CHAPTER XVI.

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 160, 28 August 1886, Page 8

CHAPTER XVI.

A JUNE D*.Y AND A PASSIONATE VTOOEE. On a June morning, so sweet, so bright, so delicious that only to live and breathe was rapture to the young and pleasure to the old, a lady sat by an open window of a drawing-room, looking out on Boston Commons. She was dreaßed in white, and the low easy chair in which she reclined was of pale-blue satin, against which her golden hair glittered like sunbeams against the sky. The room was lofty and spacious, with a generous breadth not often found in modern city parlours ; the lady's father had owned hundreds ot city lots, and when he built his home had declared that he would afford ground enough for its foundation so that he could turn round in it ; ana as it took some space for him to turn around comfortably, the fine old brick mansion, with its stone facinga and two immense bow-windows,, etood fifty feet front and sixty feet deep, and was lavishly furnished with everything which should go to the complete setting out of a handsome drawing-room, from the landscapes by Turner and Hart on the walls to the cunning footstool on which the lady'? cunninger foot rested. A light wind, scarcely more than a breath, and coming from over the Public Gardens, v rippling the roses and geraniums on its way, just fluttered the double curtains of satin and lace as it stole in to kiss the fairest cheeks and stir the glittering tresses of the young beauty, who languished there with half-closed eyes and melancholy face, indifferent to all the blessings which surrounded her, even the inestimable privilege of gazing on Boston Commuin Yes, the greatest beauty and heireas of the Hub, and a girl of such perfect health that Dr Holmes would have been glad to bring her forward in support of hia theory that the " finest human fruit is raised under glass," sat there in her blue Batin chair, pining and low-spirited, despite of the effort of earth and heaven to crown all her other gifts with that of happiness. It was not her liver nor her sleep— it was just her heart that waa temporarily affected. Yet such affections are not always temporary, and this may become permanent, for it has already been of some months' duration, and such troubles do become chronic, and do, sometimes, kill. To Grace Delzemar in her present mood all the bloom, and joy, and sunshine of the June morning was a mockery. She would have preferred rain, clouds, and gloom. She was miserable. She pitied herself to think how miserable and how lonely she was. A burning tear gathered on either lid, shone like a diamond in the careless sunUght, trembled and fell and was lost amid the soft, white folds of laca and embroidery covering the* heaving bosom, Lonely » Oh, she felt very lonely and deso late that lovely day. Her little sister was away at school ; her good aunt was holding consultation with the housekeeper ; and if both had been with her they would but have irritated her juet then, for she was in an unhappy mood and craved solitude. Had they known that Miss Delzemar sat alonein her drawing-room and wasdesolate, there were a hundred young men in the vicinity who would have been eager to offer her their sympathy and their company. So that her solitary condition was of her own choosing On a little Genoese table of ebony inlaid with silver, which stood ne&r her in the window recess, was a superb Benvenueto Cellini vaße of wrought gold filled with fresh flowers. Some one had sent them that morning ; she had not troubled herself to look at the card s r ill lying near the vase. Their perfume was like fuel to the consuming flames of her sorrow, feeding it silently. Everything beautiful reminded her of sher j loss'— 'of the love Bhe had- flung away, the high spirit she had wounded, the heart she ha J thrown from her — the manahehadloved, accepted, promised to marry, and then had doubted, insulted, and broken off with, ! As she sat there she was thinking of their j parting ; she was eaying to herself that she -^orehipped him still, more madly than ever, and thafc,if he were to enter that room anrt appear before her, she would cast herself at hia feet and beg him to forgive her, to forget' the pact, and that she would take him for better, for worse, • and no other,- let hia fortunesand misfortunes have been what they might. But where, to what obscure corner of the wide world hehad fled, was to herunknown. He never would appear before her. He never would give her an opportunity to retract the ugly thing which she said to him. ,And now the first tear-drops were followed by more in swift succession, falling, idly, unoheoked,)unheeded. , „,.,, The door- bell, ptruck ; a, eervant opened it ; and, not knowing thai? her mistress was in the drawing-room, ,and, the caller being one! well-known at the, house, showed him in at once. , ,s ; ,\» M „ <♦ The eentleman- saw Ms^fiowersVqivthe little table, &nd ,as he advanced, to renew his acquaintance with; them,hhe|perceived theJady inrthechair<,»»^ t ?V, „; f ■ .;T. ! j; ",Grace !!' wr , S ti ,* ti a> * . U\\ • 't HaßtUy*arteing,'' brushing the. tears 4 frpw iher.eyea'as she .did co,» <she r ,turned, t#wf f dfl her visitor witjb-oiaiij^air-^pf,- ;bec^inipg hauteur, " "Mr Stuyvesant— goodTmorning."

r ".Why a6'you ( a»i l ;p? f o Ji Mr'>ith B uch s formality,? Must I retrace my step* to tke days pf fajr'B&tf mWtingf and * call you ,Mu DeUemar .7 I ,l'^WWi d 6 it. Arid ! yoii" .^b« ? weW f( not M always' so particular. ' I suppose yo« are "in one *of , your grand inoo'db. "What? traces of tears, dear Grace?! 1 , , , A 'oripjson blush Overspread her ' face. She knew ihat he would 'guess the reason of her weeping, and was both embarrassed and annoyed; ' , He saw the blush, and' understood the cause^ A flash* as of lightning leaped from his dark' eyes, and his own faoe flushed. , " t' thought Wi' were in New York,' Vance." J ' " >' ♦'I came; up on the train last night. It was dull in New York — hot 1 and 1 stupid 1 . Life there was simply intolerable. Why do you stand,' Graoe?" Sbe'j resumed her, seat; and he drew a comfortable chair in front and quite near her. '" " .' " Lillie sands you her ' best love, and wishes much to know how soon' you are going to Newport. The ' Herbaria will occupy their villa next week, and Lillie, of course, accompanies them. ' She charged me to tell you to come early, too, 'an she should be lonely until your arrival." ' "Dear Lillie! Giro her my love and thanks, if you please. But I'm not at all certain that I shall visit Newport, this , season," wearily. 41 Why ? You miacht as well be out of the world as out of " " Newport ; I know it. And that it just what I want—to be out of the world. If I can persuade Aunt Alice to shut up the house and accompany me, I have nearly decided to take a long journey somewhere." 11 Where ?" "To Egypt, perhaps. I'm tired of being ' in society — of keeping up appearances. It would be pleasant to float along the Nile ; to gaze at the great sleepy, pyramids— and ; eat lotus leaves," dreamily. 14 Thisjto only a passing mood of yours, Grace." "I tell you I am tired," she answered, her lovely head drooping, •* LoVe-sick, you mean !" he said, , angrily. No sooner had the worda left his lips than 5 he repented of them. * Ho was too well-bred to deaire to say so i rude a thing to a lady ; above all things, ha least deslrad to offend Grace Delzemar. But 1 that fiery temper of hia was always getting 1 th« advantage of him ; the tiger's claws j were always showing through the velvet. r "I beg your pardon, Grace," he went on (. hastily , " but you knew what I mean and how it discourages me to see you continue [ unhappy for that cause. When you disr missed Oacar I admired your spirit, but j you spoil it all by repenting a good deed as 3 soon as done " " Really, Mr Stayveaant— " j "There ! there ! Don't look at me with 3 such Buperb contempt, Graoe. You wither t me. I acknowledge my rudeness ; but you 3 do try me beyond the power of a man to enjj dure. I can see through this wish to jp f journeying through the world. It is in 0 hopes of meeting my reprobate brother and B taking him up again !" ° "Mr Stuyvesant !" y "Itis ; I know it. Do you think I can bear that patiently? Grace," his harsh, angry tone changing to one inexpressibly soft, pleading impassioned " forget him ! '* Consign him to the oblivion which he ' deserves. You have pride enough to'appwr to have done so before world. Conquer this t lingering foolish fondness for him and give Q me what he never really wanted, but for which I am dying — your heart ! You -.m. m must see how I suffer, how this is wearing j upon me— wearing the very flesh from my y bones, Grace ! Does not your own suffer3 ing toacb you somepity for jnine ? Look at f me." She did look, and earnestly, into the dark, 0 passionate, beautiful face, with its melting, dancing, irresistible eye?, whose depths for r the moment were dim with feeling. It was . worn, pale, and haggard, though handsome ' as ever. And those lines, whioh were drawn there a by conscience and by wear and tear of hia T " briliiant " experience as a fashionable j. young man, to her inuocent eyes appeared r the stamp of suffering from an unrequited q love. She forgave hi-n his rudeness and his burst of ill-tempor. j (Everybody always forgave Vance Stuy- ' vesant his faults and his sins. He had the j grace which charmed into concession.) c " Vance," speaking very gently, "if you j really love me, rest assured I regret it as much as a woman ever can. I am sorry 0 for you. As for my own private griets, let c me ask you not to assail them so harshly again. In time I shall oonquer them, God willing. I do not expect to be able to do jt it in a day or a week " im " But it has been months, Graoe, months j* — years to me ! I had hoped that your 1 pride would have come to the rescue." " Pride cannot heal a broken heart," she answered, in a low voice. S Again the lightning leaped from hia it eye3> " You are co innocent, Grace, so pure ; I should think you would blush to cherish . thia teeling for a man proved so unworthy. }j A bright colour rose in her fair, pale c cheek 9 ; her eyes flashed. >r "I should he ashamed," she said, proudly, o "to have loved a man well enough to have n promised to marry him, and then have forgotten it so easily as to renew that promise d to another within a few months because he c whom I trusted proved bad Grace Delaeo mar loves not bo lightly. Farther than that, h she loves so well and truly, were it only it proven that Oscar Averill'had been tempted o into a crime which he repented, she would ), excuse him and love him still — aye, and i- marry him in the face of a frowning world ! j. It was not because Oscar used his power as r his helpless younger brother's guardian to ie get possession of that brother's money and ie squander it in his gigjantic W"all-street J, operations, it was not that alone, since I d can well believe that, anticipating success —as they all do — he expected to return ib ir in due time, which caused mo to break with it him. It was what you told me, Vance, n that he had wooed ma for my fortune ;, that n he had, ?aid, confidently to you, that ' alr- though Miss Delzemar was pretty enough, io a nice, little Putitan,' thing, she was not his :e ideal of a woman, and that Ke would never >t have proposed t© her were it not in the it hope that the marri&ge would ] give him control of her meney before the crisis in his ie affairs arrived.' Ypu see, I remember the i. very words, Vance." c " Believe, me, Grace, I would never have 3- repeated that cruel confidence to you,, had i, I not seen that you were ready to wreck d your happiness as well as your fortune, to r, save him from going down, I did it to save you ; but I have often regretted it. * d "It was ' cruel kindness,' but it was the t s truest kindness, you ever did me." • q f * It should make , you despise , him, n Gr/aqel" . ■ , , 'f\ Tdo despite him I" with a ;deep tretnue louB sigh. , , ~, * | jf "' You -'don't act as if you did. ThaVis dL f the way with all you women. It' is. only jnecesary for, a man to do something dowri- , right criminal to make a her.band a martyr a of him, .in our ¥ eye.,Sr j4 If I had robbecVjmy s littJs <\ brother, , and,', .courted' ; a • girl for Her imdn^yj.perhaps I Vfjuld have the "enviable ■ power to draw sigh irons '1>ho; depths of that fair bosom."

i '' ' 4'" " ) /■'.!**' ,' <*H I'>' \ ' He" spoke very bitterly. ' ShY looked at-, lim steadily ; it was on her lips to remind >, him that Vance Stnyvesant'a record hadnot been 1 immaculate, although no eucha open disgrace had befallen him as had come upon his half brother; but she was too gentle and refined a lady to uae^ jersonalaties unless absolutely' necessary. ' Perhaps he read her thoughts, for hecoloured, and went on hurriedly : ," I dan'i pretend to be goody-goody and never did. I like a horse, and a yacht, and a good time. I like to outshine everybody, lam a little • fast,' and very vain. There you perceive I am not blind to my faults, ram rash, quick-tempered, easily flattered, extravagant, perhaps I am wicked, but I keep my fingers away from other peonl&'a nioney, and' do not trifle with a woman's • love i I make myself agreeeble to women ; but, they have no reason to blame me if anything serious grows out of it. You are the first' woman I ever asked to marry me ; and I ask you because lam se madly, desperately in, J,ove, as to make me to forego all my sworti resolutiona to lead a bachelor lifeall 'my tastes •in that direction. I am so • wretchedly, in. love that 1 come to you again and again, and aek you over and over, living meanwhile on the meagre hope that you will outgrow that first fancy, and learn to respond to the feeling which I have for • you. are a woman now, Grace — almost twenty, are you not ? You ought to own and engage the joy,the sweetness of loving and being loved. Say that you will' be my wife, darling. He was bending toward her, his eyes like blazing stars, a smile melting about his handsome mouth, his voice sweet as tenderness and passion could make it- She felt the dangerous spell of his beauty and his, ardent pleading growing upon her ; she trembled a little, and shrank farther back in her chair, as she faltered : " I cannot, Vance. Why do you continue to urge me ? I desire to spare your feelings, vet you compel me to repeat my refusal. If this thing happens again I shall be obliged to break the acquaintance." "Grace are you in earnest?" " Sincerely and soberly in earnest." Hewas silent a few moments. During that silente she was not thinking of him ; she did not see his pale, angry face, his teeth gnawing his lipa, his hands twitching ; one sentence of hie was repeating itself like an ever-breaking wave on the shore — " the sweetness of loving and being lored " — ah ! had she not known it ?— could she ever know it again ? Had it not seemed to her, when she met Oscar Averil, as if their two hearts rushed together and made one — - without reason, without effort, wituout any cause for the blissful mystery, except that they appeared to have been created for this sole purpose? And if a love like thi3— so true en her part, and seeming so true on his — could deceive her, what use to trust any other ? Not enly waa faith dead in her young bosom, but the desire for the joy of love. She only felt sad, and weary, and listless. She wished that Vance Stuyve«ant would nor perplex her with his importunities— he of all men, whom she never saw without associating him with Oscar. She pressed hex fingers on Lei eyelids. Suddenly Vance leaned forward and tore them away. His face was almost convulsed with paefioa. "You take little pains to conceal from m« how tiresome I am. But I mutt weary you yet a littlejlonger, Grace. The world believes that you and I are affianced. It ia generally understood among our friends. My own sisters think so, and I have net undeceived them. I am congratulated every day on my good fortune. I have never denied nor affirmed " " You should have denied sir." ''Not so. I refrained for two reasons ; firat, the hope that ifc would soon be truth ; second, because I thought it well for you. Nay, you need not quite wither me, Miss Delzemar. I mean, considering the reason for your breaking the other engagement, I deemed it a support to your pride not to be proven heart broken by that affair. " "My pride needs no prop," said Grace, now thoroughly offended, " and I must demand of you, Mr Stuyvesant, to at onoe deny it when you hear our engagement spoken of. I never intend to marry : and lam naturally anxious to check such rumours — all the more that mv name has been connected with a gentleman's as his fiancee." " A genthmcuiV sneered Vance She would not reply to him.' He remained a short time, pale and frowning, looking>t her averted face ; then he rose to go. " I will say good morning to you now Grace, for you are angry with me. But you cannot get rid of me by quarreling with me. lam determined to have you. You may as well come io Newport, since, if you go to Egypt, I will follow you there. I shall intrude between you and your vision of the Pyramids." " Will you not stay to lunch ?" She asked the question coldly, fulfilling her duty as hostess toward one who had often been her guest, and who had come from New York to see her, ignoring his last declaration as if she had not heard it. " Thanks — no. I shall go down to Newport by the next train. My yacht is there. Good-bye, until we meet by the ocean, Grace." He hold out his hand ; she laid the cold tips of her little fingers in it. She wanted to ask him somt thing, but the question stuck in her throat. He pressed her hand to his lips. ■" "Vance," she stammered at last, "do you know where Oscar is ?" " I do no /" almost flinging the little hand from him ; " nor do I wish to know 1 It is impossible, Grace, that you can care to know? I believe that he is concealing himself under an assumed namein some foreign land. Still I hardly think you will meet him should you go mooning about the Pyramids looking after him." " Does Mrs Herbert know where he is ? She always stood by him ; and I believe she is in his confidence. " Beally I cannot say. I have asked her no questions. I was glad he had the good > taste to disappear. Do you wish me to inquire of Maude?" sarcastically. "Oh, no, no ! 1 had no particular object in inquiring." ' ' • " Cuwe him, she loves him yet !" thought Vance, as he bowed himself out, *an down the steps, and hurried along tlie pavement, not because be was in haste; but because his pulse* was bounding with rage and disappointment. "I do believe she ■ would write to him and recall him if she ■ knew where he was.- I never dreamed that it would be" so great a task to slip into his place in her affections." as indeed he had not ; but in his vanity, and with his habit of triumph, ho had expected to usurp Oscai's'place with very 'little' delay. ' "Confound it ! I'd'giveher up and go for some other woman with a' .million or two of her own, but 1- can't.- I' wasn't the least bit in the world' -in love when I set out in the -matter, and for the' firßt .time in my life, I've made thafkihd of a « fool of .myeelf. -Because 'she^'does not^want T me I do want 'her,- and 1-11 'havener. ' That' goody-good brother of mine always got the ~> best .*of everything > ;•• 'but I've' got ahead of him* this time. "''l gwore he should - not .get' Grace "Delzemarv'ritid' I think 1 I^h'ave effectually prevented it/% Now -I 'have gone i farther — I r have'' resolved' that she 'shall be my wife, and I will bring that to pass alfio." Vu ':■■>; (To> be Conttoiittd )