LOVE'S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

Otago Witness, Issue 3021, 7 February 1912, Page 70

LOVE'S TWO-EDGED SWORD.

THE HOVEI,IST-

[All Rights Reserved,]

By Christopher Wilson, Author of " The Wings of .Destiny," "The Missing Millionaire," " For a Woman's Honour."

CHAPTER Xll.—(Continued.)—THE DANCE OF DEATH.

0 weird and ghost-like did she appear to Keston that he was tempted to believe that the white vision which he had seen was but the figment of his excited imagination. Then, as an eddying draught from the prompter's box wafted the 6moke-curtain aside she was once more

clearly visible, and for the second tinra on that fateful evening their eyes met. And when Stella Tremayne extended her arms towards the grimy, soot-stained, dishevelled figure that had suddenly appeared close at hand, like some swarthy gnome that had risen from the depths of the underworld, a tingling current of new life and vigour seemed to flash through the veins of Richard Keston, thrilling his nerves with strange intoxication and spurring him on to desperate adventure. Swiftly he swung himself over the low balcony. Then, clinging like an Alpine climber to every projecting scrap of woodwork, he began to make his way along the ornamental moulding which ran along the front of the boxes to the stage and afforded a precarious foothold. For the first few feet the peril was slight. An awkward fall into the stalls, with a few attendant bruises, was the onlv penalty for a slip. But then remained the" wide gap of the orchestra, whers the seats of the musicians were already blazing furiously. And even as he crossed above this furnaee the doors that led beneath the stage gave way, and through the cavernous, openings shot cmivering tongues of white flame that licked furiously at the daring climber as he passed

ThtTe was small time for hesitation or delay. With a light spring he dropped upon t'hs stage bsside the wings. Then, carelass of the ringed flames that singed his garments, he dashed towards Stella Tremayne. "Come! Cling as tightly as you can to me. *lt is our only chance."

As he spoke he tore off his light overcoat and wrapped it around the lightlyclad figure that yielded unresistingly to his touch. At tli9 sound of his voice Stella Tremayne glanced with startled eyes at the features that were almost unrecognisable beneath their mask of smoky grime. But she did not speak. And even after he had borne her through the burning scenery that writhed beneath his feet, when, changing her position, she clu lg to his shoulders as he re-crossed the perilous chasm of fire, she was still silent.

Inch by inch he made his way back to the box. Then it was the work of an instant to fling open the door, and, side by side, they dashed across the corridor that now reeked like an oven flue, fumbling wildly for the door at the head of the private staircase.

And it was in the darkness of the narrow stairway that Stella Tremayne first spoke.

Even as they opened the door and plunged downwards, they stumbled against two firemen, who, startled by the story of Keston's disappearance, were coming to his rescue. "Come along, miss. Don't be afraid," said one of the helmeted heroes, as his protecting arm went out in quest of the slender figure that had brushed against him in the gloom. With a quick, gliding movement Stella Tremayne evaded his touch, and for one fleeting instant she clung passionately to Keston, her bosom throbbing against his breast, her arms enfolding him in a close embrace, and the perfume of her glorious hair intoxicating his senses. Then, as her clasp relaxed, she leaned towards him so that he felt the touch of her quivering lips upon his ear, and whispered tremulously: "It is Fate! Once before you saved me. And now again. And in return I can offer nothing." For a moment Keston stumbled silently down the steps, while she still clung to his arm. Then, as the fireman, who had gone on before, opened the outer door, he spoke, and though the words were commonplace, his voice sounded strange and unnatural.

"Come along, Miss Tremayne. We are safe at last." But the terrific strain had been too much for even the iron nerve of Stella Tremayne, and as the clean, fresh night air rushed in through the doorway to greet her she swayed limply backwards and fainted in the arms of John Grant, who sprang forward to catch her as she fell.

CHAPTER XIIT —THE HOUSE OF STF.LL.S.

"Mast you really go hack to town by the next train, Richard?" Winifred Grant glanced up appealingly at her lover as she asked the question, and for a moment he paused, gazing tenderly into her love-lit eyes. Then, shaking his head ruefully, he replied: "Yes, dearie. Really and truly. I have to be at a consultation with Sir Patrick O'Conor at his chambers at 2 o'clock. It is the big Daily Wire libel action that I told you about, and it is certain to be in the list for trial next week, at the beginning of the sittings." The girl shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and then, putting her arms around the neck of Tveston as he leaned against the mantelpiece, gazing down at the flames that flickered in the oldfashioned fireplace, she said coaxingly: "But, dear, you must have lunch somewhere."

Keston glanced at his watch and answered smilingly: "Oh, I shall'have time to nibble a couple of sandwiches and fortify my courage with a glass of sherry before the ordeal. And now, dearest, five minutes more, and I must be gone." For a few moments there was silence—tha f , peculiarly busy kind of silence that is wont to intervene in such conversations—and then Winifred, withdrawing slightly from the arms which encircled her waist, said : "Oh, Richard, by the way, I had forgotten No, dear, do be sensible, only for a moment." " Very well, Winnie. I promise to be 'sensible,,' but, remember, 'only for a moment.' What is it that you have forgotten, dear?" " I forgot to ask you if you have heard any news about Stella Tremayne. There is a paragraph in the paper this morning, in which it save that she is still suffering from nervous prostration. I intended to ask vou about her before, but when you and I are together, Richard, we seem to spend the whole time in—" "Do we really?" said Richard Keston, and kissed her.

<' I think less than ever of lawyers' promises," said Winifred, with a charming affectation of indignant contempt. Then, withdrawing her lips from the darner zone, she went on: " Now, do let us be serious, for I really do want to scold you. I think it is a great shame that you have not even called to inquire how she was. You wrote one horribly stiff note, just to let her know that you wanted your name kepi out of the "newspapers, and that is the only thing you have done." "Really?" said Keston, glancing at the speaker in mock astonishment. " The only thing I have done, Winifred? You astonish me! I was under the curious impression that I had saved her life." Winifred's forefinger went up with the familiar gesture of rebuke and admonition. "T>on't be sarcastic, Richard. Reserve vonr brilliant talerite for the edfiication of Sir Patrick O'Conor. And tell me, dear, why have you refused to inquire for hatr

Keston hesitated, and, noting his . barrassment, Winifred smiled triumphantly, and exclaimed: " The real truth is that you are prejudiced against Stella Tremayne, just as father is. You have never forgiven her for having had the misfortune to be dragged into a police court. You look on that as a disgrace which cannot be passed over, and in your heart you are half ashamed of the brave impulse that made you risk your life to save her. Come now, dear, confess. Isn't that your real reason?"

" I assure you, Winifred, it is nothing of the kind," said Keston, with an involuntary sigh of relief. "I am not in the very slightest degree prejudiced against Stella Tremayne? Why on earth should I have any ill-will towards her?" 'TYCniifred tossed her Tiead Snockingly and replied : " Oh, that is just what father says, and yet he always speaks of her in the most cynical fashion. I believe he thinks she is capable, of anything." "Who is it that thinks wheal capable of what?" rumbled John Grant in his deep voice as he entered the room.

Winifred shot a quizzing glance at the intruder, and retorted:

"Speak of angels and they appear!" " Thanks, Winnie," said Grant, with a bow. "So much for the 'who.' Now about the ' whom,' the lady who 'is capable of anything'? Eh?" Keston glanced again at his watch, and said hurriedly: "We were talking about Stella Tremayne, and Winifred was reproaching me having neglected to make inquiries." Grant's lips twisted in a queer, ironical smile._ and he said drawlingly: " Well, en the whole I am inclined to asrree with Winnie. You might do worse than call at Laurelbank. They say that jewel robberies and breach of promise actions are hopelessly out of date, and presumably this ' nervous prostration' is the latest thing in theatrical advertiseYou may be sure that every card that is left at Stella Tremayne's house helps to swell the 'boom.' Yes. if I were you, my dear Richard, I think I should call."

" Just as I told you," murmured Winifred, as she accompanied Keston to the motor car that was waiting to take him to the railway station. " Father can believe nothing good of Stella Tremayne. And yet, when they first met on the Cap Vilano, he found her charming. I really cannot understand it." But to Richard Keston it seemed not wholly unintelligible that a man should have been charmed by btella Tremayne, and yet be filled with a kind of resentment against the charmer. And when, at the moment of farewell, Winifred whispered enfcreatingly, " You will call on her, won't you, dear?" his reply, given grudgingly, was the qualified promise: " Perhaps."

And all the way back to town in the train he wrestled with certain curious and difficult problems, in each of which the enticing personality of the woman whom he had .saved was an abiding factor that rendered satisfactory solution impossible. For amid the tangled confusion of vague surmise and elusive self-analysis one fact stood out clear and unmistakable —nnmely, that he feared Stella Tremayne. But even as his imagination coniured up the vision of her intoxicating loveliness, even as he shudderingly recalled that moment of involuntary when in the darkness of the narrow staircase he had been thrilled by the passionate clasD of her arms, the honour and loyalty of the man flamed up in hot revolt against his own cowardice. After all, what was this strange woman to him ? A thing of heauty, nleasins; to the eye; an interestin cr psychological study; an adventuress who might have served admirably as a model in the old days of starvation when he used to scribble romances in Wrexam Street; nothing more.

Thus he reasoned with himself till at last he was half persuaded that to shim Stella Tremayne would be not only an admission of almost incredible weakness, but an insult to his love for Winifred Grant.

All of which was excellent —in theory. But in his chambers there awaited him a message that was destined to test his theories with the infallible touchstone of Fact.

. As he entered the comfortable, wellfurnished room, lined with calf-bound law reports, and filled with an atmosphere of prosperity, in striking contrast to the shabby apartment which he had formerly rented from Mrs Sibbett, his clerk advanced to meet him with the words : "This letter has just come for you, sir. bv the last post; also a supplemental brief of correspondence in the Daily Wire cas#. Shall I put it in the bag, or would you care to have a look at it before consultatation, sir?"

For a moment the clerk paused, blinking curiously at his master, who had flung himself into a chair, and was staring strangely at the tinted sheet of dainty notepaper in his hand. Then, as Keston still remained silent, he thrust the brief into the bulging bag, slowly knotted the tas.selled strings, and said: "You won't forget the consultation, sir, at Sir Patrick O'Conor's chambers, at 2 o'clock?" "EH, what? Oh, confund Sir Patrick O'Conor!" snapped Keston in a sudden outburst of irritation. "Very good, sir," said the clerk submissively as he shouldered the bag and shuffled out of the room. Richard Keston, oblivious of the fligut of time, was once more reading the letter which had thus suddenly driven all thoughts of the consultation out of his mind. And yet its contents were simple: Laurelbank. Hampstead. Thursday. Dear Mr Keston, —I am very sorry indeed that owing to the state of my health I was not able to reply sooner to your very kind letter. In obedience to your request, I have

not mentioned to anyone that it was you who saved me on that dreadful evening. You may nest assured that, as far as I am concerned, your secret will be faithfully preserved. Believe me, I am not so ungrateful as to do anything which might injure you. And I know enough of the world and its ways to realise that for you to have your name coupled with that of a woman who has stood in the dock suspected of a horrible crime might be most unpleasant. I am quite unable to find words in which to convey to you my gratitude. There are some things for which one's thanks seem so hepelessly inadequate. —Yours very sincerely, SiglXA TniCMAYXE.

Not much in the letter itself, but Richard Keston, reading between the lines, was overwhelmed with shame. For, like Winifred Grant, she too believed that his neglect was due to the scandal in which she had been innocently involved — that, in fact, he was ashamed of having made her acquaintance even in the course of his professional practice. And that Stella Tremayne should believe this of him seemed to Keston intolerable. But the hands of the clock crept on relentlessly, and when at last he rose from his chair and hurried out across _ the courtyard to the chambers of his irascible leader, his intentions were still wavering and undecided. And during the long, tedious hour, while the deep, sonorous voice of Sir Patrick boomed incessantly through the etuffv room, Keston lay back in his chair, silent and absentminded, achieving unconsciously a reputation for almost superhuman profundity in the eyes of Lord Leverton, the chairman of the Daily Wire directors, whoee former junior counsel had been a gentleman of vast loquacity and somewhat slight erudition. Then, as be walked slowly back to his own chambers, followed bv his clerk, his thoughts went out once more to the woman who was "haunted by misfortune," and in a sudden impulse of pity his resolution was taken.

Later in the afternoon, when for the first time Richard Keston caught sight of Stella Tremayne's beautiful villa nestling in the shelter of stately trees and surrounded by well-kSpt lawns and fairylike' gardens, the imnulse of pity seemed to him absurd. There was something grotesquely ridiculous in the very idea that his sympathy could mean aught to this idol of the public, who was thus enthroned in the midst of all tbs luxuries that the offerings of her willing worshippers could provide. And it was with slow, reluctant feet that he passed along the pathway that led up to the entranceporch. But, as he caught a glimpse of a figure reclining on a couch at one of the lower windows, his pukes quickened involuntarily, and in an instant his cynical, meditation's were put to flight. And it was with a curious, indefinable feeling $f nervousness that he addressed himself to the trim maid-servant who opened :ho door. "Mies Tremavne is much better to-day, sir, and the doctor hopes that she will be able to go out for a drive to-morrow." But, while Keston was fumbling absentmindedly for his. card-case, there was a lio-ht "frou-frou of rustling skirts in the hall, and the low, tremulous tones of a magical voice. "It is so gocd of vou to call. For an instant Keston gazed with dazzled eyes at the wonderful vision of Stella Tremayne's beauty a? she stood there before him, clad in a clinging black "own, which revested the flowing Curves of her matchlws figure and accentuated the slight pallour that, still tinged her exquisite face. Then, in response to the unspoken invitation in those wondrous eves that seemed to draw him with an irresistible spell, he stepped forward into the hall. , ~ , "I_l ought to have called before, he stammered vaguely. He felt as though he had stepped suddenly out of the outer world of commonplace realities into the enchanted palace of a dream. The sorcery of her eyes, the thrilling pressure of her hand, the siren sweetness of her wrought upon his senses like the essence of some nepentheladen drug. He was deaf to the sound of the door that closed behind him; he was unconscious of the passing of the maid-servant as she noiselessly withdrew ; he knew not whether the doorway through which he passed was to the right or to the left of the wide hall. For the moment he could onlv realise one fact—that he was walking once more side bv side with this woman, whom he had held in his arms. , "You will have some tea. won t you.' It is such a long wav from the Temple to Hnmnstead." eaid Stella Tremayne, as her daintv fingers hovered over the ivory button of the bell-push. "No, thanks. I have to get back to town almost immediately. I had not intended "

He checked himself abruptly in the midst of the sentence, and flushed with anger at his own caucherie as he noticed the swift cloud that had darkened tho smiling eves of hi.s hostess. "Yes. I understand," she wid slowly. with a faint sigh as she withdrew her hand from the bell and lay back wearily against the soft cushions. For a moment there was silence, while Keston in his embarrassment vainly sought for -words of protest and explanation. Then she said in a low voice: "May I venture to offai" yon mv sincere congratulations. Mr Keston? It was ov.K- tlbe other dav that T heard of your engagement to 'Miss Grant. I remember her well on board ihe Can Vilano. She is a very beautiful girl, and—you are verv fortunate, Mr Keston." There was a pathotic undertone of wistful melancholy in her voi<\°. But for the moment Richard Kesfi-n was supremely selfish. The sound of Winifred's name had conjured up a vision of her sweet, inno-

cent face, and as in imagination he gazed into her loving eyes, the spell of the enchantress was loosed, and he raged inwardly at his own unwoxthiness. And so, eager to put his new-found courage to the test, and wholly careless of the pain and humiliation which his words might indict, he said abruptly : ,: Thanks, Miss Tremayne. Miss Grant remembers you also, and it was really she wh'o sent me to inquire for you this afternoon."

His words were rude, wor.se than rude—they were brutal, —and the pale features of the* woman who listened reddened with shame and confusion —at least, so it seemed to Keston, who, even as trie words ieft his lips, was smitten by a sudden feeling of compunction. Little he knew that it was triumphant pride that had quickened the pulses of Stella Tiemayne! I;:, like the- Inquisition gaolers who were wont to lure their victim with the false and mocking hope of escape, even so she liad deliberately relaxed his bonds and freed his captive will—for her own set purpose. For a few minutes she gazed silently at the distant clouds that were banking up on the horizon. Then, turning towards him, with heaving bosom and misty eyes, she murmured chokingly : " Then—you yourseJf did riot r?al!y care what happened to me:" For one brief moment Richard Keston battled with all the strength of Iris manhood against the appeal of t.hcpe eyes that seemed to read the inmost secrets of his heart. But the effort was in vain, and his tongue refused t'o utter the lie that would nave saved him—the lie that would Lost have proved his loyalty to Winifred Grant. With tightly-compressed lips and frowning brows he sat stiffly back in his chair, as if shrinking from some physical danger. But still lie was silent.

And in that silence .Stella Tremayne was sm ift to read the answer to her question—the answer that was known to her.even before the question was asked. For a mo-in:-nt she picked with nervous fingers at the late which edged her gown, and then she murmured brokenly: " Forgive me—l might have known. No ( ros really cares. They applaud Stella Tremayne, they natter her, they admire her, they wonder at her, but that is all."' She paused for a moment, as if striving to control her emotion. Then, throwing tout her hands with a swift, passionate gesture, she went on, as if she had forgoten Keston's presence, and was speaking to hoiseli : " I have money, 3 have fame. But what are money and fame to a woman who is forever haunted by her fate? Even before the terrible blow that has branded me as an outcast, mv life was miserable. While I laughed for them, sang for them, danced for them, my heart was breaking, and they ol'iered me gold '. And now in my loneliness I would give all that I have in the world—fame, money, all—for one word of sympathy." * She spoke rapidly, almost incoherently, and as she paused she lay back On her couch, quivering with emotion and striving to 6tifle her passoinate eobs. Her words had been vague, almost meaningless to Richard Keston, but his intellectual faculties were no longer capable of logical analysis or cold criticism. He was borne away by a fktod tide of sympathy that swallowed up past and future, leaving him face to face with the present moment only. Stella Tremayne, the world-famed artist, who had swayed the multitude at her will, had vanished, and in her stead there was only the real woman, grief-stricken and tortured, and in the very helplessness of her womanhood —all-powerful. •' I do care," he muttered, as if in reply to her first question. " I am very e'orry for you, and if 1 could do anything to help

i YOU , * He paused as her passionate clasp closed I upon th-e hand winch he had extended. Then, as every fibre of his being seemed to thrill with the magic of her touch, he added softly : " Perhaps if you would tell me of — your troubles —if would help." For a moment Stalk Tiemayne seemed to hesitate. Then, still holding the hand which lingered willingly m her*, she said I in a low tone : " Yea. I have hoard that you, too. have . knonw what trouble is. I think you will understand.'' It was a strange story, and although she was consciously playing a part, the emotion which Stella Tremayne displayed A lonely, loveless childhood, followed by j in the telling t»f it was not wholly feigned. I years of desperate struggle and souldeadening privation: the coming of the fairy Prince Charming : an early, reckless marriage, and then—disillusion. The coarse brutality of a creature in the outward semblance of a man, who, having lost his t>'in -oi all that was good in life, was ! sliding rapidly into the lower depth?. I Separation, freedom, and hope. Then the ' crushing tidings that her husband, the I man whose name she stall bore, had comj mitted a loathsome crime and was a I bunted outlaw —tidings which were imI parted by the fugitive himself. Then tfe j hideous 'clutch of the blackmailer, who threatened to sweep away her means of j livelihood by the disclosure <if hi;; own ! infamy and "the bond which still legally { united them for life. Afterwards the news of his arrest in Paris; his exile to New j Caledonia ; and at last the official message ; that announced his death. And then. just when the belated promise of life bogan to whisper in her ears, j the hideous tragedy of the police court. that had left behind it notoriety, wealth, and—an indelible stain. It wa.s late in the aftenmon when Richard Keston had arrived at Lauielj hank, and already the long shadows j had merged into twilight as btella j Tremayne neared the end of her ptory. " For the most part Keston had I listened in silence, fascinated by the swift movement of the narrative, and at times j thrilled by the horror with which the I dramatic skill of the speaker clothed each I gruesome episode of which she spoke. j Once, while she was referring bitterly , to the swarm of gilded wordlings who

had tormented her with their flatteries, his thoughts went back to the scene in the anteroom of the police court, and he said: "Lord Dereham? Was be one of them?"

Her face was turned away, so that he did not see the gleam of triumph that leaped into her eyes as he asked the question that betrayed how deeply he was interested. He was conscious only of the shudder., which seemed to run through her limbs, at the mention of the hated name, and the tremulous tones of her voice as she replied: "No. Please do not speak of him. I thought that he was different. 1 trusted him, and—l was a fool." When she had made an end of speaking there was silence for a few moments. The ied gleams from the leaping flames in the grate wavered to and fro among the shadows, now lighting up the gravely sympathetic features and wistful eyes of the man, who was already battling with strange temptations, and now. revealing the outlines of the woman's figure as she leaned towards him, with clasped hands and parted lips, a 6 though waiting for him to speak. Suddenly she fell backward against the cushions, hiding her face in her hands, and weeping bitterly. "Oh. why have I told you all this?" she sobbed. ''You hate me now, you despise me, and I hate and despise myself. Go ! please, do, Mr Keston. I have been a poor, weak fool, and 1 can never look into your face again. Do be merciful, do have pity, and go!" For one brief moment there was silence, broken only by the sound of her sobbing. Then Richard Keston whispered unsteadily :

"No, no; don't! I cannot bear to see you weep."

He had risen from his seat, he was leaning over her, he touched her shoulder, and at the light touch she shivered. Then, tenderly withdrawing her trembling hands from the tear-stained face, he bent down till his lips touched the coiled tresses of her glorious hair, and whispered again : "I do not hate you, I do not despise you ; I—l- "

But as her clinging hands tightened their upon his, and as her wonderful face, radiant with the ecstacy of a new happiness, was upturned to meet his troubled gaze, the murmured- words died upon his lips, and he kissed her. And for a space Stella Tremayne clung to him tenderlv, nay passionately, maddening him with the sweetness of her caresses. Then, gently untwining her enfolding arms, and withdrawing her lips from his burning kisses, she murmured faintly : "No, no! We must not! It is wrong —horribly wrong, dear !" For an . instant his arms tightened around her in a wild, feverish embrace. Then, rising to his feet, he staggered across to the fireplace, and, leaning against the mantelpiece, gazed with haggard eyes at the embers of the dying fire. "You know that it is wrong., don't you, dear?" As the whisper, laden witn tears, stole to his ear through the gloom, his drawn features twitched painfully, and an inarticulate groan came from his quivering lins. Then he said in a hoarse, strained undertone : "Yes. I know that it is wrong." For a moment there was silence. Then a faint rustling, and the light pressure of Stella Tremayne's hands as they rested upon his shoulders. "And now, Richard, dear, you must promise that you will never see me again. Promise me! It is our only chance." But his answer was to take her in his arms again, and even as she yielded she whispered tremulously : "Yes, dear. For the last time kiss me ! It is our good-bye, for ever." When the sound of his footsteps upon the gravel path had died away, Stella Tremayne turned from the window and touched a switch that flooded the room with brilliant light-: For a few moments she stood in front of the mirror, deftly arranging the tresses that had escaped from restraint. Then she touched the button of the electric bell and turned towards the door as Lucile Bardin entered in response to the shrill, imperative clamour of the bell. ''Will dinner never be ready?" she said irritably. "Within a tiny five minutes, madame," said the Frenchwoman, glancing curiously at the features of her mistress. Then in a soothing tone she added : "Madame is tired? It is not good that madame should fatigue herself so much. If Monsieur le Medicin knew " Stella Tremayne shrugged her shoulders and smiled derisively as she replied : "I know. Monsieur Je Medecin would hardly prescribe big game-hunting for my wretched nerves. He would be still less likely to prescribe the excitement that appeals more to me—-man-hunting!" Lucile Bardin shuddered and was silent. But her mistress had turned again to the mirror, and was murmuring softly : "Yes, it is fatiguing, but it is worth it." Then, stretching out her arms and curving her lithe, supple figure with the feline grace of a sleek tigress, Stella Tremayne yawned ! (To be continued.)