THE SHADOW OF GUILT.

Otago Witness, Issue 3672, 29 July 1924, Page 73

THE SHADOW OF GUILT.

By

(Marguerite W. Crookes.

(Copyright.—For the Witness.) “lie’ll not live much longer. He wants a priest at once, Father!” “Where does he live?” “Where the road comes out on the cliff, there's a track meets it from the left—• it’s the first place along it. But be careful. There’s an awful gale, and the track’s rough.” A faint smile lighted the thin ascetic face of the priest. “I have known many a rougher,” he said, and with a word of farewell he put spurs to his horse and set off at an easy gallop. The country he traversed was wild and beautiful, though rendered sombre by the sullen, leaden clouds that hung low on the bushclad mountain tops. No rain had yet fallen, but the wind raved and moaned up the frowning valley with endless and melancholy rage. The gloomy surroundings combined, no doubt, with the solemnity of his errand seemed to have communicated themselves to Ingatius’s face, for the large expressive eyes were brooding and sad, and the face set and stern. It was with a sigh of relief that he finally topped the winding road that led out on the cliff-top, and saw the great expanse of dull gray tossing surges confronting him. “At last,” he muttered, and, drawing up his horse, lie scanned from right to left the desolate seacoast. To the right the road led along the cliff for some distance and then down into a little landlocked harbour, whence left the steamer that he particularly wanted to catch that night. To the left a rugged track led down across the bay to where he could see the hut of the dying man. He pulled out his watch. Half past three! He had not much time. Then, as he was about to go on. he suddenly saw a small girlish figure on horseback coming round a bend in the track. She waved and shouted something he could not distinguish through the roar of the wind and surf, so he waited. As she neared him he saw that her dress was travel-stained, and her face was drawn with weariness and pain. “You are Father Ignatius?” she said breathlessly. “Oh, I was so afraid I should miss you, and I have come so far ! Father, I must speak with you a while! I am in terrible trouble and I must have your help.” For the fraction of a second the priest hesitated —time was slipping by, and he must catch that boat! But the misery of the young face held him. “You will forgive me when I soy I have little time. I am even now on my way to a death-bed.” “Yes! Yes!” she said. “Only hear me for a few minutes!” They dismounted and sought the shelter of a clump of trees, and seated themselves on a fallen log. The girl sat with tightly clenched hands seeking to control herself. “Come,” said the priest, and his voice was low and musical, “tell me.” “Oh, it’s all so dreadful!” the girl burst forth. “I can scarcely believe it is true! Only a few days ago I was the happiest girl in the land, married to the husband I love, arid with the child that is the pride of our hearts, and now—” for a moment her emotion mastered her, but at a low word from the priest she went on: “Now my husband is arrested, accused of a murder of which he is wholly innocent, and in a few days I shall be called upon to witness against him. Oh, Arthur! Arthur !”- “A murder!” the priest's voice was tense with horror. “What! You cannot —surely mean the murder of Harford?” And the keen mind of the priest struggled to seek a connection between an obscure farmer and the wealthy banker. She nodded, and there was a moment's heavy silence, then lie said gently: “Yon must he brave and tell me all you can, so that I can help you! How did your.husband become involved?” The girl controlled herself and went on calmly. “My husband is a poor man, but he comes of a very good family, and some years ago lie was a close friend of Harford’s, although Harford was some years older. He had a very fine appearance, and my husband was captivated by his charm, his brilliance, and his culture. Then, one day, he saw another side of Harford, and they quarrelled bitterly—and since then he has never crossed our path till a few days past.” She broke down again, and then resumed. “A few weeks ago, I and my husband went into town for a while to get some treatment for baby. We stayed at a little flat lent us by a friend. While we were in town, Arthur met some old chums of his, and the talk turned on Harford.” Again she struggled for self-con-trol. "I do not know exactly what was said, but there was a scandal about some girl, aud my husband became very angry and said in front of all of them (and they knew he was an old enemy of Harford's), ‘lt’s about time somebody shot that

inan.’ ” She shuddered a little. “The next day Harford was found dead with a bullet in his heart!” Ignatius was silent a moment, thinking deeply. “Was your husband acquainted with the girl concerned? And do you know if the police have any definite reason for thinking her the cause of the murder?” “My husband knew her by sight only. The police have nothing to go on except that it is obvious the crime was not committed for money or gain. They think it was probably to avenge the honour of a woman.” Ignatius nodded. “Where was your husband on the night of the crime?” The girl started, and the wan face went if anything a shade paler, but she answered quite calmly, “He went out for 41 little walk in the evening, it was so hot in our little flat. Then he came in and read in the dining-room till late. Then he went to bed.” “Did you go out with him?” “No, I had gone to bed with a headache.” “What time did you hear him come in?” “He says he came in about 9.30, stood at bur bedroom door, spoke a few words to me, then went to the dining-room.” “But did you hear him?” repeated the priest. For a moment she hesitated, and all around them the wind roared like an approaching doom, then her calmness forsook her. “I heard nothing! May the Holy Virgin forgive me, I was fast asleep!” a.-d she burst into a passion of tears. There was a long silence. The eyes of the priest wandered from the weeping woman to the storm-tossed sea, and they held a world of weariness and pain. Irien he laid a soothing hand on her arm. “Come,” he said, “tell me how I can help you?”

“Oh,” she cried, “do von not see the cruelty of it all? If I tell the truth, my evidence will be used against my husband. If I try to save him I must swear falsely Oh, Father, Father, what shall I do? Ever since they arrested him last night 1 have prayed without ceasing to the Virgin. My heart is torn in two. How can I testify against the husband that I love? Oh, Father, you cannot know what he has been to me, his chivalry—his goodness—his love —And to fail him at the hour of his supreme need! I, who would gladly lay down my life for him! But if I try to help him I must swear falsely, and if 1 save him it can only be at the price of my honour. Oh, Father, help me! I have thought until my brain is on fire, and I can think no more! Oh, Father, help me! What must I do?” The stark agony of the sweet face so pitiably young and child-like smote him to the heart, and he rose suddenly and turned a little from her towards the sea. “You must give me time,” he said. “I must think.” Then, turning towards her for a moment with a wan smile, “You do not know what a responsibility you have given me, what a problem you have ached me to solve!” Her happiness or her honour! He stood with clenched hands facing the sea. There was a strange lull in the storm. It seemed almost as though the elements divined that the fate of a human soul hung in the balance, and awaited breathless the ending of the drama. For some minutes he gazed seaward with strange intensity as though his sad dark eyes would pierce the ultimate mystery that lay beyond its gray horizon, and his face was set and white. Then, as another blast of wind smote the cliff with renewed fury, he turned once more to the girl, and his face showed no sign of the recent struggle, but held only pity and understanding. “Be comforted, my daughter, all may yet be well. The Lori holds a key to every problem if we have but the courage and faith to seek it, and so it is with this One. Listen to me, daughter!” and the dark eyes burned into hers with a strange exultation. “Just now, amid the wildness and the storm, amid the horror and pain’ of all this evil tragedy, the voice of the Lord reached my sinful heart, and I think I begin to see a way out. Listen to me. Go now and seek your husband, and when you reach his side you wifi find my message waiting for you.” r he girl hesitated, cheered in spite of herself, for she could not resist the inspiration that shone in the noble young face. Then she said, “You can tell me no more?” “I must have time,” he replied. “Time for prayer and reflection ! I can tell you So more just now except this, that I do not believe the Lord means you and your husband and little child to suffer for the sins of another. But be patient, daughter, for I feel all will be well. Go to your husband, and you will find my message waiting. Goodbye.” She looked at him a long moment as though she would read his very soul. Then he saw something of the misery fade from the young face, something of its accustomed serenity returned to it, and as he saw her ride down the hill-side comforted, he smiled his grave smile.” “Galilaee vicisti!” he murmured. Then he, too, turned and rode on. It was not till late that evening after a weary ride that she reached the police Station and asked to he taken to her husband. But instead of being taken to a cell, she was ushered into a small study, the officer disappeared, and the next moment she was in her husband’s arms. “You are freed” she said wonderingly when they could talk coherently. “You are sure you are really free?” “I should say so,” he retorted, “and likely to romain so. The real murderer has confessed!” The words of the priest’s prophecy returned to her mind. “He gave himself tip voluntarily, you say?” “Yes, darling,” he replied, and it seems odd, for he was making an excellent

escape. He passed round our direction, by the way, and had nearly reached the steamer which would have taken him to safety, when for some unknown reason he turned round and came back, and gave himself up. Why, I don’t know, for nobody suspected him, and his disguise was perfect!” “His disguise?” she faltered. “Yes!” he went on. “It was deucedly clever! He got himself up as a Roman Catholic priest. The man who should have gone out there was down with flu, so he borrowed his identity and called himself Father Ignatius. Margaret! LCrl'-.g ! For heaven’s sake don’t cry like that !’ :