UNVEILED.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5502, 29 February 1896, Page 1

UNVEILED.

[BY MABY ANGELA DICKENS.] Author of '/Cross Currents," "A Modern Judith," "For Her," &c, &c. (All Rights Unserved.) • Chapter I. It stood in the middle of a trim, -wellkept lawn; behind it, an almost semicircular background, rose the green trees of a large shrubbery which stretched away from the edge of the grass. There wae nothing about its surroundings to suggest isolation ; but as it stood out, clear and distinct in. its white dignity and stillness against the soft, bright life of summer time by which it was surrounded, something seemed to wrap it round and close it in, and it stood there alone. It was the marble statue of .a woman, tall and clothed in stately, graceful draperies. Tbe bent head and. face were veiled, and the right hand, raised high above the head, pointed to the sky. It pointed to the sky in sunshine and in storm, and from sunshine and from storm alike its strangely solitary whiteness stood oiitun-' touched. In every line of the bent head, in every line of the uplifted arm, there ; sppke a most majestic protest and appeal, "^sileYit and in its silence more eloquent than vfrords. • .The sunlight danced upon it as it danoed on the green grass at its feet, on the bright flowers in the borders near, on the waving trees behind ; but in its marble motionless-, ness, it seemed to stand aloof and chill the sunshine. The soft air moving in the leaves seemed to have no business in its neighbourhood, and to leave it in an indefinable atmosphere which belonged to it alone. The birds were singing merrily on every side, but over it, and over nothing else, rested a stillness and a silence like its own. And' on the pedestal on which it stood there were engraved the words " Magna est Veritas." . . . * # * * * " Alan, I — l do so hope you really, don't— dislike if r The question was asked in a very low, very sympathetic voice, and the girl who spoke stopped in her sauntering walk, and lifted her eyes to the face of the man walking by her side He was a tall man, and the first impression tnade by him on a stranger would probably have been that it was curiously impossible to come to any conclusion as to what his age might be. His face was smooth-shaven, and the features themselves^ as well as the good grey eyes might have belonged to a man of any age between thirty and fifty; his movements, and figure suggested the former rather than the latter. But time takes long to set such marks upon a face as Alan Durant bore on his, and the hair above the worn, lined forehead was , the silver hair of a man of seventy. His features were delicately cut, and very sensitive, as well as very strong and kindly, and he would have been a handsome man if he had looked less pale arid worn. Hiß smile was very pleasant, in spite of its sadness, as he met his companion's eyes, and sail gently, " I like it, Brenda." "Father doesn't always understand," went on the girl, simply, "and when he* , told jai^hia /haji -iper^auded: vo-ji^.^jgptoe, down, I was so afraid it might Hurt foil." t — I have thought of her so .much since we have lived here, Alan ! " The last sentence was the merest murmur, and the man's voice was very low, as he answered : " She was always happy here." " It does not hurt yon to think of that." "Not now," he answered, steadily. "I know now that she is happy still," He paused a moment, and a change came over hi 3 face as he turned away from her^ and leant his hand — clenched until the veins stood out like cords — against the trunk of a tree. "It is when I think of him," he muttered between his cleriched teeth. " Of him arid of my own utter helplessness. Brenda, Brenda, there was only one thing I could have done for my poor little girl, and I shall never do it. Never !" His voice died away in his throat, and the girl, with white face and dilated eyes, watched him in impotent pity as he stood wrestling with an agony which the softest touch of compassion could only intensify. Brenda Forsyth and Alan Durant were cousins, but the intimacy between them was of comparatively recent growth. Circumstances had separated their faanilies during their early youth, and they had been familiar with v each other's names only. About a year before, Brenda and her father, travelling abroad, had come across Alan Durant, and the familiar names had taken form and substance for both ; each had been agreeably surprised at finding a friend and companio_t in the other; at finding that the twelve years that lay between them, and which had seemed so much in the stories each had heard of the other in childhood, was as nothing between the woman of five-and-twenty and the man of seven-and-thirty. And it would have been strange if Brenda had not been interested in her cousin when she met him at last, if all her' womanly sympathy and kindliness had not gone out to him at once ; for Alan Durant was wandering about the world — and had been so wandering for the last three years — under the burden of a tragedy which had broken up his life and driven him away from the home that was home to him no longer. The lovely grounds in which the cousins ' had been strolling to-day for nearly an hour belonged to Alan Durant, together with the fine old house standing in the midst, as part of the lasge property he had inherited from his fathSr when he was left at sixteen an orphan. On leaving college he had settled down there, in the Eed House as it was called, alone with his little sister Ellinor, who was nearly fourteen years younger than he ; and there they had lived' while the child grew up and the young man became a man of two-and-thirty, each year that passed drawing them closer together and strengthening their mutual tenderness. Ellinor Durant at eighteen had been a little fragile fair-haired thing, full of fun and spirits, intensely affectionate and very impulsive. She had many friendsi and was often away from home, in spite of her declaration to her brother that the best part of a visit was coming back again; but when, about six weeks before her ' nineteenth birthday, her brother received a pressing invitation from some friends to join them for a few weeks abroad, she declared that she had been away enough' already that summer, and persuaded her brother to leave her at home alone. For four weeks her letters, bright and happy, and even more tender than usual, reached her "dear boy" — as she always called her elder brother with sufficiently quaint effect— regularly. And then at Paris on his way home Alan Durant received a telegram — not from Ellinor. Ellinor had been found one morning in one of the lonely country roads not. far from her brother's house, cold and dead, with the black marks of the fingers that had killed her on her slender white throat; and on the day that should have been her birthday her brother . followed her to her grave. And from that day, now four years ago, no trace of the murderer had ever been discovered. She had been found dressed in the soft white dinner dress in which the servant who had been the last — but one — to see her alive, had seen her sitting, singing at the piano in the drawing-room at about ninfe o'clock. A little soft wrap waa found beside her on the road. The only

ornament she wore— a little string of pearis — was missing, and the supposition was that she had wandered out, -aa she was fond of doing with her brother, into the warm moonlight of the August evening, and had met her death at the hands probably of a tramp. Aa completely, however, as though he had never existed had all sign or tokfen of the man, either before or after the deed, disappeared from the face of the earth. During that first terrible twelve month which had made an old man of Alan Durant , the one cry of his heart day and night had been for vengeance. He had left no stone unturned, he had strained every nerve, he had spent hiß money like water, and it had all been in vain. He could discover nothing. He had taken np his quarters in London that he. might be constantly at hand to sift and follow up with desperate reletttlessness any and every clue the police might find for him, and when at last every resource was exhausted, and he waa told qy the authorities at Scotland Yard that there was nothing more to be done "at present," he was like a man whose life was over. Such machinery as could still be kept in motion he had arranged for, and then he had gone abroad with such faint hope in his heart as only death itself could finally destroy. Three years had passed since then, and he was a sad, self-contained man with -the same hope deep and quiet in hia heart, when he fell in with his uncle and cousin at Florence, and for the first time since his sister's death, womanly sympathy came into his life. Brenda Forsyth had been engaged for nearly four years to a man known to Durant only by name— Edmund Sartorys— and between . herself and^her cousin had! grown up the friendly intimacy of cousinhood at its best and simplest. If, as the weeks they spent, in Italy passed, there stirred in Alan Durant a consciousness that if his gentle womanly cousin had been free he might have loved her, he was too strong and sensible a man to ISt it spoil the relations possible between them. He had been travelling with the Forsyths for nearly two months when the arrangements were -made by which Mr Forsyth, rented the Red House of him ; and shortly afterwards his uncle and cousin returned to . England. They had been established in the country for about a month, when Alan happening to be in London on business, had again come across Mr Forsyth by ,9a accident, and had, to his own surprise, accepted that cheery and rather obtuse eld gentleman's invitation tp spend a little time in his old home. He was ill and weary and worn out, and he wanted to rest. Se wonld go home, he told himself, and .hint of his little lost sister in her happy childhood, and Brenda's gentle companionship would soothe him. Brenda Forsyth looked, more than her five-and-twenty years as -she stood under the trees now, watching her Cousin. Sho was a tall girl, and her face with its frame of waving brown hair was very sweet aiid sensible. She had been her father's right hand and. companion ever since she waa sixteen ; not a spoilt child to him, hut suoh a reliable friend as he had needed since her mother's death. Her large brown eyes, so full of pity now, look-ad out from under her white forehead and level brows with a frank kindly glance, and the firm lips were always ready to curve into a smile. There was no smile about them now, however, I nothing but the deepest sympathy -and .last Alan Durant lif ted n white- haggard face and. said, with .a faint, sad smile, "I beg your pardon, Brenda !" " Don't," she said, softly, laying her hand on his arm. There was another moment's pause, and then she added in a more ordi--1 nary tone, "Shall we go in now P" turning ' as he assented, and walking with him down the path towards the house. Mr Forsyth was waiting for his daughter and his afternoon tea when they 'reached the cool, pretty drawing-room — a room which Brenda never entered without a thought of the girl who had gone put from it to come back no more. He was a tall, good-tempered-looking man of over five-and-sixty, whose kindliness had always been considerably stronger than his intellect.' ""Sit down, sit down, my boy," he said heartily, quite unconscious of the incongruity between this epithet and the whitehaired man he addressed. "Brenda will give us some tea, you look as though yon want some tea, or some country air, or something, and thatf s the fact. Heard from Edmund to-day, Brenda?" "No, father, not to day." Brenda was pouring out tea, and she answered quite composedly, with no anxiety and little regret in her voice. ' It waa four years now since she had said " Yes," when * Edmund Sartorys, the son of one of her father's oldest friends had asked her to be his wife after a month's eager courtship. She had thought herself very much in love •■•with him; her father had forwarded it openly, saying finally, when his consent was asked, that he would rather give his daughter and his money to his old friend's son than to any other man, and stipulating only that there should be "no hurry "about the marriage. There had been "no hurry," and things had drifted on and on until the engagement had apparently come to be looked on, even by the two , parties immediately concerned, as a standing arrangment in which no chance was likely to be made for an indefinite period. Mr Forsyth took the cup of tea his daughter gave him and turned again to Alan. " You've not met Edmund, I think, have you my boy? Brenda, show him the photograph you've got over there." Brenda rose with a smile at Alan, and crossing the room brought from a little table a cabinet photograph frame. Her cousin rose to receive it from her, and turning so that a better light might fall upon the .picture he looked at it attentively. To him it was the face of a man who had had. the good luck to forestall him in Brenda Forsyth's heart. "Good-looking fellow, isn't he?" said Mr Forsyth as Brenda returned to her seat. " Very," responded Alan Durant; quietly, and then he crossed the -toom and replaced the frame on the table. " And what have you two been doing with yourselves this afternoon ? " continued Mr Forsyth, contentedly. "Seen in the garden, eh ? • Very pleasant it is in the garden these hot days. Thafs an odd thing about the statue there, Alan, by-the-bye! I never heard of such a case before." He turned his head as he spoke and looked out of ths window near which Alan stood. In the foreground was the delightful old garden, bright and aweetwith roses, and bounded on the further side by a little stream of running water ; beyond this the gronnd sloped up gradually until, becoming level again, it formed a small green lawn behind which were the fine old trees which formed the shrubbery. The lawn, by contrast with the cool shade behind it, seemed to be absolutely flooded with August sunshine, and in the midst, chill and solitary in the radiance, stood the marble of a veiled woman with one hand raised and pointing to the sky. As her father spoke and turned Brenda also lifted her eye for a moment and looked away into the sunshine. Her face was rather pale,' and she shivered slightly. Alan, who had been looking out of the window rather absently, turned to his uncle as though not quite sure of what he had said. "I beg your pardon," he said. "About tho statue ?" He glanced towards it ac he spoke, and Mr Forsyth continued : " That effect of the moon on the trees, or whatever it is. Did you ever trace it P I only noticed it a night or two ag<or-*oa the

first of August, wasn't it, Brenda— when r,^. ; -ftdonlight was so bright?" ■ Brenda did not reply. Her eyes were •fixed: oh the ground at her feet, and Alan asked, porploxedly : , :"Xm only ndtibed what, on tho first ? " . ■' 7 S* *Why, that curious— disappearance-^one 'Mgh't almost: oall it^ansvreredMr ForSyth. _^nd^: then seeing that; his " nephew was llpobhg at him with entirely uncordpre.honding enquiry; he added, in a tone of amazement, "You don't mean to say you •naverjnoticedit,?'' '.'.- ; : •'• : i/, \'.Vta. sorry to! sa,y I'm stupid enough to Abjive no idea what you are talking of," said Alan, apologetically. . AHe glanced en»^iri_\'gly at. .Brenda 'as he-, spoke, and jhe -•ai^-B^m-_;-i*"^4Wd'h__friedly^ ■ A *^# i.%^^6_t;A- .fe^m-on; Wdoxilgr/i ■i&pofo* yoii lxai^ nißver,^^ happened to l6ok y&m tffii&!& W.BP-p'oW,9t . vi^-ssr 'B m "fm^xF-.tm^'.^ '^twe_n "eleven f_idtw6i*e yriiW. *%i,%*f^'-!li£i^Viied notice 'it^*^ ■^Rjf-kfUtf ehaddw ia^.thriiwn oh. -tter stlatue. It •^^•:*c^!fl»ot see it." , : , h-With an-.-'ejacnlatioh of incredulous surprise Alan Durant rose, and walking to the ■window, looked out again upon the still white.flgnre .with its lined hand, so plainly visible tp eaoh one of them as it stood there <jojd and solitary vi, the.distance. „- /^Cannot see it,. Brenda?" he said, 'f.^^liat.do you mean? I've seehitby moonlight again and again." .*■ -JJ Then.: you caa never, have happened to hit,, on .'the, right moment," answered, his ahole.' '"Brenda: and I have looked out for itfnow foi* two or liree nights ahd-. we; have net seen it. The curious thing -is tliat one doesn't see the shadow. -Thereseems to be rr-HPthing!" "-.••..; -.*. '• -••:*... ..'/♦.•Butvrhat an -incomprehensible thing that.-I should -never have • noticed it," reiterated Alan. His .uncle had risen. on his last-words, and they were standing together lpokihg out. 'Brenda was still sitting, at . the taWe, and she, did not lift her.-, eyes. \ < S^tVbwn'.abont at all hpurs .and under, . &Biy phase Pf the moon. !'• must have seen ..fe;A '"■';? ""- '- ■•.!,, -. .. .:■'.;■• , ■ffe 'sfiaE jjfc I pr'-ljtth, iralher netted.*. .."*|h>-t is ". i-. - ,itho ' ' t^M'Woliai^isd/^ Has-it,", firendaP' j . ,r N6, father v f'^^ 8he r anß\i(eied,in avlow* ' i,&is>, S^a^^mefi sl^ 1^ the • .r^ean.A^. *'^_ ■■:'*.'.. ,-''•„" ''•.•;'.-.• "' ' : .---:. . | 'iiki.!-'' ';■ ": •,'ChA^TE_.'II. /.'*,.. * i. V . .. : ..,'.4! lfeQ On tiie grass -like alog ! Like a log, J&fc dear^ t assure you, didn't you, Alan ?" Aid' Mr Forsyth, ,who had -repeated the sonic statement some dozen times, in the OjO^se of the pasttwenty-four hours, looked fiwtn.liia daughter/' to* his nephew forcon■'firoiKiftoijiy,'-., J* '"...''.-. ..■■ *- ; :--: j*'^'.-3rou-teil,'me,sir!'', '.■*.*" ..-..; //fpAfxeSaiitlj It's. the fact!; It was 'Hot'm the billiard room, I suppose, and the night air" , was! too. much for,. you." . Mr Fprsyth paused commiseratingly, -and. then •'c^ntihueq, TOth.faiumph.in his tone, "You li^d'.tiine' to see that I was right, though. Xptt-coul'dh't seethe statue?" •-..••■, . 5?-Nd.' v ' ;.. . ,'. ■'•.-.-'.■.■ •■.'fAnd yon couldn't;, see the shadow- that hidit?"; -" ■ ■& sto." /■ . .•;. ; .:. .i'Alan Durant's face was white as death, and'ias the -«rords .came from him in a^ low •h' r oarse:.voioe, Brenda, who was sitting near mtnas'-'he Idy on-j)he sofa in the drawingrooirf, said quicHyj "_ W-hat about the dogs, f^her'r' Have you seen theni T' A qviesliftni.vrhich resulted in'the speedy, departure. of^J'ofsyth.- ,; y ...,.' . v l(efti -alone /mih her. cousin, Brenda asked h«U-/;n6 qheitions. - She talked to' him quietly, and ;, brightly-fif * not . so easily as •t-_j|*^-^.gh6rmgythe strange* attack! of weakne3a which was . now parsing off until at'iliiatdie said suddenly :•*.-•. ; - J'sßrehda, how good- you are to me !" * ./'. (3hi» f turned* to* him "with a smile on her faee-v.:.; . '■•■ ...-..■ - : .. ' ■■ SSoodl" she said. "I don't see that. • I have been very glad to nurse you a little." ■: $he came u£ to>bim as' she spoke, and as ahe stood beside him he raised himself on his e\hm, aad'swd'with a -strange earnestnea.:; ' -'-'^ ':/7.":X *' 1 am grateful-, 5 Brenda ! " '.-■ . "Npnsißnfte!" 'she *■ answered, 'and then •he paused a ; moment. and held,-6ut her ; hand. "We are couains, lAlah ! " she said, •o|My,.' l _%ft^wrlte|r .^n^gefftl^/.-S-Way -tg-a^'.-wdtA^aingj'w^ room. ."'A^Keidbor-'dosed behind "her.^ometldhg,. , vtey^j^ke a gioah broke from Alafc' Durint, and 3*[k -rose* to his feet with a hibvemeht at ;^|r^e feette and intoletably 'restless! "I mtrnjiMyerbeetf ihad;" 'he muttered. " The •place^the associations,. .must'hfive- thiown mo/SF--*my balaaice., Why don^ I*-go away ? . Wh4- ii'ii keepsme hore when I've had such „a, wariiing? Am I" going' to beconio a .miserable victim to'h'alln&inations?" He stopped, shuddering as though a siiddeh aguehad-seized hint, and'tlien he crossed the room^abruptly, atid- stood gazing down with asbeniace and haggaj.d/startin* eyes Jhto the. photographed,. fjace\-Bi-ehda' had shown him oh ,the'tprevious;-_£ternoon. He gazed at it until his face was almost convulsed, and great drops stood on his forehead, f-~& then he Jburned sharply away. "And yet I can't gb - !" he cvied.below his bre^- '-^ Yet' l' can't - go." :. • A^^he-did.not.go., The days. passed, ftuHlt^plighhe -tUd. hot Bpeni'to^egain. even ■uch .health as hbhadliiad whehhe aii;ive'd ; thdu-pk'howas at thiies so. i-Ssfcless and'deJ>resfe_3j so : fea.folly haggard and worn op-^hjgj,' ;tha,t Brenda v.-piulbi-ed sadly" .wh^BeHt would hot bo kinder to advise tim.^to leave the place^that. held for hnri. I gn^^Mble '.'aMociatiohs ;. he still stayed "OCDI "'."V .■ ' '."' .*.. ' He nad been .at the Red House for about ; titr-ie woo)® When,, p-fl^-ih^niiig^oonung in &r, a book frbm.f&.jhady^coiner, jof the V^-^3«rh-t^;he a-HAW^hda'asm^y^ent; ; -ffi-iMlS^i^M-he-Ms L m^;^h^*fh"afi.by''; MM hut t&" ■^^B:%t!!^ifl| %i ; .-iisi&M^ad i.i;;-sva,?. : ' tfreiatfer said.-dieerilyr-- . ' ■ ; ; J / "' \" \ ' k v $br'._.r€i_ida; yo^ji, 'jotty;-T><_y ?> She's'^.he ttp-ftairs;!, fancy.", : He paused a ;_nom^hli % .^d : ,then'^?ejit on in a tone ofc 86me i^pprtauce."'. ; ",Sho^^has a gobd^iaal to thinlc/of '*thi£ , mhrhing. She had a letter from^^niiihai yohkno^.. : ; s '_', • : .. .. . Ala» Durant had hot known, but he said, courteously, "Yes ?',- . His landewas appar^atljypn\Y too A glad/ to s find.- someone, to whbm.;he could ..-^alk.^pr he . wleht: on as. they entered^he library/ together': : . " Yes,, it's a sutlden b*usin?ss,.j-Ut I suppose I couldn't expect the boy to wait for eVer! He's a. considerate young,, fellow enough, too~-says he has no. plaus for the future Smtil hie khciWs my wishes. . But he . wa_vts,the r knot tied, and! suppose, it's no . -wohd&jfv" , ' \"'.i 7... - ■•• ".He wishes the.marriage to take place joon^," - './"...* ! . - Ajlan '_ Durant .was looking , along a shelf . for fbe_ Book he .wanted, and he. did. not thru rbuhd*. as , he spoke, though his . voice was quite , steady. ,'* - Just for the moment it yras .hard •■.for him to face the thought of. Brenda Forsyth another man's wife. . "He wants it,to take place at once,". rer turned .his. uncle, rather ruefully. "His . _j*t-ie_i^^Sfeis * to tetie :'giyeh'' put. •' with a; : xtin^^^-a'h-..is_i«vthef to Mvenor, toehold. ', He 3& ; a^_as .'that, it -jhould be' next : 'hiOTth^y''A.. .y:',A-.;.: „. AtA'' 1 '; •"^d^#h■_^4ies:K^^%^''y^ y •... > '".B^dft:"; - ; -J-tif*fj_^y^ *-.. fie'-ieally^^'i-^d^JkUCVc ' : «hfli -Brenda had Said. 2'Bretida tlaiixtcs that he has Waited \fpur.y , eafs, don't you knowr-and she's waited four .years, too, don't you khbwi and* so^and sb-^of cbursie, she's ready ! " . ' V ". . - . " Of course," assented Alan,- quietly; "I'm very'*. glad" to think ;ypU *%o will la&et' one iiy''boy,".re3umedhis uncle, heartily, 'after a mbmehfsruminating silence. "Youll like Edmund, .1 know. I'm glad you happen" to be with »'■" . A ■*■' ..'"" ' "Is Sartorys coming here ? '' The question came, from Alan suddenly, almost sharply,- and 'he lifted : his head, -from the book into whioh he^was : looking and . faced Mr Forsyth .with a strange, almost horrified expression in his eyes. His "uncle thought he looked "odd," and answered trdri&ringly, "Yes ! -'■ He's coming down tomorrbw to settle everytMng. If s asudden business, as I said, and his wining is as uh-e-npeeted as thd' rest of it. Brenda is delighted, of cousse.t .^heyihayen'tmet'for •iihe;mpnthß." . .. •!■;■.- _';,::.' •"'••': ■■ 7 : --- ■'■"'.'■ •Alan Btood'.;^6tiox_leas;.fpr;,a; _npjnerit' npto, ■ and then th© 'lwk,vi»hatttV6r -it had hisant, died ontof^B eyea^nd'hetUnafed

away to the bookshelves again as he said rather constrainedly, " I shall be very glac to meot him." Brenda did not come iuto the garden thai morning,andit~ohappenedthatwhendinne; time came, her cousin had had no opportunity of alluding to what her father had told him in the library. There were people to dinner; and when, at ten o'clock, the j went away, Alan turned to Brenda as she stood in the front doorway and . said, ''Let u§ go into the garden for a few minutes, Brenda. I have hardly seen yon to-day." A He was very pale, indeed he had been all day even paler than nsual ; but hi& face was very quiet and firm, as though his hold '/©ver .himself .and*, over- the situation in whi__- .'he*, fbii-id himself was. p6f*fe6tly reliable/Jahd his Voice was as, s.eady.asthe smile withi which he-spoke.: ' Bf^hda was psle^'tob* there %as a tired lbbk aho'ut her ; ■f&e steadinfisfl in his /eyes' J was refl_e-fe,d in : .K6_-e with "which she lobbied hiiij' iti "-the face. . . ' ••', ■- . - -A" I will, come* with pleasure," she. said, quietly, moving from the step on which she stood; and they sauntered -.ide by side away from the honse. As though by common consent they, chose a path which kept the/house between thera and that part oi the garden beyond which the shrubbery lay. It was a lovely moonlight night, and they moved oh slowly and., in silence for a few , minute's. Then Alan Durant said gently, but without looking at the sweet, grave face by his side : "I have htirdly seen you all day, Brenda. I want to' tell you how glad I am to hear that you have.had good news. Sartorys is coming to-morrow, I hea." Brenda had started slightly .as he spoke, as though her thoughts had' feeen preoccupied. ■ ' '■'.-'' ' "Yes," she said, quietly. ' "He is coming ; to--morrow." '•'■'... A". A ' "And ; the weddihg is to be very , sbbh?" There was hardly a percsptible pause, , Brenda was very Tpale now, ahd she was I looking itea*_ily L before I her with her face':a ' little &efe. ".:•"• ;i ; "•".•.'■"*-. ' ' •'■ ;' : ;'' ! '.-""' ; .- ."Yes,^sh'e ahs-**'ered. "Next month?' . •.-Her • v6ice v- was -low and' rather strange; [ but Alan Durant heard in it only the I tender shyhess of wbm4nhood, and he answered—" - '"'..' "I im vfery'glad, Brenda.. You haye had a long waiting, dear, ahd so has Sartorys, He deserves his reward; " he finishesd with a smile. * For an iiistant Brenda lifted her eyes to his face, and in them was a look of trouble and bewilderment,, painful and pitiful to see.\ ■' He' was not looking at her, however, and her lips parted suddenly as though she wa3 going to speak: Then quite suddenly her eyes .fell, and . she . turned her, head quickly away, as a burning colour flushed over her cheeks. «It — it has been a long time," she said, ratlier ! hurriedly, and then she turned the conversation '— rather obviously, Alan thought, with a smile, at the reserve that only stiitck'him as very sweet and girlish — and kept up a pleasant flow of talk on any subject, but her lover and her marriage, until' at last there- came a pause — a pause which lengthened into a long silence. , - Theystrolled on, each busy with thought, not .noticing in what direction they were going, and when the path along which they were, now walking, stopped suddenly, they stopped too, with one accord, and each came ,back abruptly .; to the present. They had come right round the house and were standing now in the garden at the back. In; the silver light of the moon everything around them lay hushed and beautiful; .there ivas a sense of sleep, of perfect peace and rest- on. every tree, on every blado of grass, on every flower. But right in front .of- them, whiter and . colder than ever in the moonlight stood the veiled woman with lifted hand, and. over her was neither rest nor peace, but an unutterable eloquence and a terrible appeal. The lonely statue stood out from all around it, and' Brenda and Alan stood motionless looking at it with fascinated eye 3in silence. Suddenly, floating on the quiet night air,' there came the sound of a church clock in the distance slowly striking the hour—eleven. As the first stroke fell. Brenda Forsyth heard; a low hoarse gasp close to her, and 'turned, suddenly to. her' cousin. Alan Durant was. almost gray with an ashy pallor, which was astho.pallor of death; his eyea were strained and stai-tiug, and he did not -seem* to hear her' low exclamation of dismay. " Alan ! " " she said. " Alan, what She laid her haud eritroatingly on his as she- spoke, tuiiiing her head fearfully to look as he was looldhg in the direction of the statue. And \ks she touched him, as though through some . magnetic influence arising from the contact, oyer her face, too, the game dead.whiteness stole ; she gasped, ! once— twice, as though for breath,- ahd as the last stroke of 'the-clock quivered away | into silence she fell forward without-a sound tinto her cousin's arms.

I■■ . Chapter 111.

The August sunshine streamed across the pretty room, the soft sweet-scented summer -air floated in through the wide-opened windo-srs and gently stirred her soft brown hair, but Brenda Forsyth was unconscious of its touch. She was kneeling by her bed with hpj face pressed down upon the Coverlet, and she had been kneeling there quite motionless for/ more than an hour. she rose, piished back the hair from tier f orahead with a slow weary movement, *and -walking to the window,- stood there looking out. "How ..did I come to it??': she murmured. ,'"?Hbw*' ; did! come to it*' ? ' I-^imagined ! -.-.Of -ep'ursi?— of course; I f'know; ' nojv" I v iniagined I . But how— 77" '.Shejoroke off suddenly^ -^-strong convulsive .shudder shook her 'frora head to r foot, arid $he,tUrnf&,nnd began to-walk. restlessly ;up arid dow-ri the room •/■••■; A*- . V/y Ay.* The hours which had passed since Brenda :£nd " her cousin, had - stood in the garden together on the evening before, had not restored the colour to "her face. It was qUite white, and slightly drawn, and her eyes, under which were heavy shadows, had a fearful, self-convicted expression in them. Brenda had had no sleep that night. Every one of its long hours had been spent by her, first in terrible struggles with herself and her own senses, and then in relentless self -analysis and self-reproach; . "It shows—it shows how wrong I have been," she said at last, half aloud. ". It came from yeaterday! I let myself thinks— " '.- She-broke off. again and let her face fall upon the high mantelpiece near which she had ..paused. She * was '■- thinking of her thoughts of the day before, when, with her lover's letter, had seemed to come a climax to the vague feelings which had haunted her now for weeks ; , strangely growing feelings of indefinable distaste to the •thought of Edmund Sartorys which had suddenly taken -form and substance, as she read the words. in which he pressed On her their speedy marriage, in an unutterable repugnance to him personally and an inexpressible shrinking trom trie thought of becoming his, wife; She. had taken her courage in both her hands and had set her.self to face this new consciousness and sift •it unsparingly .to the bottom. "'.-'"• o/'. The ,gh-h>h:love for the man she was'to died out with her early girlvjibbd.;-. she -had; accepted thefuture. before her.as a. simple matter of vcourse; arid-being very erii'otipnaltand unromantic,' shehad'so far been quietly content; so she would bo again, she had told herself , when she should have reasoned the matter out. The result of her first attempt at self -analysis had been so painf id a blush that her hands had been clasped over her face, and face and hands alike had gone down upon the table by whiih she had been sitting. But she was a brave and strong woman, and Bhe, like Alan Durant, had faced the knowledge of what might have been and had then put it resolutely out of her considerations. It did not affect the problem before ,'her, and she had Jpiown that it did not. The inexplicable sense ol repulsion against her lover which she had been facing with such perplexity and dismay had grown upon her undoubtedly since Alan Durant had been at the Eed Hbuse,'--*but she had been conscious of it before that, 1 she had been conscious of it ever Birice she' herself had lived there. : She was thinMh-f-of alT'these things ho*rt as -she stood, there with her fade hiddet even from ;the sunshine. - - She Ivas ; looting . -hack *at:. -her yesterday's "thoughts and

, struggles as a woman looks back at wrong--1 doings past, which at.the time she did not know for wrong, but over whicli a painful fc light had risen. Bwtwv.a to-day and ? yesterday there lay for Bren-ia Forsyth the - great gulf of a terrible shock. At last sho 1 raised her head, and her face was paler -than J • ever, while her eyes were large and wild r with a look which suggested that she wa3 3 frightened of herself. '■■ "I must put it away," she said to herself. r " I must put it away and never let myself i think it again. Oh, how have .1 grown so dreadful? *No thoughts that were not 1 wicked— wicked— wicked— coidd lead to > such fancies ! . Oh, poor Edmund ! Oh, poor I Edmund!" She paused, shuddered again i .jVuicipntrolHb.ly,. and- then.. h.ev .thoughts ran ' oh onc^jihorei ..She -wpuld .iharry- him at s once, she told herself -finally ■, -ahe ;would s lnarry: him a? isbon, .^s.^he fiked,.; and ehe ; Would forget' everything- .* Shfewould--*-- - 1 "Brenda! B - wh'da-b''Wl^*^a-^..*'-jiott-? •* .Sartorys has conic ?-' :'• * : A -'"'; ■'-■••;.■'.- Ifc washer father's voice -ealhng * td' 'her ■ from the hall. beiow. - The sound, as it- fell ! on her ear seemed to .arrest all physical > movement in her, as it arrested the current • of her thoughts. She stood for a moment, \ half turned towards the door, on which her ■'" startled eyes were fixed, and then the ' colour rushed swiftly and suddenly to her face. "Was it possible it was so late,; she I* asked herself hurriedly? She had come " up to her room at five o'clock, and.her lover 1 had not been expected until seven. It was > past seven now, she saw, as she looked at the clock, and glancing down at har dress she • remembered that she had prepared herself ■ for dinner, and then — ah, yes, then she ! had begun to think again. " Brenda," called her father c again. » "Brenda, Brenda." Without another in- • stant's pause, the burning colour still in her cheeks, Brenda crossed the room, un- \ locked and opened the door, and passed swiftly down the stairs to where her father ' stood, with his hand on the baluster, waiting for her. At the other end of the • hall, withhis back turned to the staircase 5 for the moment, as he gave his hat and •* gIQVG3 .to .the man-servant, was a tall, fair young man, and as Brenda reached the foot of 'the stairs and saw -him, she uttered a > quick, wolcov/'y exclamation— unusually ! demonstrative.' . her. '■'•*'' •**"■'• •" • ■" Edmund *!" " ahe' exclaimed. " Oh,-' Edmund !" , * !• The young man had turned at'the first ■ sound of her voice, and as her eye 3 fell on his face, she stopped suddenly, a strange gray pallor spread over her face, and she » would have fallen if he, with a quick cry of • alarm, had not crossed the hall hastily, • and taken her in his arms. . *" " Brenda !" he said, " you are .ill !" • ' She did not attempt to disengage her- ' self, though, the hand he held was as cold I* as ice, and trembled, but she did not lift I her eyes to his face as she recovered herself quickly, and said with* a little, rather . strained laugh : ...-.* 1 "Nonsense, Edmund! I was oniya • little giddy. It ha 9 been very hot, hasn't ;• it?" " The thermometer has stood at eighty 1 in the shade for the last week !" put in.her ■' father^ cheerily. " But" we can't have you ' taking to fainting, Br.nda!; She went right off yesterday evening, if you please, . Edmund, without saying with, your leave 1 or by your leave. You must see what you ■can do with her." And with a facetious shake of the. head ! at his daughter, and a parting admonition •to them to remember that dinner would be ready in half an hour, Mr Foi-3yth de--1 parted, lost in admiration at,, his own surprising acuteness at leaving those two ;. together. . ....... " This is bad news, Brenda," said Edmund Sartorys, drawing her as he spoke towards '. the open door of the drawing-room. " Let me look at you, dearest !" His voice,' with a little more depth, •^ould have been pleasant ; it was winning in tone, but its thinness g-ave it a certain hardness and made it impossible to think of it as being any expression of the man's personality. He was very handsome, with straight features and fair, wavy hair ; the nose was particularly good,, and if the chin from a - physioghb- , mist's , point of view, contradicted it to some extent, any defects or beauties about the mouth were hiddeff by : a long fair, moustache." His eyes' were gray,* clear, and- well-opened, if a little cold in shade, and as die turned Brenda'sface gently towards him they moved very slightly bat incessantly as they scanned it. " Yon are very pale, Brenda," he said. ' Sbe lifted her steady brown eyes quite suddenly, and a rush of hot colour dyed her cheeks, her forehead, her very throat, as they rested on his face. - She did not let them drop, however, indeed she' seemed to keep them fixed on him with a distinct effort of selfrcontrol. , : "I am quite well, Emund, indeed!" she said. " Don ? t let us talk about me. We have only a minute or two. I am— lam so very glad to see you again; dear ! " "You are, Brenda?" he said, eagerly. "The time seems long to you, too? Tell me now, tell me at once that we need wait no longer." * The colour was dying, out of .'her face, slowly and gradually, but' certainly, and her eyes as they met his were dark and , rather wide,- as though the effort with which 3hekeptthom raised was apainfulone. Holding her hands in his he drew her nearer, , bnt they were still face to face, and . she seemed, hardly tonotice the movement. ''•Only ono word, Brenda !" he said. "We must not stay to talk things over ntftf, I , know. Say that you will marry me next i month." * '*.-■•'•■• •-'* A She hardly* seemed to hear him. All;her consciousness seemed t'd : be concentrated 'in; the great broxvn eyes which /Were" fastened ■'■on his face. She was-quite wliite now. "Brenda, reme'raher how? long, we-have I *:'...*:-'^'-.'-^-*'- J Then quite suddenly, she yielded to' his touch,' letting him draw her Tiear to liim; so : that her- eyes no longer* rested on his face,and almost clinging to him, as she said,' hurriedly, almost passionately; " When you like, Edmund ! I will marry you when you ..like." " ■■- It -^ould have been no surprise to Mr. Forsyth, •as he told ' them . with much jocularity as they waited in the drawingroom half an hour later, if Edmund Sartorys had been late for dinner ; but itdid surprise him very much that the dinner hour shouldstrike and Alan Durant have failed to put in an appearance. "Has he come in, do yon know," he asked of his daughter. " Nice sort of a/ day for a man with no more stamina than— than a wasp;"— Mr Forsyth was not. reflecting upon his nephew's temper in this comparison, it -merely happened that a' very attenuated specimen of .the insect tribe in . question caught his eye at the: moment — " With no more stamina than a wasp, I say, ■ .to go for a long day's walk ! He must have •started at seven o'clock this morning. - .Have you seen him. to-day, Brenda/*" "No, father!" . " lam afraid you are waiting for me," said ' Alan Durant's grave voice ■ from the > open ■ door, almost as she spoke, and as the. two " mentiirne'd towards him, her. .father with !■ an exclamation of pleasure, VBrenda rose hurri-dly -with ism, instinctively undefined i expectancy, and .."dread, But beyond the ■ 'courteous . ■ conventional, . "I* . a,in .sorry; I. Brenda.!" with which he acimowledged his ;" .uhpunctnality,* Alan, .took no. notice of her, I ttor\did.he .meet .her, eyes. as i-he said the 1 words; A . - . ' ..'■ A. i "Now lam thoroughly, delighted to in- ! troduce you two," exclaimed Mr Forsyth, i laying a. hearty hand on Edmund Sartorys' i shoulder. "Edmund, this is my nephew, • Ajan Durant.! Alan, my boy, I think you i know who this is ?" ; There. was. a, pause, so slight a9to be I hardly perceptible, but still a pause, and > then .the t*wo men bowed.. Which had L taken' the. initiative ?to which of them was • it owing that they did not shake hands ? j It was impossible to say. i It seemed to Mr Forsyth more than once I as dinner progressed that he had forgotten I how difficult it was to keop .conversation I going when an engaged couple were of the ' party. . Do . what he would, it seemed to I him that one. or other of the party coni stan^ly relapsed, into silence. • Mr Forsyth . was nqt a gehtlema%.ofton^a,t,a loss for •'* topicp of cohyersatidh, but to-wiards the end ■*-' of dinner he; began to ..find/that he had i : exhausted huttself.' ■„.'..'.. r ■;■■■* f*pr^ty;cbuntry it. is. about^ here)' he I I observed in a general ' cqamhendatory

way, quits unconscious that he had riiade the same observation several times before. " And this is a pretty place, too." Then, to his great relief, he v/as struck by a new idea. " Ey-thc bye, Edmund," he said, " We've rather an odd phenomenon to show you here. I take some credit to myself for having discovered it ,- I don't mind telling you. You noticed that statue we see from the drawing-room window ? " For a momont as the cheery old man spoke the words there fell upon the room an absolute death -like silence and stillness. Then Edmund fj'artorys carried to his lips the glass he had held for.that instant suspended in his hand, replaced it on the table, and turned to his host, said— .".Yeg, sh\" - • •■ -. .. . '„.. ''It. is. a most remarkable thingj-the mostremarkable effect of light I e-^er rremeinbeito have heard ";bf. , In certain phases of the : mobri, I take it, that statue disappears." : ■■ „.., "Disappears?. " - ' '*..- , - ,-•-,, ; /. , -„,., -- ' , j The word -crune. from Edmund Sartorys. Brenda and Alan neither moved nor spoke, nor raised their eyes. " Dis-appears !" repeated Mr Forsyth, with a pictorial effect in his pronunciation of the word on which he secretly congratulated himself. "You see no statue, and what is more, you see no shadow. Oh, it's most curious, most curious ! : . You shall see it for yourself, my boy. Brenda shall take you for a moonlight stroll between eleven and twelve— that's the time when I've always happened to see it myself." Edmund Sartorys did not turn towards Brenda on her father's laugh, he did not see— nor did her father — the strange expression in the eyes she suddenly lif ted to his face and then as suddenly dropped again. She was very pale, and her face was strangely set. "Alan has segn it," continued Me Forsyth, "though he had never observed it until I pointed it out to him, had you, Alan?" - Obliged by this direct question . to turn to his uncle, Alan raised his head.; Ashe did so Brenda turned suddenly and abruptly, towards him, lifting her eyes for the second time. . Thoir- eyes me-fc, looked into one. aribtherlsfbr a space with which tune" seemed^ to have nothing to ,cfo, and then, before the other men had time to notice that there was a pause, ' Alan ..was- answering* Mr Forsyth, arid Brerida, white even to her set lips, had risen, dinner being over, to^leave the dininjg-room. . •*. ' .; Mr Forsyth did not feel that the conduct of the conversation after dinner lay with him, but he was vaguely conscious that" the }" young people" were present all the evening and' could have had no private talk together. "They're waiting for that moonlight stroll," he said to himself, with a far-sighted chuckle. Consequently he wa3 surprised, sometime after the clock had struck bsjilf-pa-st ten, to see Edmund Sartorys cross the;, room carelessly enough to.- where Alan; Durant was sitting — sitting with something unusually immobile about his pose— and., say something indefinite and half la'ughirig about keeping Brenda up and "billiards.": There was something in his eye3ashe spoke. — something which Mr Forsyth did not see — which curiously contradicted the .carelessness of his voice. Edmund Sartorys. had been moving uneasily for nearly an hour past with a restlessness which showed. oddly against Brenda's absolute stillness.. She had hardly, moved siijce dinner, and, like Alan, she had spoken less and less as the evening wore on. She did not speaknow, though 3he must have heard her lover's words, and there .was a moment's silence. ; Alan lifted his head slowly, arid looked the other nian in the; face with stern, dark eye 3; his lip 3 parted as if he was going to speak, and then he. turned and looked at Brenda as she sat in profile against a dark curtain, her eyes on. the ground. He paused a moment more,' and the words with which ho rose were evidently' not those he had intended to saj\ " I shall be delighted^^;" But before, he could finish his sentence Mr Forsyth, realising that, as he expressed it, "The boy's politeness was doing him out of his stroll in the garden," interposed. . "No ! No, boys ! " he exolaimei "Alan, you know you detest billiards, and Edmund has to go apid see that mysterious statue. Cproe; Brendaj.. v no. coquetthig,* ! Miss ! Bun, along; and do' the honour* - .; 'It's . just eleven !" '• • He had risen as he spoke, and 'was standing with his hands behind him taking a jovial delight in his. own admirable arrangements. There was. a mbinerifs dead silence, and then Brenda suddenly moved tow.avds 'the door. A "Come ! " she said, in a low unnathfalvoice. ■ She passed down the long room without a glance towards Alan Durant as he stood watching her with, hard eyes, into which had leaped a gleam; of savage hope. And Edmund Sartorys followed her without a word.

Chapter IV.

The full moon was high in the heavens, and as, Brenda Forsyth and- Edmund Sartorys passed out of the bright hall with its familiar yellowish gaslight, they seemed to pass into a strange and solemn world, where everything lay still and white under the mysterious spell of the moonlight, No word passed between them. -The sound of their footsteps on the gravel walk struck almost weirdly against the quiet .rouncl them. They passed 0n.. t0 the soft. grass,, and the silence was more weird still. No word passed between them eveu when Brenda, who had led the way without, abackward glance at the man who followed hor, stopped suddenly. .. They stood there. : in the same unnatural silence — waiting. . Facing therm, 'in the distance, in a silence and a stillness like, their * own, stood the statue with the hand uplifted — waiting too. The unfathomable night Vsky stretched ■ahove it; ' bnlnud it/ its^dark bri*.kgfouud :of trees seemed to whisper and shudder . • together as the night wind passed through: * them ; it stood put in the white moonlight in its solitary majesty, arid it held the -gaze •alike of the woman and of the ashen-faced man who looked at it and waited. Five minutes passed, six, seven, and then Brenda, with every sense abnormally alert caught a slight sound behirid her. With a quick indefinable instinct. — whether of. warning, of dread, or of sympathy it is impossible to say — without turning her head she stretched out her hand'behind her and' caught in it tbe hand of Alan Durant, who had come up behind her unnoticed by the other man who stood gazing before him as if spell bound. :As their hands met, frorri the distant church clock Came the first stroke of eleven. And on the instant, held andpebrifiedby a horror not to be expressed in words, she saw again what she had seen the night before, what Alan Durant looked upon now for the third time. The Statue of Truth had disappeared. Before the place where it should have stood the figure of a tall fair man was standing in an attitude of fierce struggle and strain. • At his feet; kneeling on the grass and clinging to him with a convulsive .. grip in her. two little outstretched hands was a. slight girlish figure, tense and terrible with the agony of death! -The .white wrap had.fallen from the little fair •head, thrown back as the face was lifted in . an agony of entreaty, the fingers of the man were on thte slender throat, and his struggle was the", struggle to' kill. -To the .qnlookers in the moorilight there came rib sound/only that awful moment' of-passion- * and death, to which no after moment sue-; ceeded, burnt itself on to their eyeballs. The face of the man, terrible in its fierce frenzy of passion was towards them a_? they stood, every line distinctly visible in. the moonlight. And it was the face of one of the three who looked— the face' of Edmund Sartorys. How long the vision held them Brenda' . never knew. She knew that she saw it nd longer : she heard a sound beside her, such as she had never heard before from any human being — a deadly inarticulate cry for vengeance, low and terrible in its intensity ; and she wrenched herself from the blankness into which she was falling to see her cousin with a face she hardly recognised, turn to where Edmund Sartorys had stood beside them. "Alan!. No!" The words came from v .her in a hoarse, hardly audible whisperas , she almost threw herself upbn him. " Not : you! .Notyou! Oh, look -At him!" : A ' :' Edinond Sartorys lay prtine on the grass at their feet. He had fallen on his face,his hands were clasped ahove his head as he

grovelled. and writhed as though, he hoped to hide l.'.iiisclf in the eaviii ou vAloi he had cist hunself, and lie was mA-.viry the inaiiieulate cries .wrung from a human boing only by the very extremities of terror. There was a droadful pause, as Alan, arrested by Bvenda's movement, stood with her entreating hands upon his breast looking past her at the other ac he lay. - In that moment, as he stood with every faculty as it were suspended, the racking torment of the past four years touched its culminating poiut in Alan Durant — touched it and passed into the majesty of renunciation; raising in him, in the passing, a strength of self-control terrible with the tremendous power it at once revealed and liM.* He spoke at last, and his low voice in .its absolttfcd steadi&ess and qUiet had iti it , the authority which is riot to be resisted— the': atithbrity-of a -hian 'whole Own fifcrce: . passions arc -relentlessly held down by his . indomitably, will'. '. -...-s ... „.....;.,•■-•■■ a' "Go in,' Brenda ?' he said. 'jCome,. I, will take you," Without a pause, without a backward glance, he half led, half carried her to the house, leaving her at last at her own door. "Don't be frightened, Brenda," he said, in the same stUl voice ; and there was something almost appalling in the contrast between the words, the simple words with . which a frightened child is soothed and the depths of controlled force with which the 'man a3 he uttered them was instinct. " Don't be frightened." Then he left her and went out again into the garden, with his white face set and rigid like a marble mask. The silence of night fell over the Red House. Mr Forsyth, hearing that Brenda had gone to her room, had waited a little for the two young men, and had then gone off to bed, telling the servants in his easy, hospitable fashion ,to leave lights in the l billiard room, and follow his example. The house was wrapped in darkness and quiet, but two men stirred in it through all the night hours — Alan Durant and Edmund Sartorys. The billiard room was a blaze of gas ; ' the servants had uncovered the table and put a tray with glasses and decanters on a little ■ stand near. •;■ Against all the glare, against the inanimate. trivialities expressive, of man at his lightest, ..the* two human figures alone together in the midst stood out with a horribleincongriuty — the one by reason of the tragedy of guilt and terror itexpressed, the other in the tragedy of force and passion chained. Crouched down in the chair in. which he had flung himself, his head hidden on his arms, his aspect cowering and degraded, was Edmund Sartorys. Over him,- haggard, ashen, and immovable, stood Alan Durant. "You want your life," he said in a measured voice which, in its deadly quiet, . was like the voice of fate itself. "It is mine.andyouknowit Pay me for it. Toll me the truth" A shudder ran through the ■ wretched heap .in' the . chair, and then a sudden spasmodic impulse to bravado seemed to seize Edmund Sartorys, and he lifted his head and'tried to stagger to his feet. . '.'. Pay you ! " he said, with an uncertain, overdone sneer on the pronoun, looking at the other with wild, shifting, blood-shot eyes from which no effort of his own could drive the half delirious terror. " Pay you ! What have you to do with it ? " Alan. Durant made hini no answer, he shhply ..looked , him in the .face. ': And" the other continued with a travesty of a bullying blustering demeanour which grew, more ghastly in its unreality with every exaggerated word. .-.. ' "What can you prove? Come now— what— can you prove, old boy. I — don't seVwhere you— come.in; you know ! " A horrible sound, which he intended for a laugh broke from him, and then quite suddenly all his bravado seemed to shrivel up, and leave him a dreadful prey to terror and his guilt. He fell back into the chair, arid lifted his arms as though to shut out the sight of Alan Duranf s face. "Mercy!"' he muttered, • hoarsely. " Durant— for God's sake—mercy ! " , ♦*Teli;me!", " ..'..' - "She -was my wife!" * ' A cry broke from Alan . Durant— a cry. which threatened to break .down- bis. .- strength, of self-control once and for all. He mastered himself- again, however, with a power which only the exaltation of long and terrible strain could hav9 given him. There was a moment of death-like stillness, and' then he aaid one word, "When?" '. CrouChe.d face downwards in the cha\r,-' Sarjorys. answered him in hoarse, broken words. . "That spring. She3tayed — in Yorkshire, ■ and I saTyr her every day. I — she — we were .married" .. . * .. Over, the face of Alan Durant there passed a look of agony,, which changed it as not even passion could have done.. " Married !" he muttered hoarsely. "My EUie married, and not a wbrd to me ! Oh, EliieJEllie!" " I — don't baow why — I married. her. ' -It was a good impulse, and— not in my line, I. made her promise not to tell until— l came. - .' I meant to come — T. meant it, but— l was a poor devil— awfully poor — and— l met tlio Forsyths. The old man wished it, Brendo, wa3—^ready-r-there was money— lots of money."" ■••'*.. Sartorys stopped, and there was abound as though, he tried in vain to moisten his dry mouth and tongue.. The ajjoriy had passed from Alan Durant's ; face leaving it almost impassive with the rigid grip in which he held himself. Somewhere, from far away, he seemed to hear the words : "Go .on .", He;ha'rdly realised that ho had spoken theuvbiit Sartorys obeyed them.-, * ''I knew— she was alone; ' I came— rat ; nigKt. , X told lier—"- his voice broke off as though his tongue refused" to, frame the i words, arid the resistless voice reiterated the ***ofdS ''■■Go on !'•' • •• : ; . - ... "1 n*_ver meant to hurt' her! Never, before God! jtoidher.".' Again the voice died,- but he recovered .it and went on speaking, thick and lbw. " I told her— l had— deceived her ! I told her— there was no marriage ! She clung to me— l couldn't get ayvay from— she talked of you, and— r " ' Silence! Silence, heavy and awful, in which the man who stood erect and motionless seeiiied to be battling for life itself with' the deadly impulse that possessed him— battling to conquer, to crush it down' and make of it an added strength. "Goon!" " I carried her into the road. I thought they would say it was a tramp. I took— the pearls— for that. I got away from the accursed phice." . And then a sudderi frenzy of impotent ; fury and despair seemed to seize him. "Why did I come back?" he cried. "Why did I come back? There was nothing but marriage with Brenda, marriage with her at once, between me ahd ruin, and I risked it, fool thatH was. Durant!" his voice rose into a shriek, and he flung himself almost at the other man's feet. "Durant ! you promised ! You'll •■' let me go ! My life ! My life ! You promised me my life!" . y ..There was a pause— a pause - which neither man ever measured as Alan Durant looked down at the figure at his feet. - "Take it!" ho said at last. Take it arid go. " He strode forward :as he spoke, opened the door of the room, and stood; with it in his hand; waiting.. The guilty; man, as thouph hripelled by a. force against which he was powerless, raised himself, staggered towards him across the room and followed hini as he moved down the hall and' opened the front door without a word. Without a word Sartorys passed him andwehtout into the grey dawn of day.. The rising sun of the same day woke into moving, murmuring life, the birds, the trees, . the flowers, and touched with dazzling solemnity the solitary majesty of the cold, white statue. It touched with a solemnity more awful still a figure lying on the grass before it in a stillness and coldness like its own. In the midst of the softly moving life around, in that last motionlessness thatnothingcan change orstir, Edmund Sartorys lay face downwards, dead. And above him, untouched and unmoved, terrible' in the majesty of her appeal, rose the ! figure of the veiled' woman, with Her right. : hand raised to* the unchanging heavens 'ahove. . . ■• I--* "Magna est .Veritas etprevalehit." (thi end.)