A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VIII, Issue 485, 5 July 1890, Page 6

A Wonderful Woman.

B* MAY AGNES FLEMING,

Author of “Guy Earlescourt’a Wife,” “A Terrible Secret," “ Lost for & Woman,” “A Mad Marriage,” etoCHAPTER XXVIII. « NOT I, BUT FATE, HATH DEALT THIS BLOW.’ Twelve! by the steeple of Castleford Highstreet ; twelve ! by the loud-voiced clock of the Scarswood stables. In the intense, sultry silence of the August night, the sharp, metallic strokes come even into that upper chamber of the Silver Rose, where upon the big-curtained, old-fashioned fourposter in which Mrs Vavasor and Rose O’Donnell had both slept, Harriet Harman lay dying.

Dying ! No earthly aid could reach hor now. The blow of the heavy, iren-studded door had done its work. Doctor Graves went into learned medical details of the injury done the brain, and out of that obscure detail one terrible fact stood clear —she was dying ! Katherine had spared her, and in that very hour Death had sealed her for his own. Her life of sin, of plotting, of all evil and wrong-doing was rapidly drawing to a close; the midnight hour booming solemnly through the quiet town, was ushering in the eternal night for her. A smouldering heap of charred and burning ruins was all that remained of Bracken Hollow. To-morrow, among the debris, search would be instituted for the bones of the wretched victim of his own insanity. It had been his mania from the first to escape. Dozens of times he had attempted to fire the house, and old Hannah’s constant vigilince had bailied him. Busied with the care of Mrs Harman, hehadbeen overlooked that day, and the result was his escape from his room, and the consummation of his purpose. The house wa3 enveloped in flames before Hannah was aware. She had lain down to take a nap, and it was the cry of lire, and its dull roar around, that awoke her. Bewildered by sleep and fear, she lost all presence of mind, forgot her two charges, and rushed forth. What she had done with the key of her latest prisoner’s room she could not recollect; the breaking in and fall of the door did the rest.

They were all at Silver Rose—HenryOtis, old Hannah, Lord Ruysland, and- Lady Cecil Clive. She had glided in among them an hour before—a grey ashen pallor on her face, a deep etrange horror in her eye 3, bub calm beyond all telling; she walked alone from Scarswood ; she had heard every word of Henry Otis’ interview with the earl; she had neither fainted nor fallen ; she had only sat down on a primrose knoli, feeling stunned and stupid. In that state she saw Mr Otis mount the groom’s horse and dash away like a madman; she had heard her father call his, and dash after; she saw the red light in the sky, and knew in a vague, dreamy sort of way, that it was a file. And then her mind, without any volition of her own, went back and repeated over and over the etrange words this strange man had said :

‘ Lady Cecil Ciive is nob your daughter—her name is Katherine Harman. The children were changed at nurse —your daughter was Katherine Dangerfield.’ ‘Katherine Dangerfield!’ She repeated the name vaguely, pulling the primroses and mechanically arranging them in a bouquet. She felt no pain—no terror—no disbelief— only that stunned numbness. And still her mind persistently took up the tale and repeated it. ‘Not Lord Ruysland’s daughter !—whose then was she ? This M rs Harman he spoke of had been the nurse —and the nurse had given Lord Ruysland her own child. If so, then Mrs Harman must be her mother. The thread of thought broke here. She arranged the primroses in a different fashion, twisting a blade of grass about the stems. Then like aflash memory pinioned her thoughts. Her mother ! Her mother, a guilty, lost woman, and she —she not Lord Ruysland’s daughter, the upstart usurper of another’s rights. The flowers dropped from her fingers, she started to her feet with a low, wailing cry. No more merciful apathy, no more stupor of mind. Clear as the crimson light yonder in the twilight sky the whole truth burst upon her. She was not Ruysland’s daughter —she was a usurper, and as such about to be shown bo the world—no peeress of England, but the child of a guilty, designing servant woman.

She staggered as she stood, and grasped the branch of a tree. Her hands ilew up and covered her face—one heal tbroken sob broke from her. She was very proud sweet, gentle, gracious, all womanly she was, but even that sweetgraciousness arose out of her pride. The daughter of a ‘ belted earl ’ can afford to wear a smile for all less favoured mortals. She had been intensely proud of the name and rank she bore—of the noble line of ancestry stretching back to the Norman William ; every stone, every tree around dear, old, ivied Clive Court, she loved like living things. Her very pride had made her accept what had galled that pride most—the formal offer of Sir Arthur Tregenna. He bore a name as old, nay older, than her own ; the Tregennas had been barons and warriors in the reign of Edward the Confessor—the old glory of the house of Ruysland would be restored by this alliance. Had the man she loved asked her to be his wife, to go with him and share his poverty and obscurity—the chances are, loving him with a desperate, passionate love as she did, she might still have refused him. And now ! Her hands dropped from before her face —she stood cold, and white, and still, lb was the righteous punishment of such' pride as hers, such selfishness, such an outrage on all that was best and most womanly within her. Of all the men the world hold, she loved but one ; handsomer, nobler, more talented, had asked her to be their wife, but her heart had been like a stone to all. Redmond O’Donnell she had loved from the first. Redmond O’Donnell she would love until she died. And with heart full to overflowing with that passionate love, she had yet been ready to become the wife of another man. That man’s pride of birth and station was equal to her own—what could he say to this ? * Fire—fire !’ The servants were echoing the cry and rushing to the highest points, where they could see it best. It was nothing to her ; she drew back behind the tree, and stood looking blankly, blindly before her. The child of a servant, a usurper ! The world seemed rocking under her feet—the trees swimming round. Why had she nob died before the truth was told ? The night fell —the dew with it; she still stood there, heedless. She heard with preternatural distinctness the loud contending voices of the servants announcing the whereabouts of the fire. The servants ! It came to her that she should be one of them —that her birthright had been the servants’ hall, nob the drawing-room. Strangely enough, she had never thought of doubting—she had seen Henry Otis’ face —heard his voice, and felt, she knew nob how, that he had told the truth. Presently came a messenger rushing breathless from the town, full of the excit-

ing news. Bracken Hollow was burned to the. ground ; a man, nobody knew who—burned to death with it, and a woman killed. They had taken the woman to the Silver Rose; she was not quite dead yet, it seemed, and my lord had gone after her, and was there now. The woman’s name had leaked out somehow—it was Mrs Harman.

Mrs Harman ! Her mother ! It flashed upon her what Mr Otis had said —Mrs Harman had been imprisoned at Bracken Hollow to confess the truth, and now lay dying ab'the Silver Rose. Her mother ! Guilty or not—lost, wretched, abandoned —still her mother. She started up—all stupor, all pride gone for ever. She walked to the house —ran up to her own room—threw off her light muslin and costly laces, replaced them by a dress of dark grey, a summer shawl and hat. Then five minutes after was walking rapidly toward the town. She had told no one. Ginevra was absorbed in her own troubles, and there was no time for explanations. An hour before midnight she reached the Silver Rose.

A crowd of the town people were still gathered excitedly before it. A man burned to death—a woman killed—Bracken Hollow in ashes—not Joften wae Castleford so exercised as this. And the dying woman must bo somebody of importance, since my lord himself refused to leave the inn until her fate was one way or other decided. They fell back wondering and respectful as Lady Cecil Clive drew near. Were they asleep or awake? Lord Ruysland’s only daughter, alone and on foot, in Castleford at this hour. She passed through them all —never seeing them—seeing nothing, it seemed. The soft hazel eyes had a blind, sightless, sleep-waking sorb of stare —her face was all drawn and white. In the passage she came face to face with the landlord. The dark, solemn eyes looked at him.

‘Lord Ruysland is .here,’ the pale lips said, ‘ bake me to him.’ The man drew back a step—that nameless something in her colourless face terrified him.

‘ Take me to him,’ she repeated, ‘at once.’

He bowed low and led the way. Who was the dying woman upstairs, that Lord Ruysland and his daughter should trouble themselves like this ? He had nob seen her face —probably would nob have recalled it if he had. His lordship was not in the sick chamber, but in the little parlour adjoining —the little parlour, where, one other night six years before, Sir John Dangerfield’s adopted daughter bad waited to see Mrs Vavasor. He was walking very slowly and softly up and down, his brow knit with a reflective frown—one white, slender hand thrust inside his coat. He looked up, and saw, without warning of any sort, Cecil. He absolutely recoiled—the sight of her, at that hour, in this place, and wearing that face, so startled him that for a second’s time he half doubted if it were not her wraith. ‘ Queenie ?’ he gasped. * Yes, papa—Queenie.’ She came forward and stood before him. ‘ I was in the grounds,’ she continued, with perfect abruptness, ‘ very near you, when Mr Otis came and told you his story. I heard it all. It is true, I suppose, papa ?’ He stood silent—speechless—looking at her in wonder and doubt. ‘lt is true, I suppose,’ she repeated. ‘ What is true ?’ ‘ That I am nob your daughter—that Katherine Dangerfield was. That lam the daughter of the woman dying in that room.’ He was a man ordinarily very chary of caresses, bub he was fond of the girl he had believed his daughter—he was fond of her still. Her beauty and her elegance had gratified his pride; her gentle, tender, winning ways had won his heart—or, at least, as much heart as that noble lord had to win. Ho took her in his arms now and kissed her.

‘ My dear,’ he said very gently, ‘ I hope you know me well enough to be sure that, whether it is true or false, you will still be the same to me—the daughter I love and am proud of. I wish you need never have heard it; but, since it must come, lam thankful I am not the one to break it to you. It is a very terrible and shocking affair from first bo last; I feel almost too stunned to realise it yet.’ ‘ lb is perfectly true, then ?’ * Well—yes, Queenie —I am afraid it is.’ Had, all unknown to herself, some dim, shadowy hope still lingered in her breast that it might nob be true? The sharpest pang she had felt yet pierced her as she heard his quiet words. With a sort of gasp her head fell on his shoulder and lay there. *My poor little Queenie,’ he said, tenderty, *it is hard on you. Confound Otis ! Why the devil couldn't he keep the nefarious story to himself ? I was satisfied—“ where ignorane is bliss ’twere folly to be wise.” You are tho only daughter I want, and the other poor girl is dead—can’t do her any good now. Bub remember, Queenie, whatever come 3 of it, I look upon you still as my daughter—all the Otises and Harmans on earth shall not separate you and me. As Sir Arthur Tregenna’s wife we can afford to despise their malice.’ She shivered slightly at the sound of that name—then she lifted her head and drew herself away from him. ‘ Papa,’ she said, ‘ you know why I came here. If—l mean since she is my mother— I must see her. Oh, papa, I must ! She has done a terrible wrong, bub she is dying, and—’ the agony within her broke into a wailing sob here— ‘ I can’t believe it—l can’t—unless I hear it from her own lips. Take me to her, papa—please.’ ‘ I doubt if she will ever speak to anyone in this world again—still the doctors say she may. Graves and Otis are with her. I’ll ask them if they’ll admit you.’ He tapped at the door. The pale face of Henry Otis looked out. As his eyes fell on the tall, slender, elegant figure of the young lady, even he shrank.

‘My daughter is here,’ the earl said, coldly. ‘She knows all. She wishes to see Mrs Harman, to hear, if it be possible for Mrs Harman to speak—confirmation of your story from her lips. I think even you will allow, Mr Otis, this is no more than her right. ’ ‘lb is her right,’ Henry Otis said, calmly. He bowed to the queenly form and lovely face, and held the door wide for her to pass.

‘You, too, my lord,’ he gaid. ‘She is dying, but she is conscious, and she has spoken. I must beg,’ he looked at Lady Cecil. ‘ that you will be vety quiet. A moment’s excitement will be fatal.’

She bowed her head and glided to the bedside. In the dim light of the shaded lamp she looked down upon the dying face. Even to her inexperienced eyes the dread seal of death lay there—the faint breathing was not audible, the eyes were closed—the fingers moved a little, plucking at the sheet. Opposite stood Dr. Graves holding her pulse in one hand—his watch in the other. Lord Ruysland followed and stood beside his daughter. Henry Otis bent over her and spoke. ‘Mrs Harman, Lord Ruysland is here. Can you speak to him V The eyelids fluttered—lifted—the great dark eyes looked up out of the rigid face, and fixed at once upon the earl’s.

* Harriet,’ he said, and at the sound of the old name the dying face lit. ‘You know mo, do you nob?’ * Y'es,’ very faintly the word came, ‘my lord. I—know you. lam sorry— ’ the whisper died away. He bent close above her.

‘ Listen, Harriet—speak if you can—tell the truth now. Is Henry Otis’ story true ? Was it your child—your own —you gave me twenty years ago, or mine V ‘lb was mine— l swear it—if you like. I kept yours. I hated my lady. I swore revenge. She parted me from Lionel. Lionel! Lionel!’ Her face lit again —the love of her youth came back ! The old love ! mighty beyond all earthly passion, mighty to break prison bars, to compass the earth, to cross oceans, to endure the very throos of death.

Lord Ruysland b6nb closer and took her hand.

* Look, Harriet,’ he said ; ‘ look at this face beside me. It- is the child you gave me—that I love. Tell me again, as God hears and will judge you, is she yours or mine ?’

The dark eyes turned upon the lovely, youthful face. She sank on her knees, and came very near that dying face. ‘ She is—mine—as God hears and will judge me—mine, Katherine Harman. Yours 1 gave to Sir John Dangerfield. Her grave is in Castleford Churchyard, and I saw her—saw her—two nights ago.’ Lord Ruysland looked at Henry Otis. ‘ She saw Helen Herneastle,’ Henry Otis answered, with rigidly compressed lips. * I did you great wrong,’ the dying lips whispered again—the dying eyes turned once more to the earl. The sight of her child seemed to wake no emotion whatever within her. ‘ I hated my lady—l swore revenge—and I took it. 1 kept her child. She parted me from Lionel. He loved me —Lionel ! Lionel !’

The faintly whispering voice died away—she never spoke again. Lady Cecil’s face lay in her hands—on the others dead silence fell. The eyes closed, a spasm shook her from head to foot. 1 Lionel V the lips seemed to form once, then there was a moment’s quiet, a strong shiver, and with it the last flicker of the lamp went out. And death stood in the midst of them.

‘ Come away, my darling,’ the earl whispered tenderly in Lady Cecil’s ear. Two sightless eyes look up at him, blind witn dumb misery—then with a gasp the tension that had held her up so long gave way. She fell back fainting in his arms.

The blinds were closed—a solemn hush lay over the house. In the parlour of the Silver Rose two coffins stood on tressels. In one the body of Harriet Harman lay—in the other, what they had found in the ruins of Bracken Hollow.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day. Over Scarswood Park summer silence and summer beauty reigned. The fish-pond and fountains flashed like jewels in the sunshine-turfy lanes, emerald green —white, pink, and crimson August roses nodded cheir fragrant heads in the sultry heat. The stone terraces—the great urns were burnished like silver, the leaves of the cooper branches were blood-red rubies, and long lances of light went slanting in amid the waving greenery of fern. The peacock strutted unadmired in the sun, bees boomed, grasshoppers chirped, but no living thing was to be seen around the grand old mansion. Everywhere, within and without, Sabbath silence reigned. The Earl of Ruysland was alone in the solitude and splendor of the drawing rooms, his reflection in the many mirrors meeting him at every turn, like a black-robed ghost. He was walking up and down as Lady Cecil had found him last night—the same thoughtful frown on hie brow, the same exasperated thought still uppermost. ‘ Why the deuce couldn’t Otis have minded his business and let things alone? From all I have heard of the other one. ,’ he resumed, ‘ I was much better off without her. She was neither handsome nor amiable; she was passionate, headstrong, wilful, disobedient. Cecil is none of these things; she has been a creditable daughter from first to last. And they say blood tells. Why need this officious fool, this meddlesome Otis, go raking up the unpleasant truth ? The other is dead—it can’t benefit her. Cecil is alive, and it will male her wretched all the rest of her life, poo child, and what what will Sir Arthur say ? One consolation is, he is the sou! incarnate of honour ; he won’t draw back, if I know him at all ; I believe he will only press his suit the harder. So poor Queenie is provided for in any case. Egad! I didn’t know how fond I was of her before ! It’s a very unpleasant business from first to last, and I could see Otis at the bottom of the bottomless pit with pleasure. It must be hushed up—at any price, it must be hushed up—for my sake, for my late wife’s, for poor Queenio’s, for Sir Arthur’s. The devil take Otis ! what was the fool’s motive, I wonder ? What—what if that diabolical Miss Herncestle has had something to do with this too ? On my life, she has ! Was there ever an infernal piece of mischief let loose on the earth yet, without the woman being the instigator? I believe,’ —he struck his hands together—‘it is Miss Herncastle’s handiwork from first to last. Well, Soames, what now ?’

‘ The post, my lord—letters for your lordship.’ The bowing Soames placed a silver salver, on which half a dozen letters were arranged, before his lordship, an'd backed from the room.

There were one or two for Lady Cecil—one from Sir Arthur Tregenna—two for Lady Dangerfield, and two for himself. The firsb of these letters was on business from his solicitor, the other in a hand that was new to him. He broke it open. It was lengthy. He glanced at the name—‘Redmond O’Donnell.’ * Now ivhat does O’Donnell mean, by making me wade through twelve closelywritten pages ?’ hia lordship said in an aggrieved tone. * How little consideration some people have for the feelings of their fellow, beings ! I’ll look over it at least, J suppose.’ He adjusted his eyeglass, smoothed out the pages, and glanced through them. ‘Miss Herneastle’—‘Katherine Dangerfield ' —what did it mean ? Everywhere those two names!

His lassitude vanished. He began at the beginning, and slowly and carefully read the letter through. His face changed as it had not changed when Otis first broke on him the news that his daugher was not his daughter. Goodness above ! what was this? Katherine Dangerfield not dead! Katherine Dangerfield and Miss Herneastle one and the same ! Katherine Dangerfield his daughter ! Miss Herneastle, whom he had hunted down, whom he had employed a detective to track, whom he had driven from Scarswoodlike a felon. Katherine Dangerfield and Miss Herneastle one l He turned sick. He laid down the letter —a creeping feeling of faintness upon him and waited. The soft breeze of the summer’s evening blew on his face. A carafe of ice-water stood on a table. He drank a glass, took a turn about the room, sat down suddenly and read the letter over again. . •

It was plainly there—all thp proofs, one after another ; no doubting—no disputing now. She had nob.died; Otis knew it arid had not told him this. He recalled the picture of Lionel Cardanell in the pos-

session of the governess, her interest in the story, the strong likeness to his dead wife had struck him the first time he saw her. The ghost and the resemblance to Katherine Dangerfield were explained now. A wig and dyed eyebrows were all the disguises she had assumed. What a bold game she had played ! And Tregenna had fallen in love with her, and he had separated them —forced him to propose to Harriet Harman’s daughter. His daughter lived—had relented at the eleventh hour—had burned the confession returned Sir Peter his money renounced her retribution—and gone into the world alone and unaided to fight the bitter battle of life. For once in his life, cynicism, philosophy, Voltairism fell from the Earl of Ruysland ; foi once all the creeds of his training and his order were powerless to help him bear this. Had Redmond O’Donnoll ever asked for revenge—had he seen him then—even he might have been amply satisfied. He covered his eyes with his hand—struck to the very soul. ‘ Oh, God ! ’ he cried, ‘ this is the hardest to bear of all !’ (To he Continued. )