(Copyright Story.) A MYSTERY OF THE MOORS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIII, Issue XVII, 22 October 1904, Page 9

(Copyright Story.) A MYSTERY OF THE MOORS.

. . . By

DEREK VANE.

Author of “Paul Yclverton, Millionaire, Ltd.

r I Lave been away Tor a day on business, and it was net until I was seated in the train on my way home th-at I remembered 1 had not ordered a conveyance to meet me. at Northwald. As it was three miles' walk over the moors to the. village where I was staying, 'and it was already growing dark, I felt a little uncomfortable at the prospect, but I consoled myself with thinking that tramps were unknown in these parts, and that a long and lonely walk !W«3 the most I had to fear.

I set out bravely enough, looking for familiar landmarks to guide mo in the .uncertain light, for the path was only a winding track, and if I once wandered off it I might be. hopelessly lost. As 1 walked, the charm of the summer night took hold of me, the strong, sweet air made me light of heart, and foot, and in a dreamy rapture I watched the crescent moon as it climbed slowly up the sky, throwing shafts of silver on the brown moorland; but my exaltation was suddenly quenched. When 1 looked round again, expecting to see the epire of the village church, I discovered, with a shock'of surprise, that my surroundings were quite unfamiliar; ‘l had been too busy dreaming and making pictures to notice where £ was going.

I stood still .and tried to form an idea tsrhere I could have wandered but I was completely at a- loss. The moors rolled on for miles all round me, but I had never been in this part before, of that I was quite sure. There was a wildness and -a desolation here which were new to me. I seemed infinitely far away from civilisation .and the world. ■f can only go on and hope to come tipon something familiar presently,” 1 said to myself, and beginning to feel uneasy and rather alarmed,—for a night alone in these wilds was not an adventure to be viewed with equanimity,—l .walked rapidly forward.

But I seemed to wander farther and farther from the right way, and at last I stood still and owned to myself; with a throb of fear, that I was'lost; that it was no use going on. I looked round hopelessly, wondering whether I should be half dead from cold and exposure before the morning, for there was no place of shelter on these .windswept moors; when I saw a faint lio-ht shining in tire <lista,n.ee.

‘‘lt may be some labourer’s cottage,” I thought. “I'll go and see. At least ■I should be under cover there.” And I walked on more hopefully. But as I drew nearer I saw that the light came from a large house standing in extensive grounds, which had evfdontly been reclaimed from the moors. After a. moment’s hesitation I unlatched the gate, and walked up the grassgrown drive. As there was a light in the hall somebody must be about, and under the circumstances they eould hardly grudge me shelter until the morning; but I pulled the great handle of the bell rather nervously; how the peal echoed through the silent house! I waited a minute in suspense, then I heard soft footsteps approaching the door. It was opened slowly ’and with difficulty, as though the hands behind it found the heavy wood hard to move, and a. tall, white-haired woman, thin almost to emaciation, stood before me. “I beg your pardon," I stammered, but 1 have lost my way on the moors.” The piercing dark eyes in the ghastly [withered face filled me with u vague alarm, my nerves were already rather shaken, and. this pilent, White-haired woman made an imposing, almost formidable, figure.

Coma in, ’ she said, and the voice made mo shiver; it was so toneless and inhuman—like a voice from the grave, I thought. “1 did not recognise you at first—l thought it might be somebody lelse.”

Wondering what she meant, but afraid *to ask, I followed her into a large room, lit with wax candles, and furnished in the fashion of a hundred years ago. Indeed, there were some things in it which

even to my inexperienced eyes appeared much older than that. I looked gratefully at the great logs burning on the hearth, for I felt faint and chilled. “You are cold,” she said. “I am always cold, though they tell me it is summer .now; but the moors don’t change much winter or summer, and I never see anything else.” I began to explain who I was and how I came to be wandering about so late alone, but. I think my hostess scarcely gathered the meaning of my words. “You will want something to eat and drink,” she said; “I will fetch it for you.” “Please, don’t trouble,” I replied. “Your servants will have gone to bed; I shall manage very well until the morning. I am grateful enough to you for taking me in.”

“There is no one in the house but me,” she said, “I always send the servants away this night of the year; 1 like to be alone as I was then; but I can easily get what you require. I should feel hurt if you refused my hospitality.”

This was said with the air of a grande dame, and I could make no farther remonstrance; but I felt far from comfortable at hearing that we two were alone together; her conversation and general surroundings were so strange and mysterious. “I might have been safer out on the moors,” I thought, but it was too late to retreat now.

She returned very soon with a tray of refreshments, which included a small bottle of Burgundy. I was glad of the wine, for I was almost exhausted, and to my unaccustomed palate it tasted exceptionally good. When I had had a couple of glasses my courage returned and I faced the situation more calmly. After all it was evident that, ray hostess was kindly disposed toward me; if she was a little eccentric I must humour her. People who are much alone get 'strange fancies sometimes, and often live more in the past than in the. present.

“It is curious you should have come here to-night,” she said in her dull, monotonous voice. “You must be about the same age I was then." “I am 25,” I replied, determined to be as matter-of-fact as I could, lest I should be carried away whither I knew not. “I thought so. That was my age 40 years ago when it happened.” I was betrayed into a gesture of surprise; I should have given her another ten vears at least. “Ah, you think I look older than, that; well, it is not surprising. When you come to the end of everything I hat. matters at only five and twenty, but drag on existence for another forty years, you have endured an eternity of time. If I ever meet any children out on the moors they look at me wit h frightened eyes as though I did not belong to the. world. And I was always fond of little children.” She was not talking for effect. that was evident, but rather as though speaking her thoughts aloud. “But I was never a pretty girl like you are,” she went on. “Perhaps it would have been better for me if I had been. I had wealth and a great capacity for affection, but. that was all.” “It is a good deal,” I ventured. “Money generally smooths the way to happiness.” “Don’t say that!” she cried fiercely, “it is not true. It smooths the way to treachery and cruelty and pain,” ami she pressed her hand to her heart. “1 know for I have been through it rill.” “I beg your pardon,” I said; “but I have felt the want of money, and that is not a pleasant thing, either. I have to earn my own living, 1 am down here on a sketching expedition now. I love my work, but I eould wish that it had a higher pecuniary value. Poverty rubs off so much of the romanc".’’ “You do not belong to the moors?” “No, I come from London, from a' third-rate suburb, where you woul I ■not bo able to live and breathe after all this beauty and sweetness.”

“From London? That was where s Mme from, the woman who rabbet me of my husband's love. . . . nobody knows the story. I should like to toil the truth to someone before I die, and I shall not live to see another year. I like your face, I think you would understand, I will tell you. You might have been sent to me on purpose. 1 shall be glad to know what a good woman thinks of what I did. Not that I regret ■it.” with sudden fierceness; “not that 1 have any remorse! I would do the same thing over again to-morrow.” I eould not. have stopped her if I had wished, and though I shrank instinctively from the cCTfidence. I was filled with a great pity for this lonely woman ami longed to help and comfort her. I eould see that here was no common tragedy. “Friends warned me against ’din. told me he was an adventurer and was marrying me for my money.” she began, “but I would not believe them. What woman would who loved as I did —who had been waiting for someone to love for 25 years? You see, I did not win or give affection easily, and 1 held even him at a distance as long as I eould; but his voice and smile shook my pride and coldness—he bad all the arts and graces that please a woman, especially one who had only known the rough, unpolished men of the moors—and when he made me see the beauty of life by the light of his love I surrendered myself, with a sigh of delight, to the unaccustomed warmth and brightness. I was very happy in those days; for six months life seemed all joy. People said I had grown young and girlish as I never was before.”

Half timidly, I laid my hand on hers, and she did not repulse me, there was something in her voice 1 could hardly bear to hear.

“Then he began to grow weary of the moors and the uneventful life, and he made excuses to go to London more and more often. I would gladly have gone with him—as I would have gone all over the world—had he asked me. but he did not, and I was too proud to offer what he did not seem to desire. When he came home now and then for the shooting and hunting he generally

brought friends with him: people I did not know and did not like. They mad. up their parties and amusements without me, 1 became a nonentity in my own home. My old servants showed their indignation silently but plainly, one or two friends tried to speak—to tell me things—but 1 stopped them at once; I would listen to no word against luy husband. 1 was not a woman to light over trifles, quarrels, especially matrimonial ones, had always seemed to be vulgar and degrading. 1 waited patiently stilt, hoping against hope.” “It was a cruel ingratitude.” I said hotly, “when you had given him su much.” There must, have been a strong chord of sympathy between us. for I could enter into her feelings as though she had been of my own blood. “Yes. but 1 don’t know that that counts for much, my dear; a base nature chafes against the giving even while it takes all. But at last the day cntae when my eyes were opened, when 1 could deceive niyseli no longer, when my own honour—and the honour of fny house, which had never known a stain—demanded that I should speak. By accident I overheard my husband making protestations of eternal devotion to one of his guests, a woman who Had been insolent to me more than once, and to whom I had only shown tiie formal politeness that my position required. I had noticed my husband’s infatuation for her, but by this time I

knew his roving fancy, and 1 did not attach any particular importance to it; but what 1 had overheard told me (hat the matter was serious.”

"Had you no one to help you?” 1 asked pitifully. ‘-Was there nobody to take your part?” “I took my own, child. I had always been accustomed to depend on myself. I summoned my husband to a private interview. I told him what 1 had heard, and I insisted that the woman should leave the house at once He laughed in my face.

“'She shall stay as long as I please,* he said insolently. ‘Do you think I am going to be shut up in this dull holo with only you for company? It is very good of my friends to take pity on

" ‘Yon can go, too, if yon wish,’ I Bai'l calmly, ‘but 1 know that she shall. It is necessary to remind you that this is my house ami, for my own sake and the sake of those who lived here before me, 1 will not have it disgraced.’” •'Then he lost control over himself, and 1 had to endure such words and insults as, had 1 been a man. 1 would have made him answer for at onee; being only a woman, J was forced to listen in silence. As he went away, he turned at the door with an evil smile on his white face and said: “‘We are going ent tor a ride together now. Yon will see us both at dinner.’ ■‘‘You shall neither of you enter this house again,’ I said quietly,looking him straight in the eyes. ’I have done with you for ever.’ “His laugh echoed eontcmptnoiisly down the corridor, but I was beyond being angered with it, though 1 knew he had probably gone to tell the woman all that had passed between us. I was quite sure in my own mind that I should never be troubled by either of them again, although as yet 1 did not know hew this would be brought about. "Half an hour later I saw them ride away together, the woman looking back with a mocking laugh in case I might be •watching. The rest of the guests had gone into the eily to some festival, and. 1 knew that they would not return till late. 1 told the servants that they eould go too. as J should be alone, and should not. want them. “Then I waited for what would happen. "At that lime there was a moat round the house with a drawbridge, dating from some centuries ago when the house was built and protection was needed against any wandering baud of marauders. It was grow ing dusk when at last 1 saw two figures riding up to the bridge, but I recognised them at once. TJiey seemed in high spirits; I could hear their laughter from the other side. As the horses stepped on the drawbridge I held up my hand. “‘Stop,’ I cried. ‘Go back!—go back before it is too late.’ But they only laughed mon- loudly and came on. “I hail everything in readiness, and when they reached the middle 1 let down the bridge, and they were both precipitated into the moat below. It was deep, and they must have been killed instantaneously, for I m ver heaml a sound.’’ “How terrible!” I cried, shrinking a little away. “But they had driven you muni between them, you did mil know what you were doing.” My sympathy Was still all with this wronged woman. “I had warned them,” she said, “and I meant to keep my word. I eould not have borne to meet either of them again.” “But," I said hesitatingly, “did no one ever suspebt ? —did nothing ever come out “No. It was supposed that the servant in charge of the drawbridge had left it in an unsafe condition. I was never suspended; mv devotion Io my husband was too well known. 1 did not feel called upon to make any confession. They had only met with 1 Heir just, reward, and no slur must rest on the old name. I had the moat filled in, and the bridge taken away, but sometimes now,” her eyes losing themselves in the distance, "I see them riding up. As yet. they have always stopped on the other side, but.soon they will cross the bridge. I am expecting them every day, and I “•am not afraid.”