THE GRIP OF GOLD.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXX, Issue 3618, 3 September 1912, Page 3

THE GRIP OF GOLD.

By ROBERT HALIFAX. (Author of “The Drums of Fate,” “The House of Horror,” “A Woman in Their Web,” “Law Society,” etc., etc.}

(Copyright—All Bights Reserved.) CHAPTER LX. HIS HEART’S MATE. He stood; stood like one awaiting the sentence of a judge across a hushed court—the marching of many feev —the burst of light in some shadowy old cathedral. Waiting only for so, no incredible spell around him to breads And then —then something happened that seemed to deepen it all. !fis arm was touched. He took the hand from his eyes. There —there beside him, her pale face dim in that light, her eyes filmed and far away, stood the one dear figure. It did not seem real—not yet. He found him sen speaking in a low, awed tone, as if fearing to disturb the workings of a Divine nrooess.

“You could not speak—no! I hojior you the more for that silence.” - o answer. He found her hands, and held them, and went on softly. “But my voice is not sealed, 1 will dare to ask you the question once —now! .... Could von realise?

Think !—not of his money, not of Wilfred Spurr, but of your own heart an 1 its secret. Will it—could it ever make me the happy man I have 'onged to be, almost from that moment when I first knew that Sheba lived?” No answer. Not yet—not yet,! Only the faint echo of a sob in her throat as his face dropped to hers. “Shelia !” He spoke the word as if its sound were almost sacred to him. “Sheba, hear me! 'Hie will is forgotten —is not between us at this moment. I have always believed thisthere is one true mate for every man in our world ; and thrice blessed the man who finds that mate before the tale of his lonely life is told! Shall that happiness be mine? I would not have dared to speak not yet, at least: but fate has called to you for me. through my dead uncle’s last wish. That, may lie, was all he waited to tell me! Yes. I could lose the money, with scarcely a pang of regret ; but. while God gives me breath to sav it, I won’t lose my hope of you! If you cannot bring yourself to answer here and now, at least let me go with that living hope. . . Sheba—beloved !”

And —yes, she was a woman, as she had said, \vith a woman's full heart. For a moment longer she stood, halt turned from him, her eyes closed, fighting the last bit of Iter fight. \n;l then—then her face was slowly turned up to him. She was caught and locked within the strong arms f h.;t had waited and hungered so long. No need to speak; silence was more eloquent than all. She bad found her rock, of -refuge in the dark hour ; her heart had gone out to its mate, old Spartan Loder’s dying desire was more than fulfilled.

“'My own Sheba! r ro be my own for ever and ever!” Spurr’s whisper came through the gloom, as his hand smoothed back the wave of brown hair from the pale forehead, and bis lips reverently touched the closed eyelid •. “My life’s sweet work, to guard the love that came to me to-night! My Sheba —my wife ! Now —now let the world say what it will. And let me answer at the altar in Pel cote Church!”

That same evening; but past nine o’clock now. There were vague stirrings and movements in the big house, as il it were coming back to life after a long period of torpor. Wilfred Spun- was writing a sheaf of letters and telegrams. A visibly new man, with n. fresh and splendid impetus to his future career, he had had a long, whispered consultation with the housekeeper in her own room. He unfolded a wonderful prospect. Mrs Saxon had cried a little, laughed a little, wrung Ins preferred hand, and now was panting up the staircase to push open the door of Sheba's room.

“Joy—joy! It’s like new life — there's music ringing everywhere m my ears! Bless you both ! —let me be first to say it’s the proudest hour ever known in this house! Oh, to speak out, after all that terrible blank of silence, and the watching to >,«»* what, Mr. Spurr might be thinking of you! What will all Felcote say now? —and the Barrington girls ! Oh. to see their faces, if they knew ! The place will be in a fever, Dearie, no more of tbost wistful looks now! He's a dear fellow —although, of course, you can hardly expect to find it out just yet!” “Is—is be downstairs now?” Sheba, naked, very quietly. She bad some sort of proud right over bis movements r.ow—she had been taken to the arms that would shelter her for life! She had been standing by her open window looking steadfastly out across the park to Barrowdene lights. “No! Ho has gone riding across to Barrowdene with his telegrams — one to the lawyer, one to America, and one to the Condon police. Felcote office closed at eight, you know. That will must and shall be found, he says. You see it all, dearie? He means to look at it with his own eyes, even if the house has to come down brick by brick. He’ll never rest now, even if the police have to search every house in Brixton ! I think—l know — ho means the -world to see that will, so that no one shall be able to say

w© had concocted the romantic story

to trap him ! My dear, be means you to bo a great lady, and keep open house- exerything is to bo changed, to blot out memories. L care nothing now, even if the whole mystery of that night is never to. lift f You’re trembling still, dearie—and no wonder. He wrung my hand as if ho would crush it; men never realise their own strength. And —and I keep thinking about £?ister Judith. Not a sign of her—and her boxes still lying up in that room! I spoke to him of it, and the strangest look came into his eyes. He says the boxes are not to he touched on any account. Not that there is a trace of any papers in them; I have' searched them thoroughly. If she took anything incriminating, as he still believes, it was in that sealskin bag. An uncanny woman, although something—oh, I forgot! Deane, you’ll dress to-night to fit the occasion. He says I am to bo sure arid lay a nice supper in the dining-room, however late it may be, and another specially for the servants. It is evident wo have a man to deal with; ho is not going to hide his happiness under any bushel! Now, take my advice, and lie down, and forget everything for half an hour. Ad will seem so calm dud different in the. morning!” “I could not,” Sheba said, in the same quiet voice. “J remember now —I came up for a wrapper. I was going to walk up and down the drive for a while. Chill!’’ No, the air is warm and 'beautiful after the rain. It will do me more good than anything else. Please!’ And Mrs Saxon’s arm dropped. “As you will, Mis Sheba! — But — hut I wouldn’t go even too far down tlie house while ho is away—even now.”

Sheba moved slowly down and across the drawing-room, stepped on to the balcony, and drew in along,quivering draught of the sweet night air—that somehow seemed to waft from a new world. Her oval face, looking out from the wrap-folds, she stole down to the gravel sweep. Outwardly she was something more than calm, but the heart witliin still throbbed with looso perilous, slow beats. She had not wanted to talk, even if able. She wanted to shut out the world and he quite alone, to commune with the man in spirit, to gather unto herself the composure and dignity which lie would expect from her. How —how bad it all happened ? In one hour alone in the world —in the next, a promised wife! “His heart’s mate !”—he had known it irom the fir”;., ho said. He had taken her to his breast-, and kissed her eyes and bps. Yes, be had meant those words. He had not been swept out of himself by mere contemptible dread of losing his inheritance. That was what she wished to realise in this interval. If she could not, she must flee from the place, from contact with him, to-night —now!

She walked to and fro, sea reel y seeing the path ahead. And now .she had paused, by the shrubbery ; and now her thoughts came back with a rick rush to the world around, and the thick heats of her heart seemed to come to a sadden cessation. Oh, God ! —oh, God, what was that? A low, terrible series of moans. A moaning that seemed to have gone on through eternity- —a pitiful suggestion of sound at the threshold of death that congealed the life in her body. She could not erv out —could not think. Foot by foot, quite unconscious of movement, she crept along the shrubbery path, parting the overgrowth as she went, the rank spittle of the shrubs adhering to her wrap. And there at last she was, staring down at a still shape that lay across the sodden foot-track. A woman, with life still left in her, lying here! (To ho continued daily.)