NOVEL

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 362, 16 April 1903, Page 2

NOVEL

CHAFFEE I.—THE 80NS OF MATTHEW POLLABD. Mrs. Pollard haited on tie landing-, half-way down the stair?. and looked out of the window with an unusually wistful eye. The view was one which generally gave her pleasure, but on this particular ocoaaien she knittftd her brows at the 'sight of the old red house at the end of the gaidec, the straight canal beycnd it, and across the canal the weather-beaten wall of the great flonr mill where her husband's money haa been made. She was proud of the sill; she liked to look at the old red home where she and her husba? d na'd to live, where J her children had been born, where with infinite care and fi on my the had helped to lay the ' ■ foundation of that fortune which had enabled Matthew Pollard to build the square, ugly, expensive mansion wherein' they had r?tided for the past three years. The eight ef the mill was usually an iDHpiratka, a delight to her; to those who knew her ideals it would have been quite extraordinary that she should pMise to look at it with a sigh. * It's done for j it will go down—down —dosrn—down,' she muttered to herself. 4 Pollard and Son'il be in Bankruptcy Court ten years hence, if Hedworth is to manage tig business. Hediforth indeed !' The impatience, the contempt in ber voice, were painfcil to hear. Hedworth was only her stepson, it is true j but no woman had the right to speak of any man with the concentrated scorn and hatred which Maria Pollard's tones so unmistakably expressed. Even a criminal might deserve more love, more pity, than she bestowed on the aforesaid Hedworth, who was nothing worse than an unruly, somewhat ill-conditioned young fellow fond of horses and out-door sports, and with no interest whatever in the business which was dear to bis parent's srrl * Hedworth, indeed 1' Mrs. Polhud repeated, almost vioi'. u-dy. She was a Blight, spare little woman, with a pajte, pointed face, and delicate features which had once been pretty % they were curiously, hard and rigid now. Her hair, eyes, and eyebrews vtre as nearly black as English, - hair and eyes could be; she had tiny. lands and feet, and an air of refinement" which was n't always borne cut by hex speech. In spite of her slender frame, she was a - woman of unappeasable ' energy; and if the itrabht hard line of her mouth m'?ht be trusted, a woman of indomitable , will. She were a handsome diees of bn:wn siik, with fine lose at the throat, and oie ox two valuable rings upon her thin nervosa-looking fingers; but the i Sect of he* attire was spoiled by the coarse apron which she had fastened over tin- frcnt of lei dress, and the duster that she held, absently enough, in one of-her hand*. ' She.mast be doing/ she alwayß said, when her husband remonstrated with her on account of hec passion for household work; and although she wore expensive clothes in order to please him, Eho c juld not be deterred from taking upon herself a good share of'the lighter duties of her home.' She bad come from her husband's sick roc in, and was considering certain things that had just been said in her heariag. Old Matthew Pollard was a man who knew hia own mind; and although he had bad a stroke of paralysis, and would very likely never rise from his bed again, yet he was quite W6ll able to say what he meant And some of the things'bo had taid dbplf3»ed his wife sorely. ' Heddy'B the eldest,' the old m&n had murmured. "It don't seem fair to put * Gilbert in his place.' •The business will goto rack and ruin if you pur Hedworth at its head,' slid Mm Pollard, almost passionately. ' Hi dworth's no fool,' Matthew Pollard had rftjoin'd, and bio wife Lad not dared to say another word. She was still gating blankly out of the window, when a child's step and voice betide her made her start. ' Aant Maria, Gilbert want? to epeak to you.' Mrs. Pollard turned round sharply. ' I wiith you wouldn't creep about like a cat, Effi •, as if you didn't want anybody to know what you were doin;-. Why aren't 3 en at your lessons f ' It's holiday time, A unt Maria,' said Effie depreoatingly. Mrs. Pel lard su'veyed ber for a moment or two in silence. Effie Morison was not hur nieoe, although the title of 'aunt' had been selected as befitting her position towards the chi'd, who was a distant relative of her ott, left orphaned and penniless when she was four or five years old. Since that time, rather througn Mr. Pollvd's kindness of heart than by reason of bis wife's sense of kinship, Em a had been an inmate of their hous«, and led, oa the whole, a very happy life, shadowed now and then by Aunt Maria's shortness cf temper, but generally bright and busy. She waa a delicate-looking child of twelve, with long, thick waves of brown hair threaded with golden gleams, and dark, eoft ojea almost too large for the palo, refkei little face. There was a quiver of timidity in her lips as she bore ler aunt's keen g«ze; she was a'.wajs a little bit af 'aid of M-s. Pollard, the processes cf whose raitd wore sometimes incompreherisiUe to the snnsisitivo but candid nature cf the child. (To be continued ) Teacher: 'The major.fy of great m n usaally suffer with -r.mo terrible <• tiicutt; For instance. Altltrn, the poet, was Lima. Try to remember that. Nova, Ton my, what was Milton's misfortune ?' Tommy: 'He was a poet.'

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ABB/wIfGEMENT.] I THE Jv T Conscienceof Gilbert Pollard

By Adeline Sabgeant",.

fALT. RT/limo 'DEia-nnmi..

Dr Swakson's Secret By. GEO. R. SIMS. [COPYBIGHT.I ' ' ,' _ And a. month later the young E*rcame quietly to England, it was uhderl stood from India. His mother was at the house to receive him, and under the tragic circumstances of his return there was no wolcome by the tenantry. At the earnest request of the family there was no lntrosion oh-their privacy. 'AH that was known in the neighbourhood was that the young Earl, accompanied by an elderly French servant, had retureed from his travels.. '. ~ 'The'fbung Earl's mental health had undoubtedly improved, . Dr. Swainson, after repeated visits, was more than satisfied. Only—and this he impressed upon tho widowed Countess it wasnecfSßory that ho should be constantly kept from anything likely to excite him or cause him annoyance. He mußt be practically a prisoner, under the constant Buiyeiliance of bis French attendant. The mother pleaded that her eon was sane—that in all things his mind was clean and uhclpunded. He'had taken a keen interest in the business affairs which . had been brought before him in connection with the property, and the family solicitor, who had submitted the necessary documents to him, and-obtained his signature, had not tSe slightest suspicion ttiatjhe was dealing with a man who had at one time been a dangerous lunatic. "When he bad been cautioned that under no circumstances, was he to refer to the terrible manner in which the late Earl had come by his death, he bsd expressed surprise, but it had been explained to him that the young man was of a highly nervous temperament, and there was a fear that the sudden relation of such a tragedy might affect his health. The family had not communicated the truth to the heir, and fortunately he had not seen the English papers, which at the time contained an account of the catastrophe. Bat gradually precautions were relaxed. The young Earl, who had <l accepted hia enforced seclusion without a f murmur, learning that it was his mother's wish that f for a year at least after hie father's death he should abstain from all I ; |eociety, was .pronounced by the doctor to ij:bs~-«o; far as he could judge—past any ; WHIP* of a relapse." And so it was; arranged that when the year of mouring ; was over, Templecombe should once more j be thrown open, and the young Earl should take his. place in society. But just tcr the' expiration of the year, the old Frenchman was taken seriously ill. He asked the looal doctor, ■who was called in, r lf there was any danger, and the doctor hesitated. 'Toll me honestly,' said the old man, • becauso if there is. danger—if you think this illness m*y/prove fatal—l want to let my wife know. She would not come to England with me to -live, but if she knows I am dying she will oome.' •.'-'■' ' I dent say you are dying—you may recover—l hops you will—but you may send for your wife.' •That is enough,' replied the Frenchman. ' I understand.' When the doctor had gone the Countess came to the siok man's room. He asked her to send for Dr. Swainson. Ih case anything should happen to him he wished him to take charge of his affairs. All that afternoon the old Frenchman was writing. When he had finished he put what he had written into an envelope, and was about to address it, when he was seissdwith a fainting fit, and the Ewl hearing of hia old servant's sondition, came hastily to the room, saw the envelope and took charge of it. That evening Dr. Swainson arrived, but tue patieni was then unconscioas. After dinner he went into the library to smoke, and the Earl joined him. Presently the doctor, who waa accustomed to an afterdinner nap, fell asleep. Then the Earl remembered tho document he had in his pocket, and it occurred to him that be might as well read it to see if. there was anything in it that ought to be communicated to his poor old servant's friends. He opened the envelope and began to read quietly, but as he read it his face became deathly pale, and a look of horror came into his eyes. Presently he dropped the paper on the floor and sat likea, man who bad just been awakened from a terrible nightmare. Then he rose, walked across the room, and laid his hand heavily on the doctor's shoulder. The doctor started and sprang to his feet. • What's the matter p' he exclaimed. For a moment he thought there had been a sadden return of the insanity. But the Earl undeceived him. ' Don't be alariaed for yourself,' he exclaimed, * I am not mad now.' ' Mad now !' stammered the doctor, * what do ycu mean P whoever told you that you had been mad ?' ' I hava learned the tiuth to-night but I want to know all. Do not lie to me Was any ne suspected—or arrested —or—punished when my father was murcered?' ' You know that then ?' •Answer rr.t—did anything happen to a'-ono for *i,f»t?' e «No—tho murderer w&s never found.' 'Than he ifl found now.' What ? He )ih,h Ikmji arrested—where P v» ho wss it?' ' He hud not been airested—but he is

', going to give himself up to the police at onoe.' ■■'■%-/

* How—bow do you know this P' * I know it because I was my father's murderer.' \

* You P—Nq, no, you are mad ! That was impossible. At the time your father was killed you were in Paris—in the house of Dr. .'

' No, the old man who is dying upstairs has confessed the truth. Bead this.'

He handed the papers to the doctor, who took them with trembling fingers, and read them.

When he had finished he sank back in his ohair.

' Good God ! Lord Templecombe! —can —obb this be true P' .

• It is true —but I remember nothing. This man would not lie on what he believes to be his deathbed:' You see what he says. I got away from the house that sight. The doctor was not therehe had come over to England on a visit to you. The old man, finding"me gone, was terrified. He guessed that I should make my way to my home. He heard, at the railway station that a young man answering my description had taken a ticke.tUb London. Tco terrified fpjlpomraunicate with his master—not knowing what to do —be followed by the nexttrlin, and came oa here, % - . ' He got to Tamplecombe before me, for according to his narration I could have had no money left when I reached London, and so I tramped down here. In what he says of the condition in which he found me, no one would have recognised me. Pray God my father did not that awful night!' ' Pierre found you here! But he di »:ot know who you were, tou werenever known by your right name when you lived in Paris!'

'Yes, I know who I was, and I told them often—but I never knew I was mad. I thought I'had been sent to France to bo under the doctor's care for my bodily health. They always told me so. God knows what crimes I had comniited in the past! If I could have committed this awful deed without Knowing it, what may I not have done before ?'

'I can't—l won't believe it!' groaned the doctor. * This escape —this journey id London. No. it is impossible' 'Bead what he says. He camp here late at night—he met me in the lane, so travel-stained, so changed that he hardly knew me. But he came quite cl«se to rae, and I recognised him and laughed, and called him by name.' ' Then he took my arm, and went back to the station, and he eays, as you see, he got me to London by - the last train, and there we spent the night in a French hotel in Sohe, and in the morning he bought me new clothes, and we went back to Paris that night, and the next morning I was safe again, and he never told a soul for fear of being blamed. He and bis wife lived alone in the housp, and she kept his secret.: It was not till you came to see me aft?r my father's death that he knew of the murder, and then he dared not speak, only he begged that he might me, and his wish was granted. Now I know that I was mad then, and that I murdered my own father in a fit of insanity.' ' And you remember nothing of it ?' 'Nothing!' With a desperate effort the doctor grr calm. ' Ton remember nothing of it, my dear Lord Templecombe, becaust ifc never happened. This poor fellow is the mad--man—not you. This absurd confession is the work of a disordered brain. There is not an atom of truth in it!' ' You believe that P' * Believe it! I'll—l'll swear it, if you like ! I tell you, at the time your father was killed you were safe in Paris, and the doctor was there with you, and WIV tell you the same. The man who undoubtedlycaused your father's death was a man whom he had had convicted for poaching, a violent ruffian, who deolared on the day of his trial that he would be revenged on him. Forget'about this absurd story—l tell you it is the hallucination, of a maif who has lost his reason.' . 's< He tosßed the papers into the fire; Tho Earl made a movement to recover thorn, but the doctor seized his wrist. 'No,, he said;,' they are better destoyed. Stay here—l'll send she s Countrsß to you while Tgo upstairs, and see Pierre. But not a word to her-rrahe has suffered enough, poor lady"!* The doctor went out, and in a moment the Countess was 5 -with-her son. The doctor went upstairs to the loom of the dying man. He had recovered consciousness, and looked eagerly.at the door as' the doctor entered.,- ... -, t.- ~. 'My letter,'' he "gasped, 'it was here—it is gone.—you have it ?' 'Yes. Is it true?' i ftsi 'Every word, as I hope for pardon hereafter.' A few minutes later the local doctor arrived. Dr. Swainson took him aside, * The man isdying,' he said. ' How long elo you give him ?' 'lt may be a day—it may be a week. There is old heart mischief —he will go off in. a faiting fit.' 'Ah! Then no one but the persons attending bim ought to soe him or converse with him F

' None He should be kept absolutely quiet. The least shock or excitement now would mean the end-'

The doctor gave a few directions, and left.

Dr SwaiHson went into the room. Tho patient was alone, his eyes half closed. Dr. Swainson west quietly to his bedside, and touched him on tho shoulder

The man opened his eyes. «That letter you wrote was for mo ?' said the local Doctor. •Yes.' H 'The Earl found it and read it.. He knows now that he murdered his fatter. He has sent for the police to give himself up, and you ' The old Frenchman gave a cry of horror, and threw up bis arms. Then he fell back—dead !'

The next day the Earl and Dr. Swainson left for Paris together. It was the tor'a wish. He took Lord Templecombe to the house where he had been a private patient, and the French doctor assured the Earl that he had never left him alone with the Frenchman and his wife—that at the time of his father's death he was there The old lady—the widow—assured him the same thing. Dr. Swainson exr plained that the poor old man had become affected in his mind, and bad told some absurd s'ory about his lordship having escaped and gone to England.

'Absurd!' said . tf<e French doctor. ' They would have told me I* And they had, but Dr Swainson had written to his French confrere and explained to him how necessary it was to 6ige the young Earl's mind.

Dr. Swainson kept his secret to the end. Lord Templecombe was safe, of that ho felt sure. He lived ten years, and saw no symptoms of a relapse at any time. And to-day Lord Templecombe looks back up< n thut ghastly chapter in his life and wonders how he cnuld ever have believed such a thing. He has taken his seat in the House of Lords, is a model landowner, and beloved by all his people. [The End.]