ONE IMPASSIONED HOUR.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 9046, 12 March 1908, Page 2

ONE IMPASSIONED HOUR.

By OWEN MASTERS.

Author of " Nina's Repentance," " Clyda's Love Dream," " Her Soldier

Lover," " For Love of Marjorie," " The Mystery of Woodcroft," etc,

CHAPTER Vll.—Continued. • There was v/ dead silence, then Eastwood spoke quietly, determinedly: "Then we part now, Jack Barrington, an';i noihms: under heaven will ever make me cull you friend again. This ruthless hatred of a weak woman is not worlhy of one whom I had hitherto believad to be a man. Your original excuse was to save me from an alleged adventuress. That plea is uaaleas now, for the muchmaligned woman is my wife." He, pressed an electric button in the wall. "I will order a carriage to take you homo." "You may order what you like, but I am not going until this awful business is settled. Charlie—Charlie old man, the woman is not your wife! She has already been married three times, and her first husband, a British sailor, is still living. The mans name, the date and place of their marriage, are all here." He held the linen envelope aloft. "You must investigate all this. Charlie, for your own protection—for the protection of your child." "Lies'—lies! wicked lies!' Eastwood, whispered. He staggered back to his chair, and clutched at his heart. "You're lying, Jack Berrington, and I will kill you!" A servant, stood in the doorway, but his master was unaware of it. He continued to threaten and to gasp. "The bell was rung by accident, Berrington said to the footman. The servant withdrew. >t "I'm choking—l'm going mad, Eastwood gasped. "I must have air. I will not doubt Stella—l cannot! She is as open and honest as the day. Three times married? You lie, Jack Berrington!" „ "The proof is within your reach, Berrington said sternly. "Henri Vi-1 pout, whom she shot, was her third husband. She may have believed the sailor dead when she married the count, but he was not. Her inhuman infamy is appalling; but, there--! have done with it Scotland Yard is already making investigations. . . Come out into the open air, Charlie; I am sorry, old chap, extremely sorry. Here, lean upon my arm. Just imagine if this discovery had come when it was too late! You are not bound to accept a word of it as truth until you have sifted it through an-j through. I have only done my dutv to a lifelong chum." Eastwood stumbled across the room, muttering incoherently. He was violently abusive, and pathetically pleading, almost in a breath. He groped his way to the verandah, and stood for one minute gazing up at the great moon. It shone like a globe of rad gold through the heat haze which lay trembling over the earth. "I wish you would go," he said to Berrington. "Your presence is hateful to me." ~ , He walked with faltering limbs out of the verandah, and over the lawn. ... "If this be true, and I fear it is, my life is broken," he said. Berrington followed him with no uncertain purpose. He feared for his friend'd lite. Beyond the chapel there was a great lake of winding v/ater, surrounded by a picturesque plantation. The lake was known to be very deep, but Eaatwood had a rooted aversion to interfering with its wild beauty. The walk around it was tangled with brambles and grasses. It would be so easy to trip and fall into the silent water! Eastwood came to a halt in the shadow of the chapel. He was leaning against the gate which had remained unclosed sinca the preceding day. His attitude suddenly changed; he straightened up, and became alert; then he moved swiftly within the encircling pallisade and entered the ihapel. "I will wait here and watch," decided Berrington. He lit a cigar, and paced slowly up and down. A night-bird was singing a delicious song, and the wind in the tree tops sounded like the distant I murmur of the sea. I

He hurled it across the room, and, dropping upon the bed, fell into a heavy, dreamful sleep. Five— six— seven o'clock. He stirred uneasily. The sunlight was gleaming on the walls, and the air was vibrant with the hum of bird and insect life. He opened his eyes, and a sigh pa«sed his lips; his sleep had been unrefreshing. "I wish it were night, instead of morning," he thought. "I should like to sleep again." He rose and undre?sed, and the scenes of the night before slowly unrolled before him like a panorama. He went to his bath, and was made strong. His mind was moving again with its accustomed alertness and the man of iron sobbed.

"If it had been anybody else but Jack, I could have borne it better. I am not such a blind, infatuated fool that I don't realize what my duty is, and I know that Stella will be content to think as I think, and to do as I do, but until I have heard the truth from her own lip 3 it is traitorous to reflect upon the lies of a creature like Vipont." His eye fell upon the crumpled envelope lying near the door, and his first impulse was to destroy it. He hesitated, glaring at lhe paper malevolently. Then he picked it up, and smoothed it out upon the table. Why should he read the contents? He knew that every word was the invention of an unscrupulous liar—that every word had been written from motives of revenge. Why should he not read the contents? Unless he made himself master of the charges brought against the woman that he loved, how was she to refute them? "Stella White, a travelling singer, married June 10, 1878, to one George Hobday, British seaman, at Ojiley Parish Church, Kent. Hobday is still living, and was in the American Navy during the war between America and Spain." Then followed the story of the Count of Pontoise, whom Stella Hobday had finally poisoned. Vipont admitted that he had assisted in helping the count to a better world, because he loved Stella himself. Later he had discovered' her real history quite accidentally. '"I decided that, since she had betrayed me, we should die together," he concluded, "but she was too quick for me; she got in the first shot." In one corner a few words had been pencilled by Berrington. "Copy tf this left at Scotland Yard." Eastwood stared out of the window with unseeing eyes. Mile upon mile of glorious country lay before him, and every square yard of it belonged to him. A rent-roll of fifty thousand a year, and there was not a poorer man upon God's earth than he. The breakfast-bell rang sonorously, and he went duwn-stiairs. His daughter was awaiting him, her eyes grave with anxiety. The servants stared curiously, if furtively. "Don't look as if you had the world on your shoulders, Miriam," he said pettishly, when they were alone. "Can't you see that I'm bothered to death already?" "But I've been so troubled about' you, papa," Miriam answered, kissing him fondly. "You have been away?" "Away? No—not half a mile from the house. I turned in at four o'clock, and have had hours of sound sleep. What more do I want?" He laughed rather bitterly. "Berrington and I went out together —or, rather, he followed me a3 far as the chapel. I haven't seen him since. We parted in anger; at least, I was angry—very angry. He will insist upon being my . guide, philosopher and -enemy. But how much has he told you, Miriam? I know that he could not keep his chattering tongue still." "Very little, papa." "There may be a mountain of mischief in a mole-hill of words. You have been altogether against my marriage, and you have connived with others to thwart me." | (To be Continued). I

Five —ten minutes passed. Berrington heard voices in the chapel. Was poor old Charlie talking to himself? He ventured within, but the light of the golden moon was in his eyes; he could see nothing—not even the mouth of the underground cells yawning in front of him. He stepped forward. "Charlie—Charlie," he called softly. Then a heavy weight crashed upon his head, and he was hurled into the cell beneath, and through a gaping rent in the floor, down—down—a hundred, or a thousand feet!

CHAPTER VIII

A MILLIONAIRE'S POVERTY. In the gray dawn Charles Eastwood cropt to his bedroom with faltering steps. His face was haggard, his eyes staring and vacant. It seemed that some powerful stupor had arrested the action of his brain, and for h)urs he had been wandering aimlessly through the woods and the fiakla.

"Pour o'clock!" He passed a hand wearily through his hair. "There must he some mistake; it cannot be six hours since Jack and I were talking in hte library." He shivered,.and stared at his dew-sodden boots. "But it is—it is; another day is breaking, and the birds are chattering." He covered his ears. "It must havs been one of the feathered friends whose scream I heard in the chapel." He shut and locked the door, then stared at a crumpled envelope tightly grasped in hi a right hand. "What's this? Oh, I remember; I picked it up in the plantation. Jack threw it after me; I saw him waving it aloft. Vipont's confession. Faugh"