THE TOWER ON THE CLIFF.

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 1 May 1914, Page 8

THE TOWER ON THE CLIFF.

BY oiU WILLIAM MAGNAY, Bart. Author of '• The Ued Chancellor," Count Zarka," &c.

If it is that oar slightest actions are directed by the impalpable guided t.im.t surround us, it must have been an arch-demon who led my steps seaward on a day now long past, and ici ever calendared in my mind by the shudder-compelling memory of V'iiat that stormy ramble brought me "■"■'.' witness. My host's directions as to my in?aau route had been so lucidly given chat I followed them as though the winding roads and " retired bridlepaths had been long familiar. Never once was I at fault. Setting off to return, a balance of time in my favour determined me to strike out a bolder course, and, instead of retracing my step*, let sagacity be my guide in Ending another way back. Uncertainty would give a zest to my homeward tramp, keeping the senses alert and fresh ; so, with something of the gambler's spirit, I forsook the tortuous way that had brought mo. and plunged into an inviting picturesque lane. High hedges, and an occasional turn ttept me in a state of expectancy until abruptly the r-d was reached—a gate, & stretr 1-. of heath, and beyond—nothing '.' Yes, of course —the sea. La.'- .-•■'-'rr; at my stupidity, which forgot .it was so close at hand, I push'-d the gate and made my way towards the edge. A change of scene, desolate enough. A great expanse of heath land, undulating and clothed with gorse ; on a hillock a sturdy mast with footrests for ascending to spy the whereabouts of straying cattle, which with ■ scores of rabbits scampering at my footsteps, were the only living objects ;n ths grey light, every moment growing darker. My view of the sea 3fc -•-. ;\'< n;•? sni-.ie'.-.Vir.':: more—a fillingup from that quarter of the horizon, of hr atening th:nrler-clouds, and as F .^r^Tv nearer th^ shore I met the first scud of wind, and heard the irritated 'agb of the waves. Three minutes more brought me to the cliff's stl.nrn with a resolve, now I had come so f~r, to work back hf me wards by the shore, and the first splash of rah- on my face warned me to hurry over thf. bare, shelterless ground as fast as possible. My way was dbvio':s. Following the coast was norm] to bring me home sooner or Hater, although owing to the .irregular outline, the particular spot from which my host's place lay but half a mile inlrni was completely hidden. But the.ro was no time for taking obsprva+vmg ; the dense blackness advancing over the sea was suddenly clr-<"t as with a red-hot knife, and a dull rumble gave out that the clouds were in earnest. My situation was av/'^-aWI enough ;no shelter in sight ac; h" rocky cliffs at every step becoming higher and more precipitous. When in a few minutes the storm broke over me I should be absolutely ••t its mercy. Fool that I had been to leave the sheltered road without paying heed to the s:;y ! T dashed on in a disgusted frame of mind, trustins: fo light upon some object large enmisrh to afford crouching room under its lee, or at least to get as far as possible on my journey before the storm attacked me. Having reached the tnn of a sharp rise an abrupt turn >'n the cliff line brought me in sight of a small headland, on the point of which, and, as it seemed, at tfee extreme edge of the rock stood a curioriE looking building, which I took to be a coastguard shelter. It was a:-out a quarter of a mile off, aod with the rain already coming; down heavily I quickened my pace, ond ran with all speed for the building ahead of me. Thie, as I approached turned out to be a tower of curious form, probably put up as a beividere. It was one storey high and round, except that on the side toward?, the see, there ran a smaller V-shaped turret in which were set large shuttered windows commanding the sweep of the coast on either side. This excrescent tower was, from its. shape, also designed to split and break the force of the wind which there, and the very summit of the cliff, was met in all its fury. Inland extending to a couple of hundred yards of the building, ran a low plantation, protected on the weather side by a high earthen rampart. This, of itself, would have been a welcome shelter had the more complete one offered by the tower not been so near. In the distance, beyond where the plantation thickened, ! I could ;"ust see the chimneys of a ' gre..t house. " A hospitable fellow" ! I -nattered, " to shut of! the best bit of the cliits for his own selfish lounging." I had now reached the belvidtre. Its wooden door stood half open ;in a moment I was inside, panting for breath ; but experiencing a delightful sense of relief from the buffeting wind and whipping rain. I then, look-;d round. The lower space was used as a lumber-room—a tent, a collapsible canoe, some garden chairs, an old table, coils of rope, paddles, oars and suchlike implements were stowed there. I climb?d forward into the small angular turret.. Through a large chL:L: in the weather-beaten shutter I c ul I look down upon the sea, eciri in- and splashing viciously at the foot of the rock. Ro sheer was the descent from the almost overhanging tower that I could only account for its position by supposing that it had at one time served a more practical purpose. Drawing back I resumed my in spection of the place. A staircase led from the door to the upper room. I mounted, and was about to turn tbe hamlle of the door, when I started and stopped. I was not alone. Voices which wind and wave ha! hitherto drowned were, now diatinct-

ly audible. Little did I guess th, ■drama that was playing when curiosity prompted me to linger a moment and har what manner of talkers were found in such a place and in such weather. The effect of that pause was most untoward for me. Without warning, the latch of tbe door, which opened outward, came unfastened, and the current of wind drove the door back upon nM. I stood hidden so long as the door should remain wide open, and imprisoned, owing to the impossibility of • sea nm>- without being seen by those in the room. The nature of the conversation which reached my ears told me that the making known of my presence would be highly embarrassing-, so I waited for a chance of escaping undetected. The chink of the door showed me a room plainly fur r nished with a table a^d a few chairs, while: a large map of the coast hung on the wall. The small outer turret in which the windows w^re set wan shut off by heavy green curtains now partly drawn back, showing a mounted telescope standing ln the recess. Part of the shutters behind the curtain must have been open, judging from the light that entered. In the room were two persons—a man —little more than a boy—in the uniform of a lieutenant in the navy, and a lady. Her face wai turned from me, but i a certain grace and distinction of ' figure and attitude made me certain of her beauty. The face of her companion, working with passion and despair, is as vividlj before me now as at that moment, as it will be to the last ebb of memory. " And this is the end?" were the first words I caught. " Yes, it must be," the lady asswered. " I only met you now because—l feared you might do something foolish if I refused." _ ; "Foolish ? What ? Disgrace yo« ? Compromise you ?" " No, Geoffrey, bo. Not tfcat." i " No ? What then ?" ! *•' I thought I owed Jt to you to say good-bye." *' You owed me anything but that" he retorted, bitterly. " Nothing but death should have forced that word between us." "You blame me Ooffrty ? You hate me ?" ! A great wave of passion seemed to catch him up. " Hate you ? My darling—my darling ! God only knoifs how I love you !" ' He would have seized iwr arm, font. she drew it hack. "It is madness !*• " Madness ! Why T Only because you are married. Does that kill my love for you ? The love that has been my bright star through all these weary months over ten thousand miles of sea. " I always had , you with me. Madness ! Yes, Heaven knows how I kept from it when the paper came with your marriage in it." "It was cruel," ahe said, softly. " I am, oh, so sorry. But it had to be. Circumstances were too str< ns~ for me." "Then it was not for love?" he demanded, eagerly. " Not for love ?" "There were other considerations," she answered, hesitatingly. •■ My father's property— But you w 11 not believe or understand " — " I can understand you would not wait for a poor sailor. You love this man ?" he added, suddenly. "My husband ?" . i "Yo^ir husband." She rose. " I shall not tell you, Geoffrey if I don't." " Anyhow, you have killed your love for me—if you ever had any." " You know I had." " Then you do not love him, Constance !By all we have been to each other in the old days, tell me that." " Never !" " Ah, you love him ! You love him !" • " And I have met you h«re." ; " He has confidence in you !" She looked at him, then away, and spoke in a low tone. " I think he would kill me if he knew." | || What !" He almost shouted. j " I mean—he is jealous." "Ah !He loves you, and you fear him. The coward ?*» "Would he not have cause? Let me cro now." " No, not yet. He frightens '. you "■— : "No, but he would. Geoffrey, do you want to disgrace me ?" : " You ? I would die first." j. " Then let me go. Say good-bje." • "For ever ?" ! " Yes, dear, it is best. And you • will think so soon." Constance," he said, more calmly, ta ing her proffered hand, " whe- j ther or not these arc th? last words I you will ever hear from me, I can tell you I phall never think this for the best— n\ not selfishly ; I leave out myself—but for you. If only There, I won't worry you any more. I'll take my misery away. Don't think T shall get you into trouble with—with him. I would die to save you from harm." " Don't talk o f it," she replied. " I know you would never bring me to harm. I was not worth your love. Ah, if things had only fallen out differently I might—But it is madness to think of that. Let me go now. I shall be missed." Up to this point I confess the strangeness of the rapid scene enacted literally at my elbow, and a curiosity stronger than I could master had held me breathless and fascinated. Now I realised that my eavesdropping was as unwarrantable as my situation if discovered, would be awkward. T began to feel seriously uneasy, and to cast about for a means of escape. My only chancn for retreat was to get the door clos ed raid to keep it so. This was ren-

1 dered feasible by the discovery at my feet of a small wedge, probably used jat times for keeping the door open. I quietly stooped and pic o.i it up, then commenced to work the door from me slowly and as naturally as I could. That the storm had now somewhat abated, and was blowing in more fitful gusts, may have accounted for the closing of the door, if, indeed, they noticed it. Anyhow I got. it nearly shut, slipped the wedge beneath it, and made my waj on tiptoe down the staircase. The last I steps brought my face opposite to a [ small window at the back of the j tower, through which, in the dusk which was now coming on, I caught sight of an object which made my blood start within me. A man was coming towards the tower swiftly i and stealthily, keeping, under co 1 er where he could, • but not from the rain, for of that he seemed heedless. A man in the youth of middle age, hearded, not particularly good-look-ing, but with a certain distinction of figure "" and carriage possessed by most Englishmen of good fcirth. Nevertheless, his look and demeanour—or was it my consciousness ?— gave the idea of a determined and sinister purpose. I knew intuitively that it was the Husband. For a few moments I stood irresolute, then, with an unreasoning impulse of panic, went down hastily ' and stood hidden in a corner of the lower room. Hardly was I ensconced when I heard the door above shaken violently, and then the thought flashed upon me—l had fastened them in ! They were trapped ! I checked a half-formed plan of doins ! to their assistance, and have since been glad I did so. It was too late to have been of service, and at least the lady is spared the thought that the knowledge of what followed was shared by a stranger. But now they must have got the door open, for I heard a foot on the stairs under which I stooped. " Geoffrej !He is coming ! He is here !I am ruined !" The terrified undertone was followed by a qiuicV. movement, a pause, ' and then the lady came creeping downstairs. When she reached the j ground she stopped, and there was a terrible silence—the silence that precedes an awaited explosion. Then a i footstep was heard outside, the door j opened wider, and husband and wife ; were face to face. I " Whet are you doing here, Constance ?" " I took shelter from the rain. Is it over ? Let us go." '' Not yet. Let us stay." Passion in the one and fear in the other attuned their voices strangely. " Come upstairs," he said. No, Clement," she answered, witn a tremor of suspense. "No ; let us go home." " I tell you it still pours." " Y©s ; but I am cold." " You are trembling." " Shivering. Let us run to the house." "In a moment. But I must look I upstairs." " Why must y,ou ?" " I want to find something." " There is nothing," she remonstrated. " Come and see." They went up in silence. All power of sober thought or resource seemed lost to me in tho excitement of the. moment. An in- ; tense, blind desire to see the end of [ this strange drama seized me, otherwise I must have ta;-en the opportunity of escaping from my equivocal j situation in the tower. Looking a- ' bout me, I noticed that across the entrance of my hiding-place ran a j ladder leading up into a dark recess ' under the top of the stairs. Thinking this a safer place of concealment, ! I climbed the ladder, and found my- i self in a small chamber or loft, con-* ' structed in a corner cut off the upper room, and used as sto- house for sail and t; c' le. Here I was practically in the room—only shut off from its other occupants by a thm partition. Tt was darker. I could see between the warped boards that the curtains wr.re drawn. Was he there ? ! " You were alone ?" I heard the : husband demand. "Of course. Why, what should make you think " — " Nothing. But your conduct, is, to say the least, peculiar." : " How ? ' " Coming out in such weather." " I came out before the atorm." ! " Not l-efore it threatened/ ' " My dear Clement." she rejoined, ** I have not y-aur eye for weather. But lam very cold. Let us go." " I will close .the window," he said. " How came it open ?" " I iopened it & little way," she replied, hastily. "It was so dark." And drew the custains ?" " Against the wind, Clement," she went on quickly, " I shall be ill if we staj here. Let us make a run for it, and go home." i I could see she was holding his arm with a slight caress. ] " Let me look for what I want," he answered, "and we will go." " Where is it ?" ; " Behind that curtain." ; " iNothing is there, de.irest. Don't stay now." she pleaded. "You are deceiving me, Const ncv." he said. " Deceiving you ! How ?" We are not alone here." i "Clement, ;,ou frighten me. "«Vha.. do you mean ?" "Some one is behind th.it certain." ! "No." " Let me look." " Nonsense ! Who can there be ?" ; " How do I know ?" b e mtortH, ■ savagely. " A man—a love. , uerhaps." , Clement, how can you say that '. o me ! " " Do yon deny it ?" j ,

"That a lover of mine is there ? I do." " On your honour ?" "On my honour. Now, come!" There was a pause. Then he spoke. " Why did you object to my looking there ?" " 1 did not." He made a movement. "I do now," she added. "Ah ! Why ?" " Because it would imply you doubted my word of honour." Again there was a silence. Then : " There are footmarks here," he said, stooping. "No ' doubt," ehe answered ; " yours and mine. What of them." "They be :rnirch the honour by which you have just sworn, Constance. They are neither yours or mine." " You coward," she cried, " to insult me live this. You bully !" " I will noe behind that curtain," he insisted doggedly. " Clement, why will you do this? Why will you make me hate you?" " Because," he snarled, " you lied to me." " You say that ?" " I do." " Then look !" They stood with ejes fixed on each other ; she with the calmness of ; desperation, he irresolute. Suddenly he took a step towards the recess. I held my breath. IBy a quick movement she arrested him. " One word, Clement," she said, " before you draw that curtain. So far the risk is all mine. Play the ' game fairly ; put down your stake, too." What do you mean ?" he demanded. "I mean," she replied—and the lulling of the storm brought her low quivering tones, clearly to me— " I mean that if I have, as you say, a lover hidden there, I am unworthy to be your wife. If the place is empty you will have cruelly wronged nnd insnlte-d me by this foul suspicion, aod are unworthy to be my husband. So the moment you lay a hand on that curtain, all is over be- | tween us—we are strangers. Now, look—if you dare !" : Poor girl, she was desperate, and | the extremity of her danger sj-ave her :' a quick-witted courage to fight to j the last. An intense pity for her came into my heart, and in a moment I had resolved that upon the unmasking of '' Geoffrey," I would make a bold effort to save her by discovering my presence claiming him as my companion and letting the storm serve as an excuse for our having taken shelter there. Following her last defiance came another pause. I strained my gaze in the dusky light to see the denouement. The duel in their eyes lasted some moments, and thun the husband spoke through his teeth, so low that I could barely catch the words. " Yon dare me ? I accept your challenge." ■ ;he rmide a quick, impulsive movement towards htm, but checked herself and walled away. He looked after her, wavered in bis purpose, and for a moment seemed to abandon it. Then, with a sudden access of jealousy, made a step for- | ward, and violently flung back the ; curtain. I only half\repressed the ■ cry that came to my lips. Wfere brain and sight playing me false ? The recess was empty ! j Next moment I grasped the reason, ' the awful expedient by which discovI cry and disgrace had been averted, ; and as I realised that. I had been ' the secret witness of a ghastly trag- , c*ly, a great trembling came over me 'I felt sick and faint. I heard the ! husband speaking, but the words to ,my whirling brain were mere sound. For a time all was Man I. I have an indistinct memory of a muffled j : shriek and incoherent exclamation ] from the lady ; but when my mind j recovered its poise sufficiently to al- | low me to snr.-ey the scene the room ! was empty and all silent. I descend,ed the ladder in haste, and went up i tremblingly to the room. Yes—em- ■ Pty. I entered the window recess. One shutter was open and swinging i idly. The storm ha<T passed away, j and the moon . was beginnin" to , streak the sea. I looked <; ,wn, j ; hardly daring, jet fascinated. A sheer descent of perhaps, one hundred and '< fifty feet ;no refuge, not a tiny ledge nothing, till the lashing water and ! the cruel rocks were reached. I feared to look, lest Geoffrey should meet my eyes, but the current, which there set outwards like a mill-race, told me that Death, into whose hands he had leapt, had enfolded and borne him far Litfay. The poor boy had made good his boast that his was true love, and that he would die before : bringing disgrace on the girl who I had jilted him, and to save whose \ honour ke had given his young life, j : Sick and unstrung with the horror i ' of the hour, 1 turned and got quickly! from the place. Ere my flight from : i the accursed tower had well begun, it I ' was arrested by the sight of a prostrate form on the wet ground, ' shaken by sobs—piteous, heart-break-; 1 ing l-o s. What could I do ? The * iii'in ,;hen interference might have' ' i-u.n of Sf.i'vice my clumsy indecision !■■). let go by. There was nothing < U'it ;-ow but to respect this grief. So i ' I ;:;;ssr-il by unseen and in silence. ! Whi-n a few days later, the local j ' paper told us that a body had been ; ; v>as.;.;l -shore some miles away and ! ( identified as that of Lieutenant Geof- ! frey, of H.M.S. —I wondered amid \ * the careless " Poor fellows !" of my] * fellow-guests, ■ what effect the news ■ ' Vi-cMiVd have on one whom our host ' * described as " a capital shot and a * !.i:oj'oiiirh good fellow, lately .married x to fi charming girl who, with all her ] good look, has had more than her j isuure. oi" luck." j

How little we know of our neighbours' lives it is left to accident to : show us.