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

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue I, 5 January 1901, Page 4

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

By

JOHN K. LEYS.

Author of “ A Bora Temptation,” “ The Thumb-print,” “ The Brokaa Fetter,” “ In tha Toils,” “ A Million of Money,” etc., etc. v COPYRIGHT.

PART lII.—MR MITCHELL’S SECRET.

CHAPTER XXV. THE PROFESSOR’S WARNING. “What is is that you desire?” asked Signor Zucatti, regarding his visitor with a fixed stare. Under that calm, deliberate gaze Durant was conscious of a certain uneasiness which he tried to shake off by assuming a free and easy, devil-may-care manner. “1 wish you to take a look at my hand and tell me what you read there. That is your profession, isn’t it?” “That is my profession,” said Zuccatti without the bow that Durant expected. “But first,” said the visitor, “I want to know—Do you know who I am?” “I do not. I have never seen you before.”

“Is the mau lying?” Durant asked himself, but he could not feel sure about the answer. Certainly, nothing iik the Italian's face or manner betrayed the fact that he had ever set eyes on his visitor before. “I remember you, however. 1 -Saw you at a certain murder trial in Italy, a good many years ago.” “I think you must be mistaken.” “Oh, no. I am not mistaken. 1 never forget a face that I have looked at attentively.” “So be it. I am ready to examine your hand now.” And Durant, who had intended asking the Professor a few questions before offering his hand for inspection, found himself meekly yielding his palm for examination. All the time the Italian was tracing the lines on the smooth palm of his consultant, his subtle brain was rapidly forming conclusions from what Sybil had told him of this man, from his knowledge of his position at Inveroran Castle, and what he saw in his face, and heard in the tones of his voice. Still keeping his head bent over the hand he began to speak in those clear level tones which he always brought into requisition when practicing his art. “You have the artistic temperament, but you are not an artist by profession,” he began. “For some time past you have practiced no profession. You have unfortunately fallen in love with a lady ” he paused for the fraction of a second —“who is indifferent to you.” Durant gave a low, mocking laugh. “There you are in error, my good sir. The lady in question will not show herself indifferent to me, whatever else she may feel, or I am vastly mistaken.”

“1 only speak of what 1 see,” said the Italian tranquilly. “Oh, all right. Go ahead!” “You will shortly set out on a journey ” “Correct!”

“Which will have great issues for you. The line is weak and broken. I advise you not to go.” “Do you think the lady would give me the same advice?” asked Durant, in the same bantering tone.

“I have not the lady’s hand before me, therefore I cannot tell you.” “And yet you know her. In fact, 1 have seen you together.’ It is probable t hat if it had not been for the generous wine he had been drinking. Durant would not have spoken so freely; but he was curious to know what the nature of the connection between the oddly assorted pair really was. “I think you must be mistaken.” said the Italian coldly. “Oh, no. You and she visited a place called Inveroran last summer.” “We are not here, sir. to discuss my affairs, or those of third persons.”

"May I ask if you are related to the Indy in any way?” * business is that of yours?” insolence was strain-

ing the Italian’s temper to breaking point. “Oh, nothing very much, only one likes to know something about the relations of the lady one proposes to marry.” The Italian made no reply, but bent his face onee more over the hand that still lay palm uppermost before him. If he had glanced up at that moment he would have seen that his visitor’s face wore a malicious grin. “1 had the honour of mentioning that you contemplated a journey,” said Zucatti, after a pause; “and 1 warned you that it would be wise to delay that journey, or give it up altogether. I now repeat that warning. The meaning of the lines in your hand is unmistakable. If you go, it will be at the peril of your life.” "Enough of this nonsense!” cried Durant, snatching away his hand. “If you must know, I came here to get information, not- childish warnings. Will you tell me what is the nature of the relsttionship between you- and Miss Sybil Grant? Are you merely friends? Was your, meeting at Inveroran accidental or pre-arranged? You will not tell me? Never mind. She will tell me fast enough. Good day.” Before leaving the room he took a sovereign from his pocket and with a contemptuous gesture threw it on the table. It rolled off and fell on the floor. The Italian let it lie.

“If you neglect the warning I have given your blood will be on your own head.” The tone in which these words were spoken was so deliberate, so passionless, so free from anything ranting, that Durant was sobered for a moment; but the next instant he had re gained his self-assurance. “No use, my friend. That little trick won’t serve your turn this time,” said he, and with another contemptuous laugh he quitted the room.

When he leaehed his hotel Durant sat down and wrote a telegram to the caretaker at the Lodge, which he still retained, telling her that she must have the place ready against his arrival on the following day, and he then wrote a. letter to Mr Mitchell. H« saw no reason in beating about the bush, and he told him in so many words that he knew all about the assignment of the Lonely Gully mine, and that it was in his power to ruin him in purse and in reputation alike. More than this, it was in his power to have him sent to penal servitude; but he proposed to stay his hand —on conditions, of course. He must forthwith surrender one clear half of his shares in the Lone Gully Company and half of the remained of his fortune, and also do his best to incline Miss Sybil Grant to give him her hand. On these terms Mr Durant would say nothing of the somewhat important secret he had discovered. He added that he proposed to go to Scotland on that or the foithcoining day, and he would then hear his decision. He had little doubt what that decision must be.

More in a spirit of mischief than from any other motive Mr Durant added a postscript to the effect that if Mr Mitchell wished to keep Inveroran as his share of the spoils the castle and estate must be valued, so tha& an equivalent in cash might be paid-to him. Having fhis letter, Durrant set a Mint making preparations for his journey north. When the Italian was left alone by his tormentor he gave himself up to a tit of rage. Throwing himself upon the floor he tore his hair and cursed the man who had come and boasted of his success with the woman he had loved so long. The glitter of the sovereign thrown down by Dumnt caught his eye. He seized it. ami

opening the window flung it with a fresh curse into the street. He could not rest, not even sit down, and was for the time like a madman.

Then his fit changed. He grew calm and became master of himself, and immediately he resolved that he would start for Scotland at once and if possible reach Inveroran before Durant. He would then ascertain whether Durant was telling the truth—whether Sybil loved him, or was willing to marry him. He would at the same time plead his own cause. If Sybil did not love him now what hope was there that she would ever come to love him? That interview must decide his fate.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE PROFESSOR LEARNS HIS FATE.

“A gentleman, ma’am, to see you,” said the parlourmaid, handing a card to Sybil. She took it and bit her lip. She knew that Miss Dalrymple, and Sidney too, for that matter, were watching her curiously, and for the moment she did not trust herself to speak. “Did you show the gentleman into the library?” she asked the servant. “Yes, ma’am.” “Very good. Tell him that 1 shall see him immediately. A gentleman I knew in Italy,” she went on, answering Miss Dalrymple’s unspoken question. “I wonder how he came to know that I was staying here.” With these words she rose and crossing the floor left the room and went slowly towards the library. She wished that the professor had stayed in London, all the more because her conscience was by no means easy with respect to him. She had made use of him, and now she felt that she would like to drop him, and she felt ashamed when she confessed as much to herself. It was in vain that she told herself that he had offered her his services with his eyes open, and that it would be absurd to maintain that she was bound to return the affection of any man from whom she accepted a favour. Her feeling was that, none the less, she had, by accepting the professor’s offers of help, placed herself in a very disagreeable position. She opened the door and went forward timidly into the rctom. The I talian sprang up as soon as he caught sight of her and was by her side in a moment.

“You are not looking well; you are anxious about something,” were bis first words. “No,” she said, smiling. “Nothing has happened lately. I told yiou what I had overheard of the conversation between Mr Mitehell and the factor, but nothing has come of it. Mr Mitchell seemed to have forgotten in the morning that he had something of importance to say to mv sister and me. We have heard nothing more of it since, and I have persuaded my sister to stay on here and keep me company, for it is dreadfully dull here in winter.”

“That I can understand,” said the Italian, and as he spoke he took from his pocket the packet of Australian newspapers which Sybil had sent him. and laid it on the table. “This is a dreary, melancholy land. Why not come with me to Italy—to Italy, where it is always spring—to Italy, the land of musie. of flowers, of love! What holds you to this wretched country, which for half the year is uninhabitable? Tell me. Sybil, that you will come with me.”

Sybil said nbthing, and sat with her eyes fixed on the floor. She did not dare to raise them and encounter the living flame which she knew was burning in the eyes that were rending her

face a* though they would pierce to her very soul. She thought it best to affect to misunderstand him. “Yes, it is true,” she said, throwing her arms over her head with a pree < c of stretching herself in weariness. “It is very dull here and Italy is very gay and very charming, and it would be delightful tb have done with this miserable scheming and suspecting and plotting and counter plotting.” “Ah, so it would,” cried the professor. “And what have you gained by it? Nothing. Is it not so? Nothing.” “Not much, certainly.” “With me, on the contrary, in sunny this wretched intriguing would be heard of no more. We would spend our days in music and painting and in gathering grapes and flowers.” Sybil shook her head and laughed rather hysterically. “You would lire of that in a week,” she cried. “But I would not tire of you, my angel, my queen.” The fiery Southern blood had at last overleapt the restraint of prudence, and unconsciously the Italian went back to his beautiful mother tongue, pouring out in its soft, liquid tones the lava torrent that rose in his burning heart.

Sybil listened, and something of her lover’s passion thrilled her soul. She lifted her eyes and saw a middle aged, sailow cheeked man, whose hair was turning grey—a man she did not love and never could love. As she looked her heart became harder and harder till it felt like a stone.

“I’lease say no more, Signor Zucatti.” she said, -when the Italian paused for an instant in mid-stream. “I am very sorry, but you know that what you ask is impossible.” Signor Zueatti did what nineteen men out. of twenty would have done in the like ease. He stopped short/ drew himself up a little, and asked in a harsh, dry voice, very unlike that in which he had been pleading, “Whv impossible?”

“Because —because —” How could she tell the man that his age was I itself a sufficient barrier to a unitbetween them, that he was queer an decidedly ugly, and that she woul< rather die than marry him?” At that moment Signor Zucatti re cognised for the first time that bi, cause was hopeless. He knew that hwould never clasp that beautiful foni in his arms, never rain down kisses oi that fair face turned up to meet ht) own, and the sharp steel entered i 4 > his soul.

For a little while he was speechlesi And then a great tidal wave of jeaiois wrath arose in his heart and swept alii before it. He was ready to sacrifil anything—Sybil’s regard, his very- !?c, as a victim to this fierce resentment. Sybil, mistaking his silence fcr a wordless reproach, nervously put swav the packet of newspapers he ha 4 restored to her, and then in stammering words began trying to excuse herself, telling him how grateful she was. and ever would be, for the help he had given her in the time bf her need, but he sternly interrupted her. ’Tell me this one thing. Has this man—there is no need to mention names has he stolen your heart? Do you love him?” Ronald KeHh eht WaS s ? eaki “? “How— could you—know?” the faltered. true? ” he demanded fiercely. Sybil was prepared to bear much rom the Italian, for she knew she had good reason to be grateful to him. but his peremptory tone stung her into a quick response. “I es, it is true. I see no reason to be ashamed of it.” On the instant his voice fell, and became soft as a mother’s when she speaks to her favourite child. “Asliamed . No. There is no reason flor you to be ashamed. But for him—he has cause, not for shame, but for fear I eannot live without the hope of winning you, my angel, and I shall not die alone. I will kill him. He at least shall never be your husband. I swear it.

At first Sybil did not think he was sertbus She put down what he said as Southern exaggeration—the ravings of a disappointed man. But when she ’•’oked in the Italian’s face and marked the wild, fiery resolution that was m his eye she trembled.

“You cannot mean what you say?” she stammered out. “You would not be so wicked.’’

Hear her! A man steals mv purse, or a turnip from my field,

or a chicken from my hen roost. He is put in prison. Perhaps, if the theft is a serious one, he is sent to penal servitude. But if a man steals what is dearer to me than life, the law cannot touch him, and if 1 try to avenge my honour and revenge myself for the intolerable wrong done tn me you cry out, ‘How wicked.’ ” He left his seat and resting one hand on the table at his side spoke in a firm, equable tone, as though he had liven discussing something of grave and sober interest.

r'Do you remember the day you came to me in London, when I read your fate in your hand?” “Yes, I remember it only too well. 1 wish with all my heart that I had never seen the house, the street, in which you live. It may be ungrateful to say so, but I can’t help it.’ ’ A spasm crossed the Italian’s face as he listened, but he made no reply. He went on, in even, regular tones, as if she had not spoken. “On that day our fate was revealed. Do you not remember what you saw in the crystal —what I saw, for I will acknowledge that I saw it, too? There was nothing supernatural in the production of the picture ” He broke off suddenly, and muttered, as if speaking to himself: “How can I tell what is supernatural and what is not? The image was natural, for the picture was real. But how was it that that picture, of all the others, should have escaped destruction? How was it that, without intending it, Pietro put that slide in place of the right one that day? If ever a fate was foreshadowed it was yours and mine that day!” The last words, uttered aloud, were addressed directly to Sybil; and the girl shrank back and turned pale. She had not forgotten the mysteriously fading scene —the woman crouching behind the rock, the form of a man lying stiff and motionless before her, and the white, evil face peering over the edge of the precipice. She shuddered, and shrank farther away from the calm, impassive man standing over her. “The day must come,” said the Italian, “when that vision must translate itself into actual fact. And that day is at hand. The vision must be fulfilled. The man who would marry you dies by my hand.” The Italian paused, and when he next spoke it was with the voice of one to whom the actual is a phantom, and the visions of his memory and his imagination the real. “I know the place—the very spot,” he said, in quiet, dreamy tones. “You know it, too. The Black Corrie. We have been there together—do you remember?—in the summer time. He will come to me there. And he shall die.” Sybil stole a look at him; and calm as was his voice, she saw a gleam in -his eye that was to her the index and the menace of madness. Again she shuddered, and hid her face. The sound of a closing door told her that she might look up. Yes, he had gone. She was alone. The man who had been her friend and her helper had gone out into the winter twilight with murder in his heart and in his eyes.

CHAPTER XXVII. “THIS MAKES A DIFFERENCE.” The short gloaming was already changing into night, but it was not dark. The moon was rising, and the glamour of her shining was stealing over the steel-blue expanse of the loch, the far, shadowy mountain tops, and the bare hill sides. Sybil stood at one of the windows of the Castle that looked down on the loch. Its shadowy, mysterious beauty entered into her soul. She had been shaken by her interview with Signor Zucatti, who had left her but an hour since, but she had now recovered her self-control. The sadness, however, and the fear that the Professor would do some mad thing that would bring about the fulfilment of his own prophecy, remained with her. The Italian was gone out of her life. In all probability she would never see him again. But his influence had not left her. She still seemed to see that tall, spare form; the calm, even voice, which she had instinctively felt to be to the man’s utterance what a mask would have been to his features, still haunted her. When she closed her eyes she saw that face, with the strange light gleaming in the deep-set wells beneath his brows.

As she stood there watching the first glimmer of silver sheen on the loch from the rising moon, she was startled by a tall figure appearing in the carriage drive—someone taller than the laird, and not nearly so stout as the factor. Who could it be? Sybil wondered, for hardly any man’s foot, putting aside the laird and the factor, had trod the gravel on the drive since the beginning of winter. Was it possible ? The girl drew back hastily, and the next moment bent forward, her eyes fl-ishing, and her heart beating wildly. Another minute and she was sure—it was he! What object could have brought this toung man of fashion to that remote Highland glen in the depth of winter but the master passion of humanity? "It must be me he is coming to see! It must! It must! It can only be me!” Over and over again these words rang in her ears, and the beating of her heart seemed as though it would stifle her. But she crossed the room and sat down by the fire with a demeanour as calm and composed as if she were going to receive a visit from a dressmaker. “Is that actually you, Mr. Keith?” cried Sybil, when the young man was ushered into the library. “How good of you to come and cheer our loneliness!” “So you have been a bit lonely?” eaid the Honourable Ronald, coming forward and holding out his hand. “Lgnely isn’t the word for it. 1 have been on a desert island since you—and your sister—left us in September. I’m sure there are plenty of desert islands twice as lively as Inveroran Castle in winter. So you know what you have to expect. Shall I tell them to put you into your old room ?”

“Wouldn’t that be a little premature, seeing that Mr. Mitchell is not at home?” asked Ronald, with a touch of nervousness. This was so unusual a failing with him that Sybil could not help noticing it. “You mean, taking a liberty? What nonsense! Surely you know that Mr Mitchell would be glad to see you here at any time. And you can’t imagine that we are not all glad to see you.” “Are you really?” “Of course we are.” “And you—Sidney?” The name made Sybil start. She had forgotten that he knew her by the name of Sidney. But she merely answered quietly, “Of course, I am glad to see you.” “I am happy to hear it, for I have something to say to you. I have eome a long way to say it —” The speaker came to a halt, as if he found a difficulty in expressing himself. “Don’t you think I had better give orders for your room to be prepared?” asked Sybil by way of relieving the tension. The Honourable'Ronald roused himself. “No; not yet,” he said. “I may stay to-night, but I may not. It is possible that I may go over to Glenartney and ask them to put me up.” “But how could you get there tonight ?” “I could walk. It is not far.” “The path leads by the Lodge, doesn’t it —past the Black Corrie?” The last words forced themselves from the girl’s lips. Her lover looked at her in surprise, for she was very pale, but he answered, “Yes,” and his next words made Sybil forget what he had just said. “I think you can guess what I have come here to say. It is the old story, Sidney. I love you. You are dearer to me than all the world. Will you be my wife, Sidney?” Sybil was trembling from head to foot. She eould not yet accept the love that was lying at her feet. “Do you know who I am?” she said, in a strange, unsteady voice. “I know only this—that you are the dearest and sweetest, as you are the handsomest girl in the world,” and he rose impulsively and seized her hands, longing to fold her in his arms. . “Stop a moment,” and she gently pushed him away. “You know that I have no family—that I am nobody; but are you sure you know even my name?” “Why, yes, of course! Sidney Grant.” “No. My name is Sybil. I took my sister’s name without her consent for a purpose of my own —so that I might gain a footing here.” “Sidney! I mean —are you telling me the truth?” “The simple, literal truth.” “And does Mr Mitchell know this?” “He knows it now.”

His woxdtt went like a a tub to Sybil’* heart, uot tor lheuiaelvea, but lor the tone liiey* were spoken in. “it is very strange,” said the young man, regaining tier with wide-open eyes ana parted lips. “Yes, it is strange.' And there are other strange tilings,” said the girl, it was evident from her voice that the strain was telling on her. .She was becoming hysterical, “lliere are other strange things,” she repeated, "things wlneu perhaps you ought to know. My mother—but you had better read it for yourself.”

She rose, and taking the packet of Australian papers from behind a pile of books, she put it into Ronald’s hands. "Head the marked passages,” she said, drawing herself up to her full height, and looking her lover straight in the face, “and then come to me and tell me that you love me—if you can. But 1 will tell you this—that 1 believe my mother to have been innocent of the crime she was charged with. And it shall be the object of my life to free her memory from that terrible stain. Now, read.”

There was no lamp or candle in the room, but the pine branches on the hearth gave sufficient light to read by. Without looking at her Ronald Keith took the newspapers and bent down to read them. She saw him give an involuntary start and gnow pale. She heard him draw his breath with a sound like a sob; but he said nothing and she remained silent. When the last word had been read he mechanically folded up the papers and gave them back to her. Then he rose and stood before her, his eyes on the ground. “Thank you very much for telling me this,” he said speaking slowly and painfully. “It was very good of you. Very few girls would have done such a thing. I need’t say that the secret is safe with me, and I hope from my heart that you will be successful in—in clearing your mother’s memory.” There was a long pause and then he went on, his voice husky, and scarcely louder than a whisper: ■‘Of course, this makes—a difference. One could never be sure when a thing of that kind would eome out, and I have —my family to consider. Perhaps it would not be fair to them to say nothing about it; and, yet, of course, they cannot be told. I think I had better take a day or two to think over w what had better be done.” To all this Sybil answered nothing. She was not silent from Indignation; she was conscious of a gnawing pain, a dreadful sense that the light of her life’s happiness was going out, and that soon it would be all darkness. There were no doubt some conventional words of farewell spoken, but she could not afterwards remember whether it was or not. The last thing she remembered saying to Ronald Keith was: “Read; and then eome and tell me that you love me—-if you can!” Again she was alone. She was dimly conscious that she had heard the sound of wheels, and that someone came anil told her that Mr Mitchell had come back from Glasgow, and had immediately gone out, without saying where he was going, or when he would return. She listened like one in a dream, and fell to brooding over the fire again. Suddenly she started, and sat upright. She had forgotten the Italian and his threats of vengeance. If Zueatti had been a Scotchman she would have given little weight to what he had said in the bitterness of his disappointment. But she had lived long enough in Italy to know that such threats were not always made in vain. And she remembered only too well the look in the Italian’s eyes. Besides, Ronald Keith must pass (if he carried out his intention of going to Glenartney that night) the very spot which Zucatti’s superstitious forebodings had made him select as the scene of his revenge. He must pass the Black Corrie! He had said so!

Sybil sprang to her feet, and burned towards the door, but ere she reached it she stopped short. Surely it was too late! Vnless Ronald had gone back to the inn. and made a fresh start from there, he must have passed the Black Corrie long since. Hut then, he might have gone to the inn, and so delayed his start; or— and she shuddered to think of it- —he might lie lying wounded and helpless in the Black Corrie, and if so might die before he was found. She felt that

unless she wished to lie an accomplice in his death she must go and see whether he had (Hissed the fatal spot. She might be in time to warn him.

Without saying a word to anyone, she (>ut on her hat and her thick boots ami a warm cloak, ami set out for the |>ath that led up to Dumirt’s shooting lodge, and thence by the head of a lonely, uninhabited valley, to Glenartnev.

It was bitterly cold, and Sybil drew her eloak more closely around her as she hurried on. The moon was fairly ii|i now. and the road was clear, though the snow lay thickly in the hollows, and more sparsely on the bare hillsides. As she went her fears increased. Oh. why did she not think of this before Ronald left her? How was it that the warnings uttered by the Italian had made so slight an impression on her? Her mind had been full of other things. But what if Ronald should eome to his death through her neglect? She should feel like a murderess!

With panting breath she struggled on, till at length she came to the spot. The Black Corrie, a pot-like hollow in the hill, lay to the right. She could see far above her the great boulder that lay’ on the margin of the (>ath between it ami the steep edge of the corrie. Surely, she thought, there could be no danger now? In any' case, she was in time. ,\o one was in sight. The path was slippery with halfmelted ice, as well as steep: so she left the well-defined track ami took to the hill-side, meaning to cut off a corner, and in this way save some yards. She was now at the lower opening of the corrie; the big boulder, her landmark, was nearer now, right aliove her, and slightly to the left. The ground was rough with fallen stones, and she had to pick her way carefully, for the moon was behind a cloud.

She was standing in some uncertainty, thinking that she had gone too far and must go back in order to return to the |>ath, when the loud report of a gun echoed over the hill; and the next moment the body of a man appeared on the very edge of the precipice at the side of the path. For an instant it paused, then fell headlong down—down—down.

Sybil looked up, her hands clasped, speechless from horror. Then the face of another man appeared, peering round the big boulder, as if to see whether he had finished his work. Sybil gazed at him like one fascinated, though she was too far off to distinguish the features. Then the face suddenly disappeared, and a wild eldritch screech went up to heaven. It was echoed from below. With that one scream Sybil had fallen like a dead woman on the snow. (To be concluded.)