To-Morrow—A Tragedy

Tuapeka Times, Volume 26, Issue 157, 26 January 1889, Page 5 (Supplement)

To- Morrow— A Tragedy

QGonelvdedJ) f*~* Paui ruahed forward. Lucy had fallen on the floor in a dead faint, her white face upturned, the holly still in her hand. " Could she have heard what we were saying outside 1" Paul exclaimed in dismay, as he, knelt by her aide. " I thought we spoke quite low," said hia brother, almost equally aghast, hia face pale and perturbed. •' Tommy, run and fetch your mother V They left Lucy in Mrs. Norton's care, Paul only being induced to accompany hia brother i by hia sister-in-law's repeated assurances that it wss only c fainting lit, whioh she knew pottectly well how to manage. Mr. Norton's startling tale waa true. There on the borders of the wood, partly screened by the bushes, the body of the stranger who had presented himself as Mr. Boresford at Hazohnead the day previous lay, stark and i frozen, among the long, frosty grass. He had been shot through the heart , and on gearoh being made, a pistol was found a few yards off— a pocket derringer, small enough to be concealed in a lady's hand, but carrying the deadly, large conioal ball. Was this awful d6ed suicide or murder ? There was no sign of a struggle, nor evidence apparant on a oureory examination to tell I the tale. Mr. Norton notified the police, and on their arrival the body was conveyed to Oieof tha outhouses, to await the inqueat. No letters bearing any address or giving any clue to the deceased's family or residence were found upon him. Inquiries made at the "Tiger," the nearest inn to Hazdmead, elicited that the deceased had arrived there on foot the day before, hai partaken of refreshment, asked the way to Mr. Norton's and said he would return to the inn to sleep ; but meanwhile before this information reached Hazelmead, Paul Norton had returned to the house. " Is Miss Lscy better ?" was his first eager irq luy. •' Oh, ye 3," replied Mr<?. Norton ; "it was just a faint. She says she was feeling very ill this morning, as, indeed, any one could eoe ; and sb_3 was startled, and afraid there was something wrong when Hal called you out of the room. She is much better now, and is lying on the dining-room sofa." Paul wrnt to Lucy and bent over her with tendsrest inquiries and expressions of regretful fear that aia overheard conversation with his brother had given her a shock. " I never thought you'd hear us," he said, deprecatinf-ly. "lamEorry I fainted and frightened you all," she murmured. " But women are weak creatures, jou know," and her lips quivered suddenly infcj a atratge smile, a pale gleam of ghistly mhth. '•Yce, we who are strong rn-isfc be careful of you tenderer plants ; it ia onr place to guard and thieidyou. Lucy, how I would prize the piivik-ge of cherishing you if you would give it to me ! I love you even more when you are pale and ill than in health and brightness." •' Is ibia a time to talk of love when death is ao near 1 ' "Lo\a is ao ohild'a play ; it is one of tha earnest thinga of life— as trfle and real as deith itself," he rejoined, gravely. " Who taught you that V "You !— it was you who have taught me what love! is." She fixed her large gray eyes on him with a wild, despairing gaze. " I wonder would you forget me if I were go~:e iivay forever ?" P ul"a protestations were cut short byMra. Norton's sppearanoe with a oup of strong tea for Lacy. That evening, as Lucy sat with Mrs. and M'.bi Norton and Paul in the parlor, there was a ring at the hall door, and on its being opened, a strange voice was audible in collcquy with the servant — a'man's voice, rather low, with a peculiar resonant quality in its tone. Lucy glanced up with a violent start. Mrs. Norton listened a moment, then want to the door, and called : " What is it, Sarah ?" " A gentleman from London wants to speak to the master, ma'am. IVo shown him into the dmingroom." Mr. Norton want out. Paul looked ai Lucy, "How you tremble! You are feeling worse ? ' ho asked. "1 'm nervous ; the least thing startles me," sbo answered. " You areiil, I am sura ; won't you go up stairs and lio down 1 ' he urged. '• I think I will," she murmured. '• Let me help you, 1 ' ho said, eagerly " lean on me." 1 Jane Norton refrained from pressing her services, and left Paul to lend Lucy his arm up tha stairs— a support; not so necessary perhaps ai h8 thought it. Lucy did not speak until she reached her own door ; then f-he said in a hollow voice : " Thank you— you are very kind to me— always. I don't think I'll oome down stairs again to-night." i " No— don't ; we shall all miss you — but try to sleep," he said, tenderly. Whan Paul went down stairs, his brother, I with a lighted lantern, was taking the visitor ! out by the back door. " They've gone to see the body," said Mrs. Norton, with the grave and awe-strioken expression which seemed unnatural on her fair freeb. comely face. •' Who is it ? ' asked Paul. 11 His came is Dashwood — and, Paul," lowering her voice, "he's a policeman in slain clothes from Scotland Yatd." "From Scotland Yard? Why, surely there is no time for them to have got a fellow down from there already, even if they telegraphed on the instant." Gil a "No, it seems he hasn't came about this business ; he didn't know of the death. As far as I can make out he came on some errand about this very Mr. Bare3ford, who, lit appears, i*n't Mr. Bsresford at all ! Ob, ' 1 dear ! it makes my head whirl to think of I I And he asked übout our household; and i Paul, H«ms curious about Lucy— aaked what our governess's name \va<*,and how long ahe'd 1 been with us, and uaemed to wish to see her.

I fear we are getting tangled up in some mystery, Paul." " Some dreadful mare's neet," he rejoined, abruptly, but Jwincing. "It is a detective's business to find mares' nests. Of course they make enquiries about all the members of a household when a trngedy like this happens. Bat Lucy is too ill to be troubled tonight ; it would be simply cruel to disturb her. She wants rest ; Fanny, you kind soul, let her have it." " I'd be the last one to worry her. No doubt it is a policeman's duty to ask all sorts of questions ; but this is a dreadful affair 1" And Mrs. Norton began to weep. She went up to see the invalid presently ; and returning assured Paul that she hadn't been worrying her at all— only bathing her forehead and talking to her, and telling her to go to bad. Excited and disturbed, they kept late hours at Hazelmead that night. Paul was the last to go to his room. He tried to tread lightly as he passed the room wherein he imagined Lucy was sleeping; but his tiptoeing was wasted oare, for as he reached her door it opened softly, as if she had been watching for him. She stood on the threshold, still in her gray dress, her hair disordered, and her eyes dilated with a fixed intensity of geze. " I hoped you were asleep," he said, looking at her with tender surprise and anxiety. 11 1 shall soon bs. But I thought I would say good-night to you, Paul." " My darling !" he whispered, and fondly and reverently kissed her. "Go to sleep, love, don't fref about anything. If there is anything to trouble you, we'll talk it over tomorrow. I'll not keep you now." " Good-night," she Bttid, softly. " You have all been very kind to me. You shall know what my trouble is to-morrow." " Good-night, my darling ; sleep well," he said. A strange smile lit up her face. I " Yes, I shall sleep well," she replied. j The silence of night rested like a pall on j Hazelmead. Most of tha Nortons, weary with tha excitement of the day.slept soundly, but Paul was restlee?. Towards daybreak, break, however, he fell into a deep slumber, from whioh he was aroused by a sudden con- i seiousneas of some undefined horror and j dread, which resolved itself into a sound of hysterical sobbing somewhere— a muffled murmur of horrified voices. Paul sprang up and dressed. What new calamity had happened? He heard the words, "Keep the children in thtir rooms, and send for the doctor," and — what wag that his brother answered ? " The doctor can ba of no use here ! ' Hera— where ? Paulu rushed out into the corridor; a moment took him to Luny's room. j Mrs. Norton started at eight of him, and instinctively stretched her arms across the door as if to keep him back. His brother, j pale and horror-stricken, stood by Luoy's bed. " What is it ?" cried Paul, hoarsely. Mrs. Norton oould only answer by a sob. He broke past her like a madman ; he rushed to Lucy's side, looked down on her as she lay, white and rigid — the marble stillness, the j livid hues o! death on her faoe. Oae glance i was enough; it was too true that no doctor could be of any use here. Life had been ex- 1 tinct for hours. I A small phial, empty, unlabelled, was found j under the pillow ; on the tabls writing j materials were scattered about as if lately used, and among them lay a letter, the direction uppermost co a3 lo catah the eye. j It waa addressed to Paul, and there, standing j by hid dead love's side, he read her last words. " I told you that you should know all about mj to-morrow. Sj you will — no doubt of that. The hounds will tell you all when they iind that I have escaped them. lam hunted down at last. There is only one refuge left me. and they will not follow me there. I feel as if I had always known this hour would come ; and I have kept something ready for it, as you will find to-morrow. I heard Dashwood's voice, and wb.6n he sees my faoe b.B will tell you who I am j and he will guess what you have not suspected — that it waa I who EhoS the man you saw as Beresford. Ha insulted and threatened me ; I haa my little American pistol with me, and I shot him. Oil, Paul, have some mercy on my memory 1 Don't think me bad ! You wouldn't if you only knew the martyrdom in which I have expiated my past — the hopes I had of a better life 1 Aad this lost deed is no crime. I have rid the world of one not fib to live. He had r.o meicy on me, and I had none for him. Ho was the cursa of my life from first to laat. I owe him worse than death for the wreck and ruin he made of me. '• Believe the worst they tell you of me—except one thing. Of the worst crime laid to my charge lam innocent. Of the murder in which I was accused of complicity four years ago lam as innocent as little Amy ; but who would believe it of a woman who ha 3 led my life? I was acquitted, but few really thought me innocent ! I say again that I an: nnooent of that. You've Been the children with me. Don't you think their white souls I would have felt it, if chat bad been true 1 My i hands were clean of blood-guiltiness — until | last night. i "I couldn't bear the children to bs near mo to- day—it jseenied strange they didn't shrink away. I know I fchall sec thsm again. I migat have brazened this out as I have other crises nearly as bad, but since I've known you I have been changed. 1 have felt »3 1 used to feel when I was an innocent girl. I might have been a good woman ii I'd known you earlier, and had your love to lean upon. II As it is you have had a lucKy escape; etill, a better woman could notlova you more than I do. " Now, good-by. Try to forgive and forget me. 1 never would have wronged you, but you aie well rid of me. Do not think o! m 9 as Lydia Walbrook ! I left that | hated name, thai, accursed life behind when I I came hero. Tnink of ma only as the 8 woman who loved you better than the life she I ii glad to leave— nevermore Lydia ! only your lost 11 Lucy." l t I 8 • • Years passed away. At Hazelmead Paul's painting-room was shut op ; the du3t gathered on the deeerted easel and old portfolios, and on the one picture which remained there, with its face turned to the wall. _ Home had bsen sweet to him once, but now it was horns no more. When he was there, the bitter waterß of memory went over him ; he could not bear the associations that filled the place. Every corner was haunted by the image of the ■ woman he had thought so good and pure, who was a sin stained waif and stray ; notorious — for it was but a few years since the name of Lydia Walbrook had been on every mana lips in a yet unforgotten criminal caeo. He never spoka of the blow that crushed his heart, but tha mainspring of hia life was - broken. All his associates found him a changed man. His few intimates said among themselves that Norton had undergone come terrible experience, and would never be tho same again, He tried to devote himself to his art, but his nature was too emotional for art and ambition to fill tha place of love. Success was as Dead Sea fruit to him ; and against failure, when it came, he had no talisman of homo love and faith to comfort him. .He had sent his hopes, his I faith, his very heart of hfe, to sea in one Irail vessel that had gone down with all on ] board. And so years rolled away, and a3 I last illness struck him down ; his failing hand had to lay the brush aside : and then, weak and lonely, he thought of the old home

an d of his .early days; then the tender memories of old overflowed in the bitterness of the later past ; and then he went back to Hazelmead, as they besought him to return and be cared for by his own people — went back, as they all caw, never to leave it more. It was his fanoy to have his old den arranged as his sleeping-room. Aa ha gave inatruoj tions for the moving of tha furniture, hi* eye dwelt on the picture leaning with its face to the wall, just as he had turned it years ago when he went away. "Leave it," he said. •' Don't touch it ; let it be as it has been 1" So, in that room, filled with sad memories, he lay and waited for death ; and who shall say what ghosts haunted him ? Were they all dark shadows of the tragedy and horror of the past?— or did softer visions mingle with them, of the tender dreams and golden hopes that once were his ?— did he recall the sweot hours ho had passed here before the black and bitter seas went over hia soul ? Often he lay and gazed at tha corner wherein the unframed canvas leaned against the wall, the dust gathering on the face that was turned away— hidden— yet not as the faca, whose silent imago it was, was hidden in tha grave-mould, beneath the ooffin-lid. And one day, when all knew the end must ba near, he pointed to the picture and said; " Turn it— set it were I can see her." And bis sister turned it, and swept away the veiling dust, and he caw again the Bweet pale face, in its frame of golden hair, the lips of soft and subtle curve, the dreamy eyea that told no tale of tragedy,for his hand had not pourtrayed, because his eye had not reoognised.the black shadow of her life. And g azing at the portrait, his lips were unsealed, and be talked of her as he had done for years — spoke, not of her sins and sufferings, but recalling trivial incidents and memories of their happy days. That night, as they watched by him, they knew his days were numbered. He had sunk into an unconsciousness that was rather stupor than sleep. At dawn he etirred, opened his eyes, and bade them draw up the curtains and let in the light. The chilly light of early mornj ing fall on the portrait. Ha raised himself, | supported in his brother's arms, and with a strange, wild fixity, his eyes grew to the picture his band had painted. He spoke in s | voice to whioh the old ring of strength seemed magically restored. "Where am I going— and where is she! Lost — lost — where are the los* souls ?" "Paul— Paul!" his brother replied, witt solemn emotion, "it is not for us to cay. The mercy of God ia infinite !" The dews of death were on Paul Norton'i brow, his voice grew hoarse and hollow, at he EBked with terrible earnestness : "Is my poor love lost ? No, no— it cannot I be. Somewhere we shall meet. She said — tomorrow." Then suddenly ey.3B his lit tip with a flash of wild and rapturous recognition aa he exclaimed: ''Not lost! — not lost! Ah, sje ! she smiles ! Yes, to-morrow, Lacy, tomorrow !" ! That look of strange, unearthly raptura wag on his face as he died ; and, was it only his delusion or did L icy smile indeed ?