HORT STORY

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 411, 24 March 1904, Page 7

HORT STORY

I was lounging on the terrace at ' Bertolin'V Naples lay map-like below me—a mjßterioos, fading panorama, swallowed here and there by the gathering mist. I waa smoking, of course—when isn't one smoking at Naples P—and turning ' over many things in my mind. The a jest of rosea—the terrace was fall of w&n.oa La France bloesoms and delicate, chaste Marechal Niels—floated faintly towards me, and made my thoughts run bickwards into all sorts of forbidden channels. Saddenly I felt a soft touch on my arm. It was the first intimation I had that I waa not alone. I started, to find an elderly lady with a worn, proud English face, standing beside me. • 1 an so sorry to disturb you/ she said, and I noticed that she was tremblingyet the did not look like one who trembles easily. •Pleme don't mention it,' larswered as I roe a. My heart gave a auiok boasd: it waa long since I had spoaen to an elderly lady with a prtud English face. There was a constrainel pause while' we nuraptitioosly took each other's measurements. *i'm going to ask you a faTour,* sae faltered at last, nervously twialing in her *hi e,arij oexi'icflnjeis a corner of the cloak she was wearing. ' You will think it a very strange one, Mr.—Mr.— ?' ' Venn/1 suggested. 'Mr Venn—a very strange request.' 'Not if by granting it I can give you pleasure/1 said gallantly. 'Ah! but you will. If the case wasn't argent, I wouldn't ask it. You'll understand that Bat a life depends upon it. Mr Venn—my only child's lire. Desperate straits demand desperate remedies, don't theyP* Hex whole attitude entreated; her very tone was a plea. Wondering exceedingly, I nodded. ' Tell me/1 asked gently,' what I can do-' I had thrown away my cigar and stood facing her. She pat one hand to hex forehead and considered for a moment. Then she appeared by a great effort to collect herself.

* I want you, if you will, to play a part,* aha said very deliberately. 'I want you for a few days'—he* voice broke— 'it may be only for a few hours— to take a dead man's place.' 'My dear madam!—a dead man's place!—now P why f She smiled a wan smile. 'I don't wonder at your surprise,' she continued; but if s all right—thank heaven there's nothing dishonourable about what I require el you. Yon shall hear the whole story—you must—if s your right.' She searched in a little reticule that hung at her side, and produced a card. 'l'm Lady Searle,' she said, putting it into my hind.

I bowed. She did not look at me, but, fixing her eyes on the outline of Vesuvius which towered far away to our left, she spoke in a low, rapid tone, aa if every word was an effort to her, and must be got over as quickly as possible. 'You will understand me more readily if I aay that four years ago my only daughter was engaged to be married to a man of whom you are to all intents and purposes the living double.' I uttered an exclamation. 'May I ask Ms name?'

' His name was David Carmiihael,' she said, and in her voice there was the concentiated loathing of a proud nature that has buffeted. 'He jilted my daughter, Mr Venn—my daughter—to marry another woman—some wretched upstart in whose meshes he became entangled. And then he died.* 'Year* 'lf I had been Valerie, my love would have turned to hatred; but her nature is quite different She seemed only to care the mora when she found out what he was. And she never once blamed him. Directly she heard ef his death she began to droop and wither like a sunstrucklUy.' She paused a moment, as if striving with her feelings. *I brought her here, hoping that change of scene might ionee her; but brain fever has come as a climax to her weakness. Mr Vent, she ia at death's door, and, as generally happens in there cases, she has forgotten David Cixnuchael's marriage—his death—everything. She thinks they are lovers still, and she constantly calls for him, and bitterly reproaches us—reproaches me—her mother—when he does not come.*

Again she waited, evidently expecting me to speak. ' 1 am very, very sorry for you,' I said. ' Ah! I knew yon would pity me; yon kok kind. The doctors say that if it were possible to raise the dead and bring thia mas to her aide, these might be some hope otherwise—they shrug their shoulders,* All at once I began to understand her motive in telling me this. ' And you waat me?' I said. •Tee, yeas I want you to be, for the time being, David CartniohaeL I was at her window yesterday and I saw yon arrive. For the first moment a desperate thought entered my head that it muat be David's ghost: and then you looked up, and 1 eaw that yon were older, and that yon have—pardon me—a nobler ex. presaionthan David ever had; but the idea rushed into my mind—would my dtar girl notice these little differences P Eer room is darkened—the general effect ■ is so wocdetfol.' *A ' But, my dear madam— I'

Bhe wrung her hands beseechingly. ■ Don't answer, don't refuse me, till you have heard all. Last night she never ceased to moan for him; thia morning she is worse. That decided me. In the name companion I ask yon to come to her—will your* I stood very still, and looked her very straight in the face. It was an extraordinary poeiJioß, and I didn't know how to act.

'My TCice,* I said—'she would recognis« ray voice.* Tvecosaidertd that; I don't think it matters. David Carmiehael had a gay, boyiah voice, bat with no particular distinctioßß. Yon would naturally lower youra nheatalkinjr to an invalid, and I feel sure, as it is, that aha won't notice the difference. Anyhow, itfa worth the nek.'

< lad afterwards/1 Mid elowl/, * whea

The Diary of a Deceiver.

jj e ' a better—when she guesses-what Bhe wared her hands with a quick gtßwure of dismissal. ' The future must take care of itself/ she said,«if only we can save her now.' til knew somsthteg of pride—l knew what it mußt have cost her to tell me—a stranger—all thiß, and to entreat me as she had entreated.

A feeling of intense pity pushed all otner feelings into the background; she looked so utterly broken, and yet bo pathetically dignified. ♦I will come/ I said quietly,- 'only first you must teaob me my part.' And then I glowed with shame—for she had stooped and kisßed my hand. * • • *

Valerie has been out of danger for a week.

I am obliged to call her Valerie, and sh* calls me David. *

No deception was ever £0 utterly succersfal,

Poor, beautiful shado*! From the first moment that I tiptoed into her room, p.e:eded by a white-capped nune, she never had a doubt; directly she saw me she held ont her arms—half-an-hour afterwards she was sleeping peacefully with her thin hand in mine.

The doctors call it a miracle. Lady Searle has cried—really cried, for the first time in all her trouble—and has tried lo tfaank me. Every morning as I have seen the colour deepen in Valerie's cheeks, and the light come more vividly lit 1 hsr great blue eyes, I have half expected her to realise the trick and to deacußce me—to denounce us all; but it has saver come.

She appears to have entirely forgotten those four loßg years when David Carnrichael belonged to another woman. The remembrance oi hia death—as her mother said—has never once cime back to her, and she believes, with a happy, pitiful belief, that she and I ere lovers. I have kissed her once—twice—a dozen times. At first I drew .back, but Lady Searle motioned me to go on, and now it is beginning to come natural—tantalisingly, maddeningly natural. Lady Searle tells me that so far I have made no mistakes—that I have exactly CtQght the role I am intended to play. The doctors keep on repeating that I hava saved- their patient's life. I most continue, they Bay, ti J sho is stbnger— to stojj now would only throw ber back aguin.

How implicitly she believes in me! Sometimes I feel the greatest blackguard on God's earth.

Valerie has been arranging our wedding this morning. She has decided on her bridesmaids' dresses, and has been furnishing the house in which we are to live.

She grew so excited, holdiag one of my hands in both her small ones. Betnrning health suits her, I am sure, better than it state most people: I think she is the loveliest woman I have ever seen. The nurse playfully drove me away at last; she said it was too much for her patient. I have been reading to her this afternoon—very softly—for lam painfully conscious that my voice is neither gay nor boyish; but she doesn't appear to have noticed, and has fallen asleep. Sometimes I wonder if I am not asleep too—and dreaming.

I am playisg my part too well, I believe.

Lady Searle looks at me—curiously, suspiciously. She is nervous, I know, Well, it was a dangerous experiment; I thought so from the first. After all, I am only human,

Valerie had been sitting up for the first time. Wrapped in pale blue draperies, Bhe looks like one of Grouse's holiest inspirations. I didn't stay long .with her —somehow I couldn't.

The climax has come—l knew it must, for the situation was strained to breaking point

I am not yet able to realise that it is not the climax 1 had anticipated. _ Everything is still so unreal—so dreamlike that I have been able to do nothing since but sit still and try to think. I fancy I must have muttered 'Thank God!' aloud at intervals, for a punctilious old gentleman wandering up and down has gazsd at me in stony disapproval. He evidently thinks me drunk or simply profane.

It happened in this way. Early in the afternoon Lady Searle asked me to walk on the terrace with her. She told me that now Valerie was stronger she hoped to take her back to England at the end of the week: and then she watched my face. I know the start I gave confirmed all her suspicions. •Forgive me,' she said kindly, laying her hand on my arm; 'my daughter has grown something more to you than a mere case—a mere object of pity P* ' I never meant to tell you,' I answered her doggedly; 'I know I've no right—l know better than you can remind me the presumption of it all.' To my intense surprise her haughty old face softened.

1 Why should you call it presumption P' she asked gently.

I stopped short and stared—positively stared at her.

• Too lie a stranger,' she went on/ bat peculiar circumatanceH have drawn cs together, and I feel somehow as if we were old friends. Besides,' I owe yon more than I can ever repay. My daughter believes yon .to be her old lover. -Let her go on believing it—why notP Gradually you will become a part of ber life, and'— her voice quavered a little—'if her memory of the past ever returns, we will tell her exactly how things are, and the part you and I have played In them. She is tender and clinging, and day by day you are growing more indispensable to !"*• * nd . .l h j? wiU I I'm certaiH of it—that it is the living man Bhe loves, not the memory of that dead deceiver.' She ceased epaaking. I staggered, and caught at Borne trelliawoxk to steady myeelf. A temptation—an ugly temptation—to take her at her word aeaailed me. After all, who would be anj the wiser—who would know if I yielded to it P Bat I hadn't sunk bo low as that, and with a quick pang my manhood came b»e* to me. «Lac"y Searle,' I eaid,«you tempt me— Heaven knows how strongly!—but I can't doit'

Her thin cheeks flashed, 'Yon are married P' she aeked. ' I was— l am a widower now.'

j She hesitated i a sigh of relief escaped i 1 If it's only « matter of position— or—moneyP' she asked, 'Valerie has enough for both.* *

/IPs not that*' I said, flashing too. t drew myself up, looking her very straight in the face as I'd,dona on the occasion of out first meeting.

•Then—what f' ' I am David Carmichael!' •My God!' she cried, and retreated some steps from me. Did she thiak: me saddenly mad, or merely jesting, I wondered bitteriy. 1 Bat he died, I tell yon, four years ago, in Australia; it was in all the papers.' 'His wife died,' I said solemnly—- • Dahlia '—the words were mixed. I found it ont long afterwards/

'My God!' she breathed again. 'lt can't be—it can't—'

Then she came closer and peered into my face, shaking all over.' 'YourecognisedmeP' she asked. 'At once/ I said. There was a long, throbbing pause, ' And you gave a false name V I nodded. She laughed a curious, mirthless little laugh. ' To think/ she murmured, as if to herself, 'that I should stand here talking to David Carmiohael! And over and over again I have said that if I ever met him, and strength were given me, I won Id kill him!' * He is at your mercy/ A hard look came into her eyes. ' You broke her heart/ she mattered. ' And my own too/1 answered her. * And your wife V she asked cnriously, in spite of herself. . 'She is dead/ I said; 'let the dead rest.* • * Then it was a mistake P' " 'Yes/ I: said; bitterly; r ifc was,a mistake—and bsfbre I make any more I'm going to leave;. Valerie is out of danger. You.can say I have been called away on business. I will write, once or twice if you wish, and then—well, she is young, and Heaven grant that later on someone more worthy will turn up, and she'll forget me/ Valerie's mother surveyed me with a puzzled expression. * You have changed,' she said, and the. kindly inflexion had come back into her tone once more; ' you look as if you had suffered/ I did not answer. ' Suffering makes men ' —she spoke again in a low tone r s if to herself, ' When you left my Valerie, you were only a boy, I wonder' —3he bent forward to read my face afresh—' oh! I wonder could I trnsfc you a second time ?' Again I did not answer—only I returned her gaze with one as long and as steady, .....* David! David !' came in a faint sweet tone from an upper balcony—and then again,' David!' Lady Searle heard it and looked up; then she turned to me. 'Go,'she said; 'Valerie wants you.'— Chbis Sbwell: