The Colonel's Enemy.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 3149, 29 March 1909, Page 2

The Colonel's Enemy.

CHAPi'ER XXIV.-Continued. I "I may have too high an opinion , of my own skill and judgment. Mr Dacre said; "but I think if I had been on the track as long as the detectives have, 1 should have found ; the colonel long before this." | "To do that," said De Vigne, ] "you must first find the man who j holds the clue, and I, if I were at , liberty, would make short work of j that. Whoever the colonel's enemy | may be, he is worse that a murderer, for he will have this innocent life to answer for," _ Mr Pacre wrung his hands in silence, and went back to his room, where he stayed in a state of mental torture, which bore full testimony to the depth of his love for St. Hilary's daughter. As the time wore on, he showed in his haggard countenance, the signs of restless days and sleepless nights; yet singularly enough he grew physically stronger; and then he began to go out every morning, only to make one in the hopeless quest for the missing man; and he always came back / "with a gloomy brow, and shook his bead when questioned—he had discovered nothing. It was as well that Miss St. Hilary had no strange nurse, for Lennox could be trusted, and Mary Walton was not likely to betray the innocent secrets that were revealed by Dora as she lay there and rambled, not always incoherently, about her childhood, her girlhood, and poor Leonard —she never spoke of him except as poor Leonard now it would have brcken his heart had he heard her, as they did. "Poor Leonard," she would say, "he was always so kind, and he is so fond of me. I used to think I loved him; but that, was Defore the major came; but you must never let him know. Poor Leonard, I wonder where the major i*? He never comes to see me now —Major Lugard Fred- j erick Lugard —a pretty name, I think j —and Mary calls him Fred; but he belongs to her, and she loves him; still, not as I'do, and he must never know." "She will forget when her reason comes back," De Vigne said, with a thoughlful glance at Mary. "Fancies of that kind are a part of her disease. One of my patients—a young girl—was in love with an actor when her brain was wandering; she had only seen him play once, and he was old enough to be her grandfather, and r.o one was more amused than she when she reached the convalescent staged "Another girl I knew had to be humoured with a wedding ring, as she tuok it into her head that she was ] the wife of a very reverend dean whom she heard preach occasionally at St. Paul's. Still, you had better not tell Leonard. As for the major, it does not matter; he is a man of the world and old enough to be her father." The man of the world, who was nold enough to be, her father, smiled rather gravely when De Vigne, who was candor itself with the major, I repeated this to him. Athol had strickly forbidden Leonard or the soldier to enter the sick room, as perfect quiet was indispe.ieiole, and the slightest excitement would have regarded the progress of her recovery. But Dora- heard his voice one day when he was < speaking scarcely above a whisper to Mary at the door, and she called him by name, holding out her arms like a child. "You hai better go to her," Miss; Walton said, aa he stood hesitating, wistiully • "tt may do no jtjgrm, and it is the first sign of recognition she has shown." ; was the only one. He took a chair by her side, held the small, burning hands, and soother her with tender words, while, to his unutterable astonishment, she talked to him about their old Indian daya, and recalled incidents that had happened when she could no have been mors then three or four years old; and she repeated a few words of Hindoostani, long forgotten by her till now, but quite familiar to him. He answered her in the same language, using the pet names of seventeen years ago; and as she had done in her baby K/e for him, she went to sleep with her pretty head on his shoulder. He dared not move till her hand relaxed its hold of his, though she slumbered for hours. She did not wake, even when he gavo his place to Mary. lie stole on tip-toe from the room, and met De Vigne on the stairs. He put his finger to his lip, and drew the doctor into the drawing room. "You had better not go in just now," Lugard said, "Dora is asleep. I have just left her." "Miss 1 Walton had no right to admit you," said De Vigne; "I did not think she would disregard my in-

structions." "It was not her fault; Dora heard my voice at the door, and called me. What could I do?" "Nothing but what you ds, of course; and as you seem to be a privileged person generally, I suppose an exception must be made in your favour. It seems strange, though, that she should have recognized you; I had not the slightest hope of a change this morning." "She only recognized me," Lugard said, "and then her mind went back to the days when she was a baby and we were together in India; and she spoke to me in Hindoostani, a language of which she cannot have heard a word since she to England. Is not that very singular?" "Not very; there is no organic brain disease. Hers is not what we call true insanity; it is a temporary aherratm", a foreetfulness, and a cm Hi' 5 •" <•? m«r" t'-iings, but not <..f <- • xouare associated with a - --w days. Her early days

9 By WINTHROP B. HARLAND. . 5

£ Author of "Lady Elgin's Secret/ "A Harvest of £ Q Shame," "The Elder Son," "Lord *5 Ashton's Heir," Etc. ' 7

were passed in India, and the sound of your voice struck a cord in her memory when those Indian days were in her mind, "They were there, perhaps, for a moment only, but you happened to strike exactly at that moment; and, though her I-iindoostani had been forgotten, it ia not iost. The mind the educated mind —is a storehouse for the mental photographs and phonographs we take unconsciously at certain periods in our lives, and thev are reproduced by a recurrence of the same, of the occurrence of a kindred association. "I speak of the educated mind, remember. The other-the uneducated mind—is simply a lumber room. It is singular, but not very singulai, that she should have recognized you and gone back to her Hindoos>ani. I shali be curious to sea what impression it has left—if any-wtan she wakes." "I did no harm, I hope, doctor^ "On the contrary, my dear major, if your presence induced sleep, you have worked a miracle. It is what we have been trying for, and we dare rot use sedatives; she is too delicate for them, and in their mildest form they are reactionary. Did she sleep quietly?" "As she used to years ago; the major said, softly, "like a baby. "You have evidently a sympathetic attraction which amounts almost to magnetism," De Vigne said, meditatively; "and I am afraid, major, that there may be something in those wanderings of hers —girls of her age do now and then fall in love with men of yours; and though I acquit you of all hlame, of any desire, intention, or wish to make her care for you, the power may be there, and if you were tempted to use it, I should be more than sorry." "On whose account, doctor?" "You ask the question frankly enough, and I will answer you Leonard's. There are few young men who have found so high a place in my regard; thera is no young man for whom I have so much affection ad~ admiration. Ho has lived a singular ly pure and gentle life of self-denial and the devotion that forms the basis of his reverent obedience to his mother's slightest wish is very beautiful to me; he is so modest and retiring, so accustomed to self-efface-ment, that they who no not know him might think he had little pride and no ambition; that he could not feel strongly or suffer strongly; yet in his love for Miss St. Hilary he is stronger than you could be in anything, though you are of the strongest; but to lose her would kill him." "Set your mind at rest, De Vigne," Lugard said, quietly. "I would not take her from him if I could —and Heaven forbid that I should wish! I have always loved her, ever she took notice of me from the cradle; she cw> J ; a place m my heart that no one else could take; but you would not easily understand it. To me she is a child, woman and angel all in one; there is nothing that I would not do for her, leaving myself entirely out of the quest ion.' [TO BE CONTINtJED.]