THE LADY IN BLACK.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8406, 22 April 1907, Page 2

THE LADY IN BLACK.

By FLORENCE WARDEN. AutJior of "An Infamous Fraud," "A Terrible Family,* "For Love of Jack," "The House on the Marsh," etc., etc.

CHAPTER ll.—Continued. And then there burst forth from the infantile red lips some words which struck terror in her young hearer, so bitter, so full of sadness, of biting remorse, were they: "No, child, no. Yon must not come. I am too wicked!" The girl was struck dumb. She wanted to comfort Mrs Dale; she wanted to laugh at her self-accusa-tion, to express incredulity, amusement. But in the face of that look of anguish, of that inexpressibly mournful cry straight from the heart, she could not even open her lips. She knew that there was some grief there which no words of comfort could touch. So deeply absorbed was she in the silent compassion which kept her with lowered eyelids and mute lips, that she was quite startled when Mrs Dale's voice, speaking in her ordinary tones, struck" again upon her ear. "That young fellow who picked you up is one of the vicar's sons, isn't he?" "Yes," answered Mabin, in a rather colder voice. £ "He seems a very nice lad, and very much interested in—somebody?" suggested Mrs Dale archly. Mabin laughed. "Ye 3, so he is. But it is not the 'somebody' you mean," answered she. "Mrs Bonnington, that's his mother, says he can think about nothing but—Mrs Dale!" Again the sweet face changed; and it was in a low voice of sadness that the lady in black said, slowly and deliberately: "I hope,;; with all my heart, that she has made a mistake." Then, with a rapid gesture, as if brushing away some thought which was full of untold terror, she added with a shudder: "Don't let us talk about it. It is too—horrible!"

CHAPTER 111. AN INVITATION AND A WARNING. Mabin'a sprained ankle was a more serious affair than she had supposed. For a month she never left the house, and for another she went out in a wheel-chair, or hopped about on a pair of crushes. And during all that tim 3 she caught no glimpse of the pretty neighbour who had done -her such eminent service at the time of the accident. In vain she had hung about the road outside "The Towers," looking up at the west side of the house, which was close to the wall alongside the road, trying to distinguish the fair, blue-eyed face at one of the windows which peeped somberly out of the ivy. Dreary the place looked, Mabin thought, as she pondered over the mystery surrounding the lady in black. The lowest window visible from the road was about three feet above the girl's head; and all she could see was a pair of crimson moreen curtains, which, she thought, harmonized ill with what she had seen of the tenant of the gloomy house. The house had long been "To Let, Furnished." But why had not dainty Mrs Dale removed those curtains? Mabin did not usually trouble her head about such trifles as furniture; but she had, enshrouded the figure of the pretty widow in romance and she felt that her fairy queen was not living up (o her proper standard in contenting herself with crimson moreen. "What are you looking at so intently?" Mabin, who, leaning on her crutches, was gazing up at that mysteriously interesting window, started violently as she saw a white hand, glistening with diamonds, thrust suddenly out through the ivy in the midst of a space which she had taken for blank wall. And, parting the close-growing branches, Mrs Dale peeped out, pink and fair and smiling, from a window at the same level as the one Mabin had watching, but so thickly covered with ivy that the girl had not suspected its existence. "I—l was looking for you. I was hoping to see you," stammered Mabin. "And now that you have seen me, won't you please condescend to see a little more of me?" asked Mrs Dale. "I won't eat you up if you come into my den. Look, here is another iahabitant whom I have entrapped. But there are strawberries enough for three." Mabin hesitated; not from any scruples about the propriety of visiting the lady about whom so much gossip was talked, certainly, but because she was shy, and because the thought of a meeting and a talk with her ideal heroine and a stranger seemed rather formidable. But Mrs Dale would not allow her time to refuse. "I will send the other inhabitant down to let you in," said she. And the ivy closed again, and Mabin could hear the lady's voice giving directions to some person within. She moved mechanically, on her crutches, toward the high, closed gates. And by the time she reached them they were opening, and Rudolph was holding them back for her. The girl could not repress a slight exclamation of astonishment. Rudolph reddened. "You are surprised to see me," said he, rather bashfully. "I hope you won't refuse to come in because I am here? I will go away rather than that." Mabin hesitated. She was not very worldly-wise, but it Seemed to her that there was something strange about his presence in the house where the rest of the vicar's family were not allowed to enter. And at the

same moment she remembered Mrs Dale's apparent horror at the idea of the young fellow's admiration for her. Rudolph's colour deepened still more. "Why are you always so rude to me, Mabin, or I suppose I ought to say Miss Rose?" asked he quickly. "Doesn't it seem rather unfair, when you come to think of it? We were great chums once, you know? Weren't we?" "When we were children, yes." replied Mabin stiffly. "And why not now?" The blood rushed to the girl's forehead. "How can you ask?" she said indignantly. "When I owe my lameness to you?" Rudolph stared at her, as if uncertain whether he heard aright. "Tome?" "Why, yes. Surely you don't pretend it was not you who threw the stone which knocked my bicycle over?" &$$ The stiff haughtiness with which she said this melted suddenly into apologetic alarm when she saw by the change to lierce indignation in Rudolph that she had made another and most absurd blunder. At first he could only stare at her in speechless anger and amazement. ,"Do you take me for a street urchin?" he asked, at last. Mabin recovered herself a little, and refused to be withered up. "Your brothers do it," she said, below her breath. "Then I'll give the little scamps a good hiding the first time I catch them at it," said Rudolph sharply. "But I should have thought you could distingush the difference between a man and a schoolboy, and not have visited their sins upon me." Mabin felt miserable. She blushed, she stammered when she tried to speak; and the tears came into her eyes. "I—l'm sorry!" she said, in a constrained voice. "I—l see, I might have known. But you know —you were rude to me—that very day—when I saw you at Seagate?" "Ah! I remember! I asked you to have a cigarette. It was injudicious, not rude. You should have made a distinction again." There was an awkward silence. Rudolph was still resentful; but when he saw the downcast eyes and the tears which were beginning to fringe the long black lashes, he found himself softening. And, putting her hand too hastily into her pocket for the handkerchief to wipe away her tears, Mabin dropped one of her crutches." "Let me help you along," said he, in a gentle voice, as he picked up the fallen crutch. "I don't like to see a girl using those things." And, without waiting for her permission, he thrust the crutch under one arm, and insisted on supporting the unwilling girl with the other. And as they crossed the broad gravelled space to the portico, in the shade of the trees, Mabin felt a curious sensation of peace and of pleasure, and suddenly looked up at her companion with a frank smile. "I'm very glad we're friends again," said she. And he smiling, too, but with a little more malice, a little mere guile than she, answered readily: "Why, so am I. But I must remind you that it is your fault, not mine, that we have ever been any* thing else." Mabin hung her head, feeling rather guilty, but with yet more enjoyment of the present reconciliation than remorse for the past estrangenlent. Instead of taking her straight in, Rudolph led her across the gravel to a flower-border, where, in a little open patch of sunlight, a rose-bush grew. It was a "Mrs John Lang," and the huge pink blossoms were in their full beauty and fragrance. "I've brought you here," he said didactically, "to read you a moral lesson. Here we have a rose, full of beauty anc sweetness to every one, but without any thorns. While some Roses I know " "Are all thorns to everybody, and are without any beauty," finished Mabin for.him, laughing,^'and without any sweetness." "No, no, not at all. But they seldom let you come near enough to admire, their beauty, and they are rather chary of their sweetness. Now, I hope you'll profit by this lesson." "To be sure I —shan't!" replied Mabin, with a rather doleful smile. "I do try to be less—less objectionable —sometimes," she added, with fa seriousness which made Rudolph smile. "But it doesn't seem to be very successful. I think I'm goingto give up the effort, and accept the fate of an 'awful example' as serenely as 1 can." (To be Continued.)J