LOVE'S MADNESS.

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

LOVE'S MADNESS.

I Granville West was sitting on the verandah of his bungalow, gazing at the sea. Suddenly he shuddered and turned his eyes away. Memory had gone back to a day three years ago when the man who now lay ill under his roof had n|l but robbed him of his life. "Granville!" His wife'* voice interlupted his reverie. "The doctor was light, lie is conscious, and his memory is coming back. You had better go up 10 him, dear, and help him all you can." ! "Very well, Hilda." He Hung an arm 1 affectionately around her. "I'm awfully I sorry for the poor beggar," he said gravely. With a firm step he strode into the '. sick-room.

"Better, Compton?" he said to the man on the bed.

Herbert Compton sat up with a start. "Here! That won't do!" said Granville. "Lie down again. The doctor said I was to tell you anything you wanted to know, because worrying was bad for you. But I wasn't to" let you get more excited than I could help." "Tell me this, then," the invalid begged feverishly. "Am I mad? Or ate you really the man 1 tried to kill? How long ago was it, and what has happened, and what is the matter with me now?" "Steady! I can't answer all these questions at once, old chap. To take tbe last one first. You had a nasty fall as you came up the cliff with Hilda and me the othe r day. Slipped and fell on the back of your head, and you have been unconscious for forty-eight hours." "Ah! I've been a bit queer for some time, haven't I?" The other man nodded, and sank into a chair.

The invalid lay silent for a minute or two, and Granville sat patiently waiting. The doctor had left strict injunctions that the return of memory wan not to be hurried; neither was it to be retarded. Anything the patient wanted to know was to be told him, but, otherwise, Xaturc was to be left to do her own work in her own way. "It is coming back! 1 am beginning to remember everything. Wasn't I engaged to be married?" "Xot quite." "Ko —almost engaged. Yes—that's right. Hilda Trcvelyan and 1 were on the point of an understanding. I waf, awfully in love with her. Was thai Hilda who was here a little while ago?" "Yes." s "Your wife?" "Yes."

There was another period of silence, during which the sick man's brain struggled to regain its balance. "Yes," he went on, "I was awfully in love with her, and then you came d'owa here, and you and she got very friendly. I hen she wrote ine a letter. I remember it, every word. I was sitting in mv studio—l was an artist then, was I not?—when the postman brought it te me. The studio was right on the cliffs, miles away from anywhere, and the postman said it was a good job 1 didn't have many letters.

"The letter said she was dcep'y grieved to have to write to me like that, but she thought I ought to know that she had learned to care fo r someone else; it went o n to say that she hoped I wouldn't think of her top unkindly, and would He very happy and successful in my work. "I recollect it was a most terrible shock to me. 1 read it over at least twenty times—and then I took down a revolver I had in my studio, and loaded it, intending to blow out my l>rah3. Life, I thought, wasn't worth living without her.

"And then you—you passed in front of my window, swinging a towel in your hand—oif your dip. I saw rod. It came over me that you were the man who liad come between us. So I followed you, with the revolver in my hand." The man in the chair moved restlessly, and the man in the bed held up a restraining hand. "Let me go on," he cried. "Let me remember it all, or else 1 shall go mad! "I followed you. There was no one about. I was a very lonely coast, tar removed from tourist haunt's. That was why I had built my studio there. " "You went down to a little cove, undressed, and began to paddle about. I watched you, and 1 remember I despisjd you because you were a very poor swimmer and could only swim a few strokes Then you came out and sat i n the sun on a rock, and I came down to you. "You saw my revolver at oiiev, and asked me what it was for. I told yon. 'To shoot you,' I said, and you laug'hU. But you soo n realised that I was in earnest.

"As you sat there in your bathing costume I accused you of robbing me of Hilda, and you denied it. You said you hadn't known anything about me, and that when you did, it was too late. Yot> and she couldn't help yourselves. You ■were born for each other. "A fiendish idea occurred to me. To shoot you would be murder. I was quite prepared to do murder, but I wanted Hilda, so I hit upo n the plan of getting you out of the way by making you tppear to have committed suicide. " 'That rock you are sitting on,' I said, 'will be covered by the tide in an hour's time. You shall sit there and drown. If you move 1 will shoot you; but I know you won't move. You will hang on till the last moment h the hope of someone coming to save you.' "I remember sneering at you; I remember pointing out how dramatic w.io the situation; I remember watching the water creeping slowly up the rock, covering your legs, " and then your thighs, till it reached your chest. [ "You pleaded with me, you threatened i J me—but you could do nothing. I was ready to shoot—and you knew it. So I you sat there, hoping for something to happen. But there was nobody about. "And all the time the water was creeping slowly up your body, and yon were sifting there—waiting.' "I—l enjoyed it. I enjoyed it. Your sufferings were a joy to me. I hated you so, and I was so sure I had you in iny power, so sure of my revenge. "I held all the trumps. If you had moved I should have shot, and taken my chance of being hanged. 'I pointed out to you that even that chance was not very safe for you to count upon, as your body would probably be so battered by the rocks wlien it was found , that the mark of the bullet would be • indistinguishable. I"And then, when I was so sure of you, when every now and then a wave would touch you r chin, something hap ■ penvd which 1 have forgotten. You must have escaped—but how ?"

Once more ]i c broke off, and the beads of sweat stood out upon his forehead. "I rant remember," he moaned. 'Tell me—or I shall go madP' But the memory of that dreadful hour upon that roek, brought back like this, was so terrible, that for the moment Granville was deprived of the power o' speech. Vainly he swallowed the lump in his throat" and moistened his lips with his tongue; the words would i"t come.

"Tell me what happened. Tell me what happened!" pleaded the man in bed. "I can't bear it. I must know how you escaped, and how T came to he like this!"

"It is all over now." said Granville, slowly. "But it was rather horrible at the time. Most of the time I was debating which death would be easier: to move and force you lo shoot, or to wait and he drowned. But I Ininif on. While there's life there's hope, and just as I had given up in hitter despair. I thought of a way. "There was no one about. Anxiously though I strained my eye*, I could se> nobody. But suddenly I began to nod as if I had Been people on the cliffs above, ami then T Reckoned to them to make haste.

"At first you commanded me to be still, then, as the meaning of mv signs dawned upon you, you turned 'to Pee

who it was I was 'summoning to mv aid.

'There was no one. of course, hut while your head was turned from m>, and you were looking for the people I had pretended I had seen, with the dospera.tion of a drowning man I leapt off the rock, taking a furious sprint Hint | landed me On the beach, a literal lean for life, Before you could cover njo

again I had stooped and seized a stone and hurled it full at your face. It struck you—so quick had I been in my final effort—full upon the head, before yo 1 had even realised that you had been tricked; and you fell senseless at my feet."

"It was a clever ruse, and undoubtedly it saved your life," commented Compton, dispassionately. "But what happened after that? Tell me the rest!"

"Oil! I threw the revolver into the sea, and then put on my clothes. While 1 dressed, my anger against you faded away. 1 understood that you had gone mail, and did iny best to bring you bac'< to consciousness. But 1 didn't succeed. 1 hn.i thrown that stone with 100 much force; so at last 1 had to leave ~ ;ju and go oil' for help." "That was i-ather decent of you," said the invalid.

"You were ill for a long time—brain fever, very bad; but at iast you got better. But your memory was gone. You were a man without a past; you Ind forgotten evcn-;li;ng 1 ven your name." "Ah! Who nursed me?"

"Oh! 1 dirt—l and Hilda. We got married as soon as vnu were well—six months or so later."

■'By -love, but you wet- a p.et'v lan*, hearted couple, considering -. \-~-n tiling, said Compton, gratefully. "I'V.iie) 11111 ing me alter what 1 had done!"

He lay silent for a liul.-, then *u.'dcnlv ho asked: "How 'long ago was all this?" "About three years."

"Three years! And what have I been doing since?" "Living with Hilda and me."

"Living with Hilda and you! You have been looking after me for three whole years?" "Yes! We both felt that we ought to. vou know."

"After the foul way I tried to encompass your death?" "Oh, you were mad for a bit. We both understood that."

"My stare, West, you are the finest man I have ever known, and your wife's as fine a woman as I thought her when I went mad about her! I can't express my gratitude in words. It—it's beyond

"No need to say another word," said Granville, cheerfully. "The story is ended. Two days ago you slipped aid tell oh the back of your head, and tne concussion restored your memory, as the doctor tells me it has done in dozens of similar eases. Hilda and I are jolly glad. We have been waiting for it ever since your accident."

"Three years!" Compton muttered, after a long silence. "Three years without memory—tended by the man I tried to murder and the woman I loved in vain." Hi: held out his wasted hand. "Sorry, old chap," he said. "I was mad, as you said. I—l can't say any more." West took the invalid's hand in his own strong, cool grip, and watched the hot tears surge blindingly to the siek man's eves.

"Try and sleep," he murmured sooth' ingly.—Answers.