A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 476, 31 May 1890, Page 6

A Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “Guy Earlescourt’s Wife,” “A Terrible Secret," “ Lost for a-Woman," "A Mad Marriage,” eto-

CHAPTER XXIII. “ SIX YEARS TOO LATE.” Poor little Rose,' indeed ! In the dusk she came gliding forward, so unlike herself — so like a spirit—so wan, so wasted—that with a shocked exclamation, he drew her to him, and looked down into her worn face. ‘They told me you were ill, Rose, but not like this. If I had thought ! If I had known —’ She Hung her arms round his neek, and hid her face on his shoulder.

‘ Don’t, Redmond. Don’t look—don’t speak to me like.that. I don’t deserve it— I don’t deserve any love-or kindness.from you. I have deceived you shamefully. You will despise me—you ■ will hate me when I have told you all.’ ‘Willi? lam not sure-of that. When you have told me all, I think X shall still be sorry to see those hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, and wasted hands. Shall I light the lamps, Rose, or—’ * No, no ! no lights ; such a wretch as I am should tell her story in the dark. Here, sit down in this chair, Redmond, and let me take this stool at your feet. At your feet, my fitting place.’ ‘ My dear Rose, a- mo3t ominous beginning. What must the.story be like when the preface is so terrible ? Have you not grown nervous and hysterical, and inclined to magnify molehills into mountains ? Out with it. Rose ; I promise not to be 100 stern a father confessor. It’s the story, I suppose, about this fellow .Dantree ?’ She had seated herself at his feet, her arms across his knee, her face lying upon it. He laid his hand very gently on her bowed, humbled head. ‘ Speak, Rose. I am sorry to see you have learned to fear me like this. If I was stern with you the other night I ask you to forgive me now. If you and I may nob trust each other, whom may we trust ? I promise to be merciful. Is it about this fellow Dantree?’

‘lb is. Redmond, I ought to have told you that other night, but I am a coward—a weak, pitiful coward. They say a guilty conscience makes cowards of us all, and mine is a guilty conscience indeed. For seven years I have kept the secret I tell you to-night. Redmond,’ a great gasp, ‘you asked me if Gaston Dantree was my lover, and I said yes. I should have told you the truth ; ho was more than my lover. He was my—husband.’ The last word seemed to suffocate her. She crouched farther down as though shrinking—almost from a blow. She had expected a great start—an exclamation of amaze and horror—either as hard to bear as a blow. Neither came. Dead silence fell. He sat perfectly still—a dark stature in the dark. Whatever look his face wore, she could nob see. That pause lasted for perhaps ten seconds ten hours it seemed to her. Then, ‘ Your husband i This is a- surprise. And for seven years you have been this scoundrel’s wife ?’

‘For seven long, miserable years. Oh, brother, forgive me. I have done shamefully wrong—l have been a living lie—l have deceived the. kindest grandfather—the dearest brother, bub if you knew what I have suffered— ’

That choking in her voice made her pause again. ‘And suffering goes far to atone for sin.’ He remembered Lady Cecil’s soft, sad words of reproach, and again his caressing touch fell upon the bo wed young head. It had'been a blow to him, a blow to his love and his pride, and both were great, but his voice anrl touch were far more tender than she had ever known them for years. ‘ I can believe it,’ he said ; ‘ you have atoned for your folly indeed. Don’t fear, Rose. I can only regret that you did not tell me long ago. Tell me now at least—all.’

Sh 3 tolcl him —in broken sentences—with bowed head, while the darkness of the August night deepened in the little room, the old story of a girl’s love and folly—of 1 marrying in haste and repenting at leisure.’

‘I wasn’t quite eighteen, and just home from my convent school when I met him first, with all a girl’s foolish dreams of beauty, and love and romance. He was very handsome—l have never seen such a face as his—with the dash, and ease and grace of a man of the world. And if he had been a very vulcan of ugliness, his divine voice miyht have won ray dreaming, sentimental girl's heart. The aroma of conquest hung about him—-married ladies petted and spoiled him - young ladies raved of his beaux yeux and his Mario voice, and’ I—l f e ll in love with him in a reckless, desperate sort of way, as later I suppose poor Katherine Dangerfield ' did in this very house. I was M. Do Lansac’s reputed heiress then, and just the sort of prize he was looking out for. Very young, very silly, not bad-lOoking, and the heiress of one or two million dollars—a prize even worthy his stooping to win. And—and, Redmond, in these first days I think he even liked me a little, too. My grandfather detested him—forbade him the house—forbade me to see or speak to him. Then began my wrong-doing—l didsee him—l did speak to him —I loved him —you wouldn’t understand if I told yon how dearly, and —and— Redmond—l consented to a private marriage. He was afraid to lose M. de Lansac’s heiress, and I was afraid to lose him. He threatened to leave New Orleans and never return if 1 refused. I married him and for a little time w r as happy in a fool’s paradise. Only for a very little while indeed. My grandfather, in the most unexpected and sudden manner, as you know, got married. Gaston was furious - no need to tell you how hesbormedand raved, or the names he called M. De Lansac. I received my first lesson in his real character then. That year he remained in New Orleans—then little Louis was born, and all his hopes were at an end. He might bid good-bye to M. De Lansac’s great fortune. He came to me one night—we met in secretin the grounds—like a man beside himself with rage and disappointment. He accused me of being the cause of all; it was bad enough to be a beggar himself without being deluded into marrying a beggar. He bade me savagely keep our marriage a dead secret from the world. He was going to England, he said ; if he retrieved his fortune there somq day he might, send for me; if he did not, why I was still Bafe at Menadorva. That was our parting. I have never set eyes on him since.

‘ He went to England; he wrote me from London and gave me a London ad-dress-some publishers there. I answered, but received no second letter. I waited and wrote again—still no reply. Then ,1 got desperate ; . the little pride I had left me rose up. . I wrote for the last time. If

he wished to be freo he was free as the wind. Ijwould hold him or no man against his will. Only let him return my picture and letters, ana consider me as dead to him for ever. I did not dream he would take me at my word, bub he did ; the next mail brought me what I asked—my letters, my picture, and not one word beside.’ She paused, her breath coming in quick, short sobs. Her voice was fainter than ever when she resumed.

* I was ill after that—ill in body and mind. A great loathing of New Orleans and all in it took possession of me—a loathing of life, for that matter. I wanted to die and make an end of all the miserable, never-ceasing pain that tortured me. As I could not die, I wanted to leave New Orleans, the scene of my troubles, for ever. A great and indescribable longing to see Ireland once more—to see you —took possession of me. To add the finishing blow, I saw in an English paper the announcement of the approaching marriage of Miss Katherine Dangerfield, only daughter of Sir John Dangerfield, of Scarswood Park, Sussex, to Mr Gaston Dantree, of New Orleans, with a few romantic details. I think I felt stunned, worn out. In a dim sort of way it struck me I ought to prevent this marriage. I looked in the paper again, determined, if possible, to save Miss Katherine Dangerfield, and dropped it in despair. The wedding-day was fixed for the first of January ; it was the twentieth then. It was too iate. How was Ito tell that in New York, or elsewhere, he might not have still a third wifo, whose claim was prior to mine ? I burned sick and cold with the thought. ‘Redmond, I wonder I did nob die. I wauled to die. I had such a horror of myself —of him—a horror of ever being found out. Dub there was little danger of that; no one knew ; my secret was safe enough. I wrote to you, bub you had gone bo Algiers. There was no hope but to remain, and drag out life at Menadarva. I still read the English papers for further news of him, and last I read the cruel story —the horrible tragedy enacted in this house —the story of Katherine Dangerfield’s wedding day, and what came after. She was happier than I. She died, and I could only live on and bear my trouble alone. I wrote to you again and again. A desperate longing to know whether Gaston were alive filled me. I didn’t care for him—l abhorred him now, but I wanted to know. If he were dead, I thought, and I were free, I would enter a convent, and find peace for the rest of my days. But I was years waiting before you came. You did come at last—you brought me here —here where he disappeared, and where I hoped to discover something more. Bub this man, Otis, in whose care he was, has gone. I know no more to-day than the day we came. This is my story, Redmond. Pity me, forgive me, if you can.’ He had listened in grave silence —he had never interrupted her once. His hand rested still on her soft, dark hair.

‘ I pity you, I forgive you. It is easy to do both. And this is why you came to Casfcleford ? If you had only told me —bub it may nob be too late yet. Trust me, Rose; I shall discover, and speedily, whether Dantree be living or dead.’ She clasped her hands impassionately. ‘lf you only could. Oh, Redmond, how good you are—how good —how good ! If you only knew what a relief it is to have told you this —to know that you do not hate me for what I have done. I dreaded your knowing more than anything else on earth—dreaded the loss of your love and trust. Even now, but for Miss Herncascle, I might still be dumb.’ ‘Ah, Miss Herncastle. And she knows, of course she does. Pray what has this very remarkable Miss Herncastle to say on the subject ?’ ‘ She knew all, that I am Gaston Dantree’s wife —how she knows it, she won’t bell. She knows, too, whether he is living or dead, bub she keeps her knowledge to herself. She told me she had little reason to love or serve my brother’s sister—what did she mean by it? That you were very clever in the amateur detective line, and that here was opening for your genius. I couldn’t understand her—l implored her to tell me the truth, bub it was all in vain—she bade me go to you and tell you one good turn deserved another. Redmond, she is a mystery, a strange, desperate, dangerous woman.’ ‘A mystery,’ her brother said. ‘Well, perhaps so, and yet a mystery I think I can understaad. A dangerous -woman. Well, perhaps so again, and yet a woman almost more sinned against than sinning. I pity you, Rose, but I pity Miss Herncastle more.’

His sister looked up at him in wonder, but the darkness hid his face.

You pity her,’ she repeated, ‘ because she has been turned out of Scarswood ?’

‘Hardly. Never mind, Rose; you will hear it all soon enough, aad when you do, I think you will look upon this designing governess, as I do, “more in sorrow than in anger.” Let us drop Miss Herncastle and Gaston Dantree, too, for the present, and talk of yourself. You must understand, of course, that in the present state of domestic affairs at Scarswood, the sooner all guests leave the better. Lord Ruysland and his daughter are Lady Dangerfield’s relatives, and are privileged to stay. For you—you must leave at once. Are you able to travel ? You look w'retchediy ill.’

‘Yes,’ she answered, wearily, ‘ I think so. It is more a mind diseased than anything else. It is such an unutterable relief to have told you, and obtained your forgiveness and help, that I feel stronger already. You are right, we must go at once. Poor Lady Dangerfield. Oh, Redmond, brother, what a wretched, wrong-doing world it is ! ‘ Wrong-doing, indeed/ and the ohasseur’s mouth grew sterner ; ‘ I have little compassion for Lady Dangerfield or any of her class. Place Miss Herncastle, the outcast, and Lady Dangerfield, the injured wife, in the balance, and let us see who will kick the beam. Gan you pack tomorrow, R,ose ? I shall take you to France at once. Then, when you are safe with Madame Landeau, I shall return, begin my search for Dantree, and move heaven and earth until I find him.’

She stooped and kissed his hand. ‘ 1 can be ready. I shall have only one farewell to make, and that is to Lady Cecil. I wonder if she is happy—you have heard her news, I suppose?’ He knew in an instant what it was—knew before the words were quite uttered. His voice—his grave, steady tones—had changed when he spoke. ‘ I have heard no news of Lady Cecil. What is it vou mean ?’

‘ I mean her engagement to Sir Arthur. He asked her to be his wife on the night of the masquerade, and she has consented. He departed for Cornwall early next morning. It was Lord Ruysland who told us, and somehow, Redmond, I don’t think she is very much happier than the rest of us, after all. He i§ very wealthy, and it is the desire of her father’s heart, but yet I think— ’

Her brother rose abruptly. ‘ A great deal of nonsense, no doubt, Rose. You women never quite outgrow your sentimentality. Sir Arthur Tregenna is a mate for a princess—she should certainly be happy. .It grows late, Rose, and you are not strong. You Rad better retire at once, and, by. a good night’s rest, prepare yourself for to-morrow’s flitting. £ood-night, my little sister—let us hope

even your clouds may have their silver lining.’ He stooped and touched his moustached lips to her pale cheek—then he was gone. The house was very still as he passed out —a sorb of awed hush, as though it were a house ot death or mourning, reigned. W hat a contrast to the brilliantly-filled rooms of a week ago. ‘ Sic transit ,’ he said, as his masculine tread echoed along the vaulted hall; ‘ life’s a see-saw—up and down. And Lord Ruysland’s daughter’s engagement to Sir Arthur Tregenna is not a week old, after all ! What of that little romance Lord Ruysland told me six years ago in Torryglen ?’ ‘ Ah, O’Donnell !’ It was the debonnaire voice of Lord Ruysland himself that spoke. ‘ Glad to see you again—glad to see any human being in this miserable house. I suppose you have heard all—devil of an affair altogether. May Old Nick fly away with Miss Herncastle. Who ever heard of such a proceeding before ? Dressing herself up in Frankland’s clothes, and deceiving even Ginevra ! Gad ! she’s a wonderful woman ! And what the dickens did she do it for? Out of pure, innate malevolence, and nothing else, I believe in my soul.’ ‘ Bub it has not been proven that it really ivas Miss Herncastle,’ O’Donnell said ; ‘you all appear to have taken that for granted. She has not pleaded guilty, has she? and your evidence, conclusive though it may be, is purely circumstantial. She owns to nothing bub having torn up the note.’ ‘ She owns bo nothing certainly, but there is such a thing as moral certainty. It may nob be evidence in a court of law, but it is quite sufficient to commit a culprit in the domestic tribunal. Miss Herncastle wore the knight’s dress, and went to the ball, and has got Lady Dangerfield into a most infernal scrape. That is clear.’ ‘ Nothing is clear to me but that Lady Dangerfield has gob herself into a scrape,’ O’Donnell answered with the stubborn justice that was part of his character. ‘ Give the devil his due, Lord Ruvsland. Miss Herncastle made the dress for Lady Dangerfield, but Miss Herncastle could not compel her to wear it to Mrs Eversleigh’s masquerade against Sir Peter’s express commands. Miss Herncastle may have worn the major’s dress and gone to the masquerade as Lara, but 1 doubt if seeing her there influenced Sir Peter one way or the other. His wife disobeyed him - she went to Mrs Everleigh’s in male attire—defying his threat and the consequences. She is no child to be led by Miss Herncastle or anyone else —she went with her eyes open, knowing her danger, and I must say—think what you please—that in Sir Peter’s place I would do precisely what Sir Peter is doing.’ ‘I don’t doubt it,’ the earl responded dryly ; ‘be good enough not to say so to Sir Peter, howevor, should you se9 him. He is sufficiently bitter without aiding or abetting.’ ‘ I am hardly likely to pee him. My sister leaves Scarswood to-morrow —Castleford the day after. I will take her to France and place her in charge of a friend of ours there. Of course it is quite impossible now for her to remain here an hour longer than necessary. I am sorry for Lady Dangerfield —she has been most kind to Rose—most hospitable to me. I seriously trust this disagreeable affair may end amicably after all.’ ‘ Yes, I hope so,’ the earl answered coolly ; * but I doubt it; it is hard on Lady Dangerfield—she may have het faults and her follies—who has not ? Bub with them all, Ginevra was as jolly a little soul as ever lived. And it’s a confounded bore for me, now that everything is settled—’ and he stopped suddenly and looked askance at his companion. 4 You allude to Lady Cecil’s engagement, I presume?’ O’Donnell supplemented, quite calmly. ‘ Rose has told me. My only surprise is, that it should be announced at this late day as news. I believe lam correct in thinking it a very old affair indeed—of six years standing, or more.’ Very few people ever had the good fortune to see Raoul, Earl of Ruysland, at a loss, but for one brief moment he was at a loss now.

‘Very old affair—oh,. yes, very—ever since his father’s death—in fact it has been tacitly—er—understood nothing dennito —aw —too young, of course, and all that sort of thing. It was the desire of the late Sir John, as well as myself, and—er—the young people were by no means averse to carrying out our wishes. All is happily settled now—the wedding will take place without any unnecessary delay. Are you going to Castleford at once ? I should like half an hour’s con versation with you about,’ he lowered his voice—‘about Mis 3 Herncastle ; I have placed a detective on her track.’

‘My lord!’ there was an unmistakable shock in the words.

‘ A detective on her track/ repeated the earl. ‘Take my word, O’Donnell, that woman means mischief, and will do it yet. I’ll forestall her if I can—l’ll find out who she is and what brought her here, before I am many weeks older. I have already discovered— 1 He paused—the figure of a man was approaching them through the darkness. ‘ Davis ’ the earl said interrogatively, * is that you ?’ ‘All right, my lord.’ The man pulled off his cap, halted, and looked keenly at O’Donnell.

‘Go into the library, Davis—l’ll follow and hear your report.’ The man bowed obsequiously again, and went. Lord Ruysland turned to his companion.

‘ That’s my detective ; past-master of his business, keen as a ferret. I must go and hear his report—it will not detain me long. Then I’ll tell you all, and I think you'll acknowledge Miss Herncastle is worth the watching. Wait for me in the drawing-room Cecil’s there, and will amuse you.’ He left him and hurried away.

The chasseur stood irresolute for a moment —then, as if his determination was taken, turned and walked into the drawing room.

He might have thought it deserted but for the low sound of singing that came forth. The lights were down—there was no one to be seen, but far off in the recess where the piano stood he caught a glimpse of a white dress and the gleam of a diamond star. Very softly, very sweetly she sang an old ballad that he had been wont to sing long ago in the little cottage parlour at Torryglen whilst her white fingers struck the accompaniment. He crossed over and leaned with folded arms against the instrument. She looked up with a smile and sang on:

‘ Oh, I loved iu my youth a lady fair. For her azure eyes and her golden hair, Oh, truly, oh, truly. I loved her then, And naught shall I ever so love again ’ Save my hawk, and my hound, and my red roan steed, For they never failed in my hour of need.’

She stopped and glanced at him again. His eyes were fixed upon her, a steady, thoughtful, almost stern gaze. Again she smiled. ‘ How fierce the look this exile wears who’s wont to be so gay. Captain O’Donnell, what is it?’ The dark gravity of his face broke into an answering smile, still a grave one. “‘The treasured wrongs of six years back are in my heart to-day.” Lady Cecil, my sister and your father have told me all.

To-morrow I leave Scarswood, the day after Castleford, in all likelihood for ever. Before I go let me present my congratulations to the future lady Cecil Tregenna.’ She turned suddenly away from him, her head drooped, a deep, painful, burning flush rose up to the very roots of her hair. As she sang the old song, as she stood beside her in the old way, the old, glad days had come back, the golden days of her first; youth. Sir Arthur Tregenna and the present had faded for a moment as a dream, and Torryglen and her love, the only love she had ever known, had come back. And the spell was broken thus.

She could nob speak; the keenest pain, the sharpest pang she had ever felt caught at her heart like a hand. For that first instant <»ven her pride forsook her. ‘ And I can congratulate you,’ the grave, deep tones of the soldier of fortune went on. *No truer gentlemen, no more loyal friend exists, nor, in the future, I believe no more devoted husband than Sir Arthur Tregenna.’ ‘ Late—Miss Herncastle’s slave and worshipper ! Pray add that before you finish your panegyric, Captain O’Donnell.’ She hated herself for the passionate words the moment they were spoken, for the bitterness of the bone, for the intolerable pain and jealousy that forced them from her. It was shameful enough, bitter enough, humiliating enough, surely, to know that she loved this man, as she never would love the man she was to marry—bad enough without being forced to listen to praises of her betrothed from him. A deep, angry red had risen in either pearly cheek, a deep, angry flame burned in either eye. His calm, friendly indifference, the cool gravity of his look and tone were more than she could bear.

‘ Miss Herncasble’s slave,’ he repeated ; ‘no, Lady Cecil; never quite that, I think. Her admirer, perhaps, if you like. Miss Herncastle happens to be one of those remarkable women whom almost all men admire.’

‘ We won’tsplithairsoverib. Sir Arthuris, as you say, an honourable gentleman ; to that high sense of honour, no doubt, I am indebted for my present felicity. If he were free to choose, I fear you would hardly back my chances to win against those of Lady Dangerfield’s late governess. I thank you for your congratulations all the same, and accept them for exactly what they are worth.’

She made a motion as though to end the subject, but the chasseur, still loaning against the piano, had no present idea of ending it. ‘ Miss Herncastle,’ he resumed coolly, ‘ is, as I have often said before, a very extraordinary woman, and to be judged by no ordinary rules. Without any pretension to personal beauty, beyond a stately figure, a graceful walk, and a low, sweet voice that “ most excellent thing in woman ” —she will yet fascinate where a merely beautiful woman may fail. She is one of those sorceresses whose fatal spell of fascination few may encounter and escape.’ * And CaDtain O’Donnell is one of those fortunate few. But then, if Miss Herncastle be an extraordinary woman, Captain O’Donnell is a still more extraordinary man —extraordinary for his hardness, and coldness, and impenetrability if for nothing else. The spell of the enchantress has at least been powerless for him.’ ‘ Quite right, Lady Cecil. It has been powerless, perhaps, as you say, because I have lain for years under another spell, equally fatal, and the one has counteracted the other.’

She laughed satirically, and began play ing a waltz. ‘ The beau chasseur under a spell ! Im possible to imagine such a thing. Who is the sorceress ? Some Diamond of the Desert? —some Pearl of the Plains? —some lovely Araby’s daughter ? Who ?’ ‘ Shall I really tell yon, Lady Cecil ?’ ‘Just as you please,’ the white hands still played nimbly on. ‘ Perhaps you had better not, though. Love stories area trite subject—so old, so stupidly commonplace—they bore me to death, either in books or real life. And I don’t think it is in your naturo to have the disease very badly. I hope you admir6 my waltz —it is of my own composing. I call it the Rose Waltz, and dedicate it to Mis 3 Rose O’Donnell.’

‘ I like it, but I liked the song I heard you singing as I came in better —my song, Lady Cecil. Do you remember the last time I sang it standing beside you in the little parlour at Torryglen, as I stand now ? You playing, and your father a°leep in his arm chair—or was it only pretending sleep, and watching us? The last time, Lady Cecil, though I did not know it.’ She made no reply. She still played on the Rose Waltz, but she struck the chords at random.

* I remember it so well. You were dressed in white as you are now. White is your fitting colour, Lady Cecil. You had wild roses in your hair, and we sang together all evening, and scarcely spoke a w’ord. You have changed since then - grown taller, more womanly ; more beautiful, and yet—will you be offended ! I chink I liked the “ Queenie ” of Torryglen better than the La Heine Blanche of Scarswood.’ ‘Captain O’Donnell’s memory is good/ she answered, as she paused, not lookins at him ; ‘ better than I ever gave him credit for. I remember the evening he alludes to very well —the last, though I did not know it either. And will he be offended if I tell him I liked the Redmond O’Donnell who saved my life, who sang songs, and who was neither blase nor cynical, much better than the dashing Chasseur d’Afrique of six years later ? 1 fear time improves neither of us ; I have grown worldly, you a cynic. What will we be ten years hence, I wonder ?’ ‘ I think I can answer. You will be Lady Cecil Tregenna, the fairest,the loveliest, the gentlest of England’s stately matrons, the most loving of wives, the most tender of friends—a perfect woman nobly planned. I shall be—well, perhaps a Colonel of Chasseurs, the highest promotion I can hope for, with a complexion of burnt sienna—or —or else occupying six feet of Algerian soil. In either event lam most unlikely ever to meet you again ; and so to-night before we say our final farewell, 1 think, in spite of your dislike to love stories, I must tell you one. Not my own ; you think me too hard for any such tenderness, and perhaps you are right. Let us say a friend of mine—an Irishman too - now an Algerian soldier like myself. Will it bore you very much to listen, Lady Cecil ?’ * Go on,’ she said, faintlv.

‘ It was—well, a number of years ago—•when my friend was little better than a hobbledehoy of two or three-and-twenty. with a head full of romance and chivalry, an inflammable heart, and an empty purse. He had a long lineage, an old name, a ruined homestead, a suit of peasant’s clothes, and nothing else. He lived alone —a dreamer’s life, full of vague, splendid hopes for the future, and troubled with very little of that useful commodity—-common-sense.

‘One stormy autumn evening the romance of his life began. An English peer and hi only daughter came to his neighbour hood to reside for a time, and it chanced that his good fortune enabled him to do the peer’s daughter a service. They were very gracious, very grateful, and showed it in many kindly ways. They overlooked the peasant’s dress, the stupid bashfulness

of my young friend, and invited him to their house, to their table—he became the English girl’s daily companion and friend. And his brain was turned. I told you he was a dreamer—he knew nothing of the world and its codes, was destitute of common-sense, and he fell madly in love with the earl’s daughter, I shall not tell you how lovely she was at sixteen—one lady they say does not care to hear another praised. In those days I—my friend, I mean—was poetic, and two lines from one of his poets describes her :

* A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded, A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.’ “A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded,” a pretty idea and a correct one. He fell in love with her—l have said she was sweet and gracious, gentle and kind—as a fair young queen might be to a peasant who had done her a service—too great not to be grateful. And he was a fool—he mistook it—mistook her. Will you believe it, Lady Cecil, when I tell you this enthusiastic young Irish idiot believed his passion returned, and actually deemed that for love of a raw mountain lad, without a farthing in his purse, she would wait until he had won name and fame and fortune, and become his wife ? He smiles and wonders at his own inconceivable imbecility when he thinks of it now

‘ I have one thing to Bay in his favour—he didn’t tell her. When this foolish passion of his grew too great for one heart to bear, he went to her father and made his confession to him. I can imagine how this worldly wise peer —this ambitious English nobleman, laughed in his sleeve as he listened—it wasn’t worth growing serious over, and in his way he rather liked the lad. He was wise enough not to laugh aloud however —if the young Irishman had been a duke he could not have entertained liis mad proposal with more gravity and courtesy. His daughter had been engaged from her fourteenth year to a Cornish baronet of fabulous wealth, and was to marry him in a year or two at the most. Was it possible she had not told him ? No, that was strange, certainly. However, her father could speak to her—if her heart inclined her to Irish love in a cottage instead of Cornish splendour, why—far be it from him to go between “ two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one,” etc. He was to go to-night—to come to morrow and receive his answer from herself. Only, in the meantime—this last evening, he was not to broach directly, or indirectly, the tender subject to her, and to-morrow he was religiously to absent himself from their cottage all day. In short, the English peer dealt- with a fool according to his folly. ‘ My friend has told me, as we lay and smoked, Lady Cecil, with the stars of Africa shining on our bivouac—that that evening stands out distinct from all other evenings in his life, and will, until his dyingday. Every detail of the picture —the quiet, wax-lit room—the earl feigning sleep, the better to watch them, in his chair—the candles burning on the piano and illuminating her fair Madonna face—the cold, autumnal moonlight sleeping on the brown banks of heather outside —the white dress she wore—the roses in her hair, gathered by his hand —the songs she sang — the sweet, tremulous, bender light all over the lovely face. It will remain with him—haunt him until his heart ceases to beat. They have met since then, bub never again like that—young, fresh, trusting, and unspotted from the world. ‘ Next day came. They had parted without a word—he had passed a sleepiest night, and at daybreak had ridden away—true to his promise in spirit as in letter Evening came and brought him—for the answer he honed, he believed would be yes. He had worked himself up into a fever of loving and longing, he flew down the valley to the casket that held his pearl of price. What do you think he found ? A deserted house—an empty cage the birds flown. Two notes were placed in his hand by a servant, who sneered at him as he gave chem - two brief, cold, hard notes of farewell—that struck him more brutally than blows—one from her, one from her father. It was the old hackneyed, stereotyped form—she was sorry —did not dream that he cared for her —was engaged to another—it was better she should go, and she was always his friend, et cetera. It was written in her handwriting and signed with her name—her father’s endorsed it.

‘ It was only what he richly deserved you and I can see that—for his presumption, his madness—the only answer that could, be given ; but, Lady Cecil, men have gone mad or died for less. In one night from an enthusiastic boy—trusting all men —he became what you call me— a hard, cold sceptic, with no trust in man, no faith in woman, a cynic and a scoffer in a night. He learnt his lesson well; years have gone, they have cured him of his folly, but it is a folly that has never been repeated, and never will to his dying day. Only when they meet in after days do you think she of all women on earth should be the first to reproach him with his hardness, hiscoidness, his unbelief? She taught him his lesson should she find fault if he is an apt pupil ?’ He paused. His voice had not risen—in the low, grave tone she knew so well, he had told his story ; an undertone of sadness and cynicism running through all There was a half smile on his face as he looked at her and waited for his answer.

She started to her teet the angry flush had long since left her face she stood before him, pale to the lips her brown eyes met his full.

‘ Captain O’Donnell, what story is this ? Is it—is it—’

*My own, Lady Cecil. Yes ; you hardly need ask the question, I think.’ ‘Need I not? Tours. And what letter is this you talk of, written by my hand and signed with my name ? I don’t understand.’ ‘You don’t understand. A few minutes ago you accused me of a defective memory. But I suppose a matter of such trifling import could not be expected to remain in your memory. I mean the letter you wrote me, rejecting my presumptuous suit —telling me of your engagement to Sir Arthur Tregenna, the night before you left Torryglen.’ ‘ I never wrote any such letter. ‘ Lady Cecil!’ ‘ I never wrote any such—’

She paused suddenly. Over her face there rose a flush, her hands clasped together—she looked at him, a sudden light breaking upon her. ‘ The note papa dictated, and which he made me write,’ she said in a sort of whisper. ‘Redmond, I see it all!’ The old name, the thrill his heart gave as he heard it. In the days that were gone it had been ‘ Redmond ’ and ‘ Queenie ’ always.

‘ It is my turn not to understand. Will you explain, Lady Cecil ? I certainly read the note, written and signed by you.’ ‘I know, I know.’ She sank back into her seat and shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘ I see all now. Papa deceived us both.’ In a broken voice, in brief words, she told him the story of that note..' ‘ Papa told me nothing—nothing. I did not know, I never dreamed it was for you. And he hurried me away without a word of explanation or warning. I see it all now.

And the hard tnings x nave been thinking of you all these years, the hard things you must have thought of me ! You who saved my life, Captain O’Donnell,’ with sudden passion, ‘ what must you have thought of me?’

He smiled again. ‘ Very bitter things in the past, Queenie —in the long past. Of late years, as I grew in wisdom and in grace, I began to see your father acted as most- fathers would have acted, and acted right. I don’t mean to defend the duplicity of part of it, but at least he avoided a scene—no inconsiderable gain. All the wisdom of a Solomon and all the eloquence of a Demosthenes could not have made me see my folly in the proper light—the utter impossibility of my being ever any other than friend to Lord Ruysland’s daughter. I would have persisted in falling at your feet, in pouring forth the tale of my madness, and succeeding in distressing you beyond measure. Your father foresaw all that, and forestalled it—he could scarcely have acted otherwise than as he did.’

‘ And Captain O’Donnell, who might have been taken at his word by a girl of sixteen, as silly as himself, is only too thankful for his hair-breath escape. I understand, sir—you don’t know what good reason you have to thank Lord Ruysland’s common sense. I only wonder the matter having ended so well—for you—you care to allude to the subject at all.’ ‘Only too thankful for my hair-breadth escape !’ he repeated. ‘ Queenie, if I had spoken—if you had known !’ ‘ But you did not,’ she interrupted, coldly, ‘ so we will not discuss the question. You have escaped, that is enough for you. I am Sir Arthur Tregenna’s affianced wife, that is enough for me. I ask again, why have you spoken at all ?’ ‘ Because I could not —hard, cold, immovable as you think me -1 could not part with you again—this time forever—without knowing whether nr no you really wrote my death-warrant six years ago. It was so unlike you - it has ranked so bitterly “all those years, and of late the truth began to dawn upon me. Perhaps because the old, sweet madness lias never left me; and when we have parted—when you area happy wife and I am back in Algiers—the happiness of knowing Queenie was all I thought her—my little love, my true friend, and not even at sixteen a coquette, a trifle 1 ’ with men’s hearts—will repay me for all I have lost.’

He stopped abruptly. She had covered her face witli both hands, and he could say the tears that fell thick and fast.

‘ Sir Arthur Tregenna is my friend,’ he said, his own voice broken, knows I have no wish to say one word he may not hear, but, Queenie, I must speak to-night for the first—the last time. I have loved you—l do love you—l will love you while life lasts. If fate had willed it otherwise —if rank and fortune had been mine years ago, they would have been laid at your feet, where my heart has been all these years. Free or plighted, I know well how utterly, wildly impossible it would be for you to listen to me. It may be a dastardly deed to speak at all, but I must. You pity me, at least. Ah ! Queenie, I would not have the past changed, with all its suffering, its loss, its misery, if I could. The thought of you is the sweetest thought of my life. If I have distressed you by speaking, I am sorry. Forgive me, Queenie, for this and all the rest.’

Forgive! he asked no more. And in that instant, if he had said, ‘Come,’ she would have ffift rank and wealth, father and friends, and gone with him to beggary. But not for the crown of the whole world would he have said it. He loved her—but honour more.

* Let this be our farewell,’ he said gently ; ‘ let our real parting be now. When we say it again it will be before the world. Wo will both be the happier, I hope, for understanding each other at last; you will think me no more of a cynic and a scoffer — I will know you no more for a heartless coquette. Good-bye, Queenie ; may God bless you and make you happy !’ He held out his hand ; she laid hers in it-the other hid her face. ‘Their hands clasped and the spirit kissed.’ 5 Goodbye !’ she heard him say again, holding her hand hard. Then he let it go, walked to the door, looked back once at the drooping figure, and was gone. [To be contimied.)