A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 452, 8 March 1890, Page 3

A Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING,

Author of “Guy Eurlescourt’s Wife,” “ A Terrible Secret," “ Lost for a Woman,” **A Mad Marriage," eto-

BOOK ir.

CH AFTER X. AN IRISH IDVR. On very small things hinge very great events. A horse minus a shoe changed the whole course of Redmond O’Donnell’s life—altered liis entire destiiiy. He neither went to the mountains nor the moon, to Ballynahaggart nor the—dark majesty of the Inferno. He stayed at home, and he saw the Earl of Rysland and the Lady Cecil Clive. . 15 happened thus : Going to the stables next morning to saddle his favourite mare, Kathleen, he found her in need of the blacksmith’s services. Lanty led her off, and returning to the house, the young O’Donnell came face to face with his English visitors. He stood for a moment mute with surprise and chagrin. He had not dreamed in the remotest way of their coming so soon or so early, and —here they were ! Escape was impossible; they were before him; and by birth and training, by race and nature, the lad wa3 a gentleman. He took off his cap, and the young mountaineer bowed to the Earl’s daughter like a prince. Lord Ruysland advanced with extended hand and his sweetest smile. 'Ah, Mr O’Donnell, you fled ingloriously before me yesterday—not like an O Donnell, by the by. to fly even from gratitude. No —don’t look so alarmed nobody is going to thank you. You saved my daughter’s life at the imminent risk of your own—a mere trifle, not worth mentioning. Cecil, my dear, come and shake hands with our young hero of yesterday—ah, I beg pardon ! 1 promised to call no names. Mr Redmond O’Donnell, Lady Cecil Clive." And then two large, soft eyes of ‘ liquid light ’ looked up into his, a little greygloved hand was given, a little, soft, low voice murmured something—-poor Mr Redmond O’Donnell never knew what—and from that moment his doom was scaled. Sudden, perhaps : but then this young man was an Irishman —everything is said in that.

He flung otjen the half-hingeless, wholly lockless front door. He led the way, with some half-laughing apology for the tumbledown state of O’Donnell Castle. •Don’t blame us, Lord Ruysland,’ the young man said, half-gayly, half-sadly ; ‘ blame your own countrymen and confiscation. We were an improvident race, perhaps, but when they took our lands and our country from us, we let the little they left go to rack and ruin. When a man loses a hundred thousand pounds or so, it doesn’t seem worth his while to hoard very cirefully the dozen or so of shillings remaining. Lady Cecil, will you take this seat-? We can give you a line view, at least-, from our windows, if we can give you nothing else.’ The earl and his daughter were loud in their praises. It was fine. Miles of violet and purple heather, here and there touched with golden, green, or rosy tinges, blue hills melting into the bluer sky, and deepest bine of all, the wide sea, spreading miles away, sparkling in the sunshine as if sown with stars.

They remained nearly an hour. The j young seigneur of this ruined castle conducted them to the gates—nay, to the two huge buttresses, where gates once had been—and stood, can in "hand, watching them depart. And ,o, with the sunshine on his handsome, l anned face, on his uncovered, tall iiead, Lady Cecil bore away , the image of Redmond O’Donnell. You know this story before I tell it. She was sixteen years of age—he had. saved her life, risking his own to save it, without a moment’s thought, and like a true woman, she adored bravery almost above all other things in man. She pitied him unspeakably, so proud, so poor, so noble of birth and ancestry, a descendant-of kings, and a pauper. And iie had an eye like an eagle, a voice tender and spirited together, and a smile—a smile, Lady Cecil thought, bright as the sunshine on yonder Ulster hills. It was love at first sight - boy and gill love, of course; and the Earl of Ruysland, shrewd old worldling that he was, might have known it very well if he had given the subject one thought. But lie did not. He was a great deal too absorbed in bis own personal concerns about this time to have much solicitude about his little daughter’s affaires tin cn-ur. Lady Cecil had pitied Redmond O'Donnell for being a pauper, without the least dreaming she was one herself. Through no fancy for the country, through no desire to ameliorate the condition of the inhabitants, had my lord come to Ireland. Grim poverty had driven him hither, and was likely to keep him here for some time to come. His life had been one long round of pleasure and excess, of luxury and extravagance. He had come into a fortune when he attained his majority, and squandered it. He came into another when he married his wealthy wife, and squandered that, too. Now he was over head and ears in debt. Clive Court was mortgaged past all redemption—in flight was his only safety ; and he fled—to Ireland. There was that little huntingbox of his among the Ulster hills —Torryglen ; he could have that made habitable, and go there, and rough it until the storm blew over. Roughing it himself, he did not so much mind, ‘ roughing it,’ in his phraseology, meaning a valet to wait upon him, all the elegancies of his life transported from his Belgravian lodgings, and a first-rate cook —but there was liis daughter. For the first time in her sixteen years of life she was thrown upon his hands. At her. birth, and her mother’s death, she had been placed out at nurse; at the age of three, a cousin of her mother’s, living in Paris, had taken her, and brought her up. Brought up on strictly French principles —taught her that love and courtship, as English girls understand them, are indelicate, criminal almost ; that for the present she must attend to her books, her music, her drawing, and embroidery, and that when the proper time came, she would receive her husband as she did her jewellery and dresses from the hand of papa. Papa came to see her tolerably often, took her with him once in a while when he visited, his friend and crony, Sir Jqhn Tregenna ; and she was told if she were a good girl she should one day, when properly grown up, marry young Arthur and be _ Lady Tregenna herself, and queen it in this old seagirt Cornish castle. And little Cecil always laughed and dimpled, and danced away and thought no mo- e about it. She had seen vc-ry little of Arthur Tregenna—she was somewhat in awe of him, as has been said. He was so grave, so wise, so learned, and she was such a frivolous little butterfly, dancing in the sunshine, eating bonbons, and singing from morning till night.

Her first grief was the death of the kind Gallicised English woman who had been her second mother. Her father, on the eve of his Irish exile, went to Paris, brought her with him, and her old bonny Therese, and for the first time in her life little Lady Cecil met with an adventure, and became a heroine,

‘I wonder if he will call upon us !’ she thought now, as she walked homeward through the soft autumn noonday—the personal pronoun of course having reference to the young O'Donnell. ‘He did not really promise, but I think —I think lie looked as though he would like to come. It would be pleasant to have someone to balk to, when papa is away, and he tells me he will be away a great deal at Bally—the town with the unpronounceable Irish name. How very, very poor he seems ; his jacket was quite shabby ; his whole dress like that of the peasantry. And such a tumble-down place-only tit for owls, and. bats, and rooks. Papa (aloud), you have a great deal of influence, and many friends in England—could you do nothing for this Mr O’Donnell ?He seems so dreadfully poor, papa.’ The earl shrugged his shoulders and laughed. ‘My little, unsophisticated Cecil ! A great deal of influence and many friends ! My dear, I have not influence enough to keep myself put of the bankrupt court, nor friends enough to enable me to stay in England. Do you think I would come to this confounded, half civilised land, if I could stay away? Poor, indeed! Your Mr O’Donnell isn't half as poor as 1 am, for at least 1 suppose he isn't very deeply in debt.’

His daughter looked at him in sheer surprise. ‘And you are, papa? You poor ?• Poor!’she tried to-comprehend it, shook her head, and gave it up. ‘ I always thought you were rich, papa—l always thought English peers had more money than they knew what to do with. How can we be poor—servants, and horses, and p'ate, and—’ ‘ One must have the necessities of life, child,’ her father broke in impatiently, ‘as long as they am living. One can’t go back to primitive days, and live in a wigwam, or a rickety rookery like that. I wisli to Heaven one could—l’d try it. I tell you I haven’t a farthing in the world—you may as well learn it now as later; and have more debts than I can ever jay off from now to the crack of doom. I don’t want to pay. While L’m in hiding here I’ll try to compromise in some way with my confounded creditors and the Jews. Poor, indeed ! By Jove ! we may live and die in this Irish exile, for what I see,’ theearlsaid with a sort of groan. A little smile dimpled Lady Cecil's rosebud face, a happy light shone in her goldbrown eyes. She glanced at the little cottage .nestling in its green cup, myrtle and clematis climbing over it at the fair fields, daisy spangled, at theglowinguplands in their purple dress, at. the rugged, towers of the old castle boldly outlined against the soft sunny sky, with a face that showed that to her at least the prospect of an eternal Irish exile had no terrors.

‘ Very well, papa,' she said dreamily : ‘ suppose we do ? It’s a very pretty place. I'm sure, and if we are poor it surely will nob bake much bo keep us here. While I have you and Thcrcse and my books and piano, / am content to stay here for ever.’ Her father turned and looked at her, astonishment and disgust struggling in his face.

‘Good Heaven! listen to her! Content to stay here ! Yes, and live on potatoes like the natives, and convert the skins into clothing, to go barefooted and wear striped linsey-woolsey gowns reaching be'ow the knee, talk with a mellifluous North of Ireland accent, and end by marrying Lanty Lnfferby, I suppose, or the other fellow Mickey. If you can’t talk sense, Cecil, hold your tongue !’ Lady Cecil blushed and obeyed. Marry Lanty Laffert-y! N \ she could hardly do that. But oh, Cecil, whence that rosy blush ? Whence that droop of the fair, fresh face? Whence that sudden rising in your mind of the tall figure, the bold flashing eyes of Redmond O’Donnell? Is this why tiie Irish exile is robbed of its terrors for you ? ‘No, no,' the earl said, after a little, as his daughter remained silent. ‘We’ll get out of this howling wilderness of roaring livers, and wild young chieftains, and tumble-down castles as speedily as wo can. I have one hope left, and that is—’ he looked at her keenly— ‘ in you, my dear.’ ‘ I, papa ?’ ‘ Yes ; in your marriage. What’s the child blushing at? In a year or two you’ll be old enough, and Tregenna will be back in England. Of course you know it has been an understood thing these many years that you were to marry him when you grew up. lie is perfectly ready to 'fulfil the compact, and certainly you will be. You have been brought up in a way to understand this. Tregenna is rich, monstrously rich, and won't see his father-in-law up a tree. I give you my word he is my last hope your marriage with him, I mean. I will try and compromise with my creditors, I say, and when things are straightened out a bit we’ll go back to England. You shall be presented at court, and will make, I rather fancy, a sensation. We will let you enjoy yourself for your first season, and when it is over we will marry you comfortably to Sir Arthur Tregenna.’ And Lady Cecil listened with drooping eyelids. It seemed to her all right—French girls married in this judicious way, all trouble of love-making and that nonsense being taken off their hands by kindly parents and guardians. She listened, and if she did not say so in words said in effect, with Thackeray’s hero, Mr Foker, ‘ Very well, sir, as you like it. When you want me, please ring the bell,’ and then fell into thought once more, and wondered dreamily if young O’Donnell would call that evening atTorryglen. Young O'Donnell called. The little drawing-room of the cottage was lit with waxlights, a peat fire burned on the hearth, a bright-hued carpet covered the floor, tinted paper hung the walls, and pretty sunny pictures gemmed them. It was half drawing-room, half library, one side being lined with books. A little cottage piano stoed between the front windows —Lady Cecil sat at that—a writingdesk occupied the other side his lordship sat at that. Such a contrast to the big, bare, bleak, lonesome rooms at hometlieir only music the scamper of the rats, the howling of the wind, and Lanty’s Irish lilting.

The contrast came upon him with a pang of almost pain ; the gulf between himself and these people, whose equal by birth lie was, had nob seemed half so sharp before. Lady Cecil, in crisp, white muslin and blue ribbons, with diamond drops in her ears and twinkling on her slim fingers, seemed as far above as some ‘ bright, particular star,’ etc. He stood in the doorway for a moment irresolute, abashed, sorry he had come, ashamed of his shabby jacket and clumping boots. The earl, with pen in his hair like some clerk, looked, up from his pile of papers and nodded familiarly, ‘Ah, O’Donnell—how do? Come in. Been expecting you. Very busy, you see—must excuse me. Cecil will ontertain you —give him some music, my dear.’ And then my lord went back to his papers—bills, duns, accounts, no end with knitted brows and absorbed mind, and forgot in

half a minute such an individual as O’Donnell existed. Redmond went over to the piano ; -how bright the smile of girlish pleasure with which the little lady welcomed him. ‘ Would he sit here ?—did he like music t—would he turn the pages for her?—was he fond of Moore’s melodies?’ In this brilliant and original way the conversation commenced.

‘ Yes, lie liked music, and he was very fond of Moore’s melodies. Would, she please go on with that she was singing ?’ It was, ‘ She was far from the land where her young hero sleeps,’ and the tender young voice was full of the pathos and sweetness of the beautiful song. ‘ He lived for his love, for his country he diod,’ sang Lady Cecil, and glanced under her long, brown lashes at the grave, dark face beside her. ‘ Robert Emmet must have looked like that,’ she thought ; * he seems as though he could die for his country too. I suppose his ancestors have. I wish—T wish—papa could do something for him, or—Sir Arthur Tregenna.’ But somehow it was unpleasant to think of Sir Arthur, and her mind shifted away, from him. She finished her song, and discovered Mr O’Donnell could . sing—had a very fine and highly cultivated voico, indeed, and was used to the piano accompaniment. ' . ‘I used to sing with my sister,’ lie explained, in answer to her involuntary look of surprise. . ‘ She plays very well.’ ‘ Your sister ! why I thought -’ ‘ I had none. Oh, yes I have— very jolly little girl Rose is, too —-1" rather think you would like her." 1* am quite sure,’ Mr O Donnell blushed a little himself as he turned this first compliment, ‘she would like yzu.’ ‘ And will she come here ? How glad I am. Will she come soon ? lam ceitairt I slnill like her.’ Redmond shook bis head. “No,’ he said, ‘she will not'come here at all—neve'r, in all likelihood. ' yiie is in America—in New Orleans, living with her grandfather. A Frenchman, Lady Cecil.’ ‘A Frenchman! Your sister’s grandfather?'

‘Yes—an odd mixture, you think,’ smiling. ‘ You see, Lady Cecil, when my father was a young man, he fought in the Mexican war under General Scott. .We are a fighting race, I must inform youwar is our trade. When the Mexican war ended, he went to New Orleans, and there he met a young lady—French, and a great heiress —a beauty, too, though she was my mother. Well, Lady Cecil, she tell, in love with the dashing Irish trooper—her friends were frantic, and she eloped with him. A romantic story, is it not? He brought her here —it must have been a contrast to the luxury of her French home. ; Her father refused to forgive her - returned all her letters unopened, and here she lived seven years, and here she died and was buried. 111. show you her grave some day in the churchyard of Ballynahaggart. I was six Rose one year old. He father heard of her death—not through mine ; ho never wrote dr held any communication with him—and he relented at last. Came all the waytfver- here, nearly broken-hearted, and wanted ,-to become reconciled. But my father sternly and bitterly refused, lie offered to take Eo3e and me, and bring us up and leave us his fortune when he died ; but still he was refused. lie returned to New Orleans, and three months after Father Ryan of Ballynahaggart wrote him word of my father’s death! ' He had never held up his head after my mother's loss. ‘ They seilt ii 3 both out there. Young as I was, I resisted —all the bitterness of my father had descended to me ; but I resisted in vain. We went out to New Orleans, and now 1 look back upon my life there as a sort of indistinct dream or fairy tale. The warmth, the tropical beauty, and the luxuriance of my grandfather’s, house, come back to me in dreams sometimes, and I wake to see the rough rafte s and mildewed walls of theold castle. I stayed there with him until I was nineteen, then I refused to stay longer. He had despised my father and shortened my mother’s life by his cruelty I would not stay a dependent on his bounty. It was boyish bravado, perhaps Lady Cecil, but I felt all I said. I left New Orleans and Rose, and came here, and here'l have been running wild, -and becoming the savage you find me. But I like-the freedom of the life in spite of its poverty ;.Iwould not exchange it for the silken ind'olenee and luxury of Menadarva, my Louisianian home. And here I shall remain until an opportunity oilers to go, as all my kith and kin have gone before me, and earn my livelihood at the point of my sword.’ . • ‘

Lady Cecil listened. She.liked all this ; she iiked the lad s spirit in refusing for himself that which had been 1 refused: his mother. Nob good sense, perhaps, but', sound chivalry. '• ‘ You will go out to India, I suppose,’ she said ; * there always seems to be tigh Y ing there for those who want it.’ The young man’s brow darkened. ‘lndia?’ be said; ‘no. No O’Donnell ever fought under the English flag—l will nob be the first. Years ago, Lady Cecil—two hundred and more—all this country you see belonged to us, and they confiscated it, and left us houseless and outlaws. The O'Donnell of that day swore a terrible oath that none of his race should ever fight for the British invader, and none of them ever have. I shall seek service under a foreign flag—it doesn't matter which, so that it is not that of your nation, Lady Cecil.’

Lady Cecil pouted—and it was unchristian and unforgiving, bub in her heart of hearts she liked it all, and wished, with Desdemona, that Heaven had made her such a man. Redmond O’Dortnell lingered until the earl yawned audibly over his musty accounts, and the little ormolu clock ticked off half-past ten, and walked homeward under the moonlight and starlight, feeling that the world had suddenly beautified, and this lowly valley had become a very garden of Eden, with the sweetest Eve that ever smiled among the roses. The first evening was but the beginning of the end. The visits, the music, the duets, reading —the walks ‘o’er, the moor among the heather,’ the rides over the autumn hills, with Redmond O’Donnell for cavalier, the sketching of the old castle—the old, old, old, endless story of youth and told since the world began—to be told till the last trump shall sound.

Lord Ruysland saw nothing, heard nothing—was as unsuspicious as though he were nob a ‘ battered London rake ’ and a thorough man of the world. His impecunious state filled his mind, to the exclusion of everything else, and then Cecil had been so well brought up, etc. The child must walk and l'ide, and must have a companion. Young O’Donnell was. a beggar—literally a beggar—and of course might as well fix his foolish affections on one of Her Majesty’s daughters as upon that of the Earl of Ruysland. He was awakened suddenly and unexpectedly from his dream and his delusion. Seven weeks had passed—the ides of November had come—the chill autumn blasts were whistling drearily over the mountains. He was sick and tired to death of his enforced exile ; affairs had been patched up in some way, a compromise effected; he might venture to show his face

once more across the Channel. In a week or two at the farthest he would start. He sat complacently thinking this over alone in the drawingri’oom,. when the door opened. Gregory; his. man, announced ‘ Mr Ot’Donnell,’ and vanished. ‘ Ah. Iledmond, iny la.d, glad to see you. Come in—come in. . Cecil’s upstairs. I’ll send for her.' Bub Mr O'Donnell" interrupted ; lie did not., wish Lady Cecil sent for—at least just yet. He wished to speak to the earl alone. He was so embarrassed, so unlike himself —bold, frank, free, as he. habitually was—that Lord Ruysland looked at him in surprise. That look was enough—it told him all. ‘ ‘ Good Heavens !’ he thought, ‘what an ass I have been. Of course, lie has fallen in love with her—arn’t matrimony and murder the national pastimes of this delightful inland? And very likely she has fallen in love with him—the young savage is so confoundedly good-looking. ’ He was right. While lie sat thinking this, Redmond O’Donnell sat pouring into his ear the story of his love and his hopes. ‘ It was his madness to worship her ’ (he was very young, and inclined to hyperbole), ‘ to adore her.. He was poor, he knew, but he was young, and the world was a!l before him. He 'would waitU-syj'as long as his lordship pleased—lie would win a.namej a fortune, a title, it might be, and lay them at her feet. One 0- l^Qnp.eU,hast done it in Spain already;—what any., inah';had done lie could do. His birth, at least, was equal to hers., lie .asked nothing, now but this: Only let him hope—let him. go forth into the world and win name and fame, lay them at> her feet, and claim her as his wife. He loved her—no one in. this world would ever love her again better than he.’ And then lie broke down all at once and turned away and waited for his answer.

The earl kept a, grave .face —it spoke volumes for liis admiiable training and high good breeding. He did nob lau£?h in this wild young enthusiast’s face ; he did not fly into a passion ; lie did nothing rude or unpleasant, and he did nob make a scene. ‘Mr O’Donnell’s affection did his daughter much honour,' he said ; _ ‘ certainly he was her equal, her superior, indeed, iri point'of birth ; and as to making a name for himself and winning a fortune,, of course, there could ndfrbea doubt as to that with a young man of his indomitablff‘courage and determination. But was'.ib possible Lady Cecil had nob already told liim she was engaged ?’. ‘ Engaged !’ . The. young man could bub just gasp'the word, palq and wild. ‘Engaged ?’ ‘Most certainly--froib her childhood—bo the wealthy CorniJi baronet, Sir Arthur Tregenna. She had given her promise to marry him of her own free will the wedding, in all probability, would take place upon hereighteenth birthday. Really now ifc was quite inexcusable of Queenie not to have mentioned this.. Bub it was just possible—she was so very young, and Mr O’Donnell was a man of honour—perhaps he was doing him injustice in thinking he had made a declaration to her in person ?’ !No.’ Young. O’Donnell had not. He was so white, so wild, so. despairing-look-ing,, that the earl was getting alarmed. A Scene ! and oh, how he abhorred scenes! ‘He had not spoken to her on the subject —he never had -he wished to obtain her father’s consent first.’ The earl grasped his hand with effusion. ‘ My lad, you’re a gentleman from head to foot. lam proud of you j Have you—lias she - I mean. do. you think your affection is returned ? Oh ! don’t blush and look modest—it isn’t thednost unlikely thing on earth; Do you blank Cecil returns your very—ah ! ’pon my life—ardent, devotion ?' Young O’DonnelL'stood looking handsome and modest before him.

‘ He did not like to say—bub lie hoped.’ ‘Oh, of course you do,’the earl supplemented, ‘and very strongly too. Well, my lad, you deserve something for the admirable and honourable manner in which you have acted, and you shall have your reward. Cecil shall wait for yoli if she wishes it ! No, don’t thank me yet; hear me out. You are to spend this evening here, are you nob? Well,, its ,you have been silent so long,' - be'; .silent yet a little longer.' Don’t say' a word to her. To 1 morrow morning. ' I will lay all this before her myself, 'and' if 'she prefers the penniless Irishman- to the- rich Cornishnian .why, Heaven forbid /.should force her affections ! I can trust" to you implicitly, I know, and this time,to-morrow, come over to see us.again. and you shall have your answer.’ . ... '. He would not liSteii to the young-man’s ardent .thanks 'he' pushed him goodnaturedly. away and arose. ‘Thank me to-morrow,’ lie"said, ‘if Queenie prefers love in a cottage to thirty thou-and a year—nob before.’ • , ■ The sneer in his voice was imperceptible, biit it was there. Half' an hour after the earl sought out Gregory, his valet and manager.

‘ We leave at daybreak to-morrow morning, Gregory,’ he said ; ‘ Lady Cecil and I. You-will remain behind, pack up everything, and follow later in the day. Not a word, however, to Lady Cecil.’ That evening—the last—when Redmond O’Donnell’s hair is grey, I fancy it will stand out distinct from all other evenings in his life. . The wax-lit drawingroom, with its gay green carpet, its sparkling fire, its pictures, its wild natural flowers, its books, its piano. Lord Ruysland, with a paper in his hand, seated in his easy chair, and watching the young people covertly from oyer it; Lady Cecil at the piano, the’ canale-light streaming over her fair blonde face, her floating golden hair, her silvery silk dress, her rings and ribbons. In dreary Bivouacs*.in; the silence and depth of African midnight, this picture came back as vividly as he saw it then. In desolate desert marches, in the ..fierce, het din of battle,(lt fished upon him; 1 . Lying delink bus'in tlie fever of gurilhot wounds, in Algerian hospitals, it was of this night, of her as he saw her then, he raved. She sang for him all the songs he liked best. He leaned over the piano, liis eyes on that fairest face, his ears drinking in that dearest melody, silent, happy. They rarely found much to say to one another when papa was present; they had got past the talking stage, and one word and two or three looks did the business now. There was music, and silence, and bliss ; and at ten o’clock ifc was all over, and time for him to go.

The last night ! She gave him her hand shyly and wistfully at parting, and went up to her room. The carl gave him a friendly clasp. ‘To-morrow,’ lie said, with a smile, ‘ until to-morrow, Redmond, my lad, goodnight and ail Ye voir.’' The November wind was howling wildly through the moonlight-flooded earth and sky. Ho did nob see this cold splendour; he saw nothing, thought of nothing now bub loving Cecil Clive.

What a night that was—what a long tossing night of joy, of hope, of fear, of longing. He did not despair—he was young and sanguine, and hope had the best of ifc. He knew she loved him ; had nofc looks, smiles, and blushes, a thousand and one bhinga non and ink can never tell, assured him of it ? and what to an angelic being like that was the dross of wraith, that it should stand between two devoted hearts ? Thirty thousand a year—the Cot nishman had tha'

—how he liatcd that Cornishmon ! Well thirty thousand per annum is a good round sum, but there was wealth in the world for the seeking, and the labours of Hercules were as nothing compared to what he was ready to undergo for her sake. An O’Donnell had made his mark in Spain—McMahon in France —a . Wellington in England all Irishmen good and true; what they had done he would do. Yes, the Oornishman and his fortune might go an diable. She would be true to her love and to him ; she would trust him and wait.

Next morning, lest he should be tempted to break his promise, and his feet, in spite of him, take him to the cottage, he mounted Kathleen and went galloping over the hills and far away with the first peep of sunrise. The afternoon was far advanced when he 1 returned ; the last slanting rays of the autumn sunset were streaming ruby and orange over the smiling moors as he knocked at the cottage door. It was opened by grave, gentlemanly Mr Gregory. Mr Gregory in hat and greatcoat. and everywhere litter, and dust, and confusion. Carpets taken up, pictures taken down, packing cases everywhere—an exodus evidently. He turned pale with sudden terror. What did it mean ? Where was she ? His heart was throbbing so fast, it seemed to stop his rery breath. ‘ Where is Lord Ruysland ?’ He turned almost savagely upon Gregory, with pale face and excited eyes, but all the wild Irishmen from Derry to Connaught were nob going to upset the equanimity of a well-trained English valet. ‘Gone, Mr Redmond, sir-—a sudding summons, I believe it was. His lordship left about nine o’clock tiiis morning, sir —Lady' Cecil halso. Which there is a note for y r ou, Mr Redmond, sir, which no doubt hexplains. Wait one moment, hit you please, arid I'll fetch it.’ He never spoke a word. He leaned against the door post, feeling sick and giddy', all things seeming in a mist. Mr Gregory returned, the note in his hand, a look of mingled amusement and pity struggling with the national and professional gravity of a Briton and a valet. Did he suspect the truth ? Most likely —servants know everything. He placed it in his hand, the young man' went forward a pace or two and the white door shut very quietly and decidedly behind him. He tore it open : it contained an inclosure. Tho earl had very little to say—half a dozen lines held Redmond O’Donnell’s sentence of doom. My Dkau Bov I spoke to Cecil after you lef.t. It. is as I feared - you have deceived your.self. Her promise binds her; she has no wish nor inclination to break it. And she had no idea of the state of your feelings. She joins/with me in thinking it best for all parties she should go at once—another meeting could be but embarrassing to both. With real regrets, and best wishes for your future, I am, my dear boy. sincerely yours, ‘ Ruysland.’ The inclosed was in the slim, Italian tracery of Lady' Cecil —strangely cold and heartless words. Mon Ami, —l am inexpressibly distressed. Papa has told me all- What he said to you is true. My promise is given and must be kept. It is best that 1 should go. Farewell! My eternal gratitude and friendship are yours. ‘ Ci-;ci r,.’ Only that—so cold, so hollow, so heartless, so false ! The golden sunshine, the green lime trees, the violet heath, turned black for an instant before his eyes. Then he crumpled the letters in his hand and walked away. Mt Gregory was watching from the window. Mr- Gregory saw him stagger like a drunken man as he walked, and, some twenty yards from the cottage, fling himself down on the waving heath, and lie there like a stone. Mr Gregory’s masculine sympathies were touched. ‘Fore young chap,’ he soliloquised. ‘Master’s been and given him the slip. He’s fell in love with her ladyship, and this ’ere’s the hupshot. Sarves him light, of course—poor as a church mouse—still, he’s a nice young fellar, and I quite pities aim. I remember ’ow I felt myself when ’Arriet Lelachur long ago jilted me. 1 He lay there for hours. The sun had set, the night, with its stars and winds, had come, when he lifted his head off his arm, and Mr Gregory and the packing eases were miles away'. His haggard ey r es fell on the notes he still held, and with a fierce imprecation he tore them into atoms and scattered them far and wide.

4 And so shall I tear her—false, heartless, mocking jilt—out of my life. Oh, God i to think that every smile, every word, every look was mockery and deceit—that she was fooling me from the first, and laughing at my presumptuous folly, while I thought her an angel. And he— ivhilo I I live 111 never trust man or woman again !’• - Are ive not all unconsciously theatrical in the supreme hour of our lives ? He was now, although there was a heart-sob in every word. And with them the boy’s heart went out from Redmond O’Donnell, and never came back again. {To be Continued.)