NOVEL

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 348, 8 January 1903, Page 2

NOVEL

CHAPTER Vni.—(Continued.) •Will you, when you have a chance/ she began, ■ give my love to Agnes V * I willl' he promised, promptly. ' And —is there nothing else that 1 may say to her?* he added, noticing a scrt of suggestive hesitation in Clarice's manner. •And I will—think over what—what you were saying.' *Dobo ! And I hope your thinking it over will lead to your feeling yourself able to gratify her wish/ he urged earnestly. Clarice hesitated still. She knew she must appear to him vacillating and irresolute, as he, knowing nothing of the secret meeting in the garden, had no cause to suspect any reason for her changing her mind. She hated the talse position into which she was forced, yet paramount above her personal feelings rose Iter anxiety on behalf of others. Confused between conflicting claims, she committed herself hastily, on the impulse of the moment.

' I am going to lunch with Mrs. Gammill to-morrow,' she said, is a lowered voice. ' I shall probably walk home afterwards through the wood, by tie WishingWellpath. If—if ' 'lf I can bring Mis. Thorold for a, stroll that way,' he said, eagerly catching at the hint,' nothißg conid be better!' >* "i 'Or worse!* Clarice's lips formed the » words, involuntarily, below her breath. 'lt just falls out conveniently,' he continued, his dark eyes kindling with the thought of gratifying Agnes's whim. ' SisHenry and Mrs. De Champion are going oat all the afternoon, I believe. It will be a good opportunity to try and get Mrs. Thorold out for a wal* or a drive. I think it would b j too far for her to walk there, but she could just stroll through the wood across by the Wishing-Well, About wt at time are you likely t - be there ?" 'About five o'clock, I suppose,' said Clarice, reluctantly, half inclined to draw back, yet feeling as if she had burnt her ships behind her already. Of course, as she perceived when thinking the matter over afterwaids, she was rot compelled to keep the tacitly appointed tryst. It was in her power to change her plans, to leave the Gammills' later or earlier, or to go home by the other road. But rash and injudicious as the arrangement undeniably waa, she made up her mind that on the whole it was better for her to abide by it than to break it. She had but little time to think of herself or h*r rwn personal feelings; but that night when she was alc-ne, as she stood before the glsss, taking the flowers from her hair, the thought of Gera d Onslow and of his changed and strange manner during their interview in the garden, rose in her mind. If it had not been cr the family sorrow that had clouded her youth, and never lowered more darkly over her horizon than now, she might have been as other fair women, fair and young as she; might have dreamt their dreams and hoped their hopes! Even as it was, she drifted into musing over the meaning of his manner. She wondered and sighed as she wondered; then as instinct guided her to interpretation, a faint tremulous smile quivered round her lips. But the question, what would be, whom Fate or Chance had forced into such close contact with the secret that was yet unknown to him, think of her, rankled deeper than before in her heait; the thought of him mingled with that anxiety for the morrow which held her from her sleep • Harold Frayne's rest was broken, too, as he faced the difficulties of the position into which he had not been forced but had deliberately placed himself—broken by doubt whether the course he had planned was wise or right—ray, more tlan doubt, by the almost certainty that it was neither, involving aa it did what was practically a betrayal of the confidence of' his host and friend. But troubled and doubtful though he was, he was not as deeply discontented and ashamed of himself that night as waa Gerard Onslow, recalling that moment of madness in the garden, wondering, had Clarice indeed forgiven? CHAITEB IX The Wiahing-Wtfll in the bright afternoon sunlight looked a more cheeiful and suitable place for a tryst than it had seemed on trat seormy night, when Gerard Onslow had met the wrong woman and found himself ths wron ; man, at the ipr-oinr-i d hour and place. B it Clarice Hamilton wosld have felt stoim and shadow more fitting to her mood than sunshine this summer afternoon, as she lingered there with bestinit heart and a carefully casual air, lest any cLerce passer-by should come upon her uscxpeuedly and suspect that she had

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] The Mystery oi A Moonlight Tryst,

By Iza Duffus Hardy, Auttor of «MacGileroy'a Millions,' Ac. &o.

[ALL BIGHTS EESEBVED.

been waiting for anyone. For this meeting most have as much a3 possible the appearance of accidont. She had hardly been more nervous when she stole through the darkness to meet Harry—poor Harry, who had been unable to keep the tryst!— than she was now at the thought of seeing Agnes Thorold, with tfae secret at her heart that she must keep from htr, unless Agnes, either by any strange and unlucky chance/ suspected already, or else proved herself stronger than Clarica dared to hope. The shafts of sunshine pierced between the canopy of leaves and danced in dazzling motes on the mossy ground at ber feet, as she lingered there, half-noping, half-fearing that Harold Frayne's plan might prove a failure and Agnes might not come. As the moments wore away and she waited still, she felt more and more that now she had nerved herself for the interview it would be a pity if she wai f ed in vain ; and just as she began to realise that the doubt was more disappointment than relief, she caught siglt of the two figures for which she was watching approaching. "She hardly cast a glance at Harold Frayne, her t yes fixed at once on the frail and slender form of the biact-iobed woman by his side. How pale, how frail poor Agnes looked ! —unfit indeed to bear the wrench of the recall of old associations, and still less fit for the shock of sudden and alarming news, tfee strain of new suspense! Clarice controlled the natural expressions of sympathy and compassion that filled her heart and rose to her lips, and endeavoured to frame her greeting as if they had parted on ordinary friendly terms a few days or weeks ago, as she clasped Agnes's trembling hand and ' met the kalf-shriniing, half-appealing look of the great blue eyes, the pitiful attempt at a smi'e, with which Agnes seconded her friend's essay at calmness. Frayne glanced anxiously from one to the other, apprehensive of the effect this meeting might have upon Agnes. 'Mrs. Thorold thought she would like to walk through the wood, as it was such a fine afternoon/ he observed, with the assumption of casnality that seemed to him discreet. 'Tho boy is taking the chaise round by the road.' ' Yes, even if one is not very strong, a little walk does one good in such bright weather/ said Clarice, also seeking refuge in commonplace, to relieve the strain of the situation, set Agnes at her ease, and give her time to compose herself. ' Would you like to sit down here, Agnes dear, and rest a little while ? It iB so pleasant and cool in the shade/

Agnes looked at the mossy stone bench in the ruined temple, as if inclined to adopt Clarice's suggestion. 'Well, perhap 3 I had better walk on, and—er—er—see if the bov's bringing the chaise round all right,'* said Frayne. reluctantly floundering about for an excuse for leaving the two women alone, as he imagined would be Agnes' wish. Neither of them made any attempt to detain him, and he went, reluctantly enough, but obedient to his liege lady's least desire. 'I am glad to see you, dear Agnes,' said Clarice, when they were left alone * And are you—are you—pretty well ?' I; Eeemed such a mockery to a3k if Agnes were well. 'I hope the air here agrees with you ?' 'As well as any other place. You see I go on living—somehow—l don't know why, or how 1' ' No, we do not know why we live or why we die! But ' Clarice hesitated; it wa3 on her lips to add,' but God knows,' only she shrank sensitively from even seeming to 'preach patience to a boul upon the rack!' There was a pause; both of them felt the constraint of their position, hemmed in as they were by things they must not say. Presently Agnes broke a silence which had hardly lasted long enough to become embarrassing. ' I did not know you lived here. Have you lived here long ?' ' About a year.' • My uncle, Sir Heary, did not know you lived here ?' It seemed as much an interrogation as an assertion. 'No, I suppose he did not. Perhaps he would not have chosen the place if he had known,' observed Clarice, venturing a little farther along the line Agnes' words seemed to open up. " Perhaps not. But after all, what can it matter?' with a sort o* weary indifference. ' Na, of course it can't matter at all!' Clarice hastened to assent. ' And there is a great attraction for Sir Henry nere, as we know,' she added, tentatively, thiukicg Agues might be sympathetically interested in her uncle's matrimonial prospects.

' Miss Dampier P Yes!' said 4 Agne ß » but with lukewarm sympathy barely a degree remored from indifference. ' 'Do you know her f 'Not very intimately. Juat aa all people about here know each, 'other, neither more nor lees. She is very pretty, and I believe she is very much liked and admired,' she added, with a dutiful desire to give the bride-elect her due. ' Yes, she seems very nice/ said Agnes, listlessly; she did not appear to be sufficiently interested in her uncle's be, trotbal to care to dwell on the subject. * I wanted to see you, Clarice/ Bhe addedhesitatiagly, after a pause. ' And I to see you, dear. I am so glad to have this opportunity.' Agneß looked at her with a half-startled glance. 'Have you anything to tell me, Clarice? Any—-asynews?' . . Her breath caught on the words as if their utterance choked her. Clarice could not meet the full gaze of tbe startled blue dyes that sought her's with the searching eagerness of fear that had nothing to Bay to hope. She could not he to to those eyes, yet she dared not teU Agnes the truth, leßt the terror of the truth might slay. * No, dear; I—l have nothing to tell you/ Bhe replied, exactly echoing Asjnes' own expression. The words were true in letter, but not in tho spirit. ' There is no news P' Agnes preased the question faintly and feverishly. 'No news is tbe best news!' said Clarice, still endeavouring to avoid the lie direct. ' You know, Agnes, dear/she added, tenderly, hesitating as one venturing on dangerous ground, ' we must never allow ourselves to—to wish for any news of—any thought of—return.' *To wish!' Agnes repeated the word shuddering. 'To wish for what is my haunting terror night and day! Clarice, tell me—is he abroad—out of reach—saf ?'

• I hope so/faltered Clarice. ' Does he communicate with yon ?' ' No—at least, very seldom, hardly ever. You know it would not be safe; letters might be seen; one must be cautious. It is best and safest there should be no communication/ she finished more decidedly, realising the peril of hesitation and beating about the bush, 'I thought chat if anyone knew, you .fould know—that you might be able to assure me.' 'To assure jv j that there is no cause for alarm ? Yes, dear; I can assure you of that.' , And—he is abroad P' ' His last letter was dated from Mexico; but that letter was—not very lately—some time ago/ said Clarice, hating herself for the part she felt herself forced to play, and regietting bow that she had ever consented to this meeting. • Mexico ?' repeated Agnes, with something like a faint breath of relief. ' Ah, that is far off I' I « Yes, far off and safe !' rejoined Clarice, nervinsr herself to meet Agnes's eyes with a reassuring look which she felt was little short of perjury. For, oh, if Agnes only knew! ' Agnes, dear,' she went on, seeking to escape further question, ' try to find comfort. I know that we cannot forget, there is no such thing as forgetting, we cannot tear out the pages of the past, ; but we can turn the leaf.' _'How if there is no leaf to turn ? ' Dear/ tenderly, ' you are young still; there may be yet, for you! There is balm in time—and things change.' • Every thought of change brings fresh fear, 'farewell Hope and with Hope farewell Pear,' is no true line to me. I have done with Hope, but I have not done with Fear.'

' Oh, do not fear, dear. All is safe! There is no cause for fear notv,' cried Clarice, her desire to comfort sweeping away all scruples as to the truth of her assurances. « The world is wide—wide enoufc'h for safety!' • You think so, Clarice P' ' Yes, I have faith and hope. There is a world elsewhere. I have hope in the limitness possibilities of the wide-world. Though one sphere is closed, another may open. And in time, in time, old stories fad away and are forgotten; dangers gradually, year by year, die out. Even though we may newer more hope for such a thing as—as a return to this country—we may take up our lives and live them. While life is left to us, there must always be something to live for. Even if we may not look for happiness for ourselves, there must always be something that one can do for others. There are so many who need help,' Bhn ventured, very gently to suggest, and Agnes did not repulse the suggestion. ' Yes,' she said with a ti ' I sometimes see already that there may be soma little ray of comfort to be found along that way. But the way is so dark, and I am only groping—the light is such a flint dim dawn. Thero seems so little one can do. What if I do knit shawls and make flannel petticoats and send out bowls of soup? If I did not, someone else would, and for one I help there are thousands J can't help.' ; Dear Agnes, I feel you are on the right way, and you will find the road will brighten as you go on. A cup of cold water to the thirsty is not wasted. At least the sbawl you knit will help to keep some poor old body warm, the soup will comfort some hunpry soul, a kiud word will cheer some sinking heart.' 'Can I ever hope to cheer others, Clarice—l ?'

• Yes, d*ar, yes 1 By your very Borrow —by the experience of all you have suffered—you will be able to give the sympathy that is help. And in giving solace you will find it!' ' Sometimes I hope s~ —dare to dream that perhaps a day may come when my wrecked atd blighted life may be of some use—when I can take up that broken life and use it as if it were not my own—just a mere instrument in my hand forthe help cf others, and sometimes in that thought I seem drifting into a kind of dull peace, that is more like comfort than anything I ever hoped te know again.' Clarice pressed her hand sympathetically, hopelully, seeing more clearly than did Agnes herself the dawn, distant though it might be, of comfort. ' But tr.en,' Agnes added, before Clarice could speak any encouraging and cheering word, ' when I be>: in to feel that, som>.tbing always happens t; tear open the wound again.' 'Dear Agnes, has it hurt you to sea m • ? L asked Clarice. «Nj,' Agnes answer.d, a little slowly and thoughtfully, 'it is not seeing you, but—Do you know Jack Thorold is c iniug here ?' Clarice looked up, atarblod, and turning pale. (To be continued.)

IN INDIAN HOMES. The young Indian wife of to-day is clean, a fairly good cook and tidy with her house. She is not well versed in the art of decoration, and red and greon aro predominating colours in all of her rooms, whether in harmony or not. Her house has good furniture, hut it is utrangly arranged. The lounge in a favourite piece of furniture, and one sous it ia every Indian household, always in the parlor. If the Indians have a piano or organ it goes into the bedroom. The young buck's boat saddle also goes into the parlor, and in many houses it is hung upon the wall, Red ribbons are tied to everything 1 , even the tail of the cat, for no Indian household is complete without a cat and a dog