Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 32, 2 September 1871, Page 17

Tales and Sketches.

THE BEIDGE OF SIGHS. A Yachting Stoey. [From Arii the Yeae Rottnd.] CHAPTEE V. —A CLOUD. Two years have passed by since these events, and Mr Conway and his wife hare begun the happiest of lives. Both are so changed—for the better, their friends say—that they seem to have become different people. The family difficulties had been got into something like arrangement. He enjoyed a small allowance from his father devoted himself to work, chiefly, political writing, and was already spoken of as likely to be a promising man, ' that would make his mark.' How sweet life was to her now —the sun, the flowers, the cities, and pictures ; things of quite a different order now. Eor they travelled a good deal and saw the wonders of the world. If it would only last. Yeß ; it must last. They were coming home after a Welsh tour, and were stopping on the road at a little town called Brookside, with an old-fashioned landlady, who if you were ill, would nurse you like a mother. There were charming gardens, with a room that opened out on them, excellent living, and a whole treasury of delightful walks up hill and down dale, with a very famous fishing stream within a mile. Here a new and delightful time set in. The weather was delicious ; the grass never was so green and luxuriant ; all the choice morsels of a pastoral district, whose meat, and milk, and butter are not madly whirled away every morning, was spread out before them. The landlady, too, grew into a friend, liking her two guests, pleasant, and caring for them in every way. Every one has a little experience of this sort, and looks back with a sort of comfort and satisfaction to some such cot, where everything has gone happily, where the flowers have Bmelt sweetly, and whence he has been loath to depart. Thus a most delightful fortnight passed by. Jessica again found that she had not half exhausted the joys which her new life had promised her. More and yet more were opening out before her. On the last night of their stay —they were forced to return home—she said to him :

• Oh, if this life could go on always ! Shall I confess something to you ? That one subject always seemed to cast a shadow. It was no wonder that we shrank from it. Noio, dearest, I am grown so confident and hopeful and happy, that I should not be afraid to look back.'

' You have a brave heart, Jessica, which I knew was in you. I would wager my life that if I had the whole history and details of your struggle with that poor girl, from the beginning to the last day of her life, it would be all jour honor. And for her, I will say if she had time she would have done you justice also.'

A sort of tremor passed over Jessica, but she Baid nothing. That indeed was the only Bhadow, and she again thought it might have been wiser to have told him of the last scene.

Next day they were travelling home. A great mail of letters had reached them at the little town, full of good news, of hope and encouragement. One spoke of an opening for the House of Commons. Another said that as Ministry was certain to change, an influential friend would come in with the new one, who was determined that his friend Conway should hold some sort of office. This was all delightful. They got on to Chester, where they were to stop for the night, and walked through its quaint old streets, new to both. They had oome back to their hotel, and were standing on the railway platform, watching the various expresses come up, when Jessica whispered him:

'See that man's face looking out of the carriage ? Is it not like Colonel Dudley ?' * Like!' said Conway, laughing. 'lt is Dudley himself.' Under a fur cap was seen Dudley's face, in a sort of abstraction, much more worn than when they had last parted with him. Beside him were gun cases, hunting saddles, &c. He seemed to be going on up to London. She saw him speaking to Conway at thecarriage door, then rise hastily, gather up all his packages, and step down with great eagerness on the platform. With a sort of undefined trepidation she said to Conway,' He is not going to stay?!

• He says he will stay for the night,' her husband answered. 'He says he is tired. Poor soul! he is as low and dismal as ever, and I suppose is glad to meet some one he knows '

'Then we need not see him,' she said, eagerly ; 'it will do ua no good. Some fate seems always dragging us back to that time.' Dudley now came up. He looked at Jessica with a strange glance. 'ls it not wonderful how people meet ? There were about a million chances against our coming together at this time, and at this place. And yet I was thinking of you both only this morning. Let me come up to you this evening, if Mrs Conway will give me leave. I find myself the worst company in the world.' * Then you must not be too critical with us, who are the best company in the world for each other.'

Dudley looked from one to the other with piercing greedy eyes. Then his face broke into a confident^smile.

'Ah, I see. Yours is to be an everlasting honeymoon!' In the evening he came up to their sittingroom. He told them how he had been in Ireland, shooting, hunting, ' trying to get an Irish horse or an Irish fence to break my neck. But they wouldn't do it. That old nightmare is still on me; in fact, it grows heavier every day. I cannot shut out that place. I never see a bridge but it recals that bridge. I was on the banks of one the other day, and so like

the spot, that I forgot, and, turning to the bogtrotter with me, said, ' it was a scandal and a shame to have no bridge. Human life might be lost while they were stupidly sending round miles.' The animal stared, as you may suppose.'

' Well I think he might,' said Conway, glancing at the distressed face of Jessica. ' I think it is high time now, for the sake of your own peace of mind, to give over brooding on these things. It can do you no good.' _ ' And may do others harm ? Well you are right ; I know you are. But I will tell you this : it may lead to something yet. Perhaps has'led. Do you know what is bringing me home ? Something about this very matter. I have never dropped it.' Conway shrugged his shoulders. 'I still think it folly, but you always took your own course.'

'Why,' continued the other, 'if I were a detective, or like that American fellow, Poe, I could work backwards from that dreadful day, until I landed somewhere. But lam not, and. have worked backwards in my poor head till my brains are addled. Some people would say lam mad, on that subject at least. I daresay you thought so when I went on so strangely to you both at the time she was being buried. I saw you were generous enough, Conway, to make allowance. But with all my speculation, one thought certainly has taken possession of me. She was not alone when she died.'

Jessica turned pale. A sudden chili feeling seemed to strike upon her heart, as though the end of the delightful paradise in which she had been living so long was now at hand. ' Impossible,' said Conway, warmly. 'No one could have seen it; unless you mean to say that they had a share in that terrible business.'

' Aye, perhaps so,' said Dudley. ' For if any one had beew with her, it would be strangely suspicious if they did not come forward.'

'lt would be, certainly,' said Conway. ' But have you anything to go upon ? Was this mentioned to that poor Sir Charles ? Ah, Dudley, I am not without repentance for my part in all that, and have suffered, I can tell you.' ' I can acquit you, Conway,' said the other. ' I say so cordially. There were marks and footprints discovered. If that Edgar Allan Poe were alive But come to my room to-night, and I will tell you more.' • But why not go into it now, with Jessica present ? Her quick wit will help you. Ah ! But I forgot.' 'I thought,' said Jessica, excitedly, 'you promised me that we were not to talk of this ?' 'You are quite right. But what Dudley tells us alters the case. It is very strange that we should both, Dudley—you and I —have had the same idea.'

' No,' said Dudley, ' I can understand why Mrs Conway should not like the subject. I do, though. It is my whole life, being, hope, and comfort. Once, that accomplished, and I care not what becomes of me.' He left them. ' A strange being,' said Conway. ' Yet he will work that out, depend on it.' ' Oh, but why should you have to do with it, or with him ? He can mean you no good ; certainly not to me. Do let us leave him here —leave this place. I tell you misery will come of it.'

' But why ?' said he, looking at her fixedly. ' Give me a reason, Jessica. You are so sensible, it is sure to be a sound one. Is it fancy, or mere feeling, as they call it ?' She hung down her head. Something whispered her: 'Now is the time—a full confidence, and it will save much hereafter.' But then to let him go from her to that man, then hear his gloss upon it! Conway waited. ' I knew it was only a fancy. ~No, dearest, I am interested in this, recollect. I owe something to the memory of that poor girl.'

He left her. With a sort of terror she followed him with her eyes. Now she had time, and could think calmly what she should do. She must decide before he returned. There was something of meaning in that Dudley's behavior; his stopping on his journey, his looks at her, and his hints. It did seem as though he wished to raise up some cloud between her and her husband—to get some strong net entangled about her, in which he could drag her back from him. Her old, calm sense came to her aid. Was nob all this a mere difficulty of the imagination, in which she was entangling herself of her own act ? It was her own foolish finessing. Conway came back, musing. ' That Dudley is wonderful,' he said. 'lt shows what purpose will do for a man of a dull, heavy nature. He has certainly made out some strange things enough to justify him in a suspicion that she died in a different way from what waa given out.'

' Oh, surely not. You cannot think that — you must not. Oh, it would be too horrible. It is one oi this man's morbid, moody imaginings.' _ ' His facts are simple enough. But what is so strange, they bear out exactly the theory I had in my mind. What would your theory be?'

* I have none. I don't wish to have any. Oh, you promised me that we were to leave the subject for ever and ever.' Again Conway looked at her with surprise. ' My dear Jessica, this surprises me a little in you, who were so firm and rational about all things. Your old bitter vendetta with this poor girl was too girlish to be elevated into the serious matter that you would make it. Neither would I show this singular repulsion to the subject before people; for you see, Dudley remarked it, and he is morbid enough —as you say—to turn it to some purpose of his own. Now exert yourself, and your firm self, as of old, and tell me what is your speculation, and I shall tell you ours.' Now was the opportunity. Make a clean

breast of it, according to the old phrase, and all might be well. But the deception—he could never forgive that, all she could say or do. Again rushed in her pride, and she uttered words that long after she was to regret. It was the final step into the quagmire. 'I can say nothing. I dislike the subject, and it is unkind to speak of it.' She was hurt. It was as though a new feature in her character had come on him by surprise. 1 Well, then,' he said, slowly, « what, we have reached is this : that there was some one with her when she died. That some one has not revealed herself. We are going to be the Edgar Allan Poes of the mystery.' _ She was so scai'ed by this announcement that she let him leave the room. Had he Btayed a second longer, she had almost made up her mind to tell him. But the opportunity for grace was gone. He sat up some hours that night oyer books and papers, and the interval was as good as weeks. CHAPTEE Vl.—" EACIIIS DESCENSUS." They were now back in town again, but they were changed in their relations. Conway with disappointment, for he had begun to perceive a want of firmness—a sort of fretfulness that belonged to a young girl, and which might be no profit to him in the great schemes that were before him. She, with the old decision, which she really possessed, had made up her mind calmly to a distinct course. Dudley had gone hia way. This moody dream of his—for it might be such—would lead him in some other direction. It would all pass by. She, too, was concerned at a faint alteration in her husband's manner, which, faint as it was, she had detected. This surprised her. He, too, had avoided the subject. In short, by little and little, and by a process which the parties themselves can take no heed of, so gradual and imperceptible is its progress, is built up that fatal Blue Chamber, to which both parties have a key, bul; which both go round long passages to avoid, and yet are always coming face to face at its very door. He had many things now to occupy him. He was fast sliding into politics, which often become the grave of love. There was apolitical association where he was asked to deliver a speech, and the preparation took up a long time, but the delivery was a success. The speech was talked of, and there were leaders in the journals. He was talked of for a seat, and had to make journey's and ' interview' people of all kinds. Thus, he was gradually being drawn off from any interest in his calm household ; and if he felt a scruple, he salved it over with the thought that Jessica had not so strong a mind as he thought, and would not take interest in his politics. At last it became k"own that the seat would be vacant, and one evening a gentleman of the party, who ' found' eligible boroughs, as a house agent might find houses, came to them mysteriously one night. He was closeted with Conway a long time, who then came up to his wife, very grave indeed. ' They have found me a seat,' he said. 'A man is willing to retire. But who do you suppose—or where do you suppose ?'

Again she knew there was something coming —something with a dark shaddow to it. ' Bolton is the man, and St Arthur's is the place.'

* But you will not accept ?' she said. * You could not! A place with such associations for you —such associations for me !' ' Childish ones, dearest, as I have often told you. Really, Jessica, this amounts to a little folly—like a nightmare. My associations may be painful or unpleasant, but there is nothing surely, to be ashamed of—nothing by reason of which I should retreat from such an advantage.'

Jessica answered with a flush. ' I never thought so, or dreamed of such a thing.' ' Not surely because you had a quarrel with that poor girl—kept up rather too long—am I to decline this great opening ? No, Jessica, I cannot humor you so far; unless you can tell me some good reason. If, indeed, you tell me that you have something to reproach yourself with in her regard, if you will tell me now there is some secret reason '

• There is nothing to tell,' she said. ' Only this—l > cannot explain it. But I have a very miserable presentment—that ill-omened place ' He smiled. ' Which brought us together! Is that ill-omened ? And as for the presentment, it will do us no harm. I have had too many presentments; but they never came out true. There, dear, we must go on to where glory waits us ; and, alas! put our feelings in our pockets, or, at least, seem to do so.' Conway was a sort of epicureoan worldling. That great oyster, the world, was the chief delicacy he cared for at heart, and all his life he had been striving hard to open it. Now it would seem he had got his knife well in, and a little more leverage would open it. Now came the writing an address—the writing of many letters. A few nights later Conway came up quite full of spirits to report progress to his wife. 'All goes well. We have an unexpected agent enrolled in our ranks, and who has done me service already. He has saved me a rebuff; for I had a letter written to Sir Charles Pan ton, but Dudley tells me Sir Charles is bitter against me.' ' What, that Dudley again upon the scene,' she said. ' Oh, this is becoming wretched!' J The old nightmare,' he said, smiling. ' But this quite destroys my scruples, and should yours. Let a man take the lino of an enemy, and I am always glad. Then I can take my side. Sir Charles might have heaped coals of fire on my head. But it is a relief that he has taken this course.'

' And you will go dowa there—within sight of that unhappy place, where she who was to have been your wife met with such an end. What will they say even as to the taste, the delicacy of such a proceeding?' He colored. ' A man who stands for a

borough must bid adieu to delicacy. But that is for myself. And your scruples, too, are for myself. Since you assured me you had no other reason, I can take the rest on myself.' She was silent. She had walked so far into this quagmire she could not turn round. ' Dudley will do his best for us. So I presume will your lather ; he will expect me to get him a bishopric. I can hear iutn ringing, 'My son-in-law Conway,' like a bell in his steeple. To-morrow—now don't be shocked, dearest— Igo dewn to canvass with Dudley. We shall look up Edgar Allan Poe business, too, if we have time.'

Again lurid shadows—wild and jagged in shape—kept leaping backwards and forwards in a sort of challenge. She made no more protest, but seemed to accept the old ' anangke' of the Greeks come back again to the world. Dudley came the next day, send found Conway ready for him. 'ls it not curious,' said the former, ' the mere accidents that direct the course of a life ? He puts in, on board a yacht, at this small port, and he is fortunate enough to find an accomplished lady for his wife, and probably a seat in the House of Commons. He is also able to help a poor broken-hearted creature in what you, Mrs Conway, would unjustly call his monomania.'

'No, she would not,' said Conway, 'She makes me feel ashamed sometimes that I had so little tenderness about that time.'

' And you have none !' said the other fiercely} 'Not that you did anything to her. Indeed, you behaved wonderfully—l own that. But, I repeat, it seems like another dispensation that you should be drawn back there again with me, to help me wit*h your well trained wits, to what my poor muddled brains could never reach to of themselves. One look at the ground, the detectives tell us, is worth whole volumes of writing and description.' 'Yes,' said Conway, 'you may count on my putting my whole soul into it.' 'Why are you so eager for tliie ?' said Jessica, excitedly. 'I should have thought it was a matter we should all be glad to have done with for ever. Why should you be raking up this dismal past ? For God's sake leave it so, and leave us alone!'

' Why ?' repeated Dudley, coming back from the door whither he had advanced, and gazing fixedly at her. 'Do you ask in earnest ?' Her eyes flew hurriedly in the direction of Conway, who was putting some papers together, ' Ah! I was sure not. Well, one of these days I shall tell you—him too—and perhaps the whole world !' She felt this wasgrowing unendurable. With a sudden impulse she called aloud, ' O Geo: ye, I should tell you—l must '

' Tell me what ?' he said. ' One of 3 ir secrets ? Ah ! you know you have no seer is from me. Good-bye, dearest!' They were gone. She was left alone to le dismal thought that for every hour of .it tedious absence Dudley would be drop; ,g some hint, filling her husband's soul with s ;j thoughts and reminders, which would set is mind in train to receive that one idea. ue dwelt on this till it became a protracted age iy, till her heart fluttered, and the days seeme* bo drag by and the nights to stop short as *he thought of this fax*-off process going on which was destroying her shortlived happiness. CHAPTEE VII. —BEEAKING DOWN. Conway wrote every day full of hopes and anxieties ; but everything seemed to be going well on the whole. These letters gradually grew warmer and more hopeful. Dearest I know now that I am quite certain ; and when I return to you next week I shall be M.P. for St. Arthur's-on the-Sea. Then what a world before us! .... , You. write to me not to lie anxious about certain matters, but trust to you. Trust to you, dearest! Why there is a melody for me in these words. You little know the confidence I have in you. It waa one of the charms that drew me to you. Your very look has been enough for me, and a mere motion, a glance of your eye, I accepted as an assurance. Indeed, your whole life for me has been such —always true —though there has been a little foolish cloud between us of late. Dudley I see little of, and he is of no use to me. There was something in this letter that gave her a hope and peace she had not had for long ages. He had never paid her so candid or so just a tribute before, and it made her face glow all over. It seemed to dispel the noxious vapors which had been rising about her. Her spirits began to rise. The next day passed without a letter from him ; the nomination was to be on the following morning. It was now known that the other candidate had but a poor chance. In the afternoon she went almost treading on air, she was so happy, when she met an elderly friend. 'So glad to meet you,' he said. ' You can tell me the meaning of all this.' ' Of what ?' she said. 'About your husband. What on earth made him do that ? It seems incomprehensible ; with the ball at his foot '

' I know nothing,' she said, excitedly, * What can you mean ?'

' Oh, then you have not heard.' And he pulled the evening paper out of his pocket. He held this paragraph before her eyes. A film seemed to come over them as they read : ' St. Abthub's, noon.—Mr Conway, one of the candidates, has withdrawn. No reasons assigned for this unexpected step. The other candidate walks over.'

She hardly knew how she got home j but now, indeed, the old shadow seemed to be cast before her for all time—a dreadful presage of evil. She waited for his coming as it grew dark. At the hour she had guessed he entered, and hurriedly embraced her, all as usual. (Concluded in our next.)