TEMPTATION

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3154, 25 February 1911, Page 4

TEMPTATION

By Eflie Adelaide Rowlands.

j CHAPTER I. Alone in the world. Alone! With only seventeen years oi life behind her. . , Whv, she ivas but a child I Maiiv and many a girt of her age m this rich ~cruel, splendid city or JjOiidon, was' still guarded and protected with the care lavished on a beloved And she, poor little soul, was alone! Quite —quite alone ! ~ ~ . How many times had she said that over to herself, as she had sat shivering in the raw wind of this wintry Jsovemp This had been her life of late. To slip into th© desolate park, and there to try to forget sorrow, and bring back courage ; tlie coiirage that was so necessary to fight will despair. Sire was faint with hunger, weak with the fatigue of acute mental thought, weary with much walking. How many, many miles she had walked poor child, in her vain search for work: ior the means to provide herself with food and shelter. , , To-dav the quest was more hopeless, more terrible than ever, for the doors or her miserable lodgings were eloped against her, her pockets were empty—she ‘knew not where her head lay that night. , The mist had begun to spread over the park like a pall. Those who passed through, worm quickly eager to shirk the bitter wind that swept across the open space. The policemen, pacing to and iro in bis thick cape, bad looked with ciinoaity at first on that slight figure sitting crouched up on the bench, but by degrees bis curiosity had gone. He had become inured to the patlios and the traoedv that was written day bv day in the faces of those who turned to this great park as they would turn to ahome —c- r a- tomb. And this girl's story was written in her ninclied face, in her anguished eyes. Alone in the world! She looked at the carriages that rolled by, at the vision of lovely women, wrapped in fur, that passed so close beside her. and yet were- inhabitants of another world. A little while ago she would have smiled at the comical sight of an electric carriage sweeping noiselessly along, but in these bitter months cf hopelessness and failure, of starvation, she had forgotten how to smile. Once, in a vague sort of way she tried to picture to herself what it would be like to sit in one of those luxurious carriages, to roll swiftly away from the cold to a home, to be met by those who eared for her, to have some cue to ask tenderly of her welfare. A sob rose in her throat, and the tears that she had repressed so long filled her eye's, shutting out the vision of leafless trees, and the vagrants that, like- herself, were the only occupants of the wintrv .park. Ah! for the past to be given hack! 1 J’or those days when both home—poor and modest enough, yet still a home —

and love had been hers! Even now she could hear her father’s voice calling to her; she could 1 see his dear, worn lace ! , If she could only die. Die qme lay and go to him. . A sort of ecstasy took possession of her.

She almost laughed. Was she not foolish to struggle any longer? She bad fought despair so valiantly, her life blood had been given drop bv drop-in the fight. “T am tired,” she said to herselr suddenly, and slic was not conscious that she 'spoke aloud. “There is no place for me here. No one needs me. Tonight I will end it- all. I will go to daddy.” And she smiled dreamily, happily. Lulled by the sweet consolation that this new thought brought, the girl was heedless of what passed about her. Perhaps vaguely she had been conscious that a certain black-robed figuie had gone to and fro rather frequently of late in front of her, but in this moment she had drifted so far, far away from her surroundings, that even the bleak .wind had' ceased to sting her, and shewas no longer conscious l that her feeu and limbs were cramped with long sitting, nor that her head ached, and that she was sick and faint for want of food. All she knew was that she had at last found a solution* to the problem that had tortured her these many weary months, and that in another few hours she would be at rest, clasped, perhaps, in her father’s arms. The tall woman in the black garb, who-had been studying this girl so attentively yet- unobtrusively, drew nearer and sat down on the-same bench She might have been a worker herself,- so simple was her dress, and yet, despite her sombre air. there was a note of elegance about her that belied all suggestion of poverty. A strange look came into her eyes as she -gazed at the shabby, desolate figure of the girl who sat a yard or so away from her. She bent forward and spoke sudden- ' “Why are you going to take your life?” she asked. . The girl heard her voice still as in a dream. . , She did not turn, neither die. that strange radiance fade from her.tain face. , , . She answered as though she were answering some spirit. ' “Why should I keep my life? Life means'nothing but ij>isc-i’y and suffering; it means hunger and thirst, heartache and desolation. And there— just beyond—is my father! Ho looks so happy! -Shall I not go to him? ’ The strange, the eager look on the other woman’s face sharpened. H “It is a sin to destroy life,” she said, very curtly and distinctly. The word “sin” seemed to startle the girl. , -She gave a sigh, as one who parts from a groat joy.' Then she-turned and looked ot the. speaker, and as she did so her dream slipped from her, and she was awake once more. Keenly', almost cruelly awake. • , “Why do you speak to me? she asked passionately. “What is it to you what I do? and what do you know or the suffering that- is eating away my

hear ? Have you evpr got up in the morning, without; Wowing where you will find' food for the day?. Are you without shelter, without friends? Are you alone? Alone! Can you understand what that word ‘alone’ means?”

The woman drew a little nearer. “Tell mo about yourself,” she said, and in iher voice there was a tone of

command. “What is your story?” The girl paused a moment, then began to speak mechanically, wearily. “Months ago, I forget how mam 7 .” she said, “I lost my father. . We were always poor,- very, very poor. He tried to make money by his writings; they brought nothing, and in despair he accepted the post of keeper to a' public library in No we h ester. The wage was enough to keep us alive, and to educate me. But this post was lost when my father’s' health failed.” The giri’s voice brqke a little. “I was only a child when we left Newchestev, and came to London —to cruel, cruel London ! My father grew weaker and weaker. When l was twelve 1 earned the money. I went as nurse and teacher to some children, and after that I did everything.. I refused no kind of work, if only I could keep up our little home.” She calmed herself. “I saw my dear one fade slowly away; he never knew the real misery, for God was 'merciful. Retook my father! To suffer alone is terrible, but ah! how much worse it would have been it he had been forced to share the worst —to—to starve as — I am starving!” The other woman listened intently. “Will you tell me your name?” she asked.

The girl gave it listlessly, wearily. “I am called Mary Barr,” she said. “But you must have some relations,, someone with whom you are connected?” questioned the other. “You have a well-bred air. I have watched you,” she added, “these last- few days. Your destitution cannot hide the fact that you are refined, that you are what the world calls a lady.”

The girl’s white face flushed for an instant.

“My father was a gentleman., and a scholar —I never knew my mother. If I have ethers belonging to me I do not know them. We were always alone., he and I, we wanted no one eisc. When lie was buried I —l nearly died, but be left me work to do —some of his beloved manuscripts to copy, and to place if possible. And for that task I have tried to live. The. copying is done, the works have gone to seek their chance. To-day I had a few shillings, the last —my pocket was robbed: I cannot pay,for my room. 1 have nowhere to sleep tonight.” Then all at once the girl seemed to realise What she was doing. “Leave me,” she said passionately; "“wily do you question me? It I have lost all else, I have stiil my liberty, and I want nothing of anyone. Don't offer me anything.” she added almost fiercely; “I am.not a beggar!” “And I,” said the woman with' a strange smile, “have no i>ity for beggars. Neither am I generous. I have no intention of giving you anything. Still. I have something to sav to you, all the same. I have an offer to make you.”

‘ ‘An offer ?” The girl’s grey eyes, that looked preternaturally large in her white race, were fixed on tiie other woman. “Yes.” was the answer, “an offer. I wish to buy something from you.” A low, a bitter laugh escaped the girl’s lips. “Buv ” she said. “What wn] you buy.? “This, or this? - ’ touching her shabby skirt and her almost threadbare jacket. Then she held her head pronely,, and rose with dignity. “I see,” she sard, “you are mocking me,” and bending her head she would have moved away, but the other woman rose and caught her by the wrist. “You are going to destroy your lire.'-’' she said. “Pause and reflect. You are scarcely more than a child; you have beauty: you have only seen the dark side cf existence— trouble, misery, heart-ache, and have no knowledge'of what life really means. Why do you seek to end it before knowing the other side? Does the grave tempt so much? A and are you sure that you will join your father if you violate a sacred law? I can read character, and I can read yours easily,” went on the strange woman. “I have studied vou well these last few days. You are innately good; I should conjecture that you have been reared in a pure and refined atmosphere. Every instinct in you therefore must make *cu abhor sm. Well then, you are mad when you decide to destroy yourself. You cannot do it!”

She gripped the too slenuer wristtighter. “This is my offer. Sell yourself to me!” She paused. “Let me buy your life!” she said then deliberately. “I am rich, and I can. pay a good price for anything that I desire. Come,” she altered her voice, and put something tender and seductive into it. “Mhat is

your answer?” Like a creature fascinated the girl looked into tlie face before her. It was riot a young face ; yet it had still a certain attraction in it, and in this moment was it its best. The hardness of the expression had gone; in the eyes there shone a soft light, an eager; a yearning look. And apart from this there was an indescribable sense of comfort to the desolate child in the mere touch of this other woman’s hand, in the marvellous sweetness of possible protection. She felt as some poor half-frozen wretch may feel who struggles towards warmth and life. Indeed it seemed to her incredible ; it-, was like a wild, fantastic dream to find herself standing so close to this woman, to listen to such words, to realise that there d;d indeed exist a human creature who would care what she did, oi' what became of her. Her lips ci'uivered, and her beautiful grey eyes were moist with tears. She looked very young, and helpless, and pathetic and the heart of the woman who looked at her so intently swiftly noticing how little would he required to bring back to this child the freshness and loveliness of youth—stirred exultantly in her breast. •■Who shall deny the magic power of chance ?” she asked herself. . Then swiftly she went on speaking again. “You must- hear the conditions of the compact I propose,” she said. “If you sell yourself to me, you will have everything that money can give you. As far as anv human being can promise, I promise you. that- you shall have happiness. The life that should belong to your youth shall be yours; the world that has treated you so cruelly shall be at your feet, doing homage to your beauty. Your heart shall. beat to music, and your lips shall learn to laugh, and in return for all this I shall ask only one thing—-obedience !”■ The girl’s face had almost a frightened look. The subtle words, the quiet sense of power, thrilled her. She tried to draw her 'hand away, but she could uot release it from the grip of those firm, slender fingers. “Oh, don’t tempt me,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “What you say is so unreal, so impossible.” The woman beside her laughed softly, and then, ceasing to grip the tremb-

ling hand, began to caress it unsteadily. “We cannot speak here, in this bitter wind,” she said, “I have a cab waiting outside. Come! In a very little while you shall see for yourself liow real everything can be for you. Ybu need not be frightened,” she added, “1 am no magician, only an ordinary woman.

come!” _ . The girl went with her mechanically her heart was beating so violently she could hardly breathe. Her limbs faltered. As she found herself in the shelter of the four-wheeler cab, her eyes closed, and her head, fell back against the cushions. Her companion had given an address to the driver, and swiftly these two, so strangely met, swept away from the park, with its desolate and leafless trees, its mist and its shabby figures, symbolic of want and suffering; away from the solitude and the gloom, into the r.iictv of the streets; into the rush of traffic, .and the glitter of the brilliantly lit shops; awav from the greyness of despair into life again. The girl opened her eyes and looked a'.t this life. It had a new meaning for her at this moment. It was robbed of its mockery, it scorned to carry a promise of joy to her senses; the atmosphere seined full of radiance. She was no longer work-wearv. desolate and heart-broken; she was as a creature newly born, and hope, like a bright, glorious light, shone in front or IC The cab passed at length under the portico of a large hotel. The doors ooened as by magic, and two or three servants in handsome livery stood to receive the new coiners. Through the swing of the glass doors, there was a vista of splendor, soft its velvet carpets, flowers and palms: all the luxury of appointment that is so necessary and so very ordinary to the verv rich. The girl gave a little crv. and putting out her hand caught the hand ct * the woman beside her. “Oh, I cannot come.” she said iearfull” • “I—l am afraid!” i „ , The woman laughed, a low lauga tnat had something mocking in it. "Afraid? You!” Then she changed her tone. “Xo. no! you are nc coward. Besides, this commits you to nothing—l only wish to talk with you in comfort, to let you sae what I am able- to offer you as a. na vine lit for what I purchase. Come.” ' She alighted from the cab, and the girl followed her, dazed and trembAs she passed into the warmth or the spacious hotel hall, she staggered a little" and the lights s%vam before nor

eyes. , In a dream she lioara :ier strange companion sneaking. . i •‘tins this youn" lauy s luggage come? —Miss Verney’s luggage? Not arrived yet—how tiresome ! Never mind, vnv dear the boxes are sure to come after them. Now all you want is a little rest after so much travelling.” And to one of the officials she gave an order. ••x'lease tell the housekeeper that Ldav Somerton will be obliged if sue will"come and speak to her. Are there anv letters for me?” •‘Sent m> to your room, my lady, said the clerk. '"‘Your ladyship will go up in the lift? He rail" the bell as he spoirc. glancing with, the indifference of one accustomed to all sorts and conditions cr people, at the shrinking form of the o-irl who accompanied Lady Somerton. In the subdued" light this girl passed easily for one who was greatly fatigued by some long journey. Her shabby skirt and coat had the effect of a travelling gown. And the air' of of good breeding, that had so swiftly caught the attention of the strange woman with whom she now was,, was enough to cloak all tile deficiencies of her apparel. To "herself she was no longer a living and a sufficing being, she was some spirit being swept through a new world. The mere physical sense of comfort, of protection from a blea'k wind and i raw mist was a delight. The lift stopped in front of the rooms occiu-ied by Lady Somerton. The door of one was open. •'•I shall dine upstairs to-night,” said Ladv Somerton to tho lift-boy. “Tell the head waiter to send me up the menu.” AYitli her firm grip on the girl’s wrist, she advanced into tho sitting-room. It was mere]- the ordinary well-studied sitting-rcom of the modern luxurious hotel. but to tlie young creature who entered it it seemer like a vision of Heaven itself. The blazing fire, tho cosy chairs the carefully serened windows, the fragrance and tho beauty of Lowers scattered on table and shelf, struck a note in her heart that had been dumb all those years; awakened sensations that passed" in the moment of their birth into longings; put before her for the first time the significance of beauty of surroundings, and greater even than this, the iimcscribable, the moving claim of home! Fatigue, sorrow, even the weakness from lack cf food slipped from her as she stood and looked about her. The woman who had brought her watched her with a smile. “Ihia is but a foretaste of what you can possess,” she said softly. “No hotel, however good is equal to the comfort of one's own house, and a splendid home awaits you. Are you still angry with me? Are you still wrapped in despair t\ ill you turn from what I offer? Look about you. There is a room beyond, where you can .sleep to-night if you will; beyond, again is my maid’s room—she will wait upon you. •Tomorrow. when you awake, there will be prett— clothes in abundance fer you to look at, and to purchase. And out there,” she twisted back the curtain and showed a vision of the streets, bei yon cl which lay the cold, the leafless pai'k, with its grey mist and its desolate look—“there lies—your other home! Will you still hesitate ? You need not doubt me—l am a woman of position—l am no 'mere adventurer. My name is known to tho world.’ She let the curtain swing back, and there was a frown on her keen face. For the girl said nothing only stood there with her hands pressed against her heart, her white face showing pathetically against the warm red background of the walls—her beautiful eves dreamv yet wistful. ‘‘So.” said Lady Somerton harsluy. “You’do hesitate!—Well, let. it end then ! Go your way . and sleep to-mglu-in the misery of the open park, or m the river, if you will. Then Mary Barr spoke. “You tempt me,” she said faintly, “and yet—you— frighten- me." She put one hand to her throat, and looked wildly at the hard, the autocratic face before her. “I—l must know more,”-she said agitatedly. lon know —too well what reason I should have for doing this—this strange thing. But your reason? —I—l must know I must!” Lady Somerton drew her breath. “I told vou out in the park—l shall exact obedience, I will tell you this: I shall require you to fill a dead girl’s

place, to put back the light and joy of love in a. desolate heart. It is not only you who starve to know what heart-ache means! A girl is dead, a rich girl, one of your exact age . She has passed away from a great inheritage. She has left sorrow behind. I ask you to fill her place—to cease to be Mary Barr, and to become Mary Verney instead. Your task will be easy ; you have only to do all you are told—to follow out my commands exactly—and to possess in consequence all the beauty of life, and the happiness that would have belonged to the real Mary Verney. Now are you satisfied? Now do you hesitate? Now—will you still hesitate? Sec. I give you one more’ moment! "W lien that clock chimes six, you will either remain here, mistress practically of all you see, or you will go forth to your own home, the wretched park with death as your only future! Mary Barr, what is your answer? Will vou choose death by starvation or by vour own hand, or will you choose life—a life of wealth—of honor—of love?” , , f jtfarv Barr stood and stared before her ~ She watched the slender gilt hand of the clock travel its small appointed time,* and as the boom of the hour rang out on the silence she gave a low cry, and stretched out her bancs. „ •■jure!” she whispered, Tue—I — 1 Ch And ns°the words escaped her lips she reeled forward, struggled a little, and then ,catching impotently at a chair as she fell, she sank, liudd.ed and unconscious at the feet of tlie woman who henceforward possessed the ngnt to claim her body and soul. (To lie Continued on Monday.)