NOVEL

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 351, 29 January 1903, Page 2

NOVEL

CHAPTER XX—(Continued.) * Harry, Harry/ in a sort of wild panting whisper, as the clasp of bis hands brought with a sudden shock the sense of reality to her bewildered brain, *is it you—is it you, indeed P Oh, it cannot be you! How could I live and know that you are here?* 'Do not agitate yourself; do not be frightened,' ha pleaded. 'There is no need. Agnes, do not make me feel myself a brute, a selfish scoundrel, for having sought you. My longing to look upon your face once more is no excuse for me if the sight of me is—is more than you can bf ar.' 'Than I—can—bear,' she echoed •lowly, questioning!?. ' Oh, Harry!' her voice broke in a long wailing sigh, ' have let borne enough V 'My poor girl, you have suffered—l can feel how much, Agnes. I'd have gives my life for your happiness, and all I've done for you is to br«ak your heart and wreck your life!' 'My life!* she echoed in a strained whisper, as though she felt that if she raised her voice she must shriek. 'My Ufa I Bat what have you done with your own? And all through me—through ma?* ' Ho, no, Agnes, not through you !* ' Oh, is this real ? Is it true ? Oh, I was mad I' she gasped, tearing her hands from his to press them to her head. ' I thought it was a happy dream, and it is cruel truth! Ton are here—oh why, why have you dared ? Go-go—at once, far, far away! Any moment you might be ■■ ■' She caught her breath with a gasping shudder of terror and wrung her hands

'Don't, don't frighten yourself,' he pleaded, half distraught at sight of her anguish. * I am safe enough. No one knows me here. lam not under my own name. I have this neighbourhood on Thursday. Believe me, my poor love, there is no cause for alarm.* But she was pst being comforted by his well-meant assurances. 'Every moment here is danger— destruction.' she gasped. ' And all my douw, all! It zests on me—on me that you are exiled, outlawed—you!' ' I tell you no, a thousand times no!' he protested. 'lt was my madness, no fault of yours, poor child! But I see my presence distresses you. I will leave you now. Do not fret your tender heart with terror en my behalf; I tell you lam in no danger, But I nill not linger to keep you in alarm. I have seen yon. I will go. Good-bye!' 'Good-bye,' she breathed in a faint hollow murmur. She stood still as a statue as he clasped the hands she made no movement now to offer—the little icecold trembling hands. She let them lie unresistingly, unresponsively, in his. 'Good-bye, Agnes,' he said, huskily. As she felt bis chap of her hands relax a stiflad cry broke from her lips 'Oh, Harry t forgive me Cef .re you go! I have been ycur ruin! On, let ma hear you say that you forgive me!* with a sodden movement she sank, powerlessly sinking, half passionately pleading, at his feet—only for a moment, for 6ven as she rank he caught her and raised her up, passionately-pressing to his heart once mote the fragile half-fainting form he had never thought to clasp agiin, exclaiming in impetuous protest. * Ague B—Agnes, do you talk of forgiveness? my poor martyred angel! I have nothing to torsive you—and you have all to pardon me!' Per one wild moment she yielded to his embrace; her head lay unresistingly on hia shoulder, she clung to him half unconsciously, then writhed herself free from his clasp. * Oh, why can't I die ?' she cried in a sort of moan, and in the whirl of anguish, aa paet and present hurtled each other iu » shock too violent for hpr frail frame to bear, her over-strained strength snapped suddenly, a meiciful unconsciousness came over her, and she fell helpless, senseless, ia his arms. He placed her on the bench and bent over her, anxiously calling h er by name and chafing and kiising the cold hands that did not tremble now. Toi-ylaysj cold and pulseless ia hia, and as he raised her up her head fell back passively over his arm Had the spark of her frail life flickered out in the stress cf that moment's anguish? 'My darling, my pocr lost love!* he murmured, passionately, ■ have I killed you too?" He grew seriously anea&y aa she showed ■o sign of returning consciousness. He dared not leave her lying insensible there, he dared not go to the home for hep. A", last—it seemed to him after

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.]

The Mystery oi A Moonlight Tryst,

By Iza Duffus Hardy, Author of '.MacGileroy's Million 3.' &z ., AVj.

[ALL BIGHTS BESEBYED.

many minutes, though probably only a few had elapsed—he was slightly re-assured by a faint movement, a low sighing breath, that life was there, though still she showed no consciousness, gave no answer to his appeals to speak to him, to rouse herself. What could he do for her ? He had no restoratives which might be necessary for her. Could he carry her towards the house—ring a bell or call for help, and beat a hasty retreat ? The idea was madnese—and yet—while he pondered, casting a glance in the direction of tke house, he caught sight of a figure approaching across the grass—a woman's figure, no black shadowy ghostly form of mourning this time, but a light figure gleaming white in the moonlight, gliding slowly, and turning her head as if casting seeking glances around her. Did she see him—and Agnes ? In another minute he perceived by her bending h«T steps in their direction that she did. He was still supporting Agnes's passive head on his arm, holding her unconscious hand that rested unknowing in his clasp. As the graceful form in the light dresß came near, he placed Agnes tenderly back on the seat and tcok a step to meet her 'She has fainted,' he said, hurriedly. ' Will you look after her ?' Emily Dampier looked at him in amazement. A stranger ! (she did not recognise the figure she had seen for a moment at the Obslows' party) a stranga man here alone with Agnes, and Agnes fainting! With an exclamation < f sympathy and anxiety she hastened to bend over Agnes, asking ' what was the matter ? and what could she do ?' But Agnes was deaf to her appeals; although reviving slowly from her first Jeath-like insensibility, she wai only returning lingeringly to consciousness, with the faint moaning Bighs and labouring- breath with the reluctant soul seems always to be struggling dragged back to its prisoD.

Emily, who had not much nerve in emergency, grew even more alarmed than Harry, and whea be said to her anxiously, 'Will you go for help?' she was quite ready to go; she much preferred the role of seeking assistance to sanding him for it and staying alone with the invalid whose condition frightened her. She went willingly towards the house, and as ill-luck would have it the first person she met was Jack Thorold, who in fact, having some minutes before caught sight of her light dress gleamißg across the lawn, had strolled in her wake, following her, as she, hearing from one of the maids of whom she bad made inquiries that Mrs Thorold had gone in the garden, had followed in search of Agnes. Thorold threw away his cigar with an exclamation of pleased recognition and feigned surprise as Emily hurried towards him, surprise which soon developed into startled interest as Emily teld her tale, which we may be sure lost nothing in the telling. But when they reached the rustic beech, Agnes lay there alone. Had Thyroid's voice a somewhat easily recognisable, deep, hareh voice, reached the ears oi the other watcher whom Emily had left bending eo tenderly over Agnes ? Why he has gone,' she said, casting a surprised glance around. * Who was Ve ?' Thor Id inquired almost sharply. 'I don't know—a stranger—some one I had never seen before. He was in a great state of anxiety about her, hanging over her and holding her hands. I can't imagine who he could be or how he got here. Is she very ill ? What shall we dj ?' she appealed to him as they stood together by Agnes's side. *lt i* only a fainting fit,' be said, look, ing at her critically, taking her hand and feeling her pulse. * She is coming to all right. But the man ?' 'Oh, Mr Thorold. you make me feel quite frightened!' Emily drew closer t) him in pathetic helplessness. 'Oh, do you think he was a robber or a murderer ?' ' Yes, I think he was/ Baid Thorold, with a sinister tone in the deep harsh voice. *No robber, but a' murderer !'

CHAPTER XII. Alttcugh a whisper tf Mrs Thorold's indisposition, in the mild form of a report that she had been taken faint, reached the guests at the dinner party, no idea cf the circumstances or cause of her attack kaked out, and the Onslows. who took their leave amongst the earliest of the departing guests, left without any knowledge of the scene that had transpired in the garden. They had indeed a matter of interest nearer home than the transient indispoaiti n of a strang r. Gerard had only the previous day received a letter from a friend who was on the eve of departure for South Africa with a small

and select band of comrades, ur t ing Gerard to join the little company on adventure and fortune-seeking bent, whose prospects he described in (flowing terms. Now it it had not been for the 1 avoc a woman's eyes, a woman's voice, the touch of a woman's hand, had worked in his heart of late, Gerard Onslow would certainly never have thought of turning bis back again so soon upon his native land to which he had but a few weeks ago returned. Bat under the circumstances he was inclined to lend a not unwilling ear to his friend's invitation.

He was moody and out of sorts, irked by t v e endeavour to conceal from othera the feelings he could ne longer hide from him* self. Even his aunt and cousin, kindly and sympathetic, bat not as a rule over keen-mghted, perceived that something bad disturbed hie usual easy-going equanimity. He was indeed tossed to and fro on t e waves of conflicting feelings, sometimes carried away by a kind of passionate pity for the poor, imprudent girl thus involved in saeh a disastrous entanglement, then by as passionate a resentment and contempt of his own compassion, anon stung by maddening cariosity as to who and what was this man, this common conjuror, with whom a girl like Clarice Hamilton, tbe seeming soul cf refinement and delicacy, was involved ? then again angry with himself for being curious in such n matter. What could it matter to him ? he asked himself impatiently, bitterly. The girl was, could be, must be, nothing to him. What could it matter who was the man with whom she was linked in some strange secret understanding P Until since that day at the circus he had not realised how much he owed, nor how much be had dared to hope. He had known from the first moment of their meeting that the tryst she kept was made with some other man, but of late he had begun in his secret heart to nurture th€> dream of a hope that somo explanation of that mystery might yet set his mind at' peace; iaeas of possible elucidations of the riddle had begun to flit mistily through his mind. If he had not been too much in love to reason, he would have recognised the fact that, given what he knew, had known all along—that she had a clandestine understanding and communication with some other man—the eocial rank and status of that man set her neither further from nor nearer to himself; bis own position in relation to her was neither better nor worse than before. But love and logic never yet went well in harness together: the recognition of ' that fellow' at the Circus had brought about a revolution in his mind, bad forced him to acknowledge both that he was .'hard hit' and that it was* no use'—only a hopeless erase that he must get over, and the getting-over process could be more easily and satisfactorily achieved far away than near. In the first mood of bitterness he Lad declared to himself that he would never call at the Hamiltcns'again; what was the use? But the impulses of such moods have their ebb and flow as surely as the tides, and he called at Moss Bank House probably just as soon as if he had never recognised the voice and figure of the Masked Wizard, and that was the very day after Sir Henry Hinchcliffe's dinner party. He was fortunate enough to find Miss Hamilton alone, which was a rare occurrence. She was evidently not expecting anyone; she glanced round and rose up as if half startled at his entrance; he noticed that she looked pale, and, he thought, disturbed; the corners of her sweet mouth had a pathetic droop, and he fancied there was a suspicious moisture shining about her eyes. 'I hope I'm not;disturbing you P' he said. 'Oh, not at all. I was, as you see, doing nothing/ she assured him with a faint smile, which lacked her usual brightness.

•Are you—aren't you wall?' he ventured to ask.

, Yeß,.thank yon, quite well.' ' You look aa if—almoßt Ss if you had been crying?' He hazarded this daring suggestion with the abruptness of surmounted hesitation, and with an involuntary betrayal of solicitude which perhaps was what prevented her from receiving it with the rebuff he could not but be conscious it deserved. Instead of snubbing him, she even smiled again, half sadly, but not repellantly, as she admitted—' ' Perhaps I have. Gerard mentally invoked something that was not a blessing on the head of the unknown. Impatient with limself for his weakness, vainly angry at the tender feelings of yearning pity, and something more, that swelled his heart, he turned from her and walked hastily across the room and back. Clarice glanced after him with some surprise. 'Do I intrude ? Do you mind my being here ?' he asked, returning to her. side and looking at her with a new and searching earnestness.

'No, indeed,' she answered. 'lam very glad to see you,' she spoke as if the assurance were not merely a form. ' I have only come to-day to say goodbye,' he added abruptly, after a pause, ' I'm going up to town to-morrow, and then probably to South Africa.' • To South Africa ?' she echoed, looking up as if started, and not pleasantly startled. * Why, you have only just c :me back from Ceylon 1' 'Yes, but I am off again. I always meant to go some time. I'm one of the wanderers on the face of the earth, you know, here to-day and gone te-morrow.' * It seems a very short time you have stayed at home,' she observed with a sort of effort, and with downcast eyes. ' Short ? yes, not too long for me,' he rejoined, 'it's best for m 3 to ba off at once,'

' Why t* she asked, lo'king tip with something more than the casual interest of a mere acquaintance. * Would you like to know ?' he rojoined with a touch of bitterness. • It's rather an amufing reason—something to make you laugh. It's because if I stayed here I should—l should—get too much interest—in fact lam too much interested—in a girl who can't care for me.' * You are sure she can't P' her sensitive colour changing a little, her eyes still downcast. * You—you have—have you—asked her ?' * No. What would be the use ? I've too good reascn to think—to know—that she cares for somebody else. I suppose even a woman's heart would scarcely be elastic enough to care for two at once, with any—feeling—worthy the name, and I wouldn't stoop to take half a dividid heart, even if I'd the chance here, which I know I've not' (To be continued.)