A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 480, 14 June 1890, Page 3

A Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “Guy Earleacourt’a Wife,” “A Towible Secret, ’’ “ Lost for a Woman,” «*A Mad Marriage,” etcCHAPTER XXV. THE LAST LINK. The late Parliamentary brain rushing into the Castleford station some time after nine on the evening of the same eighth of August, brought among its passengers a little woman, dressed in black silk, wearing a Paisley shawl and a close black veil. The black silk was shabby, the Paisley shawl bore marks of age and wear, the little straw) bonnet was lasbseason’sshape, and two words accurately describe the little woman tripping along the station—shabby genteel. She"entered the ladies’ waiting-room, her veil still over her face, leaving no feature discernible save the hard, bright glitter, of the black eyes. She glanced around with a half-eager, half-frightened air, bub no creature was visible save herself. ‘ I thought—l thought he might be here,’ she said, in a whisper under her veil. * I feel afraid to-night—l don’t know of what —I have had the feeling since I gob the letter first. What if it should be a trap - and yet how can it’ Who knows—who would take the trouble? If I only dare inquire.’ She stood in the middle of the room irresolute, went forward, came back, stood still again, undecided. ‘ I don’c know what ails me to-night,’ she muttered. ‘I feel as though I were going to die or—or something terrible about to happen. Is it a presentiment ? Lord Ruysland is here—he is here. My little one— mine —the only creature on earth that belongs to me. If I could only see her—if I thought Lionel meant what he savs. It seems far too good to be true —ic is like a dream.’ She drew from tho bosom ot her dress a letter, and looked at the envelope and superscription. It was postmarked Castleford and addressed : Mme. Harriet Vavasor, Rue de , Paris, in a lai’ge, masculine hand. She opened it, and read for the hundredth time its contents :

* Harriet lam in England once more, in Castleford, on a visit to Lord Ruysland. My wife is dead in Quebec. After infinite trouble I have discovered your address. Harriet, I know all—the miserable story of my dead sister’s plotting that separated us four-and-tvventy years ago. If the memory of that time has not wholly died, if you are free as I am, come to Castleford and meet me. I enclose a billet de bcinque in case you should need it. Do not ask for me—let no one suspect or frustrate us this time. We will meet in secret. On the night of the eighth of August, at ten o'clock, I will be in waiting near the gate of the house known as Bracken Hollow. You know it beyond doubt. When we meet I will explain everything— the cause of the secrecy, why I have selected that particular spot, how I discovered -//cm?- identity with the Mrs Vavasor, who six years ago visited Sir John Dangerfield. Only come. I long for you as ardently as I did f our-and-twent y years ago. You would not have failed me then ; do not fail now. • Lionel, Cakdanell.

She read this singular epistle over word for word, then folded and replaced it in her dress.

‘lf I only dare ask,’ he muttered again. ‘But if I obey him in one thing I obey him in all. And it must be all right. Who is there alive that knows—who would take the trouble to dplude me ? to think—to think, after all these'years, I shall stand face to face with him again. His wife dead—he free. And I—if he should discover the hideous story of tho past, my past—all my crime—all my wrong-doing, the story of my life revenge.’ The station clock struck sharply the quarter past nine. It aroused her ; there was no time to spare. She walked resolutely out of the waiting-room—a fly stood near. She beckoned to the driver to approach. ‘ You know Bracken Hollow ?’ * Surely, ma’am,’ looking suspiciously at the veiled face, ‘ a main and lonesome place it be.’

‘ I want to go there—at least to within a quarter of a mile or so. I will pay you now ; how much ?’ The flyman named his price. She counted it into his palm, and took her seat. In a moment they were rattling through Castleford High street on their way. She looked about her ; how familiar it all was ; the shops she knew so well—the Silver Rose where she had stepped, the cottage of Henry Otis, and (she shuddered as she looked ab it) the lonely churchyard with its lonely grave. Poor Katherine Dangerfield ! And Gaston Dantree—what had become of him 1

‘ It’s a story I hate to think of,’ she thought, ‘ That dead girl’s face rises before me nights when I can’t sleep—white and still as I saw her in her wed-ding-dress. And Gaston Dantree—l see him in my dreams as I saw him that night, all bruised and bleeding at Ihe foot of the stairs. All dead, and through me. I wish I had been satisfied with my first revenge—when I gave the earl the wrong child. I wish I had let Katharine marry Dantree and live. It’s a horrible thing to have a dead face haunt one’s dreams.’

They left the town behind and took the quiet lane leading to Bracken Hollow. The night was close—dark, moonless, starescl; the tiees loomed up black on every hand ; no living thing was to be seen. That chill feeling of vague fear increased—it was all so strange, so unreal. Why had he come back? Why had he chosen this desolate spot ? What was to come of it all ? She shiverei in the still warmth of the night and wrapped her sfiawl closer around her. The driver suddenly stopped. 4 BracKen Hollow be yonder,’ he said, pointing with his whip. ‘Keep straight on—there’s no mistaking it; it’s not twenty yards from this. ’ He helped her to descend, then remounted, turned his horses, and went jolting back toward the town. She stood in the darkness in the middle of the lane, where he had left her, feeling as lost as a shipwrecked sailor on a desert island. She stood watching, him until the last sound of the wheels died away. Then she reluctantly turned and looked before her.'

Darkness everywhere black trees—blacker sky—dead silence. She walked slowly on. The gate of Bracken Hollow. Why, she murmured again—why, of all the lonesome places on earth, has he chosen this? ‘lt lookß like the place for a murder,’ she thought, glancing fearfully around. ‘lf some one should start out from these trees—some gypsy—or poacher—or— ’ k. cry broke from her ; she started back. A tall figure stepped out from under the black trees. „ ‘ Harriet,' a voice said, * is it you ?’ * Lionel ?’ ‘ Lionel Cardanell—yes. Then you have come ! I feared you would not; you sent no answer. And after all these years, Harriet, wo stand face to face again V

Face to face, perhaps, but, in the deep darkness, the face of neither to be seen. Her heart it was beating so fast that seemed to suffocate her. She could not speak. He took both her hands in his, and led her in.

‘This way, Harriet. made Bracken Hollow the place of tryst because we can enter and talk undisturbed. I feared you would not come. I might have known you better; I might have known that whenever or wherever I called, you would have answered. Can you realise, Harriet, that it is I ?’

She could not, indeed. No voice within responded to his tone or touch. That j creeping sensation of fear was over her I still. He had drawn her hand within his j arm, and was hurrying her rapidly on. She looked up at him, tall above her, and strove to recall some lesemblance. She could recall none. All was strange, vague, and unknown. She did not speak one word ; she let herself be hurried on, breathless and palpitating. ) ' They reached the gate ; he opened it. The house loomed up, all darkness, and silent amid its funeral trees. At sight of it she suddenly stopped. ‘ I can't go on !’ she gasped —* I can’t enter there ! It looks like Hades itself ! Oh, Lionel Cardanell, is this really you ?’ ‘ Come, come, come!’ was his only answer, spoken firmly. He hurried her forward ; and she had no power or strength to resist. The door was flung wide at their approach. Almost before she could realise it she was in the house—in a lighted room; the door was closed behind her, locked and barred. An old woman stood before her ; at her she did not look. She turned to the man, trembling from head to foot. His coatcollar was turned up, his slouched hat pulled down ; but hidden as his face was, she knew in an instant it was not the man she had come to meet.

‘ Who is it ?’ she said in a sorb of whisper, her black eyes gleaming fearfully through her veil.

He turned down his collar, took ofF his hat, and showed the pale, set face of— Henry Otis. ‘ You recognise me, Mrs Vavasor ? Yes, I see you do. It is many years since we met, bub your memory is good, I know of old. Will you nob pub up your veil and let us see you? Further disguise is unnecessary.’ She obeyed him. She flung back tho veil and showed a face, aged, sallow, pallid with fear, all trace of beauty gone—nothing of it remaining bub the wild black eyes. ‘Mr Otis,’ she gasped, ‘why have you done this ?’ ‘To make you tell the truth at last,’ he answered. ‘ There is but one way of dealing with such a woman as you—and that is the dark way of deceit. Yes, I wrote you that letter signed Lionel Cardanell. I knew that poetic idyl of your youth, you see ; and it has succeeded better even than I hoped. You have no idea what a task it was*to hunt you up, and then hit on a scheme to fetch you here ; bub I have done both. If you had nob come to me, I should have gone to yon. Take a seat; you look fatigued. Hannah, Mrs Vavasor will take a glass of wine.’ She sank into the seat, her eyes fixed fearfully upon him, her very lips trembling. Years and dissipation had told on Mrs Vavasor’s strong nerves. ‘ Why have you brought me to this place ?’ she asited. ‘Not to murder you—do not be afraid; though it looks gruesome enough for a murder, I daresay. I don’t mean to do you the least harm —to do you good indeed —to make you tell the truth.’ 4 The truth about what ?’

He leaned across—there was a table between them, and his steely blue eyes seemed to cut into her very heart. * About the children you changed at nurse, twenty years ago. The time has come for the truth to be made known. You gave your daughter to the Earl of Ruysland, and you kept his. How will you answer to God and man for that ?’ There had been a time when Mrs Vavasor would have had pluck enough to reply as Claverhouse replied to the same question of the Covenanter's widow : ‘To man I can answer well enough, and God I will take in my own hand but that time was past. She sank back in her seat, her hands over her eyes, cowering, shrinking,, like the guilty creature she was, before him—not daring to meet that stern, terrible face. The strange adventure, her nervous fear, the darkness, the solitude —all were telling upon her as such things tell upon women. * lb was rather a hackneyed plan of vengeance’—the cold, quiet, pitiless tones of Henry Otis went on— ‘ taken second-hand from one of your favourite three-volume novels, and quite unworthy the originality and inventive genius you have displayed in later year’s. You make no attempt to deny it, I see ; that at least is wise.’ ‘ 1 do deny it,’ cried Mrs Vavasor, plucking up courage from sheer desperation at last. ‘I don’t know what you are talking of. How dare you bring me here ? What is the meaning of this infamous plot ? How dare you detain me in this dreadful house? Let me go, Henry Otis, or it will be worse for you.’ She rose up and faced him—at bay—her face grey with fear, and a hunted light in her black eyes. ‘ How dare you write me that letter ! how dare you sign that name ! —how dare you bring me all the way from Paris to—to meet—’

She stopped suddenly, covered her face with both hands, and burst into a passion of tears—tears of rage, of fright, of disappointment. The old love for the handsome, high-born lover of her youth lived yet in her heart —that battered, world-hardened heart had throbbed with the purest rapture it had felt for years at the thought of seeing him once more; and it was bitter —bitter to her beyond all telling,to have it end like this.

‘lf there be a law to punish such treachery as this, you shall be punished, Henry Otia, when I go free,’ she passionately cried. ‘“When you go free,”’ Mr Otis repeated ; ‘ ah, but you are not going free! I don’t do my work in that bungling way. As cleverly as you plotted to entrap Katherine Dangerfield six years ago, so I have entrapped you to-night. Pause a moment and think. No one —not a soul—knows you are here, and I presume you have left no friends behind in Paris who will trouble themselves greatly to make search for you. Women like you make no friends. This house, as you have seen, is utterly lonely and isolated—it is reputed to be haunted—no one comes here who can possibly avoid it. And here you stay—though it shall be weeks, months—until you make a full confession. Make it to-night, and you go free —refuse, and you are locked up until you do. Here are pen, ink, and paper —dictate your confession and I will write it down.’ She sat mute, dogged, her hands clenched, her lips shut, her eyes glittering. ‘What do you, know?’ she asked, sullenly.

‘ Enough to send you to Newgate. That when Lord Ruysland came to your cottage to claim his child, a year after its mother’s death, you gave him yours and kept bis. You kept fche inffinfc Lady C'ecil Clive, aud gave the Earl of Ruysland John

Harman’s daughter. John Harman s daughter lives in luxury at Scarswood Park to-night, and Lady Cecil, the real Lady Cecil, is —where, Mrs Harman ? Sold like a slave to strangers in her third year—strangers who loved her, little thanks to you. Still your vengeance against her dead mother, who had robbed you of your lover, was not sated. On her wedding day you came forward and told the world she was not the daughter of Sir John Dangertield—you took care not to tell whose daughter she was—you robbed her of her husband, home, and name you killed her as surely as over murderess killed her victim. That is what I know. The story Lord Ruysland shall hear, whether or no you confess. The law of England would force your story from you if I gave you over to it. I chose, however, to take the law in my own hand. Out of this house you never go alive until you have confessed.’ She listened to him, her face settling, sullen and dark. ' ‘ I’ll never coufess. I say again I don t know what you are talking of. I gave Lord Ruysland his daughter—mine died. The child Sir John Dangerfield adopted was mv—my cousin’s daughter; I had an old grudge against her mother. I say again, Henry Otis, let me go, or it will be worse for you. Threats and illegal punishment are Newgate matters, if it comes to that. Let me go, or I’ll— ’ What Mrs Vavasor had meant to doHenry Obis was never destined to hear. The words seemed to freeze upon her lips—her face slowly blanched to the ashen hue of death —her eyes dilated with somo great horror. Henry Otis followed her glance. Old Hannah had quitted the room unobserved some seconds before, leaving the door ajar. Through this door, without sound of any kind, a figure had glided. It stood now just within the doorway, perfectly still, its eyes fixed on vacancy. It wore a dress of some white summery stuff, its long, loose hair fell over its shoulders, its face was perfectly white, its eyes bold and fixed, its arms hung loose by its side.

So, as in years past she had a hundred times seen Katherine Dangerfield living, she saw her once more to-night dead. Dead surely—and this was her ghost. She uttered no rry. no sound. Slowly, step by step, she recoiled, that utter horror on her face, her eyes fixed on the motion less figure, until the wall barred her progress. ‘ Look !’ she whispered, in an awful voice. ‘ Look !’

‘Look where?’ Henry Obis repeated, stoically. * I don’t see anything.’ 4 At the door!’ still in the same awful whisper—‘see-it is—Katherine Dangerfield ! Look !’

* Well,’ Mr Otis responded, testily, ‘lam looking, and I don’t see anything. l r ou’re dreaming, Mrs Vavasor. Katherine Daneerfield is in Castleford Churchyard, is she not? She can’t be at Bracken Hollow. Come ! look at me, and leave ofl staring in that ghastly way at nothing.’ She turned her eyes slowly upon him for an instant, then they moved back as if beyond all control of hers to the door. The spectre had vanished. And Mrs Vavasor, with a gasping cry, fell down fainting in a heap. ‘Artistically done. You’re the most useful of ghosts, Katherine,’ Mr Otis cried, springing up. ‘Come in, pray, and fetch salts and cold water. I think she’ll need no urging to tell now.’ Miss Herncastle came forward, a smile on her face—the salts in her hand. * I don’t think she will. It was quite as much as I could do to preserve my gravity, standing stock still there under her horrified gaze. I am afraid I should have laughed outright, and spoiled the tableau if you had nob called her attention off. Yes, I think we shall have the truth now.’ ‘Y r ou had better go—she is coming round,’ said Mr Otis, as the widow’s eyelids fluttered; ‘ vanish, Katherine, and send Hannah here. You’ll hear all in the passage. ’ Hannah re-entered—Miss Herncastle disappeared. Mrs Vavasor’s black eves opened to the light. She started up—memory returning with consciousness—and grasped the arm of Henry Otis. ‘Has she gone?’ Her eyes went wildly to the door. 4 Yes, I tell you I saw her— Katherine —as plainly as I ever saw her in my life. Mr Obis, for God’s sake take me away—don’t leave me or I shall go raving mad.’

4 1 shall take you away, and I shall nob leave you a moment alone, if you will speak the truth.’

» Yes—yes, I will. I’ll do anything—tell anything, only stay with me for the love of Heaven. I would rather die than see her again.’ 1 She cowered down into her chair, her face hidden in her hands, and in a sort of gasping whisper told her story. «I confess it all,’ Mrs Vavasor began; ‘ I don’t know how you have found it out, but it is true, every word. I did change the children. I hated th'e Countess of Ruysland ; but for her I would have been Lionel CardaneH’B wife. I married John Harman, bub I despised him. Poor, weak fool, I was glad when he died. She gave me presents, and I took them all, and hated her more every day. She wasn’t happy with her husband— that was some comfort. She was jealous —she had a furious temper; Katherine inherited it, you may remember.’ She shivered as she pronounced the name. ‘My baby was a month old the night she ran away from the earl in a fib of fury and came to me. I didn’t care for the child ; I always disliked children; I used to wish it might die. It was a great deal of trouble, and I hated trouble; and it looked like John Harman. Why should I care for it ? She came to me; she thought I had forgotten and forgiven, and was her friend. She didn’t know me, you see. That night her baby was born—a girl, too. Next morning she was dead. She died in my arms, in my poor cottage, without husband or friend near her. That would have satisfied any woman—it didn’t satisfy me. They came and took her away. The earl told me to keep and nurse the child—who so fit as I ? I don’t believe he ever looked at it. He didn’t much care for his wife, but the manner of her death was a shock and a scandal. They buried her, and he went away.

‘ It was then that the plan of changing the children occurred to me. Some people believe the spirits in Heaven hear and see and watch over their loved ones on earth. No doubt the countess of Ruysland was in Heaven could a lady of her rank go anywhere else? Well, it would have been a satisfaction to let her see her daughter growing up in poverty and obscurity, and John Harman’s in rank and luxury. His lordship paid me well ; I sold out Harman’s business and left the town, where 1 and the children were known. I went to live in a village some thirty miles away, where the fraud could be carried on in safety. I took no especial care of them, bub they grew and thrived in spite of that. My daughte had brown eyes and flaxen hair, and small and delicate - looking—much the prettier of the two. The earl’s daughtor had grey eyes and fair hair, and was large for a child of two vears. She had her mother’s temper and her mother’s will; mine was one of the gentlest creatures that ever was born ; I called the Earl's daughter Katherine, I

called mine Cecil, as Lord Ruysland had desired his daughter to be named. I was well paid, but I grew tired to death of taking care of them and vegetating in a stupid village. I wrote to Lord Ruysland to come for his child. _ . 4 He came, and I gave him mine. I did not let him see the other at all; I told him my little girl was ailing, and he took the other away totally unsuspecting. Then I sold off everything and wenb to France, taking little Kathie with me. The collision in which I was badly hurt followed —the child escaped. In the hospital Colonel Dangerfield came to see me ; he thought I was poor, and I did not undeceive him. His only daughter had been instantly killed —ho offered to adopt little Kathio in her stead, and I closed with the offer at onoe. I never saw her again until, under the name of Mrs Vavasor, I came to Scarswood Park, and mot her as Sir John’s heiress. 4 1 solemnly swear that the young girl who was known as Katherine Dangerfield was in reality the Lady Cecil Clive, only child of tho Earl and Countess of Ruysland. The person who now bears that title is my daughter, christened Katherine Harman. I swear before any court of law. I changed them out of revenge upon the late Lady Ruysland. 4 (Signed) Harriet Harman.

Tho wretched woman wrote her name, old Hannah and Henry Otis affixed theira as witnesses. He folded up the document, superscribed it 4 Confession of Harriet Harman,’ and placed it in his breast-pocket-. She sab watching every motion with teiri* fied eyes. 4 What are you going to do with it ?’ she asked, 4 1 am going to place it in the hands of Lord Ruysland between this and to-morrow night. The rank and name your daughter has usurped for two-and-twenty years shall be taken from her before the expiration of four-and-twenty hours.’ 4 lb was no fault of hers,’ the guilty woman said with trembling lips. 5 4 You made Lord Ruysland’s daughter pay the penalty of her mother’s actions — yours shall pay the penalty of hers. For you,’ Mr Obis, arose, 4 Lord Ruysland shall deal with you as ha sees fit.’ She started to her feet and caught him as he was turning away. 4 Take me away from this horrible house —now, at once. You promised, you know. Do anything you like, only take me away.’ ‘Not to-night,’ he answered, coldly. 4 lt is impossible. You would make your escape, and that I can’t allow. Six years ago you had your day—this, is mine. The mercy you showed Katherine Dangerfield then shall be meted out to you now. Don’t be afraid—you shall nob be left alone. You shall have a light. Hannah, take her up to the room prepared for her, and remain with her all night.’ He drew himself from her grasp, and left the room. He heard her cry of terror and despair as he wenb out. Miss Horncastle still stood in the passage. He took her hand and led her into another room, and gave her the paper. 4 The world shall know you as you are at last,’ he said— 4 shall give you the name you should have borne from your birth. Let me be the first to call you by it.’ He lifted her band to his lips.—' Lady Cecil Clive.’ (To be continued.)