KILDEE; Or, The Sphinx of the Red House.

BY MAY B. BRYAN,

Author of " The Bayou Bride," " The

Fugitive Bride," &c.

CHAPTER I

The afternoon was fine; the bay in the distance sparkled in the sunshine, a light sea breeze played with the grey moss-beards of the live oaks. Ochiltreo race-track— two miles out from the old city of Wallport --was in good condition—the dust laid by a hard shower the day before.

It was only four o'clock, but a number of Worshippers of horseflesh were showing off their fast trotters attached to light buggies that fairly spun around the course. The foremost of these vehicles was drawn by a span of ponies-clean-limbed fellows that lifted their feet in thorough-bred;style. Ho who handled the reins with- graceful nonchalance was Miles Carleon, owner of the race-track and of the fi»e*« turf horses, in the State. He was over thirty, but did not look so; he carried his medium-height compact figure with easy assurances; he was fair and florid, with chestnut hair in half curls, and a light moustache shading his voluptuous mouth.

" Hold on," he called out to a groom m front of him who was exercisinghisfavourite horse — a black stallion, with a hint of Tartar blood in his powerful build. # " You are worrying Mahmoud, holding him in. Get down and take these reins. 111 let him out a little ; it's what he's fretting for. He checked the ponies as he spoke, leaped over the whoel and mounted into the saddle the groom had vacated. As he was about to be off, two young men drove up. " See hero, Carleon," cried one of them, •'I heard you say that Mrs Montcalm would be at your island party to-morrow ; are you certain of it ? Be sure of what you say—there's a bet pending." "onei3 sure of nothing in this world, least of all of what a woman will do," Carleon answered, turning his head over his shoulder. " Hold on. Have you heard the report generally known—that her husband told her she should never enter his house again if she went to Aphrodite Island ?"

" Yes." " And you believe it?" ■"I think it likely." " Then it's'no bet, Thornbury. 111 not throw away money." "I'll take yon up, Thornbury,- Carleon Baid quietly. " W hat were the stakes ? " Only a double ten." "Make it a fifty — twice that, if you

like " "No, thanks. The fifty is all I'll venture, I'm doubtful of that since I see how con fident you seem." "Well; fifty it stands. Dyke there is witness. Ta-ta. I can't hold Mahmoud any longer." He wheeled the horse out of the race track as he spoke and set out at a fast pace along the level, beaten road that led to the city. '"• '. t '. " Carleon's showing shrewd business sense of late," said Dyke ; " keeps things pretty well in hand, and is pilmg up the shekels. Shouldn't wonder if he has an eye to entering the political field." "Tell me about him," said one of the equestrians, riding up to the side of the t,ucrgy_a boyish little blue-jacketed mid shipman from the United States steam ship that lay in port. "I know he s a tiptop fellow ; fine judge of horseflesh, and wines, and all that ; but what else? He owns this racecourse, doesn t be ?"' " Yes ; and the largest liquor house in Wallport, and the Arcade Gambling Saloon, where you dropped a few dollars last night. Carleon was born to good luck. He ran through one big fortune ; and just as the world was clapping its hands and crying out: ' Here he goes, down—down !' the sea-saw of good luck bounced ' up, up, 'once more. A miserly old aunt loft him the half-million she had been starving herself to save." ,j ~ , "And so he once more rides on tne top wave of society ?" " Well, not exactly. Wallport is strait laced—full of mouldy aristocracy. Carleon tan through his character as well as his money, and he didn't get the former^ re newed. He's still a bankrupt in that line. The Bourbon blue blood turns the cold shoulder to him. Papas don't invite him ; mammas draw their pretty charges closer under their wing when he is encountered. Even Mrs La Rue, who is only a hanger-on 4a the outskirts of the exclusive, doesn't tot him openly ; she's afraid to. You see, c is notorious." " And who is Mrs Montcalm ?"

" The handsomest woman in Wallport— married to the haughtiest, coldest man. Just now, however, he seems to be court ing popular favour ; has joined all the societies, speaks on public occasions, bows to people on the streets and shakes hands with them—one can see it goes against the grain for him to do it. It's clear he means to run for office. His elder brother, General Rolff Montcalm, will back him. The general is an old favourite on the political track, you know —an old war horse, with no end of record, would beat any man now that could be trotted out, only he's retired. He'll give his influence to his younger brother ; and if the nomi nating convention will only—" " Fray don't give us any politics, Dyke ; save all that for your paper," broke in Thornbury. "Does Mrs Montcalm belong to the La Rue set?" asked the little midshipman.

" She does and she doesn't. Wo had her to a few germane this winter, but of late she is holding: back. She has a dull time of it in her home—husband neglectful, morose, neighbours unsocial. She has only been here two years ; and the Wallport women of the Bourbon stock are dreadfully cliquish. They do not take kindly to strangers. So there is nothing for Mrs Montcalm but to fall into the Sans Souci ring Mrs La Rue, Carleon & Co.—who revolve outside the narrow orbit of the exclusive. Mrs La Rue is witty and kind hearted, Carleon is captivating, and we, the • Co.,' are innocently diverting. Unfortun ately, Mrs Montcalrn's husband doesn't view ■us in this benevolent light. He objects to our amusing his caret sposa; particularly does he object to Carleon ; and so—" " And so you are good to lose that fifty, Thornbury," interrupted Dyke. H Possibly. We shall see what a day will bring forth." Meantime, Carleon had reached the city suburbs and turned into a narrow street, bordered by old-fashioned, dilapidated looking houses. Once this had been a •fashionable quarter, and still there was an effort at shabby gentility to be seen in some of the, dwellings. Carleon stopped before a tall, narrow house with weather-stained walls, from •which the plastering had dropped away in places giving ib » leprous look. A crooked stairway led up to a porch with'a mossy cMc fottf nnd pillars matted with ivory. f vv '„!;,, - r .iiil!od several of the email narrow w i .,:<" :h.tt had hood-like roofs and Iran* rflj «, tunics.

One ot these windows was open, and Carleon saw a slender figure in black pass before it. " She is here," he said, and dismounting he gave his horse in charge of a venerable negro and entered the house. He opened the outer door without cere mony, but inside the hall he stopped before a door on the right hand and tapped fently. At first there was no response; c repeated the knock and a female voice with a slight foreign tone said : " Entrez."

The shrill tones of a parrot echoed the word. Carleon opened the door and the lady stopped walking and turned round, facing him, leaning one hand on an old fashioned, claw-footed stand upon which sat the cage of the parrot. " Welcome if you are a friend !" cried the bird in Spanish. Carleon laughed, took a raisin from his pocket and gave it to the parrot with one hand, while with the other ho lifted the slim, passive hand of its mistress and touched it to his lips. " I was riding by and called in to see how you were," he said. '' You are looking well. That dress of black soft stuff bound at the waist with only a cord is becoming. A black lace mantilla over your head, a pomegranate flower on your breast, and Montcalm will think he sees before him the sweet little senorita who won his soldier heart in years agone." A derisive smile flitted over the dark, delicate-featured face, attractive, though no longer fresh. "You could always flatter to gain your ends," she said. "You are strangely anxious I should meet my ex-husband. You have come now to make sure that I keep my appointment with Captain Montcalm this evening. Well, it Avants two hours of that time—and I—l have been considering if I shall go." "I thought you were decided. There was nothing in his reply to your note to make you unwilling to meet him ?"

" Nothing. He wrote that he was greatly surprised to hear from me. No doubt; ifc is probable that he thought me dead. He could see no good, he said, that could result from our meeting again, after all these years and changes ; but he would be at the place appointed—the old cemetery—at six o'clock. I did not look for anything more or anything less. I felt sure he would come —he is afraid to excite my anger, lest I expose him ; this is the secret of his com pliance." "And you are doubtful if you will keep the appointment you made yourself ?" " Made at your instigation, if you please. Why should I want to meet a man who wronged mo so cruelly, who ignored me so utterly for all these years—robbed me of my child, evaded my pursuit, and took up his abode in a foreign land to escape me? 1 had no thought of meeting him when I came to this place. I came here to see you, to ask you for the sake of old—friendship—to ad vance me a sum that would enable me to go upon the stage. You had monoy to throw away, and I knew you were generous. You have that grace, if no other. I did not know, until you told me, that Captain Montcalm was living here with a wife he had married two years ago—ho who is rightfully my husband." " Not lawfully, however." " I care nothing for your law. Honour is above law. Ho married me honourably as our customs go. In my country of Mexico the ceremony of hand-fastening is binding in right if not in law. The man who breaks it stains his honour. When I married Bur rell Montcalm, it was not possible to have the rites strictly legal. The country was in a tumult. He was a wounded refugee from Walker's routed army of fili busters. My mother and I nursed him back to life. Before his wound was healed he insisted on marrying mo. We took the vows kneeling beforo the shrine of the Virgin in our old church at home in the presence of my mother and friends. It' was a left-handed marriage—so they call such in Mexico—but it was honourable and sacred as any. I never doubted his truth : love, gratitude, honour, all seemed to bind him to me. Yet ho left mo in a year— me a mother, though but little over fifteen —and went back t.o the States. He said it was to prepare a home for me find recon cile his family to receive me as his wife. But he did not return. He stayed away four years. A few letters came at first— short and unsatisfactory ; then these ceased. I had no money to seek him : no friend that could help me. I was miserable ; looked on as a poor duped wretch by those about me. Then I fell in with you. You per suaded me to leave my child and go with you to the States to hunt for my husband. I went—and—"

A hot flush rose into her olive cheek ; her eyes faltered in their steady gaze into Carleon's ; then the long lashes swept up again, and the eyes flashed as she went on:

"After all I should blame you for my ruined life. If I had not gone with you all would have been different, for Montcalm came as you know ; he found me gone; he denounced me and took my child ; I have never seen either of them since. The wrong that crippled my life came from the man you urge me to see. Why should I see him ? What good will it do ? I want money, but not from him. It seems to me that money would burn my fingers if it came from him. There was a timo when I longed to be revenged upon him, but hate, like love, has burned out in me. There is nothing in my heart now but ashes ; all I hope or ask for now is excite ment—something to warm these ashes. The stage will give me this, if I can got there. That is my last hope, and for its sake I have come to you; and you—you discourage me. You think I would not succeed."

"I do not doubt your success on the stage if you could once get a place upon it. But it is the difficulty, the almost impossi bility of this, which leads me to discourage your idea of becoming an actress. It is too late for you to begin at the bottom of the ladder. Besides, you must live; and you require certain luxuries, indul gences, you tell me, which have become as necessary to you as food and air. How are you to obtain them ? I tell you, your best way is to fasten yoursely on Montcalm. Montcalm owes you reparation for what he has done. He will go to some length, I imagine, rather than you should expose him just now. He is ambitious, aspires to political honours, through his brother's (the general's) influence.' He is at the head of the military organisation here, and prides himself on his honourable name. It would mortify him and injure him as well to have the story of his early in discretion—"

" Ihave told you I would not make that story public—for my own sake. Thanks to you, my part in it would not be blameless. I do not wish to have my past life dissected in the newspapers. I have, you tell me, no legal claims upon Captain Montcalm, and I have no claim upon his heart."

"You might rekindle his love. Mont calm does not look like a person of senti ment, but his brother, the general (who is my good friend), assures me he is a man of very deep feeling and wonderful constancy, and that an early love affair and disappoint ment in Mexico was the cause of his present reserved and stern demeanour. I believe he has never forgotten you, that he still re members with fondness the child-wife of his youth. There is another tie—the child." " It is doubtless dead.''

" I have a very strong idea that it is alive somewhere. A desire to know what haa become of ib is a good and sufficient excuse for your seeking Montcalm and establishing a claim upon him, You can Sersuade him that you were never untrue ) him (with those eyes and that voioe you can make a man believe anything), that you have sought for him everywhere, broken-hearted but still faithful, Y<m are etUl a magnetic—a beautiful woman."

She frowned, but in spite of herself the colour in her cheek grew warmer. " So is his wife," she said presently. " His wife is a blonde. No tawny Saxon like Montcalm ever loved a blonde. He married her chiefly out of sympathy, partly perhaps for her money. Have you not heard the story? The gir was an orphan with only an auoptetl brother for a guardian. When she quitted the school-room she went with an aunt to Europe on a short excursion trip, in JHor encc they met Montcalm, who had been abroad for years in some official capacity. The raw school-girl fell madly in love with the mature, polished man of the world. Me knew how to deal with such fancies, and it would probably have come to nothing, only the girl's aunt died suddenly of apoplexy, leaving her alone in a strange city, bhe clung to Montcalm for sympathy and pro tection. They were much thrown together, and the result was that he married her and came back with her to America. But they are uncongenial. She does not interest him She is romantic and worships him, but it is an ideal. She glories in his stern rectitude and calls him her Roman. But she is fast becoming disenchanted, and when she knows your story, her idol will tumble from its pedestal." " She will not know it." '•She will hear it this evening—in (look in"-at his watch) "less than an hour from now. She will be near your rendezvous with Captain Montcalm—near enough to see and hear all she can. She has read your note to her husband-or rather a copy of it asking him to meet you in the old Colonial ceiretery. I caused a fac-mmih of that note to be put into her hands by her maid, with the story that it was picked up in Captain Montcalm's dressing-room." "You did this?!' Zulimee cried, her Spanish eyes ablaze : "and what was your motive ? A personal, a selfish one, 1 know. I do not believe in your disinterestedness. I refuse to be your blind tool. Tell mo at once what is your interest in the matter,

" Quietly, ma belle. You shall know ray motive. I don't mind being open with you. Indeed, your penetration would not permit me to be anything else. In the first place, then, I hato this Montcalm. He lias pre sumed to sit in judgment on my conduct; he gives himself haughty, superior airs; he has crossed my path more than once. He has been put at the head of a military organisation here, when I had every right to expect the honour. He is run ning for, and will probably be elected to, an important city oflice, when I had a man of my own picked out to fill it. He has forbidden his wife to hold any intercourse with a set here—a little lively, may be, but as respectable as any in the city—a set that includes nearly all my friends. For these and other reasons, I owe a bitter grudge to the man. I would be glad of anything that would mortify or injure him. A separation from his wife would do both. He does not care for her, and she is begin ning to resent his indifference. Already they are partially estranged._ The know ledge of your claims upon him—the story of his relations with and desertion of you will complete the estrangement." " That does not necessarily follow. This relation existed long before he met her. She lovea him, she will forgive him and keep his secret for the sake both of her love and her pride. I feel sure there will be no interview between him and me this even ing. She had gone to him with re proaches ; alarmed and humbled, he has explained, protested, promised, and^ in the end there has been a reconciliation." "Is that all you know of your sex '( Then I understand their nature better than_ you do, as the sequel will show. She will be on hand in the old cemetery before you are —concealed somewhere among the tombs or tho shrubbery. She will see your meet ing with Montcalm—pray manage that it shall seem kind if not passionate ; she will overhear something of wbat issaid ; take care that she hears what will assuro her of your claim upon him, of your wrongs, the child, etc. There will be no opportunity afterwards for reproaches on her part, or explanation on his, for he will go straight from the cemetery to the railroad depot. He is pledged to deliver an address at a public gathering in Smithville to-morrow at ten. He would not disappoint the crowd for anything, and his train leaves at.half-past seven this evening. He will just have time to catch it after his interview with you. To-morrow I have a little lawn party at my island villa. Montcalm has told his wife if she goes she shall not return to his house. He does not imagine she would disobey him, nor did she dream of doing so yesterday or this morning. But to-night, when she" returns from the ceme tery, she will be reckless enough for any thing. She will be ready for any vent for wounded pride and outraged love. She will be of the island party, and Montcalm, who is sternly determined and has a terrible temper, will keep his word. She will be in the mood todefeat him,and aseparation will follow, probably a divorce. Then comes the opportunity for the first wife—the woman he has always loved—to reinstate herself in his affections, in his home and his wealth —she, and probably her child." " And you, my lord ?" she asked with a mocking, but still a beaming smile. "Oh, my share of the profit comes in just here. Montcalm will be too much oc cupied with his tangled affairs to pursue politics or court popularity." They did not hear the knock that fell vipon the door, but the parrot did. He had been hopping restlessly on his perch and making croaking noises all the while the two cqnversed; now he shrieked out, " Entrez." The door opened and a roly poly, frousy-headed woman entered with a tray, on which were a tiny smoking coffee pot and a cup and saucer. "I have brought your coffee hot and strong, at five as you told me," she said to Zulimee. " You were going out, you said." " Thanks, Madame Brazael. Yes ; lam going directly," the Spanish woman answered, and looked at Carleon. " So you will go to the appointment," he said low, replying to the look. "That is right; and now forgive one friendly sugges tion. You know your weak point—your quick, passionate temper ; pray be watch ful of it in the coming interview. Be calm and far-seeing. The next hour or two may be laden with fate for you. I trust it will bring only good fortune. Adieu." With another touch of hismoustached lips to her hand he was gone. Madame Brazael had also left the room. Zulimee stood a second in thought. " Can it be there is any good luck wait ing for me ?" she muttered. " I cannot feel it so. lam strangely depressed. I shrink from this meeting. Oh, how it will bring back the old innocent, loving days ! Ah, well, perhaps the coffee will help me." She took up the little metal pot and poured a part of its steaming contents into the cup. "It looks strong," she said, eyeing the clear brown colour of the liquid, " but I will add to its strength." She opened a drawer and took out a small crystal and gilt flask half filled with brandy. She poured a few spoonfuls of the liquor into the coffee and drank Then she threw a black lace mantilla over her head, and glanced at her watch; then paced the floor restlessly, holding her hand over her heard. "It will not do. I must have morphine after all," she said aloud, " Nothing else can wind me up. I seem all run down." Carleon rode briskly to the quarter of the town where Captain Montcalm lived. Dismounting before a public build ing, he mado hia way to an upper story, stationed himself at a window commanding a view of Montcalm'a house, and brought his opera-glass to bear upon its front door. Five minutea passed ; then a female figure, muffled in a grey cloak and veil, came out and passed into tho street. Carleon smiled, well pleased. In spito of

the unusual dress, he knew Laura Mont calm's gliding yet pvoud walk. It was she, and she was going to the cemetery, else she would not have dressed that way and would not have gone on foot, when she had a pretty pony phaeton. He watched her enter a street car that would take her near the old river-side cemetery, unused for many years, neglected and overgrown. Then he came down, remounted Mahmoud and was cantering leisurely up the street when Mrs La Hue's carriage turned a corner. She signalled to the driver to stop and beckoned to Carleon. He rode up beside the carriage and returned her gay familiar greeting.

CHAPTER II

"I went to see Laura this morning, ac cording to promise," she said. " And what success ?" "None. It took stratagem to see her, even. The servants had evidently received orders not to admit me. I found her melancholy and subdued. It is plain she will submit to his tyranny ; his high mightiness awes her to his will. Besides, she worships him. I am now convinced it was true—the report that he had ordered her, under penalty of a separation, to break off all intercourse with me and you and the rest of us. Wretched Puritan that he ia !" , " Puritan ? Don't judge him by his pre sent strait-laced respectability. If you knew his past! But no matter—or rather all the better for me."

" What in the world do you mean ?" "Nothing; only that Laura Montcalm will go with us to Aphrodite Island to morrow."

" I can't see for my life what you found that assertion upon." " I don't always show my hand—even to you. However, there is something I wish to talk to you about. Can I see you this even ing ?. There is a matter in which I need your friendly co-operation." " Very well ; but take my counsel, Car leon. Let Mrs Montcalm alone. That husband of hers will never let her belong to the Sans Souci. If you persist, there will be a something serious—a divorce, a duel, maybe." "So be it; anything to stir this stagnant old town,*' laughed Carleon, showing his white teeth under his brown moustache, as he bowed, and wheeled his horse. He rode in a canter down to the old cemetery on the skirts of the town. Riding close to the high brick wall that encircled it—old and crumbling, and held together, it would seem, by the ivy that covered it— he peered over, and presently smiled to himself, as he caught a glimpse of a grey figure gliding among the shrubbery in the distance.

The next instant it disappeared among the trees that grew thickly near the river bank. He turned bis horse's head and rode back to the town well satisfied.

Laura JMontcalm had meantime reached the place of meeting pointed out in the note —tne loneliest spot of all the ruined church yard-known as the Haunted Willow, the burial spot of a noted chemist, who had been convicted of murder fifty years before, and had hanged himself in his cell. The ground here fell in irregular terraces to the river; the trees were hung with wild-grapes and bamboo vines, and wild ivy matted the ground. A large rock projected over the water. Near it was a great weeping willow, overhanging a discoloured granite slab, with the name of the murderer-chemist in dim lichen-crusted letters upon it. Laura'standing alone on one of the wooded terraces of the declivity, had peered cautiously through the uncler-growth down into this secluded covert. Seeing no one, she descended the natural terrace and stood on the river-bank. She looked for a second into the black, deep waters below, then glanced about her to find a hiding place. At' a little distance from the Haunted Willow were two large half-sunken limestone rocks, with blossomed rhododendrons growing thickly about them. In the narrow space between these boulders Laura crouched down among the thick wild ivy. The rhododendron boughs screened her well, and in her grey attire she looked a part of the lichenedrock she leaned against.

She looked at her watch. " Five minutes to six," she said ; " I have not long to wait."

She gathered ivy leaves mechanically, and tore and crushed them'with her nervous fingers. She said to herself she would not look out from her covert until some noise gave her the signal. It was not long before the noise came—a rusfcle, an inarticulate sound between a sigh and an exclama tion made her heart leap wildly. She raised her head and looked thrbugh the rhododendron bows. There by the willow stood a veiled woman, enveloped in a loose, dark wrap, gazing about her. As Laura looked, the new-comer threw off the veil and wrap, flinging them upon the old chemist's tombstone, and stepped out upon the rock that jutted over the water, where Laura had stood a few moments before. A slant, mellow beam of the low sun fell upon her slender, graceful figure in its robe of soft black, bound at the waist with a silken cord, and upon her dark delicate face under the black lace mantilla. The black tendril curls on the low brow, the jetty arched brows, the brilliant eyes, the rich, small mouth and graceful throat —the coloured sunset light enchanced their beauty, and Laura's heart sank within her.

Zulimee stood looking down at the dark water, but she turned her head every second and seemed to wait impatiently. Laura, with her gaze riveted on the darkly brilliant face, did not hear a firm step de scending the terrace; but she saw the black-robed figure turn quickly and waver an instant, then with a low exclamation start forward as though to throw herself in the arms of the new arrival. But Captain Montcalm stood unmoved, even repellent, his tall soldierly form as haughtily erect, his face as coldly impassive as ever. His Spanish ex-wife stopped just before him, and the two stood looking at each other; she flushing and paling, the red pomegranate bloom on her breast rising and falling with the tide of real emotion that swelled within her. And he—-did his eyes soften, his mouth relax ?— Laura thought so ; she was sure of it when she saw Zulimee throw herself on his breast and clasp her arms about him. Still he did not move. The woman's form shook, a smothered sob escaped her*—Captain Mont calm looked down at her, and a quiver went over his face; he raised his arms and clasped her in a close embrace. It was a minute before her head was lifted ; then his was bowed over her and their lips met. Presently he led her to a seat on the old grave-stone, and they sat and talked while the shows lengthened. Only fragments of their conversation reached Laura's ear, but she heard enough to make known to her the former relations between the two. The left-handed marriage in Mexico ; the child who might still be living ; and the misun derstanding (explained by Captain Mont calm) which had led to the long separation— they spoke of all this, and from the frag ments she caught of their talk, Laura's quick intelligence.sharpened by excitement, made out the whole story. Nothing of all she heard stung her as did the words of Captain Montcalm uttered almost at the close of the interview :

" No, Zulimee," he said, caressing her slim hand soothingly. '■ The blame is not fully mine nor yours, it seems. It is fate that has spoiled our lives. I love you always; I have never loved any other woman. When I came and found you gone, I was too curious to listen to explanations. 1 did not stop to think that you might reasonably have gone to seek me with the protection and help of a friend. It was a miserable play of cross purposes all around. If we had met there would have been explanations and all would have been well. We did not meet until now, when it is too late. Two years ago it would not have been too late."

"Is it surely too late now?" Zulimee asked beseechingly. " Have I not a prior claim ? You are married where you do not love—and—"

He interrupted her. Laura could not hear what he said—something she caught about his abhorrence of the scandal and gossip that follow upon the separation of those who are married—something about ambition and office and his hope to forget his domestic disappointments in aotive pub lic business. Then he rose to go ; he kissed Zulimee once and again. She said : "It is not our last meeting. I shall see you again." When he was gone, she remained standing where he had left her, motionless for a moment. Then she clinched her small hand and exclaimed, in a husky excited whisper : "I have the prior claim—the rightful, if not the legal claim. He shall regard it. If he does not do to her as he threatened, I will make him regret it." Then she, too, left the spot where the shadows of twilight were gathering, and Laura was alone. She sat there among the green ivy that the dews were beginning to moisten, without moving—her face grey and chill as the stone she leaned againet. Something slimy and cold gliding across her hand as it lay upon the ground made her start at length. She looked, and saw a little mottled. snake eying her curiosity. It hissed softly and slid off among the leaves.

"Go !" she said, bitterly. " I would not harm you, and I am not afraid of your harming me ; ifc is the human snake I would like to crush, for it has stung me—yes, to the heart. And shall I suffer it tamely ? Shall I not sting in return ?"

CHAPTER 111.

Art and nature had made Aphrodite Island a little paradise. A strip of silvery sand beach girdled it like a ring of pearl and made its greenery gleam with emerald brilliancy. The island was dotted with wild myrtle, live-oak and magnolia-trees. An ornamented iron fence, invisible green in colour, enclosed the grounds proper. From the great iron gate an avenue led up to the graceful Moorish-looking mansion. In front, in the centre of a broad paved circle, a fountain played; half a dozen bright jets pouring from the horns of marble Tritons into a sculptured basin, surrounded by broad-leaved water plants. A hedge of cape jasmine, now in full bloom, snowy and scented, bordered the paved circle. In a magnolia grove at a little distance, the lawn party were seated at a banquet table, made fairy-like by its surroundings and appointments. Flowers were heaped everywhere. Roses garlanded the fruit stands ; purple grapes and golden-brown figs lay upon beds of lilies, and frosted cakes gleamed in a setting of crimson carna tions. The flower-scented air pulsed to the soft strains of a string band, proceeding from an adjacent arbour where the musicians were stationed. An hour ago they had played a gayer measure—and the dancers had whirled to the waltz music, in the paved circle before the mansion. Presently, at the signal from the host, Miles Carleon, the band returned to their former station—the broad marble steps of the house—and once more the music of Strauss came throbbing through the sun set air, to quicken the pulses of the banqueters.

" Another dance ! We will have another dance before we go," cried a young man, pushing his wine from him.

" Another? We shall have half a dozen, shall we not, belle madame ?" asked a beard less youth of the fair, though pasaee woman at his side.

"No, indeed," returned Mrs La Rue, tapping her questioner's arm with the cluster of grapes she was leisurely eating. •' One dance more is positively all that can be permitted. We mußt flit from this charmed spot with the daylight. We dare not linger.

She spoke in lowered tones, with a furtive glance to the head of the table, as though anxious. that she should not be overheard by the host, or was it by the lady at his side —the lovely blonde, with the lustrous sea blue eyes ?

But Miles Carleon was not listening to Mr3 La Eve ; he was bending over Laura Montcalm.

"You will give me this waltz?" he pleaded. His tones were like a caress. She drew back, flushing. Then she looked up from the rose she had been absently dipping in her wine-glass, and said coldly : " I will not dance any more." He looked at her keenly. " You are tired," he said. t{ You have hardly been still to-day. Come and rest awhile in my little cave-the Grotto of Calypso. I have kept that as one of my island lions which you alone shall see."

" I cannot permit such a selfish arrange ment," she said, still coldly, though his homage was grateful to her bruised self love.

He looked annoyed. Presently he said: " You have been in such brilliant spirits all day, what cloud has come over you now ?"

Before she could answer a voice, at the other end of the table sang: " The bright hour passes, soon it, s o'er: Care, the raven, waits at the door" 11 Has the shadow of the waiting raven fallen over you ?" Carleon said in a whisper full of significance.

A contraction crossed her face; she swept her hand over her brow aa though to drive away some painful thought. "Folly!" she cried, rising from the table. " What raven should wait at my door? Yes, Mr Carleon, you may show me your grotto." He drew her hand through his arm, a faint curve of triumph on his handsome mouth.

•'As a reward, I will play Ulysses to your Calypso," he said. "I will relate my adventures—at least the one you begged to hear—the little Venetian epi sode."

Mrs La Rue looked after them from under her dropped lashes. It was hard to interpret the significance of that look. The part} 7 bad risen, and were quitting the banquet grove for the open-air dancing hall—the paved space girdled by the jasmine hedge. The sunset fires were fading when the waltz ended.

"Come," said Mrs La Rue, and she peremptorily led the way down the avenue to the beach. Three painted pleasure boats rocked there on the tiny wavelets of the bay.

" In with you," she said, pointing to the boats with her parasol, and looking at the reluctant girls. With pretty pouting, they obeyed their chaperon, if chaperon Bella La Rue deserved to be called, when only her husband's wealth and her family connec tions saved her from being ostracised for her imprudences.

Yet she was anxious to keep within the bounds of social toleration, and she trembled lest she had overstepped them by this merry-mad day in the island Eden over which the serpent so notoriously trailed. She had turned a deaf ear to the en treaties to have one more waltz, or to wait half an hour for such a "splendid moon rise."

11 Stay on the enchanted island till moon rise !" she cried. "Never; we would be transformed into sooty goblins by those arch professors of the black art, the gossips of Wallport."

"Where is Mrs Montcalm?" asked a young man, coming down to the shore. " She sent word we need not wait. She is with Carleon ; he will take care of her," returned Mrs La Rue, without turning round.

"He? Why, Mrs La Rue, surely you will not permit—and I heard—you roust have heard that; her husband has threat ened—"

" Do I heed all the gosajp I hear ? Carleon will row Mrs Montoalm to Wallport before

we can get there. As for her husband's threat, one wouldn't fancy it hung very heavily ever her from her manner to-day. I nwer saw her so gay." "It was forced ; one could see that. If I were you, Mra La Rue—" " If I were you, Phil Thornbury, I would go and offer myself to Mrs Montcalm as her guardian knight. I have no doubt she would recognise the claim of such a sage Quixote." The young man stood abashed, his chivalrous impulse slain by that weapon so effective when one is young and sensitive— sarcasm from the lips of a fashionable woman. He took his place beside the others, the boats pushed off, and Laura Montcalm was left on Aphrodite Island. The waning of the daylight could not well be noted in the grotto to which Carleon had taken Mrs Montcalm. A swinging lamp of silver shaded by a globs of ground-glass diffused a soft, moony radiance through the little retreat —a re cess excavated in the side of a cliff and lined with tinted and speckled shells, bright-coloured sea-weeds and fronds of white and pink coral. Marine curiosities, some graceful, some grotesque, were scattered here and there, a statuette of Venus Aphrodite occupied a niche in the wall; another was filled by a marble image of Moore's forsaken sea nymph in the act pf undergoing transformation into a harp. •' Heaven looked with pity on true love so ■warm, . . .: And changed to this soft harp the sea maiden's form: and in the centre of the erotto a tmy foun tain filled the air with perfumed spray. Laura half forgot the aching pain at her heart in looking about her. While she was examining the endless variety of shellß, Carleon began his promised Venetian story by showing her an exquisite ornament—-a watch-case made of seed pearls and delicate shells—a souvenir, he said, of his acquaint ance with a beautiful nun of Venice, met first under circumstances of romance and danger. Probably the story was invented for the occasion, but told as Carleon could tell it, it served his purpose. It held the attention of his auditor and made her forget the flight of time. She was in the mood to welcome any thing that would lift her out of herself, and Carleon's low, trained voice, and looks that expressed tender yet respectful hom age, soothed and charmed her. He leaned nearer in his apparent un conscious earnestness, his hand fell upon her arm and toyed as though absently with her emerald bracelet. She was beginning to fall under the fascination of his presence and manner—a fascination acknowledged by all women who knew him, when a near note of music broke the spell. It came from the strings of a violin played at a little distance from the grotto. A plaintive, tender strain, Laura knew it well. She had played it often on the piano for her father, and David Holt had accompanied her on his violin—David Holt, her father's confidential clerk, his almost adopted son, whom he had left in his will as Laura's guardian. Queer,' homely, shy David—how good he had been, to her; how like a tender woman he had nursed her father in his long sick ness—how well she had liked him in spite of his shy and awkward ways; but how changed, how cold he had seemed when she returned from abroad no longer his girl-ward, but a married woman, worshipping her handsome, grand-looking husband, and indignant because David did not seem impressed with his god-like at tributes. This train of thought, set in motion by that familiar strain, passed swiftly through her brain. She had started up, saying hur riedly : "I must go at once; it must be late." ** One moment," Carleon pleaded, clear ing bis brow of the frown that had gathered on it when the music broke the charm, he was weaving. But again the 6bfW beseech ing strains of the violin intervened. " Can itloe David playing?" thought Laura. "Not an instant, "she answered promptly. " It must be past sunset." - She walked to the door of the grotto with decision, Carleon following, mentally execrating the musician, and marvelling who had dared to take such a liberty. \\ hen they had passed out of the grotto, he looked about for the intrusive player. Laura looked around eagerly, but instead of David she saw a venerable man with a flowing white beard. It was the same man who bad played second violin in the band of hired musicians. She remembered him particularly, for she had noticed his watch ing her from under his slouched hat, in a fixed, queer way. But she gave little thought to him now. She was alarmed at the lateness of the hour. It was past sunset; the after-glow was almost gone. "They are waiting for me, I am sure," she cried, hurrying on along the serpentine walks, and paying little heed to her escort. She came to the paved circle in front of the mansion ; there was no one to be seen; no sound but the plash of the fountain. Dancers and musicians were gone. "They have gone down to the boats," she said.and hurried on to the landing. It was silent, deserted ; the boats were gone. One of Carleon's servants —the tall, impassive Swiss gardener—was leisurely straitening a rosebush close by. Laura appealed to him. " Where are they?" she cried, breath lessly. " Where are the party from Wall port ?" '•Gone," was the laconic reply. "What, gone and left me! Oh, how could they ? It cannot be possible; They could not treat me so." "There has been a mistake,"said Car leon, coming to her >side. "My house keeper informs me that Mrs La Rue sent her maid to look for you, to tell you that they were about leaving, The girl brought back'word, as from yourself, that the party need not wait for you; you would follow them presently." " Oh, how utterly false—as you know. I saw no one, I had no message. This is very provoking. Mr Carleon, I trouble you to send me home at once." " And I am very sorry that I cannot dp it. There is not another boat on the island. I put them all at the service of the lawn party and the musicians. They will not be returned until to-morrow." " Oh, you are certainly jesting! No boat of any kind on the island ! Any sort of water-craft will answer—no matter how o*d and leaky." " There is nothing here in the shape ot a boat, I grieve to say. The high tide last week carried off two of my skiffs, and taunt is coasting in the yacht. It is very un fortunate." She wrung her hands together passion-1 ately. . N Oh, for pity's sake take me away from here," she pleaded. " Think of some way, j I entreat you." "Dear Mrs Montcalm, it pains me to see you bo distressed, but it is impossible to do what you ask. The boats will return early in the morning. My housekeeper will mafce you comfortable." „ , j' She did not answer. She hardly heard him. She was looking at the tide rolling j in and saying to herself that death under its green waves were far preferable to tw life that would be hers after she had stoyea one night on Aphrodite Island. Carleon came nearer and said, with a tender reproacn in his tones : tatir "Is it such a hardship to.otay » *w more hours in my home when it makes me 6°ShTSrned on him with a sense of having been caught in a snare. Ji an nt>A "You and Mrs La Rue have planned this," she cried, her eyes flashing scorn UP" I ? lAh, dear Mrs Montcalm, howjanjusfe, how cruel you are," He laid his hand upon hers as he ppoke, She flung ib off »n« darted from his side.

uttered mg to meet hin). m ~ ■He took obe of rt« ™f to be relied upon h! L 5 *wiik, adiedainful stare had been soC^r^yiiWt. "It is an honour f o^^2?"^ set his foot upon Apffifi J^h answered, asTepuK^lJ

CHAPTERS

The sudden relief that la«* Holt did not spoke: . $«t length i|» was voU jW ho frftßn^K^wli Shestopped aiSl^afe "He sent you to fee isISJ £* r D y h,s dwitha^k^ of my coming. HeM^rSS Icameaway. Idi d notlo^S idea of being in that islwdSS you were gone, Had IH* would have <fo<H» my beatto pjfi prevent you from going. AsiuEr only Mow you C! Jfi should you need a friend. I nRt disguise and got in with fl»"ll& because I wanted to look on witE recognised, and because I knew tk?! vited and only known to GarleoaisaiZ in the employment of 9 man he diiwi would stand a poor chance gf Mrf mitted to the grounds." "And you went to wafch inti,1 that was tond-^-that was like tiulC of. the dear old daya; and I thank m> The sad cadence of her nbawt David's heart. She looked so stritbi longed to comfort her as be had been n; to|do when she came to hito with feiffi sorrows; but he forbore. He hutahm exercised stern control over himself" ij she had never suspected his secrrt-«. guessed that her father's prot^e-theb; he had taken from a miserable, motkti home, and brought up in his own b, had cared for her other than a jbrotfe " I deserve no thanks, Laura: Ipr«J your father I would try to watch over n as & sister. I wish I could have bitiaf; filled that trust*—but circumsiauMi In made it difficullH-I—" " You think I am not worth wklis over lately," she interrupted with a bit'i little laugh. "You seem to lan pig me up. You work for Captaia He calm in that dusty office taint till night. You are devoted to his ttento; and you never knew him of old; ht s\ have sat by you at the same hearUs for»' many years, I whom you haYsimala your arms when I was a Mikk motherless child—l whom youiiw/foan for so kindly, am now thrown at d fw heart. You never come neat auoii^toi; that formal Sunday dinner, when m always others. Captain Montctbitii business are ever in your mind, ink I! no place there-or anywhere, I Wl* David looked at her hslpWj. & could not tell her why.henow»«j came into her presence-Hsrhy h» P**'* resume the brotherly, fatherly Wm» had once austained to ier. ; Hb $P tell her that it was for ber sake»» poring over account books iri tW m office of Captain Montcalm's m»»* that it was only tobenearMdnw* her welfare that he lurfgtoW f ession of law in which he had W with promise, turnedhi»backoaJ»B town and state, and ttOtmm* pair to WaUport, there t6 emw® place of a book-kseper in C»pt»|» calm's newly purchased w^r: the first day that the bride mJ£* rived fron>; Europe, he had fcg the marriage would nob-MI! Mm He had loved Laura "bW^ra way-he had nursiid «n bis hart m win her when he should Jwj-JJ something of a reputation ; wWj had looked upon Ser as scarcelygj a child, and he was palled, to see the strength «idwW^ which she loved this cold, WjJL but the dust of years had Wja'jr | anxiety for Laura caused to J W endß-.nd B .y<ty. ©ml ness to another ° 1 i*t?r »< disobeyedh m^J ff; fc^J expose brfh Tbo«f^jft^S stand well with. onej, tW f" mO rrow that «c om he °r J ■ married another w

THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1887.

6