PART III. CHAPTER I.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 419, 13 November 1889, Page 6

PART 111. CHAPTER I.

AT MADAME MIREBEAII's, OXFORD-STREET. Half-past four of a delightful June afternoon, and two young ladies sit at two large, lace-draped windows, overlooking a fashionable Mayfah- street, alternately glancing over the books they hold, and listlessly watching the passers-by. The house was one of those big black West-end houses, whoso outward darkness and dismalness is in direct ratio to their inward brilliance and splendour. This particular room is lofty and long, luxurious with softest carpet, satin upholstery, pictures, flowers, and lace draperies. The two young ladies are, with the exception of their bonnets, in elegant carriage costume. Young ladies, I have said ; and being unmarried, they are young ladies, of course. One of them, however, is three-and-thirty, counting by actual years — the peerage gives it in cold blood. It is the Lady Gwendoline Drexel. Her companion is the Honorable Mary Howard, just nineteen, and just 'out.' Lady Gwendoline yawns drearily over her book — Algernon Swineburne's latest — and pulls out her watch impatiently every lew minute*. ' What can keep Portia ?' she exclaims, with irritation. 'We should have been gone the last half-hour.' The Honorable Mary looks up from her Parisian fashion book, and glances from the window with a smile. 'Restrain your impatience, Gwendoline, 1 she answers. ' Here come? Lady Portia now.' A minute later_the door is flung wide by a tall gentleman in plush, and Lady Portia Hampton sweeps in. She is a tall, slender lady, very like her sister : the same dully fair complexion, the same coiflure of coppergold, the same light, inane blue eyes. The dull complexion wears at this moment an absolute flush, the light, lack-lustre oyes an absolute sparkle. There is something in her look as she sails forward, that makes them both look up expectantly from their books. * Well?' Lady Gwendoline says. 'Gwen! 1 her sister exclaims— absolutely exclaims— ' whom, do you suppose I have met?' 'The Czaiina of all the Russias, Pio Nino, Her Majesty back from Osborne, or the Man in the Moon, perhaps,' retorts Lady Gwendoline. 4 Neither,' laughs Lady Portia. * Somebody a great deal more mysterious and interesting than any of them. You never ■will guees whom.' ' Being five o'clock of a eultry summer day, I don't intend to try. Tell us at once, Portia, and let us go ' 'Then — prepare'to be surprised ! Sir Victor Catheron !' ' Portia !' 4 Ah ! I thought the name would interest you. Sir Victor Catheron, my dear, alive and in the flesh, though, upon my word, at first eight I almost took him to be his own ghost. Look at her, Mary,' laughs her sister derisively. * I have managed to interest her after all, ha\ c I not ?' For Lady Gwendoline sat erect, her turquoise eyes open to their wiJest extent, a look akin to excitement in her apathetic face. ' Bnt, Portia -Sir Victor ! I thought ifc was an understood thing he did not come to England ?' 4He does, it appears. I certainly had the honour and happiness of shaking hands with him not fifteen minutes ago. I was driving, up St. James-btieer, and caught a glimpse of him on the steps of Fenton's Hotel. At first sight I could not credit my eyes. I had to look again to see whether it were a wraith or a mortal man. Such a pallid shadow of his former self. You used to think him rather handsome, Gwen — you should ccc him now ! He has grown ten years older in as many months— his hair is absolutely streaked with grey, his eyes are sunken, his cheeks are hollow. He looks miserably, wretchedly out of health. If men ever do break their hearts,' said Lady Porfeia. going over to a large mirror and surveying herself. ' then that misguided youcg man broke his on his wedding-day.' _ ' It serves him right,' said Lady Gwendoline, her pale eyes kindling. ♦I am almo3t glad to hear it.' Her faded face woiea strangely &omhre and vindictive look. Lady Portia, with her head on one side, .set her bonnet-strings geometrically straight, and smiled mphciously. 'Ah, no doubt — perfectly natural, -all things considered. And yet, even you might pity the poor fellow, to - day, Gwendoline, if you saw him. Mary, dear, is all this Greek and Hebrew to you ? You were in your Parisian pension nat, I lemember, when it all happened. Tom don't know the i-omantic and mysterious story of !Sir Victor Catheron, Bart.' * I never heard the name before, that I recall,' answered Miss Howard 4 Then pine in ignorance no longer. This young hero, Sir Victor Catheron, of Catheron Royals, Cheshire, i« pur next-door neighbour, down at home, and one year ago the handsomn, haripy, honoured representative of one of the oldest families in the country. His income ! was large, his estates un'cumbered, his manners charming, hi=< morals unexceptionable, and half the young ladies in Cheshire' — with another malic. ous glance at her sister— * at daggers-di awn for him. There was the slight drawback of insanity in the family — his father died insane, and in his j infancy his mother was murdered. But these were only trifling spots on the sun, not worth a second thought. Our vonng sultan had but to throw the handkerchief, and his obedient vJircassians would Have flown on the wings of love and joy fco pick it up. I grow quite eloquent, don't I ? In an evil hour, however, poor young Sir Victor— j he was bub twenty- three— went over to i America. There, in New York, he fell in with a family named Stuart, common rich ! people, of course, as they all are over t here, j In the Stuart family there was a young person, a sort of cousin, a Miss Edith Darrell, very poor, kept by them out of eharjty ; and, lamentable to relate, with this you noperson poor Sir Victor fell in love. Fell in love, my dear, in the most approved-old-fashioned style— absurdly and insaiiely in love - brought the whole family over to Cheshire, proposed to little missy, and, as a matter of course, was eagerly accepted. She was an extremely pretty girl, that I will gay for her'- with a third sidelong glance of malice at her puwsee sister— ' *.nd her manners, considering her station, or, rafcher, her entire lack of station, > her poverty, and her nationality, were something quiet extraordinary. 1 declare to you, she positively held her own with the best of us— except for a certain brusqiwvie

and outspoken way about hor, you might have thought her an English girl of our own class. He would marry her, and the wedding day was fixed, and Gwendoline named as chief of the" bridesmaids.' 4lt is fifteen minutes past live, Portia,' the cold voice of Gwendoline broke in. •If we are to drive at all to-day — ' 'Patience, G wen, patience one moment longer. Mary must hear the whole story now. In the Stuart family, I forgot to mention, there was a young man, a cousin of the bride elect, with whom — it was patent to the dullest apprehension — this young person was in Jove. She accepted Sir Victor you understand, while this Mr Stuart was her lover : a common case enough, and not worthy of mention except for what came after. His manners were rarely perfect too. He was, I think, without exception, the very handsomest and most fascinating- man I ever met. Yon would never dream — never— that he was an American. Gwendoline will tell you the same. The sister was thoroughly transAtlantic, talked slang, said " I guess," spoke with an accent, and looked you through and through with an American girl's broad stare. The fattier and mother were common, to a degree ; but the son — well, Gwen and I both came very near losing our hearts to him— didn't we, dear ?' ' Speak for yourself,' was Gwen's ungracious answer. • And, oh i for pity's sake, Portia, cut it short !' 'Pray go on, Lady Portia!' said Miss Howard, looking interested ' I am going on,' said Lady Portia. 'The nice p*rt is to corre. The Stuart family, a month or more before (.he wedding, 'eft Cheshire and came up to London -why, we can only surmise — to keep the lovers apart. Immediately after their departure, the bride elect was taken ill, and had to be carried off to Torquay for change of air and all that. The wedding-day was postponed until some time in October"; but at last it came. She looked very beautiful, I uiu^t say. that morning, and perfectly self possessed ; but poor Sir Victor ! He wai ghastly. Whether even then he suspected something I do not know ; he looked a picture of abject misery at the altar and the breakfast. Something was wrong ; we all saw that ; but no explanation took place there. The happy pair started on their wedding-journey down into Wales, and that was the last we ever saw of them. What followed we know; but until to-day I have never set eyes on the bridegroom. Tho' bride, I suppose, nono of us will ever set oyes on more.' 1 Why ?' the Honorable Mary asked. 4 This, my dear : An.hour after their arrival in Carnarvon. Sir Victor deserted his bride lor ever. What passed between them, what scene ensued, nobody knows, only this — he pos tively left her for ever. That the handsome and fascinating American cousin hud something to do with it, there can be no doubt. Sir Victor took the next train from Wales to London ; she remained overnight. Next day she had tho audacity to return to Powyss Place and present herself to his aunc, Lady Helena Powysb. She remained there one day and two nights. On the first night mutiled and disguised, Sir Victor came down from town, had an interview witli his aunt, no doubt told her all, and departed again without seeing che girl he had mairied". The bride next day had an interview with Lady Helena — her last — and next morning, before anyone was stirring, stole out of the house like the guilty creature she was, and never was heard cf more. The story, though they tried to huth it up, got in all the papers— " Romance in High Life,' they called it. Everybody talked of ifc — it was the nine-days' wonder of town and country. The actors in it. one by one, disappeared. Lady Helena shut up Powyss Place and went abroad ; Sir Victor vanished from the world's ken ; the heioino of the piece no doubt went back to her native land. That, in brief, is the story, my dear, of the interesting spectre I met to-day on the steps of Penton'e. Now, young ladies, put on your bonnets and come. I wish to call at Madame Mirebeau's, Oxford-street, before going to the park, and personally inspect my dress for the duchess' ball to-night.' Ten minutes later and the elegant barouche of Lady Portia Hampton was bowling alonsj to Ox ford -street. 1 What did you say to Sir Victor, Portia ?' her sister deigned to ask. • What did he saj to you ?' 'He said very little bo me — the answers he gave were the most vague. I naturally inquired concerning his health first, he really looked so wreochedly broken down ; and he snid there was nothing the matter, that he had been a little out of torts lately, that was all. My conviction is,' said Lady Portia, who, like the rest of her sex, find the world, put the worst possible construction on eveiy thing, 'that h? has become dissipated. Purple citcles and hollow eye? always tell of late hours and hard drinking. 1 asked him next where hehad been alltho^eages, and he answered briefly and gloomily, in one word, "Abroad." I asked him thirdly, where, and how was Lady Helena ; he replied that Lady Helena was tolerably well, and ac pi esont in London. "In London!" I exclaimed, in a shocked tone, " my dear Sir Victor, and / not know it !" He explained that his aunt wns living in the cloeest retirement, at the house of a friend in the neighbourhood of St. John's Wood, and went nowhere. Then he lifted his hat, smiled horribly a ghastly smile, turned hi& back upon me, and walked away. Never afrked for you, Gwendoline, or Colonel Hampton, or my health, or anything.' Lady Gwendoline did not reply. They had just entered Oxford -street, and amid the moving throng of well-dressed people on the pavement, her eye had singled out one figure — the figure "of a ball, slender, fair-haired man. * Portia,' she exclaimed, in a suppressed voice, ' look there ! Is not that Sir Victor Catheron now ?' 'Where? Oh, I see. Positively it i*, and— yes— he sees up. Toll John to drnw up, Gwendoline. Now, Mary, you shall see a live hero of romance for once in your life. Ho shall take a seat, whether he likes it or not — My dear Sir Victor, what a happy , second rencontre", and Gwendoline dying to see you. Pray let u,s take you up— oh, we will have no refusal. We have an unoccupied seat here, you see. and we all insist upon your occupying it. Miss Howard, let me present our nearest neighbour at hoLie, and particular friend everywhere, Sir Victor CV heron. The Honorable Miss Howard, Sir Victor.' They had dr*wn up close bo the kerbstone. The gentleman had doffed his hat, and would have passed on, had ho not been taken possession of in this summary manner. Lady Gwendoline's primrosekidded hand was extended to him, Lady Gwendoline's smiling face beamed upon him from the most exquisite of Parisian bonnets Miss Howard bowed and scanned him curiously. Lady Porlia was not to be refused—he knew that or" old. Of two borep, it was the lessor bore to yield than resist. Another instant, and the barouche was rolling away to Madame MirebeauX and Sir Victor Catheron was within it. He sat by Lady Gwendoline's side, and under the shadow of her rose-silk and point lace parasol she could see for herself how shockingly he was changed. Her sister had not exaggerated. He was worn to a shadow ; his fair hair was streaked with grey ; his Jips were set in a tense expression of suffering— either physical or mental— perhaps both. His blue

eyes looked sunken and lustreless. Tb was scarcely to be believed that ten short months could have wrought such wreck. He talked little — his responses to their questions were monOvsyllabic. His eyes constantly waodeied away from uheir face's oO the passers-by. He had the look of a mau ever on the alert, ever on the watch — waiting and watching for someone he could not sec. MissHowaid had never seen him before, but from the depths of her heart she pitied him. Sorrow, such as rarely falls to the lot of man, hud fallen to this man, oho knew. He was discouragingly absent and dintrait. It came out by chance that the chief part of the past ben months had been spent by him in America. In America. Tli» listers exchanged glances. «V/ic was there, no doubt. Had they met.? was the thought of both. They reached the fashionable modiste's. •You will come in with us, Sir Victor,' Lady Portia commanded gayly. 'We all have business here, bub we will only detain you a moment. 1 He gave her his arm to the shop. It was large and elegant, and three or four deferential shop - women came forward to wait upon them and place seats. The victimised baronet, still listless and bored, sat down to waib and escort them back to the carriage before taking his departure. To be exhibited in the park was the farthest possible from his intention. Lady Portia's dress was displayed —a rose velvet, with point iace trimmings — and found fault with, of course. Lady Gwendoline and the Hon. Mary transacted their affaiis at, a little distance. For her elder ladyship tho train did not suit her, the bodice did not please her ; she gave her order- for Altering sharply and con-cit-ely. The deferential shop girl listened and wrote the dnection.s down on a card. When her patroness had finished she carried robe a- d card down the long room and called : 4 Miss Stuart !" A voice aiiswered— only one woid, ' Yes,' softly spoken, bub Sir Victor (Jathoron .started as i the had been shot. The long show-room lay in semi-twilight — tho gas not yet lit. lv thio twilight another girl advanced, took the rose-velvet robe and written caid. The light Hashed upon her figure and hair for one instant — then she disappeared. And Sir Victor? He sat like a man suddenly roused from a deep, long sleep He had nob seen the face ; he had caught but uglimp.se of the figure and head ; he had heud the voice speak bub one little word, ' Yes ;' but - Was he asleep or awake? Was ib only a delusion, as so many other fancied resemblances had been, or was it attor all — after allHe rose to his feet, that dazed look of a sleep-waluer, suddenly aroused, on his face. ' Now, then, Sir Victor,' tho sharp, clear voice of Lady Portia said, at his side, 'your maibydom is ended. Wo are ready to go.' He led her bo the carriage, assisted her and the young ladies in. how he excused himself — what incoherent words he said — he never knew. He was only conscious af tor a minute bhab the carriage had rolled away, and bhab he was stilt standing, '»ab in hand, on the side-walk in front of Madame Mirebeau's ; that the passers-by weie staring ab him, and bhab he was alone. * Mad !' Lady Portia said, shrugging her shoulders and touching her forehead. 'Mad as a March hare !' 'Mad?' Miss Howaid repeated softly. 'No, I don't think so. No& mad, only very, very miserable.' He replaced his hat and walked back to the shop-door. There reason, memory returned. What was he going in for? What should he say ? He stood still suddenly, as though gaxing ab the wax women in elegant ball costume, twinging slowly and smirkingly round and round. He had heard a voice— he had been a shapely head crowned with daik. silken hair — a tall, slender girl's figure—that was all. He had seen and heard such a hundred times since that fatal wedding evening, and when he had hunted them down, the illusion had vanished, and his lost love was as lost as ever. His lost Edith — hi-s biide, his darling, the w ifehehad loved and left -tor whom all those weary, endless months he had been seaiching and searching \ n vain. Was she living or dead ? Was she in London -in England— where ! He did nob know — no one knew. Since thatdaik, cold autumn morning when she had fled lrom Powyss PJaco she had never been seen or heard of. She had kept her word — she had taken nothing that was his — not a :ar thing. V\ herever she was, she might be htai ving to-day. He clenched his hands and teeth as he though b of it. 'Oh!' his passionate, despairing heart cried, 'let me find her — let me save her— and — let mo die !' He hdd scaichud for her everywhere, by night and by day. Money flowed like water— all in \ain. He went to New York — he found the people there he had once known, bub none of them could tell him anything of her 01 che Stuarts. TheStuattahad failed, weie utterly mined— it was understood that Mi- Nluait was dead — <t the others they knew nothing. He went bo Sandypoinb in search of her father. Mr Darrelt and his family had months, ago sold out and gone West. He could tine none of them ; h<i gave ib up at length and retu: ned to Eng! iiid. Ten months lad pas.-cd : many resemblances had beguiled him, bub to-day lOdith was as far oil, as lost as ever. The voice he had heard the likeness he had seen, would they prove false and empty too, and leave his heart moie bitttr than ever? What he would do when he found nor he did nob consider. He only wanted bo f find her-. His whole heart, and Jife. and soul were bound up in thab. He paced up and dou n in front of the shop; the day's work would be over presently and the work-women would come forth. Then be would «e O again tliia par bicular work- woman who had &eb his heart beating with hope thab turned him dizzy and f-ick. Six o'clock ! seven o'clock ! Would they never come ? Ye.s ; even as he thought it, half mad with impatience, the door opened and nearly a dozen girls riled forth. He drew his hat over his eyes, he kept a little in the shadow and watched them one by one with wildly eager eyes as they appeared. Four, five,' six, seven -she came ab last the eighth. The tall, slender figure, the waving, dark hair, he knew them ab once. Iho gaslight fell full upon her as <^l»e drew her veil over her face and walked rapidly away. Not, before he had seen it, not before he had lecognised ib — no shadow, no myth, no illusion this time. His wife— Edith. He caught- tho wall for support. For a moment the pavement beneath his. feet heaved, the starry sky spun rounrl. Then he started up, s'eadied himself by a mighty effort, and hurried'in pursuit. She had gained upon him over thirty yards. She was always a rapid walker, and ho was ailinjj and weak. Hi" heart throbbed now so thick and fa«h rhab every breath was a pain. He did nob gain upon her, he only kept her in sight. He would have known that quick, decided walk, the poise of the head and shouldets, anywhere. i He followed her as fast as his strength and the throng of pas*ers-by would let him, yet doing no more than keepingherwellinsight. Where Oxford-sbieeb nears Tottenham Court lioad she suddonly diverged and crossed over, turning into the lattercrowded thoroughfare. Still he followed. The

throng was even more dense here fchan in Oxford -street, to keep her in sight more difficult. For nearly ten minutes ho did it, then suddenly all strength left him. For a minute or two he felt as though he must fall. There was a spasm of the heart that was like a knife-thrust. He caught at a lamp post. He beckoned a passing hansom by asort of expiring eilorb. Thecabwhirled beside him ; he got in somehow, and fell back, blii.ded and dizzy, in the seat. ' Where to, sir V Cabby called twice before he received ag answer ; then ' Fenton's Hotel' came faintly to him irom his ghostly ldoking fare. The little aperture ar. the top was slammed down, and the hansom rattled of). 1 Blessed if I don't thing the young swell's drunk, or 'aving a fit,' thought the Cad, as he speeded his horse down Tottenham Court Road. To look for her further in his present state Sir Victor telt would be useless. He must get Lo his lodgings, get some brandy, and half-an-hour's timo to think what to do next. He had found her; she was alive, she was well, thank Heaven ! thank Heaven for that ! To-moi row would timl her again at Madam Mirebeau's at work with the rest. At work -her daily toil! He covered his wasted face with his wasted hands, and tears that were liko a woman's fell from him. He had been vvoali and worn out f or a long tirr.e— he ga\e way utterly, body and mind. now. 'My darling,' ho sobbed; 'my darling whom I would Hie to make happy — whose life 1 have utterly ruined. To think that while 1 spend wealth like water, you, should toil for a crust of broad — alone, poor, friendless, in this great city. How will 1 .answer to L^od and man for what I have dono V