“The Mystery of Helmsley Grange”

Thames Star, Volume LIX, Issue 16627, 24 October 1925, Page 3

“The Mystery of Helmsley Grange”

our serial story

By ALICE & CLAUDE ASKEW

CHAPTER XII

“They had not been married very long—perhaps eighteen months—when Mark was led to believe that his wife lost her life in a railway accident. He was, indeed, called to identify the umy, and did so, in spite of the mutilated condition in l Hvhich it was found. Of course, you understand that ho was making a mistake. Ma foil” Mr. Flail shrugged his shoulders and stretched out his thin hands, “any other man might have made the same mistake. But Mrs. Carew was not dead, though foe her own reason she availed herself of the opportunity which thus presented itself to regain her freedom. Why she did this does not concern us at present. Your father, mademoiselle,' returned .to Europe, where he had the fortune —or the misfortune, whichever way you like to look at it—to fall in with beautiful Clare Blanchard, as she was called. She was only sixteen years of age at that time—this mother of yours, Miss Carew—and she had been badly brought up. She was light and frivolous—your father was rough and austere. A more unsuitable match he could not possibly have made, but, of course, he was attracted by the girl’s pretty face and gentle clinging ways.” Mr. Flail paused, and turned keenly scrutinising eyes upon Iris. “You are -very like your mother, Miss Carew,” he remarked, placidly. “You have the same colouring—tlie same figure—and' ,above all, the same eyes. Clare Blanchard’s eyes were a little larger, perhaps a little more—what shall I say?—dreamy and languishing. There was something of the saint in them, but more of the devil, just as Clare herself had something of the qualities of both in her nature. I think, however, that the devil had the best of it,” lie added, with a light laugh. Iris’s cheeks flushed. She had heard this comparison of her eyes to those of her mother before. Had her father not told her repeatedly that she had her mother’s eyes—guilty eyes—eyes that might lead a. man to his destruction? She moved restlessly in her place.

“Please go on,” she said. “I know —I know—that I am like mv mother. ’ “Well,” continued Mr. Flail, “as. I was saying, your parents were an .illassorted couple. Your father had j us t come in for the Helmsley property, and had developed a great deal of the pride of race. He was ashamed of his wife, becaus.e her. origin was not all that it should have been. She had no pride • none whatever. She had been accustomed to travel about with her father from Continental watering-place to watering-place, where he picked up a precarious livelihood from the hazard of baccarat and roulette, and, perhaps a little, too, from his dexterity as a gambler. She had grown to love the life; she had inherited the gambler’s blood, you see. She was a thorough Bohemian, as both her parents had been. Mark Carew had married your mother with some fondly foolish idea of reclaiming her. Of course, he could not do this. You can’t change a leopard’s spots, as the old saying goes. She left him of her own accord, not long after you were born, Miss Carew. She did net run away with another man, as he accused her of doing. She went back to her own people. It was tnot till then that she found out, by -some accident that T need not discuss.

(Authors of “The Shulamite,” “T he Pearl of Great Price,” etc.)

that Mark Carew’s former wife was still alive, though Mark himself was ignorant of the fact.”

“And'what did she do?” Iris had been listening to the tale with breathless interest. One point in the story wheih she had just heard had brought a little comfort to her troubled spirit. Her mother had left Mark Carew, indeed, but .it was not in the company of some other man that she had left him. For the rest all was as her father had told her—the passion for gambling and for the frivolties of Bo r hernia, the evil taint of heredity too strong to be suppressed; Clare Carew was of Bohemia, and to Bohemia she bad returned. Mr. Flail lowered his voice. “She kept silent,” he said. “Mark Carew wished her to return to him; he offered to forgive her, guilty though he believed her to bo. But she refused. She feared lest the first wife might take action, lest, by some means, Mark Carew might learn the truth of which he was ignorant. Yes, Miss Carew, for your father’s sake Clare kept silence, for your father’s sake and for yours. The world should not knew that there was a slur, however innocent, upon your birth.’

“It was good of her,” faltered Iris; “it was kind and noble. But, oh, if she could have come to me, or let me go to her, even if she had told me all the truth! 1 should have loved her, and we could have wept and comforted each other. But now it is too late—too late.” Iris began to cry bitterly, till then, she had listened to the story dry-eyed. Mr. Flail leant forward. He flicked at a. tuft of grass with a cane which lie was carrying. A curious look had come into liis eyes, but he kept them averted from Iris. “Why do you say it is too late?” lie asked. Iris gasped in the sudden fear that she had committed herself. “I—r don’t know,” she murmured. “Oil, forgive me, for I hardly know what I am saying.” Perhaps her tears were sufficient proof of this; in any case, Mr. Flail took no further notice of her remark. He watched her as she dried her eyes. To all appearance he was in no hurry to close the interview. When she had recovered herself somewhat, however, he resumed his storv.

“Now that 1 have “"told 3 T ou this much,” lie said, “you will understand will understand ray object in speaking the danger which threatens you, you at all. The danger is a very imminent one, Miss Carew.” “Js it from 'her—ray father’s first wife?” hesitated the girl. Mr. Flail shook his head. “You have nothing to fear from her. Sho died some five years after you were born.” “Then—what ” began Iris. There was a tremor in her voice, and she. could hardly express herself. “She had a son,” said Mr. Flail, “a son of whom your father has never heard. He came into the world three or four months after the railway accident in which his mother was supposed to bo killed. It is from him that the danger conies Miss Carew. You see he is the rightful heir to .your father’s estate which, as matters stand, would go to you. He lias been silent so far—lie has, in fact, only recently come to England—but this I know, he has come prepared to press his claim at all risks

and utterly regardless of family feeling.”

“This man—he is my half-brother—-and he is coming to Helmsley, Oh, are you sure—sure—that what you say is true ” cried Iris, in bewilderment. “Why, if it is so, you have overthrown with a few words the whole little world that I have built up about me. Nothing to-day is as it was yesterday. 1 can.hardly believe that I 'am Iris Carew. 1 am not Iris C'arew,” she added, bitterly, “if what you have said about my parentage is true.” She lifted her hand to her forehead, and rocked herself to and fro upon the seat. “Oh, i have heard enough,” she cried. “I can bear no more. You have robbed me oi : my name—my inheritance—and my Happiness in tne future. They are ail gone all gone—and I can see nothing before me but blank desolation. kec me go.’’ The man rose, too, and laid a detaining hand upon her snouiuer. Jtie spoke quickly and incisively. “This has been a terrible shock for you, I know it,” he said, “but, believe me, it was wisest to warn you, for otherwise you would have heard tne truth from this half-brother of yours more brutally than 1 have told it to you. To be forewarned is to be forearmed. Now tnat you know what is about to happen you will be the better a bio to meet the attack.” “How ” she cried, and there was despair in her- voice. “Jr what you say is true, what defence have 1 ? None—none.”

“1 am not so sure of that,” he interrupted. “if you trust m me and do as I suggest ” “1 am going straight to my father,” she said, moving away from him so that his hand fell from her shoulder. “I shall tell him everything—there is nothing for it hut that.” “No,” lie cried, sharply. “You will, indeed, ruin ail if you breathe a word to your father of wliat I have told you. You must not mention my name to him, Miss Carew. He is no friend to me, and he will not believe any tale that he knows emanates from me. He would rush blindly upon his own destruction. I know him, you see, and, to he candid, I cordially dislike him. It is wholly in your interest that I am acting.” “What would you have me to do?” Ho had stepped to her side again, and was now looking her full in the eyes, compelling her attention, commanding obedience. She felt the influence of his will. “Keep silent for twenty-four hours at least,” he said, sternly. “Let everything go on as usual with you at home. The danger will not have to be met for a day or two. Meet me here tomorrow, at this time, and I will tell you the course that you should—that you must—adopt for your own sake. You will do this, Miss Carew?” “I don’t know what to say,” she moaned. “I cant think conneetedly now.”

“In twenty-four hours you will understand the position better,” he said. “You will be more yourself. You will promise to come?” “Yes, I will come,” Iris answered almost mechanically. Her one desire Was to escape—to be alone. “Yes, I will be silent,” she repeated the words after him like a child. He had taken li?r hand in his, but she could not remember when he had done so. She tried feebly to draw it from his grasp. “I promise,” she repeated. “Tomorrow at this hour—here—and I will say nothing! And now may I go ? Please let me go.” He released her hand, and without another word she turned from him. It may be that fear and despair lent her momentary strength, for to all outward seeming she walked with firm -step. But she did not dare to turn her head and look back. (To be continued.)