NOVEL

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 361, 9 April 1903, Page 2

NOVEL

The next moment she was aware that ■omeone was walking behind her. She turned simply rrund. saw eomething gluten, and instantly she felt herself stabbed in the ches*. Her assailant gave a peculiar lauah—a laugh that the girl herself describes as unhuman'—and disappeared in the darkness. 'As soon at she had recovered from the shock she ran as fkst as she could along the lane, and never stopped till she reached her father's cottage, which is a quarter of a mile away. Directly she got inside the door, she fainted. . She was smothered with blood from the wcnnd, and her father went off at once for the doctor. The wonnd was found not to be dangerous, a stay-bone having broken the force of the blow, and turned the point of the weapon aside, bat the girl is suffering severely from the sheer.' 'And now about your S'-n's movements during the evening ? When did you see him lastprevuu' to this occurrence V ' About nine o'clock—immediately after dinner in fact. We had dined alone—my wife net being very well had kept h6r room He was silent and moody, as he has been of late—coin plan >d of a headache, and said he wculd go for a stroll. I saw nothing more of him until eleven o'clock, when happening to go to the library window—the French window you see open now—l saw him stooping down on the lawn near one of the flower bfds, and »t it appeared to mo, digging the grouid up with his bonds. 1 went out and asked him what he was doing. He jumped up from his knees, laughing in a peculiar way, and said he bed dropped some money and was trying to find it. I thouirhthis manner extremely odd, and advised him to go bed. I was under the impression he hmd been drinking. * Ihis morning I heard of the attack on the girl in the lane from my groom when 1 went out for my early morning ride. Immediately 1 had a presentiment that my son a curious conduct the previous evening had some connection with it, but tried to persuade mjself that Buch an idea was preposterous. But I came back at once and went to his room. Ha was asleep, his clothes w*re lying about. In a m< ment my went suspicions were confirmed. The right cuff of his shirt was et'in-d with blood.

■ I pot the sirrt in a drawer, locked it, aid put the key in my pocket Then I w«nt out on to the lawn to the flower bed near which 1 had seen him on bis hands and knees, and I noticed a cpot where the mould Lad been disturbed. I turned the ground t v*r with my stick, and presently I struck sotnithing hard I thrust my haad in and drew out an old Spanish knife, one that I had brought back with me years ago from M- ; drid, and used as a paper k&ife. There was no longer any doubt that my son was the author of the outrage, and I had found the weapon with which it had bees committed, where he had buried it the previous night. 'Horrified, almiet t eeide myself, I wert back to Ha room and awoke him. Hardly master of myself, I accueed him of the crime He appeared to be sstonishtd. He starea at me and declaitd that be didn't know what I was talking about. I showed him the knife, and he said that he reccgnisi d it; it was the paper knife from the library. Then 1 wont to the drawer, and showed hj m the blood npon the shirt cuff- He looked at it curiously, and said that he could not account for it He appeared to have no recollection of anything that bad happened the previous evening.'

•That is quite possible.' interrupted the doctor.

• Possible!—th*t he could have attacked tho fcirl over nijjht and wcke up the next m»in>ng his mind a perfect blank as to what had occurred V

' Yos, 1 have known several cases of houtuidtl mania in which the attack, having parsed a* ay, then- has been no' rtcolkction of anything that occurred when it *as at its height.'

Then jm believe that nsy unhappy ten rcaj n»ve done this terrible thing and

[PUDLIBHKD BY SPECIAL ABBA.NGEMENT.] Br. Swainson's Secret.

By Geo. R. Sims,

[ALL BIGHTS BESEBVED.

have ho knowledge of it at the present timef'

• Certainly. Bat that is not tfce question now You have sent for me, and lam here to assist you in deciding how to act with regard to him. Tour duty, of course, iB to render every assistance to justice in the pursuit of the author o* the outrage.' The Earl Bhuddered * Tee, my duty to the public; but have I not another doty, to myself, to my family, to my name, to my order ? The girl's wound is not dangerous—she will recover, a;d be none the worse for what has happened 1 will take care that her future is assured. I can arrange tihat without anyone knowing why I take an interest in the case, she shall be more than compensated for what she has suffered, but if I give my son—no, no, I cannot do it—the shame of it would kill ma I» * Well, I understand exactly what you feel, end I am not going to betray the confidence you have placed in me If tbe lad were sane I should say 'He is a criminal—you must pive him up,' but as he is insane, instead of letting tbe scandal be made public and sending him to a public lunatic asylum, I will aesi=t you to keep the family skeleton in the cupboard, and nave him taken care of privately.' ' Tou are sure that he is insane ?' ' Absolutely. I would sign a certificate to-morrow."' • But th.-re will have to be a certificate in any caje before he can be confined even in an asylum.' •He is not going to any asylum. Tour object is that no one but ourselves shall know that the heir to your title and efctates is a lunatic, liable to attacks of homicidal mania.' 'Tea, I would do anything to avoid •Very well. Tr>6n it must be understood that he is going to travel abroad. Tou will leave here with him quietly this evening. Tou are going to London to ycuc town residence in the ordinary way. In London I will meet you to-morrow and lake your son with me to a friend of mine in Paris, a young doctor attached to one of the greit French asylums, and who is skilled in dealing with cases of this sort. He will receive him into his house as a guest, but under another name, and by that name he will be known to the doctor's familv and every one connected with his establishment. If the doctor finds him easy to deal with and manage he will remain there.' 'One word, doctor. Do you honestly believe that it is possible that my son may be—what shall I say P—cured; that one day be may be able to take Mb position in society as my heir ?' ' I cannot say. He may improve—he may grow worse—his family history—is bad—' The Earl started.

'Hid family history is bad! Good heavens, man, I have never heard that there was aßy insanity in my family." ' No,' said the doctor, quietly, • but as mat'ere are new it would be wrong to conceal the truth from you. Who was it advised you to send for mo P' ' My wife. She said she had heard you had great experience in each cases.' 'Exactly, and she speaks with knowledge. I have had a brother of the Countess under my caie for years, and her mother died in an asylum.' The Earl rose from his seat with a loud cry. 'And I never knew; they never told me, and they let me marry her. Ob, the infamy of it I' The doctor laid his hand kindly on the Peer's arm. ' Hash,' he said. ' I should not have told you, but the time has gone by for secrecy. Rothißg can undo what i as happened in time past. We heve «nly to think of ths future.' ' Thank God 1 have no other children,' groaned the Earl. • Bat even if 1 had it could not make matters worse- My only son is mad—a wonld-bo murderer.* ' 1 don't say he can bo cuied, but bo njiy bo. At tny rato it i?. absolutely necessary that for tbe next few yeais he should had a quiet life free from every

temptation, and that he should be under constant and close supervision. lam a friend of your wife's family, and £ ana anxious to help yon for her sake, and so I'll take the boy and pat him in good hands.'

* And your terms P* _ * Yoa will allow yonr son a thousand a year, and yon will pay it to me on hie behalf, and leave everything in my hands for five years. At the end of that time I Bhall either brisg you back your son restored to health and fit to take bis proper place in society, or ' ' Or '

' Well, we'il talk about that when the times comes.'

That evening the Earl and his son left together for London. A week later the Earl returned alone, and it-was underbtocd that young Lord Temple had gone for as extended tour in India. Soon afterwards gossip began to busy itself with the domestic affairs of the Earl J and wife. The rumour was that they had a BPrious difference, and had separated. Colour was given to the rumour by the fact that the Coustoass left on a visit to her fatber, and never returned to Templecombe, while the Earl—who spent moßt of i his time there—withdrew from all society aad gradually closed the plaee against visitors altogether. Six months after the outrage en the cottager's daughter Templecombe had ceased to be a show place, and an announcement was made tbat the grounds would not be tbrown open to tbe public again. A year had elapsed since the mysterious out ray e, and the village gossips had begun t-> leave off talking about it. The gir had quite recovered and bad suffered no ill iffects from her adventure. The Earl had defrayed all the expenses of her illness, and had instructed his bailiff to give his father -constant employment on his estate. And gradually the whole affair was on the bigh read to being forgotten when something happened which struck fresh terror to the heart of the little commnntity. The Earl of Templecombe was found early one morning lying d-ad in a lonely part of the Park. He had gone out the previous evening for a stroll, and his valet bad sat up for him until a late hour. Early the next moraine some labourers ccming to their work rn tbe estate found the. Earl lying dead in a clump of trees. There were marks of a struggle near the spot, and tbe medical man wbo was summoned at once gave it as his opinion that the Earl had ban sti angled by his assailant. There were the marks of tho murderer's fingers on the threat of his victim. Tbe effair created an immense sensation all over England. Tbe London police came down, and t-xhaustive inquiries were made, and suspicion at last was fastenod up n a man who <ras well known as a poacher, who had been prosecuted by the Earl and sentenced to twelve months' imprisonment, and who had been released the previons day, his sentence having expired. No one kad seen him in the neighbourhood, and he had net returned to his wife, who lived in the village. No trace of his movements since he left the prison could be discovered, and it was conjectured that he had come into the place at night, and had in some way encountered the Earl, and had taken his revenge by murdering him. The story bed its improbabilities, but the man had disappeared, atd he was the only person, so far as could be ascertained, who had any motive for attacking the Ear).' The motive was certainly not robbery, as nothing had been taken from the person of the deceased nobleman. Two strangers had been seen in the neighbourhood, one of them an old man of highly respectable appearance, ard the other a young man, " but tbey had gone tn London by th* late j train, and had not been particularly I noticed , Enquiries were made, bat no . trace of them beyond the London terminus could be found. But no suspicion attached to them.

The sewß was broken as gently as possible to the Countess, but the shock was terrible. It was explained to her that there was very little doubt that the anthor of the crime was the man who had been released from prison. The solicitor who went to her suggested that the new Earl ought to come home at once. Should he communicate with him, or would Bhe? If ehe would give him Lord Templecombe's address in India, he would send a telegram at once. The Countess hesitated. Sqe thought it would be batter that she should send the news herself She had his address, and would send at once and ask him to hasten his return. After tbe solicitor had left, the Countess sent a telegram; but it was not to her sob, it was to Dr. Swaineon. He was with her the next morning. ' What is to be done, doctor ?' exclaimed the terrified woman. 'This terrible tragedy will bring everything to light. It must be known now that my poor boy is insane, and utterly unable to manage his own affairs. When did yen hear of him last ?'

' About a month ago, and then the news was good. My friend in Paris, in whose house he was living, wrote me a most encouraging report. There had been no return of his symptoms, and he had been most tractable and docile. In fact there appeared then to be no necessity for the slightest restraint on his actions.' 1 • * Why didn't you let me know this P' ' I feartd to raise false hopes.' ' But now, something must be done—something must be said to account for his not coming back personally. Will you not communicate with your friend in Pariß ?, 'He is not in Paris; he is over here on a visit to me.* ' But while be has been absent, whs. has. ha 3 care of my son ?' * A person in whom he has every confidence. An old fellow who with his wife takes care of the house. The old fellow is a former keeper of one sf the Paris asylums, and can be thoroughly relied on. But my friend is returning to Paris at once. I will go with him, and see your son myself If —as I hope—he is now in good mental health, it may be possible to all' w him to como homo under certain conditions. The attendant, this old fellow, can come with him. You yourself can go back to Templecombe to meet him, and between us we may manage matters so that at least he can enter into possession of the estates and title in the ordinary way without tbe world having any eu picion of the true state of affairs. In a fortnight from this I will let you know my decision, whatever it is.' Dr. Swainson left, and a day or two later started for Paris with the French doctor to meet the new Earl. The inquest on the late Earl, after being adjourned twice, was concluded, and a verdict of wilful murder against s.me person or perßßns unknown was returned, the coroner and the jury expressing their sympathy with the young E.irl and his widowed mother in the terrible calamity which baa befallen thera. (To be concluded next week.)