A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 462, 12 April 1890, Page 6

A Wonderful Woman.

Bt MAY AGNES FLEMING,

Author of “Guy Earlescourt’s Wife/’ “A Terrible Secret," “ Lost for a'Woman," •* A Mad Marriage," eto BOOK 11. CHAPTER XIV.-(Continued.) 1 How nice he is, aunty,’ Pearl said, * with such white teeth, and good-natured-ooking, and everything. He’s nicer than Sir Arthur. I don’t like Sir Arthur, Pansy don’t like Sir Arthur; nor Papa Peter, nor Major Frankland.’ ‘He’s lovely,’ said Pansy, ‘only he’s too big. They're all too big except Papa Peter. Aunt Cecil, when I grow up I should like to marry Captain O’Donnell — shouldn’t you ?’ Lady Cecil blushed a little, laughed a little, and kissed the speaker. ‘Captain O’Donnell is flattered by your preference, 'petite ; still, I think he might find it tedious waiting until you grow up. Who’ll reach the Keeper’s Tree yonder first? One—two —three —now.’ The game of romps began, and Pansy forgot her matrimonial projects. And the object of her nine-year-old affections ran upstairs, and was shown into Sir Peter’s room. The tableau was as Lady Cecil had described it, only Sir Arthur had ceased reading, and was gazing, as well as Sir Peter, at the calm lace opposite, and the white rapid fingers and gleaming needle. , ‘ I trust I am not an intruder, Sir Peter, the young Irishman said, coming forward, * but hearing of your accident —’ ‘ Come in, O’Donnell come in,’ the sharp querulous voice of the invalid said ; * I wanted to see you. If you’re tired sitting here, Sir Arthur, perhaps O’Donnell will take your place.’ ‘With pleasure, Sir Peter.’ The chasseur came forward, saluted the lady and the Cornish baronet, and took Sir Arthur’s vacated seat. ‘And with your permission, Sir Peter, now that Captain 0 Donnell has come, I will go too. I have not been out to-day, and my head aches. I will administer your medicine, though, before I go.’ He took it submissively from her hand. Captain O’Donnell watched every movement, and followed with his eyes the stately figure out of the room. She closed the door after her, and they were quite alone. * This is a very strange—a very remarkable occurrence, Sir Peter,’ he began. The talk is, that you saw a ghost. Now I bought ghosts were exploded ideas ? Will you pardon me if I think so still ?’ * I wish to Heaven 1 could,’ Sir Peter groaned. The afternoon sunshine was pouring into the room ; his nerves had recovered their tone, and he had a companion. He could talk sufficiently calmly now of the apparition. ‘ Unfortunately for me, it admits of no doubt. As plainly as I see you sitting here beside me, I saw Katherine Dangerfield last night. I saw her face plainly—plainly in the light of the moon ; the night was clear as day. Saw her as I have seen her a hundred times here in Scarswood.’ ‘And she vanished when you looked at

her ?’ «I don’t know when she vanished. My horse saw her as well as ] ; Wilson will tell you he found him trembling all over with terror when he came up. He threw me—l fell and fainted. I remember no more until I opened my eye 3 here in this room, and —’ He stopped and cast a look of nervous dread at the door. ‘ And you thought you saw the ghost a second time. You mistook Miss Herncastle for your dead relative ; she wasn’t a relative, but you know what I mean. She is very like her, is she not ?’ * Awfully, frightfully like her,’ the baronet answered, in a trembling tone. ‘O’Donnell, I tell you I’m afraid of that woman—l don’t know why, but I am. Perhaps because of her resemblance to Katherine; perhaps—l tell you, I don’t know why, but her eyes, her face, her voice, frighten me. They are so like—so like.’

4 And yet you persist in having her with you, in your room.’ ‘ Yes; and I can’t tell you why there either. She frightens me and she fascinates me. Why did she ever come here ? Who is she ? How dare she come to be so horribly like that dead girl?’

‘ How, indeed ?’ Captain O’Donnell answered. ‘ Sir Peter, I have a great curiosity concerning this Katherine Dangerfield. Have you any picture of her ? I would give a good deal to see one.’ ‘Yes, I have,’ the sick man said. ‘Do you see that escritoire over there? Open that—the key is in it ; open the third drawer to the left, and you will find a photograph of Katherine Dangerfield, taken a month before she died. You will see the wonderful likeness at once.’ Redmond O’Donnell obeyed. He unlocked the escritoire, opened the drawer, and produced a picture wrapped in silver paper. It was a photograph, soft and clear as an engraving, and beautifully tinted. The chasseur took it to the window and gazed upon it long and earnestly. The story of Katherine Dangerfield had been told hire, in brief, by different people at different times, and its sad pathos had touched him deeply. Her only fault had been that she had loved ‘ not wisely, but too well,’ had trusted too implicitly, had believed the man she loved, and was ready to endow with her fortune, as generous and faithful as herself. And all had been torn from her in one bitter hour —all, and Death, the only friend who had been true, came to her aid. And now he held her picture, taken during the happiest period of her life, the month before her marriage. And, as Sir Peter bad said, the first thing that had struck him was the strong resemblance to Miss Herneastle. No one could fail to look upon the two and not exclaim, * How like !’ Only at first glance, though ; the more you looked, the more this first striking similarity seemed to fade. It was like, but could never have been taken for the portrait of my lady’s mysterious governess. He sat down and deliberately analysed the features one by one—the points of resemblance. He began at the beginning. First the hair,this pictured hair, was brown, pure chestnut brown, without a tinge of red or yellow : that is if the tinting had been true to nature. It rippled over neck and shoulders and down to the slim girl’s waist, a bright, feathery cloud. Miss Herncastle’s hair was jet-black, straight as an Indian’s and twisted in great shining coils about her head. The brow in the picture was broad, open, intelligent. Miss Herncastle’s hair was worn crepe down to her straight black brows. The pictured eyes laughed up at you from the card; the eyes of the governes were grave, somber, smileless. The nose was the same—the same precisely—neither straight nor yet retrousse, not classic, and not snub. The mouth was handsome —the handsomest feature of all—square-cub at the 4, r ners, sweet, strong, like the eyes,

smiling, and with bright, resolute lips. The shape of Miss Herncastle’s was the same, the expression entirely different. All the hard lines, the rigid compression, the grave resolution of the living mouth were wanting in the pictured one. The chin was alike—a curved chin—a square, determined mouth, the throat was graceful and girlish, the shoulders sloping—the waist long and slender, Miss Herncastle’s proportions were those of what men call a “ fine woman.”

The moments passed ; in the sick room all was very still. The buzzing of the big blue flies on the pane, the restless tossing of the invalid, the chirp nnd rustle of summer life without, all were plainly audible. Had Captain O'Donnell fallen asleep over the picture ? Peter broke out at last impatiently : . ‘ Well, O’Donnell, are you dreaming there ? What do you think of the picture ? Did you ever see such a likeness? It might be Miss Herncastle’s portrait, might it not?’ O’Donnell rose up and returned to his place by the bedside, picture in hand. ‘No,’ he said, with slow, thoughtful gravity, ‘ never Miss Herncastle's picture ; there is not one expression of this face like any she ever wears. Shall I tell you, Sir Peter, what’it is like ?’ ‘ Of course ; for what other reason have I shown it to you ?’ ‘ Then here’s my opinion : If Katherine Dangerfield, instead of dying and being buried yonder in Castleford cemetery, had lived, and vowed vengeance for her wrongs, and came back here to wreak that vengeance, this pictured face would look now as Miss Herncastle’s does.’

Sir Peter half raised himself, alarmed, excited.

‘ What do you mean ?’ he asked. ‘ This. This photographed face is full of latent power, undeveloped, unsuspected—to be used, as circumstances turn, for good or evil. If Katherine Dangerfield had lived and her life had been a happy one, she would have been ore of the best, the bravest, the most womanly of women—a model wife, an excellent mother, a noble matron. If she had lived, wronged and embittered as her life was, I believe Sir Peter, there is no evil, no depth scarcely, to which she would not lie capable of sinking to gratify her revenge. It is the face of one who might have been a dangerous woman. This face looks a little, a very little, like Miss Herncastle. If she had not died, I should feel certain Miss Herncastle and Katherine Dangerfield were one and the same.’

There was a blank pausol Sir Peter lay back among his pillows, terrified, helpless. The chasseur’s face was full of dark, grave thought. ‘ Good Heavens, O’Donnell !’ Sir Peter gasped at length. ‘ What do you mean ?’ ‘ I hardly know—yet. I feel like a man groping in the dark. Sir Peter, there can be no doubt—(it is absurd of me to suppose such a thing)—there can be no doubt Katherine Dangerfield did die ?’ ‘ No doubt?’ cried Sir Peter shocked be yond all expression. ‘Of course there was no doubt. Good Heavens above ! O'Donnell, I—l never heard of such a thing. Dead! Why, certainly she’s dead—dead and buried six years ago. You can see her grave any day, for that matter, in Castleford cemetery.’ ‘Ah! no doubt. Did I not say it was a most absurd supposition on my part ? Of course she’s dead, as you say. You saw her dead, no doubt?’ ‘ Saw her dead !’ the baronet repeated, with a shudder ; ‘ I only wish I had not. I saw her dead—cold, and white, and still — I see her so every day of my life ; and Talbot saw her—ask Talbot—he was one of the men who saw her laid in her coffin and in her grave. Dead ! Yes, she’s dead — dead—dead. Poor little Kathie !’ His voice choked ; he turned away and covered his face with his hands. His nerves were all unstrung ; he was weak and ailing, frightened and lonely, his very life was fast becoming a torture to him, and he broke down, O’Donnell looked at him in surprise. ‘ You were fond of your cousin, then—l mean of this unhappy young lady? Why, I thought ’ ‘ You thought right,’ the little baronet cried, passionately, 4 1 was not fond of her. I was a brute, a villian, a cowardly wretch. I insulted her—brutally, I tell you, and she —’ His eyes dilated, his face grew ashen white. * I see her still, O’Donnell,’ he whispered, huskily, 4 as she stood before me then—like death, like snow, frozen and white, swearing that oath of vengeance: 44 Living, I will pursue you to the ends oj the earth. Dead, I ivill come from the grave and haunt you.’ She swore it, and she was one. living or dead, to keep her word. What I saw last night has not been the living ; and she will come to me from her shroud and coffin again and again, until I go raving mad at last.’

His voice rose almost to a shriek of passion and fear. The last remnant of man’B courage died out of the miserable little wretch’s body, and he burst out into a tempest of womanish sobs and tears. O’Donnell sat silent watching him—pity, contempt, disgust, all in his grave, silent face. He made no attempt to console or soothe this stricken sinner; most of all that was soft and tender in his nature had died a natural death years ago. He sat grimly enough now, waiting for a lull in the storm. It came. Even Sir Peter Dangerfield had manliness enough left to be ashamed of crying like a whipped schoolboy. • I—l can’t help it, O’Donnell,’ he said, piteously. ‘lf you only knew what I have gone through since that time, what I have suffered, what I still suffer, you would feel for me. Katherine Dangerfield is dead, and I saw her spirit last night, as I’ll see it again and again, until I too go mad or die,’

* We have an old adage in our country,’ O’Donnell said curtly, ‘“that sorrow is soon enough when it comes.” Now for my part, I don’t believe in ghostly visitations of any kind, in common with most people ; but that is a point we won’t argue. You believe you saw a ghost last night. Now, Sir Peter, is it not barely possible that Miss Herneastle may be a somnambulist, and that all unconsciously she got out of bed en sac de nuit, and that it was she you saw under the King’s Oak ?’ Bub Sir Peter shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Some one asked that very question —the earl, I think it was - and Miss Herneastle replied that she had never walked In her sleep in her life—that she had gone to her room at half-past ten. And it wasn’t Miss Herneastle—lit was no resemblance this time—it was Katherine Dangerfield.’ Captain O’Donnell shrugged his shoulders Argument was wasted here. He drew out his watch. It was past six now, and nearing the Scarswood dinner hour. * I won’t stay to dine to-day, I think,’ he said, rising. ‘ Sir Peter, with your permission I’ll keep this picture for the present: I don't see my way very clearly through this maze, and 1 can't believe your solution of the enigma. Katherine Dangerfield may not have been noted for an overstock of sound sense in her lifetime, but I can’t believe that her ghost would remain so supremely silly after six years’ interment as to take nocturnal rambles to. Scarswood on purpose to keep a most sensational vow

I simply can’t believe it. Shall I ring for some one to take my place ?’ He rang. Mrs Butler and one of the maids came, and the chasseur took his departure. The family were in their rooms dressing ; he made his way unnoticed ; the lawn and terraces were deserted also, and he passed out of the house and the gates undisturbed. He walked on to the town, lost in thought. What did this mystery mean ? He might have thought the ghost a myth, a figment of Sir Peter’s superstitious, overheated brain, but there was the evidence of the horse. The groom had found him quivering with terror —he had thrown his master in his frightened bound and Saracen was a calm, welltempered animal on ordinary occasions. Saracen was not superstitious, nor likely to be terrified by optical illusions. The horse had seen something—now what had that something been—goblin or human? It was a riddle the Chasseur d’Afrique could not read. He walked on with knitted brow and perplexed mind into and beyond the town, it was very quiet; the respectable fourth-class, shop-keeping, rate-paying citizens were in their back parlours drinking tea. An opal sky was overhead, a faint evening breeze was stirring, and the golden evening stars twinkled amid the golden grey. In its peace and hush Captain O’Donnell went on, out into the suburbs, opened the quaint old gate, and entered the solitary churchyard. The deepest hush of all reigned here ; not a sound but the twitter of the birds in their nests and the rustling of the leaves could be heard. He passed on, looking l at the inscriptions on tho tombstones, until at last he reached that solitary corner, where, under the waving fir trees, six years ago, they had laid Sir John Dangerfield’s adopted daughter. He paused. The grey-stone was overrun with clematis, the grave with grass and weeds. He pushed aside the fragrant blossoms and read the inscription Katherine, YEtat. 17. Resurgam. 4 Resurgam—l shall rise again !’ In the light of these latter events, how ominous the word sounded—like a threat from the dead. He stood there until the last yellow glimmer died out of the western sky, and the whole expanse had turned cold and grey. The rising wind struck chill, when at last he aroused himself and turned away. But before he had gone five yards he paused. Then after that momentary pause, he passed into the shadow of a tree-shaded walk, and stood still. A man and a woman were standing just inside the gate, screened from passers-by outside, by the elms that waved above it. Even at that distance he recognised the woman’s figure—it was not to be mistaken —it was Miss Herncastle.

Fate seemed to take a malicious pleasure in throwing him across her path, in foredooming him to play the spy. He stood still; it was impossible to go a step onward without being seen, and what would the governess think, but that he had dogged her steps again ? He stood still. The backs of both were turned upon him, but he knew Miss Herncastle’s stately figure and bearing, and dark, plain dress immediately. The man—who was tho man ? For one moment O’Donnell’s heart gave a bound—a sickening bound of fear. Was it—was it Sir Arthur Tregenna ? The height was the same; this man wore a grey suit and a conical felt hat; so did the Cornish baronet upon occasions. Could it be the chivalrous, the high-minded Cornishman could stoop to such deception, such double-dealings, such treachery to himself and Lady Cecil, as to keep private assignations with the governess ? As the thought crossed his mind the two turned, moved forward to the gate, and he saw with a sense of unutterable relief that he was mistaken. He saw the face of an utter stranger. The daylight still lingered, and the moon shone radiantly bright; be saw their faces clearly. Miss Herncastle, calm, statuesque, as usual; the man tall, fair, student-like, with stooping shoulders and a pale, thin face. They were speaking as they approached the gate and him. In the profound silence the last words of Miss Herncastle in her rich, sweet, full tones, came *o him :

4 You must go back, Henry, and at once, to-night. That you have been at Castleford at ad will cause talk enough. I had to tell you Marie De Lansac was here, but I certainly did not expect you to answer my letter in ptrson. Say goodbye now, and let me go on alone ; it would be fatal to all my projects to b 9 seen with you.’

Their hands clasped. The man murmured something earnestly, in too low a tone to be heard. Miss Herncaetle’s clear voice responded : ‘ Give up ! give up now, after all I have suffered, all I ba\ e worked so hard to accomplish, all I have borne already ! Never ! You should know me better than that. The first instalment of my revenge I have had. What I have sworn, I will do ; then, I care little what comes. Good-night, my kind, my faithful friend ; go back to London at once.’

She pulled a thick lace veil she wore over her. face, and walked away, with her own rapid, resolute step. The man lingered for nearly ten minutes: then he, too, opened the gate and disappeared in the gloaming. And Captain O’Donnell ! He stood like one petrified. Mark De Lansac ! his sister’s Louisianian name, on Miss Herncastle’s lips —and to this man ! What did it mean ? And her revenge—the oath she had made, and meant to keep ! What strange, incomprehensible jumble of mysteries was it altogether? His head absolutely turned giddy for a moment with the surging thoughts that filled hisbrain.' Who was Miss Herneastle? He glanced at the grave, and the grey stone, gleaming in the mopnrays that told the legend of Katherine Dangerfield’s death. If Katherine Dangerfield were dead— if —what reason had he to doubt it? And yet!—and yet!—his blue eyes flashed, his lips set, his face grew like iron, with sudden, stern resolve.

‘l’ll gob at the bottom of this juggling. I’ll find out who you are, my mysterious Miss Herneastle ! I’ll find out whether it was Katherine Dangerfield’s ghost Sir Refer saw under the King’s Oak, or—a living woman ! And, above all, I’ll find out what the name of Marie De Lansac has to do with you or that man !’ (To be continued. )