ALL OR NOTHING.

King Country Chronicle, Volume VII, Issue 574, 7 June 1913, Page 6

ALL OR NOTHING.

(Copyri***.)

A THRILLING ROMANCE, _ By the Author of "A Bitter Bondage," "Two Keys," "Stella," "The Unknown Bridegroom," &c, PART 5. And this man—gay, genial, and careless—had won Evelyn Romaine ; Evelyn, gifted with royal beauty and imperial genius—Evelyn, whose passionate, nohle heart had never even known a mean thought. The glamour love threw over him was so strong that she had never seen his irne character yet. He left Gothwic Towers happy be--::uu;e he had secured all he most w shed for. As for thinking seri-oi-sly of what his father had said, he laughed at the notion. "If ever they did find out the story cf my marriage," he said to himself, p -there will be a most unpleasant row." At the thought at which he laughed ayain. "Evelyn is worth going through something for," he said ; "no use in thinking of evils which may - never Lefall. Fancy the earl's face if he should hear that I have actually married an actress !" It was easy to persuade Evelyn (hat all was right, that he had im..crtant reasons for keeping the marriage a profound secret until jomc family affairs were settled. She believed implicitly every word he told her. They were to go to live !n the south of France for some time then he would take her home to Gothwic Towers. He knew that he would never dare to do anything of the kind—that his father would resent as a' deadly insult any such action ; but one of Clive Noel's most cherished notions; was that " you ought to say anything to comfort a woman." So they were married very quietly, without any suspicion on her part that had Lord Gothwic known what was taking place, he would almost have cursed his son. The very same day they started for the south of France. Clive Noel said truly he disliked work, nevertheless he had been at some trouble to seek out this quiet, sunny little town of Carbacc—a town that lay under the mighty shadow of the Pyrenees ; tourists and travellers knew nothing about it, but he had heard of it from some obscure source. A pretty, quiet town—not large—where the inhabitants seemed all well-to-do; and he, after some little hesitation, selected the Chateau du Perison, a beautiful villa, standing some little distance from Carbace. "Let us make for ourselves a paradise here, Evelyn," he said. " See these orange groves ; look at the lemon and myrtle trees ; look at the trailing vines, the myriads of flowers —how beautiful it will be !" In the far distance the grand mountains reared their lofty heads, the River Perison flowed from them — dark woods and fertile vineyards surrounded them. "People may say what they like," he exclaimed, looking around ; "this is true happiness, Evelyn. We have given up the world for each other. Give me this beautiful, sunny, flowery home and you ; I ask no more." " A few cigars and novels," she added, sotto voce ; and he lazily smiled assent. There could be no more picturesque or lovely spot than the Chateau Perison. Before long the gardens and terraces were all in order the rooms furnished and decorated, the trailing vines trained in rich festoons. And the two who believed they could live there for ever paused and looked at each other. "You do not repent, Evelyn, having given up the world for me ?" he asked. CHAPTER VII. For four whole years that beautiful life at the Chateau Feriuon lasted. Considering all things—the inconsistency of man, the go-ahead spirit of the times, the altered state of everything—it was a wonderful duration. For four years the Honourable Clive Noel devoted himself heart, soul, and mind to the beautiful, gifted young girl he had married. He never knew weariness, even though they had no society. He was never tired of looking ■ ut her, of watching the change of expression in the dark, passionate face; he never tired of seeing her, dressed in different characters, throwing -the whole fire of her nature into eac*. one as she rehearsed them for him; he was never tired of listening to the musical tones, so rich, so deep. He loved her at the end of foiir years as passionately and devotedly as he had done at first. For the Honourable Clive Noel \va; : somewhat selfish and capricious. He was no. hero, except in the eyes o* Evelyn, his wife, who believed him the greatest and grandest of men. He had studied nothing much inlife, except pleasing himself—a science he carried to full perfection. He was gay, generous, with a handsome debonair face, an easy, half-stately, half-careless figure, and a smile so genial and bright that it would have concealed greater faults than his. People, looking only at the exterior, would hav« boen won by his animated grace of manner. Judging him superficially, one would be charmed with him. So long as everything prospered ami went well with him—so long as his will was not crossed or opposed and every one yielded implicit obedience to his wishes —there was not a more delightful companion living than the Honourable Clive Noel. It was not until you crossed him, opposed him, interfered with his piattfl, his com-

forts, his luxuries, that you felt th« "claws beneath the velvet gloves." He had his love affairs before this, but to do him justice they had nut i.een serious ones. His love for Evelyn Romaine " was his first grand passion, and he indulged it,, never reckoning the cost. A man of the world, and as such a very unromantic hero. Nevertheless, I claim for hfm that he was not much worse than most men. True, he had less high grinciple, less sensitive notions of honour ; indeed, when the crisis of hie life came, he proved that he had very little honour at all. To balance ihat, he was generous—lavishly kind when it suited him to be so—gay, w'.tty, and charming. He cannot be offered as a hero, sans peur et sans r:-irochc, of the high-pressure Mineral j-chool. He was very human indeed and full of faults. But these faults were all veiled from the eyes t.f Evelyn, his wife. The glamour oi love was strong upon her ; she idolised him and worshipped him as she believed him to be, and not what he was. The allowance of fifteen hundred per annum had been punctually remitted to him, and at present nothing had happened to mar the harmony that reigned at the Chateau Perison. It wa* an ideal life ; sweetest flowers bloomed for tfcem, brightest sun shone ; the wind down the mountain passes sang grand anthems, among the vines it sang sweetest songs ; the birds never made such glorious music as in the tall trees round their beautiful home. On the one side they had all that was fairest and loveliest on earth —fertile valleys, purple Vineyards, golden orange groves, silvery waterfalls, fragrant, flowers ; on the other all of grandest and mightiest in nature—mountains whose giant heads were lost in the clouds, deep ravines, precipices, and passes. What inspiration did she draw from the grand panorama of nature? Something that made her love for her husband grow more intense as time rolled on, until she had no single care, no thought but him. In the dark after-days she mourned her sin, and owned that her punishment was just ; she put the creature in the Creator's place, and bowed down before him. Life at the Chateau Perison was like a summer idyll. There were no clouds of ill-temper, no disputes, no disagreements —all was harmony, peace, and love. There were drives through the picturesque roads, days spent under the shadow of the mighty hills, rambles through the groves of myrtle and orange ; gay, happy hours passed in the vineyards. Life was to them a holiday, and they enjoyed it like children at play. The second year a dark-eyed daughter was born to them — a. little child inheriting it's mother's beautiful features, her dark eyes, and its father's face, Saxon complexion, and sunlit hair. How Evelyn lov*d her, how she caressed child —c'an be understood. Clive Noel's beautyloving nature was satisfied by the beautiful pictures that mother and child made together. "You look like the Madonna o:-! San Sisto, Evelyn," he said to hey one day, as she held the little one in her arms. "It is pitiful to think my darling, that you can ever grow old or change. Such loveliness as yours ought to be immortal." He had not given up tne habit of paying graceful compliments to his wife. One word of admiration from him would send the most delicate flush into her noble face and a soft, tender light in her eyes that the united praise of the whole world would never have brought there. One summer's evening—such an evening as is only seen in the balaay south—they were sitting in the sunlit garden ; the fountains sent up their silvery spray, the flowers were all in richest bloom, the birds made the warm southern wind full of music. Evelyn had some pretty piece of fancy-work in hw hands. Clive Noel had been reading to her, and the little dark-eyed Gertrude sat quietly at his feet. He had teeen reading of the great success of an actress who had succeeded Miss Romaine, over whom the paper went oft into a mournful rhapsody. "They will never see your like again, Evelyn," said her husband as he finished. " That is very probable." Then he looked suddenly in the glorious face. "My darling," ha aektd, "have you ever repented giving up the stage for me ?" It is not well to lo*« aay man so dearly, so entirely, so devotedly as she loved him. Sh« answered him with tender, passionate words that rang in his ears fas *ays afterwards. "We have be*» v«y happy, certainly," he said. "Tfee world is well lost for love." He was never tirwS o@ wondering at his own good fortune. That he should have won for his owa the beautiful woman, tits gifted genius at whose feet all London knelt ; that he should have won love for which other men prayed for in vain; that this glorious, gifted girl, who had swayed vast crowds as the wind sways the trees, who had moved hundreds to tears and to laughter,, to gaiety or to sadness, as she willed, now was content to lavish all her wondrous powers of pleasing upon liirn ! He had known great aad noble men in London who would have given half their. fortune for one smile from her. That" smile she refused, yet lavished both smiles and words on him. His beauty-loving, luxurious nature revelled in this love. The devotion of a less gifted woman would hava fe&d little charm for him. The votes that sang so sweetly to him in the golden gloaming, that sang sweet lullabies to little Gertrude, had thrilled the hearts of thousands. Men love celebrity in a woma\, however much they pretend to decide it.

So for four years life was like one long poem to Clive Noel and his wife. Thinking of her, the glorious genius, the wonderful beauty, tho half-divine gifts, I like to linger on this part of her life, when she had passed from the ideal dreams of girlhood into the full sunshine of perfect happiness that was soon —ah, so soon—to be changed into darkest night. I like to picture the graceful figure &ui the soul-lit face as she stood upon the balcony or leaned against the parapet, drinking the love-lines around her, so fresh from the hands of God. She had four years of unalloyed, uninterrupted happiness, during which her husband loved and worshipped her—during which she grew to care for him a thousand times more than for her own life. Those four happy years served only to develop her girlish beauty into perfect loveliness. Had she been upon the stage now, what would have been said and written of her ? And then in the midst of this garden of Paradise crept the serpent of ennui. Not suddenly did Clive Noel weary of his wife and her passionate love ; but after a time, when luxury of sight and of sound, of calm, of love, of peace somewhat palled upon him, he said to himself that he was growing tired of the life, and should like a change. The idea, once admitted, became paramount. So he told his wife that he had business in Paris, and must go for ten days or a week at least. They were to be parted for the first time since their wedding-day. She never asked to go with him, but she clung round his neck in such an agony of weeping, that at the last moment he almost repented his resolution. She bade him good-bye with her face so full of whit«, settled sorrow that his journey to Paris was spoilt. He could not forget it. In vain he went-to the Opera and found welcome admittance behind the. scenes—there was that pale, beautiful face with the tender eyes. In vain he sought to interest himself in any one single thing. Clive Noel positively grew angry with his wife for the mute sorrow he had seen in her face. CHAPTER VIII. Clive Noel went back when the ter. days in Paris were over, and fron - , that time peace and happiness wen; in danger. " Are you not tired of this, Evelyn?" he asked one day, abruptly ; anil she iooked at him wit)) startled surprise. * "Tired of Carbace and you ?" sb? replied. "No, Clive. Are you ?" He was not brave enough to answer "Yes." He could not of himself have inflicted anything like pain upon her. He could not have brought sorrow or sadness to the beautiful face. His ease-loving nature dreaded the infliction of pain. But as the days passed on he grew moody and discontented. She thought he was ill, and redoubled ber devotion. That teased him. "I am growing tired of love and flowers, and all kinds of sweet nonsense," he said one day to himself. "A man cannot live upon honey. I must have been mad to have shut myself up here for life." He was leaning over the stone parapet, looking into the vine-clad valleys below, and Evelyn seeing him there, stole gently up to him. She laid her white arm round his shoulder, and bent her faithful biad down to him. \ "Clive, how quiet you are—how silent ! And you look quite sad. I am sure you are ill. What can I do for you ?" "Nothing, my dear," he replied, "but allow me to smoke my cigar in peace and meditate in silence on the beauties of nature." She looked up at the ironical toae of his voice. "You are keeping something from me, Clive," she cried. "You are ill or you have some trouble, I am sure." "Nothing of the kind, Evelyn," he replied. "A man cannot live in a state of rapture, you know. lam very well ; do not tease me." Then seeing the beautiful lips quiver he kissed her, and laughed the sting of his words away. She had no chance. Could she have gone away then and have let him take his place in the world once more, this story would never have been written. As it was, she was in the prison they had meant for a Paradise, placed there by his own act and unable to go from it unless taken by him, and he had not courage to tell her that he was tired of it. A lovely morning in September, Evelyn Noel, looKing her brightest and loveliest, stooc close by the Ion:; grove of orange trees, waiting her husbands return. He had gone into the town to see if any letters had been forwarded to him there from Paris. She expected none. Mrs. Boswell was not a good correspondent, and during her brief but glorious artistic career she had made no friends or acquaintances. She had almost forgotten the faces and names of those she used to know, so entirely had her life been centred and wrapped in that of her husband. With him it was different. During the first few years letters had been something of a bore. He did not care for reading them, and very seldom troubled himself to reply. Now it was different. He longed for news of the restless world from which he had shut himself. Evelyn, standing waiting for him, leaning against tbo back of a tall tree whose lingers were crimson bells, saw him hastening towards her with several papers and letters in his hand. (To be Continued).