Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3026, 24 October 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS.

"A Splendid Heart," etc., etc

CHAPTER Vl.—Continued.

"I have explained that it was something," Miss Hungerford answered as coldly. "I don't call myself a fragile psrson, but if the news came to me suddenly of the death of a friend I loved, I have no hesitation in saying I should faint immediately." "Paul takes r.tfer me," Lady Emily said gently, and with a troubled sound in her voice. "Don't you remember how easily 1 used to faint years ago, Anne?" Lady Hungerford grunted at this, and the grunt made Laurie furious, for it implied about' as much civil contempt as was possible to put into one ejaculation. But Laurie was nothing if not wise and tactful; she let her anger go, and began talking to Isobel, who had remained silent all this time. "I am so sorry you are doomed to such a dull evening," she said. Isobel smiled faintly. "I am only sorry «bout Mr Hungerford. It is so terrible to loss one's friends; and the worst is one feels so helpless to offer any sympathy or give real comfort in such a grief." "Yes, it is hard," Laurie said. She felt she liked Isobel much better this evening. She had imagined the girl to be stupid, but she owned now to herself that that was too hasty judgment. Miss Marston improved on acquaintance. When they got back into the drawing-room, the two girls sat and chatted together, while Lady Hungerford held forth on parish matters to her sister-in-law, who listened obediently, but whose thoughts were all up-stairs with her boy. Isobel put out all her talent—and she was exceedingly clever when she chose to be—to win her way into Laurie's good opinions. She was quick to see that Paul's sister would be a good ally if managed properly, and a most serious difficulty if she established an antagonistic position toward any one who desired to make plans for the future regarding Paul. There is not apparently much in common between two such. opposite natures as these two girls possessed; but it was on the very tact of the difference between them that Isobel felt strongest. She knew how to appeal to Laurie's strong, protective character. She made herself more gentle, more delicate, more sweet . than she had ever been before, and she succeeded in completely charming Lady Emily's practical, far-see-ing, as a rule, and sensible daughter. Isobel had talked mostly of her home in an artless way; she had let Laurie understand how good, how marvellously necessary she was to her uncle, Co). Leicester, and to the whole of the neighbourhood about Thrapstone Court. "Uncle calls me his queen, and says I rule him with a glance of my eyes," she said, laughing in her prettiest fashion; "and it does seem so funny, doesn't it, when one realises what a puny, weak little individual I am?" "Natures that are good in the absolute sense of the word have often more power than a whole army of soldiers could have," Laurie said gently. "1 think I understand what it is Col.. Leicester means. I must come and see you in your home une of these days, Miss Marston," Isobel flushed with delight; this was triumph indeed. "I wish 1 could take you back with uae when I go," she said warmly. "Ah; but we are not going to lose you yet awhile, I hope," Laurie answered, and then they rose and joined the two ladies at the fireside, and afterward, at Lady Hungerford's request, Isobel went to the piano and sang a little. She would have demurred, remem ber the invalid, but Laurie declared bruskly there was no need to think of Paul, and so Isobel sang, and as she sang she congratulated herself on her cleverness, and the progress she had mads. True, she could scarcely have been said to have gone far on the road toward a satisfactory personal understanding with Paul himself, but she had done the next best thing to that, for she had started the basis of a strong, sympathetic friendship with his sister, and Isobel told herself she would indeed be very far out in htr reckoning if this friendship should not help her greatly in her schemes to bcome Paul Hungerford's wife. This evening spent under his mother's roof had quietly and determinately strengthened the outlines of these schemes. Instead of being vague, indistinct, ar/d problematical, they were now sharply drawn, and clearly defined, and the whole of her shrewd, not too scrupulous mind wa-s set now on seeing these schemes become a certainty, an absolutely declared fact. There were odds against her that Isobel knew—odds that were the more powerful for being unknown. She would have to be prepared for all surta of difficulties; yet without seeing or being in the least acquainted with this man's past, Isobel's iutui'ion, that curious power possessed of all women, told her almost as clearly as though it were spoken in words that the sudden and unexpected sorrow that had come to Paul this evening had removed a very big, perhaps the biggest, obstacle out of her path, and that her chance of success was now almost a certainty, where a few hours before it had been barely possible. Thus Isobel could well congratulate herself on the speed with which circumstances were developing, and as she drove away into the darkness beside Lady Hungerford, she felt a thrill of excitement and pleasure radiate her bfir»r and quiver in her heart. It was a novel sensation,

Author of Selina's Love Story "An Inherited Feud," " Brave Barbara,"

and it stirred her out of her usua placid, self-satisfied existence in ; manner that made her speculate an question herslf as to the true meaninj of this change within herself. Th answer was revealed to her a littli later, when she discovered that sh loved Paul Hungerford with as mud: power and intensity as was possible to such a self-bound and meagn nature as that which she called he: own. ****** Isobel Marston had been more than a month at the big house, hei visit was protracted indefinitely. Whenever she made some meek suggestion about returning to her home a'.d her duties, she was immediately overruled by Lady Hungerford, "Go home? No such thing. Why, you have only just come. We can't spare you for ever so long; so you had better write and tell Col. Leicester this as soon as you like," was what her hostess always declared; and, to do Lady Hungerford justice, she was sincere, for she was hospitality itself; and, moreover, she liked Isobel. Lady Emily said something equally warm and in prettier words, and Laurie openly declared that she should be quite lost when Isobel at last took her departure. For Laurie had developed one of her sincere and rare affections for Miss Marston. She had Ji sort of desire to protect and cherish this delicate, childlike girl, with her fair, babyish prettiness. "She is a dear little thing," she often said to Paul. "I have grown quite fond of her." Paul always assented to this, but, as a matter of fact, to deep mortification, he really seemed to be scarcely aware whether his aunt's pretty guest were present or not. Though she made giant strides in her friendihip with his mother and sister, she stood absolutely where she had been the first day of their acquaintance with Paul himself. She saw him frequently, too. He had recovered from his illness quickly, had, in fact, gone to London on the day following his strange fainting fit; but he had been absent only two days, and after that one journey he had remained at The Elms, and given himself up to cultivating an acquaintance with the Hungerford properties and estates, taking up the duties of a steward, as it were, and acting for his uncle, who lay ill with a bad attack of gout up at the hall. Laurie never questioned her brother, no word of any sort of explanation, had passed between them, only her quick, loving sympathy had noted the lingering hope that was expressed in his eager desire to get to London, undoubtedly to make full inquiries for the person whom he had been seeking, and whose death had so curtly revealed to him when he came back. Now there was no hope on his handsome face; he looked older; there were lines about his lips and eyes; he had « weary, preoccupied air, and went about his daily life mechanically, as one who walks, and talks, and eats as in a dream, and with no voluntary desire to do any of these necessary things. Laurie was troubled and distressed beyond all measure at this change in her beloved brother. "What can I do to help him?" was her one thought, waking or sleeping. (To be continued.)