LOVE IN FETTERS

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 85, 16 May 1914, Page 4

LOVE IN FETTERS

By RICHARD MARSH

CHAPTER ALICE'S ADVENTURE. During the days which ensued Ronald Denton would not have found it easy to say if his state was one of torment or -of rapture. The idea of marrying Alice Hudson would never have got into his head had not Mme.de Constat putit there. But since she had, he could not get it out. Had all things been well ~ with him his notion of perfect happiness would have been marriage with the girl who had made even the Chateau rt'Ernan seem at times a Paradise. But things were not going w T ell; they never would —they never could. Each day brought him nearer to a shameful end. He was this woman's catspaw. This Mine, de Constal had but to snap her fingers to squeeze him out of existence. He was as much a criminal under sentence of capital punishment as if he had been already ti-ied and sentenced. That, at least, was his point of view. * To him it seemed to be the only possible one. That a wretch circumstanced as he ■was, blood upon his hands, the gallows staring him in the face, should associate himself, even remotely, with a young girl, into whose few short years so much unhappiness had been crowded, and for whom the future should hold auch promise of love, joy, and all sorts of pleasant things, it was unthinkable. He might be a criminal, but he was not sueh a thing as that. Yet the rapture when his eyes were closed, and projecting a mental picture —holding her in his arms, so close that he felt the sweet contours of her dear form, her breath upon his cheeks, her soft breathing as her lips touched his. If only it had been possible to make such a dream real! But, since the one things for which he waited was the policeman's tap upon his shoulder, a crowded court gaping at the prisoner in the dock, with worse to follow! Shudderingly he tried to drive such visions from him. In what was left to him of life there was no place for her. Why this woman had conceived of such a thing was a puzzle —unless it was because she loved evil for evil's sake! It was a crime so foul that it beggared imagination to propose to .link this girl's fate with his. Surely this woman had method in her madness, reason in her dreadful plans. She must have some weighty motive which prompted her to make such a heinous proposition. What could it be? Three days passed. So. far as he knew, save Achille, Mme. de Constal and he were the' sole inmates of that

Author of "A Master of Deception," "Twin Sisters," etc

great house. Nor did his hostess favour him with overmuch of her society. She found him, as she plainly told him, extremely dull, her own society more cheerful.

"You sit opposite me," she said on the third day when they had finished luncheon and Achille had left them together to drink their coffee, "with that kind of face which is the cook's worst enemy —it makes every dish taste as if there were somethiug wrong with it. How can one enjoy, the most perfect plat with something worse than a skull and crossbones glowering at one from the other side of the table? And as for conversation, you were better dumb; silence would be infinitely preferable to that kind of remark you make when I do succeed in making you say something. lam most anxious to do my duty as a hostess, but I don't want to feel every time I see you as if I were the chief mourner at a funeral. You give me what in England I believe they call the ' creepy-era wlies'; please enjoy yourself alone." And the lady flitted from the room. The young gentleman, with an expression which certainly was not gay, went out to take the air. A more suggestive picture than he presented of a mind ill at ease as, with bent shoulders, downcast eyes, and heavy feet, he dragged himself listlessly, hopelessly, through the castle grounds, it would not have been easy to find. He went in this direction, and then in that, seeming not to care or heed whither he was going, and at last his steps were turned in the direction of the Safe Eetreat. He had been there many times since the girl had vanished, as to the altar which some heart-broken worshipper had raised to the memory of a lost saint. The memory of her presence seemed to sanctify the place. How often had they been there together; His feet kept step with hers as he followed her down the narrow, winding path. He went down it then without aim or design, with a feeling on him that he must go somewhere, and when , he gained the grassy hollow at the end he found her lying on ground. At first he thought his imagination must be playing him a trick—it had played him more than one of late. Then he held his breath and gazed. His heart seemed to stand still. Something seemed all at once to have happened to the world.

She w T as lying on her face, in a frock of russet brown. He had told her once jestingly, that each fresh colour she wore he thought became her best, but he was almost sure that the best of all

the best was russet brown. It went so well with the tint of her hair, her fair skin, with all sorts of things. And there she lay upon her face, in a russet frock, and never moved. It was not, this time, a trick of the imagination. How came she to be there? What was the cause of her attitude, her silence? What was the matter! Was she sleeping? Was she hurt! Had she stumbled, and lain where she had fallen? or was she —no, he could uot even ask himself if she was dead. He called to her: — "Alice!"

It was the first time he had addressed her by her Christian name; perhaps that was why it acted on her as if it were some magic spell. In an instant, with a single movement, which was so rapid that one could scarcely follow it, she was on her feet, and, turning, saw him.

It seemed possible that, as had been the case with him, her first thought was that he might be the creature of a dream. She stood still, as if afraid that a movement might cause the dream to vanish. He stood still, also, why, he only knew. Then, as if drawn by some irresistible magnet, he went farther down, she came towards him, and —he had her in his arms. He had vowed to himself, over and over again, that under no circumstances whatever would he sully this young girl by so much as a touch; he had been vowing it to himself only half a dozen seconds ago; now hre had her in his arms and pressed her close. And she had her arms about his neck, her head upon his shoulder. How she trembled, quivering and shivering so that he had to hold her tighter to keep her safe. How long they stayed like that, incapable of speech, incapable of *anything but what they did, they never knew. The spell was broken by the utterance of what she supposed to be his name. There eame from her first a long sigh, which seemed to bear with it a burden from the bosom. Then she whispered: "Robert!'/ —as if she cried to him.

It was not only not his own name, it was one which he disliked. It was a note of pathos, fortunately sounded just in time to make him realise how fate or circumstance had caused him to fall away from the high standard which he had set himself. He relaxed his hold; and, as if it were a signal, instantly he became conseious that she was crying, that her whole body was being shaken by her sobs. What was he to do? Few men know how to manage women when they weep, a young man scarcely ever. This young man had very seldom seen a woman cry. His feeling as he realised her state was almost one of fear. He had to continue his hold, if only to support and comfort her. When he tried to soothe her with words, his voice seemed forced, and harsh, and broken. "What's the matter? Tell me. Are you hurt'? What is wrong? Try not to cry. For God's sake, Alice, don't cry! You —you —make it so hard for me.''

Perhaps it was the appeal contained in the last words which influenced her more than anything else, the suggestion they conveyed that because things were hard with her they made it hard for him. She drew herself a little away,

raised her head, and, with the little, flimsy square of cambric which serves a woman as a handkerchief, she did her best to dry her eyes. "I'll—l'll try not to cry. I know it's silly, but —oh, if only you knew!" And the floodgates were opened again. He stood within a foot of her, helpless; longing to take her in his arms again, conscious, even, that she was longing to come, yet straining every nerve to resist temptation.

"Alice!" The name came from him and left him dumb. Words would not come to him.

By degrees her crying grew less demonstrative; she began to try to gulp back her tears, to remove their traces from her cheeks. Then words came to her —of a kind, stammering words. "My—my handkerchief's quite wet; it's —it's a silly little thing."

In an instant he had thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and was holding out his.

"Won't—won't you have mine? I I think you'll find it all right." She looked at the proffered handkerchief, and then at him, and then she smiled—such a crooked, wavering unhappy little smile. very kind of you; I'd—like it very much —thank you." She took it from his fingers. As she raised it to her eyes she turned- away, as if to hide from him the havoc which had been made. Still tongue-tied, he continued to watch her, some instinct telling him that the first words had better come from her, lest the intensity of his sympathy, born of his passionate love, constrained him to commit himself in a fashion which he might always regret. Presently- she spoke again. '' I 'm —l am afraid I 've made myself a dreadful sight; tears never do become a woman, and they make me frightful; I don't know how it is, but they make me positively smudgy. I always have to wash my face before I'm fit to look at after crying." "I assure you that —that there's no necessity for you to wash your face — just now.'' She peeped at him over her shoulder, with a glance which was almost roguish. "What a silly thing to say. I couldn't wash my face here if I wanted to ever so much; how could I?"

"I'm —I'm sure I don't know. I only wanted to point out that I didn't —that I didn't think you need. I hope you are feeling better." Possibly the last words were not so tactful as they might have been. The girl drew herself up straighter; her manner became more constrained, with quite a different sort of constraint. '' Thank you, I never felt ill. I—l was in a little trouble, that's all." "That's all? As if that wasn't everything; as if V I wouldn't rather anything happened than that you should be in trouble! That's a very weak way of putting it; but the plain fact is that I'd give my life to save you from trouble. Not that my life is worth anything, anyhow.'' She was still using his handkerchief as if it.:had been a; towel; now she peeped over the top of ; it. '' Isn't it ? Why isn't it worth anything? At any rate it's worth more than

mine. My life is worth so absolutely less than nothing that only a very little while ago 1 was thinking of committing suicide. T believe I should have done it if there had been anything to do it. with, just before you came; and —and before that, too." Again her manner suddenly changed; it became quite warm. "What have you been doing since they took me away?" "So they did take you away, did they? I thought so."

'' Of course they took me away. Do you think I should have gone if they hadn't? At any rate, without telling you? You must think I'm a nice sort of person—l don't know why.'' "Where did they take you?" '' They took me —I don't know where they took me; they took me . I'll tell you all about it; at least I'll tryto, because things have happened to me which I don't in the least understand, and I've been taken I really don't know where, so I don't suppose that what I'm going to tell you will seem very clear. That won't be my fault, anyhow."

She used his handkerchief to wipe away a final tear or two; there were little gasping sounds in her throat, as if she were struggling for composure, for breath enough to enable her to her story. '' Antoinette came to me in the middle of the night and told me to- get up, and when I asked her why she wouldn't answer, and she dressed me and took me downstairs. I was only half awake, and I was frightened by her manner, and —and'~"l don't know what; 1 was just awake enough to feel sure that something dreadful was going to happen. And when I got downstairs there was M. Perret— — "

"The deuce there was! Where was the scoundrel? Was he alone?"

"He was in the hall; no, he wasn't alone. There was a whole lot of people there. I've not the faintest notion who they were. They seemed to have been fighting, and they were still quarrelling, shouting, and going on 'like anything. And when they saw me, some of them made a dash at me; and then the others made a dash, and I thought they would have torn me to pieces between them. And —and I screamed."

"I heard you. I knew it was you I heard. Oh, if I had only been able to get at the blackguards! " "You wouldn't have been able to do any good if you had—there were too many. I was so v frightened that I couldn't that I couldn't imagine what they wanted. One half of them seemed to want to get me from the other half. I was quite sure that they were none of my friends. Then Achille—"

"So Achille was there? The beauty! The liar! • If ever.l get a chance to get even with that gentleman!"

"He had a revolver in his hand. He pointed it at one of the men who was holding me by the arm, and told him that if he didn't let go of me he 'd fire. I was terrified half out of my life, and I screamed again.'' "Oh, I heard you. Oh, yes, I heard you. But I was like a rat in a trap. They had fastened me in my room. I couldn't get out, I was helpless." (To be Continued.)