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Suppressed Drama
By Alan Dale. ^
Copyright, 1902.
r - * * T WAS one of Lady Est-
I court's crushes. Every one
was there, among them
Gilbert Strange, talking
politics to a diplomatist.
He looked Interesting and
Interested. The footman
announced "Lady Lorrl-
mer." Gilbert Strange
moved 6 Inches. That en
abled him to watch her.
Meantime the diplomatist
thought his views on China
^ intelligible, |f not Intelli
gent. Even diplomatists cannot talk for
ever.
"Come,” he said, bending over her.
The word sounded like the answer to a
question. They strolled, chatting gaily,
through the throng, and realized the pi
quant unreality of society. They found
a secluded spot. The air was full of
:lowers, the faint sob of music reached
them like an echo.
She sat a few minutes without speak
ing. Why should she speak? There could
be but one end to the conversation—blank
loneliness. For the moment she was con
tent—he was by her side, and they were
alone.
Long silence Is unbearable in moments
of crisis.
"Where Is your wife?" said Lady Lor-
rlmer.
"At home—seedy.”
"And you left her?"
"She would not hear of my staying In."
"She is unselfish."
"I did not come here to listen to her
praises. She bores me with her eternal
goodness."
"Was It always so?"
"I never loved her. I loved her money.
I liked her. Married her money. Took
her ns dowry."
"You wax cynical over women. Let
us go back to the drawing room."
Tier tone of studied coolness piqued him.
Ho dropped his affectation of cynicism.
"Madeline," he said, bending over her.
and speaking very slowly, "there Is no
going back for us."
"What; not to have any supper?" She
passed over the "Madeline,** but would
not give In without a struggle.
"Why do you willfully misunderstand
me?" His voice vibrated with pain.
"Because I wish to save you—from your
self."
"Madeline." she felt lulled to a strange
rest when he whispered that word, "If
we had both been free tonight, do you
think things would have ended different
ly?”
She made one more effort, but her
strength was nearly gone. Never had her
beauty so enthralled him. and yet as she
spoke he seemed to see the jewel within
the casket—beyond the human form, the
shrine of a stainless soul.
"I am not free." she said with a
steady voice, and then, bending down with
her face in her hands, she murmured:
"I wonder if God judges our parents?"
"Will you answer my question?"
She looked up—for a moment their eyes
met.
"T do not think.” she said, "I know."
"Madeline." he was very near her now,
• other people have been a law unto them
selves."
She shuddered. "Don't say the horrible
thought you have.” Her voice came low
and tense. "Listen, and for one moment
1 will be real. I have acted long enough
in the place they call my home. Gilbert."
she lingered with tenderness over the
name he had never heard her speak be
fore. "Gilbert. I do love you. and hv that
love 1 ask you to hid me farewell."
"What!" he said, awed by her tones so
that he felt that event to touch her hand
would be sacrilege. "Life apart—the Ideal
of life gone?"
"Apart—yes! A lost ideal—no! The sac
rifice of duty to passion meant the sacri
fice of the ideal. The highest rung of
the ladder of an unhallowed love is fath
oms below the lowest rung of the ladder
of a stainless, loveless life."
"Is this the end?" She heard the break
in his voice, and the mother-soul, born in
every good woman, cried out with an
guish for his pain.
"There is no end." she answered softly.
"Go and forget me—no—don't speak vet-
go and cherish the woman who trusts
you. Go, and forget me, and yet—" she
could scarce speak above a whisper. "If
the thought of me comes to you some
times unbidden, let It be—how shall I
put it?—the watchword of your stainless
knighthood. Now take me back."
He raised her from her chair: "May
I?"
"Yes. Once.”
Men said afterwards how brilliant Lady
Lorrimer was that night and what a fool
her husband was to neglect her so. But
of such is the kingdom of this world.
Each man and woman Is a suppressed
drama, but the curtain must never be lift
ed. Society demands an Interest in the
mutually uninteresting. To turn up the
footlights on your own stage i$ provincial
—to turn them up on your neighbor’s is
worse—it is suburban.
TWO.
Gilbert’s wife had stayed at home. Evi
dently she was expecting some one. She
seemed restless and unable to settle down
to anything. Presently the servant ush
ered In—"Mr. Arthur Strange;" a young
man entered, faultlessly attired and with
that peculiar vacancy of expression which
appears to be the priceless heirloom of
several of our best families.
"Sit down, Arthur," she said kindly;
"it’s quite a long time since you have
been to see me."
"Where is Gilbert?" he spoke abrutly,
and she noticed his face was paler than
usual.
"Why, at Lady Estcourt’s dance. I
stayed In on purpose to see you. I saw
by your note you tvere In some trouble.
Come, tell me all about her, and I’ll ask
her to tea at once. I didn't tell Gid you
were coming, so he won’t be able to chaff
you."
She looked up with a smile and saw
her mistake. This was evidently no laugh
ing matter. She went over and sat by
him, put her hand on his. "Arthur, old
boy, what’s the matter? I’m sorry I
joked."
"Nina." he said moodily, "unless Gil
bert will help me I am ruined and dis
graced."
"What do you mean?"
"I have a debt of honor to pay tomor
row and I cannot meet it."
At the word, "debt of honor," he face
went hard -with a look of pain. She gazed
at him, sdw what an unhealthy looking
man he was. and tried not to.
"Debt of honor? Debt of honor?" she
repeated. "I thought you promised Gil
bert never to gamble again."
"I never meant to, God knows; but it
comes on one like a fit of madness. I
strive against it. fight it. but It’s always
there—beckonlfig me—tempting me. I know
its wiles and plot against them, and all
the time the other part of me is run
ning on dodges to outwit mv best laid
plans of defense. I know in the end it’s
bound to win. Oh, God!" he said, bury
ing his face in his hands, "bound to win,
bound to win."
Nina was silent. He went on: "Last
time Gilbert paid my debts—he has been
a good brother to me—I promised to keep
straight, and I did for months, but last
night I met some fellows and we stopped
in at the Avondale; I knew I should
fall. I could not keep outside."
“I am thinking of Gilbert,” she said
sldwly and bitterly; "you do not know
how this hurts me because it will hurt
him." She looked at him with a strange
mingling of fierceness and tenderness.
"If you really cared for me you would
not let this hateful thing conquer you.”
His answer sounded like a sob.
"Why have you come to me?” she asked
suddenly.
"Less chance of a row!" he answered.
"You and Gil are per£«ct friends; he
and I should fall out."
The memory of her love for her hus
band crushed down the feeling that his
brother was a coward. "And you want
me to t*dl him?’’ she said slowly. "You
don’t know how it will hurt him. He has
been looking so worried lately and needs
a holiday, and this will spoil it for him."
She stoped. He said nothing, but
watched her furtively.
"How much?" she asked suddenly.
"A hundred and fifty.”
For a long time she sat thinking. "No,"
she said. "I shall not tell him.
"You won’t!” he exclaimed. Well, it’s
justice, not mercy.”
"I believe." she answered, "it will be
more merciful to you If you did. But I
cannot hurt him; I cannot."
THE AIR WAS FULL OF FLOWERS, THE FAINT SOB OF MUSIC REACHED THEM LIKE AN ECHO.
"Well, he’s bound to hear from me."
"He is not.’’
Again that furtive look in Arthur’s eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"It depends entirely on you whether
Gilbert ever hoars.”
"But the money must be paid."
"Quite so.”
"And paid by ?"
"Me!” Arthur turned away and bowed
his head. "Arthur.” she said. “I am go
ing to have my first secret from Gil by
paying the money—to save him pain."-
Then her face became sterner. "I may
be wrong. I may be helping you down
hill. I shall take steps of which you
know nothing to find out whether you are
gambling again, and if you are I shall
tell Gil all—all—do you understand?"
"I can never thank you.” he said, in a
broken voice.
"Never mind that, old boy. I am glad
you came; always come if I can help
you."
He bent down, kissed her hand and left
the room without another word.
"Poor boy!" she thought, "how T hope
T have done right. But I’ll send a line to
Mintell’s to have him watched. And yet,
how I want that hundred and fifty."
Arthur ran downstairs, hailed a hansom
and remarked to himself: "Thoi|ght I’d
fetch her by praising ‘deah Gil.’ My
soliloquy on gambling was worthy of
Hamlet on suicide. I began to fear I
should not get the cash after all. But
Ideal Love is a first-rate tip for the out
sider."
THREE.
Gilbert had been away on business after
Lady Estcourt’s dance, and returned
about lunch time two days after. The
servant told him that Nina was out, but
would be back to lunch. He saw a letter
in a business envelope addressed to his
wife; he would never have dreamt of spy
ing on her correspondence, but imagined
that this would be a bill, and he de
termined to make amends to her for the
past she had never known, by putting a
check inside and placing It by her at
lunch.
He opened the letter and read:
"Mlntell’s Detective Offices, Fleet St.
"Madam—Mr. Strange shall be watched
as you desire. Any movements that
seem to point In the direction you men
tion shall be at or.ce notified to you.
Your obedient servants.
"J. MINTELL & CO."
Gilbert stood looking at the letter. He
had come in with such good resolutions.
He had always been kind and indul
gent to Nina, but Lady Lorrimer had
been the awakening power of his life—
the renunciation of her love, which
seemed to him like a sacrament, had
lifted him to a KTgher platform of being,
with new and grange thoughts of life
and duty, and h£ meant to love and
cherish the woman who his wife.
And now there came this letter. That
Nina should have even suspicions about
him and Lady Lorrimer seemed incred
ible. That she should have gone to this
length was impossible. He felt so
strange are the ways of man. a justifia
ble anger against the hypocrisy Nina
must have been long practicing.
While he was thinking Nina entered;
6lie looked with surprise at his face of
anger.
"I have t% apologize for having opened
on*» of your letters by mistake," he said
In a harsh voice.
"Why. darling, you can open them all
if you like."
"I don’t fancy that this Is one you
would like me of all people to see," he
tT.eered.
"You know I never keep secrets from
you. Gilbert’’—and then, remembering
suddenly that she had got her first se
cret, she blushed and hesitate^!.
"Oh! the hypocrite," thought the self-
righteous Gilbert. "Read that," he said.
Nina read the letter and sat down,
miserable at the thought of a quarrel
with her husband, and never dreaming
that he could connect it with any one
but Arthur.
"Well," he said quietly (he would at
any rate be politel. "I thought you never
kept secrets from me?"
**Oh! I could not tell you this."
"Apparently not. but don’t you think
you might have spoken to me first be
fore going to a detective?" Pie saw her
wince at that word; it should be kept in
reserve for future use.
"Oh, Gilbert," she said, fighting against
her desire to cry, "I was so unhappy
about it, and I thought it had all come
to an end, but I wanted to be sure.”
"Couldn’t you trust?"
"Oh, I ought fo be able to—but some
men are so weak when they are tempt
ed.”
"Thank you for your high estimate of
the family whose name you have Indeed
honored In assuming—hut wasn’t it a
little underhand not even to mention
your suspicions first? How could you
know they were not all false?"
"Oh, I don’t want to tell you. unless
you insist. But I knew where there had
been some wTongdoing; it was not merely
suspicion."
"And so you could go on as you have
done, loving and affectionate, without a
sign?"
"Nothing can ever change my love for
you; you might know that by now."
Gilbert felt hit hard; why wouldn’t his
feeling of anger continue? It should-—it
must.
"And you would believe any gossip
rather than ask your husband outright?"
"Oh, Gil! I am so sorry. It wasn’t just
any gossip. I had it of good authority,
but I promised not to mention names, if
I could help It; hut you must guess now,
surely, how I heard."
"Nina, I insist on knowing; we must
clear this up."
"Well, then, don’t be too hard on him,
poor boy. Arthur told me himself."
"Arthur!" he ejaculated; “what a re
turn, that he should come sneaking to
you when I’ve paid debt after- debt for
him."
"Please never let him know I’ve told
you; he was quite heartbroken over it,
but he wanted me to know about it,
and then to speak to you, but I knew
how sorry you would be if you thought
I’d heard—so I determined not to tell
you, dear, but only to spare you pain,
Gil, that was all."
"And the detective?"
She winced again. "I told Arthur that
I should take means to find out if it had
stopped, and if not—then I should have
to speak to you."
"What did Arthur say to that?"
"He promised, of course, not to gamble
any more.”
"What!" said Gilbert, in amazed tones.
"Not to gamble, darling. Oh, you
didn’t think it was anything worse, did
you? I don’t think Arthur’s that sort
of boy."
Gilbert felt the room whirling round,
as the truth suddenly flashed upon him.
But he would be sure. "And what then?"
he gasped.
"Well, dear, don’t be angry, but I paid ,
his debt for him and wrote to the office
to have him watched."
Gilbert suddenly turned away his head,
and then, coming over to her, took both
her hands in his and sakl: "And you
did it all to save me pain, Nina?"
"It was worth anything for you to be
happy, love," she answered, smiling
through her tears.
She never understood why he kissed
her as he did.
The Hound of the BasRervilles
By A. Conan Doyle, Author of "The Great Boer War.” “The Green Flaq,” “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” “A Study in Scarlet, ” etc., etc.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
DEATH ON THE MOOR.
OR a moment or two I sat
breathless, hardly able to
believe my ears. Then my
senses and my voice came
back to me, while a crush
ing weight of responsibil
ity seemed in an instant
to be lifted from my soul.
That cold. Incisive, ironi
cal voice could belong to
but one man in all the
world.
"Holmes!" I cried—
"Holmes!"
“Come out." said he. "and please be
careful with the revolver."
I stooped under the rude lintel, and
there he sat upon a stone outside, his
gray eyes dancing with amusement as
they fell upon my astonished features.
He was thin and worn, but clear and
alert, his keen face bronzed by the sun
•ml rough-ned by the wind. In his tweed
suit and cloth cap he looked like any
other tourist upon the moor, and he had
contrived, with that catlike love of per
sonal cleanliness which was one of his
characteristics, that his chin should be
as smooth and his linen as perfect as if
he were in Baker Stieet.
"I never was more glad to see any one
in my life," said I, as I wrung him by
the hand.
"Or more astonished, eh?"
• "Well, I must confess to It.’*,
"The surprise was not all on one side,
I assure you. I had no idea that you
had found my occasional retreat, still less
that you were inside it. until 1 was with
in twenty paces of the door.”
"My footprint. 1 presume?"
"No, Watson; I fear that I could not
undertake to recognise your footprint
amid all the footprints of the world. If
you seriously desire to deceive me you
must change your tobacconist; for when
I see the stub of a cigarette marked
Bradley. Oxford Street, I know that my
friend Watson is in the neighborhood.
You will see it there beside the path. You
threw it down, no doubt, at that supreme
moment when you charged into the
empty hut."
"Exactly."
"I thought ns much—and knowing your
admirable tenacity I was convinced that
you were sitting in ambush, a weapon
within reach, waiting for the tenant to
return. So you actually thought that
I was the criminal?"
"I did not know who you were, but l
was determined to find out."
"Excellent. Watson! And how did you
localize me? You saw me. perhaps, on
the night of the convict hunt, when 1
was so imprudent as to allow the moon
to rise behind me ”
"Yes, I saw you then."
"And have no doubt searched all the
huts until you came to this one?"
"No, your boy had been observed, and
that gave me a guide where to look.”
"The old gentleman with the telescope,
no doubt. I could not make it out when
first saw the light flashing upon the
lens.” He rose and peeped into the hut.
"Ha. I see that Cartwright has brought
up some supplies. What’s this paper?
So you have been to Coombe Tracey,
have you?"
"Yes."
"To see Mrs. Laura Lyons?"
"Exactly."
"Well done! Our reseaiches have evi
dently been running on parallel lines,
and when we unite our results I expect
we shall have a fairly full knowledge of
the case."
"Well, I am glad from my heart that
you are here, for indeed the responsi
bility and the mystery were both becom
ing too much for my nerves. But how
in the name of wonder did you come here,
and what have you been doing? 1
thought that you were in Baker Street
working out that case of blackmailing.’’
’ That was what I wished you to think."
“Then you use me, and yet do not trust
me!" I cried, with some bitterness. "I
think that I have deserved better at your
hands. Holmes."
"My dear fellow, you have been Inval
uable to me In this as in many other
cases and I beg that you will forgive me
if I have seemed to play a trick upon
you. In truth, it was partly for your
own sake that I did it, and it was my
appreciation of the danger which you
ran which led me to come down and ex
amine the matter for myself. Had I been
with Sir Henry and you it is confident
that my point of view would have been
the same as yours, and my presence would
have warned our very formidable oppo
nents to be on their guard. As it is, I
have been able to get about as I cou#tl
not possibly have done had I been living
in the Hall, and I remain an unknown
factor In the business, ready to throw in
all my weight at a critical moment."
"But why keep me in the dark?"
"For you to 'know could not have help
ed us, and might possibly have led to my
discovery. You would have wished to
tell me something or in your kindness
you would have brought me out some
comfort or other, and so an unnecessary
risk would be run. I brought Cartwright
down with me—you remember the little
chap at the Express Office—and he has
se*»n after my simple wants: a loaf of
bread and a clean collar. What does
man want more? He has given me an
extra pair of eyes upon a very active
pair of feet, and both have been Invalu
able."
"Then my reports have all been wast
ed!’’—My voice trembled as I recalled the
pains and the pride with which I had
composed them.
Holmes took a bundle of papers from
his pocket.
"Here are your reports, my dear fellow,
and very well thumbed. I assure you. I
made excellent arrangements, and they
are only delayed one day upon their way.
T must compliment you exceedingly upon
the zeal and the intelligence whir-h you
have shown over an extraordinarily dif
ficult case."
I was still rather raw' over the ck&cep-
tion which had been practiced upon me.
but the warmth of Holmes’ prnise drove
my anger from my mind. I felt also in
my heart that he was right in what he
said and that it was really best for our
purpose that I -should not have knowm
that he was upon the moor.
"That’s better," said he. seeing the
shadow' rise from my face. "And now
tell me the result of your visit to Mrs.
CONTINUED ON EAST PAGE.