Novelist. Through Deep Waters.

Waikato Times, Volume XXX, Issue 2486, 16 June 1888, Page 1 (Supplement)

Novelist. Through Deep Waters.

Bv INA LEON CASSILIS,

Author of " lima Raphael, Actress," " The Youne Widower," "M. Cadelle's Carpet Bag," &c, Bcc.

CHAPTER X.—Continued.

So the clouds descended and the rain came upon the sunny Jife that till now had known no heavy sorrow. A weaker nature must hiive staggered—a weaker will must have yielded, but through all the agony of that sleepless night the thought of yielding never for one moment presented itself as a possibility before the mind of Agnes. She tortured herself with striving to conjecture the nature, of GrantTaulkner'd power over her mother ; she could not believe that his claim to such a power was a mere threat, for had it been so Florence would not have attempted to coerce her child ; nay she would have herself rejected, and rejected scornfully, the suit of Sir SeJwyn. If it had been her fortune alone that was sought, she would have yielded it gladly for her mother's sake, if it had been possible, but this she knew ■would not avert the storm. She recalled Sir Selwyn's words—"lf you had no fortune but the form and mind that God has given you, I should ask you to be my wife;" find that she felt shuddering that he spoke, at least a partial truth, In the dead of night when all others slept, she rose from the couch on which she had thrown herself, lighted a lamp, and went and stood before the tall cheval glass, surveying her own form and face. How "white was that young face now, how feverish a glitter in the large eyes that gazed back at her with a half wild " hunted " look. She lifted the rich brown tresses that fell in such profusion over her shoulders, no vain thoughts in her heart, poor child, they were bitter sorrowful thoughts that had led her to that only too faithful witness to her great beauty. " They all say I am beautiful," she said to herself f "Oh ! I wish I had not been ! Is that wish right? Pere Michel says that all gifts of God are a blessing—yet I have heard people call beauty a curse ; do I really wish it had not been given to me \lf I had not got it—if something could take it away "

She turned from her own reflection quickly, for the sudden colour that rushed over her pale features made her shrink more than the thought (if so vague a vision could be called thought) that brought it there—the mental vision of one who loved beauty, of one who—; she crouched down on the floor, covering her face ; there were no words in her mind, no shape or form that could be named or grappled with in thought, or complex analysis—that she instinctively—not deliberately, for a deliberate mental effort would have startled her into self-analysis —put from her ; but why had she coloured 1 The question she could not avoid, but she did not try to answer it; the heavy grief that had come upon her, straining every faculty and numbing all powers of reasoning and reflection, save only the one desperate unshaken resolve to remain firm, come what might re-asserted its sway, she rose and walked up and down, with hands now clasped together, now stretched out, as if to seek aid that ■would not come, so widely restless, in such great trouble of soul, that she paused sometimes and forced herself to follow a distinct line of thought to convince herself that her brain was clear. Was it always clear ? what had she been dreaming of five minutes ago 1 she was broad awake, she knew—for she was not even laying down, but walking about or standing; it was " Obcron " again—ah ! that island and the blue sea stretches far away. Sir Huon was singing the Prayer— she stopped listening, with her face upraised. The song came swelling through the silence—Don Cola's voice, she heard him sing often, but not the prayer in " Oberon;" it must have been the memory of the (lixau) lust night cowjug back to

her, for she had got it into her head that he was Sir Huon. How foolish ! she did not smile, though she smiled that night at the opera, why not now ? She did not weep, tears seemed dried up ; they might have received her, but they would not flow. Prayer!—the Prayer in " Oberon " again; she stole to the oratory and knelt down before the crucifix, dimly outlined through the gloom ; she had prayed hours ago, yet that help seemed denied her now, the oratory was too calm and still; heart and soul were on fire, and the very calm which another time would soothe, now only oppressed her.

The light broke in the east at last; she watched it growing, spreading, assuming the rosy tingeshed by the rising sun, bringing the objects in the room into stronger relief every ten minutes ; she even watched with a curious interest the mirror befor -which she had stood— how long .ago was it? some hours, at any rate ; now the outline of the frame distinctly visible, next the embossed work that adorned it and the fretted work on the candelabra beside it; how ghostly the great shining face looked in the soft, light! What was she thinking of? Nothing just now; she was weary of thinking, but it was idle to notice the glowing light; it was daylight now—what would to-day bring? And back came all the phantoms of the night crowding, hustling, She could not repulse them ; she did not make the effort; while they filled her mind, they paused to count the strokes of a neighbouring church clock striking the hour, and the bell made her think of the Mass bell at home in Italy, and from Italy her mind travelled back to the chapel in Farm-street, and Lisetta'f foolish words spoken that Friday when she had been to Pere Michael came into her head. With a convulsive shiver .she sprang to her feet, and clasped her hands together, looking upwards—oh! that dreadful presentiment, that shadow of evil, how quickly it had come upon her!

" Madonna win, Mother of f.Sorrows—help me ! I will die for her— a thousand deaths —but I cannot do this !"

The oratory door stood open, the curtain was drawn aside; within the shelter was another world, peopled with forms that belonged to another life.

She stole in once more and foil upon her face before the Sacred Image, voiceless, rose from that form no prayer, no cry for help, but in one upward movement of worship and love, one entire surrender in the helplessness of human sorrow to the helpfulness of divine mercy, the mercy that cannot fail, for it endureth for ever.

Saturday came and went, and Lady cle Clifford had said nothing to her daughter, nor did Agnes ask her any questions. She passed the greater part of the morning in her own boudoir, arranging in an album the pictures Cambaceres had given her, and in the afternoon she went out with a friend, and Florence almost ventured to hope that she might become reconciled to the idea of a marriage with Sir Selwyn; she had appeared so cheerful when her friend called for her, and it seemed hardly possible that so young a girl could act so well. But when in the evening Agnes came home and entered her mother's presence the hope fled, for the girl's face looked wan and weary, and there was that restless, anxious look in the eyes which tell too surely of a weight on the mind. Florence dreaded the ordeal through which she must pass, and put it off as long as possible. Monday was a day for the Spanish painter's studio, perhaps the last sitting. On Tuesday she would speak to Agnes. Coming out from Mass on Sunday they met Yon Elsinger, and Lady de Clifford persuaded him to return to luncheon with them. On the way to Upper Grosvenor-street, Elsiuger designedly spoke of Cola Maria, watching Agnes while he did so; but she did not satisfy his scrutiny. She asked him, half smiling, where Don Cola was that he had made no appearance that morning, and when Elsinger replied that his friend was gone to the Italian Church at Hatton Wall, she said, laughing, that she supposed Cambaceres could not understand enough English to profit by the sermon at Farm-street, so when he feft to be disposed to be preached at he went to the Italian Church. Baffled here, Elsinger determined to try his feet on other ground. Here the motive of concealment would be less strong, and a passing look might betray much. At luncheon he alkic.ed to GrantFaulkner, carelessly mentioning that he had met him the clay before, and repeating some on dlt of the beau monde that the latter had communicated to him. Lady de Clifford answered him instantly, almost hastily, he thought, but Agnes said nothing, and one glance from the German's blue eyes showed him a compressed lip and a slight change of colour ('more observable now that she looked so very white, and Elsinger had noticed that), and he felt convinced that something had already passed. But what attitude had Agnes assumed towards Grant-Faulkner ; surely not one of submission , ? A few moments enlightened him more on the subject, for which he cogitated, tho door was opened, and the servant aniiounced Sir Selwyn

Grant-Faulkner. Florence rose at once with a conventional cordial smile, and as Elsinger rose too he looked at Agnes, and their eyes met; and her look told him that his was read, and she would therefore be on her guard ; the German felt vexed. Why had he not more of Don Cola's southern subtilty ? Yes, he could not but note how the girl received Sir Selwyn ; coldly enough ; she gave him her hand ; but neither smiled, nor looked up in his face, and this though she knew that a comparative stranger was present, who she knew had watched her, and probably guessed for what reason. Sir Selwyn did not seem much pleased at the reception he met with. Elsinger could see this much ; and everyone was glad when luncheon was over, and they were all acting. x\gnes addressed herself almost entirely to Elsinger, and when Sir Selwyn spoke to her she answered him as shortly as courtesy would allow, without making any dislike to him apparent in tho presence of a guest. It was, however, sufficiently evident to Elsinger (and this it was equally evident Agnes did not care to conceal from him) that the young heiress of CliffordArdeley was not very likely to become the wife of Grant-Faulkner, and the German did not think her one to be easily influenced against her will. That some influence would be brought to bear upou her he could not doubt, for Florence de Clifford certainly encouraged the suit of Sir Selwyn, from what motive it was impossible to conceive. Would Agnes be proof against such influence ? This remained to be proved. Elsinger, for his part, was inclined to place great reliance in Agnes de Clifford, and as he walked clown Grosvenor-street, he said inwardly—

" Whether she love Cola or not, I cannot tell. IE she do, her woman's wit can baffle me; if she do not, her very innocence will baffle me; but I cannot believe the last; I cannot understand any one being with Cola and not loving him, whether they will or no. But then she is so young; she may not know herself; at any rate she will not in any that villian as lie is, or my name is not Von Elsinger. Does he fear holy water, I wonder ?"

That evening the German painter went down to Great Queen-street, as was his wont, passed straight upstairs smis cercinonin. He found Carnbaceres in the library, wriling, but the Spaniard laid down his pen directly and held out his hand. " Well, Albrecht; have you come from Benediction like a good Catholic? " I cannot lay claim to so much piety," returned the German, " though lam willing to give you credit for it. Do I interrupt you 1" " No; that would be a difficult task for you." Elsinger sate down by the table. " I have been to-day in TJpper-Grosvnor-street. I met the Cliffords after mass, and they persuaded me to go back with them to luncheon. Cola, that child, Agnes, is beginning early to learn what trouble is." " What do you mean, Albrecht, Grant- Faulkner— l" "Aye, Grant-Faulkner. Either he has spoken to her, or her mother has; she evidently understands that he is a suitor, and Lady de Cliflord as evidently (so it appears to me) supports him. But Agnes's man ner to him was totally unlike what it used to be. She saw me look at her once, and read me, I know ; and therefore her demeanour was the more significant, because she was on her guard, and showed only just so much aversion to GrantFaulkner as she chose to show in my presence." " How did she treat him 1" asked the "West Indian quietly.

" Coldly ; shrinking from him, I thought, sometimes ; never speaking to him unless he spoke to her; and he did notlike it —I saw that, for man of tho world as he is, he is no Jesuit. Agnes is changed too in the last few says ; she looked so deadly pale today, and there is an expression in her eyes difficult to analyse, but that strikes me as unusual. I saw her on the whole acting a part, but once or twice I got a glance at her face when it was in repose, and there was that abstracted searching look that always tells of a mind preoccupied—wearing a mantle.

Cambacercs rose abruptly, aud walked to the other end of the room ; then came bauk again and sat down, still without a word, and Elsinger dici not attempt to speak first; he saw that there was a fierce struggle for self-control in the Spaniard's heart, and he looked on in the very silence o£ suspense, as we watch a fight for life when our help would be either fruitless or perilous.

" Albrecht," said Cambaceres, at length, " you have unnerved me; I thought 1 could have trusted myself better, and so I could if there had been no sufFering save mine only; but now I must see her tomorrow—she is to come to me. I cannot do it, not yet, I must put her off."

His lips wero actually quivering as he spoke, and he lifted his hand to cover them. Elsiuger stifled the useless sigh, and said gently —■

" Will a few days more make any clilleronee, Cola?"

"Aye; 1 must meet her then, and throe clays.is not a few hours ; but to-morrow —as soon, 1 dare not, Albrecht, a look a tone might betray me to her mother, if not to her."

" You think her still indifferent, then?" Cambaceres started, and looked keenly in the German's face — " Elsinger ! what do you moan ?" "No more, Cola, then they express. I will speak frankly. I did try to-day to see if I could discover any change in her when she spoke of you, but I could perceive none. I have not, it is tcue, your penetration ; but she talked about you with such perfect ease, that she is either really indifferent, or believes herself so, or is a better actress than I can think so young a girl could be." "I trust in God it is thu first," said the West Indian, steadily.

" Cola! can you say that from your heart? Ah! you shame me, for in your place I could not—l could not think calmly of a love which I might have won given, perhaps—" "No, no, not that!" interrupted the other, passionately, and then pausing, he added with one of those abrupt changes of manner which often startled the more phelgmatic Teuton, " Yet why not? Is not to love truly to forget self utterly 1 If only she were happy, I could bless God that she never endured one pang of sorrow—sorrow that I gave her, but could not take from her."

"Cola," said Elsinger, rising, "is your love beyond me, or am I looking through my own eyes—the eyes of a friend and not yours 1 You will say I am prejudiced, let others judge of that, but to know you, to my thinking, is to love you. I cannot believe two such natures as yours and that girl's can meet and either can' pass by on the other side.' More than this, I cannot echo your wish that such love as yours should be wasted, I cannot believe that it will be."

" Hush ! Albrecht—wasted ! has not an American poet said that affection never was lost ? I met with the lines only the ojther day— ' Talk not of wasted affection, affection

never was wasted ; It" it enrich not tho heart oE another, its

wilting returning Back to their spring* like the rain, will till them full of refreshment.' " "Do you endorse the sentiment of those lines, Cola 1"

" No," said the Spaniard, with an involuntary sigh " or if it be truth of the north, a southern cannot love like that."

" No, for his love be not as Byron says, I think untruly even of a woman, his whole existence, it is at least the very spring of the inner life, from which flows a, broad river, and he should rather read the simile as damming the river and turning it back to spread desolation, than as the ' gentle rain.' "

The Spaniard said no more ; like a sudden glimpse of the lurid vista opened through the thunder clouds by the lightning rose in one flash before his sight the dreaded future —the years of anguish, of trial, of struggle, of the blank misery of the prisoner with the shackled feet and hands, g.izing on a form that could never be more than a vision, and to look on that vision might one day bocome sin ! And Elsinger quietly took his leave, judging that there arc times when even a friend's presence is a burden difficult to bear. Oh, mournful drama of this life, that when we look back on it from a death-bed seems so little ! if only wo could mo.-i.suro by eternity all that links us with eternity, we could not tread down with ruthless foot the (lowers that God lias planted on the earth, that they may lift their faces to the sun.

CHAPTER XL "A letter, Signorina,"said Lisette, entering the breakfabt-room on the Monday morning, " the Signor Don Cola's servant has just brought it ; he is waiting for on answer." Florence took it, glancing at Agnes. " A letter," she said, as the mEtid retired, "to put us off, I suppose. Ah," she added, running her eyes over it, "he wants to know if we can make the sitting Thursday, or any other day later ; can we V " Yes, certainly," said Agnes, does he say why it cannot be today V " No," returned Florence, throwing the note over to her daughter ; " there it is, a beautiful hand isn't it ?" Agnes read the lines before her, while Florence took a writing-desk and scribbled an answer. Only a few simple words there were in that everyday letter, with its flowery Italian phraseology, its thousand apologies, and expressed hope that the signora and the Signorina Agnes could make the sitting Thursday, or any day after Thursday ; he would be entirely at their service any dime they would do him the honour to mention ;he believed oue sitting more would be sufficient. One more only! Agnes' heart sank within her; she looked at her own name, and dreamily pictured his hand rapidly tracing the letters that formed it, and then she looked at his name at the end, and finally laid the letter down, as if it were an ordinary one, as intrinsically it was. Lady de Florence's reply was written and given to the servant, and then she rose, stood for a moment looking thoughtfully out before her, glancing nervously at Agnes, and turned to the door, where she paused, and looking back said hesitatingly—

"Have you any engagement today, Agues ?' " Not this morning," the girl replied, without looking up, she knew by her mother's constrained tone what would follow.

" Will you," added Lady de

Clifford, " come to my boudoir in another hour ?"

" Yes, madrc." Florence left the room, and Agnes took up Cambaceres' letter and put it in her dress. Perhaps at another time the act might have compelled her to think, to account to herself for it far differently to the account exacted now—for now when the question came the answer was ready and natural. She had always liked him, admired him, reverenced his genius and his fame, and the sense of rest and protection which she had first felt keenly in his presence when first trouble had grown upon her so rapidly, that even a few lines written by his hand was something to cherish and cling to, and so the truth that lay at the foot of that feeling of trust and of rest was easily buried under a covering that a small thing—an ungarded look or word—would tear to ribbons.

An hour—one hour of respite, and yet any certainty was better than suspense. She went to her own room and tried to think calmly in the tumult of feelings that were rushing wildly through her heart. Her mind turned naturally to Pere Michel, but he could only tell her to do what she had resolved to without his help or advice. There was but one right path, it lay straight before her, and she could not turn either to the right side or to the left, and she shrank from speaking to him unnecessarily, for his question would be, why did Florence endeavour to press on her child a marriage which was hateful to her ? and to that question what could Agnes answer? She could not give the priest room to suspect anything derogatory to her mother's character ; she had indeed no right to impart so much to him if it could possibly be avoided. Florence had reckoned safely upon her daughter's reticence cutting her off from the only source to which she could turn for help; she had not sufficiently reckoned upon that daughter standing firm in a strength gained from no human aid, and in the invincible repugnance of her own heart.

There was auother power in that heart, of which Florence had no knowledge, of which Agnes had as yet no knowledge, but which singlehanded had been strong enough to beat down all the hosts that came against it; a love that had grown into her life, that had strengthened day by day and hour by hour through her very ignorance of its presence, and that ignorance could not last, that love could not long fight the battle in disguise. It is impossible for a strong nature, even in early youth, to remain for more than a short time in ignorance of the master passion of its life, and self-knowledge must come quick when the very stronghold is attacked, and the heart is brought face to face with a foeman who bids it trample on its idol, and cast aside, its worship as a sin and a shame. What with tenfold force would not the heart struggle when, in this full knowledge, it contended desperately for the right to worship without sin, when it fought in the awful dread of after temptation, a dread the more instinct, and therefore exerting the greater sway, because that heart had been taught to distrust itself.

It was in vain to try and be calm —one prayer for help and strength, one soft spoken now to be firm and true, and Agnes wont to her mother's boudoir. She stopped on the threshold, covering her eyes. "It cannot be that," she said, inwardly. " Madonna Mia ! it cannot be that—and if it were—" one moment's hesitation, her hand on the door; then the firm answer came. " No, not even for that—so help me God 1"

She entered almost noiselessly, her light step inaudible on the velvet cai-pet, but Florence, who sat by a table, leaning her head on her hand, heard the soft rustle of silk, and lifted her face, gazing at Agnes as she advanced without speaking, gazing at her still when she stood by the table, her small hands clasped tightly together, her eyes drooping, vcik-d by their long lashes, her face deadly white, her lips pale, but firmly compressed, in tho white attitude of the slender form that, mixture of a shrinking from the ordeal, linked with a determination to resist at every step, that augured ill for any likelihood of success. But was not it a sacrifice that would be asked of her, and did natures like her's fear the thought of sacrifice, did they not the rather glory in it? "Agnes," said Lady de Clifford, very gently, " you know, I think, why I sent for you V "Yes, I know why you sent for me." She did not look up as she spoke ; Florence went on— " Ever since you were a little child, Agnes, have I ever crossed you wittingly in anything ! I will admit that you never gave me cause; but nevertheless, I might have been a very different mother to you —have I ever given you reason to doubt my love, to believe that I could willfully and willingly inflict pain upon you, or deceive you 1" Again without moving or lifting her eyes, Agnes answered—• " No; you have been kind and indulgent; I have not deserved it, i know."

" 1 do not say that, Agues. You have been all to me that a daughter should be more and more. It seems almost superfluous to appeal to your love for me, to the deference you owo my dearest wishes (I will not

say the obedience you owe to me) —. you know and feel all this. You have thought over all this, you will think over it again. To one like you no words of mine could give additional weight to the considerations I have urged. I will urge them no more. I will ask you frankly and simply why you cannot even suffer Grant-Faulkner as a suitor V

"Mother," said Agnes, before whom her mother's speech had fallen as profitless as the dead leave? of autumn —" I have said it to him and I repeat it to you —I do not love him, I never did love him, not even as a friend, though I have tried to respect him for your sake, and failed ; I never shall love him, and more than that—" " More than that?" " His faitli and mine are not the same. lam a Catholic, and he—l do not believe he has any religion. Marriage with him would be doubly sacrilegious." " Greater sacrilege tlian disobedience ? " "It -would bo disobedience," replied Agnes. "I cannot swear to love and honour the man whom I have called deliberately a dishonoured gentleman and a godless scoffer ; I cannot marry a man who is not a Catholic." " Agnes, such marriages are made every day. It is impossible in a world of facts to live on theories. Such bigotry is fit for tho cloister, but not for tho world ; you would yourself cast it aside where you loved." " Then I should sin most heavily," said Agnes, firmly ; '•' there is no rule of right or wrong for the cloister that is not equally binding upon all. Wrong cannot be right because it is done every day. I know it is, but I will not do it—l dare not, I cannot—" " Hush! Agnes, you speak rashly." She knelt and turned at her mother's feet —

''Mother, spare me this trial; there is nothing, no nothing, that can make mo obey you in this! For your sake I would give my life gladly —I would give it a hundred times if that wore possible; but I cannot fly in the face of God, and iu obeying , you disobey Him. 1, Rho bowed her burning forehead on her mother's knee, the long soft hair swept over her mother's robe ; how could that mother still repeat

—" Break thy heart and give thy young lifo to a man who will wreck it; cast aside a useless trammel the unalterable laws of thy Creator ; forget the account that must ono day bo given; sacrifice all—love, peaco, hopo, this world, perchance Eternity, to save me from the vengeance of my own sin." Before the eyes of that woman stood forth ono Phantom filling the whole of space, the Phantom of the world ; the world with its thousand tongues, the world with its deadly sneers, the world with its eyes of cruel remorseless condemnation, the world with its eyes of scorn and its grasp oE iron, with its prison cell and its felon's dock for the offender against its stern laws. In the space that lay between that mighty all powerful World and its victim, this young, slender child stood; her hand could arrest its advancing steps and turn it back in the pathway; and that hand she would not lift ; she feared the phantom of a world bej'oud the grave, she feared the future that lay before her in the present lifo, a future of sorrow it might be, but not of shame and disgrace. Florence sprang to her feet, shaking off the clinging touch, recoiling from the very sight of that pathetic beauty which could not have appealed in vain to a heart of steel.

"Agnes," she said, "rise up, listen to me; it is I who should kneel to you, it is I who should plead to you, for my more than life is in your hands. Life! if that were call I would yield it gladly— nay, these hands of mine will take it sooner than face the alternative left to me if you still refuse to become Grant-Faulkner's wife; for disgrace, the scorn and contempt of all who have been friends, nay, more oven than this, the fate of a criminal—all this I cannot face. Agues, can you believe that my hoart is not broken for you ? I ask you to save me, and you will not ?'"

Agnes had risen up, and stood while her mother spoke, as though, some shape or dream of inexpressible horror were before her—something which, while she was forced to gaze upon it, yet glazed her very sight and curdled the blood in her veins. Scorn, disgrace, a criminal's fate; these two last words had driven out the thought which had arrested her steps on the threshold of the room, only to raise a sceptre whose very name she dared not utter even in her mind. Slio tried to speak once, twice, and failed, the words would not come; a third time, with a convulsive effort, she essayed to speak, but the voice was almost a whisper — "Mother—tell me—l cannot understand it—"

Florence laid her haud on the girl's wrist; the touch was cold as ice, but Agues did not shrink from it.

" Agnes, listen. I am in that man's power. Years ago driven to madness by a cruel wrong — J vowed vengeance on the mau who had indirectly dono me the wrong, not that I sinned as you, perhaps, have thought- -not that, so help heaven, I am .speaking truth ! I stooped to crime, I, .Florence Hyde : not with my own hands; no—lie—Selwyn Grant-Faulkner was my accomplice : he (as I knew not then, but knew

later) kept all proofs in his own hand ; and now for one thing only will he forego revenge. I was betrothed to him, and I deserted him —for one thing only will he spare me. If that be denied, his own lips have told me that he will use the power he holds, though he himself should be involved in the ruin that crushes me. Agnes, I dare not, I may not tell you more than this ; is not that enough ? is it not enough that I must ask my own child to give her life for mine, that I must see my own child recoil from me 1 "

She loosed the clasp as Agnes cowered down with a smothered cry at her feet.

" Oh, God ! oh, my God ! " (To be continued.)