A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 436, 11 January 1890, Page 3

A Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING,

Author of “Guy Earlescourt’s Wife,” “A Terrible Secret,” “ Lost for a Woman,” 4 ‘ A Mad Marriage,” ete-

PART 11. CHAPTER I.— Continued. ‘Cecil,’ Lord Ruysland said, ‘ a word with you.' The opera and ball were over—they had arrived home, at the big, aristocratically gloomy mansion in Lowndes Square —ihe leaden casket which held this priceless koh-i-noor. Jt was the town house of Sir Peter Dangerfield, Baronet, of Sussex ot his lady rather —for Sir Peter rarely came to London in the season, and Lady Dangerfield s uncle, the earl, being altogether too poor to have a residence of his own, took up his abode with his niece. Lady Cecil stood with one slippered foot on the carpeted stair, paused at the com mand and its gravely authoritative tone. It was half-past four in the morning, and she had waltzed a great deal, but the pearly complexion was as pure, the brown eyes as softly lustrous as eight hours before. With her silks flowing, her roses and jewels, her fair, patrician face, she looked a charming vision. ‘You want me, papa ?’ she said in surprise. ‘ Certainly. What is it ?' ‘ Come this wav.’ He led the way to the drawing-room—-yet lit, but deserted —closed the door, and placed a chair for her. Still more sur prised she sat down. An interview at five in the morning ! What did it mean ? ‘ Cecil,’ he began, with perfect abruptness, ‘do you know Tregenna is on his way here ?’ • Papa !’ It was a sort of cry of dismay. Then she sat silent, looking at him aghast. ‘ Well, my dear, there is no occasion to wear that face of consternation—is there ? One would think I had announced the coming of an ogre, instead of the gallant gentleman whose wile you are to be. I had a letter from him last night. He is in Paris—he will be here, as I say, in a week. Will you read it? There is a message, of course, for you.’ He held it out to her. As she stretched forth her hand and took it she did not look at him. A faint flush, all unusual, had arisen to either cheek. She took it, but she did not read it - she twisted it through her lingers, her eyes still averted. Her father stood and looked at her curiously. I have described Raoul, Earl of Ruysland, have I not?—tall, thin, highbred, two keen grey eyes, a thin, cynical mouth, and long, slim hands and feet. ‘ The ingredients of human happiness,’ says M. Diderot, pithily, ‘ are a good digestion, a bad heart, and no conscience.’ The noble Earl of Ruysland possessed tlieingredientsof happiness in their fullest. He had never loved anybody in his life, except, perhaps, for a few months, a woman he had lost. He never hated anyone; he would not have put himself an inch out of the way to serve God or man ; he was perfectly civil to everybody he came across ; he had never lost his temper since the age of twenty. His manners were perfect, he passed for the most amiable of men, and—he had never done a good turn in his life. He had squandered two noble fortunes—his own and his wife’s, and he stood now, as Delamer had said, the poorest peer in Britain. He had been everywhere and knew everybody, and might have sung with Captain Morris :

In life I've rung all changes through, Run every pleasure down.’ At fifty-six every rood of land he owned was mortgaged, his daughter was portionless, and he was a dependent - nothing better —on the bounty of his niece’s rich husband, the Sussex baronet, Sir Peter Dangertield. Tney were a very old family, the Ruyslands, of course. The first had come over with Noah and the Ark, the second history mentions with William and the Conquest. And the one aim and object of Lord Ruysland’s life was to see his only daughter the bride of Sir Arthur Tregenna. ‘I have a word of warning to give you, Queenie,’ Lord Ruysland said, after that long pause ; ‘ it is this : Stop flirting.’ ‘ Papa !’ ‘You have made that remark already, my dear,’ the earl went on, placidly ; ‘ and there is no need for you to grow indignant. I suppose you won’t pretend to say you don't flirt! I’m not a tyrannical father, 1 think. I haven’t hitherto interfered with your pastimes in any way. You were born a coquette, poor child, and took to it as naturally as a duckling takes to water. Let me see,’ very carelessly this, but with a keen, sidelong glance— ‘ you tried your small weapon first on the Celtic heart of that fine young Irish lad, O’Donnell, some six years ago, and have been at it hard and fast ever since.’ ‘ Papa !’ She half rose, the colour vivid now on the clear, pale cheeks. * And again papa ! I speak the truth, do I not, my dear ? You are a coquette born, as I have said, and knowing you possessed of pride enough and common-sense enough to let no man one inch nearer than it was your will he should come, I have up to the present in no way interfered with your favourite sport. But the time has come to change all that.. Sir Arthur Tregenna is coming, and I warn you your customary amusement won’t do here. You have had your day—you may safely withdraw from the fray where you have been conqueress so long, and rest on your laureis,’ She rose up, and stood stately, and beautiful, and haughty before him. ‘ Papa, you speak as if Sir Tregenna had power, had authority over me. He has none—none. He has no claim—no shadow of claim upon m6.’ ‘ You mistake, Lady Cecil,’ the cool, keen, steel-grey eyes of the earl met the indignant brown ones full— ‘ or you forget Sir Arthur Tregenna is your affianced husband.’ ■* My affianced husband ! A man who has never spoken one word to me in his life beyond the most ordinary civilities of common acquaintance !’ ‘And whose fault is that, Queenie? Not his, poor fellow, certainly. Carry your mind back three years—to your first season —your presentation. He spent that season in London, only waiting for one word, one look of encouragement from you to speak. That word never came. You flirted

desperately with young Lennox, of the Scotch Grays, and when he proposed, threw him over. He exchanged into an Indian regiment, and was shot through the heart by a Sepoy bullet, just one week after he became Lord Glenallan. Not a pleasant recollection for you, I should think, Lady Cecil ; but as I said before, I don’t wish to reproach you. You are to marry Sir Arthur - that is as fixed as fate.’ And looking in his face, sho knew it. She sat back in her seat, and hid her face in her hands with a sob, more like a child than the bright, invincible La Heine Blanche. 4 Papa, you are unkind —you are cruel. I don’t caro for Sir Arthur; he doesn’t care for me.’ ‘ Who is to tell us that ? He will differ greatly from the most of his kind if he find the lesson a hard one to learn. And you don’t care for him ? My Lady Cecil, do you ever—have you ever realised what you are —an earl’s daughter and a—beggar?’ She did nob lift her face. He looked at her grimly, and went on : ‘ A beggar literally that without a farthing of allowance—without a roof you can call your own—without a penny of portion. Do you know, Lady Cecil, that I lost two thousand on this year’s Derby—my alt ? Learn it now at least. We sib here this June morning, Queenie, paupers —with title and name, and the best blood of the realm—paupers ! Sir Peter Dangerfield, the most pitiful little miser on earth, pays for the bread you eat, for the roof that shelters you, for the carriage you drive in, the opera box you sit in, the servants who wait upon you. He pays for them because the Salic law has exploded in England and he is under petticoat government. He is afraid of his wife, and his wife is your cousin. That pink silk and point-lace brimming you wear is excessively becoming, my dear ; imported from Worth, was it not? Take care of it, Queenie; there isn’t a farthing in the Ruysland exchequer to buyanother when that is worn. And I am—unkind, cruel. My dear, I shall never force you to call me that again. Don’t marry Sir Arthur Tregenna. You play very nicely, sing very nicely, draw very nicely, and waltz exquisitely—what is tohinderyou turningbhe accomplishmentsto account ? Earl’s daughters have been governesses before now, and may again. I advise you, though, to writeout your advertisement and send it to the “Times ” at once, while I have still a half guinea left for its insertion.’ He drew out his watch —a hunting watch, the case sparkling with diamonds ; ‘ I will not keep you up longer—it is nearly five o’clock.’ She rose to her feet and confronted him. The flush had all faded out. She was whiter than the roses in her hair. ‘ This is all true you have been telling me, papa? vVe are so poor, so dependent as this hopelessly and irretrievably ruined ?’ ‘ Hopelessly and irretrievably ruined.’ He spoke with perfect calmness. Ruined beyond all hope—ruin wrought by his own hand—and he faced her without falter or blanch. She stood a moment silent, her eyes fixed upon the letter—pale, proud, and cold. Then she spoke : ‘ What is it you wish me to do ?’ ‘ Sir Arthur Tregenna is worth thirty thousand a year. I wish you to marry Sir Arthur.’ ‘ What am Itodo ?’ she repeated, still proudly, still coldly. ‘He has never spoken one word to me, never written one word that even a vainer woman than I am could construe into love-making ; and as I am a pauper, and he worth thirty thousand a year, it is nob bo be supposed he marries me from interested motives. Does he say here,’ touching the letter ‘ that he wishes me to become his wife ?’ ‘ He does nob. But he is a man ot honour, and your name has long been linked with his. To have her name linked with that of any man compromises any woman, unless it end in marriage. He knows this. He is the soul of honour ; he is coming here with no other intention than that of asking you to be his wife.’ A flush of pain—of shame—of humiliation, passed over the exquisite face of the earl’s daughter. ‘ lb is rather hard on Sir Arthur that he should be obliged to marry me whether or no, and a little hard also on me. And this marriage will save you from ruin—will it, papa f ‘lt will save me from ruin—from disgrace—from exile for life. It will give me a h >me wherein to end my days ; it will make those last days happy. I desire it> more strongly than I desired anything in my life. I do nob deny, Cecil, that I have been reckless and prodigal; but all that is past and done with. I don’t want to see the daughter of whom I have been so proud—the toast of the clubs, the belle of the ball-rooms, the beauty of London—eating the bitter bread of dependence. Cecil, it is of no use struggling against destiny, and your destiny has written you down Lady Cecil Tregenna. When Sir Arthur speaks, your answer will be Yes.' ‘ It—will be Yes.

She said it with a sorb of gasp ! No young queen upon her throne had ever been proude** or purer, for all her flirting, than La Reine Blanche ; and what it cost her to make this concession, her own humbled soul alone knew. ‘Thank you, Queenie;’ her father drew her to him, and touched his lips to her cheek for perhaps the third time in their existence. ‘ You never disappointed me in your life ; I knew you would not now. It is the dearest desire of my heart, child. You will be the wealthiest woman in England. You have made me happy. Once more, thanks very much, and gcod-morn-ing.’ He threw open the door, bowed her out with most Chesterfieldan politeness, and watched the tall graceful figure, in its rose silk, its rich laces, its perfumed flowers, its gleaming jewels, from sight. Then he smiled to himself: ‘ “ It’s a very fine thing to be father-in-law To a very magnificent, three-tailed, bashaw.” ‘ She has promised, and all is safe. I know her well I know him well. The thumbscrews of the holy offieecould not make either break a pledge once given. Ah, my lady ! I wonder if you would have promised, even with penury staring you in the face, if you bad seen, as I did, Redmond O’Donnell looking at you at the opera ?’ Lady Cecil went slowly up to her rooms trailing her ball draperies after her, a violet and gold boudoir, a sleeping-room adjoining, all white and blue. And seated in the boudoir, still wearing her amber silk, her Spanish laces, and opals, sat the mistress of the mansion, Sir Peter Dangerfield’s wife.

‘What an endless age you have been, Queenie,’ Lady Dangertield said, peevishly. ‘ What on earth could Uncle Raou have to say to you at this blessed hour of morn ing ?’ Lady Cecil stood beside her, a touch of weariness on her pale face. *He told me Sir Arthur Tregenna was coming—would be here next week.’ ‘Ah !’ my lady said, looking at her quickly, ‘at last! To marry you, Queenie?’ She stood silent pained shamed humbled beyond expression. ‘You don’t speak, you look vexed. Queenie,’ with energy, ‘you don't mean to say—you never will be so silly—so stupidly silly—aß to refuse him if he asks r (

‘lf, he asks!’ Lady Cecil repeated with inexpressible bitterness. ‘Oh, Ginevra! don’t let us talk about it. lamto be sold, it seems, if this rich Cornishman chooses to buy me. What choice have lin the matter —what choice had you? We are like the lilies of the field, who toil nob neither do they spin—as fair, perhaps, and as useless. When our masters come for us we go—until then we run the round of Vanity Fair and wait. Ginevra, I wonder what it is like to be poor ?’ ‘ lb is like misery—it is like torture—it is like death !’ Lady Dangerfield burst out passionately. ‘ I was poor once, wretchedly, miserably poor, and I tell you I would rather die a thousand times than undergo penury again. You inv know how horrible poverty is, when it is more horrible than marrying Peter Dangerfield. I abhor both, bub I abhor poverty most. No need to look at mo like that, Queenie; I mean what I say. You never suppose I cared for that odious little monster, did you ?’ ‘ Ginevra,’ Lady Cecil said, falling back wearily into an easy chair, ‘ I begin to think they are right in those heathen countries—lndia—China—Japan —where is it—where they destroy female children as soon as they are born ? It is miserable, it is degrading, it is horrible the lives vve lead, the marriages we make. I hate myself, scorn myself to-night.’ Lady Dangerfield shrugged her shoulders. ‘ Strong language, my dear, and strong language is bad “form ” always. Has La Heme Blanche found her Darniey at last?’ ‘lf Mary, Queen of Scots, lived in these days, she would never have lost her great, brave heart to so poor a creature as Henry Darniey. No, Ginevra ; no Darniey exists for me. Men are all alike in eighteen hundred and sixty—all talk with the same drawl, all stare out of the same club windows, all part their hair down the mid le, and do nothing. Are you going ?’ ‘ Time to go at five o'clock, is it not ? I only stepped in here to tell you we go down to Scarswood in three days. Send for Desiree, Queenie, and go to bed. Even your complexion will not stand for ever such horribly late hours.’ And then, yawning very much, Lady D .ngerGeld went away to bed, and Lady Cecil was left alone.

It was late, certainly, bub the Earl of Ruysland’s daughter did not take her cousin’s advice and go to bed. On the contrary, she sat where she had left her for over an hour, never once moving —lost in thought. Then she slowly arose, crossed over to where a writingcase, all gold and ebony, stood upon an inlaid table, took a tiny golden key from her chatelaine and unlocked it. It contained many drawers. One of these she drew out. removed its contents and stood, with a smile half sad, gazing upon them. Relics evidently. A branch of clematis, dry and colourless, a short curl of dark, crisp hair, a pencil sketch of a frank, manly, boyish face, and a note—that was all. The note was yellow with time, the ink faded, and this is what it contained : •Dear Lady Cecill rode to Ballynahaggart yesterday, and got the book and the music 3ou wanted. I shall fetch them over when I come at the usual hour to-day. ‘ Respectfully, R.’ She read it over, still with that half-smile on her lips. ‘ “ When I come at the usual hour,” ’ she repeated, ‘arid lie never came. It was the strangest thing—l wonder at it to this day. It was so unlike papa to hurry off abruptly in that way—never even want to say goodbye. And I used to think—but I was only sixteen and a little fool. Still fools suffer, I suppose, as greatly as wiser people. Some of the old pain comes back now as I look at these things. How different he was from the men I meet now. When 1 read of Sir Lancelot and Sir Galahad I think of him. And lam to marry Sir Arthur Tregenna when it pleases Sir Arthur to do me the honour of taking me. I have kept my relics long enough—it is time I threw them out of the window.’ She made a step forward, as if to follow the word by the deed ; then stopped irresolute. ‘ As Sir Arthur ha? not asked me yet, Avhab can it matter ? As I have kept them so long, 1 will keep them until he does.’ She replaced them, and rang for her'maid. The French woman came, and Lady Cecil sat like a statue under her hands, being disrobed foi rest. But she was in the breakfast parlour a good half hour before either her father and cousin. She was looking over a book of sketches when Lady Dangerfield entered, looking at one iong, intently, wistfully—a sunrise on the sea. The baronet’s wife came up behind the earl’s daughter, and glanced over her shoulder. ‘ A pretty scene. Queenie, but nothing to make you wear that pen-ive face. Of what are you thinking so deeply, as you sit there and gaze ?’ Lady Cecil lifted her dreamy eyes. ‘Of Ireland. I have often seen the sun rise out of the sea like this, on the Ulster coast. And I was thinking of the days, Ginevra, that can never come again.’ (To be Continued.)