SERIAL STORY

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 368, 20 April 1910, Page 6

SERIAL STORY

A ROYAL WARD. By PERCY BREBNBR. (Published by arrangement with Cassell and Company, Ltd., publisher*, of London and Melbourne, the proprietors of the copyright). CHAPTER XXII. (continued). There was something of bravado in Dubuissoifs maimer, a daring which might be a reaction from what he had passed through during the day. Lady Betty had bid him dance with her tonight, and if there were danger in it, so much the better. She would know that he was willing to risk all for her sake. Besides, his head was iiglit just now; she han caned him Victor for the first time. Where was the man "who would not brave anything for so sweet a woman? "You did not expect me to-night," he whispered as he led her into the ballroom. "No." '"Yet yon were waiting!" iShe did not answer, for the dance Lad begun. Many eyes followed them, sozue of them with envious looks; so far Lady Betty was right; but Dubuisson was also light; no one, not even those who knew him, thought ol tne spy as they watched him. "Let us sto,p," said Betty, as they reached the end of the room. "We may chance upon a quiet place more easily now than later."

Two rooms opened from either side of the vestibule. One was brilliantly lighted to-night, the other was in darkness save for a dim light at one end. it was Lady Betty who led the way to a comer in this room. "You know what happened to-day?" Dubuisson said. "I saw you. I was at a window in Whitehall. I saw that the man who fired was close to you. Were you in such company by chance ?" "As far as I was concerned, yes; but now I believe there was a deliberate intention to keep me in the midst of them. At the moment of my escape I recognised two men whom I have seen at the Brazen Serpent. I went straight back to my lodging knowing that it might not be safe to do so later, and have housed myself for the moment dn Bury street, in such spacious lodgings that they are never likely to look for me there."

"It is Walter Evertsen who is hunting for you," she said. "I know. I shall do my best not to let hiin catch me. Lady Betty, I hare found the man I came to England to seek." "Then your mission is over?" "Yes, he absolves me from my oath. I can return to France; he will help me to return. I pan live my life as I ■please. lam free." "And you will go ? Yes, you must go. England is too dangerous for you now." "And not only for me," he answered. "You do not ask who this man is." "Surely not the man with whom you fought the dud? I know of it; I know you wrote me a letter. Mr. Baxter told Mary." "He had no right to do so, but perhaps he had a reason which I know nothing about. Yes, the man is Sir Rupert Ashton." "Sir Eupert! I did not know who it was," said Betty. "I do not think Mr. Baxter mentioned the name." "Lady Betty, the vow held more, far more, than I imagined; and I must tell you. It is horrible to speak of if to yah, but I must. To-day, as I stood in Whitehall, there was murder in my heart, righteous murder, if there can be such a thing. Ido not know who fired those shots, the man was somewhere behind me, but I think I should have been glad had he been a better marksman." "Victor!"

"It is hard to speak of such things | to you, but the knowledge that has come to me gives me courage," he vent on quickly, taking in his the hand which she had suddenly raised in horror. "It is a story unfit for your ears, yet you must know it, for danger lies in your path, a worse danger even than is mine." "Tell me," she said, and her fingers tightened upon his bravely. Dtibuis'son repeated to her the history he had learned from Sir Rupert Ashton, told her of his mother, of that other woman whom Sir Rupert loved. "Can you understand all it meant to me?" he went on in a low passionate voice. "I was free at last, free to choose, to go or stay. I determined to stay. N«ver a word or hint of this had I heard from my mother's lips, my heart burned to do something to avenge h,er as'l heard the dastardly truth; hut I, 'too, loved a woman, a woman who—ah!' God knows that there blazed up such sudden fury within me at the thought of her danger that, a little more and I might have been persuaded to become an assassin."

i "Hush! you must not say such '{ things,' she whispered. I "The Prince's letter, Evertsen's | worthless love, the easy worship, of a | complacent tool; a foul scheme from beginning to end. In your sweet innocency you cannot understand what desperate i, contrivings the devil puts into the | hearts of such men as these." \ "Some of them I can guess," she an- ] swered; "a woman's innocency does not j make her weak or ignorant." 1 "I am desperate, too," he weut on; "only one thing in the world seems to j matter. Have mercy upon me, Betty. To-night there are hundreds in the streets who would willingly slioot me like a dog, wild believe they did mankind a service; yet, hunted as I am, worthless and of no account as I seem to he, circumstances lend nit courage. I love you, dear. You must have known it long ago—it seems long ago since

first I looked into your sweet eyes. You must know it. That night in my lodging you must have understood. Liu you not almost 'promise that you would answer we to-night? Answer, Betty, and be merciful."

"I understood, Victor." "And to-niirht?" he whi? 1 "'.: d. "To-night f Whn; . ~,i I do, Victor?" "Betty, come with me. England is dangerous for both of us; come with me to France. We can return presently, when the truth about me is known, when you are safe as my wife. Oh, my dear, believe me, I am no fortunehunter, no mere adventurer; I care nothing for your wealth, your position; it is you I want." "I know that, I believe, yes, and I love you," she said quickly, as he pressed both her .nanus to hislips: "but how can I do all you ask? I am not free as other women are. Oh, lam not thinking of my precious guardian and his legal power over me, but I am bounded by my wealth, my 'position. How can I run away from them? I wonder whether you realise what an important person I really am." "I do, dear; who could understand your importance better? 1 recognise the difficulties. I do not want you to promise anything to-night. Tell the Duchess of Petersham what I have told you. She is your friend, and all this world of London respects her. Tell her, Betty, and be guided by her. She knows nothing of me, but'if she knows that you love me, I must become of some interest to her. Ask her to let me come and talk to her. I shall convince here, I think, that in some respects at least I am not altogether unworthy. Will you do this, Betty ?" "There is no one I would more willingly confide in," she answered. _ "My dearest, already the clouds are lifting," he said. "Love is dispersing them. . Send to me at Bury street—8, Bury street. Let your messenger ask for Mr. Conway, so I have called myself at my new lodging. The Duchess hall advise us both." "Are you disappointed, Victor, that' I am able to see so many difficulties?" Betty asked. "No, dear. You could not be the sweet, strong woman you are without thinking of them. God keep us both and make me worthy of you.'-' lie stood up and gave her "his hand. "I have kept you long enough, and it is well that the company here to-night should not become too inquisitive about the man you honor. Leave me now, dear, I shall go at once. Send for me soon, Betty, to-morrow if you can." "I am afraid for you," she whispered. "It was madness to come, Victor; but, oh, I am glad you came, dear!" Her face was raised to his, her lips (half-parted, her eyes alight with love. For an instant he hesitated, and glanc- i ed into the shadows of the room.

"My wife—soon," he whispered, and kissed her. Then she went quickly, and did not even turn in the doorway to look back. For one moment Dubuisson was hurt, the next he understood. Someone had come in search of her, and he 'heard her laughing gaily with her companion. "May not a lady get into quiet corner to tear the rags from the skirt which a clumsy dancer has trodden upon? Indeed, sir, 1 protest jthat " and the rest was lost as they went towards the 'ballroom. Lady Betty was playing a part again. She no longer complained of fatigue; she was forced to admit that she kept a dance for the man who had nearly come too late to claim it, but she let it he supposed that she had ful-1 filled, a duty rather than a pleasure. He appeared to be a graceful dancer, it was true, but appearances were sometimes deceptive. Had not one of lien partners found her hiding to adjust a| torn frock? I

A little later she was crossing the vestibule, when an attendant stepped her and said that a messenger from her Grace the Duchess of Petersham was waiting to speak to her. Betty went, and recognised a footman from Petersham House. The man looked round quickly before delivering his message. 'THer Grace has sent a carriage, my lady, and bid me tell you that you were to go to her at once, that it was not safe for you to return to your house in Pall Mall to-night. We have already been there and fetched your maid. She is waiting in the carriage." "Why is it not safe?" "Her Grace did not say, my lady." "I will come at once/' said Betty. She went back to her partner, who was still waiting for her, and asked him to find Lady Lannesiey. and explain that the Duchess had sent for her. "Is the Duchess ill?" he asked.

"JS'o, I think not; but I must go at once. Will you tell Lady Lannesiey that I will see her to-morrow, and apologise for this sudden flight in person?" Betty went hurriedly for her cloak, and .passed to the carriage through bowing attendants. The footman opened the door. "What does all this mean, Mary?" "I do not know, my lady, but the message was urgent from Petersham House, and I thought you would wish me to come." "Certainly. What were you told to do ?" Betfcy aslced, settling herself in the corner, as the footman climbed' to the box and' the driver whipped up the horses sharply. Mary told her story, hut presently had to repeat it since her mistress understood it so imperfectly the first time. Truth to tell, Betty was half dreaming, thinking how the Duchess had spoken of a coach at the back door, and mating her with the first likely fellow who presented himself. Here, indeed, was the unexpected coach; the man she had found—to-night. (To be continued on Saturday).