The Man Who Paid

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXV, Issue 2, 15 July 1905, Page 8

The Man Who Paid

By

Mrs. C.N. Williamson

Author of “The Barn Stormers," Etc.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE DARK HOUR. It she could, the girl would have forced Stainiorth into going on with t.ne marriage as if nothing had happened, and hr were in no danger. She made her arguments selfish ones, since instinct told her that in this way, and this alone, she could influence him. She told her lover that she would be ready to die of shame as well as grief if she were abandoned by him on ner wedding day, that never would she recover from the humili at ion ; that if hr loved her he would for her sake consent to let the wedding take place. ’ Then, no matter what may come, we shall belong to each other, ’ she said. But Stainforth, albeit his soul was on the rack, resisted and was firm. She could not have for a bridegroom a man who at any moment might be taken from her. to prison, to be tried as a murderer, perhaps condemned. “Even if in the end I were acquitted, 1 should be no lit husband for you. for I should be branded for ever— ’ he began, but she cut him short and would not listen, and he did not insist. “Sullieient for the day was the evil thereof,” and the evil of this day was black before his eyes. It was like a dark screen, hiding all the future; he could not look beyond. It was given out that the marriage was put off because of the murder the night before, and the fact that the bridegroom would have to be called upon as the principal witness. Only the bride and her father knew the real truth of the postponement, unless the old deaf woman, who would be another witness, guessed. The bridesmaids (being perhaps more nearly concerned in the wedding than any others, after the contracting parties), agreed that, if they had been in Consuelo’s place, they would have preferred to let the marriage go on, as “postponements were so unlucky.’’ But they were not consulted, ami had to bear their disappointment as best they could, as did all the guests invited. Anthony Wyndham was in Lornemouth, the county town, w’here he had luckily been called professionally a week before the <late fixed for tin* wedding: and he had not meant to see Lurlwin Cove or West Lurlwiu again for many weeks; but when ho received the news by telegram from a friend, who should have acted as Stainforth’s best man. ho started to return immediately, his mind in a turmoil. He bribed the guard to let him keep a compartment to himself, as the train was not crowded, but on getting out at Lurlwiu. the first man he saw was the Earl of Wenwiek. who had evidently been travelling down from London. Wyndham knew him slightly, and spoke. "I’m afraid you are here on a sad business,” ho said. “Yes.” replied Lord W’enwick. “They have sent for me to identify the body of my sister-in-law. supposed to have been murdered here in an unaccountable way la-'t night, after having been brought ashore from a wrecked yacht. But. of course, you have heard. 1 came immediately. without a moment’s delay; yet I cannot credit the statement that the murdered woman is my sister-in-law. I have for some time believed her to he dead, and do believe so still. T am pro pared to find that this is a ease of mistaken identity. “Very possibly.” said Wyndham. He could not well discuss the subi<ct in all its bearings with Lord Wenwick. but he* knew that the vicar, when living in the eve of the world as Lord Stainforth. had been on verv friend]v terms with the late Lord Wenwiek and his wife, and ought to have been able to recognise her. A policeman in plain clothes had come

to the station to meet the Earl of Wenwiek. and take him to view the body of his sister-in-law. and after a moment’s talk Wyndham turned away. He had not sent word that he was coming home, and there was no carriage for him at the station, but he could have chosen between two or three ancient and musty "Hies” had he wished. He preferred to go on foot, however; and strange thoughts flitted like nightbirds through his brain, as he walked along the cliff path, alone. A marriage postponed is a marriage abandoned, three times out of five, he said to himself; and he would have been less a man of the world than he was, if he had not guessed, even with his slight knowledge of the affair, that Stainforth was likely to be suspected of the murder. A vision of a court, with his rival in the dock, and himself on the bench, eame to him. but he shut his eyes upon it. lest he should find himself revelling hatefully in the picture. Still, it would come back again and again. Each lime it was more welcome; and something within him said that it would be poetic justice if. after all he had suffered, he. out of all the world, were obliged to condemn Stainforth to death. He was consumed with anxiety to know what would happen in the next act of that drama in which he was at present only a passive figure. He longed to know what part he would be called upon to play by and bye; but meanwhile good taste commanded that he should suppress himself. He sat at home and waited for news. When it eame. it was exciting enough. Lord Wenwiek had been convinced against bis will that the dead woman was his sister-in-law; and the coroner’s inquest gave to Lurlwin such a sensation as it had never known, even in the old days when the inhabitants made their living by smuggling. Lord Wenwick’s evidence had turned suspicion against the vicar, and the vicar’s admissions had fastened it there. Lurlwin learned for the first time that “the parson” was the missing Earl of Stainforth. once much talked of in the gayest set in London. It learned of wild oats he had sowed; money he had spent, time lie had wasted, and above all of the flirtation he had had before vanishing from the world whieh had known him. His entering the church was made to seem not an atonement for the mistakes of frivolous years, but a convenient cloak for unrepented sin. Lord XX enwick. recognising Vera in the murdered woman, sprang jo the conclusion that she must have been killed by Stainforth: and his evidence was coloured, even unconsciously twisted, bv his own conviction. Ife told at last how. on a certain day, Sainforth bad called upon him in London. for the first time in years, to ask for nows of the nun in the French convent. and how lie had been unable to conceal relief on hearing of her supposed death. There were those present who knew that, on the date mentioned by Lord Wenwiek. or no later than 21 hours afterwards, the Rev. Lancelot < Inireliill’s engagement to Consuelo Vail bad been announced. All this built up a strong foundation of suspicion against him. the corner slone being circumstantial evidence: and Mrs. Brodrigg’s testimony added numerous other stones. She liked Air. Churchill better than she liked most people. but she had resented his flouting of her well meant advice, and besides, as she herself would have said, she was bound to answer questions when put upon oath. How largo a part her pride in being the observed of all observers played in this conscientious obedience to

duty she herself would have been the last to define. Be that as it might, she recalled her sensations on being “hustled,” as she expressed it, out of the room with the stranger in it, to that where Andrew Garth lay dying, and bidden to remain there. She described what she had brokenly heard afterwards, as “certainly a quarrel,” and was of opinion that in spite of her deafness she must have known if anyone had entered the cottage between Mr. Churchill’s going out and coming back. Consuelo, called and sworn, confessed that she knew of Stainforth’s acquaintance with the Wenwicks in the past, and that Lady Wenwiek disliked her. She was obliged to admit, too. that she had been sent out of Andrew Garth’s cottage somewhat abruptly on the night of the wreck, and she believed that Stainforth had not wished her to learn the identity of the rescued woman. Even Stainforth’s own statements told against him. and the news whieh came to Anthony Wyndham’s ears was that the coroner’s jury had found Lancelot Churchill. Earl of Stainforth, late vicar of Lurlwin. guilty of murder. This meant that he would be tried at Lomemouth at the next assizes, and that the vision Anthony Wyndham had seen would be realised. The man who had

s.olen the woman he loved would be at his mercy, for, as he told himself, he would be the judge to try the case. There was no reason why he should shirk this duty, he thought, striving to review the matter in his mind with calmness. His opinion was yet io be formed; rival of Stainforth as he was, he had not prejudged him. Whether the man were innocent or guilty would have to be proved to the Judge’s satisfae.ion, before he charged the jury. just, as it would have to be in the case of a stranger of whom he knew nothing. He was too sore still against Stainforth to pity him. The desire to crush, even as he had been crushed, lay cold and heavy as an iron bar upon his soul. He was glad that this awful blow had fallen upon Stainforth. and he could have cried out aloud that it had fallen on just this one day of all other days—the day whieh might have made Stain forth the husband of Consuelo Vail. To Consuelo herself it was !r.e a dreadful dream. She could not make it seem true. To wake in the morn ing after a few hours of troubled sleep was to suffer unbearably; always the same sick searching after the cause of the dull pain, partly forgotten in the night; the same stab of realisation; the same fierce rebellion against the pain

and the injustice; the same mad fear of the end; the same passionate longing to do something—anything—which might help. Never for an instant did the girl believe that Stainforth had killed \ era Weujviek. She could understand that he had been tempted, but she was cer taiu that lie would never have yielded. Yet the police made no new discoveries, the private detective when she engaged at her own expense found out nothing •which could throw light upon the mystery. There were those who said it was no mystery; that the whole affair was simple enough, and that there was no doubt Stainforth had been goaded by the woman’s tahrnts or threats into stabbing her at last. He would be condemned and hanged, and there would be an end of the tragic story. And Consuelo knew there were people who were saying this, and the knowledge gnawed at her heart like some corroding acid. At first she hoped that the real murderer would be found, or traces of him : but no stranger had been seen at Lurlwin Cove or West Lurlwin on the night of the murder, except the woman and the half-drowned sailors of the yacht, and by and bye there was nothing to hope for except that when the trial came Stainfort h's character might shine so clear out. of darkness that the verdict would be favourable. The blow to Consuelo, falling on her wedding day, was also a blow to her father, and he had not the youthful power of physical recuperation. For a time before the date fixed for the marriage he had seemed stronger and brighter, but. gently as the truth was broken to him, he did not recover from the shock. For a few days he was completely prostrated, rallied a little later, and then, just as Consuelo began to feel somewhat more hopeful for him, suffered a paralytic stroke. It seemed that the girl was to be spared nothing: but at least she had no time to brood on her sorrow, or to think of herself at all; her father was conscious. though bound hand and foot by the awful malady, and his eyes showed his pleasure in her presence, his reluctance to let her go. Consequently she scarcely left his.side, except for the little sleep which she could not live without; and so weeks wore on, moving slowly, drearily,, like a grey’ procession of ghosts. Many times Anthony Wyndham called to inquire for his old friend, but he never saw Consuelo; he could guess something of what her feelings m ight be towards him, and understood that the sight of him might be almost repugnant io her. She knew that he had loved her for years, and that he must hate the man who had taken her from him. She knew that by a strange whim of fate it would fall to his lot to try Stainforth for the crime. Of murder, and Wyndham had delicacy enough never to attempt to force himself upon the girl, lie was not sure even that he wished to see her. Perhaps, he thought, she might trade on her sex to try and work upon his feelings in some way, and a useless scene of that sort would be unpleasant for both to remember afterwards in years to come—the years in which, he felt vaguely, lay his only hope with her, if hope there could be anywhere. So months past, and they did not meet, but a few weeks after Christmas, Pelham Vail died, and Anthony Wyndham. who was al his libuse in Lorneinoiith, came to the funeral. He felt afterwards that he eould not go away leaving the girl so utterly alone as she would be now. without making some definite show of sympathy, perhaps some offer of help; he sent a line to her, therefore, carefully worded, begging that she would speak with him. if only for a moment, and half to his surprise she consented.

There was in his heart an aching home-sickli?ss for the old times—(the sweet, old times when he had believed that he would win her ! —as he was tikeu into the girl’s own sitting-room to wait. At first glance it scented to him that everything was unchanged; but a second, longer look showed him that the brightness of the room was gone, just as it was gone from Consuelo’s life. Once there had been fresh Howers every whet e, even in winter; now there was not a blossom, and there was a certain stiffness in the arrangement of the furniture ami little ornaments which told him that the care of everything was left to the servants. On Consuelo’s writing desk stood a silver photograph frame, which had not been there when Wyndham had known the room, and he left the hearthrug where he had been standing to go and glance at it. With a faint pang of the old jealousy, he saw that it was an amateur snapshot of Stainforth, evidently treasured by Consuelo, perhaps taken by her. He stood staring gloomily at the handsome face, which (he told himself in bitterness) would never have -eome into Consuelo’s life, after tlx' first meeting in London, if it had not been for his blind foolishness; and so it was that Consuelo found him, as she came quietly into the room. As Wyndham turned and saw her, pale and slender, and childish looking in her deep mourning, all his preconceived ideas, all remembrances of the distance she had put between them, were swept away in a bewildering instant. "My poor little girl!” he exclaimed. “Aly poor little girl!” No tears fell from Consuelo’s weary eyes. Six? had passed that stage long ago, but her lips quivered slightly. It seemed to Wyndham that she had never been so sweet, so altogether desirable. Pity intensified his love. Himself cried to himself that he must have her for his own: he must be able to comfort and cherish her; he eould not wait patiently for the years to roll on, and then perhaps have her snatched from him in the i?nd. He had meant to talk to her reasonably, to sympathise, to offer help, but he lost his head as if he had been twenty instead of past forty, and something inside him. over which he had no control, suddenly seem'd to gain the mastery. “Aly darling!” he faltered. “I worship you. You are all alone in the world, and unhappy. Come to me: let me make you forget everything except my ]ov.\” “Don’t!” she exclaimed, putting him away from her. with both little cold .hands. “This is no time to talk of love.” “I know,” be said humbly, “it would not be the right time in ordinary circumstances. But 1 spoke, before I thought, because I couldn’t help it: I was carried away, and as it’s too late to go back, I must go on. Besides, our circumstances are not ordinary. Once, your father wished me to be your husband. If he could have spoken during these long months of his illness—” “He would have bidden me be faithful.” Consuelo broke in. “How, faithful?” Wyndham echoed. “Where is your faith due? You can never marry Stainforth—or Churchill—•' if yon wish me to call him so.” Consuelo threw up her head. "Why not?” she asked. "Because.” Wyndham answered on a brutal impulse, “because convicted murderers cannot marry.” The girl's eyes pierced him. “He is not convicted yet. How dare you—you, of all others on earth—speak as if the case were already decided against hi m ?’’ Wyndham realised his mistake, but it only made him sullen. “I used the wrong word,” he apologised. “I should have said suspected, not convicted. But whatever happens, you and he arc parted.” “Only death can part us, and not that really,” Consuelo answered. Then, her face changing: “And you. who come here and speak to me of love before my father has been a day in his grave, can send him to his death, if you choose.” It was on Wyndham’s tongue to protest, in honest indignation, but he stopped, and forced back the words, while he thought quickly. “You believe me capable of charging against Stainfort h. I suppose,” he said at last, “and forcing a. conviction from the jury, whether they would otherwise have given a verdict against him or not. Well, all I can say is. that you think more meanly of me than I thought of myself, until a moment ago.” “Until a moment ago?” Consuelo

echoed quest ioningly, startled by his tone.

“Yes. J would have said -until then —that my rival (Stainforth is that, even in his cell) need exp <t nothing but fair dealing from me. as if I were a stranger. But no.w. if I say differently, it is your fault. Consuelo. 1 ask myself, since you believe me base, and 1 have everything to gain and nothing to lose by being base, why shouldn't I step down to the level on which you've placed me? By heaven, I will do it. 1 will do my best, to send Stainforth to the scaffold, where I am convinced he ought to go. unless you will marry me before the triad comes on." “Anthony Wyndham!” gasped the girl. "Do you know what you are saying? If my father were alive to hear you, he would not believe what his ears told him. You must bo mad to make such a threat against Lance. Wily, I've only to' tell of it. to " “Who would believe you?" asked Wyndham. “No word has ever been breathed against my integrity. Who would listen to the hysterical fancies of a young girl, who would naturally stop at no accusation, if it were to save her lover? You would only do his interests a hundred times more harm than good. I assure you. by telling. But why not marry me and save him?” “Yon could not save him," said Consuelo. “It is true, I eoirid not promise it; but a judge ean do much with a jury. I tell you, I can eome nearer to saving him than anyone else can. under Providence. You know—you must know—that even if be were acquitted, he couldn't marry you; he wouldn't bo the man of honour that he used to be if he were willing to let yon sacrifice yourself. If he escapes death, it will be because most of the evidence against h m is circumstantial; there's the thing to dwell on with the jury; and at best, in the minds of his best friends, the doubt will always linger. ‘Did he kill her, after all?’ You see he could not marry a girl like you with such a black cloud always over him. Therefore if you gave yourself to me, you would be throwing away no chance of happiness

that could Mint to you otherwise. And with you as my wife, 1 would pul my heart and soul into the. work of saving Stainforth from the consequences of hi* own crime.” “He has committed no crime!” < utisuelo exclaimed. “The crime of which he stands accused. <>h, 1 may have made up my mind quickly in offering you this alternative. but I shall not change it. Anil you must choose. Is it to be death fur Stainforth, or life?” “Life—l' choose life for him." she cried with shining eyes. "flood. You are wise,” said Wyndham. "He will owe you a deb: of gratitude all the rest of his life. When we are married-: ” "We will never l»e married." “Did you not just say you would choose to save him?" “1 will save him. but not by marrying you.” “I swear to you. by the light of my experience, that there is no other way.” "And I swear to you, by the I ght of my inexperience, which means my fol'lt that there is another way." "What do yon mean?” “1 refuse to tell you," she an-weted. CHAPTER XIX. Tilt: CASTLE OF CliE V E-'< IE t li. The words that Consuelo Vail had spoken on tlx? day when she first knew of Stainforth’s love, were constantly in her cars now. like the sound of a distant bell: "Whatever happens, nothing can ever really part us now.” It was true: whether he were doomed to a long martyrdom in prison: whether they kilied him, still they would not bo parted in spirit, but after her talk with Anthony Wyndham, the girl realized far more sharply than before th? awful blackness of the gulf pn the brink of which Stainforth stood. Her anxiety for her father and her duty to him had for a time numbed her sense of Stainforth’s great danger. It had seemed too bad to be true that justice should in the end miscarry; and she had clung to th l hope that after a time of great suffering, hs

would be given back tv her again; that then her Jove would alone to him, mH the rest of thrir lives for the cruel ya st. But Wyndham’s words had come like a sudden lierce gust of wind, tearing apart the mists of illusion. Siu* had thought until then that she hail done all she could to save her lover, ■and she had believed that, somehow, he would be saved, because there Wi?re some things which could not be allowed to happen. Now. however, she saw the truth clearly. There was little hope for Stainfort h's acquittal. When the trial came on. many things must come out .which —superficially viewed, seen only from one side, as they must be —would bell terribly against him. And th< i, there was Anthony Wyndham’s threat. Consuelo know, were there but that one way of saving Stainforth, she would have married Wyndham, even though sly* must have despised the man to the end of her days, for taking her thus. But, as the flame of her anger against .Wyndham rose, it kindled into life a desperate resolve. What skilled men, trained to their profession, had failed to do, she must do. She must find the real murderer of Cady Wr.mwiek; and she must prove his guilt. There was no other duty, no other work for her in the, world now, since her father was gone. In the white hi?at of her enthusiasm iwas nothing to Consuelo that detectives had undertaken the task in vain, and that she was only an inexperienced young girl. She would succeed; she must succeed, for failure would he worse than death. There* was not much time before her in which to accomplish her work, for in the spring Stainforth would b? tried for his life. But meanwhile she was free to come and go as she would, and the resolution once shaped in h?r mind, she could not bear the thought of delay. All that night, after seeing Anthony Wyndham, she lay awake thinking how she would begin, praying for some inspiration to guide her. It was useless, she thought— at least at the first—to go over old ground at I.urlwin. and she decided to make her start further alield. She would cross to France, visit flip neighbourhood of the convent where Lady Wenwick had lived, and see what could be learned there. line, the private detretivr? she had herself engaged had gone to the place and discovered nothing which—in his opinion —had the bearing on the case; but Consuelo could not believe that she would bo thus thwarted. The man had worked merely for money, she would b-2 working for love. The girl had seen Stainforth only once since the coroner’s inquest, lf ( > was .awaiting his trial, in the gaol at Lornemoufh. and there she had been allowed Io visit him one day. for a few moments. Now. she determined to go again, and plant a seed of hope before starting on her mission. The morning after the funeral and W\iqlhain’s visit, everything was settled. Ihe house was closed, one old servant remaining in charge, and Hammond. the woman who had been housemaid and parlourmaid in one, preparing to travel with her mistress. Few people thought it strange that the girl, so sorely tried, should wish to go quietly’ abroad for rest and change. It would do her good, if anything could, her friends said: and no one guessed a hat was in her mind. She went straight to Lornemouth, and

after some small delay was able to obtain permission to see Stainforth. She was to be granted a bare half hour with him, and as of course a warder would be present, they could but look, not speak what was in their hearts; stilj, even such an interview would be bettes than nothing. The grim bareness of the room in which they met scarcely shocked her now, for she had seen it before, nd this time she saw only the man she loved, not the walls that shut him in. For a long moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, without a word. Then, keenly conscious of an unsympathetic presence, they talked almost -formally of Consuelo’s great bereavement, of her health, and Stainforth’s health. But, when she told him that she was going to France, something of what the journey really meant was telegraphed subtly to Stainforth’s comprehension. “Don’t go,” he said. “I must,” she answered. “Some clay you will be glad.” “I can’t bear to think of your wandering about the world alone.” “I shan't be alone. Hammond will take care of me. You remember poor Hammond? She is devoted to you.’ “Dear —it will only mean disappointment. I would rather think of you at home.” x “I’ve no home any more. Do you imagine 1 could rest? I think I should die if I stayed. Oh, believe me, you will be glad by and bye.” Stainforth smiled at her. and said no more against her plan, which to him was infinitely pathetic. He understood from her eyes, leer voice, what, she hoped, and loved her the more for her great courage; but he saw her as a child, fighting impossibilities, and he would have spared her the bitterness of certain disappointment if he could. Still, she had cried impulsively, “I should die if I stayed,” and so lie would no longer try to persuade her. While she could work, and persuade herself that there was hope, she would not brood upon the horror which had become for him a constant companion, night and day. Had it not been for Consuelo, he could have faced it more resignedly, but it was all but unbearable to think that bis suffering meant her suffering; that not only would his fate break the girl s heart, kill her youth, but that for years she would be whispered at, pointed at, as that girl Vail who was engaged to Lord Stainforth, the man who murdered poor Imdy Wenwick the night before the day fixed for his wedding.” He could scarcely remember now. how it, felt to be “glad”,of anything; but he smiled at Consuelo’s eager prophecy, and would not say another word of dise-.nir-agement. It was not his fault if his eyes were even sadder when he smiled. “He doesn’t believe that 1 can do anything,” the girl told herself. “1 wanted to give him some hope. But I see now that 1 must wait, and be patient. ’ They hade each other farewell, ’vhen the warder reminded Consuelo that the time allowed had come to an end, and the look on Stainforth’s face, as his gaze followed her to the last, almost broke the girl’s self-control. “It, is as if he were saving good-bve to life,” she thought. Consuelo had expected to gain strength and courage from the sight of her lover, but her visit stole a lit lie of both, rather than gave. Still, she would have died sooner than abandon her project. She was on her way to London within

an hour after leaving Stainforth; and because she had a restless dr.*ad of losing even a moment, she went on to Paris the same night. The Convent of Our Lady of Tears was in the neighbourhood of Tours. Consuelo had learned so much, since the murder; but everything else she had still to learn. The morning after arriving in Paris, she began her journey again, not conscious of any fatigue, and the same afternooiu. she was installed with her maid at a hotel in the town of Tours. Fortunately for her plans she was in a part of France where pleasure pilgrims were many,, even out of season, as it was at this time. The village of Koquebrune, on the outskirts of which stood the con vent of Our Lady of Tears, was celebrated for an old castle, half ruined, half habitable. Much history had bceii made in this castle centuries ago, and it was part of the romance of the place that it still remained the property of the ancient family fur whose sake it was famous. Those facts gave Consuelo an excuse to visit Koquebrune, without fear of being conspicuous as a foreigner. Few tourists stopped a-night at the village, for it was easy to “do” the chateau and ihe convent church in an afternoon, and the one good inn of Roquebrun? was more renowned for its luncheons than for. its sleeping accommodation. However, there were persons of simple tastes who had been known to spend a week at the Faisan Dore, so Consuelo was told in answer to inquiries made in Tours, and she engaged rooms there for herself and her maid, for an indefinite period. Armed with camera and sketch book, she went out on the first morning after her arrival at Koquebrune, stopping here and there for a good view, and coming at last to the Church of the Convent, which was open to the public only at certain hours on week davs.

Not far away, on the opposite side of the road, was a laiterie, and Consuelo paused to ask in her correct, but stilted, school-girl French, whether she could buy a glass of milk. w A pale, somewhat haggard woman of middle age assured her that she could. Consuelo bought the milk, drank it, and then inquired if she might leave her sketch book and camera in Madame’s charge until she came back from her visit to the Church.

“[ shall want another glass of milk then,” she said, with the charming smile which was as sweet, though not as bright as it had once been.

Mademoiselle lias come a little early

to, see tlhe eliureli,” remarked the woman of the laiterie. "It will not '>e open for a quarter of an hour yet. It is never open till ten.’’ “Ob, then I will wait her,?, if you don’t mind,” said Consuelo, who had known very well at what time the church' opened. “Shall I see any of the nuns when 1 go there?” “No, mademoiselle, not in the church,” replied the woman. “A lay sister v’ll show you about, and if you offer her money for telling- you the story of the stolen altar piece, and the other things, she will say it is for the poor. But you may meet some of the nuns in the village. It is not an enclosed order. They take out the young ladies of their pensionnat. Also they call, themselves Sisters of Charity, and they profess to visit the sick or those in need.” “Why do you say, ‘eall themselves, and ‘profess?’” echoed Consuelo. ‘‘Don’t you lore th? nuns?” “‘1 am Protestant, and if I do not love them, neither do they love me,” said the woman. “Sometimes 1 think we shall be obliged to move away’. We are not encouraged here, and it is a great anxiety.”’ The girl sprang quickly to the conclusion that, as the woman was not in sympathy with the sisters of the convent, she would sp?ak of them and their affairs more freely than if she were a Catho-c. "I am sorry that you have trouble,” she said. “If you had gone to the church first, the lay sister would not have recommended you to come here; She would rather have sent you all the way back to the village for a glass of milk and an egg. Now you ean understand why we do not get on.” “I do not want any change, thank you,” said Consuelo, when the woman had counted out some small silver and pennies. “Keep it for your trouble in looking after my things. If I get a chance I shall tell people to come and efrink some of your good fresh milk. The convent looks an interesting old building, all one can see of it among the trees over that high wall. Are the nuns almost all old. or are there some of them quite young?” “Some are quite young.” “And pretty?” “Not.many are pretty. I think; but there have been one or two beautiful ones.” “Are they dead now?” “One died, years ago; and they say the other is dead; but I do not know.” ‘‘What was she like?” asked Consuelo. “Oh, she was like a marble statue,

come alive.. Mademoiselle, her features were so perfect. One could not see her hair, but she had wonderful eyes, dark blue or brown, no one could tell which, and beautiful eyebrows. We used often to notice her, my daughter and 1. She was not in the convent long.” "Was it long ago that she died, then?” “No—it is not two years since we saw her go out for the last time. But she came here at first only to visit the nuns, and be in retreat. Then she decided to remain. She was a novice for a time; but at last she took the black veil, and became like the others. People say, years ago when she was a young girl, she was a demoiselle in the pensionnat which the sisters keep; but if that is true, it was before my day here. I only know she was so beautiful that my daughter and I used to say it was almost a crime to hide herself in a convent, when she looked worthy to be a queen.” "That is very interesting.” said Consuelo. “I wish 1 could have seen her. But why are you not sure whether or no she is dead?” "I am not sure, because one afternoon my daughter and I saw her go out, and we never saw her eome back again. Next day, I remember well, the bells tolled as for a death, and Catholics who attend the convent church said afterwards that the beautiful sister had died verv suddenly.” “She might have returned without your seeing her, I suppose,” said Consuelo. "She might, but I am not at all sure she did.” "Perhaps she was run over in the street, then, or died of heart disease.” “We should have heard of that. But of what happens inside the convent, we never hear, if the sisters do not choose to have the truth come out.” Consuelo shivered a little. “What

could have become of the beautiful nu if she did not die?” she went on. "Out idea was, that she got tired of the convent life, and wished to escape,'* repled the woman. “We used often to say how miserably unhappy she looked. Beautiful as she was, she had the face of one who despaired. No, she was never intended by Nature for a convent, and it is ill going against Nature.” “She couldn’t have disappeared, though,” Consuelo argued. J “Someone would have seen her.” “1 am not so sure, mademoiselle. It is not so difficult to hide. And tlu* river is near. Perhaps she drowned herself. “How sad. if she did!” exclaimed the girl. “If not, though, are there places where she could have hidden? 1 should think that Catholics would not have liked to give a runaway nun shelter. But maybe there arc other Protestants besides yourself in the neighbourhood.” The woman shrugged her shoulders. “Not too many, unfortunately for me. They say that the present Comte de Crevecoeur has become Protestant, but 1 do not know if it is true.” “Why, that is the name of the Chateau!” broke in Consuelo. “Does the Comte de Crevecoeur live there?” "No, mademoiselle,” said the woman. “He only comes sometimes—or, rather, he did come until about a year or two ago. It must be as long as that since we have seen him here at Roquebrune. The chateau is hardly lit for a handsome garcon like the Comte to be comfortable in. but they do say the admission fees which the public pay to see the old chateau make up his principal income. It is a pity, for he is one of the handsomest young men you ever set eyes upon, and you would admire him. being a foreigner, for he is half English; no, not that; it was from Ireland that his mother came. But that is all the same, isn’t it, Mademoiselle?” “Not all the people of Ireland think so,” said Consuelo, smiling a little. “L wonder if the handsome Comte de Crevecoeur ever saw the beautiful nun before she died, or disappeared?” “It is-very likely, for about three years ago he came, and then stopped on for months at the Chateau, where he had nobody but the old caretaker and his wife look after him. People thought that a marriage would be-ar-ranged between him and the great heiress of the neighbourhood. Mademoiselle Bernard, which would have been a very good thing for both sides; but it seemed to have come to nothing, and the Comte has been absent on diplomatic service, they say. in Egypt, or Russia, or somewhere in the East, for a very long time now.” Consuelo’s heart had been beating fast, as she listened to this rambling .story. Never until she searched 1 lie guide books for detail of the country of Our Eady of Tears had she seen or heard the name of Crevecoeur; but now she caught at it eagerly, as a possible clue in the unravelling of her mystery. She asked the woman of the laiterie no more questions, but looking at her watch said that she would go to see the church, as now it would be open. There were several objects of great interest to be seen in the church, but Consuelo scarcely noticed them, though she had to pretend appreciation. "When the tour of the old building was over, she asked the lay sister who had been her guide, to accept ton francs for the poor. She would like, she said, to visit the convent if she might do so. Was it permitted? The wing occupied by the pupils was shown, she was told, not the convent itself. But even this was something, and Consuelo said she would be glad to see what she could.

Iler efforts, while following a blackrobed guide through white dormitories ami long corridors, were not substantially rewarded, however. When she assured the nun that she was a connection of Sister Veronica, ami begged an opportunity of talking of her with the Mother Superior she was gently refus <l. The mother had been called upon to give a written affidavit, concerning that sister’s death, for still it was considered that she was dead to the convent. Nothing was known except that Sister Veronica had gone away, and broken her vows; therefore nothing remained to say. and the Mother Superior, having complied with all the demands justified l»y the law, had already more Ilian once ■had occasion to refflsp interviews on this distasteful subject.

Consuelo took refuge in apologies, alleging her natural interest in a relative, and gave so generously to the charities

n of the convent that the sister’s annoyance softened into gratitude. At the laiterie there was nothing more to do. save to pick up the camera and sketch hook, and play at drinking another glass of milk. By this time it was the luncheon hour, and the chateau was not open to visitors in the afternoon until two o'clock. Promptly at the stroke of two, Consuelo stood at a little door cut in allot her huge door, which closed an archway protecting a drawbridge. A little brown old man in a faded livery opened it when she had pulled a jangling bell, looked anxiously round to see if there were others wishing to view the castle, and spying a couple of tourists in the distance, waited to make sure whether fhey were candidates. They had been in the morning, however, and recogirsing their faces, as they paused to take snapshots while (he sun turned the old stone walls of the chateau to gold, he visibly lost interest in them. Mademoiselle and her maid, whom she had brought this time, were bidden to enter, and tin* two visitors were gravely shown first through the ruinous portion of the castle, then through the part, which had escaped destructin. It was a wonderful old house, with battlemented towers, apertures for pouring molten lead on the heads of besiegers; a throne room for dispensing justice: oubliettes, secret, stairways in the wall, and dismal underground dungeons. Consuelo and Hammond saw everything conscientiously, and the girl to whom this sort of thing was absolutely novel, would have felt deeply interested. had her whole being not been absorbed in the business which had brought her. “Have we seen the whoY» castle now?” she asked, when they had visited several habitable rooms, and come out again into a great hall rich with faded tapestry and armour. “You have seen everything, mademoiselle. except the bedroom ami sit-ting-room used by my master Comte de

Crevecoeur, when lie visits here.” explained the old man. “Those are not shown to the public.’* “Is hr at the Chateau now?” the girl inquired, with forced indifference. “No, mademoiselle.” “1 hen. could you not break your rule for once, ami let us see those rooms? It is only us two, you know: it isn’t like taking in a crowd. 1 am certain that the Comte's rooms must he the mosi interesting of all." As Consuelo spoke, she took two gold pieces from her purse, triflng with them in sinh a way that the old guardian could not help being aware that each was a louis. His face, which had been hard with the definite intention of refusing, softened into wistfulness. “Surely your master would not object.” Consuelo pleaded. “But my instructions arc always to be prepared to see him arrive, at any moment, without warning.” the man objected, visibly weakening.” “You have your wife with you, have you not?” suggested the girl. “Let. her keep the door, and come to lot you know, or ring some bell, if the Comte should arrive while we are taking just one quick glance at his room which it is the most unlikely thing in the world for him to do.” "Wait in the hall. here, if you please, for a few moments then.” said the guardian. “1. will go and consult with her.” He hobbled away: and in the dead silence of the vast stone vault which lie called a hall, it seemed to the girl that she could hear the beating of her own heart.

(To be Concluded.)