THE SPY; OR A FATHER’S ATONEMENT.

Wairarapa Standard, Volume I, Issue 7, 16 February 1867, Page 4

THE SPY; OR A FATHER’S ATONEMENT.

CHAPTER VI. CONTINUED. She was startled in the midst of her reflections by perceiving the cold, dark eyes of Doctor Wolfing fixed piercingly upon her. His noiseless cat-like movement as he entered the room had been unnoticed by her. She returned his gaze with a fearless, unaverted eye, until his own cowered and closed under their furtive lids.

“ Cecile, my child,” he said, In a low, cringing tone, as he drew his chair beside her, “ are you really too unwell to bear Madame Roland company ? Your altered looks alarm me, my sweet one; there is a visible change in your countenance. Confide to me the cause of your malady.'” “ There is a void in my life, sir,” she replied, “my existence is a wretched one. I lack the sympathy of a young heart like my own, and 4ke memory ef my lost home fills |my mind with painful regrets.” u Your poor mother exacted, as a condition, in her will, that I should regard and rear you as my own child” said the doctor, in a simulated voice of sorrow. “Havelnoteadeavoured to fulfil that condition ? ”

“ Yes in your own opinion,” replied Cecile. “ But not in yours ? ” inquired the doctor.— “ No,” was Cecile’s firm reply. “In what have I been remiss ? Of what do you accuse me ? he asked in the same bland, hypocritical tone.

“ I was torn from my native home,” said Cecile, “from companions that had grown with me from childhood, from scenes that were endeared to me by holy remembrances, and taken to London. There I was restricted in my liberty, and when you brought me here into a land of strangers the same tyranny was exercised over me. This gloomy house may •be suitable to your scientific studies, and I have no wish to disturb them; but ” “ What is it you require ? ” interrupted her guardian.

“ A convent would he preferable,” replied Cecile.

“Oh no, not a convent surely,” said the doctor. “Have patience, my dear child; doubtless you will marry shortly, and then my care for you will have ceased. Already you have been introduced to many admirers.” A thrilling shudder passed over Cecile’s frame, which she suppressed with a strong effort, snd fixing her lustrous eyes on the doctor’s livid face, she said, “Yes, I remember, and their want of perseverance inendeavouring to win me has greatly surprised me.” Her guardian’s crafty lip did not quiver, nor did one withered feature in his shrivelled face betray the slightest emotion. “ Your future happiness, my child, depends upon a well-selected marriage,” he continued, in a meek, plausible voice. “ Therefore it is my imperative duty to inquire scrupulously into the character of the man who aspires to the honor of your hand; and I find that not one of those who have been presented to you are worthy to possess you.” “Indeed!” said Cecile doubtfully: “then appearances must indeed be deceitful. To me their faces seemed to bear the genuine stamp of honor, and theii respectful demeanour seemed to warrant the purest motives. There was the Viscount St. Mars.” —“ He was a reckless gamester,” inquired Cecile. “ Captain Launy, the king’s musqueteer ? ” inquired Cecile.

“A profligate and trickster,” sneered the doctor.

“ The young artist, then ?" continued Cecile.

“ Poor! ” ejaculated the doctor, supercilious!?.

“Well, but the last one,” said Cecile; “the young Marquis Betagny ? ” “He required more than any woman possesses,” replied her guardian. “ What was that ? ” asked Cecile.

“ Perfection my child,” replied the doctor, who, finding that his ward’s interrogations were becoming annoying, sought to turn the conversation. “ There do not trouble yourself,” he added; “ rare beauty as yours is not likely to lack suitors.” “I do not desire suitors,” said Cecile; “ I have no wish to marry." “ Surely you do not wish to disobey the last sacred injunctions of your dear mother,” said the doctor; “ she strictly enjoined me in her will to form a prudent marriage for you.” “My poor mother! ” sighed the young girl, involuntarily. “ Come now,” continued the doctor, “allowme to persuade you no longer to remain cloistered in your own room. Madame Roland waits’ for you; bear the dear woman company, for she loves you, my child, as fondly as I do. A bitter sarcastic leer played momentarily around the doctor’s lips as he ceased speaking; but brief and transient as it was, Cecile caught from its light a glimpse of the lurid darkness of her guardian’s heart. In vain he fawningly persevered to induce her to accompany Madame Roland; she bravely clung to her fixed resolve. At length, wearied by his own useless importunities, he rose from his seat, and took her delicate hand in his grisly fingers, and stroking the fair tresses of her golden hair said, “ Well, well, we will speak of this another time. Let me, however, conjure you to trust in my love. Believe me, child, that my experience of the world will he a better safeguard for you than your own susceptible imagination." Cecile received his parting caress with a creeping fear, and, with an inward loathing, watched his slowly receding figure as he left her chamber

Doctor Wolfing, on leaving his ward, straightway decended to his study,' where he was shortly after joined by Madame Roland. “ Well, as your eloquence prevailed ? ” she inquired. “ The obstinate fool! ” he growled between his clenched teeth ; “ what can be the cause of her perverse wilfulness? Surely she cannot suspect!” “No, no,” replied Madame Roland; “but an idea has struck me, and I feel convinced I have divined the real cause of her stubbornness. She's in love.”

“ What! ” exclaimed the doctor, sharply. “ Yes, yes,” she continued; “I fam on the right track. A young man has dogged our steps for weeks. The other day I was fool enough to allow her to go out alone. Depend upon it she has seen and spoken to him.” “If this be really true, we are lost! ” exclaimed the doctor.

“ Calm your fears,” said the woman, with a fiendlike smile ; “they have met for the first time and the last.”—“ How?” asked Wolfing, eagerly. “ I saw the same youth yesterday in the gardens of the Tuileries, magnificently dressed,” she replied, “ and should have allowed him to accost me, only that I had another fish upon my hook. Nevertheless, I’ll have him.” “ This evening ?” inquired the doctor, with a sardonic grin. “ This evening,” she replied, complacently. “ Have all prepared. Gather the wolf dogs while I bark the lamb into the fold. But before I leave you to make my toilet, you must give me some money.” “ Spendthrift! ” returned the doctor; “ why, I gave you a thousand francs yesterday; what has become of them ? ”

“Lost,” replied Madame Roland, with a light laugh. “ A sad vice is gaming,” ejaculated Doctor Wolfing, demurely. “ Talk not to me of vice, man! ” she said, with sudden frenzy. “Do I not know that the bewitching allurement has made me your confederate—your accomplice ? When you tempted me to become you decoy, and supplied me with means unlimited to feed my cursed passion, I knew not that every coin you gave me had its weight in blood. Later came that fearful knowledge,—too late for me. You had led me blindfold into the black chasm from whence there was no escape.” Like a remorseful spectre, with lived face and glarbing eyes, Madame Raland stood before him, breathing a deep and inward curse. “ This passion is folly,” said Wolfing, supplicatingly. “ Pitiless assassin!” she retorted, in tones of deepest scorn, “ I was your unquestioning tool —your slave; bnt, oh! could I have only gleaned one ray, one glimmer of your ghastly projects, what a mass of crime might have been spared me!” “ Come, come, do not be so very bitter,” said Wolfing, soothingly. “ See, here is a roll of notes—two thousand francs—take them. You will have a glorious night with these. With luck you may break the bank. There, go and calm your hasty temper. You are so very, very passionate.” Madame Roland clutched the notes, and walked from him with an air of lofty scorn. When she reached the door, Wolfing remarked with an insidious grin—“ This lover of Cecile’s —I may rely upon you for this evening.” “Have all prepared,” she replied; then closing the door, she descended to her boudoir, and began her toilet.

Later in the afternoon Madame Eoland quitted the house, and, later still, Doctor Wolfing followed her example. Noiselessly as he closed the street door after him, his departure did not escape the keen, listening ear of Cecile. With breathless eagerness she then began the execution of her deeply meditated plan. She had resolved to find, if possible, some clue to the hidden mystery of her guardian’s life. She entered the drawing-room. It was there she remembered being one day startled by the sudden appearance of Doctor Wolfing. There was no indication of a door or opening of any kind near the spot where he stood before her surprised gaze. It was in this room that she was seated one evening some weeks previously, when a terrific shriek fell on her ears, followed by several gurgling groans; and then a profound silence, like death. Believing, at the

time, that it arose from her own heated imagination, she passed it by almost unregarded. But now her horrible suspicion brought back vividly the memory of that event. The first object that met her view as she entered the room was a relic of happier days, a memory of her childhood’s home—the portrait of her mother, a golden link in the broken chain of her lost happiness. “My dear mother,” she said, tearfully, “ pardon me that I can no longer submit to the authority you imposed upon me, nor respect those who'exercise (t.” The drawing-room was large and square in form, with high windows looking on to the narrow street. The strong iron bars that guarded the windows would have given a prison-like aspect to the room, but for the rich muslin curtains which kept them from view, whilst massive velvet draperies drooped across the muslin hangings, and lent an air of comfort and elegance to the apartment. Immediately facing the window at the lower end of the room were richly-devised folding doors, opening into an inner chamber which contained two smaller doors, one leading into a corridor, the other into Madame Roland’s boudoir.

The beautiful carvings round the wainscoted panels of the chamber, the heavy oaken furniture , adorned with velvet of luxurious pile, and trimmed with massive gold fringe, gave ample testimony of the magnificence of a bygone period. The carved work on the wainscoting represented garlands of fruit and flowers in relief. These Cecile examined with restless curiosity; but the growing shadows of evening began to render objects indistinct. Still she pursued her search, and with a trembling hand inserted her fingers into the cavities of the graceful tendrils, or wherever she thought she was likely to discover the clue to a secret opening. Nothing, however, threw any light on her anxious search. With bitter disappointment she turned to leave the apartment, when her eye fell for the second time on her mother’s picture. A feeling of filial tenderness drew her close to the painting. She dropped on her knees, and raised her hands imploringly. “ Oh, my mother! my dear departed mother!” she cried; “is it then destined that my terrors must be prolonged ? Shall the dense cloud that has gathered round me never be dispelled ? Although the hand of death has deprived me of your guidance and counsel, suffer me to crave that you will still sustain the drooping courage of your child.” After giving an agonised utterance to this simple prayer, Cecile placed her hand against the wainscoting to assist her to rise. She pressed by accident a portion of the carved work, a slight spring yielded to her touch, and the panel flew back. With a wild, subdued cry she sprang to her feet, and though terrorstricken, she did not hesitate to penetrate the recess beyond. Without a moment’s pause she stepped over the fretted mouldings of the panel, and as she did so a terrible and piercing shriek escaped her, when at that instant the door, closed of itself against her, as though to stifle the fearful revelation it had made, and swallow up the victim of a too fatal curiosity. (to be continued.)