THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 198, 25 September 1909, Page 3

THE STORYTELLER.

A STOLEN IDENTITY. * A failure! Yes, it was impossible to hide the fact from himself any longer, and Roger Seftou gare a hard laugh as he leaned upon the table, his hands supSorting his face, his whole attitude a ving symbol of dejection. He had given himself ten years to retrieve a ruined past, had tried his utmost, staking every remaining hope of his manhood upon the result, but ■ still he faced a barred door that Fate refused to unlock for him, and stood outside the gate of Fortune an alien and Outcast no better than he had been ten years before, when he had first commenced starting afresh. Yet there was one longing still burning within him—a desire to see his osvti oountry once more. England called hii* to come across the dividing seas, a call it was powerless for him to obey; othjwwise how gladly he would have r ;- jjl&rned home, even though he reached England a penniless man. He could have hidden his head in some place where none who once remembered hiui might find him in his poverty. Yet, though it was to remain an alien even in his own land, anything to indulge this home-sickness that consumed him. But in his present moneyless condition to do so was impossible. He looked round his miserable lodging, inclined to revile the fates tint ruled his life; then, unable to endure the solitude any longer, he took up his hat and made his way into the streets, with eyes downcast and steps that hurried along in aimless speed, until he was roused by the sound of a voice that spoke his name, and, glancing up, an instant flush came into his darkening lace, and a lightning flash of fury into his sombre eyes, as their gaze fell upon the man who had addressed him—a tail, clumsily-built man who spoke in thick tones, and whose face, half stupid, half cunning, had an odd expression upon it as he gazed at Sefton—a doubtful expression, full of hesitation. He greeted the latter with noisy good humor, and then was silent, for a curious ashen pallor had replaced that sudden rush of blood to Sefton'e face. His lips were compressed into a thin lin», and his limbs were braced, every muscle of his body taut, his hands clenched, and the other fell back at the sight of the fury which Sefton could scarcely control.

"Come, man" —he spoke in unsteady tones and blinked his eyes nervously—"you don't bear malice, surely? listen. I'm ready to do the right thing if you think you owe me a grudge. Perhaps 1 did steal a march on you. But, you know, all such stratagems are fair when it's a question of a mining claim." "Thief and liar, false friend and perjured scoundrel!" Sefton hissed the ■words out. "You call it stealing a march, that base betrayal of my trust in you. that assassination of my hop<!s. It was nothing but a cowardly then, the claim which you pegged out for land which I had myself discovered. I "

He choked back other words that clamored for utterance. The other shook off his fit of apprehension and chuckled with tipsy mirth. "Listen to me, Roger. It was a lowdawn game I played you, I confess. But I'm willing to cry quits with you. I'm going back to England. Come with me as my guest. See me safely home, and when we land we can part in London, if you wish; and 111 give you—let me sic —yes, you 6hall have twenty pounds." His cunning eyes were fixed upon Sefton's face. He saw the cold light of scorn that came into it for a moment, and he added, eagerly: "It shall be more, if only you'll come —say, thirty pounds?" "And you sold the claim for ten thousand pounds after you had worked it for twenty thousand—the, claim that was rightly mine? Your offer is a handsome one. Why do you want me to go with you!" Julian Marl looked at him in silence for a moment. "You're the only man I can trust," he said at last, with an outburst of frankness. "Let me get home again, amongst honest people, or every, pensy that I have will be stolen from me. Let me get to some country where I can drink as much as I please and yet keep a hold upon my own." Sefton looked at him with a disgust it was powerless for him to conceal, tic did not appreciate very highly the post that was offered him, for he saw that the other had rapidly deteriorated since they had parted. Yet here was the opportunity for which he had longed—the opportunity to return home again and leave the arid bnshland, parched and sandy beneath a burning sun, to trace the ways of lmodland streams, to hear the song of fold birds, to rest in an English garden ablaze with summar flowers.

"Yes, I will with you," he said, "and will accept your generous idea of reparation." Marl eyed him doubtfully for a second, then his flushed and coarsened features took on an expression of intense relief, and he linked his arm through Sefton's. Bnt the latter shook him off a little roughly. "Understand," he said, sternly, "there c*>2 never again be between you and me any thought or pretence of friendship. I can render yon a service for ■which you offer me payment. But that <•• is all."

The other drew away with a 6ullen frown that was quickly replaced by it look of vacuous satisfaction, and he lurched along by Sefton's side until both men reached the evil-looking hostelry which Marl had made his present lodging. Here he placed in Sefton's hands money to pay for both passages in a steamer that was sailing the following day from Sydney. And now, satisfied that he had "found someone who had ac-

cepted responsibility for himself, Marl i appeared to regard that as sufficient ] excuse for further liquor indulgence, with the result that it was a drink-sod-dened w,reck whom Sefton. with shame in his heart at the thought of Ws charge, m-ought on to the ship the following day. Having reached his cabin, Marl resolutely refused to budge, and, throwing himself into his bunk, proceeded to sloep off the effect- of his heavy potations. But Sefton did not want to sleep. He ; passed on to the promenade deck and began walking up and down with feverish restlessness. He fell into a bitter reverie that lasted he did not know ho.v long, when suddenly all the ship seemed in commotion. He heard men's voices raised, shouting rapid orders, and above the cries that came from all sides was one of "Man overboard!" that carried with ii " !'i rill which brought the passengers thronging forward, moved by a common impulse of pity and terror for the unfortunate creature lost in the waves beneath the mighty liner, whose engines had been instantly stopped at the first alarm. Sefton wasamongst those who pressed eagerly forward, but the captain, wh> was to the fore, sent the rest back, though with a swift glance at Sefton he gave him a nod that admitted him into the small body of men making ready to enter one of the boats that had been swung down from the davits. "It is your companion, I fear," he said, quietly. "You may like to try a rescue with the others." His eyes swept over the lithe, powerful form .of Roger Sefton as he spoke, noted the splendid athletic condition, and had no fear of letting him join in trith the other more experienced men. Someone on deck lad witnessed the accident, had seen the: heavy lumbering form leaning over the railing, and watch ' the catastrophe that swiftly folle-»■!. Whether the r ail was weak, r "i ■ n-er could be the cause, whether Vrnte suicide, self-slaughter coni\ted in the hour of depression that followed his drinking bout, wh~o could tell? One thing was certain—that the man who had meant to enjoy the wealth which, in some measure, he had stolen from another, was lost in the waste o* the sea, and whilst the steamship waitL ed for some time—waited until an hour [ had elapsed—it was useless. L Sefton was silent when, at last, a'l oent to their oars and returned towards the big ship, blaming himself, yet sonuJrhal harshly, for a certain degree of cafelesKiees in not watching more closely the man he had" accepted charge of.

He threw himself into his bunt, physically spent, and sheer fatigue brought sleep to liTm. A spoken name at Inßt aroused Mm, and he found the ateward in his cabin, addressing him is sympathetic tones, yet by a name that ■was certainly not his. "It was a terrible tragedy, the drowning of your friend," he said. "It is, alas! oiilv too certain that poor Mr. Sefton was drowned." Sefton glanced at him with bewildered gaze, readv to utter words that would havu explained the error, when something—some swift, overmaster!™? temptation, a seed that grew to fruition in a sfrisle instant of time—restrained him, »n4 fce remained silent,

But he lay there trembling, rocked by conflicting thoughts, a struggle that waanone the less. intense because it was decided almost in a moment.

Why not? It was his money, after all. Why should he not let the mistake pass? Who was to know? Who would ever know?

Money stolen from him had been returned by the hands uf Fate. He would not refuse the gift.

Ah, how good it was to be back in England, home once more -.10; a fan cied dream alone, but a vivid :• ilitv.

Roger Sefton pulled at the oars with strong, powerful strokes that sent the boat skimming along; then he paused, resting his eyes on the woman who faced him—the woman he loved.

"Esther, there is a question I have brought you out here on the river to ask. I want you to be my wife." The words were spoken in soft, low tones, a whisper that the girl heard, and the color flashed into her face. Then something strange came into it, a sudden vivid alteration, and her expression changed. Her eyes looked into his with 510 trace of tenderness in them, but only a mute scorn. Then she spoke.

"I am glad to know," she said, slowly, "that you care for me—glad to know, for one purpose alone. 1 want you to feel pain; 1 want you to suffer, as ,-ou have niade others suffer in the past That is why I am glad." He stared at her with blank amazement, then guilty conscience gave 4 sudden start, and he grew hot with sudden shame and humiliation, for sine, ly her strange words could mean only one thing. She had discovered the part he was playing—the identity he had stolen. He stood before her branded as a thief, one who had robbed the dead.

Once he had taken the decisive step there had been no retracing his way. it had all bee n easy—fatally easy. " Yet, though all others were still duped, this girl must know; for what else should 50 suddenly have changed her? A we<-k before—-nay, only yesterday—her eyes had been soft, stealing his senses away, giving him silent encouragement on which he had built up dreams of the future.

"I did not know until to-day," the girl went on, speaking iu a low, chokid voice, "that you were the man who in the past ruined one whom I loved, ouc who was nearest and dearest to ine—my own father—who placed his small fortune into your hands, losing it in bubble schemes which enriched only one person —yourself. I did ot know until to-day that this plausible villain's true name was Julian Marl—Wiis man who quietly left the country to avoid prosecutioi. But his ruined victims were left to face penury and misery; and my own father —it killed him. And you ask me now to be your wife—you have the cold callousness, the matchless impudence." Her bosom heaved, her hands were clenched together, her voice vibrated with burning contempt. Sefton sat up in the boat rather stiffly, a ijrcy to warring emotions that lugged at his heart and divided liis mind. What should he say? Proclaim his imposture, tell he r the" truth ? But would shi' believe him if he did? I. was very doubtful. Would she rejr-'l I him as otherwise than an audacious liar, who was seeking to shift her just indignation and hatred from his own self to a dead man ? Or. suppose she did believe, would the light in which he would then stand revealed be any the less favorable? In either case "she would turn from him. She would never give to him the love that he would have valued as the world's biggest prize. "I suppose there is nothing that I could say which vou would accept as the truth?"" He spoW at last. "But I will say this much, if no more. Whatever wrong I have done in the world I am paying for it now —yes, paying very dearly, do not fear." ' j She looked at him, and he saw that: her eyes were swimming with sudden | tears. For a moment scorn and disgust were wiped out of her face. I

"Why did you rob and cheat and ruin?" she asked, in softer tones. "I I thought you a man who—well, it not.matter, only you have fallen in my eyes—fallen from a great heighl; and now the only thing I will ask of you is —to go away and never let me see you again."

A week passed, and in obedience u that request he had not sought to approach Esther. Yet what an empty week it seemed, robbed of the interest that had made the hours throb with a vivid emotion that had painted the future in celestial colors, changing it into the land of love's desire—an eartflly paradise.

He was wondering what he should do willi his barren days, half inclined to turn his back upon England and become an exile once more and begin life ill over a<rain.

He was tired of borrowed robes, of is, borrowed name. His imposture weighed him down with a sense of burden it was impossible to find escape from. His action now seemed mean and paltry - almost unpardonable. He forgot the wrong that the dead man had placed upon him —the cowardly treachery. He felt ashamed of what he had done. \ woman's accusing eye seemed to b<: condemning him for this thing she did not know about as well as for that which sh" imagined was hie guilt. I Yes, he would cast it from him, divc»t b:mseif of that which, rightly or wrongly, hi' fed regardvd as his own. He wis glad when this resolution was taken for another reason. A man lately returned from Australia, one who had known both himself and Julian Marl, and had guessed tiro motive of Sefton's imposture, had breathed forth threats ot vengeance and exposure upon Sefton's firm refusal to comply with certain blackmailing demands he had made as a price for silence.

He determined to lose no time ir robbing the other of his power to sting, and, making his way to Bedford Ro;v, he asked to see a partner of the legal firm with whom Julian Marl had kept in touch. He was at once admitted into the presence of the senior partner—a whitehaired, stately old man, who greeted him courteously. But Sefton cut slnrt his words with a swift gesture. "I wish to make a statement," he said. "It is rather a serious matter. I don't know what my position is. I sunpose I am amenable to the law, although I have spent merely a little of what the law will doubtless decide was never mine to touch." Then, in a few brief sentences, he made a full confession of his imposture. Mr. Benson listened with startled attention, evidently at a loss what actiwJ to take.

"I must consult my partner," he said at length. "He is out of town at present, but will return shortly. In the meantime, I am sure you will give mo yonr word to remain in London?" i Sefton smiled bitterly. "Here is my address. I shall remain there a week, but after that lapse of time shall hold myself free to depart if I wish." He left the lawyers' office with a wo'.v derful sense of relief upon him. He was himself once more, not masquerading as another. He turned away from Bedford Row and strolled through the streets, his mind absent, straying after forbidden things. At last he returned to his rooms, starting back as he crossed the

threshold, for a woman stood within—a tall, slight figure—a few paces from where he himself paused, arrested by astonishment.

He looked into her face, unable himself to speak, but seeking to read the-c) i what ha.d brought her to his rooms. Tt» I wondered at the light in her eyes, ths transfiguring light, that seemed to shine | a radiance 'from her very soul. Seovn ' and contempt had faded. HefTips were tender. The old smile had come back to her face. "Someone came to me to-day—some man from Australia and told me a strange story," she said. "The vile part of it seemed almost unimportant to me. All I cared then to hear was that you were not the true Julian Marl, and therefore not guilty of ruining my father and sending him to his gravo. For the rest, I am convinced that you have some explanation that must exonerate you." He gazed round the little room with a bewildering sense of joy. Then he spoke, a note of hope in his voice. "This man—f can guess who it was—told you but the truth. I stole Marl's, identity, for mercenary reasons alone. I wanted his money—money that should in very justice have been mine, yet as things' stood I was but a common thief. That, however, I have taken steps to amend. I have renounced the claim to what was never really mine " He paused. "And have gained " There was a sweet confusion for a moment in her face, and her voice dropped. She looked with appealing eyes towards him. Why would he not help her? But Sefton was immovable. "And have gained my low, if you still want it," she said, bravely. I ilis features clanged into an expression of almost unbelievable joy, and b» held her in bis arms.

! Neither exile from England, nor the disgrace which he somewhat anticipated, awaited Roger Scfton. The following day he received a letter from Mr. Benson, which he opened with natural misgivings. But its contents drove away the fear that had come to him, and made him lake back all that lie had said against a man who ha! been treacherous and a scoundrel during his life, but now had seemed to stretch a hand from the grave to undo all th; wrong that had robbed Sefton of a fortune.

;,i brief, the letter informed the latter thai some months back Julian .Marl h.i.i despatched a will to England, tugaii'i' witli a letter in which he expressed his intention of committing suicide, and in this will he had named the man he had robbed of his "claim" as his heir.

And in this manner the pathway was made clear for Roger to tread—a pathway lighted by the rosy glow of love.— Tit-Bite.