The Rhondda Leader

( Copyright.) THE POISONED CUP. By WINIFRED GRAHAM, Author of "The Beautiful Mrs. Leach," "When the Birds Begin to Sing," "A Strange Solution," On the Down Grade." &c. CHAPTER I. INEXORABLE FATE. Pale, silent, distressed, Dudley Vale paced his study with measured tread. For many a w,eajry day the books had lain untouched on the shelves all thought, all work gave way to the one burning question "Will she recover ? Will her life be spared ? Above the mantelpiece the picture of a sweet- faced woman smiled down upon the man's angilisb, the wife who lay upstairs in the grip «i ter"^e typhoid demon. ,t.She has turned the corner," the doctor said. JSow everything depends upon skilful nursing, She must be kept absolutely still, these cases need very strict handling. The husband realised the truth of this state- lUent, and marvelled to think how so sprightly a being as Edith could be induced not to move When strength returned. TfrT 8eelne^ 80 strange that Edith should be ill. ^•th, the life, the joy, the soul of the house, "ithout her youth, beauty and high spirits the sombre mansion in Portland-place became a dreary wilderness, and London a desert. Dudley Vale, a handsome man of thirty, grew ;? '°°k old and careworn during this critical line. ije never smiled now, except when playing with his baby girl, a precocious mite of s°i«e three summers, with her mother's lovely firing and bright gold hair. Fresh worries had arisen that afternoon. For the past week Edith's day-nurse complained of Personal suffering, headache, cold, and aching • nibs. Suddenly breaking down, she asked Jave to absent herself at a moment's xiotice. ■Another neatly-gowned nurse arrived on the ?3fne, in answer to a telegram, for whom ndley (who seldom took first sight antipathies) Experienced a sharp pang of distrust. He dis- iked her style, and remarked a brusqueness of manner in the newcomer but as influenza was r»gnig in London good nurses were at a pre- huuin. Since Nurse Bateman's arrival lie ancied his wife seemed worse, and determined 0 fetch the doctor again. Before leaving the 10use, he crept on tip-toe to the sick-room, and lent over the frail little figure with the great blue eyes. Dudley," w hispered the weak voice, "I—I do« t like her." knew to whom his wife referred. shall scour London for someone you will. he answered, in an undertone. „.Jdit.h Yale smiled faintly, murmured a low thank you," and closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. Dudley turned to Nurse Bateman, who was eated by the fire staring somewhat gloomily JJto the flames. "I am very anxious about rs. Vale," he said. "I am going to fetch the doctor." No need," replied a gruff voice, and a pair of sullen eyes were raised to his. "But do as you like." cc yes, I mean to." Dudley's manner was courteous, though firm. 1 tirse Bateman's unpleasant manner jarred 18 Serves, and he turned away disgusted. Why could she not have spoken pleasantly ? Such s °otny looks, such curt, short words, such a leavy, scowling face! The woman should be °l'n°f house that night. Dudley Vale worshipped his wife, and Nurse Neman's air of indifference was peculiarly Repugnant to him. It haunted his thoughts as he drove along; he imagined lie saw her while Raiting on the doctor's doorstep and the vision Wore a mocking smile, t,he careless woids re- 'n bis ears—"No riepd ,'ie siiarp sentence repealing 1tacit again an*. in his mind, worried him. He was con- *Cl0"s of a gnawing fear. If Edith left him, he _ftred not look on life. If Edith stayed, his ays were full. He loved his young wife Passionately be saw, wilh her recovery, a long, 11 journey through a g!;«<], great world, J'S'i ambitions fulfilled, hopes realised, some- 1}J?S accomplished, something done. J.he doctor was out. Dudley scribbled a lurried message. HOAV cold and dark it had -urned, how ugly the streets looked in the 1 sing mist, with a few handfuls of dirty snow and there! To work off his feeling of apSi?88ne3s he determined to walk home, and, rj}C}ln8 away the swift hansom, started at a hi Pace- A little child stumbling against Dud'i ,er footing and fell 011 the pavement. j.j|. ey picked lier up as tenderly as a woman, U her grubby hands with pennies to stop dai ri81n^ tears. He thought of his own small th«'?i er' 80 carefully protected from w- an6ers of the streets, and the cold of the *w- u life Olive would be 0f?e ^ad » peculiarly kind nature, and the sight sjp distress in any form affected him acc„ 8 y* was a popular man, not only on "hrtvUy cleYerne9si but because, beneath a reia hrain, the little things of life, so often .red by women and forgotten by men, j^i.^i^ther despised nor neglected, a 1 h laughed when he told her, that beside# fothft • ^n'leritance he had taken from his f0r „r a violent temper, the curse of the Yales generations. throif i?'f 8een no trace of the hidden evil freqUp ur yeaJ*s of married life, and Dudley men £ ^Jy^tiji'ned the fact into a pretty conipli- inwardly, that through long cultiva- fr0ln 0e habit of self-control had saved him effects of this smouldering lhe "hen the embers• began to glow, or (Han iFC ti rose ever so feebly, the strong "itri n Dudley stamped out the family failing He 11 0Ter the taint. ^aUinw^Si 81,1 P"se^ Bs he strode along in the to i1? of a murky, depressing afternoon, iHent. slniself ^he slave of a terrible presenti- illnes'g ~Jnce the opening days of his wife's h°pel .he could not remember feeling more C°n*ale Wretched. Yet she was now nearing 8ee*ied 8i.Cence» creeping back to recovery. It Lf dlV1-6 man- in his overwrought state, as 8gure figure strode beside him, the black 6 trier! "7eath keeping pace with his footsteps, failed shake off the fancy, but will-power L^n hoinerVOUS linS°rs he let himself into his pall tabl86' an<^ down his latch-key on the did not stay to open a pile of °Ueht u. the too frequent posts invariably ?^sitiHff./> ?' .nor yet did he glance at the luire? "«r^ w'^ their written messages—"To ^Hine f». inquiries, ""Anxious inquiries," i^Ws, j?10 soniei mere social platitudes from l!8 feet t ??ssed on up the broad staircase, eyes flea(Vn8 the thick carpet noiselessly, ^afnine J- anc* vaoant, that same horrible 1 Alon| tv disaster knocking at his heart. e became ° leading to his wife's room, btarti -liddeni conscious of a strang t 6eetried in odour, the smell of burning. It Measured ^rom Edith's apartment. The ^oiUerit n ootsteps broke into a run. In a lastly 11(,U y had flung qpen the door. A the'hon^i^to-be-forgotten sight met his eyes, n face J ru8 Nurse Bateman sat blinking, Ua8k 0f r ery red, her eyes heavy, an empty eHched u5fv! by her side. The rug was Shouldered' rrna^er* an<^ one corner of it still evidnn'fi 3ng from the washing-stand poured uuon m, 11 /e^ched and its contents the tit.owi burning rug. Between the bed !u » fair i1-aCe y a 8econd figure, white and ands 8Urrounding an ashen face, limp ""ape of o „ 88 on ^he carpet, the body in the thrown back and fri1 011 ^hees beside it with a groan. ^tBe -RaTTem! Edith!" °,ice. einan spoke in a thick, drunken put out the fire.. I dropped my e&die —I iv--aiiit very weTP-it came over me sud- -denly-the-rtig-catight- -light- As he carried his dead wife to the bed, he heard the awful words as one in a wild, mad dream. The exertion, the shock, the frantic effort had killed his darling, and that murderess sat nodding and murmuring excuses with the evidences of her vice beside her. The sight of his Edith, rigid, cold, dead, with staring eyes and open jaws, filled him with a frenzy of despair. Wrath beyond control for the miserable cause of the tragedy, sent him swooping down upon Nurse Bateman like an untamed lion. You wretch You low brute he hissed, as she staggered to her feet in order to avoid him. "Out of my house, fiend-murderess 1" tie caught her by the collar of her dress ant iragged her through the open door. Half. :hrottled she stumbled after him, blue in thi face and gurgling. Down the wide stairs, icross the hall, he forced his victim relentlessly, jill the cold air of the street beat upon his burn- ing temples, seeming only like fresh fire. With a muttered curse, he flung the woman who had robbed him of his wife with terrible :orce down the" stone steps. Her head fell, cut and bleeding, on the pavement. A group of passers-by stopped in horror, anc is if the thrill of the tragedy had spread lik< an electric current to the more crowded streets, !t vast number of people were soon jostling ead other across the straw, which made the roadwaj silent before the house of death. "He killed her in front of our eyes said tw< ar three agitated voices to the police arriving with their ambulance. And, true enough, Nurse Bateman had followed the common patt to eternity. Dudley Vale, as i2 turned to stone, stood it the open doorway, watching. He was no: conscious of the low hiss that rose from th, condemning mob, nor of the cries of "Shame from shrill female voices. His soul went bad to that room of horror—to Edith, to hii motherless child, and his own ruined life. But black as the future lay before his bloodshoi eyes, he never dreamt at that moment lion black, how densely drear! He saw the worlc as a prison, little guessing that the bolts anc bars of a narrower iterll were waiting to chair him down. CHAPTER II. A NINE DAYS' WONDER. The trial of Dudley Vale for the murder 01 Nurse Bateman proved one of the year's sensa- tions. A man of good family, wealthy and popular, widowed in a peculiarly tragic manner, could scarcely fail under the harrowing circum- stances to meet with a vast wave of sympathy from the great heart of the world. The Dudley Vale Murder kept society in tremulous suspense—articles on the goodness, the nobility of Air. Vale appeared in the paget of innumerable ladies' journals, with picturet of little Olive Vale, the motherlesi5 child of the murderer. The court was crowded, all England followed the trial, and the vast bands of good women who spent their lives in nursing blushed foi the scandal on their calling. Nurse Bateman, it appeared, had hitherto concealed with skill her love of drink, though for months past her most intimate friends knew of this failing. Strong counsel for the defence pleaded extenuating circumstances, the verdict was one of manslaughter only, and a sentence of twenty years' penal servitude the result. He was crushed—stunned by the sentence. How willingly would he have walked to tht scaffold—death had lost all terror for him now, Death might have meant reunion with Edith- the wife of his youth, the love of his life, tht c sweet, confiding childlike creature lii had wooec and won in summer days. He remembered all the gay hours with painful distinctness, thi jokes they had played together on more seriouf folk, just because Edith was so young and fulj of merriment. She had made a boy of hint again with her frolic and laughter. Then th, advent of Olive, that tender link which dreii them even closer together, "the little doll," at Edith called hør, when crushing the baby figuri to her proud young heart. Now Olive must bear her burden of shame, the motherless mite, whose father was a criminal, with hands stained red. Olive, for whom hei parents planned so brilliant a future Whai was to become of her ? Money she would havi in abundance, but money could not buy 1 mother's love, or give back a mother's kisses. On both sides of the family little Olive'i grandparents had gone to their long home, and Edith had been an only child. Dudley Val< could think of no one more suitable than his own sister, Arabella Desmond, for a guardian. Mrs. Desmond, a weak, hysterical woman, had wept continuously, and to the great annoy- ance of her husband, since hearing of the doublt tragedy in Portland-place. Mr. Desmond appeared aggrieve at thi notoriety caused by the sad occurrence. He ivai a hard, unsympathetic man, and abhorred any thing approaching a scene. "It's a bad affair," he said, "but we've go to live it down. A murderer in the familY-f gaol-bird By Jove it's a facer. I should not wonder if it did me a lot of harm in business.' "You only think of yourself," moanet Arabella. "Your business is nothing comparee to poor Dudley's shattered life! "There you must allow me to differ," retorted her irate little husband, puffing himself ont liko a ruffled robin on a cold day. "My business ii of very great'importance. Nicely we should get on without it! Now, if you had been wealth like your brother, then you might have sneerec at a mere City man and turned up your nose at the very mention of an office. But, unfortu- nately, Dudley came into his money indepen- dently', so that you and I cannot afford to defy the world. It makes me tremble to think oi the slur that has fallen upon us." Mrs. Desmond brought out her fifth hand- kerchief within the last, hour, applying it tt her swollen eyelids. "If you could see th< letters I have received from all the best peoph in society you would not think poor Dudley'i misfortunes had in any way shaken our position. Rather the reverse I find myself an object 01 interest, where before I was hardly noticed. lhi whisper goes round: She is Dudley Vale'i sister I At once sympathetic faces are turnei to me, and hands outstretched. I Buffer nc eclipse through my brother's fault." Mrs. Desmond looked thin and withered she had never been really young. Perhaps ii was the absence of youth in his sister that first attracted Dudley to his wife. Edith's gaiety, the eternal child in her pure, bright-natur4 made a striking contrast to the eternal blight it Arabella's being. "I wish, "said Mr. esmond, drily, "yot would turn off the waterworks! If you had stayed long enough in court I fancy you woulc have drowned the judge and jury with that never-ceasing flow of tears. It does nobodj any good, and makes you positively unsightly. Besides, I am not sure that over-excess it weeping is not as injurious to the health as ii is to the complexion. I really can't stanc seeing my wife reduced to a red pulp The sarcasm with which he emphasised his remarks had the desired effect upon Arabella, She blinked back the burning tears and gave II last sniff of her nose and composed her features. My health is very precious, I must guard it for the sake of that poor child, Olive. At last 1 am to feel like a mother, to hear little feel running about the passages, just as if the" drealI of my life were accomplished. Mr. Desmond wiorted, and his snort was more like the grunt of a pig than a note 01 dissent from a human organ. "Beastly bother he said. "How soon shall we be able to send her to school ? "Edward," said Arabella, drawing herseli up, "you are a heartless monster Olive won I bother you, or anyone else, nor will she cost ui a farthing. The sum of money to be paid yearl) for her maintenance and education is l&rgj enough in all conscience A whole family coulo live and thrive upon it I Yes, yes, I know-I spoke hastily; but yot tare stwh a way of eaaapias up m words. is only to be hoped Miss" tJlive "will not i-n-herli the family temper." Mrs. Desmond fer; e'ed into a deep pocket foi her sixth handkerchief. The movement proved the signal for Edward to retire. "Mercy on \18-- more showers he muttered, as he stumped away. CHAPTER III. A I.ONG FA tlEWELL. Olive was saying goop-bye to her father foj twenty years. She sat clh his knee smiling, hei baby fingers playing with his chin. He forced a smile in reply, the saddest sight of all, the shadow of what had once been a smile. He made up his mind that during the lonj years of exile he would never allow himself thi pleasure of a visit from Olive. Her young life should not be troubled and sullied by the pain. ful knowledge of his existence. At Olive's ag< memory would soon fade, and then oblivion. "Good-bye, my pet," he whispered. "Good. hye for a long, long time. Be a good little girl, Olive good arid pure as your mother. Heaven grant you may grow like her." "Dada shan't go away!" said the small creature, defiantly, "not like mamma. She went, and she won't come back; she's upstair. in the sky. Do you want to go to the sky, too, dada t "Yes, my dear, but they won't send me. There, there! Don't cry. I—I can't bear it 1* uuve nad puckered up her face, and was preparing to howl; something in hei. father's tone checked the well-intentioned roar. Instead she set her lips, and let her head drop upon his shoulder. The attitude seemed to say: "Here I am, and here I mean to stop until I am removed by force." Want you to take me home," lisped the child. Don' L want Aunt Ara I "I can't take you home, darling," he answered, gently. "Hare you anything to say to me before you go ? "Well, yes "-with a thoughtful expression. When you do come, will you bring me a gollywog, 'cause nurse says I shall be four to-morrow, and mother promised me a gollywog on my next birthday." He looked towards Arabella, who stood apart weeping silently. "See that she has it, Bella," he murmured, »nd lus voice sounded a long way off. Then he kissed the pink rose-leaf cheeks passionately, as he might have kissed Edith, with all a lover s ardour, for he saw in that tiny face the vision of another. The child kissed him back many times, and glilt clung to his knees as he put her down. She knew by Aunt Ara's tears that something was wrong. "Bella," lie whispered, "take every care of my darling. I shall never see her again." Oil I don't, say that, Dudley." But I mean it, dear. God will be more merciful than man this life before me will do its work perhaps quicker than anybody thinks. All my affairs are in order, so don't grieve if you hear that I am broken in health and wait- ing to die sny only The Lord be praised. With a last promise to guard her sacred j-rust Arabella tore herself and the child away, leaving behind her a man who stood upright, with a set, stony face, and eyes following them, wearing an expression of pitiful intensity. She knew that for years his face would haunt her dreams, his eyes follow her along the path sf time. "He said I should have a gollywog, didn't lie, Aunt Ara ? prattled the. baby voice, so soon Youth throws aside its cares. CHAPTER IV. IN THE UPPER ROOM. It was not in Mrs. Desmond's shallow nature to grieve for long. At first she referred with monotonous regularity to the harrowing fate of her most unhappy brother, dreaming constantly that she saw him in his terrible seclusion, sad- syed and thin. It seemed like dreaming of the dead, the same queer sensation of mystery combined with fear. The dreams became less vivid and gradually eased, the allusions to "poor Dudley" grew fewer, the episode faded. Even little Olive -eased to ask for her parents and looked upon Aunt, Ara as a second mother. The Desmonds treated her with every kind- ness. Certainly Mr. Desmond was not burdened with much of the child's society, but when he iid see her he called her a pretty brat," and accasionally bought her sweets. Every summer they took Olive with them on ;heir holiday, and Mr. Desmond, who hated fashionable resorts, generally succeeded in jvading the tourist, and passing his leisure in ;he most sequestered spots. Mrs. Desmond would have preferred life and gaiety, but, resigning herself to his will, employed neither aurse nor maid, becoming herself a model of domesticity. During these travels she grew to love the Jhild, waiting on her hand and foot, delighting ;o dress her prettily and pass her off as her own laughter. Olive was six years old when she took her last tour with the Desmonds. They were -.ravelling through Bavaria when the child grew .uddenly ill, and lay between life and death at t little wayside inn. As Mrs. Desmond watched by the sick-bed something told her inwardly -liat the small,' frail being would never be able to fight against diphtheria. Olive was not a strong child, and circumstances were against uer recovery. ° Far from the great towns, the scitritim eIltrcs of the earth, hidden among the atoun- ains, the tiny sufferer slipped hourly newer the Jeep abyss, nearer the eternal Evermore. All that could be done in such primitive lurroundmgs, all assistance which the golden key was able to unlock, Mr. and Mrs. Desmond drew lavishly but skill, and not money, might jilone have saved their charge. And skill was tacking, though of good-will they found plenty, ,nd on a glorious red-gold evening little Olive died. 0 She drifted from them in her sleep, drifted is peacefully as the daylight sinks away, leaving Mrs. Desmond stunned and sick at heart, leaving even the stolid Mr. Desmond distressed and sorrowful. "Poor little brat, poor little Olive," he said, touching the fair hair with his coarse red angers. "Perhaps she's got the best of the bargain, eh, Arabella ? I am thinking of her father," replied Mrs. Desmond, as she followed Edward from the room. His only hope can be to see Olive again m the years to come, and now that remote ipark of consolation must be trampled out. The world is very cruel, especially to Dudley." They walked slowly down the narrow, wooden staircase, out on a balcony which faced glorious view. Arabella saw nothing of the crimson haze which crept over the mountains in a soft, resist- less wave. Some peasant girls were walking up the zigzag path singing, but Arabella did not hear their fresh young voices. The evening stillness seemed to her like the silence of the grave. "I wish I knew why—why she has been taken. riiere must be a reason," murmjured Arabella. Edward considered the remark unworthy of 8 reply. His gaze alighted upon an English paper, which had evidently arrived since lunch. There were two American men staying at the inn, and this paper was probably their property. Edward pounced upon it eagerly. Flinging himself into a chair, and drawing out his cigar-case, he prepared to take up the common routine of holiday life again. Arabella watched him scornf-ully. Her tears still trickled like the mountain streams, and with her thin face strongly defined against the sunset light she, looked like a muse, symbolic of misery. \lli? man> who had touched the dead child s hair, could already throw himself into the news of the day, the interests of the outride world, and carry his train of thought back to London's beating pulse. He would forget the white lily form on thft upstairs whths reading the political assets^ of the moment; he might even engross himself in the success of the latest play, for Edward Desmond patronised the drama. Ah! it was good to be a man, to possess a heart of stone, in that lay happiness and freedom from pain. Arabella felt terribly tired after the strain of the long, anxious day, and now there was nothing left to think of but Dudley, and hit heart-ache at the news. She leant her elbows on the balustrade, and rested her burning forehead in her hands. Foi the time being she experienced a strange sensa- tion of distance between herself and tangible things. The man smoking in the chair was but a shadow, the whole scene a dream, and herself a leaf being whirled down a mighty torrent, on, on till suddenly her wild course halted—the leaf had struck against a rock. She caught the sound of an exclamation, a stifled groan. Arabella stared at her husband with Wild eyes. His hands were trembling, the papet shook like an aspen leaf between his nervoui fingers, he was white as the dead child upstaira. Edwarcl, what is the matter ? Arabella hall shrieked the words. He staggered to his feet. "Ruin!" he gasped. "The Renfrew Bank has broken I Arabella's jaw dropped; she said nothing, but her attitude re-echoed the terrible assertion as the flood of her tears dried, swamped by the quicksands of adversity. "Look, Arabella," he cried, seizing her arm. "Look at the precipice under this balcony; we might as well throw ourselves down there, w. might as well commit suicide at once as face life penniless. You know my motto: 'Bettei be dead than poor.' And here we are alive, Arabella, alive, you and I, a couple of paupers i My business without capital is nil, you kaow that. You know- He broke off without finishing. He paced to and fro, panting, his brow moist, his eyes glittering horribly. Edward," she whispered, be a man. Pull yourself together. Let us think, let us think. The weaker nature asserted itself as the stronger fabric broke. The woman's advici appealed to the roan. He stood suddenly erect, facing her. "Yes," he said, "we must think. There is a way out of everything, a way for those who are shrewd and clever enough to find the right path in the maze. We will think as we never have thought before; think as those condemned to death speculate upon a possible loophole by which to escape justice." He clenched his fists, his head drooped, he drew down his upper lip, and wrinkled his forehead till he looked like a horrible travesty of man, some weird animal of the wood, with the face of a. suffering monkey shot by a human hand. Arabella held her breath. She never took her eyes off him. Her own mind was a blank but little as she loved her husband she believed firmly in his judgment. Whatever he suggested would be right, of that she felt convinced. Had not his brain accumulated the now vanished fortune ? Was he not a man of business ? Did he not know his world ? As he stood before her wrapped in reverie, she fancied a strange light crept over his face, like the rising of the sun above fierce thunder- clouds. She waited in keen suspense. She now had forgotten the white lily in the upper room. Oddly enough it was Edward, the apparently forgetful, who reminded her of little Olive. "You said there must be a reason." He spoke in an undertone, and his voice sounded strained. "A reason t I-I don't understand." He raised his eyes with a nod upwards. She remembered the child. "But what of Olive?" Her tone, so startled, so shrill, jarred upon Edward. "Hush 1 he said. "Not so loud." He shook her arm angrily. He glared at her, as if the fact of her strident voice were a crime against all the laws of caution. She read in his face something of fear, she realised that what he was about to confide might shatter for ever her peace of mind, and she trembled in his clutch. "iell me—Edward Her words came as a command. He glanced stealthily round, he bent to her ear. As Arabella listened she grew rigid, but did not ch. away or flinch. (To i, ,iftud.