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

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue II, 12 January 1901, Page 52

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 lII—MR MITCHELL’S SECRET.

PART 111. MR MITCHELL'S SECRET. CHAPTER XXVII I. THE TWO SISTERS. With long, patient strides the Italian climbed the mountain patli that led to the shooting lodge. He had heard at the inn that Durant was expected at the lodge that night, and he intended to be there to receive him. He deliberately intended to lie in wait for him and kill him, as if he had been a wolf, or other noxious animal. His anger had been kindled against the man in London, but it had flamed out in tenfold fury when he heard Sybil confess (as he believed) that she loved his rival. It never occurred to him. any more than it did to Sybil, that they had been speaking of two different men.

At length he reached the lodge, and, turning, looked down into the valley he had left, and the cold lake lying in the midst of it, as still as a dead thing. The path was slippery as well as steep, and the Italian was glad to have the prospect of resting himself, even within his enemy’s threshold. Two columns of smoke ascended into the clear, thin air from the roof of the shooting lodge. In front a woman on her knees was scouring the door-step. Zueatti went up to her, and stood looking' at her without speaking till her task was done. “Ye’ll be wantin’ to see the maister, belike?” enquired Mrs Mac Neil, who was favourably impressed by the stranger’s gift of silence. “Yes. It was for that purpose that I have come.”

“Well, the boose is a’ ready for him when he eomes, but I canna bide, for my gude sister, her time’s come, and it behoves me to be wi’ her. So, if you want to see Maister Durant, maybe ye’ll explain till him the way it was.”

The Professor, who had not understood above half of this address, signified assent. “Ye may wait in the dinin’ room, then. But mind an" tell the maister that I’ll be here the first thing - the morn’s mornin’, without fail. Zucatti promised to give the message, and took up his quarters in the dining-room, where the fire was beginning to gain the victory over a mass of damp peats superimposed upon it: and Mrs Mac Neil started for her sister-in-law’s house, which stood a mile away on the bare hill-side. In a few seconds the sound of her honest, heavy footsteps had died away. Zucatti and the • devil that sat in his breast were alone together. The Italian had not been sitting there long - before his eyes were attracted by a fine sporting gun that hung on brackets over the mantelpiece. Until that moment he had not considered the means by which he was to slay his enemy. His feeling had been that if he could only get his hands round the man’s throat it would be enough. But now lie recognised that he must have a weapon, and here was one ready to his hand. The gun would serve his purpose admirably—even better than a revolver would have done. It was more certain—and what need could there be for several shots? One would be enough. He took down the gun and tried it. The lock was all right, it only wanted a little oil. Zucatti hunted about till he found the oil-can in a cupboard, ami soon he had the gun in first-rate working order. Then, the cartridges

—where were they? In a drawer in th< - sideboard lay a few loose ones, carelessly left there since the autumn. Zucatti took one, carefully inspected

it, and then gently pressed it into the chamber, closed the breach, sat down and waited. The stillness was profound. Some time—Zucatti had not the faintest idea how long —went by, and then the sound of footsteps was heard on the gravel outside. The Italian leapt to his feet, blew out the lamp, threw open the door, and put the gun to his shoulder. A hoarse cry burst from his throat. The hands in which he held the gun trembled so that he almost dropped it. There, before him, in the wintry moonlight, stood two sable-clad figures, with white about their headstwo Sisters of Charity. Zueatti slowly lowered the weapon, and leant it against the wall. The soft, clear, bird-like notes of a woman’s voice broke the stillness. “May we come in and rest for a little? We have come a long way, and we are very tired.” Without answering in words the Italian stood aside to let them pass, and they went by him through the doorway. The door opened right into the room in which Zueatti had been sitting—the room which was used as a dining-room. He followed them in, and placed chairs for them by the fire. As he did this he recognised one of the sisters. She was one of those to whom he had given shelter during the thunderstorm in London. The other was a stout, homely, little woman, with a face like a red apple slightly withered.

“I remember you,” said the first sister with a smile. “We came to your house once in London, and you gave us shelter during a thunderstorm. Do you remember?” Signor Zueatti bowed, but made no olher reply. The sister took no notice of his silence, except that her voice took a caressing tone, as of one who would charm a child out of his illhumour. “We set out to go to Glenartney—we are collecting for our house in Perth, you know—but I think we must have lost our way. Don’t you think so?” Still no answer. The stout sister raised her eyes curiously to their host, but dropped them immediately. The Italian was staring gloomily into the fire. The man’s persistent silence frightened the sister. She had been alarmed at seeing him with a gun at his shoulder. and now she began to think that he had been expecting someone—someone whom he meant to murder. She trembled, and repeated a prayer under her breath.

“It is very good of you to let us rest here, but we cannot stay long,” she said aloud. “Might I ask you to let us have a glass of water?” The Italian looked about him in a bewildered sort of way, and the sister herself rose and took a glass of water from a. sideboard, helping her comrade first and then herself. Zueatti watched them as if it were a matter with which he had nothing to do. Each of the sisters then took a piece of bread from a small bag she carried, and slowly ate it. When they had eaten they looked at each other and rose to continue their journey. “Will you come ami be our guide to Glenartney?" said the sister who had spoken throughout. Zucatti hesitated, and at length he answered. “I cannot go with you. but I will show you the way.” “I wish you would come. We may easily lose our way in the darkness.” "I have something here that I must do." The sister rose, and going over to the Italian's chair stood before him

in the posture of a suppliant, with folded hands and downcast eyes.

“Think, my brother, had you not better come with us?” She received no answer, and when the Italian looked at her. her eyes wandered to the door and back again. “You will not let us go all that way alone?” she pleaded. “If you wish it, you can find a guide in the village." “No; it is you I want. Let me speak plainly, for we must go. You mean to injure some one—some one who has wronged you. perhaps. Give it up! See! I beseech you—l implore you!” The Italian sat with his elbows on his knees, and his hands shielding his forehead, so that he could not see the suppliant, but he could not shut out her words. “Give up your revenge, and come with us—come." As she spoke she took the black crucifix that hung on the rosary at her girdle, and held it tinder his eyes. He could not but look at it; ami as he gazed a thousand memories flooded his m.ind. He was no longer in the frozen North, but in the land of his birth. How long it was since he had looked upon the ericiflx! His heart swelled; he trembled. “Come, mv brother—come!”

As he had done before, on the night of the thunderstorm, he lifted the hem of the sister’s cloak to his lips —and at the touch of the coarse raiment he broke down. Sobs broke from him, sobs which he did not even even try to restrain; and as he wept the sister stood by him in silence. It is over now. is it not?” she answered, And in his native Italian he answered: “Yes; it is over.” He rose, and followed them out of the cottage. CHAPTER XXIX. THE SLAYING OF LOUIS DURANT. When Alexander Mitchell reached home that same evening Durant’s letter, written in London, was put into his hand. He opened it with no apprehension of evil. The only feeling he entertained for Durant was that of tolerant contempt. This letter opened his eyes. He saw now that instead of a convenient tool he had in Duranta cold-blooded rapacious enemy.lt wasithe'treachery of the thing that infuriated the laird. This man had been bribed to do a piece of dirty work, and the bribe had been a large one. Now he used the knowledge he had gained to blackmail his employer. And such blackmailing - ! Half his fortune—with the unpleasant reflection that a demand for half of the portion left might be made at any time. If he yielded to this monstrous claim, his ambitious schemes could could never be realised. And more than that, he could never enjoy a moment's peace of mind. He would be ruined—practically ruined. Y'et, if he refused —if the miscreant carried out his threats—Mitchell trembled when he realised how completely this villain had him in his power. Half-maddened by the prospect that lay before him. the laird went out at once in search of Durant. He was not at tile inn; but the laird learned there what Signor Zucatti had been told earlier in the day—that Mr Durant had sent word to have the shooting lodge got ready for him, and that he was expected to arrive that evening. “Good! That place will do as well us another!” muttered the laird to himr self as he left the inn and began to climb the path that led to Durant’s lodge. He had not in his mind at this time

any fixed purpose, either of coercing his enemy, or of revenging himself on him. or of driving a bargain with him. lie longed, in the first place, to meet the treacherous scoundrel face to face that he might pour out upon him some of the wrath that was raging and flaming in his breast. He felt as if he could gladly kill the wretch, as readily as he would destroy a venomous beast. But as yet he had no fixed idea in his mind as to what he would do. It was not till he reached the empty lodge—almut an hour after Zueatti and the two sisters had left it —and his eye fell on the loaded gun which the Italian had left leaning against the wall that the idea of ridding himself of his enemy by one bold stroke came into his mind. At first he put it from him as a thing not even to be thought of. But men who have given up their souls to the unrestrained spirit of hate are not so far from murder as they sometimes imagine. And so it was with Mr Mitchell. For the greater part of au hour hc waited there in the darkness and the stillness, and the longer he brooded over his wrongs, and the monstrous treachery of which this ingrate had been guilty, the more clear did it become to him that this was a case outside the ordinarj - rules that govern humanity. He judged Louis Durant, and found him guilty of death. And he resolved that he should die. With the gun in his hand the laird crept forward, step by step, along the path up which he knew his enemy must come, till he came in sight of the boulder that marked the Black Corrie. And there, behind a great bush of heather. he came to a stand. He had not long to wait. The moonlight showed him the figure of the man he hated coming up the path with a swinging stride. Mitehell waited till he reached the edge of the acclivity, and then fired. The victim threw up his hands, staggered backwards to the verge, and fell down. And then the demon that had mastered Mitchell’s sou! left him, and the vacant place was taken by another. He seemed to himself to wake, as one awakes from sleep, and found himself a murderer. First of all he darted forward to the edge of the precipice, and peered over. Durant’s body lay motionless at the bottom of the corrie, and the wretched murderer rushed up the hillside, farther and farther from the scene of his crime, vainly calling on his God. No one could remember afterwards who it was that first raised the alarm at the Castle. But soon it became known that neither the laird nor Miss Sybil could be found, and Miss Dalrymple was sending here and there for men to go and look for them. She feared that they had fallen into the loch, which was covered in places with treacherous ice, thinly sprinkled with snow, so that in the darkness or twilight it might easily be mistaken for dry land, and she sent one messenger to the factor’s lodge, to ask Mr McPhail to send a party of men to search the shores of the loch for traces of such an accident.

The instructions were canned out—with tragic results. McPhail had returned to the lodge from the inn when Miss Dalrymple’s messenger arrived, and already he was pretty well gone in liquor. When he learned what was demanded of him, he sent for men and ropes, and prepared to head the search party himself. Part of his preparation consisted in fortifying himself against the cold with a double ration of whisky, and some of the men, observing his condition, tried to persuade him to go home; but this only made him the more obstinately resolved to do what, he had intended doing. “If the laird’s a leevin’ man this night I’ll find him an’ bring him hame.” he cried. “If so be that he’s deid, I’ll find the corp’. It shall never be said of me that I hung back when it was my paint to gang furrit.” The result might have been foreseen. Owing to the factor’s great size and weight it was highly dangerous for him to go on the ice, where a lighter man could pass in safety, and to the bulk he was so proud of he owed his death. Leading a party of men and boys he set out to cross an arm of the lake in order to search an island that lay at a little distance from the shore. The idea was an absurd one, and could only have occurred to the bemused brain of a half-tipsy man. But so great was the authority of the factor that not a man among those who followed dared to prevent him by force from having his own way, and argument was thrown away upon him. He insisted in searching the Island, and as

there was no boat at hand, nor any means of breaking the ice for it if there had been one, the only plan was to cross the ice. it was in vain that some of the men tried to persuade the factor to let one or two of the lighter men go first. It was his place to go first, he said, ami nothing would turn him from his purpose. Before the island was reached the ice gave way. and the factor and one or two others were plunged into the loch. The men who were with McPhail were got out, though not without difficultv. but the little band soon found, to their horror, that it was impossible to extricate their leader. The ice broke beneath his huge frame as soon as lie tried to climb up on it, and there was nothing in the nature of a plank or a, gate at hand. They had ropes, but before they could be fastened, owing to the stretch of broken ice that lay between McPhail and the rest of the party, the factor had given up the struggle*, and benumbed by the icy water, had drifted under the ice, where he perished miserably. It was not until the ice was melted that the body was recovered. In the meantime a second party had gone up the hill, and it was not long before Sybil was found. She had recovered consciousness, and had managed to struggle several yards in the direction of the fallen man, but she had been- unable to make her way through a snowdrift that lay between her and her object, and had fainted for the second time when the searchers came upon her. At the bottom of the corrie the body of Durant was found, lying face downwards on the snow. He had a bullet in his breast, and was quite dead. At first the members of the search party were under the belief that Sybil had fired the shot that killed Durant, but when they had looked all round for a gun and could find none, they came to the conclusion that that theory would not hold water. They made a rough litter, on which Sybil was carried back to the Castle, while one or two remained by the body of Durant. In less than an hour the beargrs returned, and the body of the murdered man was taken to the house of the man who had slain him. This, of course, was not known at the time. All night long the search for the master of the Castle went on; but in the wintry dawn the search parties, one after another, came back with empty hands. In the morning larger parties were organised, and the whole district was mapped out and divided among them. P>ut they searched in vain. It was not till late in the afternoon that a telegram came from Perth to say that a shepherd had met Mr. Mitchell wandering down a glen fifteen miles away, laughing and “girning” to himself in a fearsome manner. The laird had wandered all that distance alone in a state bordering on insanity. Before the end of the day it was plain that he was not in his right mind, and he never recovered the use of his reason. As a rule he was harmless enough, but there were times when the memory of things that had happened long ago in Australia semed to haunt him. He would take anyone who would listen to him for his accomplice McPhail, and go over, with whispering breath, the vile plot they had concocted against their fellow-countryman and his orphan children. He would thus work himself up into a state of excitement, which would end in a hysterical flood of tears, to be followed by a long period of senseless apathy. The successful man, the financial genius as some called him, the selfmade man who was the pride of his acquaintances and one of the ornaments of his native city, had sunk a little lower than the beasts that perish. CHAPTER XXX. THE RESULT OF A VOYAGE. Again it is autumn in Inveroran. The warm sun once more shines brightly on blue loch and purple hill; the sudden whirr of the grouse may be heard on the moors. But no sound of guns breaks the afternoon stillness, for there are none but women at the Castle, and have not been for the last eight months. Two tall girls are pacing to and fro on the terrace in front of the Castle; they are Sybil and her sister. It is evident from the glances they throw down the avenue that they are expecting someone. Miss Dalrymple (who is

still nominally the mistress of the Castle) clad in an ill-fitting blaek silk dress, flits out and in, as if she scarcely knew what to do with herself. ft was John Blackwood that was expected to arrive at the Castle that evening. As soon as she recovered from the effects of her exposure in the Black Corrie Sybil had sent for him. and entrusted him with the complete management of her affairs. She saw that the fact that Mr. Mitchell had lost his reason might make it impossible for her and Sidney to remain longer at the Castle, where they had no status but that of Mr. Mitchell's guests. However, Mr. Blackwood soon reassured her on that point. Me told her that an official empowered to act for Mr. Mitchell would be appointed by the Court of Session, and that in all probability no objection would be made to her and Sidney remaining at the Castle till affairs were settled. But a few weeks later he came back to her with the news that his correspondent in Australia had discovered that the date of the assignment of the Lone Gully mine to Mr. Mitchell (on which his title and that of the company rested) did not fit in with the well-ascertained date of the death of the grantor. Sybil's father. From the few words that had been cabled from Australia it appeared that the mine belonged to Sybil as her father’s only legitimate child. Nothing would serve Blackwood but to go out to Sydney and investigate matters for himself; but before he went he began a suit in Sybil’s name against the “curator”'of Mr. Mitchell's property, claiming a declaration that the assignment should be cancelled, and that all the profits of the mine that had come into Mitchell’s hands should be adjudged to belong to Sybil. He had returned from Australia some time since, and had been employeci-in bringing the lawsuit to a successful issue. Sybil did not yet know exactly what the result had been, but John Blackwood had telegraphed to say that he would be at Inveroran that night. At last the carriage that had been sent to the station for him was seen entering the avenue. A few minutes later it stopped at the end of the terrace, and Blackwood, who had caught sight of the two girls, jumped out. He carried a small blaek bag in his hand, and ran forward to greet his clients. “It is all over—and well over, I think!” he cried, as soon as they had shaken hands. “First of all you must come in and have some dinner.” said Sybil, “Your news will keep till afterwards, and the dinner won’t keep. Besides, you must be starving.” “Before we go in,” said the young lawyer, “1 must tell you one thing,” and his face became graver as he spoke. “I heard this morning from my friend in Sydney, and he has sent me the letter from the Attorney-General of the colony, which I asked him to apply for. The letter states in the clearest manner possible that the Crown authorities had been convinced of your mother’s innocence before her death, and that if she had lived no evidence woidd have been offered by the Crown, and a verdict of ‘not guilty’ would have been recorded. 1 have the Attorney-General’s letter in my bag.” “And those newspapers ” “Stated what he believed to be the truth at the time; but I am sorry to say that Mitchell, with cunning and deliberate cruelty, suppressed one which appeared shortly after your mother’s death, in which the conclusion the Crown authorities had come to was published. Indeed your mother would have been set at liberty but for her illness, and was told so. The real criminal was believed to be a man named McPhail —the same who was drowned in the loch last winter. He passed under another name then, and the police did not succeed in capturing him. But your mother’s memory was vindicated at the time, and it must be a comfort to you to know that.” Sybil was silently weeping, but she turned and gave her friend a grateful look, which made him, lawyer as he was, blush a little and drop his eyes to the ground. “And now,” said Blackwood when they were comfortably seated on the terrace after dinner, “1 must tell you of the arrangement which (subject to your approval) I have made with Mr Mitchell’s curator. It seemed to me that you would probably think it a very harsh thing to disturb the existing state of things with regard to the

mine; and indeed it is doubtful whether we should be altogether successful if we tried to turn out the company, seeing that they have developed the mine, spending their motley on it in good faith, and all the machinery Is theirs. So we have agreed to leave things as they are, and in that way all scandal will be avoided. But judgment will be given in your favour for the full amount of the shares which Mr Mitehell, or rather his curator, holds in the Lone Gully Company. That of itself will make you a very wealthy woman.” "But Sidney must have half,” cried Sybil, her hand tightening on her sister's as it lay in her lap. "I tell you I will consent to no arrangement that <loes not give half to my sister.” “1 thought you would say that," cried Blackwood, as he gazed at Sybil with eyes that spoke his admiration more eloquently than he intended, "and it can be settled in that way if you like.” “Not half, Sybil,” whispered Sidney. "If you will not take half I will take nothing.” said Sybil, with a touch of her old imperiousness, and Sidney said no more. "Of course that does not represent your whole claim against Mr Mitchell.” went on Mr Biackwood. "There are the profits he has been receiving all these years—for the last six years at all events —and damages for the fraud.” "1 wont have anything to do with that.” said Sybil abruptly. "1 have arranged that a claim for two years’ profits should be included in the judgment,” said Blackwood, “and if you do not choose to take the money you can settle it upon Miss Dalrymple, and one or two distant relatives of Mr Mitchell who are in a humble position in life. Otherwise there will be nothing for them so long as Mr Mitehell lives. His curator has no power to give them anything till his death.” "Yon have done quite rightly, Mr Blackwood: but you always do.” “When the investments are sold and the money handed over you can divide it as you choose.” “I think Miss Dalrymple should have five hundred a year, for she must have expected that her uncle would provide for her.” "There wifi lie quite enough for that,” said Blackwood. “And now my task is done.” “And what is to be your share? I owe everything to you. remember.” “My share? Oh, I shall have my expenses. Besides I have had the pleasure of a trip to Australia at your dost.” The young lawyer was reddening, but Sybil did not notice it, for her eyes were fixed on the ground. Her colour came and went, and the hand

that still lay iu Sidney's trembled a little. Sidney gently pressed it and rising strolled away over the lawn. "Another thing 1 have gained,” said Blackwood. "is an idea of the splendid prospects there are iu Sydney for a young man with some energy and a little capital. 1 have made up my mind to throw the law overboard and go out to Sydney and set up iu business as a land agent.” “(Io out to Sydney! For good?” "Yes. 1 am certain that 1 can do better there than 1 possibly could in Glasgow. Besides 1 like the life out there. Won't you wish me luck. Miss Grant?” Sybil did not answer all at once. Ami when she did speak it was in a hurried, agitated way that was not usuai with her. "I am going out to Sydney too, Mr Blackwood. 1 want to see the country 1 was born in. I daresay Sidney will go with me; but at anyrate 1 am going.” Blackwood was silent, staring at her in surprise. “Why do you look at me as if I were proposing to do something unheard of?” she cried. “J’eopie go to Australia for a trip every day.” "Oh. no doubt.” “And 1 was wondering, Mr Blackwood. whether, since you are going, at anyrate, you would mind looking after us on the voyage—” John Blackwood was a little bewildered, but wholly delighted. And so it was settled. Sidney Grant did not go to Australia, but Sybil did, and of course Blackwood sailed in the same ship, to see that no harm eame to her on the voyage. The result was as might have been expected. When Sidney heard the news she said to herself: “1 am very glad, for he is the nicest man I ever saw, and I could see that Sybil liked him. Oh, I am very, very glad.” (The End.)