A Fatal Vengeance

Taranaki Daily News, 21 October 1933, Page 11 (Supplement)

A Fatal Vengeance

(By

John Thanet)

CHAPTER 10.

For the fftst time in Dick’s recollection he had been ill, weak, and listless, and he had been living at Monkswood by the advice of his doctor. Half Moon Street was not the best place for an invalid and he would have a better chance of recovering his health' in the country. His grief at reading of Esther’s death had softened to a sacred memory of her. His acquaintance with Adelaide was a solace, and a cameraderia had been established, fostered by Adelaide, whose love for him yearned for his companionship, and by degrees the thought of asking her to marry him became clearer. Mr. Phillipson was assiduous in his attentions on the invalid, and from the night of their first meeting at Smeed’s rooms, with its unfortunate result, he was daily at Half Moon Street, and Dick was always pleased to see him. It was he who had suggested Dick's, removal to Monkswood, and the doctor agreed that it would certainly give the sick man a chance.

"His case rather puzzles me, to tell you the truth, Mr. Phillipson,” replied the. doctor, "and I’ve thought of having another opinion.” "Don’t,” objected Eugene. “He’s had such an illness once before and got over it. You would only frighten the man by calling in another doctor.” "I shall wait until he has been at Monkswood a few days and judge by the result.”

The following day Dick removed to his house in the country and Eugene went with him. The sunniest room in the old mansion had been chosen for the sick man, half 'of it being cut off by thick curtains, that gave a snug look to the oak-panelled apartment, in which generations of Tregennas had been born and died. The Oriel overlooked a neglected garden to which access from that part of the house was given by a staircase.

Dick was very indifferent to it all, as he lay on a couch from which his gaze wandered over the park, whilst -his thoughts were far away. His illness puzzled him as it did the doctor, because there was no cause to account for his growing weakness, that made even thinking wearisome; ’ One visitor had roused him from the lethargy which was becoming more and more pronounced. Adelaide had gone to Monkswood one day, full of sympathy and anxiety, his greeting bringing a return that well nigh betrayed her. Eugene had gone to London early in the morning and Dick and she ; were alone in the curtained room.

“It’s good of you to have come down,” he told her. *

“Did not you expect me ?” she asked. “How could I keep away, knowing you were ill?”

“It’s not everyone who would have taken the trouble to visit a sick man,” he said. “I shan’t forget it, Adelaide.”

. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name and his eyes were full of love. She had returned the gentle pressure of his hand, feeling the sweet intoxication of the contact.

“As I lie here, pretty helpless,” and Dick broke the silence, “I get queer fancies and recollections. Of people I knew long ago—it seems that—they’ve all gone and I shall never see them again. There was one I valued’ very much, who is dead.” ’ “Is it not possible for someone to take the place of your dead friend, to remind you ?” i v “I don’t want reminding,” and Dick spoke; with some of his old curtness. “I think of that old friend as if death didn’t really separate us—that the time might come—” and here he broke off abruptly. “I’m boring you with all this foolish talk,” he added. “No. I like to hear you.” “Some people don’t always.” “Those who are sincere do,” said Adelaide, and she re-arranged his pillows, the inadvertent touch on his cheek thrilling him strangely. “Can I do anything for you T’ she asked. “The doctor’s stuff is on the table near the curtain,” he answered. “It doesn’t do any good, but I’m expected to take it, and the time’s up.” The table stood behind Dick’s couch at some distance against the curtain, and Adelaide got up, but he arrested her movement.

“I want you to listen,” he said. “!■ mayn’t have another opportunity of telling you what has been in my mind while I’ve been lying here. Sit down. Nearer to me so that I can see your face,” and she obeyed, fibre of her body tingling.

"You know What my life has been for months before I was ill,” and he spoke very seriously. “The loneliness of it; but I doubt if you understand.” "I do,” she murmured. “And now, when I’m drifting out perhaps—it’s very likely—l want you to be with me, always, until the end.” . Her heart seemed to have suddenly ceased its wild beating, and although she tried to speak the words that would confess the love crying in her breast for utterance, the thought of what that would mean, held her mule. That yearning love was prompting her to risk all, to fling aside every obstacle, to defy the World’s scorn and contumely if her Secret was discovered. Dick was asking her to be his wife and she needs must answer him.

“Let me think,” she replied, struggling to speak calmly. "You ask so much.” "Is it too much ? Too great a sacrifice to give me more than your friendship, Adelaide ?” She was fighting a fierce battle with her love. Dare she accept his offer, and her heart said yes. "If I ask you to wait for an answer,” she said at length, "don’t think that it is because I have no love for you, but I must have time to consider what you ask.” “Until when?” "I will come to Monkswood again in two days. You shall have my answer then.” She had moved towards the table to fetch his medicine and as she did so, a movement of the heavy drapery caused her to pause. It was as though something had passed down the curtain stopping where it divided, the thick folds concealing the division. The glass and medicine bottle Stood near the parting and the movement was noticed again. Then the curtain was stealthily drawn aside a little, and a white hand passed through the Opening, holding a small vial in which was a colourless fluid that was emptied into the glass, but before the hand could be withdrawn, Adelaide had sprung forward, seizing it—there was a momentary struggle and it was wrenched from her hold, leaving a ring which had slipped from the finger in her grasp, and as she held it to the light a cry almost escaped her lips, fop .the ring was her husband's.

CHAPTER 11. • ■ "So you've left Monkswood, and 1 don't wonder, because of all the dull holes that is about the dullest for a man like you to waste his time in, Phillipson,” and Smeed spoke with conviction. Eugene, better dressed than he had been for a long time, thanks to Dicks generosity, was sitting in the Shaftesbury Avenue flat, where he had called on his return to London and his flight

from Monkswood. Not even the servants there had been aware that he was in the house, for he had entered it from the garden, creeping up the dark stairs to Dick’s bedroom, and retreated precipitously the same way, after his errand that was so unfortunately interrupted . “My dear Smeed,” he replied, "I have every sympathy with my cousin Ingram, but to a man of my temperament, attendance on an invalid is nothing less than an ordeal. So I shall not go back to his house under any circumstances.” “How did you leave him ? Was he better or worse ? Is he going to oblige you by dying ?” . asked Smeed, flicking the ash from his cigarette, and pushing a bottle across the table to his companion, who refilled his glass. Talking of Monkswood had made Eugene’s mouth dry. "He has a remarkably strong constitution,” he replied discontentedly, “and will probably pull through now. Don’t think I’m not anxious, Smeed, because I am, and I think of him day and night. What his death would mean to me !” "Seven thousand a year,” remarked Smeed, and Eugene sighed heavily. "You think of that day and night., I suppose.” "I should not be a reasoning man if I did not, my dear friend, but it’s no use doing that. No use whatever, and I am resigned to continue in my present state.”

"It’s considerably better than it was before you. and Ingram knew each other. At least, so I gather from what you’ve told me.”

"I do not deny that he has acted generously; in fact I owe my present unembarrassed position to the assistance my cousin has given me with an open hand, and to see him suffer unmans me, therefore I have decided not to go back.” Smeed’s inscrutable face wrinkled into a sour smile, which Eugene preferred not to notice,, and he again filled his glass, but the spirit failed to revive his accustomed good humour, and he was unusually absent-minded. There was a disconcerting thought of what might happen, and he was very disquieted by the loss of his ring, so he cursed Dick’s nurse heartily, Adelaide’s presence in Dick’s room being unknown. There was no telling what the nurse might do. “When is Ingram coming back to London?” enquired Smeed. “How many weeks will you have to wait ?”

“Wait? wait? What do you mean by that?” answered Eugene irritably. “What have I to wait for ?” “Seven thousand a year.”

“Smeed, your question is unseemly, when you think, and I am pained,” was the reply. '‘This is not a subject for jesting and I am in no humour to do so. Recent events have given me some very serious thoughts.” “Rather rare things for you, I should say. By the bye, I met Maddox yesterday and he’s not at all satisfied about what happened when you and Ingram were here. I may give you a warning that Maddox means mischief.”

"I shall be equal to the occasion,” answered Eugene gloomily. “I rather fancied from his manner that he would like to murder you,” and Smeed smiled again.

Eugene did not reply, and taking up his hat he wished him good-night. The conversation had added to his low spirits, and, as he walked back to Soho, it was with a feeling of being at enmity with the world.

On \turning into the narrow street from the main thoroughfare and coming to his disreputable lodging where he had sheltered since coming from Paris, he was surprised at seeing a light in his room. No one had ever gone there, except his wife, and for the time he had forgotten her existence, and so oblivious was he to everything except the miscarriage of his plans that he stopped to a slow walk to consider whether or not to go into the house. The uncertainty lasted several minutes, but he finally decided to face the danger if it should prove to be one, and pushing open the door he ascended the rickety stairs to his' room, starting backwards at seeing a veiled woman standing in the light of his smoky lamp. It was Adelaide and She. lifted her veil, confronting him with that disdainful look, as though the sight of his smooth face was an affront to her.

“You've pretty quickly forgotten your promise of, never Coming here again,” he 'began, with some of his old assurance. “It’s not at my request to see you, nor any pleasure to me.” “I have something to say to you,” she answered, speaking with an unnatural restraint. “Something you will do well to- listen to.”

“My dear Adelaide, why this austere manner ?” he remonstrated Amiably. "I have asked nothing from you for a considerable period, and, thank Heaven, I shall have no necessity to do so in the future. You may not be aware of my good fortune in becoming acquainted miraculously with an hitherto unknown relative, who, to use a familiar expression, is rolling in wealth. His name is Richard Ingram.” “It is of him I have to speak,” answered Adelaide. “Stand back, for I cannot talk as I wish when you are near me.” “But, my dear girl, you cannot possibly know anything of my cousin,” he exclaimed in astonishment. "I was at Monkswood yesterday.” . Even his bravado was not proof against the effect of the simple words, and he paled, glaring at her viciously. “What if you were ?” he demanded. “I didn’t know that you and Ingram ‘Were friends. But you haven’t cotne here to tell me that, I suppose.” “No. It was to give you back this,” and she held out his ring. For an instant he remained staring aghast at the outstretched hand, with a dread that had brought the sweat to his forehead.

“You don’t want me to explain how it came into my possession,” she went on, “but I will tell you what you must do, now that you’ve been found out.” “You are mad,” he ejaculated hoarsely. “What have you found out ?” “That you intended to poison Mr. Ingram,” she answered, not shrinking from his threatening glare at her. “You have been watching him dying inch by inch, waiting for the moment when his death would make you rich. I have no words to condemn you. They would not express what you are, and you would not feel them. It will be for the judge to do that, for if there is justice in this world, you shall not go unpunished.” ■ “My dear Adelaide,” and his insufferable self-confidence asserted itself, /‘I owe you a thousand thanks, for .little as you may know, your statement has removed a weight of care from my breast. What you have said is no more than the raving of a lunatic, but for all that it would create an unfavourable impression if repeated in public. Our mutual interests would suffer and at the same time I may remind you that a wife cannot give evidence against her busband. A very wise provision of the law in my opinion.”

“Do you suppose I haven't thought of that, but, as true as I’m a woman, you shall be known as the villain you are by all the people with whom you associate, unless you leave the country. 1 am not as helpless as you think me, nor so weak as to fail in what I undertake to do. Your friends would have no mercy on a man such as you are. I know my voice would not avail in a

court of justice, yet there are other tribunals that you dare not face. Your answer must be given now, before I leave this room to return to Monkswood and reveal the truth that will make you shunned as a vile thing ?” Although fierce rage was in his heart. Eugene was thinking clearly. Ingram had given him an allowance of five pounds a week, a veritable fortune for him, end if Adelaide carried out her threat, he would lose it. It was not to be expected that anyone would condone a crime directed towards himself—no one Could overlook it, much as they might profess to forgive. Of course* Ingram would believe what Adelaide said and nothing in denial of it, and it would avail him nothing if he divulged the fact that Adelaide was his wife. Agreeing to her demand was taking th- least line of resistance, and he decided to do so. “There’s not a word of truth, in. what you’ve said,” he growled, “but you can do an infernal lot of mischief. As to leaving London, I've no objection. Does that satisfy you ?” •j. shall only be satisfied when I know you have gone.” • “Very good,” and Eugene's mental re* silience that had carried him through many troubles, enable '. :to ref*"” 1 his serenity. “Only I should like you to remember this, my dear Adelaide, that when the time comes to repay you for this, I shall do so. I will let you know when I have returned to Paris.” She did not answer and passing to the door was gone, leaving him scowling after her. There was nothing to be done, however, except to prepare for his journey and he began packing his dilapidated portmanteau. (To be continued.)