CHAPTER THE TELLING OF THE SECRLT.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 421, 20 November 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER THE TELLING OF THE SECRLT.

Edith went back to the work-room in Oxford-street, Lo the old treadmill life of ceaseless sewing, and once more a lull came into her distuitied existence — the lull preceding the hibt ending of this strange mystery that had wrecked two lives. It seemed to her as she sab down among madame's troop of noisy, chattering gals, as though last night and its events were a long way off and a figmont of ?omo strange dream. That she had fetood face to face with Sir Victor Cathcron, spent a night under the same roof, actually spoken to, him, actually felt sony for him, was too unreal to be true. They - had said rightly w hen they told her . dtfath was pictured on his Whatever this seciefc of his might be, it wr,s a secret that had cost him his life. A hunched times a clay thafcpa'lid, tortured face rose before her, that last agonised cry of a strong heart in strong agony rang in her ears. All her hatied, all her revengeful thoughts of him were gone— she understood no better than before, but she pitied him from the depths of her heart. They disturbod her no mere, neither by letters nor visits. Only as the woeks went by she noticed lhi» — that as surely as evening came, a shadowy figure hovering aloof followed her home. She knew who it was— at tirfrt she felt inclined to repent it, but as, he never came near, never spoke, only followed hey from that safe distance, she grew reconciled and accustomod to it at >yt. She undei'btood his motivo —to shield

her — to protect her from danger and insult, thinking himself unobserved. 1 Once or twice she caught a fleeting glimpse of his face on theso occasions. What a corpse-like face it was— how utterly weak and worn-out he, seemed — more fitted for a aick-bed ,thcu the role of protector. ' Poor fellow,' Edith thought often, her heart growing very gentle with pity and wonder, 'how he loves me» how faithful ho is after all. Oh, I wonder— l wonder, what this secret i 3 that took him from me a year ago. Will hi* mountain turn into a mole-hill when I hoar it, if ever I do, or will it ju3tify him '! Is lie sane or mad '! And yet Lady Helena, who is in her light mind, suiely holds him jus tilled in what he has done. ' July — August passed — the middle of September came. All this time, whatever the wcithcr, she never once missed her shadow ' Jrom his post. As wo giow ac ou-tomed to all tiling, she grew accu-s tomed to fchi» watchful care, grew to look for him when the day's woik wks done. But in the middle of Septomber she misled him. Evening after evening came, and she returned home unfoliowed and alono. Something had happened. Y r os, bomethinjr had happened. Ho had never held up his head after that second i parting with Edith. For days he had ' lain prostrate, so near to death that they thought death surely must come. But by the end of a week he wab better — as 'much better at leatt as he c\cv would be in this world. ' Victor,' his aunt would cry out, c I wisu — I wish you would consult a physician about this affection of the heait. lam frightened for you —it is not liko anything else. There is this famous German — do uv and see him to please me.' ITo please you, my dear aunt— my good, patient nurse — 1 would do much,' her nephew was wont to answer with a smile- ' Believe mo your fears are groundless, however. Death takes the hdpeful and happy, and passes by such wretched as 1 am. It all comes of weakness of body and depression of mind ; there's nothing serious tho matter. If I got worse, you may de pend upon it, I'll go and con&ult Herr Yon Werter. 1 Then it was that he began his nightly duty — the one joy left in his joylc&s life. Lady Helena and Inez returned to St. John's Wood. And Sir Victor, fiom his lodgings in Fenton's Hotel, followed his wife homo every evening. It was the first thought when he arose in the morning, tho one hope that upheld him all the long, weary aimless day — the one wild delight that was like a spasm, half pain half jov — when the dutk fell to see her blender figure come forth, to follow his darling, half unseen, as he fancied to her humble home. To watch near it, to look up at her lighted window with oyee, full of feuch love and longing a& no words can ever picture, and then, sniveling in the rising night wind, to hail a hansom and go home— to live only in the thought of another meeting on the morrow. Whatever the weather, it has been said, he went. On many occasiens he returned drenched through, with chattel intj teeth and livid lips. Then would follow «, long, lever-tossed, sleepless nights, and a morning of utter prostration, .mental and physical. But come what might, while he was able to stand he must l'ctuin to his post — to his wife But IS'atuie, defied long, claimed her penalty at latt. There came a day when Sir Victor could rise from his bed no more, when the heart spasms, in their anguish, giew even moie than his resolute will could bear. A day when" in diro alarm Lady Helena and Inez were once more summoned by faithful Jamison, and when afc last— at la?fc tho infallible German doctor was sent for. The interview between physician and patient was long and strictly private. When Herr Yon Werter went away afc last his phlegmatic Teuton face was set with an unwonted eNpression of pity and pain. After an interval of almost unendurable suspense, Lady Helena was sent for by her nephew, to be told the lesult. He lay upon a low sofa, wheeled near the window. Tho last light of the September day streamed in and fell full upon his face — perhaps that was what glorified it and gave it such a radiant look. A faint smile lingered on his lips, his eyes had a far-ofF, dreamy look, and were fixed on the rosy evening sky. A strange, unearthly, exalted look altogether, that made his aunt's heart sink like stone, • Well ?' Sho said ifc in a tense sort of whisper, longing for, yet dreading, the icply. He turned to her, that smile fetill on his lips, still in his eyes. He had not looked so well for months. He took her hand. 'Aunt,' he said, 'you ha\e heard of doomed men sentenced to death receiving their reprieve at the last hour? I think I know to-day how those men must feel. JSly reprieve has come.' ' Victor ?' It was a gasp. ' Dr. Yon Werter says you will recover !' His eyes turned from her to that radiant brightness in the September sky. 'It is aneuiism of the heart. Dr. Yon Werter &ays 1 won't live three weeks.' They were down in (Jheshhe. They had taken him home while theie was yet time, by slow and easy Ftagcs. They took ' him to Catheron Royals — it was his \v ish, and they lived but to gratify hi& wishes now. The grand old house was as it had been left a year ago — fitted up resplendently for a bride — a bride who had never come. There was one particular room to which he desired to be taken, a spacious and sumptuous chamber, all purple and gilding, and there they laid him upon the bed, from -whish he' would ne\er rise. It was the close of September now, the days golden and mellow, beautiful with tho rich beauty of early autumn, before decay hat come. He had grown rapidly worse since that memorable interview with the German doctor, and paralysis, that ' death in life,' was preceding the fatal footsteps of aneurism of the heart. His lower limbs were paralysed. The end was very nea 1 ' now. On "the last; day of September Herr Yon Werter paid his last visit. 1 It's of no use, madame,' he said to Lady Helena; ' I can do nothing — nothing whatever. He won't last the week out.' The young baronet turned his Ferene ej es, serene at la&t with the awful serenity that precedes the end. He had heard the fiat not intended for his ears. ' You are sure of this, doctor ? Sure, mind ! 1 won't last the week out ?' ' Ifc is impossiblo, Sir Victor. I always tell my patients the truth, your disease is beyond the reach of all earthly skill. The end may come at any moment — in no case can you survive the week.' His serene face did not change. He turned to his aunt with a smile that was often on his lips now : 'At last,'" he said softly ; ' afc lasfc my darling may come to mo— at lasfc I may tell her all. Thank God for this hour of release. Aunt Helena, send for Edith at once' By the night train a few hours later, Inez Catheron wenfc up to London. As JMadame Mirobeau's young women as sembled next morning she was there before them waiting to see Miss Stuait.

Edith came — a foreknowledge of the t.ruth in her ihind. The interview was ' brief. Sho left at once in company with Miss Gatheron, and Madamo Mirebeau's ,establishment was to knpw her no more. As the short, autumnal day closed in, they were in Che&hiie. It was the e\cning of. the &econd of Oc tober — the anniversary of .the bridal eye. And thus at hitt the bride was coming home. She looked out with eyes that saw nothing of, the familiar land scape as it Hit ted by — the places she had never thought to tee more. She was going to Catheron Royals, lo the man she had married a yei>r ago. A \car ago ! what a strange, terrible year it had been— like a bad dream. She shuddered as she recalled it. All wab to be told at last, ar.d death was to set all things e-\en. The bride was returning to the biidcgtoom like this. All tho way lrom the elation to the great house &he ne\er spoke a woid. Her heart beat with a dull, heavy pain — pi y ior him — diead of what she was to hear. It was quite dark when they rolled through the lofty gatcb, up the broad, tree-shaded drive to the grand portico entrance of the houte. 'He is very low this evening, miss,' Jami&on whispered as he admitted them ; 'fexeiish and longing for her ladyship's comintr. He begs that as soon ab my lady is rested and has had some refioshmenb the will come to him at once.' Lady Helena met them at the head of the stairs, and took tho pale, tiled girl in her arms for a moment. Then Edith was in a fire it, waxlit room, lying | back for a minute's iest in the downy depths, of a great chair. Then coiiee and a dainty repast wa& brought her. She batlied her face and hands, and tried to eat and drink. But the food seemed to choke her. She drank the strong black coflee eagerly, and was ready to go. Lady Helena led her to the room where he lay — that purple and gold chamber, with all its dainty and luxurious appointments. She shrank a little as she entered — she remembered it was to have been their room w hen they returned from their bridal tour. Lady Helena juat opened tho door to admit her, closed it again, and was gone. She was aJone with the dying man. By the dim light of two wax bapeis she beheld him propped up with pillows, his white, eager face turned towaid her, the love, that not death itself could for a moment vanquish, shining upon her from his eyes. She was over kneeling by the bedside, holding his hands in hers — how, she could never have told. 1 1 am eorry — I am sorry !' It was all sho could say. In that hour, in the presence of death, she forgot everything, her wrongs, her humiliation. She only knew that he was dying, and that he loved her as she would never be loved again in this world. ' It is belter as it is,' she heard him saying, when she could hear at all, for the dull, rushing sound in her ears ; ' far better — far better My life was torture- could never have been anything else, though I lived fifty years. J was. so young — life looked so long, that there weie timet, ye a , Edith, times when for hours 1 sat debating within myself a suicide's cowardly end. But Heaven has saved me from that. Death has mercifully come of itself to set all things ttiaight, and oh, my darling ! to bring you.' She laid her face upon his wasted hand, nearer loving him in his death than she had ever been in life. < 'You hive suffered, ' he, said, tenderly, looking at her. ' I thought to shield you from every care, to make your life one long dieam of pleasure and happiness, and see how 1 have done it. You have hated me — scoined mo, and with justice ; how could it be otherwise '! Even when you hear all you may not be able to forgive me, and vet, Heaven knows, I did it all for the best. If it were all to come over again, I could not act otherwise than as 1 have acted. Bub, my darling, it was very hard on you.' In death as in life his thoughts were not of himself and his own sufterings, but of her. As she looked at him, as she recalled w hat he had been only a year ago, in the flush and vigour and prime of manhood — it seemed almost too much to bear. ' Oh, Victor ! hush,' she cried, hiding her face again. ' you break my heart !' His feeble fingers closed over hers with all their dying stiength — that faint, happy &mile came over his lips. ' I don't want to dislrtss you,' he said very gently ; ' you have suffered enough without that. Edith, I feel wonderfully happy to-night — it seems to me I have no wish left — as though I were suie of your forgiveness beforehand. It is joy enough to tec you here — to feel your hand in mine once muo, to know 1 urn at liberty to tell you the truth at last. I have longed for this hour with a longing I can never describe. Only to be forgiven and die — I wanted no more. lYr what would life hi.«ve been without you ? My dearest, I wonder if in tho dark days thataie gone, whatever you may have doubted, my honour, my &anity, if you ever doubted my lo\ c ior you ?' ' I don't know,' fho answered, in a stifled voice. 'My thoughts have been very dark — \ery desperate. There were times when there seemed no light on earth, no hope in Heaven. I dare nob tell you — I dare not think — how wicked and leckless my heart has been.' 4 Poor child !* he said, with a touch of infinite compassion. ' You were so young— ib was all so sudden, so terrible, &o incomprehensible. Draw up that hassork, Edith, and sit here b} r my side, and listen. l\o. you must let go my hand. How can I tell whether you will nob shrink from ib and me with horror when you know all?' Without a word she drew the low seat close to the bed, and shading her iace with her hand, listened, motionless as a statue, to tho brief story of the secret that had held them apart so long. •It all begins,' Sir Victor's faint, low voice said, 'with the night of my father's deabh, three weeks before our weddingday. Thab night I learned the secreb of my mother's murder, and learned to pity my unhappy lathei' as I had never pitied him before. Bo you remember, Edith, the wordh you spoke to Lady Helena the day before you ran away from Powysa Place ? You said Inez Catheron was nob the murdeier, though she had been accused of ib, nor Juan Cabheron, though he had been suspected of ie— that you believed Sir Victor Catheron murdered his own wife. Edith, you were right. Sir Victor Catheron murdered his own wife ! ' I learned it that fatal night. Lady Helena and Inez had known it all along. Juan Cabheron moi'e than suspected ib. Bad as he was, he kepb that secreb. My m?ther was stabbed by my father's hand. ' Why did he do ib ? you ask. I answer, because he was mad — mad for weeks before. And he knew it, though no one el3e did, With bhe cunning of insaniby he kepb his secreb, nob even his wife suspected that his reason was unsound. He was a monomaniac. Insanity, as you have heard, is hereditary in -our family, in different phases ; the phase ib took with him was homicidal mania. On all other points he was sane— on this, almost from the first, he had been insane — the dem're to take, his loife's life. •It is horrible, is ib nob — almost in- j credibly horrible ? It is true, nevertheless, j

Before the honeymoon Mas ended his homicidal mania developed itself — an almost insurmountable desire, whenever hej waa alone in her presence, to take her life. Out of the \ery, depth and intensity- of his passion for her his madness arose. He loved her with the whole strength of' his heart and being, and the mad longing was with him always, to end her life' while Bhe was all hie own— in short, to kill her, 'Hs could not help it ; re knew his madneas — he shrank in honor from it —he battled with it — he prayed' for help — and for over a year he controlled himself. Bub it was always there— always How long-it might have lain dormant — haw long he would have been able .to withstand his mail desire, no one can tell. But Juan Catheron came and claimed her as his wife, and j-alousy iinished what a dreadful hereditary insanity had begun.' • • \On that fatal e^enir>g he had eeen them together somewhere in -the grounds, and though he hid what he felb, the sight had goaded him almost to frenzy. Then came the summons from Lady Helena to go to Powyss Place, lie set out, bub befo.re he h..d gone hal- way, the demon of jealousy whispered in his ear, "Your wife is with .Juan Catheron, now— go back and surprise them." He turned and went back — a madman—the la&b glimpse of leason and selfcontrol gone. He saw his wile, not with Juan Catheron, but peacefully and innocently asleep by the open window of the room where he had left her. The dagger used as a paper knife, lay on the table near I say he was utterly mad for a time. In* moment the knife was up to the hilt in her heart, dealing death with that one strong blow ! He drew ib out and—she lay dead before him. ' Then a great horror fell upon him. Not of the consequence of hia crime ; only of that- which lay so still and white before him. He turned like the madman he was and fled. By some strange chance he met no one. In passing thiough the gates he flung the dagger among the ferns, leaped on his horse and was gone. •He rode straight to Powyss Place. Before he reached ib some of insanity's cunning returned to him. Ho must not let people know he had done ib ; they would hndoub he was mad ; they would shut him up in a madhouse ; they would shrink irom him in loathing horror. How he managed ib, he told me with his dying bieath, he never knew — he did somekow. No one suspected him, only Inez Catheron, returning to the nursery, had seen all — had seen that deadly blow struck, had seen his instant flight, and stood spellbound, speechless and motionless as a stone. Ho'iemembered no moie- the dark night ot oblivion and total insanity closed about him only to open at briefest intervals from that to the hour ot his death. ' That, Edith, was the awful story I waa told that night- the story, that has^ruined Mid w recked my whole life and" yours. I listened to it all as you sit and li&ten now, still as a stone, frozen with a -horror too intense for woids. I can recall as clearlj, now as the moment I heard- then! the , last words he e\er spoke to me : <4 VI tell you this partly because I am dying,' and I think you ought to know, partly because I want to warn you. They tell me you are about to be married. Victor, beware what you Ho. The dreadful taint is in your blood as it was in mine— you j love her as I loved the wife 1 murdered. Again I say take care— take care ! Be warned by me ; my fate may be yours, - your mother's fate hers. Ib is my wish, I would command, if I dared, that you never marry ; that you let the name and the curse die out ; that no more sons may be borne to hear the ghastly story I have told you." 4 1 could listen to no more, I rushed from the room, from the house, out into the darkness and the lain, as if the curse he tpoke of had already come upon me — as though I were already going mad. How long [ remained, what I did, I don't know. Soul and body seemed in a whirl. The next thing I knew was my aunt sum aidriing. mo into the house. -My- most miserable father was dead. -~- - • - ' Then came the fugoral. I would nob, could not think. I drove the last warning - he had spoken out of my mind. I clenched my teeth — I swore that 1 would not give you up. Not lor the raving of a thousand madmen, not for the warning ot a thousand dying fathers. From that hour I was a changed man — from thab hour my doom was sealed. {To be continued.)