NOVEL

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 347, 1 January 1903, Page 2

NOVEL

CHAPTER VIIX- (Continued.) ' What put that into your head ?' he naked, with assumed surprise. However wroth he might feel with Clarice, he did not desire to give her name into Emily's power. 'He'd only get on his overcoat because he's a weak chest.' ' Do yon know him then ?' 'Yes. I've met him about.' ' Who is he, and what is hie name V 'Oh—Smith! He's nobody in particular—something in the City. I fancy,' he replied, nod Emily was too obtuse to see that he was inventing. 'I am afraid your , next partner will be looking for you,' he observed, presently, taking a turn in the path that led towards the house. •The next is a waits; lam not going to dance it'—sweetly and suggestively, ' Bat perhaps yon are engaged for it ?' 'Well, I'm very much afraid I ami' endeavouring to force a tone of regret. •And if you are not going to dance it, small doubt that some one—the fortunate and favoured some one—is waiting to sit it out with you! lam afraid someone will be wanting to punch my head if he doesn't find you.' ' Oh,' she murmured, deprecatingly, ' 1 don't think he would mind me walking with such an old friend.' Bat if he did not mind if, Gerard did. He did not wish to miss the next dance; it was with Clarice —althouith he would not confine ss much to Emily. Having restored that fair damsel to her fiance, who was, as he had anticipated, looking for her, he looked round himself in search of Clarice. He did not see her in the danoirg-room.. • He looked into the refreshment room; she was not there, nor in the library. He was not surprised, as unless she had ended that tete-a-tete in the garden very quickly, she could hardly have been already back in the house to which he and Emily had but just returned. He would not ask any mutual friends whether they had seen her, not desiring to set attention or inquiry on her track. He was not left fang to himself to look for ber; as assistant host he was in great demand. First his auat wanted to speak to him; then Nettie claimed his attention ; so that the waltz had well begun, and the room was well filled with whirling couples, before he found himself free to take his way back to the garden unobserved. He bad not to ga so far, however, for in the hall on his way out he encountered Clarice coming in,* with a successfully casual air of joat sauntering from ruom to room. ' This is our dance, Miss Hamilton,' he observed, endeavouring to banish any shade of reproach or significance from his' tone. •I am sorry!' ske answered apologetically. 'I am afraid lam a little late. I was rather warm and tired, and was taking a turn in the garden.' 'Perhaps you are too tired to dance f* he replied considerately. • Oh, no, not at all. lam quite cooled and rested,' said Clarice, who perhaps f sit that just at that moment she would rather dance than talk—especially to Gerard Onslow. This second waltz was strangely different from the first one they had enjoyed earlier on that memorable evening. Then it had seemed that the very mystery surrounding their strange first meeting lent a certain charm and glamour to their relations; he had felt that the sense of a secret, although he knew not what that secret was, acted in some subtle way as a link between them, drawing them together. Now it was as a barrier shutting them apart. Emily's soft purring words,, her light laughing suggestion?, rankled in his mind. His arm waa round Clarice again, her hand resting in his, their steps falling in harmony aa before; yet this time it was no glimpse of Paradise, the gates of Eden were abut and barred. Between them rose the shadow of the man with whom she had been holding earnest lew-toned converse in that lonely and remote corner of the garden—that man who waa a stranger, ne invited guest, an intruder— Gerard felt sura of that, even more sure than the evidence warranted—and all that should have been eweet in these moments with Clarice waa turned to bitterness in his teart The dance over, he proposed that they should' cool off *in the garden, and apparently t iking her consent for granted, left her hardly any chance or demur. He was vaguely conscious of some unexpressed reluctance and luibarrasament on her part, and he wilfully and determinedly ignored any faint tendency to hesitation in her as he led her in thu direction of the path where he and Emily Diapier had interrupted the tete-a-tete between her and the strasger. Doubt, jealousy, suspicion, resentment of his own feeling in a matter which, he told birrtelf almost savagtlv, was ne conoe n nor interest of his, all combined to to raite a new spirit in him, or rather perhaps to waken a self that had hitherto lain dormant, unknown to him. No man knows the under-self that sleeps in him until some sudden turn of feeling lays it

[NOW PtRSt PUBLISHED.] " The Mystery ol A Moonlight Tryst, By Iza Duffus Hardy, . Aatiior of * MacGileroy's Millions,' &0., &a.

ALL BIGHTS RESERVED. bare. It was to Gerard Onslow now as if he came unexpectedly upon a hidden self that was a stranger to the self he had known all his life. He half-recoiled from this strange self, and yet for the hour it rose up and possessed.him. - It was with difficulty, during the -waltz, that he had restrained himself from pressing Clarice in a half fierce, half passionate clasp. He had mastered the impulse, but there was a moment at the close of the dance, before he dropped his arm from her waist, when it had almost mastered him. And bow, the very suspicion of reluctance and shrinking on her part only strengthened Mb determination to draw her in the direction of the very spot which he felt instinctively she desired to avoid. What had come to him, as a rule the soul of gentleness, courtesy, and consideration to all -women, that bow he took an angry pleasure in thwarting inclination in her of which he was intuitively aware ? ' Shall *e hear the next dance begin P' she suggested, as he led her farther into the lonelier parts of the garden. ' Yes, we shall hear it well enough, if we're not too deeply absorbed!' he answered, with a poor attempt at levity. * It's eo pleasant ont here.; don't let us be in a hurry to ko in!' Tney were drawing near the le3fy nook where she had been engaged in conversation with the stranger. * A. cosy corner, im't it ?' he remarked. ■• A place for lovers and lovers only, aa Miss Dampler waa saving jnsi; now.' * Let ua leave is 'or jr*.en fc :, eo' r«i iu9i Claries, \iiih ?tve£ijpt ah SaieTy! " ... 'We did, dida $ Tie?' M'« 3 Dampwc and J, jasfc laagaed. £hat sL-acgv self-wb-om H hjar he srouid, dlsclasro and disown "'. *You did no; linger, co'talnly; .. but no docbS there fchtjre ate oi ! -.er p*eu~.aai; apc'ks she a&weredj still foreleg a " .'iv.a'.ytoao-. '- . . ~" r " :> Pri t ;osa who •quAVik-i I sm-pV-'r'?' i;-M 'jj/rsjr'! bitytng h»s t_ro*» t.o y by th« w'.-kls btu'cw.. -in h*? s. l ><*m«wl w>"S'Jio-vrcu ! s* : .viv-t hc.r. iuo.'T io >- ■■'■■ i'- ■<>_■ ',.;• / I I «Toe ak&jj id •! I h&.i ->;';'? • ■/<> : ■eare cf.Lrcvs.s. ■■, o\b e&wtfc iibucgh V V.A M-.w Dimp *.; i*ci ._ . j. .--• - wlis f .I ,s v'" a m*>.Q«Mi" - but-.ni":9 felt ins las£w:;& "fef?~.kc* ' Wiry did y' l» •- - < h* •s>t ,,: 6=.0 Rshw-,' after tna* moaiVii.'.?; t>. •^o ' To stop her curiosnj—because bob baft .observed that he, was. not one of,, the guests!' This time he waa aware that- his words had struck Clarice like a'blow, although she collected herself with an eflort and answered rather haughtily, * Why should she, or yon, suppose that he was not ?' •The moonlight w*a bright enough,' be replied. 'I saw tee curiosity oi: tiin daughters of Eve, and I told her I kae-v who he was—though x don't know hiai from Adam!' *lf you meant it kindly,' Clarice rejoined, with a certain reserve and doubt in her tone,' I thank yon.' • ' And if I meant it unkindly ?' She looked at him questioningly for a moment before she replied in a little lower voice, ' I do not know what I have done that you ehould mean or do any unktndnesa to me.' Something in the soft answer touched the angry bitterness at his heart like a gentle hand that soothed and yet' reproached. Her face was fair in the moonlight; he could see that the eyes upturned to his looked dark and sad. Was it his fancy that there was a 'wilfulness as of appeal or reproach in their gaze—that the sweet lips which could smile so winningly, quivered a little.? ' I have spoken as I had no right to speak to you,' he said. * Yet—will you let me ask one thing more, that I have no right—not the smallest right, I know—to ask ?' He paused only a moment, then, taking her hesitancy as consent, inasmuch as she at least did not hasten to forbid him to ask he continued. ' They told me you had no brother except the one I have seen with you. Is that the case ? ' I have ne brother bnt George, whom you have seen,' she answered in a low reluctant voice. 'And I am not to ask you anything more ?' 'No. Please do not!' He knew that she must know the question he would have put. If she had no other brother, who was the >man she dared only meet in the secrecy and the shadows ef night? Her sealing the question uuuttered on hits lips could bear but one interpretation. His lower self, maddened by jealousy, strove to get the ascendancy again: it cost him a struggle to keep it down. In the silence as he fought with it, she looked at him anxiously. 'You will not —say anything,' the ventured, half appealingly, half trustf illy, 'not to me or to—anyone else V Toat simple appeal struck the last blow in the battle. - Have I behaved like such a brute that you need ask me that ?' he rejoined im

I puisively. 'l'd be torn'by red-hot pincer-1 J sooner than say one wor4l* Don't you know that? Yet how should you know it ? I don't know what has possessed me to-night; I have spoken unwarrantably, unpardonably to* you. Can you" forgive meP Canyon trust me?'; *"X es, I think I can trust y0u.*6.6: i Im 'Think P Have I behaved so then that you can't be sure P' 'I did not mean to doubt/ she said, gently. * I will. Ido trust you.' It seemed to him that he had never heard words or voice so sweet. ;.t ""'''And if. I can help.you—Bverr«-in.any, way,' he urged, catching her hand' in his 1 almost involuntarily,' will you promise to let.me know —to let me dp anything—everything I can for you P' ■ ) f. 'lf ever yon can!' she repeated. Was it a promise or a question P 'But .it is p.ot likely there ever will be anything.' ' Even the poor mouse could at least gnaw a hole in the net for the lion,' he rejoined. ' And might it not be that some day, in some little thing, I may have the mouse's privilege ?' : ; ; * Well, if ever the day comes,' she murmured, yet as if half-reluctantly. * You promise it then ? SY6U trust me' the hand he still held close-clasped in his, as they were about to" turn int» the broader walk that led towards the house. No one else had sought this solitary path; they were all alone in the deep shadows of l the over-arching trees, and the hand he pressed seemed only half-reluctant to linger in his clasp. . His usual cool seirposßession, shaken several times this evening, suddenly and utterly broke down.' He forgot the past hour and the hour to come—forgot ali the world beyond, this moment that they two were together alone in Ihe silenca and the shadows. He threw his arm round her waist and held her in a close embrace. ' Seal the compact!' he whispered passu nately. ' One—just one!' bending hia head to hers.. Ha nad taken the one kiss before he fully realised her attempt to realease herself from his arms—an attempt which was perhaps more of startled shrinking than resentment. The next mr ment, as he recognised her endeavour t j free herself and turn her face from his, a sense of shame rushed over him like a wave that quenched the moment's impulse cf passion. ' I beg your pardon 1' he said, coming to himself, hastily letting her fro and drawbar back. Instinctively, unconsciously, she put her hands as if to hide her face, although in the shade of the trees it could be bat dimly seen. Was it his fancy that the hands trembled a little, that the Blender figure " swayed as she moved hurriedly away from him ? 7 'Forgive me!' he urged. 'I didn't mean. I lost my head for the moment. I shall never forgive myself if I have offended you!' following her as she quickly turned into t.e broad path leading to the house. She had dropped her hands from her face.' In the moonlight now he saw, or fancied, that it looked pale and- agitated; but she' said not a word. 'I am unutterably ashamed of myself,' he went on, after waiting a few moments, that seemed to him like an hour, for her to speak. - And he said no more than the truth. He was ashamed that he, Gerard Onslow, should have degraded himself to ask a kiss as though it were a priee of silenceto set a value on his faith, make a bargain of his honour! He had put himself in the contemptible position of seeming to take advantage of a woman's secret; 'into which he had intruded by no will or consent of hers.. 'lt was a moment's madness,' he pleaded, as he had never stooped to plead to man or woman before. ' Won't you forjret it, blot it out of your mini ?' ;f?.ss ' Yes,' she said in a low voice, I will, forget. Let U3 forget;?' But this was far more easily, said than done.' Clarice plunged into hasty com--mcnplaces, about the dance and the music, as they re-entered the house; but, "eSmriaSly as she controlled herself, she k&a at heart strangely stirred up by this episodej it s??mjsd the~4as4 straw on the buTibp-a of.'anxiesy she mu6t bear alone. 'That Gerard. 0-3>ilow knew so much, and yet fcbst he mf.ss.fc^ow.mi* more, that she must trust bin; [thus far',' and dared not couAue iahiai la.rfi/ioi 1 , this was disturbing enough; yftrdeepar rankled the sting cf the idea, thali he migat '. have thought, ■uv. ■- ftesurisd 'io h;d reason to think that « <? ■. is oat? o? i'-if wifco. whom a ~,.„ , ..,! ,\- .■•■,- > r t ,- 0 :o'p-c- unae tr> ,; o-get '.■•". •'!';» r.f VfVHc r ;, wbila S'.iiX ia her ht> jT ■,f.&i.Or tb at what h*A himself 6a' ■i » ~v»:>>.,;:■''••, .n". I ' i»'i d.d 2 >(■ mt&u fc-i-'c ?.?"-?i had '■■ '.■'--:'' i' i r>' wii**; w« due [j.feii v-tlnd '-'j ..•n.xM '<:<■, vim. Ob fcast he rei?. u'nd h~m-.i x .(.;. -.?«v'ie7Eed to ? rqe*. -I»ut iz-'d aid .--1; '.oi:- —3av could not •.ft —*o a-ow !\!::s 1? to dwell on ttiese "'.sv u;.->i - ; -, £i'iH ,v. : 4 ;g ; nk what sae etvutu ei«.y to Hirotd Frajne before that evening closed. Sh.9 was still of opinion that the only ritrht and reasonable course was that which she had already suggested, that Agnes should confide to her uncle her desire to see Clarice. Bat still, as Fravne seemed so sure that this 'was just waat Agnes, in her state of nervosis weakness and depression, would not d>, Clarice was now inclined to think —place, and only sijce, that interview in tbe »ardeh—that perhaps on the whole it might it might t>3 best for her to see Agnes, with or without Sir Henry's leave or knowledge, for once and only once, and judge for herself of Agnes's physical and mental condition. Yet she shrank from the interview, even apart from her reluctance to consent to any clandestine meeting, her scruplss at ; running counter to the wishes of Agnes's relatives. How could she see and speak to Agnes-without the danger of betraying what it would b? madness to let Agnes suspact ? Yet on the other hand, was it not necessary now that she should be able to speak with the authority of her own personal observation of Ai?nes, to one who'a urgency would not be easily pacified P . In the painful position in which see now found herself placed, as it wero between two fires, it seemed to b only a question of the choice of tbe lesser evil. So when opportunity efferod of a few more words apart with Harold Frayne, she approached the subject which he wmld perhaps scarcely have vontured to intr duce again-. (To be continued.)