A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 472, 17 May 1890, Page 3

A Wonderful Woman.

B? MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “Guy Earlescourt’a Wife," “A Terrible Secret," “ Lost for a Woman,’' •‘A Mad Marriage," eto

BOOK. 11. CHAPTER XX. • A DARK NIGHT’S WORK. When my Lord Ruysland had finished his little paternal lecture to Major Franklancl and saw that gallant officer, ride off, he turned to address Captain O Donnell. and found to his surprise that Captain O’Donnell was gone. The chasseur, indeed, had not lingered a moment. With his straw hat pulled low over his eyes, he strode away at once through the town and to his quarters in the Silver Rose. The slouching, cockney-looking individual to whom he had spoken at the station was at th k Silver Rose before him, and as the captain passed through the inn yard, sac on a bench in friendly converse with Lanty Lafferty. ‘Dull?’ Mr Lafferty was repeating as his master passed through ; ‘ troth ye may say it’s dull wid sorra sowl to spake to maybe from mornin’ till night. But thin, on the other hand, there’s the hoith o aitin and dhrinkin’ goin’ on late an airly, and niver a han’s turn to do half yer time, not to spake ov’ the barmaid an the cook, two as purty an’ as pleasant spoken crathurs as ye’d like to kiss. It’s a comfortable life entirely it would be av the town was only Ballynahaggart instead of Castleford. Hut arrah ! shure we can’t have iverj’thmg. By the hokey, here’s the master himself, long life to him.’ . * All right, Lanty,’ his master responded, passing through with a nod, and taking no notice of Lanty’s companion. ‘How are they all at the Park? Seen Miss Rose lately?’ ... «I was at the Park above this morning, Misther Redmond, and I saw her ladyship, the lord’s daughter, and she was axin for yer honor, and bid me tell you the young mißthress was over an above well. O’Donnell merely nodded again and hurried on. It was a very long time since his sister had been ‘ over and above well, and he could see plainly enough it was more a mind than a body diseased ; and that this Gaston Dantree—the scoundrel who had wrecked another noble life—was in some way the cause, he knew now, thanks to Miss Herncastle. But that he was or had been Rose’s actual husband, had never for an instant occurred to him. Lanty Lafferty resumed his occupation of brushing a pair of his master’s tops, and his conversation with the stranger from London, interfarding work and social converse with a little music. His rollicking Irish voice came through the open windows to his master’s ears :

4 44 It was on a windy night, about two o clock in the morning. An Irish lad so tight. allBad scran to ye fur tops, shure the art o man wouldn’t git ye the colour heloikes ! 4 “An Irish lad so tight—’ Oh, thin, divil fear him but he was tight—shure it’s a wakeness all his counfchrymen have. It’s meself wud like a dhrop av potheen this minute, fresh from the still me very heart’s broke a drinkin’ the beer they have in these parts, an’ me gettin that fat in it, that sorra a waistcoat I have in the worruld that’ll button on me good or bad. Oh, blissed hour ! will I iver see the day whin all his sodgerin’ an’ his diyiltry in Algiers, and Ameriky, and England will be over, an’ meself back in 0 Donnell Castle on the ould sod once more? Talk about grandeur—about yer Windsor Castles, an yer St. James’s Palace—be me word, the two av thim thegither couldn’t hould a candle to Castle O’Donnell. Sixty-three rooms —sorra less—a stable full of cattle—the best blood in the country, a pack o ? hounds, a butler in silk stockings, an fumin as high as Fin McCoul, the Irish giant, if iver ye heerd av him. Whiskey galore, champagne for the axin , an’ waitin’ maids that it ud make yer mouth water only to look at. It s little 1 thought, six years ago, whin I left sich a place as that, that it’s an English inn. 1 d come to. It’s thim wor the blessed times all out.’ ... , , , ‘Blessed times, upon my life, responded his listener, smoking philosophically. ‘I aay, Mr Lafferty, there’s yer master a calling of yer.’ , , , jLanty seized the boofc3, and made a rush to his master’s room. The soft, silvery grey of the summer evening was falling by this time, and with his back to the faint light, the chasseur sat when his man en--4 Come in, Lanty, and shut the door perhaps you had better turn the key. I see you have made the acquaintance of that fellow in the inn yard already.’ 4 Jist passin’ the time o’ day, yer honor. They’re civil crathurs thim English chaps mostly, an’shure I’m not proud.’ 4 I’m glad to hear it, and it’s just as well your pride has not stood in the way of your sociability on the present occasion, as you would have to make his acquaintance whether or no. Lanty, can you keep a secret ?’ ‘A saycretis it? Upon me conscience thin that same’s a question I didn’t expect from yer father's son. A saycret ! Arrah, Misther Redmond, is there a bad turn ye iver did since ye were breeched that I don’t know ? Is there a bit av divilment ye iver wor in (an’ faith yer divilment was past countin’) that I didn’t, know betther than me prayers, and did I iver tell—did I now ? Faith it’s late in the day, so it is, to ax me sich a question as that.’ 4 Well, Lanty, don’tbe indignant,of course I know you can. Then I want you to keep quiet this evening, and perfectly sober, remember ; to retire to your room early, but not to go to bed. About half-past eleven when the town is quiet and every soul in the inn gone to sleep, take yonr shoes in your hand, steal out as though you were a mouse, and wait for me under the clump of larches beyhnd the inn. You’ll find your Dondon acquaintance there before you—l brought him down, and I want you both tonight. Lanty, did you ever hear of a reBurrectionist —a sack-’em-up ?’ ‘Sorra hear. Is it anything to ait or dhrink?’ ‘Nothing to eat or drink. A resurrectionist is one who opens graves, steals dead bodies and sells them to medical students for dissection.’ ♦ The Lord betune us and harm l «And this fellow you have been talking to all the evening is a professional sack- emup.’ The chasseur’s gravity nearly gave wav at Lanby’s look of horror. Never mind, my good fellow, be won’t sell you for dissection ; and, as I said before, you must be civil to him, despite his profession, for I have brought him down on purpose to open a grave this very night, and yon are to come along and help.’ 5 4 Open,a grave! Oh, king o’glory ! 4 It’s all on the square, Lanty—no stealing dead bodies, no selling to doctors I haven’t quiet got to that yet. Buff I have reaaon to believe a very great fra.nd has.

been penetrated and that very great mis ■ chief may come of it. To prevent that mischief I open this grave, open the coffin, see what it contains, and replace it exactly as 1 find it before morning- You understand ?’ Understand. Mr Lafferty was staring at his master with an expression of blank horror and consternation. Open a grave in the dead of night to see what a coffin contained. All the “divilment” of the past paled into insignificance beside this crowning act. Was his master suddenly going mad ? ‘I can’t explain any further, and it is not necessary for you to know. Be on hand, as I said ; keep sober, make no noise, and let me find you with Joggins under the larches at half-past eleven. They keep early hours here —all will be still by that time. Now go, and mind, not a word of this to a soul.’ Lanty Lafferty went—his mouth had fallen open, and he forgot to shut it, his eyes were like full moons, that blank expression of consternation still rigid on his face, 4 Open a grave ! Oh, wirra ! Afther twelve o’clock ! The Lord look down on me this night ! To see what’s in a coffin.! Arrah ! is it taken lave av his sinsis inbirely he is ! Faith it’s little rhyme or raison there iver was wid him or wan av his name, but av this disi’nt bang Bannagher ! Bannagher! upon me sowl it bangs the divil.’ But to rebel, to disobey, Mr Lafferty did not dream. Had his master informed him it was his painful duty to murder someone, and he (Lanty) was to assist at the sacrifice, that faithful henchman might have groaned under the awful duty assigned him, but he would have obeyed. And he would obey now, although a legion of ghosts should rise in their winding-sheets to warn them from their dreadful deed. The evening grey deepened into dark. Ten came —the stars were out, but there was no moon. Captain O’Donnell sat at his open window and smoked. To him this last act was but an act of simple duty to save his friend—the one last proof needed in the strange discovery he had made. No harm should be done—the coffin would be opened, and replaced precisely as he had found it, the grave reclosed. And then Miss Herncastle should hear all—should confess to the man she had made love her the whole truth, or he would. At half-past ten the inn was already dark and closed up for the night; there were but few guests, and these few kept primitive hours. At eleven not alight was to be seen. Still O’Donnell sat at his window, looking out at the dim starlight, smoking, and waiting. Half-past eleven, and punctual to the moment, he saw Lanty stride across the inn yard and disappear in the shadow of the larches. The time had come. He had removed his own boots and with them in his hand made his way out of the room, down the stairs, and through the door Lanty had noiselessly unbolted. Not a creature was to be seen—the whole town seemed to be still and dark. He seated himself on a bench and drew on his boots, then he made his way at once to the place of tryst. _ Lanty was at his post —upright, as a ramrod, silent as a tomb, and giving.his companion a wide berth —Mr Joggin.-, with a sack over his shoulders containing spade and pick, and instruments for opening the coffin —spoke as he drew, near. 4 Here we are, noble captain—up to time, and not a minute to be lost. Lead the way, and we follers and gets bo business at once.’

Keeping in the shade of hedges and wayside treeß, with an uncomfortable feeling in spite of his consciousness of that this night’s work .was an underhand and dastardly thing, the chasseur led the way. One belated pedestrian one doctor’s gig they met, no more, and the trees screened them even from them. They walked so rapidly that they were in the churchyard before the Castleford steeples tolled twelve. As the first sonorous boom of the midnight hour tolled out, Lantv Lafferty crossed himself devoutly, and looked fearfully at the white tombstones gleaming in the ghostly light. Redmond O’Donnell strode steadfastly along between the rows of graves, the lonely paths, until under its solitary tree he paused at Katherine Dangerfield’s. His lips were set, his eyes stern—for good or ill he would know the truth soon. 4 This is the grave,’ he said curtly. 4 Go to work ; I’ll keep watch. ’ The resurrectionist opened his bag, produced his shovels, gave one into the reluctant hands of Lanty, and set to work with professional rapidity and dexterity. The two men worked with a will until the perspiration stood in great drops on their faces. O’Donnell had brought a brandy flask, and gave them copious libations, until even Lanty’s drooping spirits arose. No sound but the subdued noise of the shovelling elay—nothing living or dead to be seen. O’Donnell worked with them —there was no need of watching—and at last, far below in the faint light of the stars, the coffin lay revealed. . The men lay on their spades, wiped their faces, and drew a long breath. Then the resurrectionist and Lanty raised the coffin between them—the damp clay clinging to it, making it weighty—and placed it at Redmond O Donnell’s feet. At last! He drew one long, hard, tense breath—his eyes gleamed. 4 Open it,’ he said, in a composed sorb of voice, and Mr Joggins produced his screw-driver, and set to work once more. The screws, one by one, were removed - the last lay in . the palm of Joggins’ hand—nothing remained bub .to lift the lid and see either the mouldering remains of Katherine Dangerfield, or— . ...... He made a sign, Joggins raised it, all three bent forward to look. There was a simultaneous exclamation from all as they bent again to reassure themselves. The late rising moon, which had been struggling through the mists of coming morning, shone suddenly for a moment full upon the ghastly object before them, and lit it brightly up. , , , They saw what Redmond O Donnell had exnected to see—an empty coffin.

CHAPTER XXI. 4 the LENGTH OF HIS TETHER.’ That fateful July night, destined to be marked for ever in the calendars of Lady Danger field and Captain Redmond O’Donnell was fated likewise to be marked with a red cross in that of Sir Arthur Tregenna. , , , ~ 4 Sir Arthur Tregenna has run the length of his tether,’ Lord Ruysland had calmnly said to himself while pacing the Castleford station ; 4 it is high time to pull him short up.’ For Lord Ruysland to decree was to act. This very night Sir Arthur should receive his ‘short pull up.’ ~ He waited placidly where he was; he saw Major Frankland return, still gloomy and in the sulks, saw him depart an hour later by the Parliamentary train, and not until then did he summon the fly, and give the order to Scarswood Park. There was no hurry, the young baronet was with the Park party at Morecanabe; they were to return to’ dinner, not sooner. He was

going to “play his last great stake to-night. If he failed, his whole future might be told in one brief, forcible word —ruin - but not one pulse beat quicker, not one sign of agitation or eagerness marred the serenity of his handsome patrician face. As coolly, as deliberately as he had pronounced sentence of doom upon young O’Donnell six years ago, he was going to bring Sir Arthur to his bearings to-night. The archery party returned ; separated for a brief space and met again at dinner. My lady was seized with that distressing headache, and disappeared immediately after, Miss Herncastle in her wake. Sir Peter in a few minutes followed suit. Miss O’Donnell, looking pale and fagged, made her excuses and sought her room. Lady Cecil insisted upon accompanying her. Squire Talbot cut short his visit and moodily departed. Lord Ruysland and Sir Arthur were left alone before it was quite half-past nine. Fate seemed inclined to take sides with the peer. Two minutes after Talbot’s departure he opened the duel, and fired the first shot. 4 What is this about a letter from Cornwall and your departure to morrow, Sir Arthur? 1 heard you telling Lady Dangerfield at dinner, but did nob quite catch your drift. Business, I suppose ?’ 4 Yes, business —business too long deferred. Pennwalder wrote me a week ago urging me to return. There’s a fever among my people, there have been mining accidents and much distress. It is greatly to my discredit that I have neglected my duty so long.’ ‘ Humph ! then you positively leave us to-morrow ?’ * I positively leave to-morrow. I wish I had gone last week.’ He said it moodily, drumming with his fingers on the table, and not looking at his companion. 4 So do I,’ Lord Ruysland spoke gravely, and with unwonted energy; ‘so do I with all my soul. For the last week Searswood has been no place for you.’ 4 My lord !’ ‘lt is high time for me to speak—a false delicacy has restrained me too long. I would indeed prove unworthy the dying trust of my dearest, my truest, my best friend, your dead father, if I held my peace longer. To night I will speak, be the consequences what they may—to-night I will do my duty, however distasteful that duty may be." Long before your return to this house, if return you are mad enough to do, I and Cecil will have gone, and it is neither my wish nor my intention that we three shall ever meet again. My daughter’s health demands change —she is falling into low spirits—l will take her to Scotland to the Countess of Strathearn’s for the winter. I merely mention this that you may make you farewells to her final when you part to-morrow.’ A flush rose up over the blonde face of the Cornishman, a deep permanent flush ; his lips compressed, his eyes did not leave the table. Guilt, shame, contrition were in his countenance, and guilt held him silent. Let Lord Ruysland say what he might, he couldnob say one word more than he deserved.

‘ I see I do not take you by surprise,’ his lordship coldly went on ; ‘I see you are prepared for what I would say. How bitterly I have been disappointed in you—of all 1 had expected from your father’s son —of —l may say it now on the eve of parting for ever—of the plans I had formed—of the hopes I had cherished—it would be idle to speak to - night. Hopes and plans were all at an end your father’s dying wish binds me no longer since you have been the first bo disregard it. Bub still for your father’s sake I will speak. On his death-bed ho asked me bo stand in his place toward you. Hitherto I have striven to do so—hitherto I have held you as my own son—all that too is changed. You have deliberately chosen to become infatuated with a woman of whom you know nothing—except that she is your inferior in station —deliberately chosen to throw us all over, and fall in love with a designing adventuress. That deep, angry red still burned on the baronet’s face, his iips were still resolutely compressed, his eyes still fixed upon the table. At the last words, however, he suddenly looked up. 4 Designing adventuress !’ he repeated, slowly. ‘You use strong words, Lord Ruysland. Of course you do not make such a statement as that upon mere suspicion.’ 4 1 do nob. I condemn no one upon mere suspicion. That I suspect Miss Herncastle of some deep, mischievous, latent object in coming here, is true ; that I suspect her of maliciously working upon that poor little superstitious fool, Bir Refer, and his. fears, •and of playing ghost for his benefit, is also true. Bub let that go—it has nothing to do with you, and for your sake simply I speak. You have haunted Miss Herncastle like her very shadow from the moment you met her first—for her you have pointedly, almost rudely I had said, neglected and overlooked all others. Therewas but one way for this to end with a man of your high sense of honour—in marriage. Before that disastrous consummation is reached I lay a few plain facts before you. Afterward you will do as you please.’ He took from his pocket-book a little packet of papers, and spread two of them out upon the table. ‘Be kind enough to glance ever these, Sir Arthur. They are the testimonials of character, and the references given by Miss Herncastle in London to Lady Dangerfield. ’ Still dead silent, the young Cornishman took them. The testimonials were carefully worded, the references were to a Mrs Lawton, of Wilton Crescent, and a Jonas Woodwidge, Esquire, of St. John’s Wood. He read and pushed chem back. 4 Well,’ he said, in a compressed voice. 4 Read this also ’ The earl pushed another letter across to him. 4 1 wrote that, as you see, to my solicitor, asking him bo call upon Mrs Lawton. You have read it. Now read his answer.’ He pushed a third letter across. For the third time the baronet read. Lincoln Inn, London, July 25tb. *MY Lord In compliance with your demand I called at Wilmont Cresent at the number given. No Mrs Lawton lived there, or had ever lived there. I next called at St. John’s Wood; Mr Jonas Woodwidge had resided there about a year ago. but had emigrated with his whole family to Australia. This is all the information I have been able to obtain. 4 1 am, my lord, etc.’

Sir Arthur laid down the letter. The flush had faded from his face, leaving him very pale. 4 lt is plain to be seen by anyone not wilfully blind, that the references are forged, by Miss Herncastle, of course, for her own ends. If Lady Dangerfield had taken the trouble to seek them and find this out for herself, no doubt her very clever governess would have been prepared with gome plausible story to account for it. This much I must certainly say for Miss Herncastle—she’s one of the very cleverest women I ever met. Do you need farther proof that she is a designing adventuress ? Let me tell you what my own eyes have seen—sufficient in itself to cure you of your folly, if this sorb of folly is ever to be cured.’ He leaned back in his chair looking sternly at Sir Arthur sitting like a culprit in the dock before him, and went on.

‘lt was the very nighb before Sir Peter saw the ghost under the King’s Oak, of which more anon. It was a hot night, brilliant moonlight, and it is a failing of mine that I can never sleep well on very bright moonlight nights. It was past eleven when I went up to my room. I knew it was useless to go to bed, so instead I sat down to write half-a-dozen letters. It was half-past twelve when 1 finished the last—l lit a cigar and sac down by the open window to smoke myself into sleepiness if I could. The stable clock struck one, still I felt no inclination toward drowsiness. While I still sat there, to my surprise, I saw, at that hour, a woman and man crossing the fields and approaching .Scarswood. If you have noticed, and beyond doubt you have, Miss Herncastle possesses a very stately walk—a very commanding figure. I knew her instantly—l also, after a moment or two, recognised the man. Of him, however, it is needless to speak. He accompanied her to the very house; they parted almost directly under my window. I heard him promise not to betray her. She appeared to be absolutely in his power. When he left her she stood and watched him out of sight. All this was nearly about two in the morning, mind, when everybody supposed the governess to be in bed and asleep. How she got in I don’t know. She came down the next morning, looking as self-possessed and inscrutable as ever. My suspicions were aroused, and I watched again the following night. Sir Arthur Tregenna, as surelv as 1 tell you, I saw her steal softly under my window, a few minutes before midnight, and take her post under the King’s Oak. The gallop of Sir Peter’s horse could be distinctly heard on the road. She wore a long black mantle, and as he rode up the avenue I saw her fling it off and stand before him all in white - her hair flowing—her eyes fixed. What followed you know. She picked up her cloak and made her way back—how Heaven knows. I tell you the simple truth—tomorrow 1 shall tell it to all the house—tomorrow Miss Herncastle quits Scarswood, and for ever. To-night I warn you, Arthur, my i a d—my son almost. Pause while it is yet time—give up this miserable designing woman and for ever. Do not bring disgrace on yourdead father-on yourhonoured name - and lifelong misery on yourself. Go to Cornwall go abroad do nothing—anything only see Miss Herncastle no more.’

The earl’s voice broke—grew actually husky in the intensity of his emotion—in the perfection of his acting. And still Sir Arthur sat like a stone. ‘ It lias been a bitter blow to me—a blow more bitter than I can say. But I have learned to bear many bitter things in m y nf e —this is but one more keen disappointment added to the rest. It will be better perhaps that we do not meet to-morrow-let me say it now—good-bye, and may Heaven bless you, Arthur.’ He arose, and grasped the young man’s hand. Sir Arthur arose too—quite white now, and looked him full in the face. 4 One moment, my lord—then good-bye if you will. All you have said I have de-seryecl-—no one can feel how I have fallen from honour and manhood more than I. Whether it is still too late to repair my great fault must rest with you. What I have returned to England for—what I came to Scarswood for—you must surely know. I shame to speak it. It was to see and know Lady Cecil Clive, and if she could so far honour me. make her my wife. On the nighb I first met’—he paused, and spoke the name with a sorb of effort lowed the Lady Cecil into the boudoir to place my fate in her hands. Of the spell that seemed to seize me from that moment, you know only boo well—it is a sort of madness that I suppose few escape. For a time I was buna—i saw no a nger lately my eyes have been opened to my own guilt. There is but one who can be my wife whsther or no I have wronged her too greatly to ask her, you may decide. If so, then I leave England the moment my Cornish business is settled —if nob—’ he paused. 4 lb shall be as you say, my lord.’ He folded his arms, very white, very stern, and awaited his answer. The bound that battered old organ, the earl’s heart, gave at the words ! He was saved ! But his immovable face remained as immovable as ever. 4 You are but mortal, Arthur, and Miss Herncastle is a most attractive woman. Without possessing a single claim bo beauty she is a woman bo fascinate men, where the perfect face of a goddess might fail. She is a Circe, whose power all must feel. It is nob too late, I hope, I trust; and yet Cecil is very proud. If she can forgive and accept you, I can, with all my heart. J shall not say good-bye, then, bub goodnight and au revoir.’ He left him before Sir Arthur could speak —left him alone in the brightly lib, empty drawing-room. He stood irresolute, then turned”and followed the earl from the* room. Now was the time—now or never ; let him hear his fate at once. Something lay like a stone in his breast—the dark, beguiling face, the soft flute voice of Helen Herncastle was before his eyes, in his ears. Of all the women on earth she was the one woman he would have cho36n for his wife, and Destiny had written that he must never look on her face again. In passing the length of the drawingroom to the door, he had to go by the tiny boudoir, where, on the evening of the theatricals, he had followed Lady Cecil. The curtains were only partly drawn, and seated within, her hands folded listlessly in her lap, li6r eyes fixed on the dim starlight, he saw once more as on that evening, the earl’s daughter. As on that evening, he swept back the curtain, and stood, tall and dark, by her side. Her half-uttered exclamation died away. Before she could speak one word he was saying what he had come to say—hurriedly —incoherently—his face all set and stern, looking as unlike a lover as can well be conceived. She drew a little away from him, her clasped hands tightened over one another. She sat perfectly still and listened —a sort of scorn for him—a sort of scorn for herself —an utter weariness of everything, the only feelings she wasconciousof. She listened with steady patience to the end. 4 He was unworthy of-her—infinitely unworthy ; he esteemed and admired her with all his heart; it had been his dying father’s wish —he had her father’s consent. Would Lady Cecil Clive do him the honour to become his wife ?’ She looked up at the last words, flushing red in the darkness. 4 My father’s consent,’ she repeated slowly. 4 Sir Arthur, tell me the truth. My father has been talking to you to-night ? He has —oh ! how shall I say it—he has ordered you to follow me here and say this? 4 On my sacred honour, no. I have been talking to your father —asking his permission to address you. I have said before I am unworthy ; if you refuse me I shall feel 1 am receiving the punishment I richly merit. If you accept me, it will be the study of my life bo make you happy. ’ He stood and waited for her answer. 4 His punishment,’ she repeated with inward scorn. 4 Ah, yea, Sir Arthur, my refusal would be a punishment not over I hard to bear. He asks me,, hoping—yes

hoping— though he may not acknowledge it himself, that I will refuse, and I—l must say yes,’ She must say yes—her whole future, her father’s, depended on it. She could not brave his anger—she could not live this life for ever—what would become of her if she refused ? All at once Torryglen rose before her, and Redmond O’Donnell's face, bright, eager, loving. Yes, in those days he had loved her. He had changed—she was no more to him now than her cousin Ginevra, and while life lasted she must love him. No time to shirk the truth now; she loved Redmond O’Donnell, and this man who stood beside her asking her to be his wife loved Helen Herncastle. What a miserable, travestied world it was, what wretched hypocrites and cheats they all were. Why had she not been born a farmer’s daughter to hold life with a wholesome, hearty interest, to love her husband and be loved in return ? ‘ You do not answer,’ Sir Arthur said. ‘I have lost all hold on your respect and esteem, as I deserve. Lady Cecil, will you not speak at least, and let me hear my fate ?’' * What is it you wish mo to say ?’ she asked wearily, a touch of pain and impatience in her voice. ‘ You ask me to be your wife, Sir Arthur Tregenna—you are a man of truth and honour—you have lost neither my respect nor my esteem. Tell me truly truly— do you really wish me to say yes?’ ‘ I really wish von to say yes. If you do not say it, then I leave England again in a month —for years—for life.’ She drew her breath hard she spoke with a sort of gasp. ‘ You will leave England ! Then there is no one else you will marry if—’ ‘There is no one else I would marry if you refuse —no one.’ He said it resolutely—a hard, metallic ring in his voice, his lips set almost to pain. ‘ There is no one else I will marry—if you refuse me I leave England. Once more, Lady Cecil, will you be my wife ?’ ‘J— w ill be—your wife.’ The words were spoken—her voice faltered—her face was steadily turned to the still moonlight. It was over. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. How chill its touch, but scarcely so chill as the lips that touched it. Then it was drawn away and she stood up. ‘ I leave here for Cornwall, as you know, to be absent two almost three weeks. Tomorrow, before I go, I shall speak to Lord Ruysland. Whatever I have been in the past—this much, Lady Cecil, you may believe of me—that you will ever be first in my thoughts from this hour—that I will make you happy if the devotion of a life can do it.' ‘I believe you,’ she held out her hand of her own accord now, 1 and trust and honour you with all my heart. It is late, and I am tired. Good-night, Sir Arthur.’ ‘Good-night, Ladv Cecil.’ She left him standing there and went up to her own room. W hat a farce it had all been—she half smiled as she thought of it, love-making without a word of love, a proposal of marriage without a spark of affection between them. They were like two Duppets in a Marionette comedy playing at being in love. But it was all over her father was saved—she would make a brilliant marriage after all. She had accepted him, and fulfilled her destiny. Her name was written in the Book of Fate—Lady Cecil Tregenna. {To be Continued.)