THE NOVELIST.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXIX, Issue 3139, 27 August 1892, Page 5 (Supplement)

THE NOVELIST.

FLORENCE DORMER'S TRIAL

Florence Dormer stood at the open window of her morning-room looking out on the sunlit lawn, over which the shadows of a group of trees were lengthening. By the time they reached the window at which she stood she i might hope to see another shadow, which was more than sunlight to her, being the forerunner of a substance, which, alas! mado according to its presence or absence the sunlight and shade of her life. " Alas!" is written advisedly, for the shadow that ought to Lave thrilled her heart should have been that ot the burly form her husband; whilst the the one that made her pulses thrill with joy was a much taller, slighter ombre, and moved more quickly towards her. It is the old story that is ever new to its hero and heroine. A woman dying of ennui, indifferent to her husbaud, weary of life, drifting into flirtation pour se desennuyer, and finding, when too late, that one can't play with fire without burning one's fingers.

She did not look much like a heroine of romance as sho stood there, this woman with a somewhat impassive face, with small, clear-cut features. Heroines are, as a rule, beautiful; or, if not, they are downright ugly, though their plainness is is always redeemed by a pair of startlingly lovely eyes. Now, Mrs Dormer was only moderately goodlooking, which the above-mentioned ladies are never allowed to be. Her eyes though certainly pretty, being light grey with very black lashes, were not abnormally large; her face was almost insignificant; her figure was slight, girlish, and pretty; and, if a woman is the age she looks, Mrs Dormer was only about 28. No one would have looked at her in a crowd; yet in a ball-room she could hold her own against far younger and prettier women.

She had been married for fifteen years, and, though she received an enormous amount of attention from t the sterner sex, not a breath of scandal had as yet attached self to her name. She was not very popular with women nevertheless, that great safeguard against being "talked, about. " They could not understand the fascination that she exercised over men; could not comprehend that it might be briefly summed up in the word " indifference." It was true that she had many attractions, but this was her most potent charm. She smiled as sweetly on young Braithwaite, struggling to live on his pay, as on Sir Marrnaduke Picton with his twenty thousand a year; and would leave both under the impression that she would just as soon have talked to old Miss Anstey, a spinster of some fifty winters, as to either of them.

This indifference had been the keynote of her life. Without being at all selfish, she had never taken much interest in her fellow-creatures, and her heart had remained untouced until the fatal day when young Kenneth Scudamore came to take possession of his estate. He was the Dormers' nearest neighbour, and he struck up an intimacy with them at once—with the lady, at least. James Dormer had nothing in common with a youth of Scudamore's poetic temperament.

But his wife was glad to welcome the bright young face at The Willows. She was very much alone when in the country, and found the days long, devoted to reading though she was. She possessed one great charm, her face was an index to her thoughts, and Kenneth saw that she was pleased with his society, and gave her any amount of it. Florence treated hitn at first like the boy he was, listened to all his aspirations for the future, scolded him for the meaningless flirtations in which he indulged with the girls of the neighbourhood, received all bis confidences—in fact, was to him an eldest sister. This was during the first summer they met; then came a hiatus in their friendship, when Kenneth spent the winter in India. Poor boy! he knew no l ', then what dimmed his eyes when thpy parted; not did Florence for a moment imagine that her aggravated fifs of ennui were caused by his absence. She would have laughed at the idea.

Nor even when they met again did either pause to question the reason of the wild joy that sprang up in his and her heart when their hands clasped. That second meeting had taken place a few months ago; it was a renewal of their intimacy, which began on the same oid footing. Gradually, however, a change came o'er the spirit of it. The eyes that had met so frankly,, and had so frankly smiled at each other across a room, were now averted in a crowd, only to speak more eloquently in the solitude a duex which grew more frequently daily. Kenneth's temper, naturally easy, became fitful; he would be moody and jealous if Florence bestowed smiles on other men ; then proportionately light-hearted when she turned to him. One day, after some slight misunderstanding had been made up between them Kenneth took Mrs Dormer in his arms and kissed her. Then, terrified at his rashness, he hurried away, leaving Florence transfixed with emotions, in which a strange, sweet joy held the most prominent part. He did not return to The Willows for two days, and then he came in company with a friend. He and Florence hardly glanced at each

other all the afternoon ; the third party did all the talking ; but as they were leaving, Kenneth said in a casual sort of way,

" Will you be at home to-morrow morning, Mrs. Dormer, if I come for a of tennis ?"

And Florence assented

If the young man had tried to avert a scolding he succeeded admirably. Mrs. Dormer met him just as usual, and not a word was said on the subject of that first kiss. A day or two later Kenneth ventured on a second, and did not turn and flee. This time Florence thought it necessary to reprove him, and then Kenneth flung prudence to the winds, and told her that he loved her madly, that he would leave the country if she wished, but that he could not keep silent any longer; for he could not remain near her and not give utterance to the feelings that overpowered him.

And Florence let him remain

It seemed after all, innocent enough thisflirtation or friendship— callit what you will. He was such a boy compared with her; nearly young enough to be her son, as she told herself, with a woman's defiance of arithmetic and logic. It had come about so gradually: first the daily visits, then even more frequent one?, a pressure of the hand—in fact, the regular chromatic scale of such affaire. Even now she could not bring herself to confess to her own heart that this youth was necessary to her happiness. She was a very proud woman, and it irritated her intensely to find how leaden the hours seemed until he appeared. And what a pang went through her if by any chance he did not come at all! Her husband was quite unsuspicious. He was really fond of his wife in a way ; but they had never anything in common, and James Dormer was one of those men who imagine that when he gives a penniless girl a luxurious homo, plenty of pocketmoney, and pays her milliner's bills without grumbling, he has fulfilled the whole duty of a husband. He would have been immensely astonished, worthy man, had anyone suggested that he was not a model in that way, and it would not have entered his head to think that a little more sympathy with, and interest in, her pursuits would have made his wife more careless as to the admiration that she received from other men. For admiration had become second nature with her, though, as has been said, she had never met one who had touched her heart till now. It might have been Kenneth's great personal beauty that had taken her captive, or his absolute devotion to herself; but be it what it might, her heart was his. As he came across the lawn towards her, she thought for the hundreth time that be was a king among men. Tall, well-made, with perfectly classic features, and the most magnificent eyes that ever stole a woman's heart away, Kenneth Scudamore would have been a formidable rival to most men. He certainly presented a remarkable contrast to old Dormer ; as old Dormer's wife was fully aware. " How late you are," said Florence almost reproachfully, as the youth took her hand in his.

" What if I had not come at all ?" asked Kenneth, looking keenly at her.

" Well, I suppose I should have survived the disappointment," she replied, trying to laugh ; " but I should have been surprised."

"Come and sit under the limetrees," said Kenneth, who had not relinquished her hand. She had stepped out through the window to greet him, and he drew her gently towards him. " Pray let go my hand, Kenneth," she murmured ; " one of the maids may be looking out of the window," He flung it away almost impatiently, and Mrs. Dormer looked at him in astonishment.

• " I can't think what has come to you to-day," she said, as they walked across the lawn to where two limetrees formed a natural arbour.

" I will tell you," said Kenneth, as he lifted a branch to enable Florence to creep under the shade.

This was a favourite retreat of theirs. They were as much alone there as in a desert, and many were the callers Florence had seen' sent away from her door while she sat quietly under her leafy screen. " You know what is the matter with me," he said—" you know that I cannot live without you. Every day I love you more and more; every day you seem farther from me. I mean to end this torture. I have

had a letter to-day asking me out to India again, and if you will noc come away with me, I will go out there and see if I can't get eaten up by a tiger or roll over a precipice— make an end of myself somehow or other—if you will not come away with me, Florry !" She looked at him with her eyes full of tears. The tender way in which he uttered her name, his pet name for her—for to her husband and her other intimates she was always Florence—was irresistible to her. She let him put his arms round her and draw her head on his shoulder. "Will you come with me, darling, murmured the caressing voice. There was silence for a few momenta only broken by the beatin» of two hearts and the murmurin" of the bees in the limetrees above. Then Florence drew herself away from the encircling arm. '< This is madness?" she said wildly. " Kenneth, I can't do what you say.

Think what you are asking mi! to do. To fling honour to the winds— disgrace myself—•bring dishonour on a man who has always behaved well to me—make myself an outcast, I, who have always held my head so high until now. Never, Kenneth !" " Then, after all, you do not love me," he said, sadly, though he still kept his arm round her. " You can let me leave you, Florry ? For to stay here is impossible." " Why impossible ?" she argued, choking back her tears. " Why could we not always be dear friends! You know I love you, Kenneth ; surely I am even now giving you a proof of that." And she tried to draw herself from him, but he held her as in a vice. "We can meet every day—we spend hours together—we are very happy, as we arc.

"I am not happy," he cried, impetuously. '' Can't you understand what I feel, Florry? I hate your husband ; lam jealous of him, I want you with me always. Oh, my darling, you say you love me ? Come away with me. He will get a divorce, and we can be married and be always happy together. I would worship the ground you trod on—l would be your devoted slave for life. You say you wish to travel. We would go round the world together. Life would be one long dream of happiness for us!" And he pressed kiss after kiss on her lips.

" And, loving mc like this you would leave me!" murmured Florence, when he released her at last from his embrace.

" Loving you like this, I must leave you" was the reply, '' unless you will do what I ask." " Kenneth, 1 could not live without you."

" Then come with me." Through that summer's afternoon he argued with her, he knelt to her imploring her to have pity on him. He was passionate and tender by turns, and at last he wrung from her a promise to think the matter over.

" You will tell me when I come tomorrow," he said, as he kissed her at parting: " I can bear suspense no longer ; I must end it one way or another. I shall not sleep all night, Florry, for thinking of you. When shall I come to-morrow ?"

" Come at the usual time," she replied ; " but I hope that you will be more rational than you have been to day. You ask me to think it over. Will you think well over what you would feel if yon were tied for life to a woman thirteen year= older than yourself, a woman who could never take her place again among her more respectable sisters! Kenneth, try to be reasonable," she added, in a low voice, as they emerged from the shade of the trees, and . shook hands in a conventional way for the edification of any prying eyes that might be looking out from the house. But, as she walked towards the door, she felt that it was of no use now to ask Kenneth to be reasonable. He had goc beyond that, and she knew that she must either lose him or forfeit her own self-respect. Could she bear to let him go ! If she could not endure to be without him for a day, what would it be when she knew that he had gone from her for ever, that that sweet, caressing voice of his would never more thrill her soul; that she would never again look into those wonderful eyes that went straight to her heart ? What would life be to her without him.

On the other hand, to put herself outside the pale of Society, to feel that any wellconducted kitchenmaid would "have the right for the future to despise her, would that be endurable ? And if Kenneth tired of her, and cared for somebody else ? Mrs Dormer was a woman of the world, and illusion had long left her. She might love this youth passionately, more passionately than could a young girl, perhaps, but she had not a young girl's trust. It was not Kenneth Scudamore whom she doubted, but human nature.

She dressed for dinner as if in a dream, quickly dismissed her maid, and remained at her window looking out on the summer twilight. How happy she had been on the whole at The Willows! What luxury surrounded her; how easy her life had been made for her! And she owed all this to a man whom she was now about to deceive—a man who, so far as she knew, had been true and f aithf ill to her, even though his manner had not been tender. She was about to bring dishonour on his name ; she to whom the word dishonour had been an abstract idea, a thing that she had never dreamed could be brought near to her. A sudden revulsion of feeling came over her —she would try to have more sympathy with her husband and his pursuits. Her sins until now had only been of omission; she would remedy even that failing.

She knew that he had brought one or two city men down to dinner; there would be no time for a tete-a-tete after that. But it wanted half-an-hour to dinner, and Mr. Dormer was in his dressing-room. She would go in and taJk with him. She rose impulsively, and knocked at the door.

James Dormer would have looked surprised at her entrance had his countenance been capable of expressing such an emotion. He was struggling with his tie before the glass. He wa3 most particular as to his dress, and spent as much time in adorning himself as a pretty girl might. " What is it, my dear ?" he asked.

This was not a promising beginning. Now that she had come in Florence had not a. word to say.

She murmured something ahout having come to see how he was getting on, which sounded absurd, enough to her even before James asked if it were late as he glanced in an alarmed manner at the watch on his dressing-table. "No, there is plenty of time," Florence went on: more steadily*; "but I had finished dressing, and we are, so seldom togetner alone that I thought I would come and have a talk with you." " Anything happened to either of the ponies ?" asked Dormer, suspiciously, " No, no; there is nothing wrong whatever,"laughed Florence, rather nervously.? " Is it so wonderful my coming in here, I wish we could be more together, James," she was beginning, when, suddenly : "Damn that laundress!" shouted her lord and master. '' She starches my ties to such an extent that I can never make a decent bow of them. I wish you would tell Gibson, Florence, to ask her to be more careful: this is the third I have spoiled!" "I will tell her at once," said Florence leaving the room, uncertain whether to laugh or to cry at the prosaic termination of the episode. But she did not run away with Kenneth after.all. Over the agony of their parting we will draw a veil; but Florence remained firm, and has kept her place amongst the highly respectable matrons of Society. She made no sign ; hers was a nature to suffer and be strong. There was not much talk when Kenneth left and became a wanderer over the face of the earth; and not even the most gossip-loving spinster dared cast an aspersion on Mrs. Dormer, who looked as impassive as usual, and frankly expressed her regret at losing " so charming a neighbour as Kenneth Scudamore." She is the best-dressed woman in the county, the most sought after still; and her quiet, low voice is as attractive as ever, her laugh more frequent. Unlv in the silent watches of the night, when she is haunted by a pair of expressive melancholy eyes, she hears a voice muttering, " Can you resist me, Florry ?" And, if she ever utters a prayer, it is that she may die before Kenneth Scudamore takes to himself a wife; may die before she can know that those eyes, that voice, are pleading to another.—Vanity Fair.