CHAPTER LVII.

Taranaki Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 11713, 13 July 1901, Page 2 (Supplement)

CHAPTER LVII.

MERCIFUL MADNEBS. "There is a living death — | A death in life called madness." ' There was little said hetween them as Captain Charlton and Gerald Wynne walked in the soft, dewy dawn of the summer morning to Haddon Hall. They would have spared Sir Guy, but that was not possible. He must know the truth. It was something of a surprise to him when his valet entered the room at that early hour and told him the two friends were waiting for him ; but Sir Guy was blessed with the sweetest of tempers. He dressed himself quickly and went dowb to them. He entered tho library, where th«y awaited him, and h.ld oat a hand to each in cheerful greeting. . 'You are always surprising me,' he 6aid. Why did you disappear so suddenly yesterday? 1 exp9cted you to dinner, and you come this morning tj breakfast instead.' But no answering smile met his. Looking into the pale, grave faces before him, Bir Guy knew that bad news ha< I come at last. Word for word, «thoy told him the whole of that terrible story, and he listened like a man almost too stunned and bewildered to understand — listened, with haggard eyes and bleeding heart, to the horrible story of Qic murder of his fair and beloved wife, while outside the sun shon?, the birds sang, and natnre woke up in full glory. He listened 1o the crime of the woman who bad lost her soul for love of him, and he turned to Captain Archie. 'Captain/ ho said, faintly, 'you must do me one fevor — grant me one kindness. You most not let roe see that woman again. She killed my darling ! I could not trust myself. Keep her out of my eight, or I cannot answer for what may happen/ 'There can be no doubt this time about the identity,' said Captain Charlton. 'With my own' baud I drew from her 3 this ling.' As be said these words, Captain Charlton brought out the diamond ring, and silently gave it to Sir Guy. Weak words could not tell his love or his sorrow when he saw it — tl o quaint setting, the diamond cross. A thou- ! sand memories rushed through his mind. He saw the fair young girl by the fountain feeding the dove ; he remembered how ha had put the ring upon her finger, she wondering, iv her sweet simplicity, at the value of the diamonds. He saw again the fair, pure face, the drooping golden hair, the sweet, smiling lips. He remembered that last morning when he bad seen her among the flowers, with that ring gleaming on her white band, and he broke into such a passion as awed and terrified the friends that stood near him. That little ring ! The sight of it bronght his dead Magdalene so plainly before him. It had been upon her finger through the happy days of their love, through ail their married life ; and now it had lain with her in that dark, horrible tomb. He placed it on his finger, and never parted with it again. Tnen, when he had somewhat recovered, he made all arrangements. A rude litter was hastily constructed, and they returned, with two chosen servant to help them, to Elm Wood ; and there, w.th loving bands, with bitter sighs and bitter tears, the body of the lost Lady of Haddon was bronght back to the hall. They would not let Sir Gay go down. Strong a T m 9 withheld him ; but he saw the golden Hair and the discoloured pearlß ; be saw the dress that she, poor, hapless child bai worn been us 3 he liked it ; Iwt that which had been his bestloved and dearest wife he did n'.t. see for they wnM not let him. i Lilc v> II !fir«i the' news «f -eftil over t'e country- eM«*. Tl-,c:« 1 ad been sou».»

.errible mistake. The body found in the Black Tarn was not that of Lady Wvverne. There had been some terrible error. The remains of Lady Wyverne had been discovered at last. The rumor ran that she had fallen while waling in the Elm Wood — fallen down an old shaft that had been in use hundreds of years ago. There was no mistake abont identification this time. People thronged to the hall — friends and neighbours, rich aud poor, old and yonng — men, women and children ; for the lady they had loved, who hal been so kind to them, who had comforted them and consoled them, was found at last, anl her fate was a mystery no longer. There was not much surprise expressed. People only wondered that they had not thought of it before. They wondered that such a pit could have befn there ' unknown to any one : but they did not seem surprised that the poor lady hud fallen through. The same accident might have happened to- any one. The only pity was it had happened to one so young and dearly loved as Lady Migdalene. She was carried home again at last — she who had left the threshold so many years ago, -full of life and love, and Of beauty, with snatches of song on her lips, and light iv her eyes, bhe was placed in the room that had once been ber own, and the child she had left a baby covered the casket with flowers, pure and fair, as had onca been hetself. They sent for Mrs Chatlton. The long-lost was found at last, the people told each other* Them was no midtake now, for ' Sit Guy woie upon bis fioger the same diamond ring be bad given to her years ago, and which had been found upon her hand. , They shuddered, these simple pe*opl«» f when they talked of the lingering' horroi of her death. What would they have said had they known that the treacherous hand of a murderess had sent the hap'ess lady to her doom ? So in the darkened room where her happy tridal days had bea spent, a!] that was mortal of Lidy Magdalene lay, and there Sir Guy kept watch. Those pssßing by hear. l deep sobs aod low moans. They iiearJ wor Is of love, |of ten ifrness and of sorrow that would have turned the hardest retrt to pity. Then they knew the unhappy husband was mourning fjr the dearly-loved wife. They left him thpre. No one sought to disturb him, while GeraM Wynne took Captain C'larlton to the keeper's cottage. They saw John Blackley standing at the door. 'Is all ruht V asked Gerald Wynne, a) they drew uear. 'Right enough, sir,* he replied. 'There has been no mistake, no trying to run a<»ay or_ anything of that kind ; bu*> the queerest noises have come from that room that I ever heard in all my life. 1 don't consider myself a coward, but they have frightened iu J . Without another com nent they went direct to the room, and Gerald, drawing the key from his pocket, unlocked the door. They went in together, and never until the sun ceased to shine for them did they forget the terrible sight. As sbe herself ba 1 saiJ, she Jaad not dared to die. There mu3t have been in that wicked heart some lingering notion of religion, cf right and wrong, of punishment for evil-doers, and reward for the good — o s a mighty Judge who should balance the result of a life in His hand. There must have been some lingering remnant of conscience, for, wicked as she was, greatly as she feared the result of her evil deeds, she dared not die. They would never forget the sad spectacle. She crowded in a corner of the room, her rich evening dress hanging in shreds about her. She was talking wildly, laughing hysterically, I holding up her hand, on which she fancied she felt the weight of heavy iron chains. Sho did not look up when, they entered. She did not know them. Peal after peal of terrible laughter came from ber lifS. Looking at her, they Ba w in one moment the truth — she was hopelessly mad. The struggle had been too great for her. Bbo dared not die, and she knew not how to livr. Sne could not fac? the shame, the humiliation, the degradation and reproach that must be hers. The active brain, weary with plotting, woru with anxious thought, hal given way. This world was all over for her. Neither love nor reproach, neither honor nor Bhaine, neither joy nor sorrow could touch her more. It was a terrible close to a terrible story, but the lelief of it was great. The glowiDg eyes, the wild fac\ the bitten lips were terrible to see. The loud, violent raving", the fierce denunI'iatiun- 1 , this despuiiintr cries were pitiful t(» btur ; but (m«-i> tiiit was butter

than the public trial, the felon's dock and the condemned cell. It was merciful madness, after all. The most distressing symptoms of it were that she always fancied her hands were laden with chains. She would beg, with pitifal cries, that they might be removed, that her arms ached with the weight, that they Would take away the chains and let her go free. They were gentle in their trealtmnt cf the onhappy woman — even the three who knew every detail of her nnhappy sin. They said to themselves that Heaven had punished her. Human laws and human justice could devise no more teirible chastisement than that which she had to suffer. She waa removed at once, for the case was hopeless, before nightfall — Lady Viola, proud, stately and beautiful, who might hare baen happy bad she been good. Bir Guy did not Bee her. Captain Cnarlton and her maid went with her to the . house she was - nevermore to leave. Many people thought it was the shock of this second discovery that had diiven Lady Viola mad. Others re membered there had always been something strange about her, something in her dark eye's, in the expression of her face, and in her proud, silent manner, that seemed to foretell her doom. They consulted together, the three ia whose hands her secret lay, and they agreed to keep it a secret still. There was no nse in making so shameful a scandal public property. Sir Guy could not endow the thought o£ir. Had Lady Viola been Bane and sensible, nothing would , bare induced Gerald and Captain Archie 4o forego tho prosecution. But what was the me of impeaching a mad woman? She would never know. Good and evil reports were as nothing to her. So, for the sake of the brilliant, disappointed woman, her mother, whose pVide was so cruelly humbled fox the sake of the husband on whom the shadow of her .crime must fall, ani the boy whom Buch knowledge must make miserable for life— ~they agreed that the secret should live and die with. them. To this day people thiqk it a strango coincide \a that Lady Viola should be- 1 come bopel ssly insane on the very day of the discovery of Lady Magdalene's fate ; but no human being, «?en in thought, oonnrc c 1 the two events. Her name and the name of her race were spared. The desolate father and mother, grieving over the mainess of tbeir only child, never kneiV ho«v she had stood under ihe red shadow of the scaffold, with the guilt of murder on . her soul.