THE TRUE HEART.

Otago Witness, Issue 3168, 2 December 1914, Page 63

THE TRUE HEART.

THE WOVEIrIST.

[Published by Special Ahuangement.j

By LADY TROUBRIDGE. Author of “The Soul of Honour,” “The Girl with the Blue Eyes,” “In Her Own Right,” “The Heart of Daphne,” etc.

(Copy right.) ' CHAPTER XVIII. HE peered down into the dark- ■ ness, but she could see nothing, and n cry burst from her. “ Don’t go away. Save me — oh 1 save me, whoever you are.” For a moment it seemed as if her cry was unheeded, and as if her last hope was going

to be snatched from her with diabolical cruelty. She had drawn back a little into the room in obedience to the command, but she grasped the lintel of tne window with her hands, and a moment later she felt something hard pusiied towards them. It was a ladder. “Wait!” called the voice, as before; and this time she could wait, although the flames were now half-way across the room, their fierce breath was upon her like the breath of a devouring monster eager for its prey. The next moment Lindsay Challenger had leapt into the room. With a cry she threw herself into Ins arms, and he grasped her firmly round the waist. “ I am here, my darling, ’ he sain. “Take courage.” Then he turned her to the window. “Climb out, he said. “I am holding it firmly, and is below. You are perfectly safe.” Still she clung to him. “Oh, Lindsay, I can’t leave you !” And the next moment she felt herself lifted bodily over the window. “There is not a moment to be lost,' he said, “ if you wish me to follow you. lie quick, my darling, and be brave.” She obeyed him instantly once her brain had grasped that he, too, was in danger by her delav. The ladder was held steadily from below and firmly from above, and a moment later Digbton lifted her from it, hardly pausing to speak to her, for his eyes ‘were lifted to the fierce red light that framed Challenger’s figure. “Come on!” he called. “I hold it steady.” Enid shut her eyes. The suspense was too awful; but it did not last long.- In another moment Lindsay stood at her side. She heard some words pass between the two men —words that somehow, even to her dazed senses, proclaimed them friends, and then she felt the bliss of Lindsay s arms round her, felt his kisses on her lips, and. heard his murmured words. A faintness overcame her, and she could dimly hear Dighton’s voice. “ Let me carry her in for you. You are not strong enough to do it. I expect thqt arm of yours is feeling pretty bad.” She did not hear Lindsay’s answer — only felt herself lifted and borne swiftly through the night air—borne, she knew, to safety. When she opened her eyes again she was with Lindsay; they were both in the old sitting room at Mrs Murphy s, and Mrs Murphy herself was holding some restorative to her lips; hut the last words that she had heard Dighton speak were with her still, and she turned to Lindsay at once. “ Don’t bother about me. I am quite well. It seems as if nothing had happened. But what of you and your arm?” “It is none the worse,” he said, smiling at her tenderly. “I’ve put it back into the sling, and I almost believe that I, too, am cured by this night—cured in more ways than one. But before we say any more, my own sweetheart, can you ever forgive me, ever trust me again? There was a new tone in his voice, one that somehow or other Enid had always felt to be just the one thing she wanted to hear in it. Tender he had often been from the moment when his eyes had first looked into hers, but that passionate sincerity that implied belief in her had been taken away for the time by Helston’s influence. It seemed now as if he could not say enough, although his words were hurried; but he drew her closely to him and whispered in her ear. “I feel as if I have been in a bad dream,” he said, “and, of course, this isn’t the time or the place to explain to you how it has all come about. I must go (lilt and help these fellows in a moment or two to see what con be done. I must see where he is.” The last words were spoken with a shudder and an intense gravity. “ But I must just tell you this, my Enid,” he went on: “ you were right all along from the verv first moment, and I was blind. It was Dighton who opened my eyes, and here, again, you were right, lie told me everything, not sparing himself in any way. He brought me papers, proofs of every word be uttered, and at last I understood the whole pitiable story. Then bespoke tome of you—told me of how be bad threatened you on the lake, and of how be had forced from you the kiss that I sa.-". It was, bitter at the time : it seemed o take the very life out of me< because I had so often told you that I did not trust your view of the case, yet all the time, darling, of course, I did. You were the only person I really trusted; hut it was a sort of pride with me to stick up for poor Heist on.” “I know —i understand” she whispered. “You can’t think what a fellow he is,” he went on with a heavy sigh given to the memory of a friendship that Enid fully realised was over and done with. “When

he liked anyone, or had something to gain, he could make himself the most sympathetic and interesting companion in the world. He never seemed to ask for one’s confidence, or to obtrude his own judgment; he simply made one feel that one could keep nothing back from him, and that it would be foolish to do so, because his judgment was so sound in all things. You didn’t feel that, darling, because, I suppose, your judgment was clearer. You disliked him from the very first, and so you saw things as they really were. I admit I was a fool, and it made me act towards you in a way I can hardly bear to think of. But that is exactly how it came about.” She iifted his hand to her lips, and the mute pardon and sympathy conveyed in the caress seemed to aive him the courage to go oh, for even now the whoie subject was unspeakably bitter to him, and his pride revolted against the feeling that he had been duped. ‘‘Poor Dighton felt the same,” he said. “He told me that for a while Helston not only seemed to him the best friend he had in the world, but as fine a fellow as ever walked. It was the most awful shock to him to find out the true state of affairs, and when he did he hadn’t enough grit to turn his back on him for ever. It was easier to take the line of less resistance, and to go in with him. Of course, I’m not palliating what John has done ; he was in it, as he says himself, up to the neck, but he was totally under the influences of Mark.” “Yes,’’said Enid, and added no other word of defence, feeling that it was not necessary. Once Lindsay’s own true judgment was allowed to work she felt they could all depend on it, and his next words showed her the truth. “One thing I do regret,” he said, “is that Mark turned me against my father; and here again you were right, for I could always see you felt I should have been more lenient, simply for the reason that he was my father. Helston never seemed to take that into any consideration at all; he held up his bad points before me as if they had been the faults of an ordinary man, not one to whom I was bound. And then there was another reason, sweetheart, that I must tell you of now, although I didn’t like to speak of it before. My cousin, Mabel —she, was a jarring element in the place. I liked her very much at first, but I never intended for a moment to make her my wife; I never thought of her in that way, but I did flirt a bit, and she caught my words up and twisted them into a kind of declaration, and —oh ! well, I can’t go into it now, but she made things very complicated for me, and I have reason to distrust her. That was why I did not wish you to mix yourself up with her. Now I will see that they are well looked after, both of them; it’s easy when one is happy oneself to hand a little to others.” “Lindsay,” said Enid, “you’re telling me everything, but there is something I must tell you. When Mr Helston refused to let me see you, and I thought your life was in danger again, I telegraphed to them to come. Oh! can you forgive me?” “There’s nothing to forgive,” he answered, “and I knew that too. Dighton told me that Helston had wired again in your name to stop them, and he thinks it just possible that they may take no notice of the second wire and come. But whether they do or no, it makes no difference now.” He paused, filling up the pause as lovers do, and then continued. “The only thing that does matter.” pressing the girlish form still more closely to him, “is the thought of your frightful danger. Don’t yon want to know how I came to hear of it?” “Of course I-do.” “Well ivhile I’m waiting for Dighton I’ll tell you. I feel I ought to be with him now, hiit I’m pretty well spent, and a few minutes rest won’t hurt either of us. When I came back from seeing von on the lake, I was completely done; I let Helston do what he would with me, and he took me to some place near Recess where he had some fishing. On the afternoon of the second day Dighton joined ns. and ho came into my room towards evening, and had it out with me. But first I woulcln t listen; it seemed as if I couldn’t, but he simply forced me to, putting all his cards upon the table, and, as I say proving every word. He told me that you were in danger, and that yon were alone, and that he was going hack to save you; and in any case to be there. _ It was not likelv that I could allow this—not because I didn’t trust him then, but, because —well, von know why—l had loved you all the time, and when I recognised what von’d done for me I was like a madman. T would have gone to Helston there -and then, and had it out.with him: but Dighton did not approve of this, and while wo were discussing the matter a note came from Helston to sav that he had ridden over to Thistleworth to settle up some business, and would be hack early the next morning, if not that night. When Dighton heard this he was half wild to get to Thistleworth too, and seemed to take a more ser.ons view of tlto position than I did, even then. Bv heavens! he was right. Then it turned out that Helston had done the only foolish thing as regards his own interests that, he had been betrayed into doing so far ; he had left the ear, so we waited till dark, as Dighton thought it best to give him time to 'fancy himself nnfollowrd and unmolested. ‘ We drove over about midnight, arriving at two o’clock, and the first thing we saw was the red pile of the burning house outlined against the sky. I turned on him like a madman ; I could have killed him with Measure at that moment for the delay, but he was still confident that it was not too late, and, after all, he, was right, although if ho had not known of your change of room, as apparently he knew of everything, it would have been ton late.” Then it was Enid’s turn, and she told him of her terrible dinner, and of his message brutally given to her by Helston. “Of course I knew it wasn’t true.” “True,” said Lindsay. “We never men

tioned year name. Oh! my poor darling, how I will make up to you for this.” Their talk was at an end; if it had not been interrupted they both felt it could have gone on for a lifetime, but Dighton was at the doer, and they turned to meet him. His face was grimed, his clothes .were singed, and there was a look in his oyea that appalled them. “The whole thing’s gone,” he gasped. “Gutted from ceiling to basement. I’ve done my best, and they’ve ail worked like men, but it’s no use.” “Helston?” said Challenger. A gesture was his only answer. It seemed impossible to him to speak, and it would have been merciful, not to have pressed him with questions; but that waa equally out of the question. Challenger held to his lips the brandy that he had brought into the room for himself, and Enid gave him her chair, into which he sank; then finally he spoke. “I tried my best to save him,” he said. “I almost tried to die with him, but that would have been no good. He had been dead for hours when I got into the room. The fact is, he was absolutely sure the flames wouldn’t spread, and yet I can't in any way account for the fact that he didn’t try to save himself. He was halfdressed near the window. The only explanation I can think of is that, whdo waiting for the moment to give the alarm, rouse them all, and seem to save the house, he must have slept and been overcome in his sleep. You see, he wouldn’t want to give the alarm too soon, because he wished to do his work thoroughly. There was a moment’s awe-struck silence —the hush that always heralds the messenger of death, and then Challenger spoke with the new resolution that had been growing on him. “Dighton, it is best,” he said. “Ib is, perhaps, the only way in which one could think of him without horror. All .‘.a time I have been talking here I’ve Lem turning over in my mind what I could do as regards him, for, after all, the proofs you brought me, though they convinced me, might hardly have done the same with a jury, and in any case it -would all have been too horrible to contemplate—for nothing on earth would have induced me to leave him at large without some attempt to bring home this last crime to him.” “Yes, it’s best,” said Dighton dreamily; “but it’s an awful thing whichever way one looks at it.” “He was mad,” said Enid. “ I often thought so, and the last evening I knew it. The words site had uttered seemed the only explanation, and both/men accepted it —the man whose conscience was dear and the man who knew that he was almost equally guilty. “ Yes, he was mad,” went on Enid quietly. “ There was a want of method in his, plans —a want of that power of calculation, that knowledge of causa and effect that great criminals have; otherwise 1 should never have found cut what was going on as I did.” “ Yes, you would. Miss Enid,” said Dighton, looking at her with a strange wistfulness. “ You love this chap here too well not to have been one too many for us all.” “Where is he?” said Challenger, “ They have taken him down to the little mortuary by the village ciiurcii,” returned Dighton briefly. Then, seeing the look if pain and distress on their faces, he added quickly: “I will make all the arrangements. I will telegraph to iris wife, and take it all off your bands. It’s not fit that you should have anything to do with it. ' You take him away to-morrow. Miss Enid, as quickly as you can, and try to forget that such a fellow as I am ever existed.” His head sank on his arm, and_ across that bowed head Enid looked at Lindsay, and he interpreted her wishes, as from henceforth it was certain that he would always do. “Dighton,” he said, “we’ve all three lived through too much together ever to forget this ‘ time. I won’t tell you that I condone or palliate anything, and neither will she. There’s something better than that; we can forgive it, and we do, utterly and entirely. Make a new start in life and count on me. Now, perhaps Enid has something to say to you.” She bent over him. “ You remember that flower I told you of, John,” she said softly—“ the flower of friendship. I’m going to start growing it at once, and by the time Lindsay and I are married, you must come and see how it has grown. You must come every year, and we will pick it together, _ and you will think of us and our happiness until you come again.” He 'looked up, took her hand in bis, and kissed it. That afternoon they were in Dublin, and there at the Shelbourne they met Lindsay’s father and Mabel Sherwood, ond were in time to stop them, and the meeting so much dreaded by both father and son seemed to be easily and natura'.y accomplished. For a moment or two, when his father hoard the story that Lindsay told them by degrees as they sat round the tea tabic iii the coffee room, he could not speak, and this agitated silence did more to win him forgiveness than any amount of explanations. It seemed as if he could hardly believe that Lindsay was really alive and well, and for a moment the thought of the money faded away. It was Lindsay himself who reverted to it. “Look here, father,” he said, “have you forgotten what happens to-day month ?” “ I don’t know, I’m sure,” said old Challenger, still watching his son as if the very sight of that gallant figure took away all power of concentrated thought. “ Well, you know, Enid,” ho said, turning to her and laying his hand on hers. She thought he alluded to their wedding, and she blushed scarlet, with a beautiful confusion that delighted him, and that brought a darker shadow on the face of the other girl who sat pretending to eat « = watched them both.

“That would be too soon/’ murmured £md. “ Scon or late,” said Lindsay, these things have a knack of coming on their appointed day.” ~ T , , “ lint I shall name the day, said Enid, and at this piece of naivete in a person bo usually cool and composed, they all laughed. . , “ The day was named by a Higher Power than you, dear, nearly 21 years He means his birthday,” said the elder Challenger a little abruptly, tor again the old, cru-el feeling of being out of it came over him. ~ “Yes, father, I mean my birthday, and, leaning forward, Challenger patted his father’s shoulder—“ the day on which I shall be able to do something for you. You mustn’t mind my speaking of it ne’-e before Enid, because all along she has been your best friend, and in her own way has made me understand that I have failed as regards you.” . “ The money’s your own, returned ms father, “ and you’ll take it ;> There is no more to be said about it.’ “You might as well hear what Lindsay has to sav,” said Mabel Sherwood. “What"l’ve got to say is very simple A few days after I come of age I will settle thirty thousand pounds on you and ten on Mabel. It’s not a fortune, Mabel, by any means, but it will enable you to marry the man of your choice. “No monev will enable me to do that now, Lindsay,” she answered, and for a moment his eyes fell before her steady gaze. . “ Well, in any case you will take it from a friend and a cousin,” he answered gently. She bent her head. “ And as for you, father, you must learn economy, and try living on something between eight hundred and a thousand a year.” Challenger took out his handkerchief and blow his nose, and muttered something that no one could hear; but his son \vas satisfied, and turned his attention to Enid, whose blushes had hardly died away. “ And since you’re so anxious to name the day, Enid, suppose you do so at once, and then we can make our arrangements. “ I’m not anxious,” she began indignantly, but the words died away under the look in his eyes. “Well, then, I am anxious,’ said, “ and I don’t care who knows it. We will be married as soon after I come of age as the thing can possibly be managed: and meanwhile we’ll look at houses. Where shall we live? Town or country?” “ In the country,” whispered Enid. A thought came to her of an old-world house and garden, and of she and Lindsay alone in it, and her eyes misted ever. “ Happy people ought always to live in the country,” said Mabel gloomily. “Enid is right.” _ . “Enid is always right,” said Lindsay. “ Our headquarters shall he in the country, but we will not disdain a house in town, a villa at Cannes, and a flat in Florence. What’s the good ? of having money if you don’t spend it.” They all travelled over _to England together, and in the boat Lindsay sought out Mabel. “Mabel, what did you mean by what you said about the man of your choice. It may be bad taste for me to allude to it, but I feel as if I can’t pass it by. She looked at him in silence for a moment, and her face seemed pale and mysterious under the thick motor veil that shrouded it. _ “You know what I meant, Lindsay,’ she answered. “Was I to blame, dear?” “ No, you were not to blame. I knew you never meant anything, but the thing happened all the same. I don’t pretend to be a saint like your Enid, but when I care I care.” “ Then go on caring,” said Lindsay, “ but in a different sort of way. Be my friend and Enid’s, and don’t despise the offer, for life has taught me to be very careful how I make new friends. But I offer you our friendship and our trust, knowing that you won’t take it if you can’t feel rightly towards us.” “ I’ll take it presently,” she said. And with that he was satisfied. One more glimpse of them, the last. It was a year from the wedding day, and Enid was in that home in the country her fancy had planned. True, it was grander and statelier than she had ever dreamed a house could be where she was mistress. It had marble terraces and Italian gardens, where great fountains played; it had portices and towers; but all this only seemed like the frame to the picture of their two lives together. There was hardly a cloud in her dazzling sky, and what there was seemed only cast by the sorrows of others, for between her” and any personal grief Lindsay’s love stood like a rampart. She was thoughtful now, for she was expecting the visit of the man wdio was to come once a year to see her, and, looking up, she saw him cross the lawn, and held out both her hands. As he came nearer she saw what she looked for-—the promise in his eyes that the year had not been misspent, and her words showed that she understood it. “So it’s all right,” she said. “Yes, my dear lady,” he answered, it’s all right.” Later on in the day, when he had met Lindsay, Enid took him inside her stately home, and led him through corridors longer than those through which she had crept as a lonely, frightened girl a( Thistleworth, to a bright, beautiful room overlooking the gardens, where in a cot lay her infant son. “This is something new to show you.” she said, as they stood together and watched the little face. Dighton bent over him and kissed him, then, looking up, met the tryss of his mother. “ What is his name?” he asked, as in duty bound. first name is Lindsay/* “And his second name?”

She put her hand in his with a sisterly gesture. “His second name is John.” [The End.]