THE STORY-TELLER.

Waikato Times, Volume XI, Issue 891, 9 March 1878, Page 2

THE STORY-TELLER.

WIFE IN NAME ONLY. By the author of " Dora. Thorne," "On Her Wedding Morn," " Redeemed by Love," " A "Woman's War," &c, &c. (Continued from last Saturday's issue.) CHAPTER IX. Capiain Gresham sprang forward to lift the flowers which Miss L'Estranere had dropped. , ' Nay,' she said, * never mind them. A fresh flower is very nice, bus a flower that has once fallen m, the dust has lost its beauty,'

There was no trace of pain m the clear voice; it was rich and musical. Philippa L'Estrange, seated m the bright sunshine, heard the words that were to her as a deathwarrant, and yet made no «««"•* have not yet met with my ideal, Lord Arloigh had said. Captain Gresham picked up some of the fallen flowers. I 'A dead flower from your hand, Miss L'Estrange,' he yid, is worth a whole gardenful of living ones from anyone else.' . She laughed again— that sweet, musical laagh, which seemed to come only from a happy heart, and then she looked round. The Duchess of Aytoun and Lord Arleigh were still m deep converse. Miss L'Estrange turned to Captain Gresham. « I have been told,' she said, ' that there are some beautiful white hyacinths here ; they are my favorite flowers. Shall we find them V He was only too pleased. She bade a laughing adieu to the Duchess, and smiled at Lord Arleigh. There was no trace of pain or of sadness m her voice or "face. They went away together, and Lord Arleigh never eren dreamed that she had heard his remarks.

'Then the Duchess left him, and hr sab under the spreading beech alone. His thoughts were not of the pleasantest nature ; he did not like the general belief m his approaching marriage; it was fair neither to himself nor to Philippa --yet how was he to put an end to such gossip 1 Another idea occurred to him. Could it bs possible that i Philippa, herselt, shared the idea. He would not believe ifc. Yet many things made him pause and think She certainly evinced great preference for his society j and, apparently, she was never so happy as when with him. She would give up any engagement, any promised gaiety or pleasure, to be with him. She dressed to please him; she consulted him on most things ; and she seemed to identify her interests with his. But all this might be result of their old friendship— it might hove nothing to do with love.

Could it be possible that she still remembered the childish nonsense that had passed between them— that she considered either herself or him bound by a foolish tie that neither of them had contracted ? Could it be possible that she regarded herself as engaged to him ? The bare idea seemed absurd to him j he could not believe it. Yet many little things that he could not explain to himself made him feel uncomfortable and anxious. Could it be possible that she, the most beautiful and, certainly, the most popular woman m London, cared so much for him as to hold him by so slender a tie as their past childish nonsense 1

He reproached himself for the thought j yet, do what he would, he could not drive it away. The suspicioD haunted him. It made him miserable. If it was really so, what was he to do 1

He was a gentleman, not a coxcomb. He could nob go to this fair woman and ask her if it was really true that sne loved him, if she really cared for him, if she held him by a tie contracted m childhood. He could not do it. tie had not. sufficient vanity. Why should he think that Philippa, who had some of the noblest men m England at her feet — why should he think that she would renounce all her brilliant prospects for him?. Yefc if the mistake had really occurred — if she really thought the childish nonsense binding — if she really believed that he was about to make her his wife it was high time that she was undeceived, that she knew the truth. And the truth was that, although he had a great liking, a kindly affection for her, he was not m Igve with her. He admired her beauty — nay, he went farther ; he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most gifted, the most graceful. But he was not m love with her — never would be. She was not his typo of woman, not his ideal. If she had been his sister, he would have loved her exceedingly — a brotherly affection was what he felt foi her.

Yet how could he go to this fair woman «vith the ungracious words that he had no thought of marrying her ? His face flushed hotly at the thought — there was something m it against which his whole manhood rose m hot rebellion. Still it must be done ; there must be no such shadow between them as this — there must be no such fatal mistake. If the report of their approaching marriage were allowed to remain much longer uncontradicted, why, then he would be m honour compelled to fulfil public expectation ; and this he had no intention, no desire to do. The only thing therefore was to speakly plainly to her. ! How he hated the thought! How he loathed the idea) It seemed to him most unmanly, most ignoble — and yet there was no help for it. There was one gleam of comfort for him, and only one. She was so quick, so keen, that she would be sure to understand him at once without bis entering into any long explanation. Few words would suffice, and these words he must choose as best he could. If it were possible-; he would speak to her to-day— (he sooner the better— and then all uncertainty would be ended. It s: emed to him, as he pondered these things, that a cloud had fallen over the sansbine. In his heart he -blamed the folly of that good, gentle mother who had been the cause of all this anxiety,

4 Such matters .are best left alonfi, be said to himself. 'If I shonld ever have any children of my own, I will never interfere m their love-

affairs." Think as he would, ponder as he would, it was no easy task that lay before him — to tell her m so many words that he did not love her. Surely no man had ever anything so ungracious to do before.

He looked round the grounds, anl presently saw her the centre of a brilliant group near the lake. The Duke cf Ashwood was by her side, the elite of the guests had gathered round her. She — beautiful, bright, animated— was talking, as he could see, with her usr.al grace and ease. It struck him suddenly as absurd that this beautiful woman should care— as people said she did care — for him.

Let him get it all over. He longed to see the bright face smile on him with sisterly kindness, and to feel himself at ease with her ; he longed to have all misunderstanding done away with.

He went up to the little group, and again the same peculiarity struck him — they all made way for him — even the Duke of Ashwood, although he did it with a frown on his face and an angry look m his eyes Each one seemed to consider that he had some special right to be by the side of the beautiful Miss jL'Estrafige ; and she, as usual, when he was present, saw and heard no

one else. It was high time the world was disabused. Did she herself join m the popular belief? He could not tell. He looked at the bright face ; the dark eyes met bis, but be could read no secret m them.

* Philippa,' he said, suddenly, « the water looks very tempting — would you like a row V 1 Above everything else,' she replied ) and they went off m the little pleasure-boat together. It was a miniature lake, with tali and towering trees bordering it, and dipping their green branches into the water. The sun shone on the feathered spray that fell from the skulls, the white swans raised their graceful heads as the little boat passed by, and philippa lay back languidly, watching the shadows of the trees. Suddenly an idea seemed to occur to her. She looked at Lord Arleigh. ' Norman,' sho said, ' let the boat drift. I want to talk to you, and I cannot while yoa are rowing.'

He rested on his sculls, and tho boat drifted under the drooping branches of a willow-tree. He never forgot the picture that then presented itself— the clear, deep water, the green trees, and the beautiful face looking at him. ' Norman,' she said, m a clear, low voice, ' I want to tell you that I overheard all that you said to the Duchess of Aytoun. I could not help it, because 1 was so near you.' She was taking the difficulty m her own hands, and he felt most thankful.

< Did you, Philippa. I thought you were engaged with the gallant Captain.' ' Did you really and m all truth mean whab you >md to her?' she

asked. ' Certainly ; you know me well enough to be sure that I never say wha*' T do not mean.' 'You have never yet seen the woman who you would ask to be your wife t she said. There was a brief silence, and then he replied —

'No, m all truth, I have not, Philippa.'

A little bird was singing on a swaying bough just above them — to the last day of her life it seemed to her that she remembered the notes. The saltry silence seemed to deepen. She broke it.

' Bat,' Norman,' she rfaid m a low voise, ' have you not seen me ? He tried to laugh, to hide his embarrassment, but it was a failure. ' I bave seen jou — and I admire you. I bave all the affection of a brother for you, Philippa" and then he paused abruptly. ' But,' she supplied, ' you have never thought of making me your wife ? Speak to me quite frankly, Norman.'

' No, Philippa, I have not.' 1 As matters stand between us, they require explanation,' she said ; and he saw her lips grow pale. It is not pleasant for me to have to mention it, but I must do ifc. Norman, do you quite forget what we were taught to believe when we were children— that our lives were to be passed together V < My dearest Philippa, pray spare ■yourself and me. I did not know that you even remembered the childish nonsense.'

She raised liev dark eyes to his face, and there was something m them before which he shrank as one who feels pain. 'On 3 word, Norman— only one word. The past which has been so much to me — the past m which I have lived even move than m the present— am Ito look upon it as what you call nonsense f He took her h nd m his.

'My dear Philippa,' he said, { I hate myself for what I have to say — it makes me detest even the sound of my own voice. Yet you are right — there is nothing for us but perfect frankness; anything- else would be foolish. Neither your mother nor mine had any right to try to bind us. Such things never answer — never prosper. I cannot myself imagine how they, usually go sensible, came m this instance to

disregard all dictates of common sense. I have always looked upon the arrangement as mere nonsense, and I hope you have done the same. She made no answer, but, after a few minutes, when she had regained her self-possession, she said— ' The sun is warm on the water — I think we had better return ;' ai\d as they went back, she spoke to him carelessly about the new rage for garden-parties. 'Does she care or not V thought Lord Arleigh to himself. <Is she pleased or not? I cannot tell ; tnt> ways of women are inscrutable Yet a strange idea haunts me — an uncomfortable suspicion.'

To be Continued.