“The Mystery of Helmsley Grange”

Thames Star, Volume LIX, Issue 16623, 20 October 1925, Page 3

“The Mystery of Helmsley Grange”

OUR SERIAL STORY

By ALICE & CLAUDE ASKEW. (Authors of “The Shulamite,” “The Pearl of Great Price,” etc.)

CHAPTER VIII

Iris’s heart leapt—then she was to see Roger—to see him at once! He had not gone away—lie had but been waiting till her interview with her father was over. She turned quickly to the door.

“Iris!” It was her father’s voice calling her back. She paused, her hand on the doorhandle.

“Iris, there is one thing I must tell you to prevent any misunderstanding between us.” Mark Carew spoke with a certain hesitation, seeking liis words, for the first time averting his eyes from his daughter. . “Yes, father?” she queried nervously. “You may wonder why, with my views as to your nature, I have asked you to marry Roger Morley. I. will "tel! vou. the reason. It is because ho has it in his power to hurt me—and he would not hesitate to do so if I did not buy his silence. His marriage to you is a condition of this silence. I do not know what lie will say to you, but that is the truth.” “But, how— how? I don’t understand.” stammered Iris. It was inconceivable to her mind that her lover should emplov such means to attain his ends. Her brain was contused. Ro (r er, the soul of hououi ! ‘Tt was Roger Morley who was in the wood last night,” said Mark Carew slowlv. “His was the face that peered through the bushes. He believes me guilty of murder and, argue as I inaj, T cannot convince him of my innocence. And it is vital—for reasons that I cannot explain to you—that there should be no publicity about this matter. There —I have told you sill 1 can. Go—go—I wish to be alone. He sank back into his chair, resuming the attitude in which Iris hai found him. She spoke to him, but he made no answer. Then she stole quietly out of the room. Roger knew of the murder—and yet lie wished to made,her his wife! Unit was the thought that occupied her mind, to the exclusion of all else.

CHAPTER IX

Iris found Roger seated on a rustic bench at the end of the Lily \\ a*k—a title which she had herself bestowed upon the path because of the wealth of lilies which lined it on either side. The seat which Roger occupied was set up in a kind of arbour whose trellis was overgrown with luxuriant roses. The vivid red of these flowers contrasted strangely with the pure whi e of the lilies; to Iris the combination had always seemed incongruous, though she could not .have explained why, for the effect of the blazing colour in the background of the picture was pleasing to the artistic sense. Roger saw the girl the moment she entered the Lily Walk. He rose quickly and went forward to meet her. Uneasy as was his mind, disturbed by conflicting thoughts, he could not fail to notice the perfect- harmony she formed with her surroundings. Her dress was white—the girlish muslin which she affected —and her fair hair glinted gold in the sunlight; she had riot paused to put on a hat, but had come out just as she had left her father’s presence. Roger noticed, too, the perfect grace of her movements;

it wits not till she drew nearer to him that he was able to recognise the pallor of her face. “A Lily Maid,” he murmured to himself, “as pure and virginal as the flowers about her.”

He quickly reached her side, and, taking both her hands in his, gazed into her eyes. He knew then that she had suffered, that she was still in pain.

“My darling,” lie whispered, “my Lily Maid! Have courage! Trust in uie. I love you.” She tried to smile. “You do love me, Roger!” she whispered back. “You want me for my own sake? It isn’t—oh, it isn’t pity that made you claim me from my mother? It is that which I fear most.” She hid her, face against his shoulder. They were quite alpne in the ■garden—a garden which for the moment had become the whole world to them both. « * Ho put his arms about her, and she felt the strength arid comfort of them. He kissed her soft hair, and soon she raised her head and allowed him to kiss her lips—the first such kiss that had ever been pressed upon them. It was in her nature to give herself up to the impulse of the time being, to yield to stronger wills than her own. At that moment she knew only that she loved Roger, that his arms encircled her, that his lips sought hers. There was no longer any tlionght of right! or wrong. Self-examination,-doubt, indecision might came later, when she was once more alone; she did not forget, but she merged her own fears in obedience to the man’s controlling will. He wanted her; why should she resist him when all her soul went out to him? “I ji&ore you, Iris,” he murmured. “Have no fears, dearest. Look up and smile at me. Soon you shall be altogether mine to love, to cherish, and to guard. There are things which seem strango now, strange and terrible, but they must not affect our love—that is above all earthly threats; nothing can take our love from us. He took her hand, and was about to lead lieu to the arbour where ho liad been seated, but she would not leave the Lily Walk; it was as though she had a prejudice against the rose-clad bower. There was a rough bank close to them ,a bench among the lilies which lifted their fragrant heads behind and to either side of it. It was here that she sank down and Roger smiled at her choice.

“You will nqt leave the Plies, dearest,” he whispered. “You are right, for the lily is your emblem.” “Are all lilies alike?” she asked. She reached out her hand and broke one from its stem. It was a tiger lily. She gazed at it a moment with some curiosity, and then dropped it on the bench by her side. “I always think that that flower is different from its fellows,” she sighed. “It lias been well named. There is cruelty in it and subtlety. T hope the tiger lily is not mv emblem.” :

Roger langhecl at the strange fancy, and the subject was dismissed. For a while—though all too brief a while—love absorbed them to the exclusion of all other thoughts. Unhappily there were explanations which had to be faced, words which had to be said, topics which could not be laid aside. “Dear,” said Roger, with a slight hesitation, taking advantage of a pause which had fallen between them, “strange things have happened since

we met yesterday, both to you and to myself. I approached your father this morning in a different spirit from that which l anticipated. All the circumstances were altered. I know, too, what you must have gone through—” “Roger, Roger,” she stammered, and it was her instinct to draw away away from him as she spoke—“you were, in last night. You saw —you know the horror of it all. 1 ran away—l don’t know what happened afterwards. Will you tell me? 1 must bear the pain of listening. I’ve been cheating myself for the last few minutes, but of course I knew that this had to come.' I' longed for you, and this morning when you came, looking so grave, I was afraid. I did not know then that you had been in the wood. Why were you there ? Tell me. was I light to keep silent? He is my father—and—and he vowed to me that lie was innocent. But I feel almost as if I, too, had done a murder. And then I can’t believe—oh, 1 can’t—that you went to my father, and made your silence a condition of liis consent to your marriage with me—oh, that wouldn’t be like you. But that is wliat he told me just now. He said” .—she gave a soft, ghsping sob and raised her hand to her throat—“he said that I was unfit to be any man’s wife, but that you know., everything and were prepared to take the risk.” Her words, broken now and again by faint sobs, poured out quickly* She was sitting up, clutching the edge of the seat with her lingers. He had placed one of his hands upon hers, but she hardly seemed to feel the contact. She had spoken truly; she had cheated herself to a few moments of happiness, but now she had returned to the earth, and the garden, with all its sweet scents and rich colouring, was of the earth to her—a wilderness —a desert.

Roger did not answer for a moment. He realised that he must give the girl time to collect herself. She had put so many questions to him, which was the one that was weighing the most upon her mind? He felt that much depended upon his demeanour at this most trying time. He, too, had been deceiving himself, averting pt Jong as he could the moment of trial. In his ow T n heart, also, he knew that much must be left unsaid—that was the difficulty—his tongue was tied. “Which of your questions shall 1 answer first, dear?” he asked at last. His hand tightened over hers, seeking to unclasp the fingers that gripped the woodwork of the seat. She turned her eyes upon him. Tears glistened on the lashes, but did not fall.

'“About, yourself, Roger. You are not acting against your own principles for my sake? You were witness of a crime—you have gained knowledge which you ought not to keep to yourself—are you silent because oi vour love for me?” Iris lowered her voice to an intense whisper, “Are you making use of what you know to win my father’s consent?” “1 am glad you asked that quest, on first,” he said, slowly. “It is a question inspired by your love for me, Iris. Perhaps in answering it I shall be able to tell you at once all that 1 am at liberty to tell—it is not much.” “Answer it, Roger,” she pleaded. Her hand lay in his once more. “I can only answer it by asking yon to trust me absolutely, clearest,” he replied. “I have done —I am doing—nothing dishonourable, nothing of which I, or you, need be ashamed. You must believe my word, for I am not at liberty to explain my actions. They may seem very strange—but you must tell yourself that they are only instigated by my love for you, and that not one of them—not one,” he repeated, emphatically—“is of such a nature that you need doubt my honour. Do you believe me, Iris?” He gazed anxiously into her eyes. So much depended upon her answer.

“I believe you, Roger,” she answered faintly, it was true; she was dominated by his presence, and she believed him. His words, too, were in tone with loyalty and truth. “Listen, Iris, and 1 will tell you all I can,” lie went on after a pause. He had drawn her to him again, and it was as though her fear had passed away. “Your father is a wicked man —1 think he loves you, but in his case love is vejiv nearly akin to hate. 1 found out certain things last night—things of which you know nothing, and which it is best that you should remain in-ignorance of. I want to _ take you away, to make myself your guardian ”

“But the murder,” gasped Iris. She had had an instinctive aversion to ?• speak the word; even now she trembled as she uttered it. “I saw my mother lying dead—it was my mother Roger—be admitted that. She was murdered, though he said he . was innocent. I could not believe him—T don’t know what to think. I meant to be silent for bis sake—because he was' my father—but you—you ” . ' “There is a stronger reason than that for silence, Iris,” the young man interrupted, “but I cannot tell you what it is. You must trust me in this, ~ dear, as in everything else. In three weeks’ time-—after we are married—you shall understand. But you must wait for three weeks without question.” His voice faltered, and ho turned to her with boyish impetuosity. “You will do this, Iris—oh, my lovo my love. I beg of you to believe and wait. All that is obscure now shall be cleared up for you. Till then ask no questions of your father ,ask no questions of me. If you hear anything—if you see anything that troubles you —do not be influenced by it. Remember that I love you absolutely, I ■ can say no more now—but, Iris, put your arms about me and say that .you will do as I ask. All the happiness of our future lives depends upon it. Darling, if you love me you will tnisfc mo.” She did as she was bade. “I. love you, Roger,” she whispered. “Oh, l love, you and will do all that you ask.” “Thank God,” lie cried ardently, “.then you are my own, my wife. Nothing can separate us.” (To be continued).