CHAPTER II.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 391, 7 August 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER 11.

WIlE AND HKm. In a very gen beel lodging-house, in the very genteel neighbourhood of Itussell Square, early in the afternoon of a September day, a young girl stands impatiently awaiting the return of Sir Victor Catheron. This girl is his wife. It is a bright, sunny day — as sunny, ot least, as a London day ever can make up its mind to bbande — and as the yellow, slanting rays pour in thiough the muslin curtains full on face and figure, you may search and find no flaw in either. It is a very lovely faoe, a very graceful, though petite figure. She is a blonde of the blondest type ; her hair is like spun gold, and, wonderful to relate, no Yellow Wash ; no Golden Fluid, has ever touched its shining abundance.

Her e v yes are bluer than the September sky over the Russoll Square chimney-pots ; her nose is neither aquiline nor Grecian, but it is very nice ; hor forehead is low, her mouth and chin ' morsels for the gods.' The little figure is deliciously rounded and ripe ; in twenty years from now she may be a heavy British matron, with a yard and a half wide waist — at eighteen years old she is, in one woid, perfection. Her dress ig perfection also. She wears a white India muslin, a marvel of delicate embroidery and exquisite texture, and a groat deal of Valenciennes trimming. She has a pearl and turquoise star fastening her laco collar, pearl and turquoise drops in her ears, and a half dozen diamond rings on her plump, boneless fingers. A blue ribbon knots up the loose yellow hair, and you may search the big city from end to end, and find nothing faiier, fresher, swoebor than Ethel, Lady Catheron. Li e\er a gentleman and baronet had a fair and sullicicnb excuso for tho folly of u low marrage, surely Sir Victor Catheron hus it in his fairy wife — for it is a ' low muniag'e 'of tho most heinous type. .7 use, seventeen months ago, 1 Sauntering idly aldng the summer, sands, looking- li;?J l,e?sly alt the summer sea, thinking idreanly that this time next year his freedom would be over, and his Cousin Inez his lawful owner and possessor, his eyes had fallen on that lovely blondo face — that wealth of shining hair, and for all time— aye, for ebornity — his fate was fixed. The dark image of Inez as his ' wife faded out of his mind, never to return more. The earthly name of this dazzling divinity in yollow ringlets and pink, muslin was fibhol Margaretta — Dobb ! Dobb ! It might have disenchanted a loss rapturous adorer — it fell powerless on Sir Viclor Catheron's infatuated car. ic was at Margate this meeting took place— that most popular and most vulgar of all English watering-places ; and the Cheshire baronet had looked just once at tho peach bloom faoe, tho blue eyes of laughing light, tho blushing, dimpling, seven-teen-year-old fa-c, and fallen in love atonne and forever. lie was a very mpotuous young man, a veiy solfish and unstable young man, with whom, all his life, to wish" was to have. He had been spoiled by a doting mother from his cradle, spoiled by obs'equioufc servants, spoiled by Inez Cabheron'fo boundless worship. And he wished for this, 'rose of the rose-bud garden of girls,' as he had never wished for anything in his two-and-bwonby yeais of life. As a man in a dream he went through that magic ceremony, ' Miss Dobb, allow me to present my iriend, Sir Victor Uatheron,' and they were free to look at each other, talk to each other, fall in love with each other a? much as they pleased. As in a dream he lingered by her side three golden hours, asm a dream he said, ' Good afternoon,' and walked back to his hocel smoking a cigar, the world glorified above and about him. Ab in a dream they told him she was the only daughter and heiress of a well-to-do London soup-boiler, and he did not wake. She was the daughter of a soap-boiler. The paternal manufactory was, in tho grimiest part of the grimy metropolis ; but, remarkablo bo say, she had as much innate pride, self-respect, and delicacy as though * all the blood of the Howards' flowed in those blue veißS. He wasn't a bad sorb of young fellow, as , young fellows go, and frantically in love. There was bub one question to ask, just <eitfhb days afber this— 'Will you be my wife?' — but one answer, of course — 'Yes.' But one answer, of course ! How would it be possible for a soap-boiler's daughter bo refuse a baronet? And yet his heart had beaten with a fear that burned him di//y and sick ab he asked ib ; for she had shrunk away for one instant, frightened by his fiery wooing, and the sweet face had grown suddenly and startlingly pale. Is it nob the rule that all maidens shall blush when their lovers ask the question of questions? The rosy brightness, the smiles, the dimples, all faded out of this face, and a white look of sudden fear crossed ib. The sbaitled eyes had shrunk from his eager, flushed face and look over the wide sea. For fully five minutes she ne\ er spoke or stirred. To his dying day that hour was with him — his passionate love, his sick, horrible fear, his dizzy nipture, when she spoke at last, only one word — 'ye?.' To his dying day he saw her as he saw hor then in her summery . muslin drets, her gypsy hat, the pale, troubled look chasing the clour from tho drooping face. Bub-tlio answer wasAyos. Was he nob a baronet? Was she not a well- trained English girl -V And the ecstasy of pride, of joy, of that city soap-boiler's family, who shall paint? 'Awake* my ntusc' and— but, no ! ' it passeth all telling. They bowed down before him (figuratively), this good British tradesman and his fat wife, and worshipped him. They binned incense at, his shrine; they adored tho ground ho walked on ; they snubbed their neighbours, and held then chins at an altitude never' attained by tho family of Dobb before. And in six weeks Miss Ethel Dobb became Lady Catheron. It was the quietest, the dullest, the most seciet of weddings — not a soul piesont except Papa and Mamma Dobb, a military swell in the Gienadier Guards — Pythias, at present, to Sir Victor's Damon— the parson, and the pew-oponer. He was madly in love, bub he was ashamed of the family soap-boiling, and hewasnfiaid of his cousin Inez. He told them a vague story enough of family matters, etc., that reudeted secrecy for the present nece?saiy, and nobody cross-questioned tho baronet. That the parson was a pnrson, the maniagc bona flck, his daughter 'my lady,' and himself the prospective grandfather of many baronets, was enough for the honest soap-boiler. For the bride hersolf, she said little, in a shy, faltering little way. She was very fond of her dashing, , high-bora, impulsive lover, and very well content not to come into tho full blaze 'and da/^lo ot high life just yet. If any other romance had over figured in her simple life, thn story was finished and done with, the book read and put away. He took her to Switzerland, to Germany, to Southern France, keeping out of the way ot other tourists, and ten months followed — ben months of such exquisite, unalloyed bliss, as rarely falls !to mortal man. Unalloyed did I say? Well, not quite, since earth and heaven are two different places. In the dead or pale Southern nights, with the .shine of the moon on his wife's lovely sleeping face ; in the hob, brilliant noontide ; in tlie sweeb, green gloaming — Inez Catheron's black eyes came menacingly beforo him — the one bitter drop in his cup. All his life he had been a libtlo afraid of her. He was something more than a little afraid of her now. They returned. The commodious lodgings in Russell Square awaited him, and Sir Victor ' went in ' for domestic felicity in the parish of Bloomsbury, * on the quieb.' v ery much 'on the quiet' — no theatregoing, no opera, no visitor?, and big Captain Jack Erroll, of the second Grenadiers, his only guest. Four months of this sort of tiling, and then — and then there was a son. Lying in her lace-draped satin -covered* bed, looking at baby's fat little, funny little faco, Ethel, Lady Catheron, began to think. Shu had time to think in her quiob and 1

solitude. Monthly nurses and husbands being in tho very nature of things antagonistic, and nurse being reigning potentate at present, the husband was banished. Anrl Lady Catheron grew hot and indignant that the heir of Catheron Royals should have to be born in London lodgings, and the luistress o£ Catheron Royals livo shot up like a nun, or a fair Rosamond in a bower. ' You have no relations living but your cousin, Victor,' she 6akl toMin, more coldly than she had ever spoken in her life. ' Are you master in your own house, or is she ? Are you afraid of this Miss Catheron, who writes .you such long letters (which I never see), that you dare not take your wife j home ?' Pie had told her something of that other story necessarily — his former engagement to his cousin, Inez. Only something — not the bare, ugly truth of his own treachery. Tho soap-boiler's daughter wa& more noble ot soul than the baronet. Gentle as she was, sho would have despised him thoroughly had &he known the truth. • 'This secrecy has lasted* lpn£ enough,' Lady Catheron said, a resolute-looking expression crossiwg, her pretty, soft -cut I mouth. 'Tho time has come when you must) speak. Don't make me think you aie ashamed of me, <or afraid of her. Take mo horne — it is my right ; acknowledge your son — it is his. • W hen there woi» only I, it did not so much matter— -it is different now. 3 She lifted one of baby's dots of hands and kissed it, and Sir Victor, his face hidden in the shadow of the curtains, his voice husky, made answer : ' You are right, Ethel — you always are. As soon as you both can travel, my wife and child shall porno home with me to Catheron Royals.' Just three weeks later, as the August days were ending, came that last letter from Inez, commanding his return. His hour had come. He took the next morning train, and went forth to meet the woman he feared and had wronged. The afternoon sun drops lower. If Sir Victor returns from Cheshiro to-day, Lady Catheron knows he will be here in a few minutes. She looked at her watch a little weaiily. The days are very long and lonely without him. Looks up again, her eyes alight A hansom has dashed up to tho door, and it is her husband who leaps out. Hall-a-mirmte and he is in the room, and she is clasped in his arms. ' My darling !' he exclaims, and you need only hear the two words to tell how rapturously ho lo^es his wite. ' Let me Jook at you. Oh ! as pale as ever, I tee. Never mind ! Cheshire air, sunshine, green fields, and new milk shall bring back your ro c es< And your son und heir, my lady, how is he ?' He bends over the pretty ba°sineb, with that absurd paternal look with which all veil/ new fathers regard the first blessing, and his mu&tache tickles baby's innocent nose. A flush comes into her face. She looks at him eagerly. 'At last ! Oh, Victor, when do we go?' c To-morrow, if you are able. The sooner the better.' lie says it with rather a forced laugh. Her face clouds a little. ' And your cousin ? Was she very angry ?' she asked, wistfully ; ' very much surprised ?' ' Well — yes — naturally, I am afraid she was both. We must make the best of that, however. To tell the truth, I had only one interview wibh her, and that ot so particularly unpleasant a nature, that I left next morning. So then wo &tarb to-morrow ? I'll just drop a note to Errol to apprise him.' He catches hold of his wife's writingtable to wheel it near. By some clumsiness his foot catches in one of the spidery claws, and with a crnsh it topples over. Away goes the writing case, flying open and scattering the contents far and wide. The crash shocks baby's nerves, baby begins tOjCry, and the new-made mamma Hies bo her angel's side. ' I say !' Sir Victor cries. ' Look here ! Awkward thing of me to do, oh, Ethel ? Writing caso broken too. Never mind, I'll pick 'em up.' He goes down on his knees boyishly, and begins gathering them up. Letters, envslopes, wax, seals, pens and pencils. He flings all in a heap in the broken case. Lady Catheron cooing Lo baby, looks smilingly on. Suddenly he conies to' a full, stop. Comes to a full stop> and holds something bofoio him as though it woro a snake. A very harmless snake apparentlj' — the photograph of a young and handsome man. For fully a minute he gazes at, it utter'y aghast. 'Good Heaven !' his wife hears him say. Holding baby in her arms she glances at him. The back of the picture is toward her, bub she recognises it. Hor tace turns ashen grey — she moves round and bends it over baby. ' Ethel !' Sir Victor says, his voice stem, 1 what does this mean ''.' 'What does what mean ? Hush-h-h, baby, darling. Not so loud, Victor, please. I want to get babe asleep.' •* How comes Juan Catheron's picture heie ?' She catches her breath — the tone in which Sir Victor speaks is a tone not pleasant to hear. She is a thoroughly good little thing, but the best of little tilings (being women) are ago dissemblers. For a second she dares nob face him ; then she comes bravely up to time and looks at him over her shoulder. 'Juan Catheron! Oh, to bq sate. Is that picbure here yet ?' with a little laugh. 4 1 thought I had lost it centuries ago. Good Heaven !' she exclaims inwardly : 1 how could I have been such a fool !' Sir Victor rises to his feet — a curious passing likeness to his dark cousin, Inez, on his fair blonde face. ' Then you know -Juan Cathoron. You ! And you never told me.' ' My dear Sir Victor,' with a little pout, ' don't be unreasonable. 1 should have something to do if I put you an couranl of all my acquaintances. I knew Mr Catheron — slightly,' with a gasp. 'Is there any crime in that ?' ' Yes !' Sir Victor answers, in a voice that makes his wife jump and his son cry. ' Ye& — there is. I wouldn't own a doe: — if Juan Catheron had owned him betore me. To look ab him, is pollution enough — to know him — disgrace !' 1 Victor ! Disgrace !' ' Disgrace, Ethel ! He is one of the vilest, most profligate, most lost wretches that ever disgraced a good name. Ethel, I command you to tell me— was this man ever an> thing to you— friond— lover— what ?' ' And if he has been — what then ?' She rises and faces him proudly. 'Aml to answer for his sins ?' 1 Yes — we all must answer moi-e or less for those who are our friends. How come you to have his picture ? What has he been to you ? Not your lover — for Heaven's sake, Ethel, never that !' ' And why not ? Mind !' she says, still facing him, her blue eyes aglitter, ' I don't' say that he was, bufc if ho was— what then <" ' What then ?' He is white to the lips with jealous rage and fear. ' This then — yon shall never again be vn/e of mine ." * Victor !' she puts out her hands as if to ward off a blow, ' don't Bay that— [ oh, don't say limb ! And— and ib isn't

true — he never was a lover of mme — never, never !' • She bursts out with the deniaFin passional c fear and trembling. In all her wedded life she has never seen him look, heard him speak like this, though she has seen him jealous — needlessly — often. 'Ho never was your lover ? You are telling me the truth ?' 'No, no — never, never, Victor — don't look like that. Oh, what brought that wretched picture here ! 1 knew him slightly— only that — and he did give me his photograph. How could I tell lie was the wretch you say he is— how could 1 think there would be any harm in taking a picture ? He seemed nice, Victor. What did he ever do ?' ' Ho &eemed nice !' Sir Victor repeated, bitterly, ' and what did he ever do ? What/ has he left undone you had better ask. He. has broken every command of the decalogue — every law human and divine. He is dead to us all — his sister included, and has been these many years. JEthol, can I be- • lieve — ' % k ," „ * I have told 'you,' Sir Victor. You will believe as you please,,', his wife answers, a little sullenly, turning away from him. She understands him. His very jealousy and anger are born of his passionate love ior her. To grieve her- is torture to him, yet ho grieves her often.For a tradesman's daughter to marry a baronet mny be but one remove from paradise ; ftiU'it is a remove. And the serpent in Lady Catheron's Eden isthe ugliest and most vicious of all serpents — jealousy. He has never shown his green eye^ and obnoxious claws so palpably before, and as Sir Victor looks at her bonding over her baby, his fierce pai'oxysm of jealousy gives way to a fierce paroxysm of love. ■> ' Oh, Ethel, forgive me !' he says ; ' I did not mean to wound you, but the thought of that man — faugh ! But lam a fool to be jealous of you, my white lily. Kiss me — forgive me — we'll throw this snake in the grass out of the window and forget it. Only — I had rather you had told me.' He tears up the wretched little mis-chief-making picture, and flings it out of the window with a look of disgust. Then they ' kiss and make it up,' but the stab has been given, and will rankle. The folly of her past is doing its work, as all our follies past and present ai-e pretty sure to do.