TALES AND SKETCHES.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5656, 29 August 1896, Page 1

TALES AND SKETCHES.

THE BROKEN FETTER.

[By John K. Lets.] Author of " In the Toils," " The Lindsays," " On the Track of the Iron Horse," " The Lawyer's Secret," &c.

{All Rights Resewed.)

Chapteb ILT.

ALONE AND FBIENDIESS. Yes, there could be no doubt that I held in my hand a fragment of a scent-bottle precisely similar to the one I had just shown to my patient. The trick was evident. The housekeeper had had a pair of scent-bottles exactly alike. She had not imagined that I, or anyone, would suspect the means she had UEed to accomplish her purpose ; or perhaps she had been afraid to undertake the task, of cleansing- tho one charged with poisonous matter. When I asked for it, she had fenced me in order to gain time.; or, very likely she was unwilling to destroy a thing that was in itself so beautiful. At any rate, she had hit vipon the idea of putting a small quantity of the disguising scent into the clean scent-bottle, and presenting it to me as the original one •which the girl had used, breaking the latter into fragments and throwing them away. This discovery placed it beyond a doubt that foul play had been attempted. My course seemed plain. I walked straight to the nearest police station. I had some distance to go, and when I arrived there I found that the superintendent whom I had hoped to find at his post — an intelligent man named Spendril, with whom I was slightly acquainted — was absent in London. A3 he was expected to return in a few hours, I preferred to wait nntil he came back, rather than give information to the sergeant, in charge, who, I felt tolerably sure, would do nothing without instructions from his superior I went home, therefore, and found there an urgent message from a patient whom I knew to be in a critical condition. I was detained at her house the whole of the day, as her case required constant watching, and there was no efficient nurse at hand.: It was not till late at night that I considered Her out of danger, and felt at liberty to go home. By that time I was far too tired to set put again for the police station ; and I knew that the journey would T)eusele3S, as the superintendent would not be there at that hour, and in any case nothing could be done that night. But I was haunted, even in my sleep, by of what might be taking place at %he Manor House. I had left a young girl, ignorant of her danger, at the mercy of a cruel and unscrupulous woman, who, however she might pretend ignorance, even of her victim's name, must have caused the illness that had so nearly proved fatal. True, there was the servant, who seemed to suspect the housekeeper. And it was some comfort to think that Madame Fabrini must suppose that she had successfully wheedled me,, and that she would naturally pause before making any fresh attack on the girl. I felt sufficiently uneasy, however, to pay a visit next morning to the old Manor House. I walked up the grass-grown avenue, and knocked at the front dooi\ It was opened by the ,servant I had seen before. "How is my patient to-day?" I asked. " She is quite well, sir. She has gone." " Gone !" The word fell like a knell upon my heart . Not till that moment had I realised what a hold this young girl had gained on my affections, how I had looked forward with insatiable craving to seeing her once more. I stood speechless, my eyes on the ground. The woman remained silent, looking at «ne. After a few moments I roused myself. " And Madame Eabrini. She is at home, I suppose?" " No, sir. She has gone too." " What ! Did they leave together ?" " Oh, no. Madame left yesterday, soon after you went away." There was only one explanation of this. She must have watched me and seen me pick up something from the gravel. Guessing from my close inspection of it what I had found, she had realised that she was in danger, and had at once decamped. But the woman was already closing the door. Evidently she wished to see no more of me. I nodded to her, and turned slowly away. At a few paces' distance I paused andlookedback at the great, empty house. My eyes roamed aimlessly over the row 3of black, staling windows ; and all at once my heart gave a great leap ! I had seen her ! I had seen a slender form., which I had no doubt was hers, pass rapidly before one of the windows. I immediately went back and knocked again. The door was opened, and before the servant could prevent me, I had stepped inside. iJ You told mo a lie, just now," I said, sternly. " The young lady who was so ill two diys ago is upstairs. I saw her at tho window. I shall not leave the house till I see her, and satisfy myself that she is here of her own free will." "No one 13 keeping her here," said the ■woman, sullenly. " She is free to come or go as she pleases. But she does not want to see you again. It was she herself that told me to tell you she had gone away." " That cannot be true ! ". " It is true." " Well, never mind. She is here, and I must see her. I have something 1 of importance to say to hw. Be good enough to go and tell her so, and say that I must see her." Without another word the woman turned and left me. Five minutes later I was shown into n room where the young girl was waiting for me. She came forward and took my hand. A deep blush was on her cheeks. There were tears in her eyes. " Forgive me,'' she said. That was all. « "Why did you deny yourself to me ? " I said, gently. "Why did you desire the servant to say that you had gone ? " " Because— because I was afraid that you would bring the police here. When Madame Fabrini left so suddenly yesterday, and did not return, I connected it with 3 hint you dropped about calling in the police ; and — I thought it better to go away before they came." "Why should you be afraid of the police?" I exclaimed. The girl lowered her eyes. "I do not know, " she said. Then added,

"Mr Lobieski would not like their coming here." "So you thought that by going away, and leaving no trace behind you, yovi would stifle inquiry altogether?" She was silent. "I do Q ot pretend to understand your motives," I said, with a coldness I was far from feeling; " but I may tell you this, that now it is no mere suspicion of mine that your life was attempted two nights ago. The scenfc-bottle given me by Madame Fabrini, which I showed you yesterday, was not, I believe, the one j/ou saw in your room on Tuesday night. That one, I have reason to think, was broken. I have a fragment of it in my pocket now. Why was it broken ? Accidentally ? If so, why did Madame Fabrini try to palm off another one upon me as the one you had in your hand when you fell down lifeless up,on the floor? Ido not say there is as yet proof of a murderous design on the part of this woman; but there is a strong case ]of • suspicion against her. Ton ought to toe^n your guard ; and I hope you will nejer spend a night under the same roof with her again." • " I will never do so willingly ; but— what do you mean to do now ?" „ My companion's cheeks had slightly paler while I was speaking. 1 That was the only sign of perturbation visible in her face. She seemed far more anxious that the offender should not b.e punished than ' that her own safety should be assured! " Do you wish to shield this woman ?" J, asked, with a touch of indignation. "Do you comprehend that, in my belief at, all ey-ents, she has made an attempt on your life ? Is she a relation of youus ?" ; ''] " No. I never saw her before last Tuesday evening." j I was confounded. . Here was .the prisoner's own incredible assertion repeated, as a matter of course, by the intended ■ victim herself ! For <fche moment . I < Ayas shaken in the opinion I had formed of the woman's guilt, and halfrinclined to tliink that I had been following a false tjrail all along. . My companion sank slowly into a chair, and putting her elbow on the table that stood near, leant her forehead on her hand. "If there has really been an attempt to injure me," she said, " there is only one hand that could haw guided the stroke." "Whose hand?" ■. "' ' ' :; &»g£iv. She did not answer-mo. ■ Evidently sue 11 was pluiiged in profound reflections; I doubt whether she even heard me. To me she was an enigma. I had at .first" thought of her as a child, and, indeed, in point of years she was little more. But she was now acting and speaking like a woman — a woman who had more than the usual share of coolness and self-command. For some moments I did not interrupt her reverie. " If you have suspicions," I said at length, " you would do well to let me communicate them to the police." She only shook her head. " I have no right to advise yon," 1 continued, " except to say this, that you ought to consult; with one.of your friends, someone with prudence, and knowledge of the world. If you have a secret enemy, you must be protected from him. You cannot decide on a matter like this alone " I stopped, unable to proceed. My compn.mon.had removed her arm from the table and was sitting quietly before me like an obedient child, with her hands folded on her '"'lap. Her eyes were not raised to mine ; but suddenly her lips began to tremble. Something I had said had touched the fountain of her tears, and I could see that she Avas on the verge of giving way. But she did not. She mastered her emotion, and said in a voice that was gentle, but perfectly equable : " I have no friends Avith whom I can consult. " •' Not hero perhaps, not in London ; but wherever they may be " . " I have no friends " she repeated quietly, " except Monsieur Lobieski ; and Ido not wish him to be troubled by visits from ihe police on my account. 1 will return to London, to-day, and you will forget the curious thing that happened to me on Monday night." The half shy, half sad smile with which this was said went to my heart. " No " I cried, I impulsively caught her hands as they lay together in her lap, and bending down, looked into her eyes. " Can you not trust me ?" I said, gently. " You say yon have no friends,, none at least avlio can help you. Will you not let me be your friend ? " " You are very kind, " she said ;" I feel that you are my friend " "I mean more than that," I cried. "I am not speaking of a mere vague, geneml benevolence, a willingness to oblige. I mean, let me be your confidant, your defender. You say you have a suspicion as to the hand that struck the blow that was aimed at you two days ago. Tell me who this person is, and your reason for suspecting him. Let mo stand between you and any second attempt on your life ; or, rather, give me permission to do the best I can to make any fresh attempt impossible." She shook her head, and gently withdrew her hand, but did not trust herself to speak. "I cannot tell you," said I, in- a voice hoarse with emotion, " how I long to be of some service -to you, to prove to you in some Avay that the kind of friendship I beg you to accept from me is not an empty sham. One thing I will not do — I Avill not leave you to go through the world alone, unteuded, unguarded. I do not ask your confidence— not noAv. I only beg you to give me the right of helping you, and protecting you if I can." The answer to this Avas a look of gratitude that thrilled and melted my heart. " You do not know what you ask," she said, in a tone so low that I had to strain my ears to catch what she said. "I am alone, and must reniniu alone. I canhot shai'e the task of my life, or the dangers of my life, with another, however good and kind he may be." " Think, I beseech you," said I, " before you send me away. If you refuse, my petition Aye shall in all probability never meet again. How could it harm you to know that there was one to whom your safety and happiness were the most precious things on carth — one to Avhom you could appeal in any difficulty or dangerj one who would reckon it a privilege and a delight to serve you ? " For a moment she seemed to hesitate, but it was only for a moment. In a tone that was as gentle as ever, but firmer than before, she said, " I thank you a thousand times. I thank W. Strange and Co.'s good tailoring for fit, style and value is unequalled.

you from my heart. But what you ask is impossible. ■ It cannot be." "Why not?" /■ ! ' " You. breathe the pure- fresh air of heaven, do yon' not? I live in an atmosphere ' of- concealment, deceit, treachery, and intrigue. I will not ruin /our- — <— " t ' " You live in an atmosphere of intrigue ! Why; you are a child !" " I am eighteen," she said, with a gentle dignity that had 'something of reproof in it. " But I was going to say that I must refuse to permit you, or anyone, to share my secrets, my clangers, nay hopes and fears'. Do not paurme by forcing me to refuse your generous offer again. Believe me, I cannot accept it." After this, there seemed to be no more to be said. In some half articulate words I bade her good-bye, and without trusting myself to look at her again, I slowly left ihe room. But something Avithin me rebelled. Something urged me not to leave her thus, let her words be what they^ might. The new-born love ; in my heart cried like anewfobrn child, and I could' not stifle the pitiful inWg'ry cry. ' „; I turned on my heel and went back to the room. The girl I had left was sitting with her hands on the table, and her face bowed down upon ( them. She lifted her head; her cheeks Avere wet with tears. Blushing deeply she half rose from her seat. " Pardon me, ." I stammered out. " There is only one thing I want to [say to you — I beiieve I saved your life on Tuesday night." ' "I -believe you did. I can never repay you that debt." '.' " Yes, you can. If you owe me anything of gratitude, pay the debt now. Tell me your story — I fcnow it must be a strange and a sad one. At lea3t tell me enough of it to enable nic to form an idea, of your position, and the extent of the danger that threatens you. Aud then allow me to decide whether the friendship, the alliance, I bogged for is to become an accomplished fact or not. You talked a little while ago of running my life. A man's life is not so easily ruined. Lot mo be the judge as to whether I can effectually serve you or not." "Do you mean," ahe said, slowly, keeping her great brown eyes fixed on mine — " do you mean that you demand this of me in virtue of the obligation under which you laid me ?" " That is exactly what I do mean." " Then I have no choice." She sat for a few moments in silence. " I will tell you," slio said, with a sigh that seemed to be the breath of many weary hours — " yes, I will tell you the story of my lifp "

Chapter IV.

TU"E REFUGEE. " I was borfi. at the Castle of Beritza, iv the district of Kostova, in liussiau Poland. I used to hen? from the older servants how great and powerful our house had been before the days of the Russian invasion: but long before I was bom the Beritzas had been reduced from being great nobles to be merely wealthy landowners. -'.'. My -, father was a good man, kind and fond of a quiet, . retireS life. Ke;hadiofitmy mother when. I waa'but three years .old, and before that tijne : several of my brothers and sisters had died. There were only two left, Alexis the eldest, and Ursula, the youngest of all — I mean myself. "Alexis went into the army, the Kussian army of course I mean ; but he scon loft it ; and, intimate as ho and I afterwards became, I never found out the reason of his throwing up his commission. He then went to Paris, and from that time pur troubles began. Alexis was always iv want of money ; and the people were too poor to pay much rent, and so we -were often in such straits that my father had recourse to the money lenders. Ft was iv that way that wv: came to kuow Eli Lobieski, ia whose house we now are. lie lent my father money, 1 believe ; but he was not rapacious and pitiless as T am told usurers ofteu are. On tho contrary, ho has befriended us more than once; aud, Indeed, he is now the only friend I have in the world. " Part of the time my brother was at Paris I was also there, at school. But I saw very little of him during, that time. I also spent a year in a school at Kensington. It was there I learned to speak English. When 1 was sixteen I went home, and lived for the following twelve months with my father and brother at the old Castle. Tliis was certainly the happiest time of my life. My brother and I were constantly together ; we spent the morning in our saddles. In the evening we had music, or chess, or books or papers from Warsaw ; or perhaps one or two of Alexis' friends would come to see him. " The only thing that troubled me was the influence that Count i'eter Borovitchi, my father's cousin, began to obtain, over him and my brother. I could never explain or account for my dislike of this man. Often has Alexis teased me on the subject; and my poor father even tried to reason me into tolerating my cousin, but it was of no use. I could neither like nor trust Borovitchi. " Towards the end of that year I noticed that my brother often showed signs of subdued excitement. He said nothing, but his face was like an open book to me ; and I well knew that something was causing him agitation and anxiety. I fancied a thousand tilings — thought he must be in debt, or in love, but never imagined the truth. .During this time Bovovitchi and my brother ay. re constantly together. Our cousin often came to the Castle ; aud if a week passed without our seeing him, Alexis would ride over to the town- where ho lived, and not return till next day. My father, I am certain, noticed that something was wrong; and once, on my opening the door of a room where my father and Alexis were alone together, I heard their voices raised, and saw by their flushed faces that a dispute was going on. " Still, I had no suspicions of the truth. No one had any suspicions. The blow fel without warning. One day, the winter before last, a party of soldiers arrived at the Castle, and their commander placed all of vs — all in the building — under arrest. My father was ill at the time, too ill to be moved ; and I have often thought it was better for'him that ib was so. Both he and my brother had been denounced as conspirators against the Eussian Government. " fro papers implicating my father were found, and he was not molested. " Bub my brother — Alexis — was arrested and taken away that night. He was never brought to trial, at least, never that we heard of. But one night news came that Alexis had been seen in a troop of convicts on their way to Siberia — and that night my father died." The last words had been spoken quickly, lest sobs should choke them back. But. the tears I expected to see did not come. Ursula sat looking at the landscape, with eye 3 that saw no green English meadows, or quiet cottages, or straggling hedgerows, but wide, snow-covered plains, great desolate rooms, and a black funeral train. Her sweet lips quivered, but she kept silence ; and I, too, said not a word. When her emotion had subsided, she began to speak, but in a lower voice than before. " Our kinsman Borovitchi was arrested at the same time. It seemed that my poor brother had fallen into the company of some Communists at Paris, and had imbibed revolutionary ideas from them. It was believed that he had corrupted my father •

and Count Borovitchi ; and head persuaded both of them to join a revolutionary society. Whether they ever did so or not, Ido not know. My own belief is that 1 my dear father was wholly innocent — that he had been remonstrating wH)h my brother j about his views on the day when J came upon th,em in th 6 library. 1 believe, too, that Alexis was nou nearly so guilty as' was supposed.' He had always been a speculatoi;, .1 dreamer, and had always been in sympathy with our down T trodden people : but he had never had the opportunity, even if had had the will, to carry out his theories in act. He had no one to' speak for him, no relative, no influential friend." " And you have never heard from him ? " I inquired. " Not a word. I did ! not expect that. But I heard of him once through — I may as well tell you, for I know you will keep my secret— through M. Ijofa&ski. It was true that he had been se c et? on the march to Siberia/ ' I was sorry I had spoken. "And Count Borovitchi — what was his fate ? " I asked, in order to turn lier thoughts into another channel. " The Count was released within two months of his arrest. It was commonly supposed that be had been more clever than my simple, headstrong brother in avoiding the possession of compromising papers. I believe there was little or no proof against him, and he .was therefore set at liberty." .. /*> "I suppose it would be "impossible for anyone to guess how the Kussian Grovernment came to suspect your brother ?" A change came into Ursula Beritza's face as I said these words. It seemed to have become more rigid, and a sudden flash darted from her eyes. .' "My fattier and. I," slie said, " footli believe that someone who had been in. Alexis' confidence had betrayed him. And J we both suspected the same person. Our instincts — for we had nothing nt tho way of, proof — warned us that P«ter Borovitchi was the traitor."" "He! Your cousin- x avnlaimed. " Surely you must hay« been mistaken. That would be too horrible. Besides, he shared the danger Ho too, was arrested." " True ; but my father thought it possible that he had arranged that he- should bo arrested, in order to avert suspicion of his treachery. We knew that he was well treated in prison, while my poor brother had the fate of an ordinary criminal. Bnt I mean to find out whether the Count is guilty of this treachery or not." She said Avith the same quiet composure as though she had been saying that she meant to find out whether the Count were in Russia or in England. " How, can you hope to do that ?" I cried. " And eyeh if you should succeed, what would bo the use ? You could not avenge your brother ; and still less could you benefit him. "Revenge is not for me,'* said this singular girl, looking straight at mo out of her soft dark eyes. " But still it is necessaiy for me to settle first of all the question of the Count's guilt or innocence, because it is only through him that I can hope to obtain my brother's release." . " Through him— through the Count?" ,I, stared at her in amazemonfc.V '■■■■'■Yes. In my own mind I believe tho Count to have batrayed my brother ; and though Alexis was never a Nihilist I know. Borovitchi is one. If he is really a traitor, he must bo betraying them — he could have no other object in joining their society." " How do youknow he is a Nihilist ? " "Becauso ho tried to persuade my brother to become one. Now if I could only find proof that he is betraying his comrades, I should have him completely in my power. I would ouly have to show these proofs to — to someone I know, and tho Count would be compelled to do his utmost to procure my brother's release. I : hardly think the Government of the Czar would care to lot it be said they had sacrificed the life of ono of their most trusted agents rather than release an unimportant prisoner. At all events I should be able to force ihe Count to strain every nerve — to bribe here and threaten revela- ' tions there — in the cause of my brother. He -would know that his own life was at stake. My sole objoct is to deliver Alexis from that sepulchre of the living, a. Eussian prison. When I think of a better, a more likely way of attaining it, 1 will abandon this one ;• but I can see none ; I can think of none ; and therefore I must make Borovitchi my first thoiight, and make it my chief endeavour to . penetrate his secrets." It would be impossible to express the admiration I felt for this givl, so yoting — she could not have been more than eighteen — so friendless, undertaking such a task. ; But it would have been cruel to tell her how uttei'ly impossible of success her scheme seemed to me. " Is the Ctmnt in England," I asked. " Yes : that is why lam here. I support myself by teaching music." ■ " But— l thought—" "Tho estates were confiscated the very day after my father died." I started. A new thought had leapt, unbidden, into my mind. "After you and your brother, who would be the heir ?" I asked. " My cousin," said Ursula quietly " And do you think it possible tnat he would be wicked enough " I could hardly finish the sentence. She finished it for me. "To make an attempt on my life ? I hope not. Yet yon seem to thinlr that some one must have tried to murder me. And I am sure of this, that a man who would betray Alexis into the hands of the Russian Government would not hesitate to take a life, if it were necessary." " I entreat you, Miss Beritza, to give up this wild scheme of yours !" I cried. "It can lead to nothing, and will only expose you to greater danger. How can you pretend to coj>e with a man like your cousin, a man of resource, with powerful friends, bold, and unscrupulous. You ought rather to try to find a situation in a family, where you would at least be tolerably safe from his plots. Shall I help you to do that?" In my agitation I had risen from my chair, and gone close to her. She, too, rose and faced nic, with a quiet smile on her face, a smile that told of indomitable courage, of determined perseverance. She shook her head in silence. " Let me help you, then," I said. " Let me be your friend and ally. You are in danger. I beseech you, iet me try to protect you." "You are very kind," said the girl, softly ; " and I thank you from my heart. But what you ask is impossible." " Will you not even tell me your address, and allow me to call and, see you sometimes ? " "I am afraid I cannot. It would compromise me; and I must be very careful." "Will you not let me write to you?" "It is better not," she said ; but the refusal was gentleness itself. " At least let me know of your welfare. Pardon me for insisting, but if you only knew how I long to be able to serve you, or help you in some way ! I can't bear the thought of your being in danger without my being able even to know of it. Will you not senc 1 me the merest line — a blank postcard if ypulike — once a month, or once a fortnight, just to let me know that you are safe and well ?" ff I cannot refuse to do that," she said with a smile, "after all you have done for

me. You shall have a postcard from me every fortnight, And don't suppose that I am ungrateful ! Indeed, lam not. Your sympathy has done me good." I took her hand to bid her farewell. "If I could only persuade you, " I began "to give up this hopeless enterprise- " "To give lip the idea of rescuing my brother? No! If I lost the hope of delivering him from captivity I should die. I live for nothing else. I think' and dream of nothing else. And I shall : succeed ! I am glad that my life has been saved — by you— rf or it proves to me that it 'was not for nothing that I was brought back from j the side of the grave. With God's help, I j shall succeed. In any case, you shall know the end." " And if you need some one to stand by you, will you summon me ?" For a moment she hesitated. Then a smile shone out in her face ; and with a little blush that made her seem ten times lovelier than before, she said — " That, too, I promise." (To be Continued.)