“IN THE TOILS,”

Southern Cross, Volume 9, Issue 3, 20 April 1901, Page 13

“IN THE TOILS,”

By John K. Leys, Author of The Lindsays,” &c., &c

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

A Romance of to-day.

CHAPTER XXIX. The Further Proceedings op Mr Theodore Hill. If ever a man felt like a cur, it was Theodore Hill, as he sat on a clump of heather near the waterfall of Tobermory, watching 1 the Chieftain making her way out of the harbour. He had sentenced his wife to close imprisonment in a lonely house, amid surroundings which would make her life wretched every hour and minute of the day. More than once he had been on the point of giving up the enterprise out of sheer disgust. More than once he had had a fit of savage exultation at the anticipated success of his schemes, Just now, however, he knew himself to be, in one word, a cur. Curiously enough the fact which gave birth to this feeling of selfcontempt was one which to most people might seem a point in his favour. He had forced his accomplice to undertake the disagreeable part of the work, the conducting of his wife to the place of confinement and leaving her there, because the task was so distasteful to him that he could not bring himself to face it. But at this moment it seemed to him as if abandoning his wife to an unprincipled scoundrel like Bracknell, on purpose that he might shut her up as in a tomb, was a baser sort of outrage upon her than it would have been to strike or to maim her with his own hand. In one circumstance, however, Helen’s fate was more cruel than her husband had known or intended. He charged Bracknell that before he left his wife alone among people of a strange race and what was to her a foreign tongue, he should not only make all possible provision for her comfort, but explain to her that her imprisonment was necessary for her husband’s sake, and that it would not last for more than a few weeks. But Bracknell had, like all men of his stamp, a supreme desire to provide as far as possible for his own safety. He reflected that it would be well for him to be able to explain his share in the transaction if the affair came to the ears of the Scotch police. Now, as things were, he thought he could give a tolerably satisfactory account of his conduct. Hill’s evidence against him, even if it could be received, could not go for much. Bracknell’s story would be that he had been invited to go to the Corrie Farm for the shooting. That, being accidentally left in charge of Mrs Hill, he had seen her safe under her husband’s roof ; and then, finding his position alone in the house with his hostess rather.a delicate one, he had preferred to take a hasty leave of Corrie Farm, leaving behind him a polite message, which, of course the Gaelic servants forgot to deliver. That would be his line of defence. But if he went to Mrs Hill and confessed the object of the conspiracy, of course she would tell this in court, and he might as well plead guilty at once. It was for her husband, he considered, to tell her as much or as little as he chose. He might write to her if he thought fit, in answer to the appeal which Helen would no doubt Bend him.

So he stole away early in the morning to the little pier at which they had landed the night before, and waited at the inn there for a steamer to Oban. And Helen was left to find oat for herself that she was a prisoner at the farm, and left to conjecture what she pleased about the cause of her imprisonment, and the length of time she might be shut up in that solitary house. In reality it had been a very easy matter to get Helen effaced in that effectual way. Hill had really rented the shooting of the Oorrie Glen

(as it was called), and the house, though he had not visited the place, during the preceding season. The house was inhabited by a Celt named Macfarlane and his wife —two decent people who were very ignorant of the world, almost quite ignorant of the English language, and gifted with one virtue above all others —fidelity to the commands of their master for the time being. This worthy couple Hill had allowed to remain m the house ; and it occurred to him that if his wife could be transferred to that lonely place, she might be kept there for an indeI finite time. For miles and miles along the coast there was not even a fishing village. Inland, there was neither fields, nor houses, not even roads; nothing but steep and rocky mountains, on whose sides there was hardly even a sheep track, as the whold district formed part of Lord Glenallen’s deer forest.

Strangers never visited the Corrie farm ; it was many miles out of the tourist track. All that Hill had to do was to go to the farm accompanied by a Highlander who knew English to act as interpreter, and tell the Macfarlanes that he had a wife who was to some extent mentally afflicted, and that she was coming to reside at the farm for some time as a quiet retreat where she would have no distracting or exciting influences to retard her recovery. This was the story that Hill told to the tenants of the Corrie Farm; and he added that his wife would arrive in a few days, under the care of a medical man, who would lewe her with them and return at once to London. All that they bad to do was to attend to her comfort i to keep her confined to the house, cr look sharply after her when she went oat, lest she should injure herself; and to burn all letters confided to them for the post, seeing that it was not desirable that the fact of his wife’s madness should be known among her friends. To the simple-minded Highlanders there was nothing suspicious, nothing alarming, in these instructions. They took in perfect good faith the money that was offered them, and prepared to make the afflicted lady as comfortable as their rough way of living would allow. Having made these arrangements, Hill returned to London, going in a fishing-smack to Strorae Ferry, and on by rail to London, to save time. His wife, as we know, imagined that he had been on a business journey to Liverpool.

Hill and Bracknell met on board the steamer at Tobermory, Bracknell was inclined to make a joke or ‘two at the poor caged woman’s expense, but a look from Hill soon stopped him. ‘ Drop that cursed fooling,’ said the husband savagely. ‘ It’s bad enough to do a thing of that kind without making fun of it.’ ‘ Oh, certainly,’ said the other, with mock politeness. 1 1 will treat the subject from the serious point of view in future. Perhaps you are right. Most people would say that it was rather a serious business.’

Hill muttered something inaudible, and his confederate said no more. Half an hour later, however, harmony was restored between the two conspirators. ‘After all, Hill, aren’t you making too much of this F It does you credit —no, upon my word it does,’ he cried, not understanding the glare in his companion’s eyes— ‘ it does you credit to have so much feeling. But you know that Mrs Hill’s temporary seculsion was simply necessary for our safety. And what does a few days’ or a fortnight’s, or even six weeks’ residence on a Scotch farm—for that is what it comes to—matter to a lady in perfect health ?’

‘lf that were all,’ muttered Hill. ‘ Why, what else is there P’ ‘ Suppose the shares don’t rise F’ demanded Hill.

‘ You are as sulky as a bear with a sore head,’ said the other. Are the confounded shares mine ? I can’t help it if they go down to the bottom of the Dead Sea. But if they don’t rise, so that we can’t pay back that coin—why, you and I are done for, that’s all —and Mrs Theodore Hill will have to stay where she is, or I’m mistaken,’ he added to himself. Hill made no reply. ‘ One can always bolt; and really it’s a fellow’s own fault if he is lagged —beg pardon, I’m sure, bagged—nowadays’ —and with this consolingreflection Mr Bracknell lighted a fresh cigar, and pulled out his Bradshaw to calculate the time when they would arrive in Londou.

It was part of Hill’s plan that none of his ordinary acquaintances should know that he was in town. He was supposed to be travelling abroad with his wife; and he had arranged that his letters were to be sent to an address in a street off Cheapside- one of these places where one can buy a local habitation and a name at so much per quarter —from which, it might be understood, they were forwarded to some point in the orbit of Hill s continental tour.

Having got his letters, Hill rapidly turned them over, and found, as he expected, one from Dr Brotherton to his wife, asking whether she had possibly acted with such egregious folly as to part with the income of the property which he and Mr Asblelgh-Smith held in trust for her. This missive Hill read with a derisive smile, and carefully burned. He could laugh at Dr. Brotherton so long as Helen was out of the way. On the evening of the very day of his return, Hill set out for Aylmer Terrace. He could not wait any longer. The passion he had at first conceived for Veronica —the passion that had once been so strong that he had played the part of informer in order to get rid of a rival, and which bad waned when he believed the girl he loved had passed quite beyond his reach —returned now with tenfold force. It rose up and mastered him. The thought of his wife brought him no remorseful, no humiliating thoughts now. He simply did not think of her at all, except as a difficulty to be swept away. He exulted in the thought that he would have his own way at last, in spite of the trammels of law and of morality, He would see Veronica. This night; this very night. He had waited impatiently all day, wandering about the South Kensington Museum, and other places which, being so public, are exceedingly private, in a state of feverish impatience. He wished to delay his call till the evening, partly because he knew that Veronica would then certainly be at home, partly, perhaps, because he felt that the night was a more fitting time than the day for the words he was about to speak. And he did not walk, as he generally did when he went to West Hampstead. Walking was too slow; he began his journey by train ; but his progress was even, then so intolerably slow that he jumped out at one of the innumerable wayside stations and took a hansom.

Having reached the house, he knocked, and was told that Mr LubinofE was at home.

‘ Can I see your sister for a few minutes ?’ he asked. Then, in answer to an enquiring look from LubinofE, he added— ‘ I wish to ask her whether —whether she will marry me. I forgot that I ought first to have asked your permission to address her. The rule is not so uniform in this country. But I ask your consent now.’ ‘ Sit down, Mr Hill,’ said LubinofE. He continued himself to walk up and down the room.

4 Twelve months ago,’ he began, after a pause, ‘ I would not have listened to your suit for a moment. Veronica was then, like myself, devoted to the cause of our country. Now, it is different. This house belongs, in reality, to the society

which she has deserted. It is hardly fitting that she should live in it ; and I hav&no other asylum to offer her. Therefore, I should be glad that she should marry. As to you personally, Veronica' must please herself. I should be pleased to accept you as a brother-in-law ; for although I was suspicions and prejudiced against you twelve months ago, that feeling has died away.’ ‘ And your sister —do , you think I shall have any chance ?’ asked Hill, anxiously. Lubinoff smiled to see this cool and collected man of the world as nervous and excited as a girl. ‘ You had better ask her,’ he said ; and Hill drew some encouragement from the smite that accompanied the words. In a few seconds more he was in Miss Lubinoff’s presence. Neither Veronica nor he could afterwards remember how he first made known his errand ; but, having spoken, the lover had no lack of words. He poured out a flood of burning passionate entreaties, so that Veronica was forced to beg him to say no more. She co&ld not doubt the sincerity or strength of his love. Was it love ? In a sense it was. Hill would have fought to his last breath for the girl before whom he was pleading. He would have laid down his life that she might escape death. But he could not suffer for her. He could not deny himself for her sake. He knew that he could not really make her his wife, and that if her revolutionary principles had not taught her to scorn the holy tie of marriage, he must practise upon her the most base and cruel of all deceptions. Yet he spoke as well, as earnestly, as honest lover ever speaks. ‘ Oh, please, Mr Hill say no mere !’ said Veronica. ‘ I have not told you, I cannot tell you, one hundredth, one thousandth part ot rny love for you. Oh, Veronica, do not, do not deny me ! ’ ‘ I am so sorry —so very, very sorry,’ began Vera, bowing her head. ‘ That means ’ He could not finish the sentence, ‘lt means that I cannot, my friend.’ ‘ I had thought—that—you were growing—to like me better.’ ‘ln a way, it is true ; but not in that way. Oh, no ! no ! no! ’ Hill drew a long breath , he was trembling from head to foot. ‘ Perhaps some time—next month —next year, you may listen to me ; I will come again, Veronica.’ ‘ It would be of no use,’ said the girl, the tone of her voice becoming more gentle than ever. ‘ Long ago I resolved that I never would marry anyone whom I did not love wholly and entirely.’ ‘ But you may come to think of me in that way.’ ‘ No, never ; it is impossible.’ ‘ Is there —is there anyone else P ’ stammered Hill, in a broken yoice. Veronica did not affect indignation. ‘ Why do you ask ?’ she said with a look of pity ; ‘ I believe you love me ; my answer can only wound you,’ ‘ Then you do—love some one ?’

‘ 1 have loved ; he was unworthy. I shall never love again.’ And, unable to say more, Vera made a gesture of farewell and turned away her head. He hs-d left the house and walked on some little distance betore he could collect his thoughts. When he did so two ideas stood out prominently in bis mind—that Veronica was a hundred times sweeter and more lovely than he had yet known her to be ; and that somehow or other he would win her yet. Suddenly he started back, just in time to avoid a collision with, a man who was walking very rapidly in the contrary direction—a tall, stronglooking fellow, wearing a great beard, and. dressed in oddly-cut, ill-fitting clothes. He stood and stared after him as long as he was in sight; for, although he had not seen the man’s face, though his appearance was hardly that of a gentleman, something in his air and gait, something in the swing of ; his shoulders and the

way he carried his head, reminded him of—George Rayner. CHAPTER XXX. ‘ You Have Cot Your Answer.’ It was none other than George Rayner that Theodore Hill saw walking rapidly away from him, through the mist of the September night. He was changed, greatly changed by his exile ; and yet anyone who had heard bis loud, hearty would have declared that he was not altered in the least. Lately he had consorted with lawless men, who would have taken his life readily for the sake of the few hundred dollars he carried about him, or by way of showing displeasure for a hasty expression. The necessity for being always on the alert, the habit of being prepared to defend himself at a moment’s notice, had given to George Rayner’s face and carriage an air of vigour and self-command —in one word, a manliness —which is too often absent in the face and manner of those who have always lived in countries where killing is held to be murder. He had come from San Francisco by way of Hong-Kong and Singapore, having left New York for the West very soon after his arrival in the States. Owing to his restless, wandering life, he .had never received the letters which had been sent to him. He was thus equally ignorant of his uncle’s or his father’s death, of his cousin’s marriage, and of the AshleighSmiths’ absence from England. He wrs tired of wandering, sick of his exile, and a new hope had sprung up in his breast; or rather an old one, which had seemed to be dead, had revived. He thought that Veronica might yet listen to him. As for the danger, it seemed less now than it had done twelve months .before. And he thought that by goingto Lubinoff §,nd striking a bargain with him, he might possibly avert the peril altogether. ‘ After all,’ he thought to himself.® ‘ the risk is no greater than I have often had to run in America for nothing.’ The moment he arrived in London he set out for Lubinoff’s house. He glanced at his watch ; it was very late, yet he raised the knocker and knocked. The door was opened at once. ‘ Can I see Mr Lubinoff ?’ he asked, ‘ What name shall I say ?’ ‘ Oh ’ —he used the first name that came into his head —‘ Thompson.’ In a few seconds the servant returned to say that her master declined to see Mr Thompson. George stepped past her, turned to the right, and entered the room which he remembered so well. Lubinoff was there, alone. He rose to his feet as bis visitor entered. ‘ Lubinoff, how are you ?’ said George, holding out his hand. ‘ You won’t shake hands ? All right. It’s not you I want chiefly, after all.’ ‘ How dare you walk into my house without leave ?’ ‘ Because I wanted to talk to you. I gave the name of Thompson to the girl, because I thought you might prefer not to see me. I see I was right.’ ‘ Leave the room, sir.’ ‘Presently. Not just yet.’ ‘ Shall I summon a constable, and give you in charge !’ * It was just that I wanted to talk to you about. You’d better not. I was wroug to go away. I ought to have walked into the nearest policestation, and denounced the lot of you. I fancy my word would have been taken against that of your men. I don’t say yours, for you are a gentleman.’ ‘ What do yon want ?’ ‘ I want, in the first place, to know whether it is to be peace or war between us.’ ‘I shall io nothing against you,’ said Ivan, after a pause. ‘I shall not mention your being here.’ ‘ Then it is understood that we let bygones be bygones ?’ ‘ I have no power whatever to speak for the committee. You disclosed the secrets of the Society, and ’ ‘ltis a falsehood. Stop 1 I don’t

mean that you know it to be a falsehood ; but it is one. There was, as I have always admitted, some small colour for the statement; but it was nothing more. I never was a traitor.’ Ivan looked at the speaker, and the expression on his face underwent a change. ‘But I admit this,’ went on George —‘ Without knowing it, in defence of my own life, I killed a man. If your Society get me put in the dock for killing that man, they play the traitor, and I will tell everything I know. How, we understand one another.’ ‘ There is the sentence of the Society itself,’ said Lubinoff. ‘ I will take my chance of that,’ said George, tapping significantly at the pocket in which he kept his revolver, * I won’t let myself be trapped a second time. And now, there’s just one thing more, I want to see your sister.’ ‘ Sir ?’ ‘Your sister, Mdlle Lubinoff. Is she well ? Is she at home ?’ ‘ You forget, sir, that you bad your final interview with that lady some time ago,’ said the Russian, coldly, ‘ Circumstances are altered now.’ ‘ You cannot see her, and there’s an end of it.’ ‘ Is it because it is so late ? I admit it is shockingly late. I came here straight from the railway station without going to an hotel for dinner. Couldn’t she see me for just half a minute to-night P I’ve come some fifteen thousand miles for a look at her, and it is hard not to get it after all.’ Lubinoff’s heart was a little touched, bnt he would not yield. ‘ I do not intend to allow the old intercourse between you and my sister to be renewed,’ he said doggedly. ‘You had better say good-night.’ ‘ Lubinoff, I must see her. To-night or to-morrow, or next day, as you please. But see her some time I must, and will.’ ‘ What do you wish to say to her ?’ ‘ I want to ask her whether she has been told that I was guilty of betraying the members of the Society, and whether she believes it ? This was not the answer Lubinoff had expected. ‘ I think I may say she had been told that you had sold, or at least betrayed, our secrets,’ he said slowly. George drew a long breath. ‘I feared as much,’he said. ‘And I wish to ask her whether she believes the charge to be true.’ ‘ Suppose she says she has no doubt of its being true ?’ ‘ I shall ask her what grounds she has for believing me to be guilty,’ ‘ And if she says she believes that you are innocent ?’ ‘ I shall ask her to marry me.’ ‘ I am sorry to say it, Bayner, but I h'rhoio she believes yon guilty.’ . George’s face turned paler, in spite of the tanning it had undergone. ‘ Well,’ he said, bluntly, ‘if her answer is to that effect, and if I cannot persuade her that I am innucent u there will be no need for putting the last question —the one you object to. Will you let me hear her speak P Will you let me put the questisn to her mvself ?’ ‘I will ask her; but it is late.’ ‘You are right. Let me come tomorrow.’ ‘ Are you not going to bed, Ivan ?’ said a soft voice from the neighbourhood of the door. It was Yeronica. She caught sight of her brother’s visitor, started, and turned white to the lips, as if she had seen an apparition. For some seconds no one of the three said a word. Yet Yeronica did not go away. George was the first to speak. ‘ I have come back to England, Miss Lubinoff,’ said he ; and his voice, strong as it was, shook a little in spite of all he could do. ‘ I have come back to see you and ask you whether you really believe that I am the scoundrel they have told you 1 am. ?

Tbe girl’s face flushed and she drew herself up to her full height. ‘ How dare you ask such a question ?’ Are you not ashamed ?’

‘No ; I am not ashamed, for lam innocent ; it is you who ought to be ashamed —you and your brother —for believing such a monstrous charge made without evidence against one you used to treat as a friend. If the whole world had such a thing you —or against you, either, Lubinoff —1 should have laughed at it. Veronica opened her eyes in wonder, and she trembled where she stood ; the young naan s tone, his bearing, almost convinced her. * Do you not believe me when I say I never betrayed any secrets, much less betrayed "any members of your Society to their enemies ?’ He asked this in so stern a voice that it almost seemed as if he would coerce the girl into acquitting him. She met his look with a look just as resolute as his own.

‘ In matters of that kind,’ she said, ‘ one must be guided by the reason, not by prejudice.’ ‘I cannot believe you are speaking as your heart would prompt you to speak,’ said George, in a gentler tone,; ‘ but let it be so ; you condemn me. Will you tell me on what grounds ?’ ‘On what grounds ! Yes, I will. Your own comrades held your guilt provpd and condemned you to death for s oar treachery ; and, stop, there is more than that. The Russian official to whom you sold your comrades, he acknowledged to me that you were the traitor.’ Ivan Lubinoff started, and stared at* his sister. Rayner, looking from one to the other, saw that this was news to Lubinoff himself. ‘ The Russian official ?’ cried George. ‘ Whom do you mean ? I never spoke to a Russian official in my life.’ ‘ You know I mean the Secretary —oh ! This is too much. I cannot bear it.’ And in another moment she was gone. ‘ It seems to me that you have got your answer,’ said Lubinoff, sternly. George, who had fallen into a chair, looked up like one suddenly awakened out of sleep. ‘ You have got your answer,’ repeated the Russian. ‘You bad bettergo now, and, if you take my advice, you will leave England at once. Your life is not safe, especially after what I have heard to-hight. Ido not say that I will stir up the committee to take revenge on you —but I make no promise of secrecy., George nodded, as if it mattered little to him what Lnbinoff did, and slowly rose from his chair. ‘ This is your bat,’ said Ivan, putting it into his hand. ‘ Yes ; thank you. Yes ; I will go now.’

‘ The sooner you are out of the country the better, mind that.’ ‘ She believes me guilty ! Of selling my friends ! Why— ’ A strange smile came over the bearded face. Lubinoff drew back. Kayner looked like an innocent man. Surely this could not be acting P Then the remembrance of his sister’s ■words came back to his mind, and his brow darkened. He led the way into the passage, and opened the street door. Ho ‘ good nights ’ were exchanged. B-ayner stumbled down the steps, and -went away, his head hanging on his breast.

‘ I can’t understand it,’ said Lubinoff to himself, as he closed the door and returned to the sitting-room. ‘ Gan he be the traitor ? It must be ; and yet I cannot understand it.’ All that night George Rayner wandered about, not intending purposely to walk the streets all night, but unable to lie down and rest. She had told him with her own lips that she believed he had acted like a villain.

In the morning he went to an hotel, where he dressed and breakfasted.

Then he went into the city, for be needed some money; and he remembered that he had left a few pounds in the bank. At the bank he was told, to his amazement, that a sum of ten thousand pounds was standing to his credit — the amount of the

legacy left him by his uncle. This was the first intimation he had had of his uncle’s death ; and immediately he said to himself, ‘ Poor Helen ! 1 must go end see her. ’ It did not take him long to get to Clifford Towers ; and as he approached the house, he noticed that it wore a new kind of appearance ; it was different in some way, he could not exactly tell how. A strange servant answered bis sum mens, and in response to his inquiry was kind enough to inform him that Raynor was the name of the preceding owner of the house ; but what had become of the family he bad not the faintest idea.

*1 will inquire of the AshleighSmiths ; they are sure to know her address,’ said George to himself, as he turned away from the door. But to his surprise he found Summerlea shut up, and the rich old garden abandoned to the usual state of a neglected garden in the autumn. The gate was padlocked, sure sign that the house was uninhabited.

‘ Away for the holidays, I suppose. Provoking ! ’ said George to himself. On his way back he passed a neat cottage, bnilt on a corner of the Suramerlea property. A stout young woman stood at the door of the dwelling, nursing a stout baby. ‘ Was you asking for Mr AshleighSmilh, sir P ’ she asked. ‘ I went to the house, but it is shut up,’ said George. ‘ Can you tell me what has become of them ? ’

‘ My husband and me is caretakers in their habsence,’ said the young woman, with some dignity. ‘ They’ve gone away in Mr Hashleigh-Smith’s yot, for Japan and other foreign ports. They expects to be away eighteen months or two years. ‘ Really ! You can’t tell me anything, I suppose, about the address of Miss Rayner, daughter of the former owner of Clifford Towers P ’

‘ Ho. But there was a young lady went away with Mr HashleigbSmith’s family. Mias Violet, I remember called her Helen.’ £ What was she like ? ’ asked George, quickly. ‘ Oh, middlin’ light, large eyes ; a slim, slender figure—all bone and blood. There was hardly an ounce of fat about her, and she had a lot of fair hair all over the top of her head.’ ‘That’s she —that’s Miss Rayner,’ cried George. ‘ Did she go away with your master and his family ?’ ‘ I saw them go away myself, sir, all together; except Mr Joseph Harthur, as was detained in town, and was to join them later on.’ George turned away, firmly believing that Helen had sailed with her friends, the Asbleigh-Srniths. ‘lt seems as if they meant to give Joe every chance of winning the heiress,’ he said to himself with a smile, as he walked up the road. That evening he went down to Eastham, a quiet viliage on the Hampshire coast, where his father and mother resided, expecting, with the thoughtless expectancy of youtlq that be would find them much the same as he had left them. The sight of the widow’s cap covering his mother’s hair was the first intimation he had that he was fatherless.

‘ Ob, mother ! ’ said George, ‘ what has happened P Is my father dead ? She could hot reply in words ; and he soothed her as best be could.

‘ It was very selfish of me, mother,’ he said, humbly, ‘to go off as I did ; and worse still not to write to you regularly. But I will do the best I can now ; I will not leave you again, as long as you live.’ (To be continued.)