A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 438, 18 January 1890, Page 3

A Wonderful Woman.

, Bt.MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author-of “Guy Earlescourt’a Wife,” “A Terrible Secret,” “ Lost for a Woman,” “A Mad Marriage,” ©tcBOOK 11. CHAPTER 11. MISS lIEKNCASTLK. * Gixevra,’ Lord Ruysland said, in his blandest tone, and all his tones were bland, ‘how soon do we go down to Sussex? I say we, of course; for impoverished mendicants like myselt and Cecil must throw ourselves on the bounty of our more fortunate relatives, until our empty coffers are replenished. How soon do we go next week ?’ * Next Monday,’ responded Lady JDangerfield; ‘in three days. Sir Peter writes me, I Scarswood has been rejuvenated, re-hung, re-carpeted, re-furnished, and quite ready. We go on Monday; very many have gone already. Parliament closes so delightfully early this year. I don’t to go into ecstasies over the country, like Cecil heie, for instance; but really, London is not habitable after the last week of June.’ *Ah ! next Monday—so soon ? Then we shall not meet Tregenna in town, as I had supposed? Still—Ginevra, I write to Sir Arthur Tregenna to day—you remember Tregenna, of course. He is in Paris at present, and on his way to ?« ; may I trespass so far upon your hospitality, my dear, as to invite him to Scarswood ?’ They were still seated, a family party of three, around the breakfast table. Lady Dangerfield glanced across at her cousin. Lady Cecil sat listlessly back in her chair, offering her little curly King Charles a chicken wing; she held the titbit temptingly over Bijou’s wrinkled nose, now laughing, as he leaped up angrily, while all his tiny silver bells rang, not once lifting her eyes. * Certainly, Uncle Raoul, invite him by all means. Scarswood is big enough to hold even the great Cornish baronet. I remember Sir Arthur very v/ell; indeed I was mortally afraid of him in those frivolous by-gone days and thought him a horrid prig ; bub of course that was all my lack of judgment. Present my compliments and remembrances, and say we shall be delighted to see him at Sussex.’ 4 Thanks, my dear; I knew I might count upon you. Sir Peter, now—’ ‘ Sir Peter will do precisely as I see fit,’ Sir Peter’s Wife answered, decisively; ‘let Sir Peter keep to his beetles and butterflies. Hid you know his latest hobby was turning naturalist, and impaling horribly crawling things upon pins ? Let him keep to the beetles, and leave the amenities of civilised life to civilized beings. Queenie, do let Bijou alone; his bells and his barking agonize my poor nerves. Have you no message bo send to Sir Arthur ?’ * I think nob. Take your chicken, Bijou, and run away with Tompkins for your morning airing in the square. Half-past twelve. Ginevra, do we dress for the flower show at Cheswick, or the happy party at Kew ?’

‘ The morning party at Kew. I promised Lady Chantilly not to fail her a week ago. Bub first, Cecil, the children’s governess comes to-day, and I want you to see her and help me decide. I advertised, as you know, and out of the troops of applicants, this one—what’s her name again ?—Miss Herncastle—seems to suit me best. And her terms are so moderate, and she plays so very nicely, and her manner is so quiet, and everything,- that I as good as told her yesterday that I would take her. She comes at two for her final answer, and I should like you to tell me what you think of her.’ * And I shall go and write my letter—your compliments and kind remembrances, Ginevra, and a cordial invitation to Scarswood from Sir Peter and yourself. And you tell me Sir Peter has become a naturalist ? Ah ! poor, little Sir Peter !’ And, with a smile on his lip and a sneer in his eye, the Earl of Ruysland arose and wended his way to his study.

Poor little Sir Peter, indeed ! Within nine months of his accession to the throne of Scarswood, Sir Peter Dangerfield, Baronet, had led to the ‘ hymeneal altar,' as the * Morning Post’ told you, Ginevra, only surviving daughter of the late Honorable Thomas Clive, and relict of Cosmo Dalrymple, Esq. She was a niece of the Earl of Ruysland, she was polite, plump, pretty, poor; she was nine-and-twenty; she had twin daughters, and not a farthing to bless herself with. Ac the mature age of twenty-four she had eloped with a clerk in the Treasury, three years younger than herself, a name as old as her own, a purse as empty, and they were cast off at once and forever by their families on both sides. Their united fortunes kept them in Paris until the honeymoon ended, and then Poverty stalked grimly in at the door, and Love flew out of the window in disgust, and never came back. They starved and they grubbed in every Continental city and cheap watering-place ; they bickered, they quarrelled, they reproached and recriminated ; and one dark and desperate night, just five years after his love match, Cosmo Dalrymple, Esquire, stirred half an ounce or so of laudanum into his absinthe, and wound up his chapter of the story. Mrs Dalrymple and the twins, two blackeyed dolls of four, came back to England in weeds and woe, and the paternal roof opened once more to receive her. Very subdued, soft of voice, gentle of manner, and monstrously pretty in her widow’s cap and crapes, little Mrs Dalrymple chanced one day, at a water party in the neighbourhood, bo meet the Sussex baronet, Sir Peter Dangerfield. Is there a destiny in those things that shape our ends without volition of our own ?—or is it that we all must play the fool once at least in our lives? Sir Peter saw—and fell in love. Before Mrs Dalrymple had been twelve months a widow, she was again a wife. Five years of married life, and living by her wits, had sharpened those wits to an uncommon degree. She read the baronet like a book. He was a miser to the core, mean beyond all ordinary meanness, half anonkey, half tiger in his nature ; and her plumpness, ard her prettiness, her round, black eyes, her faltering voice, and timid manner did their work. He fell in love, and before the first fever of that hot fancy had tinie to cool, had made her Lady Dangerfield, and himself-miserable for life. She was nothing that he thought her, and everything that he thought her not. She was a vixen, a Kate whom no earthly Petrucillo could tame. She despised him ; she was master and mistress both ; she flirted, she squandered his.mohey like water—what 4id she. not do ? And the twins, kept in the background in the halcyon-days of courtship, were all at once brought forward, the •blank /rocks 5 flung aside, gay tartans, {muslins.; -and silks bought, and a governess engaged: Scar Woad was thrown -open to the country; u a-house in Mayfair leased, parties, dinners, concerts, operas—the whole round of fashionable

life run. And her poor relatives fixed upon him like barnacles on a boat. The Earl of Ruysland made his houses, his horses, his servants, his cook, his banker, his own, without a thought of gratitude, a word of thanks. His wife sneered at him, her high-tilted relatives ignored him, men backballed him at their clubs, and the milk of human kindness turned to buttermilk in his

breast. He became a misanthrope, and buried himsalf down at Scarswood, did humbly as his lady ordered him, and took, as you have heard her say, to impaling butterflies on pins. If our fellow creatures are bo torture us, it is some compensation to torture, in our turn, bugs and beetles, if nothing better offers. Lady Cecil came sweeping downstairs presently—tall, and slim, and white as a lily. Her Indian muslin, with its soft' lace trimmings, trailed in fleecy clouds behind her—all her lovely hazel hair hung half-curled in a rich bronze mass over the pearly shoulders. A Mechlin scarf hung about her more like drapery than a shawl ; and a bonnet, a marvel of Parisian handicraft, half pointlace, half lilies of the valley, crowned her exquisite, gold-hued head. The drawing-room was deserted—Lady Dangerfield was not yet down. Lady Cecil was two-and-twenty, Lady Dangerfield five-and-thirty andfor every ben minutes wespend before the glass at twenty, we spend an hour on the wrong side of thirty. She took a book and sank down among the amber satin cushions of a dormeuse near the open window, and began to read. So she had sat, a charming vision, for upward of halfan hour, when her cousin, in pale flowing silks, youthful and elegant, floated in. ‘Havel kept you waiting, Queenie? But that tiresome Delphine has no more eye for colour or effect than—’

‘ Miss Herncastle, my lady,’ Soames, the footman, interrupted. And my lady stopped short and whirled around. ‘ Ah, yes—l had forgotten. Will you take a seat for a moment, Miss Herncastle? I was really in such a hurry yesterday, when I saw you, that I had no time to speak of anything but terms. We are overdue as it is, but—l think you told me you never were governess before ?’ ‘ I never was, my lady.’ Only five short words, bub Lady Cecil laid down her book and looked up surprised into sudden interest. It was such a sweet voice—so deep, so clear, so musical in its timbre. She looked up and saw a tall, a very tall young woman, dressed in plain dark colours sink into the seat Lady Dangerfield had indicated by a wave of her pearl-gloved hand. ‘ Then may I beg bo know what you did do ? You are not, excuse me, very young—-seven-and-twenty now, I should think ?’ * No, my lady; three-and-twenty.’ ‘Ah ! three-and-twenby, and going out as a governess for the first time. Pray what were you before ?’ Lady Cecil shrank a little as she listened. Ginevra went to work for the prosecution in so deliberate, so cold-blooded a manner. She looked at the governess and thought, more and more interested, what a singular face it was. Handsome it was not—never had been—but some indescribable fascination held Lady Cecil's gaze fast. The eyes were dark, cold, brilliant; the eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair of jetty blackness ; the face like marble—literally like marble—as changeless, as colourless, locked in as passionless calm. * A strange face—an interesting face,’ Lady Cecil thought; ‘ the face, if lam any judge, of a woman who has suffered greatly, and learned to endure. A face that hides a history.' ‘ I was a music teacher,’ the low, melodious, even tones of Miss Herncastle made answer; ‘ I gave lessons when I could get pupils. But pupils in London are difficult to get. I saw your advertisement in the “ Times,” for a nursery governess, and I applied.’ : ‘ And you are willing to accept the terms I offered yesterday?’ The terms were so small that Lady Dangerfield was absolutely ashamed to name them before her cousin. At heart, and where her own gratification was not concerned, she was as great a miser as Sir j Peter himself.

‘I will accept your terms, my lady. Salary is not so much an object with me as a home.’ ‘ Indeed ! You have none of your own, I presume ?’ * I have none, my lady.’ She made the answer quite calmly, neither face nor voice altering. ‘ You are an orphan ?’ * I am an orphan.'’ ‘ Well,’ Lady Dangerfield said, 4 your recommendations are certainly unobjectionable, and I don’t see why you would not suit. Just open the piano, Miss Herncastle, and play some little thing that I may judge of your touch and execution. If there be one thing I wish you particularly to attend to, it is my children’s music and accent. You speak French ?’ ‘ Yes, my lady.’ ‘ And sing ?’ There was an instant’s hesitation—then the reply came: ‘ No, madame, I do not sing.’ 4 That is unfortunate. Play, however.’ She obeyed at once. She played from memory, and chose an air of Schubert’s—a little thing, but sweet and pathetic, as it is the nature of Schubert’s music to be. It was a favourite of Lady Cecil’s as it chanced, but never bad the pearl keys, under her Angers, spoke in music a story half so plaintive, half so pathetic as this. The slanting June sunlight fell full upon the face of the player—that fixed, dusk, emotionless face, with its changeless pallor; and, more and more interested, Lady Cecil half rose on her elbow to look. ‘ That will do,’ Genevra said graciously ; ‘that’s a simple melody, but you play it quite prettily. Cecil, love, what do you think ? Miss Herncasblo will suit very well, will she not ?’

* I think Miss Herncastle quite capable of teaching music to pupils double the age of Pearl and Pansy,’ replied Lady Cecil, decidedly. ‘ Miss Herncastle, is it possible you do nob sing ? You have the fac6 of asinger.’ Up to this moment Miss Herncastle had not been aware a third person was present. She turned to Lady Cecil , and the large electric eyes, so dark under their black lashes, met the soft hazel ones full. ‘ I do not sing.’ 4 Then I have mistaken a singing face for the first time. Ginevra, I don’t wish to hurry you, but if we go at all—- ‘ Good Heavens ! yes !’ cried Lady Dangerfield, glancing in sudden hurry at her watch. ‘ We shall be frightfully late, and I promised Lady Chantilly—Miss Herncastle, I forgot to ask—do you object to the country ?’ • * On the contrary, I prefer it.’ * Very well, then ; the sooner you come the better. We go down to our place in Sussex next week—you will find your pupils there. Suppose you come to-night —you will be of use to me in the intermediate days:’ * i will come to-night, my lady, if you wish it.’ ‘Tonight, then. Soames, show Miss Herncastle out. Now then, Queenie.’ 1 ‘And what’s your opinion of the governess ? What are you thinking of as you

lie back in that pretty attitude, with your eyes half closed, Lady Cecil Clive ? Are you really thinking ? or is it only to show the length of your eyelashes ?’ Lady Cecil looked up. They were rolling along as fast as two high-stepping roans could carry them, Kew-ward. ‘ I was really thinking, Ginevra—thinking of your governess.’ ‘ You do my governess too much honour.

hat were your thoughts of her. pray ?’ ‘ There is something strange about her—something quite out of the usual governess line. It is an odd face—a striking face—a face full of character. It has haunted me ever since I saw it—so calm, so still, so fixed in one expression. That woman has a history.’ * Really, then, I shall countermand my consent. I don’t want a nursery governess with a history. Whan an imagination you have, Cecil, and what awful nonsense you talk ! A striking face ! —yes, if you like, in its plainness.’ ‘ I don’t think it plain.’ * Perhaps you do think it pretty ?’ ‘ No ; pretty is a word I should never apply to Miss Herncastle. Herncastle ! —a sounding appellation. Whom have I seen before that she resembles ?’ ‘For pity’s sake, Queenie, talk of something else. Suppose, when you get down to Scarswood, you turn biographer, and write out my new nursery governess history, from her own dictation. J daresay she’s the daughter of some Cheapside grocer, with a complexion like Per father’s tallow candles, and whosepiano-playing and French accent were acquired within the sound of Bow Bells. Queenie —’ abruptly —‘ I wonder if Major Frankland will bo at Kew to-day?’. Lady Cecil looked grave. ‘ I don’t like him, Ginevra—l don’t like the way he behaves with you—oh, yes, Ginevra, I will say it—nor the way you behave with him.’

4 And why ? How do Major Frankland and my lowly self behave ?’ ‘You hardly need to ask that question, I think. You flirted with him when you were fifteen, by your own showing ; you flirted with him in the first year of your widowhood, and you flirt most openly with him now that you are a wife.* Ginevra,’ with energy, ‘ a married flirt is in my opinion the most despicable character on earth.’ ‘An opinion which, coming from my Lady Cecil Clive, of all people, should have weight. Isn’t there an adage about set ting a thief to catch a thief? How true those old saws are. Yfeu don’t mean to flirt, I suppose, when you are married ?’ 1 Don’t look so scornful, Ginevra—no—l don’t. If ever I marry—what are you laughing at ? Well, when Ido marry, then —I hope—l trust—l feel that I shall respect and—and love my husband, and treasure his name and honour as sacredly as my own soul.’ * Meaning, I suppose, Sir Arthur Tregenna ?’ ‘ Meaning Sir Arthur Tregenna, if you like. If I ever become the wife of Sir Arthur, I shall never let any living man talk to me, look at me, act to me, as that odious, bearded, sleepy-eyed ex-Canadian major does toward you. Don’t be angry, Ginevra dear ; I mean this for your good.’ ‘No doubt. One’s friends are always personal and disagreeable and prosy for one’s good. At the same time I am quite old enough to take care of myself.’ ‘ Ah, Ginevra, age does not always bring wisdom. And Sir Feter is jealous—poor little Sir Peter ! It is unkind, it is a shame ; you bury that poor little man alive down there, and you dance, and walk, and flirt with Frankland. I say again, it is a shame.’ Lady Dangerfield leaned back in the barouche and laughed—laughed absolutely until the tears started. ‘ You precious Queenie—you Diogenes in India muslin and Limerick lace ! That poor little Sir Peter, indeed ! and Miss Herncastle, too ! all low and abject things find favour in the sight of Lady Cecil Clive. Sir Peter, as if I cared what that odious little, wizen-faced butterfly-hunting imbecile thought ! Major Frankland is one of my oldest, one of my dearest friends, with whom I shall be friendly just as long as I please, in spite of all the husbands alive. And to think of a sermon from you—from you , the most notorious flirt in London—on flirting ! And Solomon says there is nothing new under the sun !’ Lady Cecil made a restless movement, and under the white f ringe of her parasol | her fair face flushed. I

‘Ginevra, lam sick—sick of having myself called that. And lam nob a flirt, in your sense of the word. I- don’t lean on men to gratify my own pretty vanity, to Bwell the list of a vain empty-headed, empty-hearted woman of the world’s triumphs. I only like to have people like me—admire me, if you will; and when gentlemen are pleasant and dance well, and balk well. I can’t bo frigid and formal, and balk to them on stilts. It’s they who are stupid—moths who will rush into the candle and singe their wings, do what you will. The warning is up, ‘ dangerous ground,’ but they won’t be warned. They think the quicksand that has let so many through will hold them. They are not content with one’s friend —they must be one’s lover. And then when one is sorry, and says “no,” they rush off to Spibzbergen, or Spanish America, or Central Africa, and one is called heartless, and a coquette. It’s my misfortune, Ginevra. nob my fault.’ Again Ginevra laughed. ‘My dear, what eloquence! Why weren’t you Lord, instead of Lady Cecil Clive?—you might take your seat in the House, and amaze that noble and prosy body by your brilliant oratory. Queenie, answer me this—truly now—were you ever In love in your life ?’ Under the white fringe of that silken screen, her parasol, once more that delicate carnation flushed all the fair ‘ flower face ’ of La Heine Blanche. But she laughed. ‘ That is tvhat lawyers call a leading question, isn’t it, Ginevra ? Who falls in love in these latter days? We talk of settlements instead of turning periods to our lover’s eyes ; we go to St. George’s, Hanover,Square, if an eligible parti asks us to accompany him there; but as for getting up a grande passion—not to. be thought of—bad style and obsolete. Somebody says in Coningsby, “ passions .were! not made for the drawing-room,” and 1 agree with that,somebody. I don’t mean to be cynical; Ginevra-—I only state plain facts, and pity ’tis ’bis true.’ Lady Chantilly’s morning party was doubly pleaisanb for being about the last of the season, and Major Frankland teas there. He was a tall military swell, with heavy blonde mustache, sleepy, cat-like eyes, a drawl, aud an eye-glass. It seemed the most natural tiling imaginable that Lady . Dangerfield should receive her Neapolitan ice from his hand, and that he should lean over. her. chair and whisper in her pretty pink ear while she ate it. ‘ .We always, return to our first loves, don’t we, Lady. Cecil ?’laughed the Honorable Charles Delamer, of the F. 0., eating his ice, and taking his seat by the side of Lord Ruysland’s daughter,. ‘as faithful as the needle to the north’star is old Frankland to the idol of his youth. Apropos of first loves, Lady ; Cecil,’ looking up artlessly, ‘ whom do you suppose I met at her Majesty’s last night ?’

• The Honorable Charles, one of the ) ‘ fastest,’ most reckless young fellows about • town, had two blue eyes as soft and innocent as the eves of a month-old babe, though how Mr Pelamei\ preserved even the outward semblanceof in'nocenceat eighb-and-twenty it would be difficult to say. Lady Cecil. laughed. She liked Charlie for this good reason, that he had never fallen in love with her. ‘Not being a clairvoyant I cannot say. You must have.met a great many people I should think. I know you never came near our box.’ ‘No,’Mr Delamer said, ‘I did nob visit your box. He wouldn’t come.’ ‘ Who wouldn’t come ? Name this contumacious subject.’ ‘O’Donnell.’ ‘ Who ?’ suddenly and sharply she asked the question. Who?’ ‘O’Donnell —Captain Redmond O’Donnell, of the Third Chasseurs d’Afrique— Le Beau Chasseur, , as they call him—and the best fellow the sun shines on.’ She was always pale as a lily— La Heine Blanche —was she really paler than usual now ? Charlie Delamer wondered. Was it only the shadow of the white parasol, or— There was a pause —only for a ' moment, but how long it. seemed. Coote and Tinney’s band discoursed sweet music, fountains flashed, birds sang, flowers bloomed, June sunshine steeped all in gold, and under the leafy branches Lady Dangerfield was strolling on the arm of Major Fi auk land. Air Delamer, just a thought startled, spoke again. ‘ You know O’Donneli, don’t you ? In Ireland, was it ? I think he said so last night.’ * Yes—l know—l mean I knew Captain O’Donnell slightly once. It is over six years ago though—l should have thought he would have quite forgotten the circumstance by this time.’ ‘ Men who have been so fortunate as to know La Reine Blanche don’t forget her so easily. Since you honor him by your remembrance, it is hardly strange if he recollects you' ‘lf I remember him!—Mr Delamer, Redmond O’Donnell saved my life !’ Saved your life ! By Jove ! the lucky fellow. Bub these dashing, long-sword, saddle-bridle Irishmen are always lucky. And the fellow said his acquaintance was buttrifling.’ Lady Cecil laughed—not quite so musically as usual. ‘ Trifling ! Perhaps Captain O’Donnell rated his service at the valuation, of the thing saved ! And he is in England. How curious. I fancied him—soldier of fortune—free lance that he is !—for life out there in Algiers.’ ‘He goes back shortly. He is a born fighter, and comes of a soldierly race. The O’Donnells have been soldiers of fortune for the last three hundred years, and asked no fairer fate. He leaves England 30on, places his sister with some friends in France and goes back.' * His sister !—the Rose, of whom he used to speak—or whom he was so fond ?’ ‘ Yes ; I heard him call her Rose.’ ‘Yfeu heard him! She is here then? And what is she like? Redmond O’Donnell’s sister ’ —with a little laugh— * ought .bo be pretty.’ ‘ Well, she is not—at least not now. She appears to be under a cloud—sickness, trouble, something—didn’t talk much—looks sad and sombre, and is a brunette, ' with blue eyes. She is just from New' i Orleans—her brother went for her. I ! called there immediately before I came here, and O’Donnell dines with me this 1 evening. What a prince of good fellows < he was out yonder in Algiers, and the devil’s own to fight. He won his way ] straight up from the ranks with his sword. And he saved your life ! How was it, Lady i Cecil ?’ 1

‘ Much too-long a story for a morning party, with the thermometer at 90 degrees. There is Madame de Villafleur beckoning—is she nob?’ * She is. Permit me, Lady Cecil.’ And taking Mr Delamer’s proffered arm, Lady Cecil sauntered over to Madame la Comtesse de Villafleur. The rose light of the summer sunset was just merging into starry dusk as the baronet’s wife and earl’s daughter drove back to Lowndes Square. Lady Dangerfield was in excellent spirits—evidently Major Frankland had been entertaining—and talked incessantly the way home ; but Lady Cecil lay back among the barouche cushions, paler, graver, more silent than was her wont. She had been very much admired, as usual; she had held her court of adorers, also, as usual ; but now that it was over, she looked wan, spiritless, and bored. ‘ And he is in England—in London !’ she was thinking. ‘He was at the opera last night and saw me ! And it was not worth while renewing so slight an acquaintance! To think—to think’ —she set her pearly teeth hard— * to think that after all those hard years I should not yet have outlived that sentimental folly of so long ago !’ ‘ How stupid you are, Queenie !’ her cousin said, pettishly, as they neared home. ‘ I believe you have nob spoken two words since we loft Kew ; and now that I have asked you twice if you saw Chandos Howard playing lawn billiards with Lady Charlotte Lansing, you only answer is, ‘Yes, dear, very pretty indeed !’ It is to be hoped you will recover the use of your tongue and your senses before you appear at Carlton Terrace to-night.’ With which reproach Lady Dangerfield gob out and went up the steps of her own aristocratic mansion.

Soames, the footman, flung open the drawing-room door, but Lady Cecil did not enter. She toiled wearily up bo her own apartment, threw off her bonnet and scarf, as if even their weight oppressed her. and crossing to the gold and ebony writingdesk, unlocked it, and took her treasured relics out.once more. ’ ’ ‘ I do nob need you to remind me of my folly any longer,’ she said, looking at them. ‘ I will do now what I should have done this morning.’., , The faintly sighing.’ 1 evening wind fluttered the’ lace curtains of the open window. 1 She walked to it, gazed > for a moment at the pictured face, set her lips, and deliberately tore up into minutest fragments the note and the picture. The summer breeze whirled them off in an instant, the spray of clematis and the dark curl of hair followed, and then Lady Cecil rang for her maid, and dressed for the evening. • ' : -

‘They, say—those wiseacres who make books—that every life has its romance. • I suppose they are right, and so tor ever has ended mine. Nob the white satin to-night, Desiree—the blue silk and turquoise ornaments, I think.’ ‘‘ . . : , , ! • • ?: At half-past eleven that night—and when had the phenomenon occurred before?— the Earl of Ruysland returned to his niece’s house. He had written and despatched his letter, and though Lady Cecil had sent no message to Sir Arthur Tregenna, the letter contained a most encouraging and flattering one. He had dined at his club, he_had ’indulged in chicken hazard for an hour, and at half; past eleven stood in the moonlight at Lady Dangerfield’s door. He had been up, as you know, until half-

past five the preceding day,’ and on the wintry side of fifty, late hours and dissipation tell. ; / r * I think I will give up London . life,’ he said to himself ; 1 and devote myself to, growing old gracefully. Let me accomplish this marriage, pay my debts, and with replenished coffers, and a rejuvenated reputation, betake myself to pleasant Continental Spas and Badens, and live happy for,ever after. Ah, Soames ! my lady and Lady Cecil departed yet for the ball ?’ ‘Not yet, me lord —dressing, me lord carriage has just been ordered round, me* lord.’ i(‘"j . 1 < 1: hr .

Lord Ruysland ascended to the silent magnificence of the long drawing-rooms. There Were three, opening one into the other, in a brilliant vista of velvet carpet, lace draperies, or molu, and satin upholstery. They were deserted now, and the gas unlit. The range of windows, seven in number, stood wide open, and the silvery light of the resplendent June moon poured in. ‘ Silence and solitude,’ muttered the earl.' ‘Why the deuce are they all in the dark ? Aw ! very pretty, indeed, brilliant moon, and a cloudless sky—one might fancy it Venice instead of smoky, foggy, dingy London. He paused. The rooms were not deserted, it would seem, after all. Out of the lace and amber curtains of the seventh and farthest window', a figure emerged and approached him. The earl’s eyes turned from that crystal moon, and fixed expectantly on the advancing figure—the figure of a woman. Who was it ? Not a servant, surely, with that slow and stately tread, that assured air. Not little Lady Dangerfield—this figure was tall ; not Lady Cecil either—even she must have stood a full head shorter than this woman. Who was it?

The long drawing-room lay in alternate strips of darkness and light. The shadows hid her for a moment, she emerged into the nioonrays again, and again disappeared. Who was she—this tall, magnificently proportioned woman, in dark,' sweeping drapery, with that majestic stateliness of mien and walk ? She bad not seen him. For the fourth time she came into the light, then the darkness took her—a fifth time she appeared, a sixth, and then she beheld the earl standing curious, expectant, watching. She stopped short—the moonlight fell upon her face —pale and calm. And the Earl of Ruysland, who for the last thirty years had outlived every phase of human emotion, uttered a low, wordless cry, and fell slowly back. The sound of that startled cry, low as it was, reached her ear. The woman in the moonlight came a step nearer and spoke : ‘ I beg your pardon. I should nob have intruded, but I thought these rooms were quite deserted.’ What a sweet voice it was ! Its tones lingered pleasantly on the ear, like the low notes of a flute.

Her words broke the spell that 'held the earl. His eyes had been fixed with a sort of fascination on her lace a look of startled wonder on his own. And Raoul, Earl of Ruysland, was not easily startled. He drew a long breath and stood aside to let her pass. ‘lt is I who should apologise,’ he said, with the courtly deference to all women that long habit had made second nature, ‘ for startling you in so absurd a manner. I laboured under the same delusion as yourself. I fancied these rooms forsaken. Soames ! lights immediately !’ The tall footman set the chandeliers ablaze and closed the curtains. But the dark-draped lady had vanished. ‘ Who was that ?’ the earl asked carelessly ; ‘ a visitor ?’ ' ‘ The gov’ness, me lord. Me lady’s new nuss’ry gov’ness. Came two hours ago, me lord, which her name ib’3 Miss Herncasbie.’ ‘ls the carriage waiting, Soames?’ inquired my lady, sailing in a sea of green silk and tulle illusion, illuminated with emeralds. ‘ You, Uncle Raoul; and at half-past seven ! What miracle will happen next ? You don’t mean to say you are coming with Cecil and me to the Duchess of Stratheam’s soiree musicale ?’

‘ J don’t indeed. Nothing is further from my thoughts than soiree# musicales. Ginevra, who is that new governess of yours ? She is your governess, Soames tell 3 me.’ ‘ What! Miss Herncastle ! where did you see her?’ * I saw her just now, as I came in. She’s a very distinguished-looking person, isn’t she? Nursery governesses don’t usually look like tragedy queens, do they. She has a very remarkable face.’ ‘Has she’ You are as enthusiastic as Queenie. She saw her at noon and raved, about her for half an hour. I must be very blind or stupid—l confess I can only see a preposterously tall young woman, with a pale, solemn face. ' Enthusiastic, am I ?’ Lord Ruyslaiid repeated. ‘ I wasn’t aware that I was ; but I once knew another face very likeit—wonderfully like it. And I give you my word of honour that as I came upon Miss—ah, to be sure—Herncastle, standing there in the moonlight, I thought I saw a ghost.’ {To be Continued.)