CHAPTER XIII. MRS VAVASOR'S STORY.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 422, 23 November 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER XIII. MRS VAVASOR'S STORY.

Ib was out, and Gaston Dantree stood for a moment stunned, looking at the evil, smiling face of the speaker, and absolutely unable to reply. Then Mrs Vavasor laughed aloud : ' I don't believe it,' he said slowly. 1 You mean you don't want to believe it. It's not pleasant for a successful adventurer. Oh, don't be offended ; it's only the name commonplace people give other people cleverer than themselves. It's nob pleasant, I say, when the golden chalice ot fortune is at our lips to see a ruthless hand spill the wine of life at our feet. It isn'b pleasant for a handsome, dark-eyed Adonis, with the face of a god and the purse of a — pauper, to find the reputed daughter and' heiress of a wealthy baronet, whom he is going to mayry, as great a pauper as himself — greater, indeed, for she lacks the good looks that may yeb make your fortune, Mr Dantree. It isn'b pleasant, but ib is ! perfectly true. Sir John Dangerfield has imposed upon you — upon his rightful heir here, Mr Danger field, upon society — passing off a girl of whose parentage he is in most absolute ignorance, as his daughter. "Don't fly into a passion, Mr Dantree, as I see you are half inclined to do — at least noo with me. I'm not afraid of you, and I'm not to blame. If you don't believe me — bufc I see you do — come with me to Scarswood — Mr Dangerfield ond I are bound for the wedding — and be convinced from Sir John's own lips. My shawl, if you please, Mr Dangerfield — Sir Peter that is to be.' He took the rich Parisian wrap, and folded ib gallantly around her slim shoulders. Gaston Dantree still srood utterly confounded — a blank feeling of rage, and fury, and despair choking the passionate words he would have said. She looked at him, and laughed again : • Mon Dim ! he is like an incarnate thunder-cloud — black and ferocioas as a Levantine pirate, or an Alpine brigand. Cheer up, mon ami, we won't take your bride from you — only her fortune ; and ! what are a few thousands a year more or less, to euch a devoted lovei as you? And she would go with you to beggary. It makes ! a hardened woman of the world, like myself, absolutely young again to pee such gushing and beautiful devotion. I rather though t romance had gore oub of the fashion in this year of grace, and that it was only at Covenb Garden wo heard ot " bwo souls with but a single thought — two hearts that beab as one." Bub I have found oub my mistake, and think better of the world since I have known you. 'My bonnet, Mr Dangerfield — thanks. Now thon, messieurs — forward ! march ! 1 am entirely at your service.' She took .Peter Dangerfield's arm, looking backward over her shoulder at the black, marble figure of the bridegroom, like the smiling vixen she wag. • Come, Gaston, Inon brave,' she said ; 'though you lose a heiress, you need nob lose a bride. We will be but a few minutes late after all. Come away !' She ran lightly down the stairs, humming, with a face of malicious delight, • Hast,e to the Wedding.' • , The hour for which she had hungered and thirsted for years and years had come — the hour of her vengeance. ' Revenge is sweet — particularly to a woman,' singeth my Lord Byron, and he had hit truth as well as poebry when he said ib. A man somebimes spares his enemy— a woman will forgive a man sevenby bimes seven, bub one woman will spare another— never ! Gaston Dantree followed. His were set in an expression no one who beheld him this night had ever seen before ; his dark eyes were lurid vvibh rage, disappoinbmenb. and fury, his dusky face savage and set. All his presentments were fulfilled — more than fulfilled. At the worsb he had nob dreamed of anything half so bad as this. He believed what he had heard — there was that in Mrs Vavasor's face and voice, with all their malice, that showed she spoke the truth. For the second time he had been , foiled — in the very hour of his triumph. A I

demoniacal rage filled him — against this woman, against the baronet, against Katherine, against himself. ' What a dolt— what an ass I' have been !' he muttered, inaudibly, grinding his teeth ; ' what a laughing-stock I shall bo ! But, by Heaven ! If lam to los>e a fortune, Katherine Dangerfield shall lose a husband. It's one thing to risk Newgate for an heiress, but I'll see all the portionless adopted daughters this side of the infernal regions at the bottom of tho bottomless pit before I'll risk it for one of them !' And then Mr Dantree folded his arms in sullen silence, and lot things take their course. He knew thewor&t — he had put his fate to the test and lost it all. Nothing romained but to sco the play played out, to pack his trunk, and at once seek fresh fields and pastures new. The night was black as Erebus ; tho cold, cutting sleet still beat, the wind still blew. The street lamps flared and flickored in tho boughs of wind — the shops of the town were shut — lights twinkled pleasantly behind closed blinds. Mrs Vavasor sat behind him muflled in hex* wraps — a demoniacal desire to pitch her headlong out ot the trap was strong upon Mr Dantree. ' Lifctle devil !' he thought, looking at her savagely under cover of the darkness. ' She knew it all along and waited for this melo-dramatic climax. It's your turn now, ,Mrs Vavasor ; when the wheel revolves and mine comes, I'U remember this dark night's work !' Not one word was spoken until the lights of Scarswood came in sight. Oaston Dantree's heart was full of passionate bitterness, as the huge gate lamps hove in new. And to morrow all this might have been his". , 4 Curse the luck !' he thought. ' 1 might have known that blasted old harridan, Fortune, could have nothing so good in store for a step-son like me.' They whirled up under the frowning stone arch— up under the black, rocking trees. The whole long front of the old mansion was brilliant with illumination. The great portico entrance stood wide ; they saw Squire Talbot and Captain De Vere come out with anxious faces ; "they saw Miss Talbot in her white festal robes float down the black, oaken stairway. 4 All waiting for the bridegroom !' Mrs Vavasor said, with her habitual short laugh. ' Do you go forward, Mr Dangerfield, and relievo their anxiety. We follow.' Peter Dangerfield sprang up the steps — never in all his life before half so nimbly. And Edith Talbot flitted forward to him, smiling, but with an anxious quiver in her voice. ' Oh, come ye in peace, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal Lord Lochinvar ? Mr Dangerfield, ivhere is Mr Dantree ?' ' Mr Dantree is here.' He spoke very quietly, but what hidden delight gleamed in his small pale eyes ! If they only knew ! He stepped on one side, and Gaston Dantree and Mrs Vavasor stood revealed. One glance at the bridegroom's face, and blank silence fell. What had happened ? Surely never bridegroom, from Adam down, wore so black and gloomy a scowl on his wedding night ? Edith Talbot recoiled with clasped hands, her brother and ' the captain of the Plungers stood looking at him aghast. 1 By Jove, Dantree,' the gallant captain managed to stammer at last. ' You look awfully cut up, you know. What the deuce is the row ? Don't you know you're behind time, man, and — I say, old boy ! I hope nothing serious is the matter, you know?' ' Something serious ii> the matter,' Peter Dangerfield made answer gravely, for the gentleman addressed only scowled the more blackly ; • and we wish to see Sir John immediately. Mips Talbot, we are going to the library^— will you tell my uncle to join ~us there ? And' if you can keep Katherine out qf the way for the next halfhour, perhaps it will be as well.' He led ithe way to t^ie library, his two companions after him — Mr Dantree stalking along like a spectre. The vast and spacious library was brilliantly lit by a cluster of waxlights and the flicker of a dying fire. Shadows crouched darkly in the corners, and the bloody hand shone vividly in the escutcheon over the mantel. The long silken curtains were undrawn ; outeide by a faint lighting in the northern sUy, the tossing, wind-blown tree, the slanting sweep of the rain could be seen. Outside there was the uproar of the storm — inside dead ptillness reigned. Peter Dangerfield took a seat deep in the shadow of the vast Maltese window, and looked around the lofty and noble room as he had never looked before. The dark walls lined with books from coiling to floor, the busts, the bronzes, the pictures, and the heavy-carved old furniluie. One day all this would be his — one day — one day ! Theic was a luxurious fauteuil drawn up before the tiro ; into this Mrs Vavasor sank, throwing back her wet wrap. Mr Dantree stood neur, his elbow on the mantel, his dark angry eyes fixed on the fire, his mouth set under his black moustache, stern and grim. There was neither pity nor mercy in his heart for the girl who loved him. He had not been spared — why should he spare ? He had never loved her — he hated her in this hour. So he waited — how long he never knew — full of silent, sullen fury, all the more ; dangerous from this outward quiet. And then the door opened, and Sir John Dangerfield came in. If he had not known befoio he entered, he knew, the moment his eyes rested upon them, all that had happened. HLs secret was told — this woman had played him false. Peter Dangerfield knew he was heir-at-law — Gastou Dantree knew Katherine was hot his daughter. The murder was out. He drew a long breath — absolutely a breath of intense relief. He had dreaded this hour unutterably — he had'., stooped to deception — to, falsehood. rand bribery, 1 forthe first time in sail his brave life, to avert it ; and now that it had come, he thanked j Heaven. He could breathe freely and face his fellow men again— he could hold his head erect among his peers onco more. His great love had made him a coward — his life had been unspeakably miserable under the burdon of the secret he dared not tell. But another had told it in spite of him — he was free ! He flung back his head proudly, and walked into their midst with his firm, soldierly step and stately bearing, and stood directly opposite Gaston Dantree. The Southerner lifted his gloomy eyes, and the gaze of the two men met — steady, stern, unflinchingly. ' You are late, Mr Dantree,' the baronet said, coldly and briefly. 'You pay your bride a poor compliment by keeping her waiting on her bridal eve.' ' I greatly doubt, Sir John, whether there will bo either bride or bridal to-nighb. Certainly, before Miss Dangerfield— if there bo any such person — becomes Mrs Dantree, you will clear up a little statement of Mrs Vavasor's. She tells us the young lady you have palmed upon us as your daughter and heiress, is — ivho is Bhe, Sir John Dangerfield V The baronet turned his eyes for the first time upon the Jittle figure in tho armchair. ,

• You have broken faith with me, Harrieb | Harman. You took my money, and meant to betray me.' * 1 took your money and meant? to betray you ? Yes ! I would not have forfeited ray revenge for three times the money.' • I might have known it. Then you have told these two men — all ?' * I have told them nothing as yet, save the bare fact that Katherine is not your daughter. Mr Dan tree did me the honour to disbelieve me — it isn't for his interests, you gee, as it is for your nephew's, to believe it ; so I brought thorn here to relato the story in your presence. They can't very well refuse to credit it then, And, as I still trust, the wedding will go on,' with her mo3t satirical smile ; ' and as I don't wish to keep poor little Kathie waiting any longer than is absolutely necessary, I will begin at once. IE my memory fails me in any minor particular, Sir John, or if any of my statements are incorrect, you will be good enough to set me right. Messieurs Dantree and Dangertield, listen !' She folded her hands, looked into the ruddy coals, and began. 'It's so long ago— so long — so long — it makes one's hair grey only to look back. It'rf fifteen yoars, my hearers, since the express train from Rouen to Paris bore among its passengera one day a woman and a child — a little girl of two. They were very poor — very shabby, and travelled third class. By the same train travelled likewise, to Paris, an English officer, his lady, and little daughter, also aged two years or thereabouts. The English officer was under marching orders for India, and was going to sail with his interesting family in a very few days. * But man proposes — French railway trains sometimes dispose, and very unpleasantly. A cattle train icame along — there was a mistake somewhere, and worse — there was a collision. Crash ! crash !— away we went ! Something hit the poor woman, travelling third class, on the head, and she knew no more. • She opened her eyes next in a hospital, very weak, one great pain from head to foot, but quite conscious and likely to live. Her first question was for her child — dead or alive ! '"Alive," the gentle-faced sister of charity said, "and well, and uninjured; and, if I were willing to dispose of it in a fair way, to make its fortune for life." '"How?" I asked. 1 In this way : An English officer and his lady, travelling in the same unfortunate express train, bad had their child killed — j instantly by that terrible collision. The officer and his lady had escaped unhurt — they were wild with grief, but remembered j their fcllow-suflerers through it all. The baby was buried in Pe.ro, la, Chaise., poor angel ! and monsieur le officer and his lady came daily to the hospital to see their fellowsufferers. Here they had seen me, here they had been shown my child — scantily clad, thin, pale, half-fed — an object of compassion to gods and men. And its little, wan, pathetic, suffering, patient face went straight to that desolate spot in their hearts. I was very poor, what could I do with it? They would adopt it, bring it up as their own, give it their name, their love, and make an elegant English young lady of a little nameless, ragged waif and stray. ' I listened to all this — too weak to say much, and when next the English officer and his lady visited the hospital, heard them repeat the same arguments. My answer was ready : If they would give me two hundred pounds, cash down — I was very moderate — they might take the infant for good, to India or the North Pole, and do with her as they would. 4 My ready acquiescence, my businesslike way of putting things, rather took them aback — rather shocked the paternal instinct of my Englishman. He looked at roe with distrustful eyes and asked if I were really the child's mother. It would have been more politic, I dare say, to have said yes, but I couldn't cay ifc. I haled that child — I had bated its mother — and some of that hatred looked out of my eyes at him, and made him recoil. '"She's not my child," I said ; " I tell you the truth. She's not mine, but she belongs to me. Never mind how — never mind anything about her, except that you may take her if you like— on my terms. If you don't like them, no harm done—someone else will. Two hundred pounds down, good English gold, and take her away out of my sight. I'll never trouble you any more about her, and no one else will. Now do as you like." And then I shut my lips and my eyes and waited. ' The answer was what I expected — 'the mother had taken a fancy to the little one, and my Englishman only lived to gratify every fancy of his wife. They would pay the two hundred down, and would take the child. In India she and I were never likely to meet again. What was my name ? ' " Harriet Harman." ' That was the name I gave. Whether or no it were mine, is nobody's business here.' ' And the child's name — what was that ?' ' Harriet Harman, too. But if they meant to adopt her, they had better rechristen her — after the ittle cherub gone up aloft, for instance.' 'We closed the bargain. 1 gob the two hundred pounds and signed the receipt; I have it yet. I laughed as I sold the child, and got my price. It was the first instalment of my vengeance — this is the second. What would her mother say, I thought, if she could only have beon informed of this transaction. 1 They took the child away. I wanted her to shake hands with me, but she wouldn't. If you'll believe me, at two years old she wouldn't. And I hadn't treated her i badly. She clung to Mrs Dangerfield's j skirts, and wouldn't so much as look afc me. ' "Good-bye, then, ma petite," I said; *I don't mind the shake hands. Go to India and be happy. If we ever meet again, j perhaps you will think better of it, and shake hands again." ' My English officer and his lady came again, and again, and again to me, to induce me to speak and tell little Katherine's antecedents — (they named her Katherine at onr-e, after the little angel crushed to jelly.) Tbev offered me another hundred, and they coui.? illy spare it, but all the gold in the Bank of England would not have made mo open my lips until my own time came. I wouldn't tell, and I haven't told, and I don't mean to tell until I choose. ' Katherine Dangerfield's father and friends live, but who they are no power on earth ah all ever wring from me. ' They took her to India, and for fifteen years I lost eight of the little one. Bub it was not out of sight out of mmd — I never quite lost her. ' My life was a wandering one — a hard one often — but on the whole not an unpleasant one. I made money and spent money — I pitched my tent in every Continental city, and at last, one day in Pari.*, I picked up an English paper, and read there how Sir Everard Dangerfield, j of Scnrswood, sixth baronet of the name, was dead, and how Sir John Dangerfield, i late of Her Majesty's Honourable East India Company's service, had succeeded to the title and estates. Sir John and his only child, Miss Katherine Dangerfield, were expected in England by the first steamer. ' Here was news ! Here was a lift in ; the world for la petite, I made inquiries I about thia Scarswood Park ; I found ou

it had a rent-roll of eight thousand a year, strictly entailed to the nearest of kin, whether male or female ; I found out Sir John had a nophew in the place, who, lacking heirs on Sir John's pait, was heir-at-law ; 1 found out that the prevailing belief was that the young lady coming from India was really Sir John's daughter ; I found out that the death of the child in the French railway accident, fifteen years before, was a dead secret. Mis Dangerfield had died very soon after her arrival in India, and Sir John alone was the possessor of the secret, excepting always that he had not told missy herself. ' I read the English papers after that — your English papers that ehionicle everything your great men and your little men do. I read how Sir John and Mias Dangerfield had arrived, how they had gone down to Scarswood, how bells had rung, and bonfires blazed, and tenantry cheered, and old friends trooped to welcome them. They had liked Sir Everard, but Sir Everard was gone, and it was of cours9, " The king is dead — live the king." 'Sir John had taken possession, and'lset the detective police at work to find out what I wanted. I found it out, Deither missy herself nor any living being dreamed she was other than the baronet's daughter. 'My time had come — my fortune was made ; I wrote my baronet a letter ; I told him I was coming ; I bade him call me Mrs Vavasor. It's a pretty name, an aristocratic name, and I have retained it ever since. And as soon as ever I could raise the money, for it was one of my impoverished seasons, I took the train and started. 'That was last September. Miss Dangerfield had just met Mr Dantree, only three months ago ; but what would you ? We live in a rapid age.'a breathless age of steam and .electric telegraphs, and love no longer ilies on old-fashioned wings, but speeds along by lightning express. Miss Dangerfield was just seventeen — a feverish and impressionable age — of a susceptible and romantic turn of mind, superinduced by a surfeit of poetry and novels, and she meets a young man, well-dressed, wellmannered, and handsomer than anything out of a frame. He's only Gaston Dantree, a good singer and a penny-a-liner ; but in her roso-coloured imagination he is set up as a demi-god, and she falls down and worships him. It's the waj of her sex, and he takes all the worship as his right and due— the way of his sex — and keeps a bright lookout for. the eight thousand a year. * Well — I come. I find missy grown up tall, slim, spirited, proud, and not pretty. I find her like her mother, her mother whose memory I hate to-night, as I hated herself twenty years ago — I find her, like her mother, resolute, passionate, sellwilled, and utterly spoiled. She has no thought that she is other than she seems. She is in love, and determined to be married. Best of all, the man she loves is penniless, not the least in the world in love with her, only bent heart and soul on her fortune. Here is a glorious chance tor me! ' Miss Dangerfield, from the uplifted heights whereon petted heiresses dwell, does not deign to tolerate me. From the first she abhors me, and she is a good hater. She does not remember me, of course ; she doesn't know what good reason sho has to be an enemy, buo she hates me with an honest, open, hearty hatred that is absolutely refreshing. She snubs me upon every occasion — she implores her father to give me money if I want' it, and turn me out of doors. If I didn't owe her mother that old grudge I should be forced to owe her one on her own account. ' And Sir John does turn me out. Poor old soldier- it's a little hard on, him, He wants todo right — deception and secrecy are foreign to his nature — but how can he ? He idolises this girl ; it will half kill her he knows to hear the truth ; it will part her from her lover, break her heart, and make her hate Aim — unjustly, no doubt'; but when was ever a woman just? And he clings to his secret with desperate tenacity, and pays me ten thousand pounds to keep it inviolate, and bids me go and return no more. 'I take the money —whoever refuses money? — and I go, but to return. I go to Paris, ever-gracious, ever-fascinating Paris ; I enjoy myself and I wait. And in England meantime the lovers bill and coo, and the sword that hangs over their head, upheld by a single hair, they don't see. ' One week before the wedding-day I come quietly and unostentatiously to Castleford. I go to Peter Dangerfield in his lodgings ; poor Mr Peter, who doesn't dream he is wronged. I find him alone, gloomy and solitary this Christmas Eve, , while over at Scarswood waxlights burn, ' and yulefires blaze, and Mr Dantree kisses his bride-elecb under the mistletoe, and music and merriment reign. I find him 1 alone and very gloomy : he is thinking how \ this criel Katherine jilted him and called [ him a rickety dwarf — how a dreary life of legal labour lies before him, and Scarswood ! will go to Gaston Dantree and his children. He is thinking all this over bis bachelor glass of grog, when I appear before him like the fairy god-mother I am, and with one wave of my wand, Io ! all things change. The haughty heiress falls from her pedestal, and he becomes the heir ! Scarswood will be his and his alone when Sir John dies. Pearls and diamonds drop from my lips, and he promises in a burst of generosity that the ten thousand pounds reward I ask shall be gladly mine. 4 And the wedding nighb arrives, and we come out of the seclusion in which we have chosen to hide into the light of day. He goes for the bridegroom — he brings him to i me through nighfc, and storm, and darkness, and I tell him the truth. I tell him Katherine Dangerfield (so called) is no more your daughter, no more your heiress than I am : I tell him he has been grossly deceived from first to last. He does not) believe me—poor young man ; if is not a pleasant thing to believe. Then I bring him here again through nierht, and storm, and darkness, braving all things for the noble sake of truth, and I repeat before ydur face what I said behind your back, Sir John, and dare you deny it. I ippeai^ rhaft the. girl who' calls you father 'is no" more your daughter or heiress than — ' She stopped short and rpse up. Among the shadows at the lower end of the room a darker shadow flckered. A door had softly opened, a curtain had hidden the unseen listener until now. A white hand pushed back the drapery — a white face emerged into the light. It was the bride herself, in her shining robe, and orange wreath, and silvery veil, standing there and hearing every word. ( To be Continued. )

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