When Shadows Die

Waihi Daily Telegraph, Volume IX, Issue 2572, 8 June 1909, Page 4

When Shadows Die

■ BY MRS E.!). E. N. SOUTHWORTE

CHAPTKB XXXII. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING. "Angbea watched me closely, as if in anxiety to see how much this suspense and uncertainty might' nfl'irt my health and spirits. And I" think he was surprised null pleased to discover that I »'iis not distressed by the situation. "It was on the eighth day after my lellor had been despatched that the subject of thai letter was lirst 'mentioned. It was I who lirst spoke of it, Auglosea came in lo make his usual morning call. "After our greetings were over, and wn hud silt down,' I said to him: "It is now more than a week since I wrote to Saviola. I have now no longer the faintest hope of receiving nn answer to my letter. I shall not wait here longer. I shall leave Go- ■ neva to-morrow. "1 never supposed for a moment thai yon would ever hear from him again. 1 knew, in fact, thai it was impossible for you'to do so; hut 1 wished you lo prove tlie question to yourself." he gravely ropliod. "You knew it! I thought I hat you inferred it!" I exclaimed. "My inference amounted to moral conviction; moral conviction to positive knowledge. "I did not answer him. I scarcely understood him.

"What do you propose to do, Elfridaf"' he inquired, gravely and tenderly taking my hand, and tlieiis,ndding: 'Whatever it may be, you see me here ready to stand by you, lo counsel and assist you to the utmost of my ability.'

"Oh! 1 lliiink yon, Angus I—l thank yon n'illi nil my heart mid soul I You are indeed n friend mid brotlier raised up to mo in llio time of need!' "I sec—l hope I see clearly—that you are wasting no vain regrets on Hie man who is unworthy of your thoughts,' ho 'said, with a strange look that puzzled mo, coming from him. I cannot define tho look; I hud never seen ■ sucli a one on his face before, and it troubled me; 1 answered him: "1 inn not grieving, as you sen; hut we will not talk of Saviola; he is my husband after all, you know." "Ah I" ho said, in a sort of oipiivoml tono that again disturbed me. "What shall you do now, EH'rida?— aftor leaving Geneva, I mean?" he next inquired. "I shall go at once to England, cross over to Ireland, and take ii|i my abode at Wcirdwaste, where I-lived so long beforo the fatal visit to Brighton." "To—Wemhvasle!' 1 he exclaimed, in some surprise. "Yes. It is ii poor old manor, bill it is my own property in right of my mother, and I shall come into full possession of it as soon as I am of age." "But—to that wild, dreary, solitary home, where you spent so many lonely, secluded, unhappy years. And of which you complained to your brother and myself so bitterly ?" "Yes. It seemed all that you have described it to bo to my willful and iiupatient childhood and youth, when I longed to too and know tho world. .1 luivo soen and known enough, and more than onough, of the world, and now my thoughts turn to Woirdwaste and its quiet life as a haven of rest." "My poor Elfridal You would wear your young heart out in such a solitude!"

_"No; I would not. t should have my child to occupy and interest mo; and I shall havo tho poor on tho estate io look after."

"Theso duties could not lill your heart, Elfridn. You would languish into melancholia or death. Listen, Kl-frida-dearest Klfrida! You talked of that wild seacoast manor house as ut haven of rest. It would not lie so. It would he to you as a desert, a prison, an exile. See, Klfrida! Here is your true, haven of resll" he said, bending toward mo with a look that sent ail tho blood rushing Io my head and face.

''What do you mean: 1 Where?' I cried, in alarm, though 1 did not- understand his meaning. '''Here!' he exclaimed, striking liits hrea«t and then extending both hands towards me—'Herel in my love!--in my arms!-in my bosom! Ob. Elfreda! accept the lifo'h devotion of one who adorcn you, and who will gladly con-' sccrato all his dayfc to your happiness. " I could no longer misundcrbfam! him; nor could I speak for amazement and indignation, lie took advantage of my silence lo pour out the malaboiw of his revolting passion before him. "At Iflht, with a great eltorM conquered the hpecclikts panic into which bis insults had thrown me, and my wrath

Aulhcreas'of" For Woman's Love,"" The Discarded Daiif;htor,"i l <tr

Hid sllaltic Imrsl forth in strong and iery words.

" I ordered him from my presence; Jul. ho did nut go. I called him hard 'laiiiiN.-a snake in llio grasfi-a wolf in cheep's clothing, n traitor, a hyproI'riti l . " Ho did liol reply; he hlmxl up lielore me and look it. all. devouring me wilh his cye>. while Ins tongue was silent. " At. k'liglh, my paroxysm of violence broke down in tears, and I wept in bitter anguish. " ' Although 1 am forsaken, yet si ill I am a wife!' I said; 'though my husband has left iiie, yel still lm is my husband.' "These wor.U gave liim Hie oppoi I unity he now watiled. '' I had sunk down in mv chair am covered my lace with my hands.

" lie came up to me, laid his hand on the back of my chair, and dropping Ids voico to the lowest tones ol reverential -sympathy, lm said these terrible words; " 'No. Ell'rida! No, my poor child! II breaks my heart to tell you the truth, that 1 have only recently learned ito my dismay; but you niu-t heart if sooner or later. Heller lo hear if kindly, tenderly told by a friend's tongue than harshly and suddenly by a worldling's or an enemy's. • No, lilfrida! You are no wife.'

" 'Saviola. is (lend, then!' I exclaimed, ill an access of excitement. " No, Ell'rida; that in not what- 1 mean. You are no wife, because -you never have been.' " I lifted my head and gazed on him in dumb horror and amazement. '' lie met my look with om> of deepo-t sorrow and commiseration. " ' If is false!' 1 cried, a.s soon an I Could speak. ' 11. is loiillv, eruollv false I" '" I would to Heaven it were!' he sighed. ' I would lo Heaven it were!' ''There wiisMniiidhiiig in his look and tone that seemed lo force I ruth and despair into my soul. Dad my marriage ceremony heen unlawful, notwithstanding Anglosoa's pretended carefulness!' Or what had happened '1 How had I been betrayed '( I struggled not to believe him—not to unction him; but I could not help doing both. "'Why do you say such—Mich —' I had no word strong enough lo utter my thought. " lie answered me a* if I had done

''' Because I mu.-l, kilfrida. I came to Geneva for I hat purpose. I calm' from Saviola, charged with a message to you,' He ceased.

" '(!» on,' I wiid. 'tin mi.' I wns. lit (lint moment almost- iiiNiiii'. II look j all my |w«'i>r of wll'-roofrainl to keep I Mill. ' I " ' I mot him in I'lirih two works aj>u. I Hi: told mo Mmt 111' iviw. on tlm <'Vi' of iniirriago with Madeiiiokollo ■!*» la Villciiioiilo, (laughter of the Due do la Villemoiito; that ho luul not tho tour-'

igo to wrilo and. break his connection villi you. especially as such writing voiilil be dangerous. It might- bring ion on to Paris lo Iry to prevent it, ivhich would lie awkward. So, lie prayed mo (o take hi* farewell m.vsago to you. I will not insult you. Klfrida. hy giving

liL- message' " ' Yets! Give il•! Do not spare mc!' I cried out in my agony. "Thi'll it wa- to llio cllcct that lie was obliged hy circumstances lo pari with you. hul thai as soon as he could command the fortune he was to revive wilh Madomow'llc do la Villimonlc. he would make a suitable provision lor you and vonr child.'

•• ■ Vim heard him say I hair Uu. miy brother's friend! Ami you did 00l hlay him on the spot!' I cried, with all my blood on lire. "My dear Kllrida. my scorn, cuiilempl and iudigiialion might have |e.| me to knock I be vidian down and Irani pie him to death. Hul, my child, we nrc nil living in civili-ed rjuropc and in the nineteenth century, and our cdu cation teaches us lo subdue the wild beast thai is within us. I!csi.h>. I had you lo think of. II I should fclii.v Suviola and be cast into prison, who would lake care of you. Your I'alhcr and brollier, even your old pastor and d.ielor. were away in the Canaries, and you had mil a friuiid in Ihe world near you.'

" And I have mil now!' I cried, in hitler despair. "Do not say that, Kllrida. I lay my lite at your feel!' "No more of that! Your every word insults me! And you could come here with a false face and let me wrilo lo thai, man and never fell urn what you have only told me now!' '•• Mv dear Ell'ridii! Could I burnt upon you suddenly with news that, for aught 1 then knew, might have killed you on the spot, or maddened you lor life No, none but a brute could have done so. I had to feel my way; lo lead you filmvly up lo the truth; to strengthen you In bear it- Tim* is why I allowed you lo write lo Saviola and to wait for a letter from him. While doing so I perceived that- your happiness did not depend on your union wiih Saviola.'

" 'Tell me |his!' I hiir>t mil, almost furiously. 'How was if thai you. who went oMcusihly to guard me against misadventure, became accessory to pome deception which rendered thai marriage rile performed between mo and Saviohi id no legal ell'ecty Tell uic this. oh. traitor and hyprocrile!' I'l'll »(' tVlllilltlfil.