Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XXI, 24 November 1900, Page 956

Serial Story. (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.) A DAUGHTER OF MIDIAN.

By

JOHN K. LEYS.

Author of “ A Sore Temptation,” “ The Thumb-print,” “ The Broken Fetter,” “ In the Toile,* “ A Million of Money,” etc., etc. COPYRIGHT.

PART lI.—THE NARRATIVE OF SYBIL GRANT.

CHAPTER XI. IN THE ENEMY’S STRONGHOLD. It is all very well for the stern moralist, or the visionary, or the man of disappointed ambition, to sneer at those who frankly acknowledge the influence of wealth. But certainly Alexander Craig Mitchell. ,1.1’., looked a much more considerable personage when standing in the hall of his own castle than he had done when I saw him on the gravel path outside his factor’s house. True, it was a mean, scurvy, little face, when you came to look at it- Nothing could make it appear grand or generous, or even pleasant. Yet the mere fact that he knew that this splendid mansion—for it is that if nothing else—belonged to him seemed to lend a dignity to the little man’s bearing. He did not perk his ehin so far forward—a thing he has a trick of doing—nor purse in his lips in quite so objectionable a way, nor (in a word) look quite so consequential and absurd. I even thought that he regarded me with a certain approval as I entered the great doorway, as if he thought I was likely to do credit to the establishment. But he did not offer me a word of welcome —only paused a moment to note my involuntary glance of admiration as the fine proportions of the hall struck my eye, and then strutted on before me in the direction of the music room. It really is a magnificent building, and the idea of its serving for a house to this selfVeomplacent “Glasgow body” and his family is more than a trifle incongruous. What strikes one first is the sense of space in every direction. Looking up at the ceiling of the hall is like looking up at the roof of a chiireh. The corridors are like streets for width and airiness. The great staircase—there are several subsidiary ones, which 1 shall no doubt learn in time—ascends in spacious, leisurely fashion from the farther end of the hall, branching out to right and left offer rising to the height of an ordinary room. The great window which lights this superb apartment is filled with stained glass; and that is the only bit of colour to be seen. It anything, the hall is bare. There are great empty wall spaces, broken only by a deer’s antlers or a pair of crossed halberds _ here and there. But to my mind the effect is good. I hate to see a hall that would hold two hundred armed men furnished with the luxurious prettiness of a lady’s boudoir. Mr Mitchell stopped on his way to the music room to show me a view or the lake from a narrow window set deep in the wall. It was superb. 1 have no doubt the narrowness of the window added to the effect; at any rate it was like a painting for effectiveness. like an Italian scene for beauty. Right below us lay the blue waters of the loeh. reflecting as in a looking glass every cloud that drifted in the sky. At the farther end of the loch the hills rose abruptly from the water, and beyond them a'range of higher hills, purple now in their autumn splendour, filled in the view, I gazed as one enraptured for a fewseconds; and Mr Mitchell, who was evidently as proud of the view as if he had created the loeh and the hills himself, was evidently gratified by my unspoken admiration. With a queer little wave t>f the hand.as much as to say, “Very nice, but we are quite used to it,” he went on. expecting me to follow him. A few yards farther on the tinkle of a piano and then some long-drawn reedy notes from a badly played violin fell on my ear. Another step or fwo. and we were in the music room.

As soon as 1 caught a glimpse of the man's brown velvet coat 1 guessed who the musician was—the man who had looked so curiously at the Professor and me as we left the inn together on the day of my arrival. His back was turned towards us, the violin at his shoulder, and his head twisted to one side, so that his cheek rested on the instrument, after the affected manner of some players. He was drawing the bow very slowly across the strings, so as to produce what is called a “wailing” note, but in this instance <ne wail was scratchy, and reminded me of a serenading cat. It was endent to me that however much music there might be in the performer’s soul, there was not much in his fingers. The performers were too much engrossed by the music they w-ere compounding together to notice us, and as we advanced slowly up the room I had time to take stock of the lady at the piano. She was in every way a complete contrast to her companion—a tall, raw-boned Scotchwoman, of perhaps forty summers, her snarp features tense with the effort of "locating” and correctly rendering every note, Her thin fingers sprawling over the keyboard. Her scanty brown hair was worn in a tight eoil'at the back of her head; and she was dressed in an illfitting dress of some black stuff, which did not make any attempt at improving the lines of her fiat figure. Mr. Mitchell fidgeted about till the movement they were rendering came to an end, for the musicians remained, or pretended to be, oblivious of our presence while the spell of their music held them. When the last “wailing” note of the violin had died away the gentleman in the velvet coat let his instrument slide down his coat sleeve, raised his head to the perpendicular, and turned to us with a far-off look in his eyes, as if he were being unwillingly- dragged back from the dream-world. “This is a young lady—daughter- of a man I once knew in Australia. Miss Grant —my- niece, Miss Dalrymple.” Having said this he left his niece and me to get on together as best we might, and then stepped away out of the room—he had an odd way of walking, half mincing, half strutting—as if he had wasted too much time over me already. Miss Dalrymple got up from her mu-sic-stool. and with the shy look of an overgrown girl advanced and shook hands with me, her companion meantime idly turning over the leaves of his music, as if the proceedings were a troublesome interruption, but otherwise did not concern him in the least. "Is this your first visit to Scotland, Miss Grant?” asked my hostess. She spoke the sentence as if it were a stock phrase, useful, in the case of visitors from tjie South. "How- did you know I came from England?” I asked with a smile. “I am sure my name is Scotch enough.” “Oh. I know- it by—by your accent, and a hundred other things. You are going to stay at the Castle, aren’t you ?” “For some little time, perhaps.” 1 saw the gentleman in the velvet coat move slightly, just enough to make me feel certain that he was listening- to our conversation, conventional as it was. Miss Dalrymple placed a ehair for me, and went back to her music-stool. We exchanged a few more sentences, and then it seemed to occur to Miss Dalrymple that she was neglecting her duty. She turned red, nervouslycleared her throat, and finally said, in a timid sort of way, “Mr. Durant, this is Miss Grant, who has come to stay with us for a time. Are yon mu-

sieal, Miss Grant?” she enquired, scarcely giving me time to acknowledge the introduction. 1 evaded the question, for I did not wish it to be known that I could sing. “He is devoted to it. He plays like a master—indeed far better than most masters,” she added in a loud “aside.” Miss Dalrymple gave a little hysterical giggle as she said this. It was plain to my mind that there w-as but one “he” in the world for her. She worshipped the artistic gentleman with the French name. And it seemed to me that although he affected to deprecate her flattery he was secretly pleased with it. 1 may as well take this opportunity of saying a word or two about the appearance of Mr. Durant. I wish I could make my readers see the man as clearly, or half as clearly, as I see him now- in my mind’s eye. Short, rather muscular, but inclining to stoutness. Face clean shaven—or, rather, smooth as a girl’s: I might doubt whether it has ever been shaven, were it not that Mr. Durant wears a small neat black moustache. His hair, as I have already mentioned, is long-, black and curly. His complexion is of a flabby paleness, such as one sees so frequently- in London. His hands are particularly small, soft and white. His eyes are brown, and really rather handsome, but he has a trick of suddenly opening them a little wider as he looks at one, particularly when he asks a question, that is rather disconcerting. Mr. Durant leant over the piano, placing his elbow- on it, and resting his .chin in his hand, coolly- studied me. I w-as furiously angry, but took no notice of him, and went on making talk with Miss Dalrymple. “You are musical, Miss Grant,” said Mr. Durant. “It is useless to deny it. 1 see it in your face, your manner—--1 hear it in every tone of y-our voice.” I had already made up my mind to snub Mr. Durant, for this reason: It was necessary that I should make a friend of Miss Dalrymple, who maybe most useful to me; and it w-as tolerably- evident that I could not remain her friend and at the same time accept the civilities of Mr. Durant. So I intended to ignore the remark altogether, and treat Mr. Durant with the indifference which his impertinence deserved; but I saw from Miss Dalrymple’s face that there w-as danger in this course also; the devotee does not like to see the object of her worship treated with con-' tempt. I turned to the speaker, therefore, and said quietly—“l paint a little—if that is any justification of your opinion—but only a very little.”

“I knew- it.” said the artist, in a tone of quiet triumph. “I am seldom wrong in my diagnoses of temperaments.” “1 must go and take off my hat,” I said, jumping up, “so I won’t keep you from y-our music any longer.” Miss Dalrymple, with an apologetic glance at Mr. Durant, offered to show me my- room, but I laughingly declined the offer. “I won’t be so selfish as to take you from your music—and besides, it would be rude to leave Mr. Durant alone,” I added in an undertone. Miss Dalrymple looked pleased, and had turned to the piano again before I closed the door behind me. With some little difficulty I secured the services of a housemaid, and got her to show me to my bedroom. The household at the Castle is on a very modest scale, a scale quite unsuited to the magnificence of the building. There is only one indoor man servant, the butler: and in a word the ftunily lives, in the quiet, comfortable style of a fairly prosperous Glasgow merchant. rather than in the style of a great landowner. I think that in this Mr Mitchell shows his good sense; hut

there is a queer sense of incongruity between the n<eml>ers of the family, with their homely ways, their strong Scotch accent, ami their unceremonious manners, ami the great rooms in which we live. It Is almost like a colony of mice inhabiting a temple. My own room is of very large size. I camp, as it were, in a corner of it. It has three large windows, commanding a view of the loch, and a small side window looking up towards the hills. Certainly 1 never expected for one moment that my enterprise would land me in quarters like these. And all the time I am tempted to forget that I am a cheat—an imposter —stealing the hospitality and the consideration which are really given to another woman! I ought perhaps to despise myself, but 1 do not. To my mind I am the wronged one. At any rate my conscience does not reproach me. 1 think I would be justified in doing even more than this, for 1 am at war with «,»ie owner of this castle, who is depriving me of one of the dearest rights or every human being. Of course, I lost no time in making my faithful ally, the Professor, acquainted with my success. When I had written my letter I slippped if into the post bag, which hangs in the hall, and is called for every afternoon by a tough old Highlander, who carries it to our nearest town, Dunolly. On my way upstairs, after putting my letter in the bag, I paused for a moment on the stairs, trying to moke out the subjects in the great painted window which lights the hall from that end, when a slight noise in the hall below made me turn and peep over the banisters. Mr Durant was going up to the post bag. I did not see him put anything into it, but I distinctly saw' him take out a letter and after carefully reading the address, put it back into the bag- and walk away. I withdrew my head as 1 saw he was about to turn round, so that he should not know that his action had been observed, and continued my way upstairs rather perturbed in ■mind. I could not, of course, be absolutely certain that it was my letter that Mr Durant had been inspecting so carefully. It might have been one of his

own. To make sure I went back to the bag, and put my hand inside. There was a newspaper in it, also a post card or two about household matters, evidently written by Miss Dalrymple, and one letter—my own. So it was my letter which Mr Durant had been looking at and from the time he had it in his hand 1 ktievy that he must have been learning the address of the Professor by heart. I went back to my room, and sitting down in an easy chair fronting one of the windows. 1 began to ask myself what this meant. Did it mean that 1 had made an enemy before 1 had been six hours under the Castle roof? Whyshould Mr Durant show any interest in my correspondence if he was not hostile to me? And why should he regard me with suspicion? 1 could not at first answer either of these questions, and soon a fresh thought of a disquieting nature occurred to me. How was it that Mr Durant had known the precise moment when my letter would be found in the letter bag? Had it been merely by chance that he had followed so closely upon my. steps? Hardly. If not, he must have been watching for me from behind some half-open door. He must have guessed that I would write to someone to announce my arrival at the Castle, and woulud probably write that very day. Then suddenly 1 remembered the look of recognition which Mr Durant had thrown ■ at Signor Zucatti when we met him outside the inn on the day 1 arrived, 1 thought at the time that he must have had some knowledge of the Professor. No doubt he thought our acquaintance an old one, and thinking, for some reason of his own, that the matter was worth looking into, hud determined to discover the Professor’s address. All this might be without anythought of hostility to me —indeed, t could not imagine any reason for either hostility or suspicion in his mind towards me. At luncheon he had even exerted himself to be polite to me, and to remove from my- mind the bad impression whieh he must have known he had created by his airs of patronage in the music room. But, apart from the incident of the letter (which is to me wholly unintelli-

gible), 1 hud a vague feeling that Mr Durant regarded my presence at the Castle with disfavour, us though he considered that it was in some way opposed to his interests. It may have been purely fancy on my pari, but I thought, even then, that sonieining told me to beware 01* the smoothtongued artist. Something whis|>ered to me that he niight Iteeome my enemy. CHAPTER XII. WHAT THE LAIRD TOLD ME. At this point I cannot do better, I think, than quote a few pages from a journal which 1 kept in those days. Strangely enough, it Is the master of the Castle who seems disposed to make himself my friend. With Miss Dalrymple I get on fairly well, and that is all I can say. I try to make friends with her, but that is not easy-, because whenever the conversation touches upon' my past life. I have to turn it in some other direction at once, or else fence with the questions in a way that must, I fear, arouse suspicion even in that, gentle, unsuspieiousmind. So the poor woman tries to talk to me about her early life—she is the daughter of a minister, long since dead—and boring as it is for me to listen to her, I can see that it is even more tiring for her to make conversation to an unsympathetic stranger. She sits and twists her long- bony- fingers—-she has very red knuckles—in her lap, looking now at me, and now at the sunlight "glinting” (1 like that word) on the loch, and thinking what she will saynext. So in mercy to her as well as to myself, J avoid these iete-a-tetes as much as possible. Happily for me, the laird makes no reference to my past life, or to my future life either, for the matter of that. Mr Durant has once or twice tried to draw me out, but I flatter myself that I succeeded in looking unconscious of everything but a mild surprise that he should have the impertinence to pry into my affairs. But in spite of my favourable surroundings I feel keenly the inconvenience of not knowing the simplest facts about myself—that is to say, Miss Sidney Grant —about my childhood, or my friends, or my life up to the present time. I

have written to the professor begging him to go at once to Scarton, iu Cumberland, ami find out all he possibly can about the lady whose name 1 bear, whether she is living or dead, and if alive who her friends are, how- she is living, what sort of a person she is, both in appearance and in character, and, iu a word, all about her. When 1 hear from him 1 shall be easier in my mind, but of course there will always lie a dreadful risk of discovery. At present I am not idle. I am exerting myself by every means I can think of to gain the confidence of the laird, and to some extent I think I have succeeded. He is a lonely, and I believe he is, in spite of his wealth and position, an unhappy man. His relations with his factor,'McPhail, are curious. I believe that in reality there is no love lost between them, yet the laird maintains this ignorant, overbearing man in the important post of factor for his estates. The two were comrades in Australia in the old days, and the idea in the family is that the stewardship is the reward for some services rendered at that time. Miss Dalrymple told me as much. But I think Mr Mitchell mistrusts McPhail, and yet he not only remains on friendly terms with him, but joins him every now and then in a friendlydrinking bout. They are a queer pair at anyrate, and I should not wonder if there is a secret tie between them from whieh the laird finds it impossible to break loose. One evening I followed Mr,Mitchell to the study, pretending that I wanted a l>ook, and, as I expected, found him quite ready for a ehat. “How do you like Inveroran?” he asked. “I think it is one of the most beautiful spots 1 ever saw in my life,” I cried, enthusiastically. “And I think it is so good of you to have me stay here. But you must not let me be a bother to you. When you are tired of my company you must say so." I had hoped to draw him into a polite protest that it did not matter how long 1 stayed, but I was unsuccessful. Mr Mitchell looked gratified, but he said nothing. I resolved that the next suggestion that my stay at the Castle must come to an end some day should not come from me.

“You might just as well have accepted my offer earlier,” he said after a pause. This somewhat nonplussed me, for of course I had only a vague notion what he was referring to, but X smiled sweetly and said: “Girls are like other people X suppose. They don’t always know what is best for them.” He gave a grunt of acquiescence and smoked on for a minute or two in silence. Xt seemed to me X could not hope to find a better opportunity for asking the laird a few questions, so X threw myself into a chair and said in an off-hand way: “Y'ou knew my father and mother very well, didn't you, Mr Mitchell?” "Fairly. Your father was a decent man, Miss Grant, but not much of a business man.” “Did you know him before he went to Australia?” “No. I knew him first when 1 met him in Australia in seventy-one.” "And my mother, was she alive then?” “Oh, yes. When 1 first knew them they were living together.” X had come to the crucial point of my inquiries, and my heart beat so as to pain me as 1 put the next question. “Mr Mitchell, you said my father and mother were not married. Are you quite sure of that? How- do you know?” The laird stared at me in surprise, and 1 saw at once that 1 had stumbled upon one of the pitfalls with which X knew my path must be crowded. 1 did not know how 1 could extricate myself, but X was quite prepared for the lard’s saying: “1 told you all about that. Surely you can’t have forgotten?” “No,” 1 replied, as calmly as I could. “But I would like to ask you more particularly how you came to be so certain of it. You see proof that might satisfy you might not satisfy me. I would catch at anything, any straw, that would remove this stain from my mother’s memory. Surely you can understand my feeling about it as I do?” The laird's face underwent a certain (indefinable change, and he continued to stare at me for some seconds without making any reply. Had I made some fresh blunder? Was a suspicion of my identity beginning to flltei- into Mr Mitchell’s mind? If so X eould not help it. Having gone so far I thought it wiser and safer to go on boldly. “if you have any letters from my father which mention the matter in any way, perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me see them?” “if you want proof of what X say, it is here,” said the laird. He laid down his pipe, and unlocking the desk of his writing-table, took fi om a drawer inside it a small packet of papers, some of them extracts from newspapers. These he handed to me. “May I take these avfay and read them in my own room?” 1 asked, rising as I spoke. The reply was unexpected. “No. You can read them here.” X carried them to the window, and tried to reassure myself. After all, X had come well out of my difficulty. I was not yet suspected. And this matter of the marriage, or want of marriage, might not concern me at all. Except old Mrs Mcl’hail’s fancy that there was a resemblance between me and Sidney Grant’s mother there was nothing but the name to connect me with her. It was quite likely that we might be cousins; but Mrs McPhail had told me that Sidney had neither brother nor sister. I unfolded the packet, and began to read a marked paragraph in the newspaper. It was a Sydney paper, published many years before. I cannot quote it word for word, but I remember the substance of it well. It seemed that some years before, some time in the sixties, a certain clergyman, the Rev. William Audrey, made his appearance in the country districts round Sydney, travelling from one station to another in the character of a missionary. He enjoyed without question the hospitality of the settlers, and in return he held religious services, baptised children, and married such couples as desired to be united in marriage. Among these who had been married by this person were Sidney Grant's father and mother. A few years later it was discovered that the man Audrey was not a clergyman at ail. He was an escaped convict of the name of Adams, who had adopted thy clerical profession as a pleasant and easy way of earning a living, without earing a straw for the misery which his conduct might cause to in-

nocent people who trusted him. He was convicted of the fraud at Sydney, and sentenced to two years' imprisonment. Along- with the newspapers which recorded these facts were one or two letters in Grant’s handwriting, from which it appeared that he and his wife had been among the victims of the sham parson, and his indignation seems to have been specially roused by the fact that his little daughter had come into the world with an ineradicable stain upon her birth. He even spoke of lying in wait for the criminal when he came out of prison and wreaking his vengeance upon him. I slowly tied up the packet again, and handed it back to Mr Mitchell. “1 suppose this girl •” I began, and stopped abruptly. I had almost l>et rayed myself. Fortunately the laird seemed to be preoccupied, and did not notice my slip. “This man was afterwards lost sight of?” I asked vaguely. “I suppose so. I heard no more of him.” “Don’t you" think they —my father and mother—must have got married again, when they found out that they had not been properly married the first time?” T asked. “It is possible”-—he said slowly—“No, 1 scarcely think it is possible; for when the fraud was discovered they had moved to Western Australia, which was then in a very wild condition—no churches, or parsons for hundreds of miles. And even if they did get married again, it couldn't affect you, you know. The English law is not like the Scotch law in that respect. I explained that to you in my letter.” “Yes," 1 said absently, then (I blush to say it) I calmly added, “1 remember." And then 1 put the question I had been longing to put since the beginning of the interview—“ Are you quite sure that 1 never had any brother or sister?” “How can I be sure about a-thing of that sort?” cried the laird in an irritated voice. “I only knew them after they went to Western Australia. There may have been another child, but if so it died in infancy. Anyhow, I know nothing about it. 1 had quite enough to do to find a woman to look after y. u, and bring you back to England.” There were several questions which burned on the tip of my tongue, but I did not dare to ask any more just then. “And yon took all that trouble for the child of a stranger! How good of you!” I exclaimed hypocritically. The laird moved uneasily in his chair. “I didn’t exactly say your father w’as a stranger to me,” he said testily. "But we’ve said quite enough about it. to my mind. And when you like to accept the offer I made to you three j ears ago, you have only to say the word.” “You mean •” “You 'remember it, surely, don’t you ?” “Not very clearly. You see, I had no idea of accepting it then, and the conditions ——” "Oh, there were no conditions worth mentioning. I am willing to pay you tnree hundred a year for your life, if you sign a letter to the effect that yo« Lave no leg-al claim on me—that’s all. How you can have a claim on me 1 cannot imagine; so I think the sooner you make up your mind to be a sensible girl and accept my offer the 1 letter.” (To be continued.)