CHAPTER XXXVI.—Continued.

Taranaki Herald, Volume L, Issue 12252, 11 May 1903, Page 6

CHAPTER XXXVl.— Continued.

I "Poor, poor boy I" she mused. "He must have stblen those letters and t was unable to bear the .thought of imprisonment. Iyeonard I said he spoke somewhat harshly to •boy Vhen he went to make inquir!ies. That must have urged him to the awful deed." . ' In a strangely disturbed mood she journeyed back to Ross House. I A few hours later the magistrate 'opened the inquest., It was a very brief sitting, and very little .was brought- to light. Cecile gave her testimony in a straightforward fashion and was exonerated ftom all blame in the Frenchman's misadventure. As for the 'boy, it seemed- clear that remorse for wrong-doing had driven him to his deadly act. The verdicts were given unhestitatingly — "Suicide while, of unsound mind" I , in the one case ; * "accidentally drowned" in the other. .„ Kfforts were made to find out something 6f the friends or relatives of Gaston Chalais, but without avail: Sir Robert Essex said .that while in London Chalais hadkept a valet a strange, uncannylooking man — but no trace of this man could be found, although advertisements appeared in many newspapers asking him to communicate with Sir Leonard Eardsley. On the day following the inquest Leonard was sitting alone with Cecile in the cool, pleasant hall of Ross House. "I fear you will think me remiss to my guests," he was saving ; "but the awful happenings have driven , every tuning else \ out of my. Read. I trust Lord Randall is much better." { "Not better, by any means, but as well as he will ever be," she ,said, wearily. 1 Leonard' looked at her critically for a moment. ' He was inexpressibly shocked at her altered face and manner. "What am I to say to you, Lady Randall ?" lie said, after a short pause. "I had hoped that your visit to Ross would at ieast Lave been pleasant, if not exciting-, and . now " . Cecile 1 put her white hand on his

for a moment. - "Surely there is no occasion for j you to speak like that to :re. Am I not your friend ? Do I j:6t know all you are suffering ? Believe me, oh, "believe me, it grieves me +.0 the . soul that I should have had a 1, share in this awful disaster that has come upon us all — I, who would gladly make any sacrifice to spare you further pain.", Her voice was 'so earnest, s,c" tender, that it unconsciously soothed the man beside her. Cecile went on very gently i with . a weary sigh. I ."I had hoped to have been such, a comfort to you — a real friend at the time when, your heart is sp sore, and-— and .see what my hopes have come to ! I . am only the cause of additional trouble and mental distress. Oh, Leonard, why • did not some good angel stand between me and that poor man's death !" . ."" t The words broke from her vehemently ; and, though they were a lone, Leonard could not resist sending a sharp glance around him. Such words were better not heard by any one but himself. . j "You must 'not permit" yourself to f think such a dreadful thing, Lady Randall. The accident was one, that might have happened to v any One of us. You were not to blame: r— how. could you be? As well blame yourself for the death of this un^ fortunate boy who flung hfmseli .before the train this morning." Cecife ; passed/ her [handkerchief over her pale lips."Ah 1" she said, with an involuntary , shudder, "that was awful, too !" 1 She had indeed been horrified beyond expression, for the moment, .at poor Willy Fraser's rash act, the news of which had been given her about an hour before Bstrella, whose frame had. trembled. from head to foot as she spoke, . and was now locked in her room, crouched on the . floor in an agony of distr-ess, mingled with ap*prefcen J sion, as to what puni^hmont'mlght 1 not befall her, who had bulped, unwillingly enough, to iriin the lf»d. For the moment Cecile was shaken out of her usual self-posses-sion. She had counted on the boy being disgraced and leaving his native, Village/ but she had not reckoned on such a desperate and fatal end as this to his—or rather her — wrong-doing. A faint wave of pity, mingled witli self-repugnance, had come to

her ; but that did not last, long, and, as the moments passed away her mind slowly , recovered its balance- and she dismissed' the wretched boy from her' ..memory with a comtemptuous.and. indifferent "Poor fool !" followed by a sense of exultation in, that fate, or some such power, had swept away with one swoop not only her hated " foe, but also one who might, and probably < would in days to come', have developed into a perpetual anxiety to her. , t Not one pang of regret, not one shadow of remorseful agony disturbed, her peace of injnd ; instead, an unholy, *a savage joy filled her heart., as she thought of Chalais dead and, silenced for ever.

"Now my path is clear, to the end !" she said triumphantly to herself, even while Leonard forgot his own miserable anxiety in sympathy for her apparent suffering. "And- there are, people who do not believe in luck-^-they are fools ! Where would one find greater < luck than has befallen me ?• Now I can defy Clifford. Let him die when he will, I am secure, and Leonard Eardsley will still be • mine-^-a/ safeguard ior the future." And* while these wild thoughts i were surging in her breast she was speaking in pitiful accents of Gaston ■ " phalais and of his sudden death. v : ' '

/'When she is less; nervous and shocked," Leonard thought, "I will ask her about her interviews with' E|dna v Perhaps there may have been some mistake somewhere. It is all so vague, so miserable. Oh, my darling ! my darling ! Heaven sigrant/I ijay find some, light, however small! Your " sweet eyes could not have been false, or, if I, prove they were then I will Relieve in nothing more in this world IV \ Cecile was quick to see the varied emotions which flitted across his face. She divined as surely as though she had'read his mind lilge an open book that Leonard was jnOt convinced utterly and entirely, i Since she had realized that her power over Leonard . was gone, i there had lived a tiny flame of jealous passion at the, bottom of Cecile 's heart. Whiie ,he was at her feet, she cared little for him; when he rode away, and then openly .avowed his love— and such love ! I —for another, then he all at, once -became a desirable possession in J,ady Randall's eyes. In- any case she 1 had meant to keep him in reserve, though fear and grim deter- ; mination had had more to do with it than . affection ;. but now, when the absolute need for him was gone— now that she had xCp foe to ( fear— now ' she felt that tier plans would still hold good, and that; as Leonard Eardsley's wife, she might yet taste some of those joys which her passionate soul desired — a young, handsome man -as her friend, protector^ companion, in place of such a one as her > present husband —riches and social position hers Still — her sovereignty undisputed. The- prospect 'was certainly one that appealed to her. "And, above all, ,1 should have peace ] no > fear hanging 'over my head, no dread, nothing to mar or spoil my life !. Ah ! I have bent the fates to my xriNL They wit give met this also-^it must be mine I" Sitting- in cool, pleasant hall, with the setting sun just glinting 6n the vista of lawn and trees seen out, beyond, listening to. Leonard's gentle voice as he exerted himself to soothe her , assumed agitation and comfort her sorrow, Cecile feltlier affection for this man grew all. at once into positive passion. Love, as love is— pure; self-sacri-{jcing, self-denying — was -not comprehended by. her ; the higher qualities in the world did not appeal to tier ; love with her meant. a strong vehement, unreasoning passion, largely mixed with, an element of unsavory ' ' jealousy. The great; black eyes glowed and shone likeT stars as she gazed at his pale, worn face. "He shall come tadc to, me! will teach him to forget her ! He^ was mine before he was hers ! What is she compared to me ? What is her love to mine ? . Now I can snap my fingers at misfortune for I shall be Leonard Eardsley's I wife ! " ■ * • (To be continued.)