duty, my lady."
"Ah! I knew it--I knew it!" she wailed, with a wild passion, burstingagain into a torrent of hot tears. "He arrived here at ten o'clock thismorning--and--and--"
"Did he leave again?" Grindlay quickly asked.
"No," she replied, in a harsh discordant tone, her pallor becoming moreapparent. "He is still here. He came home, and without seeing me wentto his room. My maid--my maid told me that he--"
She had almost become calm, but the marks of a storm of agitation werevery palpable in her pale countenance and her disordered dress. Shepaused, her words seemed to choke her, and she started with a coldshudder, as if some unseen hand had touched her. Then with a fierceeffort she drew herself up and continued:
"My maid, whom I sent to him asking him to see me, returned with amessage that he was busy, and when I went to his room a few minuteslater I found he had again gone out."
For an instant she paused, then as if a sudden wild impulse seized hershe rushed across the room and threw open wide the door leading to anadjoining apartment.
"An hour later he returned," she cried hoarsely. "See!"
We all three dashed forward, but an instant later, with one accord,uttered cries of horror.
Lying upon a couch in a room that had been almost cleared of furniturewas the Earl of Fyneshade, fully dressed. From his wet, slime-coveredclothes water still dripped slowly, forming a pool upon the carpet, andeven as we looked his wife withdrew the handkerchief reverently placedupon the upturned face, so that we gazed upon the closed eyes, whitesunken cheeks, and muddy lips.
"They brought him home to me dead," Mabel said in an agonised tone, thattold of the terrible pent-up anguish in her breast. "One of thegardeners saw him deliberately throw himself into the lake, and althoughhe tried to save him was unable."
Then, as slowly as she had removed the covering from the rigid features,she carefully wiped some of the green slime from his lips and replacedit.
A long, deep-drawn sigh was the only sound that broke the silence, and,by the crumpling of paper next moment, I knew that Grindlay had crushedthe warrant in his hand.
No word was spoken, but as we passed slowly back into the comfortablesitting-room, Mabel fell upon the neck of my well-beloved and they bothwept bitterly.
The scene was intensely painful, and Grindlay, with a murmur of excuse,withdrew, leaving me alone to whisper sympathy and courage. Theassassin's end, though tragic, was merciful, for, at least, his youngwife would be spared the torture of being branded as the unhappy widowof a man who had been executed.
He had thrown dice with the Devil, and lost. By his own volition he hadreleased Mabel from a hateful marital tie, at the same time paying thepenalty for his sins.
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.
CONCLUSION.
Leaving the house of mourning, where the grave-faced servants moved ontip-toe, I walked slowly at Sybil's side, feeling in each breath offresh wind puffs of inspiring youth. Once again, after our long andgloomy separation, we were at last alone, confiding lovers, full of allthe joyful hopes of life. I knew that I belonged to her, to her alone,to her tenderness, to her dream.
Together, as we slowly strolled along that endless avenue through thegreat park, it seemed as though we were both advancing towards theunknown, indifferent to everything, finding our pleasure as in bygonedays in losing ourselves in the depths of the discreet darkness, whereeach leafy recess hid our kisses and smothered our love chat.
Though months, nay, years had passed--years of bitterness, anxiety anddoubt, shattered hopes and blank despair--her remembrance, the only joyon which my heart reposed, had unceasingly urged me on and given mecourage. The glamour of love mingled with the soft moonbeam reflectedin her eyes until they twain seemed the only realities.
"Do you remember, dearest," I exclaimed, halting and pressing her infond embrace, "do you remember that bright summer evening at Luchon, theevening of our farewell, so full of love and sadness? You despatched meto the fight with a kiss upon the brow like a fond sweetheart whodesires to see the soldier she loves conquer. That kiss I have everremembered. Lonely and mystified through those long weary days I onlythought of you, I could only speak of you, for you lived within me."
"Oh, Stuart!" she answered, her beautiful, calm face upturned to mine,"I, too, thought ever of you. In those dark hours when, fearing thatfinding me dead you loved another, those charming rambles among themountains were fresh in my memory. Hour by hour, day by day, my mindwas filled by those recollections of a halcyon past, yet I feared to letyou know of my existence lest you should attempt to claim me from theman whose wife I was forced against my will to represent. Thatever-present thought of you wore my life away; I became heavy withweariness, and some nights so broken down that I felt a cowardly desireto die. Yet that sweet thought that past delight leaves within oneurged me to hope, even though ours was a dark night to be followed by anunknown dawn. You, dear one, seemed but a shadow that had disappearedin the solitude where the dear phantoms of our dreams reside, but Ihoped and hoped, and ever hopeless hoped."
Then upon my breast the pent-up feelings of her heart found vent in bigtears and quick spasmodic sobs.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
And the rest--well, the rest is that happiness is mine. I have laid myconscience quite bare, being anxious to conceal nothing, and now havingfound my well-beloved the days seem an eternity of joy.
Yes, we have married. My father has died and Wadenhoe has passed intoour possession, while our near neighbour at Fotheringhay is Captain JackBethune, who, on his marriage with Dora, resigned his commission inorder to devote himself entirely to her and to literature. Herbrain-trouble is now completely cured and her happiness complete. Thenewspapers teem with eulogistic paragraphs about her husband's life andwork, for he is at the present moment one of the most popular of ourwriters of romance. As for Francis Markwick, although he succeeded inescaping to Rio de Janeiro he did not live long to enjoy his freedom,for within a few weeks of landing in that malarial city he was attackedby yellow fever, to which he succumbed.
Sometimes when day is dying the fresh breeze rises from the river and asoft light falls from the sky, the open valley stretching before ourwindows expands peaceful and transparent like a dark, shoreless ocean.It is in those idle, restful moments of adoration, when earth and skyare fathomless, that the pure sweet voice of my well-beloved, the voicethat recalled me to the joys of life, raises a recollection within me, aremembrance that ofttimes brings tears to my eyes--the remembrance ofthe strange inviolable secret of Sybil.
The End.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends