A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 448, 22 February 1890, Page 6

A Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “Guy Earlescourt’a Wife,” *'A Teuible Secret,” “ Lost for a Woman,” 11 A Mad Marriage,” etoBOOK 11. CHAPTER VIII. REDMOND O’DONNELL. With the golden blaze of the illuminated drawing-room behind her, with rose-velvet curtains half draping her, the moonligh b full upon her pale face and jet black liair—so for one second she stood before them. So Sir Arthur Tregenna saw her first, so in her sleepiug and waking dreams all her life long, Cecil Clive remembered her, standing like some rose-draped statue in the arch.

‘ Lady Cecil,’ began the soft, slow legato voice, ‘ Lady Dangerfield has sent me in search She broke off suddenly ; she had advanced a step, and for the first time perceived that Lady Cecil was nob alone. I beg your pardon,’ she said, ‘ but I was nob aware—’ * Wait—wait, Miss Herncastle !’ Lady Cecil exclaimed, rising up with a great breath of intense relief. * Lady Dangerfield sent you in search of me, I suppose? Has nobody come ? Are they preparing for the charades ?’ ‘Yes, Lady Cecil, and they are waiting for you. There’s the music.’ ‘You play, Sir Arthur, do you not?’ Lady Cecil turned to him, and then for the first time perceived him gazing intently at Miss Herncastle. He was wondering who she was—this tall, majestic woman, so unlike any woman he haa as yet met in this house. ‘Ah ! I forgot, you don’t know Miss Herncastle. Sir Arthur Tregenna, Miss Herncastle. How odd to live in the same house a week and a half, and never once meet. Hark ! is not that Ginevra’s voice calling ?’ * Queenie ! Queenie !’ called the shrill, impatient voice of her ladyship; ‘are you asleep or dead, or in the house, or what? Where are you ?’ She too lifted the curtains and stared at the group in indignant surprise. ‘ What on earth are you all doing here in tne moonlight? Sir Arthur, I think I sent you after Lady Cecil Clive. Miss Herncasble,’ sharply, ‘ I think I sent you —. Is there some enchantment in this sylvan spot that those who enter it can never come forth ?' She looked pointedly at the baronet. Had he had time to propose ? He was not a man of fluent speech or florid compliment, like her gallant major—he only smiled in his grave way, and came forth. Lady Cecil had sped away like the wind already, and Miss Herncastle, with the stately air and grace of a young queen was more slowly following. ‘ Who is that ?’ Sir Arthur asked under his breath. * Who ? Do you mean Miss Herncastle my governess ?’ ‘ Your governess ? She looks like an empress.’ ~ ‘Absurdly tall, isn’t she? —half a giantess. Do you like tall women ? No ; don’t trouble yourself to turn a compliment. I see you do. Miss Herncastle is to assist to-night in the tableaux—that is why you see her here.’

That old, never-failing resource of country houses, charades and tableaux vivants, were to enliven the guests at Scarawood tonight. The disused ball-room had been fitted up as a theatre with stage and seats, the Caatleford military band was already discoursing martial music, and the welldressed audience, prepared to be delighted with everything, had already taken their seats. Fans fluttered, an odour as of Araby’s spicy breezes was wafted through the room, a low murmur of conversation mingled with the stirring strains of the band, the lamps overhead twinkled by the dozen, and out through the wide-open windows you caught the starry night sky, the silver crescent slowly sailing up over the tall tree-tops. A bell tinkled and the curtain went up. You saw an inn-yard, a pump and horse trough, artistically true to nature, on the sign ‘Scarswood Arms.’ Enter Boots (Major Franldand), a brush in one hand, a gentleman’s Wellington in the other, in a state of soliloquy; He gives you to understand he is in love with Susan, the barmaid, and Fanny, the chambermaid ; and in a quandary which to make Mrs Boots. Enter Fanny—tall, dark, dashing—(Miss Hattan, the rector's daughter); and some love passages immediately ensued. Boots is on the point of proposing to the chambermaid, when there comes a shrill call for 4 Fanny,’ and exit Fanny with a last coquettish toss of her long black ringlets, a last coquettish flash of her bonny black eves. Yes, Boots likes Fanny best—will , propose to Fanny, when enter Susan, the ’ barmaid. Barmaids have been bewitching from time immemorial—this barmaid is too fascinating to tell. She is very blonde — with a wig of golden hair, a complexion of paint and pearl powder—a very short skirt of rose silk, a bodice of black velvet, and a perfectly heart-breaking little cap of rosecoloured ribbon and point-lace. Barmaid postume the “wide world over. Enter Susan (Lady Dangerfield), tripping jauntily forward, bearing a tray of tumblers, and blithely singing a little song. Boots’s allegiance is shaken. 4 ’Tother one was pretty,’ he says, * but this one caps the globe. And then she have a pretty penny in Castleford bank, too.’ More love passages take place. Susan is coy,—shrieks and skirmishes. Down falls the tray, smash goes the glass. Boots must have that kiss —struggles for it manfully—gets that kiss —(it sounded very real too) —Susan slaps his face; not irretrievably offended, though, you can see, and— 4 Susan ! Susan,’ bawls a loud bass voice. 4 Coming, ma ! am, coming !’ Susan answers, shakes her blonde ringlets at gallant Boots, shows her white teeth, and exit.

Boots is alone. Boots soliloquises once more. 4 How happy could I be with either, were ’tother dear charmer away.’ His quandary has returned—he cannot make up his mind. If he marries Fanny he will hanker after Susan, if he marries Susan he will break his heart for Fanny. 4 Oh, why can’t a man marry both—both —both?’ Boots asks with a melancholy howl. He plunges his deeply rouged face into the snowy folds of a scented cambric handkerchief, and sinks down a statue of despair, still feebly murmuring : 4 Both—both both !’ The curtain falls to slow and solemn music. 4 First syllable !’ shouts an invisible voice. People put their heads together, and wonder if the first syllable is not— 4 Both .’ / The bell tinkles, and the curtain goes up again. This time ibis an Eastern scene. A large painting of an oasis in bhe'desert if hung in the background. A group os Bedouins hover aloof in the distance. A

huge marble basin filled with goldfish occupies the centre, and in sandals and turban an Eastern dignitary sit 3 near. The Eastern dignitary is Sir Arthur Tregenna, his face darkened, his fair hair hidden by his gorgeous turban. An Eastern damsel approaches, a scarlet sash round about her waist, her loose hair flowing, her beautiful bare arms upholding a stone pitcher on her head. She salaams before my lord the dignitary, lets down her pitcher into the marble well, and humbly offers my lord to drink. The band plays a march. ‘Second syllable !’ shouts theinvisible voice, and the curtain goes down. It rises again—to stirring strains this time—the band plays ‘ The Gathering of the Gians.’ You are in ‘marble halls,’ pillars, curtains—and a great deal of tartan drapery. Enter a majestic figure in court attire. (Major Franklin again.) His military legs look to advantage in flesh-coloured tights, his military figure is striking in velvet doublet, cloak, and rapier, his military head in a plumed cap. He is a Scotchman, for he wears a tartan sash, and his plumed cap is a Scotch bonnet. His moustaches and whiskers are jetty black—his complexion is bronzed. He is in love again, and soliloquising—this time in a very transport of passion. He loves some bright particular star far above his reach, and apostrophises her with his rapier in his hand, and his eyes fixed on the chandelier. Come what may, sooner or later, he is determined to win her, though his path to her heart lie through carnage and blood. The major pronounces it ‘bel-lud.’ He gnashes his expressive teeth, and glares more ferociously than ever at the chandelier. In the distance he espies another court gallant in brave attire, and more tartan sash. The sight brings forth a perfect howl of jealous fury. He apostrophises this distant cavalier as ‘ Henry Stuart, Lord of Darnley, Duke of Albany, and King of Scotland.’ The audience have evidently got among royal company. The warlike strains of the band change to a soft, sweet, Scotch air. In the distance you hear musical feminine laughter and talking—it comes nearer. A sweet voice is singing—the Castleford brass band play the accompaniment very low and sweet. The dark gentleman in the rapier and doublet staggers back apace, says in a whisper audible all over the room, ‘ ’Tis she /’ The queen approaches with her three Maries. The sweet voice comes nearer; you catch the words of the queen’s own song of the ‘ Four Maries.’ ‘ They revelled through the summer night And by day made lance shafts ttee, For Mary Beatoun, Mary Seatoun, Mary Fleming, and me!' and with the last word Mary Stuart enters, het three Maries behind her.

She looks lovely. It is Lady Cecil Clive, in trailing, jewel-studded robe of velvet, the little pointed Mary Stuart cap, with its double row of pearls and a diamond flashing in the centre, stomacher, dotted with seed-pearls, ruffle, enormous farthingale. She is smiling she is exquisite she holds out her hands with *Ah ! my lord of Bothwell and Hailes, you here, and listening to our poor song ?’ The noble doffs his plumed cap, sinks gracefully down on one knee, and lifts the fair hand to his lips. Tableau ! Lively music—still very Scotch. ‘My queen-- La Heine Blanche,' he murmurs. The audience applaud. It is very pretty, Black Bothwell and the White Queen, and the three Maries striking an attitude in the background. Of course the word is ‘ Bothwell ; ’ a child could guess it. Another charade followed, then came a number of tableaux. In one of these Miss Herhcastle appeared —in only one; and then by her own request and at the solicitation of Lady Cecil. The tableau was ‘ Charlotte Corday and the Friend of the People.’ Sir Peter Dangerfield in the rSle of Marat.

The curtain went up. You saw an elegant apartment, a bath in the centre, and in the bath the bloodthirsty monster who ruled fair France. A desk is placed across the bub ; he writes as he sits in his bath ; he signs death-warrants by the dozen, and gloats with hellish exultation over his work. There is an altercation without —some one insists upon seeing him. The door slowly opens, some one slowly enters, the lights go slowly down, semidarkness rules the scene, the band plays the awful music of Don Giovanni before the statue enters. A tall female figure glides in in a trailing black robe ; she glides slowly forward—slowly, slowly Her face, deadly pale, turns to the audience a moment. Clutched in the folds of that sable, sweeping robe, you see a long, slender, gleaming dagger. The silence of awe and expectation falls upon the audience. She glides nearer, nearer ; she lifts the dagger, her pale face awful, vengeful in the dim light. The Friend of the People looks up for the first time, but it is too late. The Avenger is almost upon him, the gleaming dagger is uplifted to strike. Sir Peter Dangerfield beholds the terrible face of Miss Herncastle ; he sees the brandished knife, and leaps up with a shriek of terror that rings through the house. A thrill of horror goes through everyone as the curtain rapidly fads. ‘ Good Heaven ! she has killed him !’ an excited voice says. Then the lights flash up, the band crashes out the ‘ Guards’ Waltz but for a moment neither lights nor music can overcome the spell that has fallen upon them. * Who ivas that?’ everybody asks—* who played Charlotte Corday ?’ And everybody feels a second shock, this time of disappointment, as the answer is : * Only Lady Dangerfield’s nursery governess.’

Behind the scenes the sensation was greater. Pale, affrighted, Sir Peter bad rushed off, and into the midst of the actors. • How dare you send that woman to me ?’ he cried, trembling with rage and excitement. ‘Why did you nob tell me that she was selected to play with me?’ The well-bred crowd stared. Had Sir Peter gone mad? They looked at Lady Dangerfield, pale with anger and mortification—at Lady Cecil, distressed and striving to explain, and at Miss Herncastle herself —standing calm, motionless, self-possessed as ever.

They quieted him in some way, but he threw off his Marat robe and left the assembly in disgust. Miss Herncastle would have followed, but Lady Cecil, her gentle eyes quite flashing, forbade it. * Nonsense, Miss Herncastle! Because Sir Peter chooses to be a hysterical goose, is that any reason you should suffer for his folly? You acted splendidly—splendidly, I say—you are a born actress. I really thought for a moment you had stabbed him! You shall not go up and mope in your room—you shall stay here and see the play played out. Sir Arthur, amuse Miss Herncastle while I dress for the tableau of Rebecca and Rowena ’ Sir Arthur obeyed with a smile, at the pretty peremptory command. He was strangely struck with this tall, majestic young woman, who looxed as an exiled queen might, who Bpoke in a voice that was as the music of the spheres, and who was only a nursery governess. She had produced as profound an impression upon him as upon the others, by her vividly powerful acting. Charlotte Corday herself could never have looked one whit more stern and terrible, with the up-

lifted knife over the doomed head of the tyrant, than had Miss Herncastle. ‘ Her Majesty, La Heine Blanche, commands but to be obeyed,’ he said with a smile. ‘ Permit me to lead you to a seat, Miss Herncastle, and allow me to indorse Lady Cecil’s words. You are a born actress.’ She smiled a little, and accepted his proffered arm. Some of the ladies shrugged their shoulders and exchanged glances. A baronet and a,governess ! He led her to a seat in the theatre, and remained by her side until the performance ended. They talked commonplaces of course—discussed the different tableaux and the different actors ; and when the last tableau was applauded and the curtain fell upon the finale, he drew her hand within his arm once more, and was her escort back to the drawing-room. Dancing followed. As has been said, the baronet did not dance. He led Miss Herncastle to a seat and took another beside her. What was it that interested him in her, he wondered he was interested, strangely. Not her beauty—she was in no way beautiful; not her conversation, for she had said very little. But she was clever —he could see that; and what wonderful eyes she had —bright, deep, solemn. How her soft, slumbrous accents pleased and lingered on the ear. She was dressed in white to-night —in dead white, without jewel or ribbon. Her abundant black hair was braided and twined like a coronet around her head—in its blackness a cluster of scarlet fuchsias shone. He had once seen a picture of Semiramis, Queen of Assyria, in a robe of white, and with blood-red roses wreathing her black hair. And to-night Miss Herncastle, the nursery governess, looked like Queen Semiramis.

She was turning over a book of engravings, and paused over the first, with a smile on her face. v * What is it ?’ Sir Arthur asked. ‘ Your engraving seems to interest you. It is very pretty. What do you call it ?’ ‘lbis “King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid,” and it does amuse me. Look at the Beggar Maid—see what a charming short dress she has on • look at the flowers in her flowing hair ! look at the perfect arms and hands ! What a pity the beggar-maids of everyday life can’t look pretty and picturesque like this ! Bub then if pictures, and poets, and books represented life as life really is, the charm would be gone. We can excuse Cophetua for falling in love with that exquisite Greek profile, that haughty, high-bred face. Notice how much more elegant she is than those scandalised ladies-in-waiting in the background. “ This beggar-maid shall be my queen !” the enraptured king is saying, and really for such a face one can almost excuse him.’ Sir Arthur smiled. ‘ Almost excuse him! I confess I can’t perceive the “almost.” Why should he not make her Queen Cophetua, if he wills? She is beautiful, and graceful, and young, and eood.’ ‘ And a beggar maid. The baautv of a Venus Celestes, the grace of a bayadere, the goodness of an angel, would not counterbalance that. Kingly eagles don’t mate with birds of Paradise, be their plumage never so bright. And beggar-maids have Grecian noses, and exquisite hands, and willowy figures in—pictures, and nowhere else. In real life their noses are of the genus pug, their fingers stumpy and grimy, their figures stout and strong, and they talk with a horrid cockney accent and drop their h’s. No, these things happen in a laureate’s poems—in life, never.’ 4 Where did you get your cynicisms, Miss Herncastle ? Who could have thought a young lady could be so hard and practical ?’ ‘ A young lady ! nay, a governess. All the difference in the world, Sir Arthur. A world all sunshine and couleur de rose to —well—an earl’s daughter, say—looks a very gloomy and gruesome place seen through a governess’ green spectacles.’ She laughed a little as she turned the book over. Sir Arthur stroked his long, fair beard and wondered what manner of woman this was.

‘ How bitterly she talk*,’ he thought; ‘ and she looks like a person who has seen trouble. I wonder what her life can have been?’ He was puzzled, interested —a dangerous beginning.' He lingered by her side nearly the whole evening. Lady Dangerfield looked on in surprise and indignation. Such unwarrantable presumption on Miss Herncastle’s part, such ridiculous attention on that of Sir Arthur. * Queenie, do you see ?’ she said, half angrily; ‘there is that forward creature, the governess, actually monopolising Sir Arthur the whole night. What does it mean ? And ypu look as though you didn’t care.’ Lady Cecil laughed and fluttered her fan. There was a deep permanent flush on her cheek to-night, a light in the brown eyes that rarely came. She looked quite dazzling. ‘I don’t care, Lady Dangerfield.* Miss Herncastle may monopolise him until doomsday if she chooses. What it means is this—l asked Sir Arthur in the greenroom, two hours ago, to amuse her, and he is only obeying orders. Upon my word, Ginevra, I think he is really enjoying himself for the first time since his arrival. See how interested and well pleased he looks. You ought to feel grateful to Miss Herncastle for entertaining so well your most distinguished guest. I always thought she was a clever woman—now' I feel sure of it. What a pity she isn’t an earl’s daughter—she is just the woman of all women he ought to marry. Don’t interrupt, I beg, Ginevra ; let poor Sir Arthur be happy in his own way.’ She laughed again and floated away. She w'as brilliant beyond expression to-night—-some hidden excitement surely sent that red to her cheeks, that tire to her eyes. Lady Dangerfield, too, had her little excitement, tor the preserver of her life had been found, and was actually now in the rooms. He had entered some hours ago with the earl, and had taken his place among the audience. He had applauded the Bothwell scene, and watched La Heine Blanche with cool, critical eyes. She was very beautiful, but she did not seem to dazzle him. Like all the rest, the ‘ Charlotte Corday ’ tableau had struck him most.

‘The deuce,’ he muttered under his breath, as he looked at her; * who the dickens is it that lady reminds me of ?’ He could not place her, and as she did not appear again, he speedily forgot her. He went with the earl into the ball-room, the cynosure of many pairs of bright eyes. The tall, soldierly figure, the dashing trooper-swing, the dark face, with its bronzed skin, its auburn beard and mousoache, its keen blue eyes, looking nearly black under their black brows and lashes, the stately poise of the head, would have commanded attention anywhere. It was the gentleman who had come to the rescue of the boating party, and whom Lord Ruysland had ‘ met by chance the usual way,’ and insisted upon accompanying him borne.

My good fellow,’ he had said pathetically, * you must come. Lady Dangerfield has had an adventure for the first time—you are the hero of that adventure. She

overflows with romantic gratitude. She would never forgive me if I did not fetch you—she is dying to know the preserver of her life. What are you laughing at ? Come and be thanked.’ The tall soldier had come, and was presented in due form to my lady. He ivas thanked. My lady’s expressions of gratitude were eloquent and flowing her rescuer was better-looking even than she had supposed at first glance —very much better-looking than Major Frankland. The gentleman listened, stroked his moustache, and looked bored. The earl glanced around. His niece’R fickle fancy was caught once again—Frankland had found a rival. ‘ And now, my dear,’ he said blandly, ‘before you quite overpower my poor friend, I think I’ll take him to Cecil. They are quite old friends, I assure you, and she will be delighted to meet him once more.’ They crossed to where she stood, the centre of a gay, brilliant group. She wore the Mary Stuart dress and cap once more, and looked lovely. In the midst of her laughing repartee her father’s voice foil on her ear: ‘ Queenie, burn round and greet an old friend.’ Another voice spoke—a deep manly tone : 4 Six years is a long time to hope for remembrance, but I trust even six years has not made La Heine Blanche forget the humblest of her subjects.’ The laughing words died on her lips. A sort of stillness came over her from head to foot. She turned round and stood face to face with Captain Redmond O’Donnell. (To he Continued.)