THE WHITE ROOK.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 4, 22 April 1893, Page 14

THE WHITE ROOK.

(From Harper’s Weekly.) Chapter 11. There are lagos in every-day life. Few, to be sure, as able as that brilliant Venetian, but many as devilish. They would lie away faith, hope and charity, divide friends, poison love, break hearts —all without scruple. Barton was this kind of personage ; and to his other estimable qualities he added this—that he never forgave forgiveness. Herein was the secret of his relations with Jason Willoughby. That silent secretive man whose life was largely brooded away, had detected Barton years before in an act the disclosure of which would have been his destruction. How the crime was one against Willoughby himself. Duty to others did not forbid the hiding* of it. In fact, during life his lips remained sealed. To Barton to be thus at another’s mercy was poison. For years he lived in constant fear. The calm speechless contempt of the other filled him with loathing. Had his courage equalled his hate,'Willoughby would not have died in his bed ; or, happy man, as was the fact, in his chair. But Barton, if he did not stab with a knife, stabbed with his tongue. Active, popular, a fluent talker, a member of several clubs, and in the swim of society, he was potent for ill. Willoughby, again, was almost a recluse. He saw few, save four or five old friends, with whom he played chess and talked of books, and who were nearly as solitary as he. Barton, to forestall the bitter da}' —the day of denunciation that might come at any time—set himself to the congenial task of slowly destroying the credit of the sole possible accusing witness. He hinted, always L ?n'dfc:" his breath, at all of dark misdeeds. The Willoughby’s hermitlike life was to be found, he gave out, in acts that unfitted him for human society. Of the totally unknown, almost anything* may be said with little fear of contradiction, and Barton managed with an art so consummate that he everywhere passed as a friend of Willoughby’s even while he thus maligned him. How Willoughby knew all about it. Why, with this knowledge, he tolerated Barton’s presence looks more mysterious than it really was. It was, for one thing, a whim of this strange old man to act differently to any given situation from what might be expected. Then he thought, perhaps, that Barton would be less dangerous under his eye than he would be elsewhere. Finally, there ranged through and took shape in his gloomy speculative mind certain notions of retributive justice that were destined to assume a practical form in the future.

Perhaps it was well, we repeat, for our amiable and single-hearted lovers that their talk was broken by this fresh arrival. Mr Richard Barton had visited at the house as long as Imogens Gray had lived there, and before. A well-preserved man of forty-eight or thereabout, shorter and stouter than Harding, with more repose of manner, better-chosen speech and bearing some stamp of travel and experience. He was less , precisely or fiuically dressed, too, and so more like a gentleman. He looked you full in , the face when he spoke —an achievement that cost an effort —but he had learned its worth and paid its price. Curiously enough, he too, wanted to marry Imogene, but it did not suit his book that anybody whatever should yet know or even suspect it. If you want anjdhing —this was one of Willoughby’s cynicisms, and was cheerfully adopted by Mr Baxhon -—let nobody know of it, and especially if what you want is a woman. Perhaps the saying might discreetly be extended so as to read, “ and most especially hide the wish from the woman herself.” This truly would have had force as applied to Imogene Gray, but it would have had none as applied to Bessie Willoughby. But of her, more hereafter.

As Barton came in, Harding went out, and the smell of his cigarette was immediately made manifest from the hall.

“ Billing and cooing as usual,” rallied Barton, with his suave smile. “ An odd name to give it,” replied the girl, whose heightened colour beti'ayed her emotion. “Mr Harding is like most men. He wants to enjoy himself, and—” ‘ ‘ To discourage en j oyment in others ? Alas, dear young lady, selfishness is confined neither to sex nor age.” “ Jack is over-anxious about the foi’tune—Mr Willoughby’s money.” “Well, Miss Imogene, that, too, is a comwon failing. We live in an expensive era—a time when the poor az*e apt to grow poorer, and the rich richer.” Imogene sighed. “ And the pleasures of wealth are really so many and so tempting,” continued Barton, “ and ” —watching her keenly—“ if you once get down in the world —” “Mr Barton,” exclaimed Imogene, eagerly, “ what do you think—about this —this will ? Is there any doubt about —about —” “ About your being the heiress ? Well, candidly, dear Miss Imogene, we cannot be positive. Here are your aunt and your cousin in the house on the same terms with yourself. True, they never lived here while Mr Willoughby did; but what then ? He specially directed that they should come after his death. What for ?” “ You think, then, that my uncle, after all these years, would be so — so cruel as to deprive me—” “ Why, you see, he made his money himself. There was none in the family. ' The favours have all been bestowed, not received, by him,” ‘‘ You think- Httay--Mroal-'alick's fears are well founded—that T

shall be a beggar ?” “ Hay, I don’t say that. I merely say it is uncertain. Willoughby was a very peculiar man. He may have left the bulk of his fortune to charities. Who knows P Ho one, unless it be the executors ; unless it be the executors ; and Waite and Saltum always keep their own counsel.”

“ His lawyers F” “ And Mote and Beam are as closemouthed as the grave.” There was a silence. Imogene’s breast rose and fell; her face changed, and she burst into tears.

“My dear young lady,” cried Barton “ don’t! pray, don’t! After all, it is, as we say, uncertain. But he—Harding—should not have worried you.” “ He thinks,” sobbed Imogene, in a fury of self-pity, “ that money is everything, and—and —” Richard took her hand and pressed it tendex-ly. “ I can’t bear to see you weep. Keep a good heax-t. In any case, all may be —ahem —all shall be well with you.” She looked up suddenly, and met a glance of passionate admiration. It was very well done, indeed, and so not overdone. Imogene felt the delicious thrill that always possessed her at moments which assur ed her of masculine subjugation. “ Anyhow,” she murmured, smiling through her tears, “it is not long to wait. This is the day; we shall hear something.’ ’ “Yes,” exaed Richax’d. “And by St. Valentine’s day—in three months —we shall know evexything.” ; They did hear something, as the young lady said. At half-past two, the time hour arranged, Messrs Waite and Saltum came. With these gentlemen, Jason Willoughby’s executors, came his lawyer’s, Messrs Mote and Beam. They went stx-aight to the point, and what they said fell on Imogene’s heart like a lump of ice. Twenty-five thousand dollars, they aflii'med, had come ixxto their hands of Mi* Willoxxghby’s money. About one half of this sum had been laid out for household and other expenses. This much they were instructed to say. But of the rust of the dead man’s supposed large fortune, none of the, four’ knew any more than a babe unboni. {To he continued.)