and — and yon love me. You will do it for my sake, Claire — " for my sake." * "Will I — will I — for your sake?" sht said in a voice 1 so formal and hard that he could not have recognised it as her voice. She was, he could perceive, overwhelmed by the communication which he had made to her. "For my sake," he said again. "He has been good to me, and I would do i much for him ; and then Indeed, I would do all in my power to persuade you, Claire." "A mockery — a mockery !" she said, as if mujsing. "A mockery of marriage ! — a marriage of an hour's duration !" "It would give peace to a dying man, Would- that be a mockery, Claire?" he asked, "with a touch of pain in his voice — ' a suggestion, of pained rebuke, reproach. T She had her eyes still upon his face. He had never before seen such an expression in her eyes. He was utterly incapable of reading it. She " was silent for a long time. He was becoming impatient. He knew that the crisis in his life was at hand ; he had arranged for it, and it was at hand. Ha ] was impatient, but he would take very ■ good care not to let her guess thafc he ' was. He had an idea that no woman could ever look beyond the face of the man who was nearest to her. " • '.'Claire, you have j*" . . .t, ' woman's heart," he " n^iile tenderness. She continued looking at him, and then in a moment she burst- into tears. She laid her head down upon the cushion of the armchair and wept there ; now and again her body- was shaken by a sob. He . put his arm caressingly about ■ - >ulders. "My poor child ; my poor child !" he murrmired. And then her mother came into the x*oom. "Mother, mother, come to me," she cried, stretching out her arms. Her mother was at her feet in a moment. "My darling — my darling !" she cried, clasping her hands behind her daughter's waist. "My darling child, Mr Urquhart told me all before he went for you." "What am I to do, mother? It rests- with you to say what I am to do." "Dearest, can you ask?" cried the mother. "Does your own heart not tell you, Claire? Ah, child, child, the pity of it — the pity of it ! But God has placed * it in your power to make' the last moments of " "Who placed it in my 'power? Who?" .; cried Claire, starting, and almost pushing "* her mother away from her by the act. "It is by the mercy of God that it is placed in your power to soothe the last , hours," began the mother. "And he loves you," said the man in ■ the gentlest of tones. And then he - stopped. Whatever people might say of Mr Urquhart, he always knew when to j stop — the rarest gift in man or woman. I "It will be a love mateh — an ideal love : match," cried Claire ; and now thei*e was a note of hysteria in her voice. "It is a ' match made with the sanction of heaven — God — you said that it was ordered by God, mother ; and then there is love — you assure me that he loves me. Why do you not say that he will be devoted to me until his last breath, Mr Urquhart? I am sure that you can safely guarantee so much." « He turned away when she began to laugh. But he was too impatient-, He was back to her in a moment. His nervousness made him unnaturally calm. There was not a tremor in his voice when he spoke, saying : "It is not for me to try to persuade you. If your own true woman's heart does not prompt you " "Am Ito trust it? Is a woman who follows the promptings of her own heart right or wrong?" cried Claire. "Was there " ever a woman undone since the world' began except by following the promptings of. her own heart? (For myself, I am, sick^ of my own heart. It is "deceitful above all things. Oh z some funny things happen' jn the world, so that one sometimes does riot know whether the angels or the 1 demqns have the casting vote. Have the/ angels any sens© of humour, Mr Urquhart?. What is your opinion?" "Poor child! Poor child!" murmured.! Mr Uxquharti

Glaire— darling Claire l ." crooned Hie mother. ' "You could have wrong the tears out of her voice," someone had 1 said of her when she was at her best. ■ "I think that why we like unions better than angels is that the demons have a great sense of fun. Oh, they are. perfect children for fun," said Claire, and again there was the shrillness of hysteria in her voice. Her mother put her arms about ttiSfc. Claire flung her off and •i-ushed across the room to Stephen Urquhart, who stood facing the*- green jalousies of the window. She caught him ■ y "TeU m?' she cried; "tell me, Stephen Urquhart, if I am. to marry Philip Trent.' •If it rested with me "he began. "Yes or no— yes or no?" she cried. He gave Ms mental photographic plate mi. exposure of three seconds, then he squeezed the bulb. "Yes, yes— before God, yes,' he said resolutely. . . 2 "The demons have it— they think that they' have it ; if you listen closely you will hear them laugh. The angels never laugh^they only, weepj and it seems to me that their eyes must never be dry," said Claire, turning away as mournfully as - Ophelia. ' ' , \ ' She went to *he .door, but when her j fingers were 'on" the handle she turned to .Urquhart. " • "I 'take it for granted that you nave Ihade all tie arrangements," she said. - "You are .the >esf man, are you. notY 'And you are thoughtful, Mr Urquhart. I j ■wonder if you bought a wedding ring in Kingston this morning ; it would be so like you — you never forget anything. Is^ it not in your waistcoat pocket at this ' mcHnent, done up in white tissue paper?" He wondered how on earth she had come to know that. The girl was a marvel. He was yroud of her. "I know your heart," he said gently. When they were both side by side in the doorway she- turned suddenly to her mother, who was . a step behind. She pointed to the bottom -of the window, saving, '"There— there— mother ; . I kn*lt there last night and grayed to be ' from all the powers~of evil." - "And you are, my Claire, you are," »aid her mother. She was thinking that her daughter "would 'be the richest woman in, England.- -" ' ."I am— l am;, God has heard any frayer," said-the girl. - " What was it that she -was "thinking of? CHAPTER He -had forgotten 1 nothing— not even the ipecial license. /It j£as thought impoisible that he could manage it all within the 'time, for no /one Jhaew that he- ha 4, been /irith a church dignitary' two, days before.^ Mr Urquhart was alive to the evjls of J iirocrastination in business matter's. Of • course, "he had -some little , trouble in iiaHng the church cugrdtary understand how the" exceptional circumstances of the case of Philip" Trent; bachelor and. millionaire, demanded exceptional treatment by tHe Church in its capacity as licenser of Marriages; but there were charities. ... - There was really very little trouble •ver the license. "It is expedient, 1 ' said the dignitary. It was expedient, and that which is expedient should be expedited. The Church lays down certain laws in legard to the' celebration of .marriages, and the State is considerate' enough to make the laws which' are legal conform with the•laws of the Church— though to be sure there are- lay registrars. ' But .the laws of the" State -will' rarely" decree that a marriage "is invalid if general principles are observed, any more than the State■will prosecute for perjury a man or woman ■who breaks one of the vows made the altar. A 'magistrate may -commit for a day or two a man or woman who makes ar-false statement to bring about a marriage, but _ the marriage is valid the same. Even a -bigamist sometimes only gets one day's imprisonment. 'And Claire law the expression that came to the" face of 'the r nian. in the" bed — the man with" ibe white ,fac© and the hollow eyjgs — an.3 she ' was glad that she' had come to "his room: -*-'-' :The clergyman spoke the words* of the sacred (and legal! service in precisely the %sme voice tHat/iie had employed 1 with excellent effect in ordinary cases.' He seemed quite unconscious of the mocking " phrases that occurred here and' there. It .was not his business that the hand of Death was clasping -the man's left hand .while the right hand was clasping the maiden's. That was entirely a matter ior the man and the maiden f not- one to tout a dab v of colour -to the "voix blanche." -The- husband kissed the hand of the wife, but she stooped over him and -laid her lips upon his foreheads 'Everyone was in tears — even the clergyman. "Come aw^ay, my darling ; oh, my Claire, come away," sobbed her mother. Urquhart was*by, ready to support her. Be' would have to say - many words of comfort to her. when she would be lying in a torrent of tears in her own room. "No," said Claire in a perfectly natural voice, "I am not going to leave him. Why ■ should I go away?" "It is too much for you. You have been braye — strong, but you must not-over-tax your, strength," said- Urquhart in a low; - soothing tone. 1 -< £he turnedi. to the, bed and helped the iiurse"to arrange the -jrillo-ws after- the patient had been raised slightly to .swallow I|b stimulant. . He; -looked', grateful^ at Tier out of his hollow ey^s, unnaturally .brilliant. ' .' -' . ."I won't interfere with you," she said la' the nurse. "I pay even be _able to Wp you in. some little- way. ■ I will do everything that you tell me. ' But I won't jjq away." "Why should you?" said the nurse. "Sir KJlis is having a consultation. 92iey sisr.

that Dr Culverwell is very clever in some cases. He is a Kingston doctor. He lias had great experience." So it was' Mrs La Roache and Urquhart who went away. It was Claire who remained by the bedside. "You are all that I believed you to be," said Philip, putting a feeble, gaunt hand an inch or two towards her. She took it, with a look for leave to the nurse. "You love me, do you not? I have done this because you love me," said Claire. "I cko not want you to say anything more. Ido not mean to speak to you — only I want that to be your one thought, and it is the very truth. I have done it because I have not a deubt of your love for me." He closed his eyes. The nurse made a curious hasty movement towards him. Claire knew what she meant, but she felt that Philip's hand was quite warm. She gave a significant smile, and the nurse understood her. Claire had a very limited experience of sickness. It seemed to her that he was suffering only from exhaustion ; he appeared- to be overwhelmed by weariness. He certainly was free from pain. She wondered if it was quite in keeping with the principles upon which Nature works (sometimes) that this man, having done all the work hi/ the world which any man couldi reasonably hope, to do, should -be- struck down. Sh.e did not believe that Nature was quite unprincipled, thoxigh her operations now and again were baffling to the knowledge of those persons whom they chiefly affected. She had j sometimes thought it hard, for instance, that just when a man has learned how to ""live- he is told that he must die. She wondered now if Nature thought it reasonable to measure the duration of a man's- life by the amount of money he , has made. T The making of ' money in these days -'probably represents the personal strengthand the individual cunning of the early' •"-■world, when Nature was young ; and she had no doubt that it was in accordance with the fundamental principles upon which Nature conducted her business when just out of her apprenticeship, that whenthe strength of the brute had«gone it was\'"time for him' to -go too. And if that -were so might it not be reasonable to hold that the man who had succeeded -in making a million pounds or thereabouts, having done all that any man coulcV : '"be expected to dio, should go hencitf; l - - Yes/ "but the man who is continuing to make money in these days is like .Samson, before the shearing of his locks — his strength remains unimpaired. To cut off such a man from the land of the living ' is as contrary to the principles of Nature as iShe shearing of Samson. He should be .allowed to live so long as his money — i.e.j'-lk.s 1 strength-^remains with him. 'True; hut there is Delilah to take into consideration. Did not Delilah represent a force antagonistic to the strong man of the 'early world, or his equivalent in the days". of the'world's adolescence? SEe became "as bewildered "by the effort to unravel the working of Nature as if she had had a professional biologist at her elbow: « And -upon her bewilderment there entered another force of Nature which Nature had not counted on when she resolved — somewhat prematurely, a few people think — to st.art business jon her own account; and "this new force is the Man of Science. He sifarted "by being Nature's interpreter, but "he?' soon set up an opposition shop. He is .the force that gives life to those -whom—Nature means to kill off ; the force that interferes with the proper operationof the- famine and the fever and the flood — the plague, the pestilence, and the palsy*. -' ■ - Sir Ellis; of course, regarded Claire in _her propel light as an integer in the^ working 'oufc^of^lihe problem which he had under his notice." He had told Urquhart that the carrying <mt of Trent's whim of marrying Miss La Roache might possibly precipitate the end; but at the same time it- might retard it by an hour or two. He was now anxious — moderately anxious—, 'to see in "which direction the incident was operating. - -.> ' He took the hand that Claire was holdiing out and felt for the pulse. Trent opened ibis eyes and frowned, then smiled. .But' another man had entered with the great physician — a- tall, rather gaunt man, with a^ firm mouth and the brow of an imaginative man. The nurse- looked" at him -with respect even in the presence of the London baronet who had had a royal life and a royal liver uetween his finger and thumb. The nurse called him Dr Culvexwell. He went to the man in the bed and opened the breast of his shirt a few inches, exposing Us chest and the framework of a rib "or two. Claire had risen from her seat, and) she saw the new doctor point a straight forefinger at a - curious blue mark — something like a tattoo— just over the region of the patient's ■heart. Sir Ellis whipped! out of his waistcoat pocket a Stanhope lens, which he applied to the surface of that blue "symptom," his own eye above it. He drew the shirt close once more, and the two men conferred together at the window-. Claire -watched them. They were mysterious. They talked in whispers". Sir Ellis said, still in a whisper: "I don't believe it possible. But if you wish — it can do no harm." "He was wiping the Stanhope lens with his handkerchief. His lips were pursed out. "You have not lived in the island of , Jamaica, nor in the island of Martinique ; I have," said Dr Culverwell. "I laughed as- -you- do" — (Sir Ellis ha<s not hitherto laughed, but he did so now, out of compliment to the diagnosis of the other doctor : that was in the true spirit of medical etiquette. His laugh was a cat's-paw, just enough for a matter of principle) — "but when. I came to see with my cnyi

eyes," continued the other, "I ceased to laugh."

Claire heard Sir Ellis say something about "hypnotic suggestion," and then h< visibly brightened up under the influence of a pluase which he had made use o: and which he evidently thought verj happy. It was, "I do not believe ir toxicism on Hie Marconi principle." "Yoii would not have believed the Marwell. "I tell you that the one principle is as scientific as the other." There was more whispering betweer them — a shrug on the part of the greal doctor, a smile on the face of the lesser and then the latter held up a ringer tc Claire and the nurse. Sir Ellis went tc the patient, the two women to Dr Culverwell in the dressing room. He shut the door. "On no consideration, on no pretence, is any human being to enter that loom until I return at night," said he. "You understand? You are women, and you can keep everyone on the other side of tlie bedroom, door. You understand? Not his nearest or dearest — my orders." "Very well, sir," said the nurse. "But I suppose you don't exclude Mr Urquhart." "Who is Mr Urquhart?" asked the physician. The nurse looked at Claire. "Mr Urquhart is Mr Trent's secretary," said she. "He is just the man to be excluded," said Dr Culverwell. "Don't let his valet come into the room. I said 'no human being.' Take that as literal. Watch every phase of the patient, and time every phase." _ He took a step towards the door, but made a sudden quick return upon Claire. "You have, I believe, just married Mr Trent," he said. Claire nodded. "Do you -love' him?" asked the man, with his face close to hers. She gave a start, andi felt herself colouring all over. "He loves me;" she said stoutly. The doctor laughed, as a professor laughs at a transparent attempt at deception on tbe part of a' tyro. "That's all "right," he said. "You'll watch him carefully." . He left the room. "He is so clever," whispered the woman reassuringly to Claire. "He is so clever — and so queer." "I suppose so," said Claire. "I wonder if you have ever seen a case like this of Mr Trent?" . "Oh, yes," replied the nurse. "I have had experience of two others. That is why I thought it my duty to speak to Sir about Dr Culverwell." "Did. they—the cases — recover?" asked Claire m a low voice. , c - "One recovered." "And what is the name that doctors give to the disease?" The nurse became slightly uneasy. "Oh } sonic call it one thing, others another," she replied. "And what do you call it?" asked Claire. * . •"If is hot my business to call it anything," said the mirse. - "But you call it something, all the same. lam a woman, like yourself," said Claire. "What do you call it?" "I am a Catholic, and I call it the Devil!" replied the woman, making the sign of the Cross. "I suppose that you don't believe in the devil?'' she added, in, a tone that suggested that the speaker would be indulgent to anyone into whose creed the devil did not enter., '"I do believe in — in that Power j I have seen it," said Claire. "You might have done so, for the West Indies has been his own private demesne for centuries," said the nurse. "It is so like the Garden of Eden. It puts him in> mind of the old days." She went through the door leading to the bedroom. Claire seated herself. A feeling of awful oppression was upon her. She felt herself- breathing with difficulty. In a. few> minutes Sir Ellis entered the dressing room. He looked at her gravely. Human beings had a certain amount of interest- for him, although he was Teady to admit that he preferred them to come before him as "cases." She misinterpreted his attitude. "He is dead?" she said in a whisper. "Oh, no — no; not — not yet," he said. There was no 'greater 'assurance in his tone. He looked closely at her to see how his news affected her. She did not, he thought, show any signs of disappointment, but then ,women were great dissemblers. "May I be told something, Sir Jlllis?" she asked. "May Ibe told what is the matter with — my husband?" She said the last words boldly, but only after aTittle gasp and with a little flush. Her gasp and her flush amused him a little. "I wish I could tell you, Mrs Trent," he said. (She flushed! all over at his address of her.) "I confess that I am baffled. But lam taking notes. It may be something hitherto unheard of." She could see that it gave him some little- gratification to anticipate <the enrichment of the materia medica by a new disease. "I wonder what does Dr Culverwell think of it?" she said. "Where is he gone now? May I know what lie said to you?" Sir Ellis pursed out his lips and swung his pince-nez on his forefinger. She had seen an actor do that when playing the part of a wise physician. She perceived that Sir Ellis was playing the part very well indeed. He was quite conversant with the "business" of the role. And he could not but admit that she was playing the part of the anxious wife with some ability, though she was certainly new to it. But then women quickly adapt themselves to the role.- They are extremely well fitted to play the- part of anxious wives. They have lived for a good many years in the world doing nothing else. -"Dr. Culverwell has -had some curious

) experiences in the West Indies, especially among the negro population," said the ye- ; presentative of the physician. "He bei lieves — to some extent — in the power, the i influence — it may be only what we call f hypnotic suggestion — of the Obi." ' I " "That is a sort of witchcraft ; I have i read of it somewhere. And he believes I that Mr Trent has been the ,victim of - ' that? But, why — oh, why, should he beY" J | cried Claire. | "I would not advise you to troijble i ' yourself much about it," said Sir Ellis, '' elevating his eyebrows to an appreciable , extent. "I cannot altogether agree with » Dr Culverwell's contentions. They are > not quite — not quite scientific. They are - rather — well, rather mediaeval. Still, he s believes in the thing ; he says he has had experience of its operation." ! "If he does, why is he not here? Why I has he gone away? Is it not possible to ■ do something for the^ — the victim?" cried' i Claire. i , "t>r Culverwell has gone away to — to — i ' it seems absurd — but they call her a witchdoctor." He smiled with" great gravity, i and said the queer word in a half-amused I waj-, not contempt uouslj I—indulgently,1 — indulgently, as i one whom experience has made widely tolerant. "A witch-doctor,"' he repeated with great emphasis. "It appears that one witch-doctor" — he was now gloating over the word ; he found he could make J much more of it than he had at first , " thought possible — "one witch-doctor may . be able to counteract ths efforts of the other — of the one .who is working the mischief—and he has gone to the other with promises, threats, money — what you please. , Mr di3ar Mrs Trent" — he had now become J wholly grave, and he spoke with a sense ' of responsibility — "it is best for you to j dismiss all this stuff from your mind. I 1 told Dr Culverwell frankly that I am no believer in toxicism on the Marconi principle. lam sure that Mr Urquhart hid , nothing from you ; it would be cruel." | "He told me that Mr Trent had not more than a fewi hours io live," said Claire. j "That was an hour ago," said Sir Ellis. | She knew that he meant that the time had decreased by an hour. The materia j medica would be increased by an entirely j new case. ■ - j ! Sir Ellis went slowly and softly through I the door into the bedroom. ~ ° I With the opening of the door Claire . heard) the clink of medicine bottles. (To be concluded.) — The Bible Society continues to make ' t record figures. During the month of June the output of Scriptures from the " warehouse in Queen Victoria street alone ex- ' ceeded all previous totals. Forty-eight tons ; of Scriptures were dispatched, in 440 oases and 7(T shipments, to all parts of the world. This represented 116,370 books in 114 different languages. t