PRIMROSE DELORAINE

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10311, 11 August 1911, Page 2

PRIMROSE DELORAINE

OUR SERIAL.

i-q'S DAUGHTER. -IE PENDENNIS. ■■.'■'.'. a<. "Sir Reginald's „-im," "The Forgotten Heir." "Rival Beauties,' 'etc.

CHAPTER XXll.—Continued. With norland with her alone of ill tho world, there might he the power to persuade him to escape while there was yet time; sho realised that fully and absolutely in that passionate, tragedy-laden moment. She might oe able to persur.de him through his love for her. But if she failed—well, then , But sho dared not think of that. Sho must not fail. She must not,\he

must not. "Ah! no, no," she sobbed, her soft lips lingering-on his- "Oh! beloved,, don't talk like that. , It kills me .0 hear you. You must go; you must you shall. I know you have always iiald your life lightly, but now your life doesn't belong to you any longer; it belongs to me —the woman who loves you. If you have no thought lor yourself, have thought for me. Think iiow I love you; think of my life without you. Think —think!" ".I'm thinking of you," he interrupted, very low. His arms clasped lier closer. "I'm thinking that I am the man you love, and, knowing that, I would die a thousand deaths rather, than stain my ionour, for your dear sake. Don't cry so, dear heart.! It only makes things harder for us. I must stay and see it put now, what* ever happens, and, after all, you know, we may be making mountains out of molehills. Things may not be as so had as we fear." Just what it cost him to say these words to her only he and she and God knew. Just what it cost him to keep that light, careless smile on his.lips, when all the passionate, reckless heart of him was crying out in hot rebellion against the. pitiless Fates who had dealt him this crushing blow at the height pf his happiness, no one but he would ever guess. Life had been s>o maddeningly sweet for him in the past golden weeks, a heaven on earth, .i rose-coloured Eden, a passionate, thrilling dream. And now—well, now the awakening had come, as awakenings will to the dreams of earth. "What puzzles me," he went on presently, "is how they tracked me. and how Mrs Vivian spotted the secret of my double life., I thought you, and you alone, knew my secret, and that's what L meant whe<v I told you that night at the ball at Lesbie Manor that you might hold my life in your little, soft hands. Some one must have got wind of my leaving, and followed me from Australia; but who?" And Primrose glanced up quickly through her tears. ' "Poker Bill, I think," she,said. -'I never told you before, but the other day, when I was wandering about the lanes at Lesbie Manor. I met him quite suddenly, and there—there was a dreadful scene, and he tried to kidnap me and take me off in a motor car to London, and Smithers rescued me, and —and- Oh, Jack! I cannot help thinking that Smithers has ha! something to do with it, tooy- 1 never told you the story of Smithers, either, because Avhen I told it to Sjr Gerard lie only laughed at me and saiekthat I was hysterical and fanciful, and I was *o afraid that you would/laugh at me too. But I'll toll you now," "Yes, tell me, sweetheart," >jaid Lord Eversdene. So she told him the story of Smithers, and of the strange string of coincidences that had happened in connection with him; and Lord Eversdene • listened with keen attention, a verygrave look darkening his face. "Smithers!" he said, half to himself. "Ah, yes! Smithers!" Then he looked away from her, and laugh.id to himself, soft, bitter, mocking, ironical laughter that hurt the girl who listened almost Jjke a blow. A moment, later she looked at him "again; and lie laid his face down on her sunny, curly hair; "Primrose," he went on. "My Primrose, it was, a- had, day for, you \vhfiii you'ever saw me, a worse one when yoii promised to cast in. your lot with mo. Ah! little girl, we little thought, did we, when we met that night out in the wilds of Australia, and your sweet eyes seemed to look straight into my soul and through all the darknea* therein, we little thought what that chance meeting would lead to. "For me, sweetheart, it was the turning point in my life. That very night the wild, reckless powers that ruled my life then, for good or ill, seemed to he stronger than ever, and as I and the good gray mare made our way to the hut where the miser of Red Tree Camp lived and hoarded his wealth, 1 had told myself that I had arrived at a critical moment, and should have to make up my mind one way or another. But as I wasn't good atttiaking up my mind in those days, that was one of my weak points then, I though I would toss up for it, and I. was going to say, 'Heads, England, tails, Australia'; hut, after all that happened that night, dear,- after I heard the strange story that your father told me, and heard that you, my only love, the woman who hud smiled my heart away in a moment, were coming to England, I knew that there was no need to toss up, for I must oome to England, too." He paused, and sighed as he fazed at Primrose. "I meant then, with Heaven's help," he added, "to put the old, wild

Australian life behind me for over, to ta've up the thread of my Eddish life where I had dropF>l it. and hold it fast as long as I should live. I meant j to make myself a better man for your sweet sake. I meant to live a life thab was worthy of you, and of the gran i old family of which I had been so unworthy. I meant to purge my soulof the lawless stains that marred it. Not of the stain of blood, for that '<ad never soiled it, but of other lesser, thoughtless sins. I meant to win you for my wife, and I dreamed dreams as the mare bore mo away from your hut —dreams that a man dreams now and then, little girl; foolish, tender dreams —but oh, how madly sweet." He stopped again, and then his eyes softened. "Dreams of home," he went on. 'n a lower tone, "and all that_ home means;,of the sweet, pjacid life that showed, compared with my other life, as a broad, calm river by the side of I a windy, storm-tossed sea. Dreams of the love of a wife, the clinging touch of soft arms, the warm kisses jf red lips. Dreams of the sound _of children's voices, the echo of tiny feet pattering down the broad avenues of Time, of the clasp of tiny hands that would draw us closer and closer together as the years rolled on. Foolish dreams, weren't they, most dear? and all eone now —all gone."

CHAPTER XXIII. j TOO LATE. Lord Eversdene sighed bitterly, a half-whimsical, half-regretful look in his eyes as they rested on Primrose. Life, he mused, was full of irony. As soon as you had got the thing that you wanted you could not have it. Ana what a trick +he Fates had played him! How they must have laughed! Ah! it was bitter to think that he must go forth again from the life that had grown so strangely dear to him — far, far dearer than it had ever been, in the past. For now the old,..lawless love of roving, the reckless longing : for.. a.' new" sensation, were - all stillstilled by the touch of love's inagic wand—and he would have asked nothing better of Fate and the gois than to linger in this new, peaceful world that he had chanced upon—a world that was bounded by the walls of home, lighted by the light of a wo- ; man's eyes. i But that was not for him —not for [him. Not for him,the peaceful joys ! of hearth and home, the laughter of I little children. Not for him all Uie [ sweet, restful tilings that might have

icome to him after the storm and stress of other days. Not for him —not for him.

He was branded. Fate that knew no pity, no mercy, had set the seal of outlawry upon him, and had decreed that he should be a hunted thing, outcast by all. A thing whose life was forfeit, whose name was stained,' whose very memory would be accursed. Fate that was so merciless, so relentio«, showed him no way of escape that he icould take. In the old iays he had dodged and evaded the law. it had all been part of the wild game that he-played—part of what he had called the fun of the fair —but low ihings were different. In those \)ld cays he had been just Captain Jack,-an Australian desperado. Now he was Lord Eversdene, head of the great Ever a dene family, the hearer of a hitherto stainless, honoured rame. >And between Captain Jack and Lord Eversdene there was a great gulf fixed. He had been a fool, he told himse'f, and through his folly and recklessness his life was laid waste. There had been no crime nor evil in his :i?e, onlylawless folly; but the folly had been mad heyond all words, and there ire times in lifo when folly must be paid for as dearly as crime or evil. Such a time had come to him now, - for his doom was upon him, and loss than a .miracle could save him. Tho sword of: Damocles .would, surely fall. He wasf innocent of the terrible charge against him, but he could net'prove his innocence, so he would hayo to pay' the penalty, as men have, done bef> re; .' (He. had, hoped that ,Ms/tw6 , hvyl, would never merge into one'. !-ut it had been a vain hope, and it -.v;?* all at an end. And now that l:o was tracked, now that his doom was .:j on him, however unfair it might/ be, he would face it to the bitter end, and meet it with, the old',- fearless, dauntless'spirit with which the Evcvsdones of old had always met -hot rdoom, wherever it;had found .>h»m. "I ho fault was liis, he told hjmseif, al Hiis. He had had chances, and wasted them all. He might have lived a uwtuJ, honoured life, but as it was he w:is going to a felon's death. Atd all through folly—folly that was paid for in blood and tears. (To be Continued).