"The Chains of Bondage."

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10040, 14 July 1910, Page 2

"The Chains of Bondage."

CHAPTEK I.—Continued.

Of all her husband's friends, Judith d^liked' and feared this man most It was said Vernham bad been a University man; certainly extremes met in the circle of Hardress' acquaintances, some of whom could hardly write their own names. But all had this point in common—that they were equally ready to make money, by fair or foul means. Vernham stood staring after her as she passed out into the street, etiU smiling and imperturbable, before joining the noisy party in the room. It was a relief to Judith to be out in the open, with the cool wind in her face. Overhead the sky was a mass of hurrying black clouds; while now and then a vivid flash would suddenly light up the broad sweep of downs with a white ghostly glare, that swallowed up for a moment the far-off gleams of the innumerable fires in the furnaces of the van dwellers twinkling through the darkness | only by the whinnying of tethered ' horses, frightened at the storrr, and the howling of dogs, that to-morrow would be a crowded sat-irnalia of pleasure. To-morrow she would be there in the crowd, helping her husband—the tipster—to sell his "selections"; i and it would be the inducement of her beauty as much as her husband's "patter" that would draw the harvest of coin. Her 'memory could carry her back to the time when, as a girl, she had come down to see that very race on a smart drag, with her father and a party he had brought down to Epsom—an officer,in a orack regiment, a man of a thousand friends. And her surroundings had been thoseof unstinted luxury and extravagance, until the tragedy had happened that caustd i.er mother to die broken hearted—a disgraceful exposure, the revelation that her father had been caught cheating—that he bad systematically cheated at cards. He had been cashiered, of course; the home was broken up. 'lhey had been living, as it out then, on credit; scarcely an} thing had been paid for. Then an immediate disappeaiance of all their friends—the gradual descent of a dishonoured . man to worse itifamies*still. And then Judith's memory showed her the picture of herself at last leaving the father, who had long since forfeited her last gleam of affection or respect, to make a living for herself on the stage, poor enough living it had been; perhaps because she had resolutely refused to listen to those temptations that assail any pretty girl on the stage./ Finally, . she had married an actor—Gilbert Hardress—who had left the stage soon after his marriage, exchanging a profession in which he had been a failure for that of racecourse tipster, which only needed colossal impudence and pretence and a glib tongue. In spite of the wild night, the street of caravans and booths on the Hill was busily astir, with the naphtha flares hissing in the wind, lighting up the animated scene; in the hammocks, black-eyed Komany girls, with the business of the day done, were shrieking with laughter; and the dark-faced, men, in velveteens, with red scarves round their necks, struck a picturesque note pmid the colour and movement of the scene that,, for a Uttle while, took Judith out of her brooding thoughts. As she was passing one of the tent*, a skinny claw caught at her dress. It belonged, to an old gipsy hag. , "Lee me tell the pretty lady's fortune?" she mumbled wheecingly. "as if I didn't know my fortune too well!" Judith said, glancing dewn at the yellow face, scored with numberless lines and 'wrinkles that made her look as if centuries hacf passed over her head, speaking as if , naif to herself: "Or, as if it Were worth parting with silver to hear of unchanging ill luck to come!" And she would have passed on, but the brown, skinny claw still held her skirt. "Let old Hagar read your hand, dearie. The luck's always changing. How are you to know what messenger may not knock at to-morrow's gate, 'and with what tidings?" Judith shrugged her shoulders half impatiently. But on an impulse, she dropped a silver coin into the old hag's hand; and under the tent the gipsy woman beat her beady eyes over the outstretched palm. For an insiant there was silence. "I see footsttpd coming into your life," the mumtling voice said. "Much land has they travelled, and there's wide waters to cross; but I see them coming nearer, nearer! And then suddenly the foootsteps slop dead. Ay, before they reach you [ they stop dead" The old woman paused for a second. I Judith laughed. It wae the familiar old jargon. "Ay, they stop dead. But there's something those feet are bringing, l — coming to you through , } stress and storm, as fierce as the

BY EMILY B. HETHERINGTON. Author of—" His Colleg9 Chum," " Worthincjfcon's Pledge," "A Repentant Foe," etc.

CHAPTER 11.

beating of to-night's storm. Fortune, I(littering fortune that's the world's lure that makes its owners courted, envied, feared! Fortune your hands will grasp at and close on! But sou must fight to keep and hold it—ay, ut the cost of sacrifice and bitter falling tears! And in the end " The old hag paused, looking up into Judith's face. For a moment an eager light had flashed there; for a moment this woman in the depths, listening to the words tnat promised fulfilment of her hopeless dreams, had half forgotten that it was only the jargon of a trade that would fare ill if aught but good news were prophesied. A sudden peal ot thunder startled her, causing Judith to snatch her hand awav, drawing her thoughts back from dreams to realities. "Well, and the end?" Judith asked, with a spice of mockery. "Ah, you've broken the spell, and I can't see what lies at the end of the strange road you have to travel " "Unless I cross your hand with silver again!" broke in Judith ironically. "Well, I'm not going to do that, I shall be content enough if the fortune you promise comes my way. Let the end take care of itselt!" The echo ot her mocking, incredulous laugh seemed to linger behind her in the tent after she had gone, and the o.d gipsy's beady eyes had watched her thoughtfully out of sight. The rain was romirig on again, emptying the hammocks suddenly, driving the revellers into shelter. Judith set her face homeward again, driven back once more to the man she hated by the storm. She let herself into the house, and went quietly to ' har room. , It was not long before she heard on the stairs the footsteps she dreaded -the half-drunken, lurching step; then the door opened noisily, and Gilbert Hardress entered, the rather handsome, animal face flushed, and his gait ""steady. / Before the door opened Jud th had snatched up a newspaper lying on the table—made a pretence of being engrossed in it as her husband entered. He spoke to her but she did not look up. "Sulkiig still, rny girl?" hardress said thickly, regarding her with a scowl. "Well, I'm not going to have any sulking here; and we'll have that window closed Why, what is it?" A little stifled, involuntary cry had broken from her. A, name she knew had leaped out from the printed columns as her eyes glanced mechanically over the paper. Judith sat staring at the paragraph, trying to repress her emotion. * Then, as she did not answer, her husband snatched the paper roughly from her and glanced at that portion where her eyes had seemed to rest. He saw nothing there to account for his wife's unmistakeable start. There was an announcement that Mr George Craven, the millionaire, was on his way to England from Austraila; but it could hardly have been that piece of news that had startled Judith. I'hen, his bra'n clouded by the fumes of tae drink, his interest in the matter suddenly evaporated. He I flung himself on the bed drowsily, and fumbled with the laces of his shoes. Before he had got them off he had fallen asleep. Judith stole quickly across to the bed, picked up the paper that had fallen from the sleeper's hand, and read again the paragraph that had startled her: "Among the passengers of the Orina, which ia expected to reach Southampton on Monday next, is Mr George Craven, the Australian money king—said to be one of the richest men in the country of his adoption. With a sudden gleam in her eyes, Judith looked across at the figure of the man lying in drunken sleep. . "Patience for a little time," flsbe whispered, through the sound of the beating rain, "and I see a way out for my child and myself—a way out of my bondage!"

A GIRL IN THE CASE. "What a perfect day for the race! Alter the deluge of last night, I was so afraid it wa3 going to be stormy; and if so, I don't think that even the prospect of seeing Wilfred win the Derby with Meriel would have been sufficient inducement to me down to Epsom," said Sybil Ellstree in her rather petulant voice. The sun had risen after a night of storm; long before the course began to be thronged, its heat had drawn the moisture out of the sodden turf in wieathing, smoky mist. TO BE CONTINUED