Our Short Story. WHEN THE WOMAN WOOS.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LX, Issue 143786, 9 May 1912, Page 8

Our Short Story. WHEN THE WOMAN WOOS.

By EDWIN PUGH,

The famous author of “The Enchantress,” “Broken Honeymoon,” etc., etc. CHAPTER XX. A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE. There are supreme emotional crises that beset the oost and the strongest of us, and in which the habits of a lifetime fail away from us, leaving us naked, even as clothes which have been scorched to tinder fall away in flakes from a body that has been through the- fire.

It was such a crisis that now beset Stephen. From a reasoning being ho was transformed into a panic-stricken beast of prey. It was not the fear of punishment that daunted him; ho had laced death too often to stand in any great awe of it; it was rather his consciousness of the enormity of the crime lie had unwilingly committed Hiat_ robbed him of his wits and turned him into a coward, a more hunted creature seeking only some dark hole in which to hide. For he had no doubt as to bis guilt. There could be no doubt about it. Kcnch had been found dead where Stephen had left him. The provisional opinion of the doctors was that he had Tiecu beaten to death ; there was mention of concussion of the brain. And when Stephen remembered the ■ pentup fury that he had vented upon that mocking rascal, when he remembered how he had hurled the last, ounce of his strength into each vindictive blow as he thought ol such a man daring to aspire to his peerless Lily, then ho could quite readily believe that lie had overstepped the limits of justifiable anger and trenched upon the liorder line ol homicide. Murder had been in his heart..' It was only by accident, that he had not had some lethal weapon ready ,e bis hand. He realised that if he had had such a weapon ho would most assti redly have used it. So ho had heel) a murderer at heart, oven if he had not meant to kill Kcnch outright. And he had killed Kench. Keuch was dead. It was dilticnlt to believe that lie could bo dead . . . . until Stephen recalled the ghastly \ it,ion of his face as he had last seen it upturned to the stars. And then lie, shuddered. Tlk> daylight seemed to wither him, so‘that when ho raised his eyes and met the hostile stare of the passers-by he felt as if the brand of Cain wore branded in a vivid red smear across his brow lor all to see. , Ho longed for silence. He longed for solitude. He longed for darkness io escape from this unending clamour of tin- streets. To shut out from his sight the questioning faces—to feel the darkness fall upon his eyes and blot everything out. It was for oblivion ho craved. Sleep would be the panacea —to cover him and comfort him and strengthen him. Sleep—or death! He shuddered. Death! Had his .thoughts turned so soon in that dread direction? And ho had always, scorned the last weakness of the miserable suicide. He had always inveigled against that cheating of destiny as the last resource of the unspeakable craven. Ah, but never before had ho over realised that life could be intolerable, that there are times when a man sloughs all his philosophy, all his morality, all his conceptions, of right or wrong, of this world and the next; when he becomes at the Gadarene swine that ran down a steep place into the sea to escape from Hu- tormenting devils that possessed them. But—-death?

He tried to rally his native forces .of mind; and in a measure succeeded in assuming at least an appearance of Ho forced himrolf to 10-i]' around and take cognisance of his whereabouts.

He was in one of those big quiet squares that lie between El stcu Rc-yl and Oxford Street. Ho lookrel in through the railings and saw children playing. Hero, surely, was sanctuary. He' followed the railings, on and on, round and round, but could nowhere find an opening by which he might enter into that green paradise. Anr suddenly the railings became as prison bars, shutting him in, shutting out light and air. He felt all his old frenzv returning upon him ; onre more he felt his senses reel, and that rod mist obscure his vision. He passed his hand across his brow and drew it away wet—wet, not with blood, after all, but only with the sweat of his anguish. Ho drew a deep sigh of relief, and seemed to derive from that long suspiration a renewal of strength.

Again he forced himself to an appearance of calmness. He forced himself to walk more slowly, to compose his face to a more sedate expression, to bo as other men were, masters of, themselves, indifferent to their fellows, unafraid and unashamed in the sight of all the world. ' 4

And this time he did succeed in recovering his self-possession. Bpt how long it took him to shake off these febrile miasmas of fear that had stultified his will and threatened the temple of his reason he could never afterwards remember.

He only remembered that it was dark when he found himself sitting on a seat on the Embankment, really thinking things out at last, really making plans for the future and considering them in detail until they were as perfect as human ingenuity could devise. Or so they seemed to him. He had killed Kench. On reflection he was not sorry that he had killed him. Indeed he had a certain grim satisfaction in the thought that ho had at any rate rid the earth of one man not tit to live.

But having killed him lie was a murderer. And murderers were hanged by the neck until they wore dead. He could not suffer that ignominy. He would rather die of his own deliberate free will. Ah, but be did not want to die! It seemed grievously unfair to him that he should have to suffer any punishment at all for a crime that he had never meant to do. If it was indeed n crimo and not an act of righteous retribution. He would live. He had money. How much money had he?

He thrust his hand deep into his pocket and drew nut a fistful of coins and counted them. In all about nine pounds. He had been stranded on a foreign shore with less than ihat. And he had won through. But then he had not been a fugitive from justice. He had had a blameless record then, and a name that ho could proclaim without fear. Now- — He must be very cunning, very careful, very circumspect. Ho must wait and watch bis opportunity to escape

from this sea-girt island that was like a cage in which ho had entrapped himself. He must seize the first change to get away and put the_ wide ocean between himself and Nemesis. He must hide. Bach to that conclusion he came again and again. He must hide. Meanwhile he sat there under the trees, in the full glare of an electric lamp, whose white rays glinted on the pale green leaves; with the lights of the tram-cars alternately flashing upon him and then leaving him in a sort of silver twilight as they rumbled along and clanged—clanged—clanged to and fro, back and fortt, above the river.

(To be continued.)