PRIMROSE DELORAINE

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10299, 31 July 1911, Page 2

PRIMROSE DELORAINE

OUR SERIAL.

THE MISER'S DAUGHTER.

By MAISIE PENDEN&IS. Author of "Sir Reginald's Whim," "The Forgotten Heir," "Rival Beauties,' 'etc.

CHAPTER XVlll.—Continued.

"Jack!" sho said, with wild abar.- j don. "Oh, Jack, don't be cruel to me. Be as you used to be before you | wont away. Have you forgotten the days then? I never sihall. Don't you remember how you used to talk to mo and confide in me; and hold me in j your arms, and—and kiss me? Don't j you remember that in those days you . used to call me Valerie,'and now you | ke».p calling me Mrs Vivian? Don't j vou rememl>er our days on the river, , our sitting-out talks at dances; all the thousand and ono little things that made life so sweet—for me—l thought for both of us. Don't you remember, Jack? Ah, yes, you can't have quite forgotten. You "are a man, I know, and men forget; but you can't havo forgotten all. I thought you loved me in those days. You made me think you loved me. But now that vou have ; come back you are so cold and strange T hardly know you. But you canjt mean to be cruel to me. You can t ] moan to be different.. You are only | JTOfc playing with'me. You can't have j stolen my heart only to throw it away and break it. You can't have " She "broke off, suddenly, and then she pressed closer. "Oh, Jack!".she cired. "Oh, Jack. darling! Won't you—won't you- " She paused again. Lord Eversdene had risen now, and with strong hands was putting her gently away from him, gently but decidedly. In that moment he felt more uneasy than he had, ever felt in his life before, and it seemed to him that, in its remorseful discomfort, he was expiating many of his sins. His heart was full of regret and remorse for the sorrow that he might have brought into this butterfly life. His conscience accused and reproached him bitterly in that he had made love to her with t>o serious thought or intention, ju*t for an idle pastime, to help the idle moments to fleet more swiftly by.

He ought not to have C!one it, he told himself. And yet—and yet—after all, was it entirely his fault? »*'as he alone to blame ? Rather at seemed t» him, looking back, that she had b°en the temptress, he the temoted. That she bad,allured him with all the rx>ft, subtle arts in which she was well skilled, and that he had allowed himself to drift along on the sea of pleasure, caring little where the current carried him. Yes. she had plaved the leading part in the plav that they two had nlaved together. That he remembered; but he could not say so to her. A man could not say sucb a thing to a woman. Then, as he realised that she was once mor* trying to allure Km—once more trving to take the lead in. the game-r-the game of love, in which, the woman should always follow—trving to work her spells noon him, and bind him to her chariot wheels, a little sense of disgnst rose no withiin him, and obscured for a moment the pity that filled his soul. It was unwomanly, he told himself —unwomanly.; it revolted him. At one time, as he knew,.lie might ;.nbt hay e" "felt like that—might not have resented the tin womanliness as he resented it how. But pinoe'lie had known Primrose, the girl he loved so m&dly, the girl whose fresh fragrance always recalled to him the sensitive dolicate flower from which she took her name, he had learned to think differently of women, differently of life differently of everything. "I am sorry," he said quietly, and Ms tone held a finality that there was no "mistaking, "very sorry-, Mrs! Vivian, if there has been, any misunderstanding. It was all my fault, of course, but I was fool enough to think that we were playing a game, you and t. and that we both understood it. The davs that you remind me of were very pleasant ones, but it never occurred to me to take vou seriously, and I never thought it occurred to you to t&keme seriously. I thought w,e were just playing the game of make as +ihe men and women of our world play it. I never for once of ii;vais reality. lam sorry, -awfully' sorry, but—.— -!';•■'■- ]■ : ,-.- : ' .''■."•'■ 'She interrupted liim. her face flushing suddenly crimsbiij her eye's all aiire. .■-.■•.■■ ■' ' " , ■ In a. moment Valerie's frivolous exterior fell away fwnr her like a mantle'and he saw her ais she really was—r,no longer a society,..butterfly, but a human woman, pulsating with love, aflame with passion. "Sorry 1" she cried, with passionate scorn. "What is your sorrow to me? What can it do for me ? Can it mend a broken heart, bring back hapnines-: to a wrecked life, lighten a,darkened coul? Oh, you men. you are all alike. Cold and cruel—cold and cruel as the grave! Why do we think about you, I we women ; trouble about you, care for you? Why are we willing to devote ourselves to you, to offer ourselves up as sacrifice on the altar of your pleasures ? Why do we lay our hearts at your feet to trample upon, as one tramples on a toy and then flings it; a way, crushed and broken? ' 'All other men I knew were like that,", r she went on, "but you—l always thought you were different. <■ I always thougJit that, in spite of your wild, reckless ways., you had some sense of chivalry,' a' code of honour—a highfcode. I never, thought .that you would treat a woman quite as those Others miVht; but, now—but now—oh, now I know that you are as all the rest, and worse, far worse, for even they wouldn't have the heart to break a woman's ideals, shatter her

dreams, as brutally and cruelly and callouily as you have done. Oh, you have no heart, no heart, you men, only a, stone! Why do we women love you ? Why?" . She broko down, sobbing wildly, and ho stod transfixed, looking down at her like a man in a dream. Was this Valerie Vivian? he asked himself. Was this passion shaken, miniature whirl-wind the lovely doll in its cloud of yellow draperies, its laces and chiffons, of a moment ago? He was puzzled, bewildered, re-mor.-eful; amazed beyond all words Ho did not realise yet that the doll had become a desperato woman, maddened by the failure of her light, fleeting passions, and risking all on one last desnerato throw. "Why do we love you—why, why> Valerie Vivian sobbed again. And then she went near to him again, and with a swift, sudden movement leaned h?r whole weight against his arm; one tiny, seduotive hand stealing up to clasp itself about his neck, the filken tangle of her hair brushing his cheek once more, while again the warm, subtle perfume of her presence swept up to him in a passionate, enticing isccnt. "And yet we do love you," she continued, and her vivid, tempting lips were dangerously close to his own. "] love you. Jack, and you —oh, I think in the old days you loved me too; and I if in these two long years your love ] has died I could rekindle it —if you would only let me. Or if it's true that it. was only Dlay to you in the old days the hours that were so madly;' real to me, then let us have done with the plav forever. Let us leave the game of love—the light, frivolous comedy—behind lis to-night; and begin the real living drama. Man'.s passion is a fire that lies always smouldering, ready for a woman's hand to s«t it ablaze and warm it into hot life with the torchlight of her own love. I can set your heart, ablaze. You know I can. Let me, Jack. Let me. Surely we two were made for love." Closer and closer came xne small, oval face, one rose flame of seductive beauty and enticing passion. Nearer and nearer the bright lips, the red, I red lips of the temptress. Heavier and heavier grew the scented perfume of + he hair that brushed his cheek, sweeping up to "his brain in intoxicating allurement. The man—he was onlv a man—stood there silent, chained in a strange trance. "Jack! Jack!" Valerie Vivian tvhiisipered, and. the warmth of liter round, lovely arm encircled. Lord Evcrsdane ; closer and closer. "Oh, my love-, you're everything to mo. I would, give* my .soul to feel your lips on mine .in* the Miswes you gave mie long ago. You are heaven: awl earth to me. All my life is bound up in joxi. Don't he cruel to me-—love me. I'll teach you to love as I lore—nob. with' «. infllk-and-'watetr een.ti-r menlt, but with the passion, of strong , wine Only love me Jack. Only love me. j She looked Mike a wonderful, j beiaattiful : 'Circe in. the rosieHshjadied I fairy ligihit. A women to tempt I memV isouJ® and chain, their hearts J and .s&niseis in a ferrered thrall. A.nd ! a. strange light gleamed in the hand--1 somo eye> that looked down at her. I Tim<* had been when her wild words would'hnve aroused in Lord Eversdenc ' <">nly ia «en. , »e of lazy wonder, and peril a^s —for lie wns just a human man—a faint thrill of cool, self satisfnotion, mingled with a vague pity, at th« knowledge of the power that lie had the hearts of women. A power that drew them to him like a magnet. He was really one of the least conceited men in the world, but he would have been more or less than human if he had failedto recognise the truth. He had never, let it be said to his credit, been in the habit of making love indiscriminately to all sorts of the women of his indulging; here and- there in ati*idlo flirtation as the mood was on him, and, w4tlF'tlie sort of wortfi an that socially* to his lazy fyncv. But he had not been averse to allowing other women to make love to him'. <Jt pleased and, am,u§ed them, he had always told-him-self lazily, ; and did not hurt iim. So he had drifted-down the stream - -of.' many a shallow, fleeting pa-ssirfu. manv a passing love; wherever in fact, the will-o'-the-wisp fancy of the moment had led him. Valerie Vivian was one of the women who had made love to him, and in the old days this grand finale would not have seemed quite as it seemed to him now—an unspeakable thing that ■sickened and disgusted him beyond all bearing. His affairs of the heart had been harmless enough; no man knew that' better than himself. This was the first, the very first, that had threatened to find its ending in tragedy. fTa b© Continued).