ALL OR NOTHING.

King Country Chronicle, Volume VII, Issue 572, 31 May 1913, Page 6

ALL OR NOTHING.

.(Copyrifl^t.)

A THRILLING ROMANCE, —By the Author of "A Bitter Bondage," "Two Keys," "Stella," --rhc Unknown Bridegroom," &C., PART 3. "I am not, indeed," she said—"not is real life. I can judge them in plays quickly enough. I can tell in one moment whether I shall take a part or not, whether I can put my heart and soul into it or not. Of real men and women I am a bad judge." As in the after time she proved herself. Then Mrs. Boswell came up with her cloak, and he placed it round th<j beautiful shoulders. "Good night, Mies Romaine," he said. "I shall keep this day as some men do their birthdays, as kings do their anniversary of their coronation, because it is the first on which you have spoken to me." Jt did not seevz to her idle flattery or compliment. Those lips could neve? speak untruthfully, any more than the clear, frank eyes could look unkind. "You will not he very angry if I come here sometimes," he said, holding the little hand in his as he said good night again. "I shall be pleased to see you," she replied, simply. Then he was gone. She was beautiful ae a poet's dream, gifted with rarest genius, yet she was but a weak woman', for as the carriage drove home in the pale moonlight she kissed with passionate kisses the hand that had laiD for those brief seconds in his.

CHAPTER IV. "Has my soul come to me ?" asked Evelyn Romaine one morning of herself. " Have I been like Undine all these years—livin~ in my art alone and now that I have learned what love is, has my soul come to me ?" She smiled at the pretty, half-hea-thenish idea. She was at home now, in her own pretty little villa at Richmond, where the gardens sloped down to the edge of the broad, deep river —a home she loved, because it had been purchased and beautified by the fruits of her own industry. The villa itsell was not large, but the rcoms were light and lofty ; every window seemed to admit nothing but sunshine and fresh air. The sun always seemed to be in every room ; no one ever saw the house dull. At the back a quaint, old-fashioned garden, full of flowers the poets loved and sang of —great beds of odorous white lilies, roses of every shade and hue, clove carnations, the lemonscented verbena, sweet pea, and heliotrope, great bushes of fragrant southerr, wood, white acacia trees, blooming lilies, and golden laburnums. An old-world garden; in which the young actress delighted. By the riverside, all along the end of the garden, there ran a grove of lime trees. There was no prettier scene than this, when the moon was shining full upon the broad, deep river, until it looked like a mass of moving silver ; under the trees the light was so solemn, so hushed. There, with the fragrance of the flowers about her—with the shining river, and the sweet night air, telling its myriad secrets, Evelyn Romaine loved to walk. There she studied all her parts, and it was no wonder that they seemed to embody all poetry and romance in themselves. Airs. Boswell was housekeeper. Miss Romaine kenfc a close carriage for the purpose of going to and from the theatre ; she also had a pretty little pony phaeton for driving round the green lanes of Richmond during the day. Few visitors came to the house. She resolutely refused to admit them. That sweet, fragrant spot she loved so well was not to be desecrated by th« continual presence of stranger? "'hat was her temple, dedicated the

worship of the true and the beautiful ; strange faces and strange voices would have been out of place there. The manager, Mr. Clipperden, had been once or twice, but Miss Romaine had never asked him there. She hrul never invited any stranger. She saw enough of strange faces at the theatre —home was sacred. There was a pretty drawing-room, with long French windows opening oil the great beds of white lilies, an;i that was Evelyn's favourite apartment. The little library, wherein all her father's choice books were stored, at the back of the liotisc, overlooking the garden. No prettiex home than this, where the young actress dwelt, could have beeD found. It .was some weeks now :iincc she had first seen Clive Noel. Tvery night found him waiting for her behind the scenes ; every night f.-nrul him deeper and more passionate! ,' in love with her. He waited for until she had finished ;he always placed her in the close carriage and attended to her comfort. He always stood watching the carriage until it was out of sight ; but he had nevel offered to call upon her —he had no even asked where she lived. Tru love made a coward of the Honourable Clive Noel. If all the stories told about him at his club were true, bp had never before shown himself deficient in valour. But before this young girl, whom he loved so deai ly—in her pure, sweet presencehe was silent from the very force of his love. He had never uttee»d the word to her. He had never paid her any unmcanng compliment, never flattered her ; yet she knew by instinct that she was all the world to him, and in return she gave him "the love tha l was her doom."

It was the old story. Gradually these two seemed to have a life separate and distinct from the rest cf the world. Slowly, but Barely, the two lives grew into one. With Evelyn Romaine love was something far different than te the generality of women. To her it was a beautiful dream, where every vagua hope, every grand and noble ideal, was realised. She did fail in the commonplace, prosaic matters oi everyday life, this gifted woman. She never thought of the end of her dream—whether it was to be a rude and cruel awakening, or whether the should so dream until she died. A mere matter-of-fact marriage never occurred to her ; she never even so much as thought of making what the world calls a good match ; she never thought that if she married this one she would have a title, or if she married another, vast wealth. If she had been told that, as the price of her love for Olive Noel, she must lead a joyless life, she would have smiled at the idea. As before she had overlooked everything in her art, so she now forgot everything in her love. People asked themselves what had come over her ? Her genius seemed day by day to become more divine ; she took their hearts by storm ; she won from them at will smiles and tears ; she swayed them as the wind moved the green leaves. She was mistress of her heart —the most per feet, the most accomplished, the most gifted artiste that ever trod the stage. 4 As yet her love and his were unspoken. The time was coming when it would find a voice. It was early in April, and the spriag was wonderfully advanced. The March winds had done no mischief ; the sun shone out so bright and warm that the land was smiling bright, blooming flowers. And one night as she came off the stage, where she had been playing Desdemona to an enraptured audience, Clive Noel advanced to meet her with a beautiful bouquet of white and purple violets in his hand.

"I gathered them all myself this morning," he said as he offered them to her ; " and I wish each little flower had a tongue, that it might tell" you how full my heart and my thoughts were of you !" She took them from him, and bent her passionate, beautiful face over the fair flowers. But for shame's sake she would have kissed them over and over again ; as it was, she was content to gaze upon them with shining, love-lit eyes. "Are you so fond of flowers, Miss Romaine ?" asked Clive Noel. "If I had known, I would have brought you some every morning." "I spend at least a quarter oi my time amongst them." she replied. "I have a most beautiful garden at home." Then remembering that she had never spoken of home to him before, her dark face flushed. "I have never dared to ask you where that home is." he whispered, "for I know you object to receiving str&jLgers—Mr. Clipperden told me so." "But you," she said, raising her dark ey^s—" you are not quite a stranger, Mr. Noel." His heart beat fast at the words and the look. Could it be possible that this gifted, beautiful girl, who had cold looks and colder tones for the noblest in th« land, cared for him ? He brew nearer to her ; the deep, mighty passion within him seemed to force on. "May I come, Evelyn? Will you give me permission to visit you at home ?" The question was simple, but it gave her a thrill of happiness, so great as almost to frighten her. She tried to smile, but her lips trembled ; she tried to shake off the grave expression, tout could not do it. "If you like to come," she replied, " I will show you my garden ; already it is full of flowers." "To-morrow morning," he whispered ; "and Evelyn—l cannot call you Miss Romaine —I shall not sleep all night for thinking of the morrow."

So he paid his first visit to the pretty villa. All unconsciously to herself, Evelyn Romaine had looked forward to the time as a , queen to the visit of her lord and king. She had rearranged the pretty flower-stands in her drawing-room ; she had looped up the white lace curtains, she had dressed herself with exquisite taste in a dress of flowing black material, on which was embroidered small golden flowers. She wore no jewels, no ribbons—nothing but a drooping spray of golden laburnum twined in the coils at her dark hair. She remembered soatjl she died this, his first visit to bear home. How her heart beat at the sotmd of his footstep—at the tone of his voice * How strange it seemed for him to stand in the drawing-room—to sit in the chair where she had pictured him in her thoughts a hundred time# and more ! They went out into the garden. She showed him the white lilies just beginning to bud, the plumed lilacs in fall flower, the delicate laburnums drooping their golden blossoms, and white and purple violets filling the air with perfume.

"It is an earthly paradise," he said, looking around him. "Ah, Evelyn, you must let me cdme again and again." He did so. Before the sweet sum-mer-time was half over he had become a regular visitor at the little villa. He began to love the lime trees dearly, as did the young actress herself. They spent long hours by the riverside ; he never wearied of her society. He told her once—and he meant tbe words—that hours with her flew like minutes. ; she was so unlike all the other 'women he had ever seen. She was less a woman, he often thought, to himself, than a genius ; sbi seemed to no vanity, no desire tor conquest, no

thirst for admiration. She had no small coquetries, no affectations ; her thoughts were all noble. She idealised and beautified every subject upon which she spoke. There came an afternoon when they wandered under the lime trees. She was to play ".Marie Stuart" for the first time that evening, and she was telling him about it. He was engrossed, as usual, by the picturesque language—by the fire and force of her words. A warm, sultry afternoon in August. From the broad river there came a cool breeze that rippled over the dense green foliage. The sky was blue overhead, the birds were singing in the trees, the lilies and roses all in bloom ; the whole world so sunny, so bright and fair, that to live was a pleasure. "Shall you care for nothing but acting as long as you live, Evelyn?" he asked, suddenly. "Shall you never long for reality ?" "I do not know —I cannot tell," she replied. "My life satisfies me as it is. I ask no more." "Let me teach you how to wish for something more," he said. "Oh, Evelyn, let me teach you how to love me, for, my darling, I love you with all my heart. I love you so dearly, that without you life is a blank —a cold, dreary blank ! "Will it be difficult for you to learn this lesson ?" he cried. "Oh, Evelyn ! Once I saw you play Desdemona. I saw you in the character of a loving, gentle wife, and when you raised your eyea to the Moor's face my heart was on fire with jealousy, and I ( swore that no man should ever call you wife but myself. That jealousy told me how I loved you. Will you be my wife, Evelyn ? Will you take my life in your hands? I—l am not ashamed to say that I cannot live without you. Will you tell me if you care for me, even over so little—if you can ever love me one-half so well as I love you ?" He bent down to listen to the halfwhispered word. She was no actress then—nothing but a gentle, loving girl, shy and frightened. The word she whispered so sweetly seemed to content Clive Noel, for he drew her nearer to him, and kissed the starlike face from which he was one day to take all the light and sunshine.

CHAPTER V. "Did you not guess, Evelyn, bow dearly I had grown to love you?" asked Clive Noel as they sat down by the edge of the river. "Did you never think that some day soon I should ask you to be my wife ?" "No," she replied ; "I had not thought of the future. I have only lived in the present since I have known you." "I cannot tell how I have borne it," he said. "I could not endure, even though it was only acting, to see you raise those lovely eyes, so full of light, to another man's face. When you spoke sweet words, I used to feel very much inclined to jump on the stage and take them all to myself." They were sitting on a grassy bank that sloped down into the river. The lime-trees rippled and waved above them ; the broad river reflected in its clear depths the blue sky and the green branches. Wild flowers grew in the thick, soft grass. How well in after years every detail of that scene returned to SJvelyn Romaine ! Suddenly she raised her eyes to her lover's handsome., debonair face. "There is a great difference between us, is there not ? I am an actress, and you" "I," he said, interrupting her —"I am the second son of Earl Gotfawic, of Gothwic Towers. Yes, nay darling, that is true. At the same time I am no ' great match,' as fashionable jargon hath it. I owe several thousand pounds, and I have an income of one thousand, held entirely at my father's pleasure." "The son of an earl, and an actress !" she said, musingly. " Would not the world say you had married beneath you ?" "The world is mad enough to say anything, my darling," he laughed. "Who cares what it says—a gay, wicked, delightful old world as it is ?"

"I have never thought much about position or station in life," she continued. "It seems to me my ambition has gone no further than my throne upon the stage. Clive, I am very unreal. I have lived so much in my art, the simple truths of the world are all strange to me. Tell mc truth —would you not lose caste by marrying me ?" "Why do you ask such a question, Evelyn ?" he replied. "Because if it be so I Will not be your wile. You will not deceive me, Clivc !" she continued, looking wistfully into his face. "You will not deceive me ! It would be cruel. If we were to be married, and I found out afterwards that you had lost caste in the eyes of the world by it, I ;-!i ;i;ld never be happy again !" How cruelly these words returned to her in the after years ! Clive- Noel took both the white hand's in his. "Shall I tell you the truth, Evelyn ? Listen and believe, you forlish child. Do you not know that jn-r beauty and your genius, your fel..r!ous gifts of mind, and soul, raise you as far above me as the blue sky there is above earth ? It is you who condescend, Evelyn, not T. You are one of the queens of the earth ; I am nothing. The most noble, the most honourable claim I have is that I love you, sweet ; my love docs me more credit than the accident of my birtlj and station." Her clear eyes, so full of love and truth, were raised to his. "Yes, you think so, Clive, because you are like the men in grand poems, you are noble and good ; but will others think so, too ? You toid me once you loved your mother. Would she lie pleased to see me your wife?" There was the least possible q«iver on his grand Saxon face ; then he answered, gaily " (To be Coniiiaiedy.