The Lordship of Love.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 661, 10 February 1909, Page 2

The Lordship of Love.

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

By Florence Hope, Author of "The Trials of Madge, Moberley," "In the Clutch of Nemesis," "A Merciless Woman," &c, &c.

(COPYRIGHT.)

"The lordship of Love is good, in that it wuhdraweth the indoination of his liege-man from all vile things. . . . The lordship of Live is not good, because the more fidelity his liegeman beareth to him, so much the heavier and more grievous trials he must endure." —From Vita Nuova. SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS I and ll.—The story opens in the home of Dr. Bellew and his wife. The subject under discussion is lna Chisholme, the doctor's niece, a girl of great beauty, who is nearing the completion of her education in a convent in Paris. The doctoi insists upon lna coming to share their home. Mrs. Bellew says she must get her married as soon as possible, for Flora will have to come out next year. She seeks her daughter, and finds Flora practising her dancing. The girl advises her to consult Cyril Carlyon. Carlyon comes to luncheon. He tells Mrs. Bellew of a certain friend of his who has made his pile in the Colonies, and who has come home and intends to marry and settle down. Perhaps he would be willing to take the convent girl off her hands. On the first night of the opera season Hugh Hatheriey, lately arrived from the Colonies, and Cyril Carlyon are at the theatre, and it is there that Hatheriey first sees lna Chisholme. He falls in love with her. Carlyon tries to obtain an introduction for him, but fails.

CHAPTEK ll.—Continued "I know now who she is. I had not noticed the lady with her who is leaning forward now. That is a Mrs. Bellew, and the girl is—at least I imagine —her niece by marriage. Scott I I didn't know the little convent girl would turn out such a beauty as this. You are right, Hatherley; she is something remarkable. Ah! there's the doctor himself!" An elderly man just than entered the box, and leaning over the girl spoke to her.

Her face brightened and lost the rapt expression that the influence of Lohengrin had left upon it, and she turned eagerly towards him. "Is that the uncle?" inquired Hatherley. "Yes, he's a well kown specialist in Harlcy-street—a bit of a swell in his way; charges big fees to society women, who flock to his consulting room to be'cured of their faded ailments and overwrought nerves. His wife is an ambitious woman eager to push her way to the front, hard as nails and clever; hardly the companion for a convent girl, I should imagine. Ina Chisholme—that the name of the debutante—has just left school, a convent near Paris, I think, and is making her debut under the auspices of her aunt, who is anxious to get her off her hands as soon as possible, so, you see, there's a chance f ->r you, Hatherley." "Which I wouldn't take, unless I could win the girl's heart," muttered the other.

The last notes of the opera had scarcely died away before the two men were pushing their way out in order to meet the Bellews and their protegee in the vestibule before leaving the theatre. Carlyon felt curious, too, to see the beauty closer, though he thought she might be disappointing, for he had no taste for unfledged damsels. He preferred older women who were attractive to talk to —and flirt with. They stood at the foot of the staircase watching the throng of ladies with their escorts descending from the boxes and dress circle. But at the very moment the Bellews came by a lady with her daughter had tapped Carlyon on the shoulder and engaged him in conversation.

Hatherley could do nothing, but his eyes were rivetted on the girl's face as her skirts brushed past him. It must have been th« strong magnetism of his gaze that comDelled her to raise her

to go. Would it have the same power to un lock a woman's heart?

eyes swiftly and suddenly to his for the Hash of a brief second. The next they were lowered and the curtain of hei long lashes swept her cheeks. then in the shadowy blackness of the brougham Hatheriey saw her drive away. He shook himself as it were, as if to pull himself together, to awake from a passing dream, and heard Carlyon's voice in his ear.

"So sorry, ©ld chap, but Lady Glyn got hold of me, just at the wrong moment, too; they've gone, I suppose?" "Yes, she's gone." "Sorry! Let's see, was it supper at 'The Savoy' or 'The Carlton' we arranged for?"

But it was neither the one nor the other for Hatheriey. He declared he had no appetite for supper, nor was he in the mood for smart restaurants. "I'm going back to my rooms," he announced, "and bed."

"Home and bed now—at half-past eleven! My dear Hatheriey, the night has only just begun. We'll go to 'The Savoy,' where we shall probably meet Ella D'Arcy, the little dancing girl you admired the other night. I'll introduce you—oh, come along!" urg e'd Carlyon, who could not afford such luxuries as Savoy suppers without a friend to pay. But Hatheriey was obdurate, and nothing that Cyril could say would tempt him, so with a short good-night the two men parted, Carlyon in search of a more congenial companion, and Hatheriey to walk along the moonlit streets towards his chambers in St. James's.

He had barely reached his door when he altered his mind.

The night was so fine, the moonlight transforming everything into silvery beauty, it tempted him to linger, and crossing under the archway of St. James's Palace, he skirted the park, making his way to the Embankment.

The river was like a sheet of rippling silver, the blackness under the arches in vivid contrast, and the weird loveliness of the scene appealed to Hugh Hatherley in his mood of romance and sentiment that had seized him, for he was still thinking of the girl whose face had made so strong an impression on him. It was her eyes now that haunted his vision, those eyes that had met his own in that one brief flash.

His heart beat faster at the remembrance, and leaning over the low river wall, he gave himself up to the luxury of meditating upon the future with its many possibilities. Love, a home. a haven of rest after what had been a hard life, though crowned early with success. He had endured a lonely loveless childhood, having lost both parents when a mere infant, and been brought up by a stern guardian who never made the least attempt to understand his charge or show him sympathy.

At. an early age he was sent to a public school, "where he had managed to hold his own through sheer pluck and indomitable will, the pluck that had never deserted him.

At eighteen he had declared his intention of going out to the colonies. a colonial life tempting him beyond everything else, and finding that he was quite determined, his guardian had felt compelled to let him go, for he wanted to make his "pile,''' he said, as others had done, to work and not to drift.

The very hardships he was told he would have to endure appealed to the ad; he was resolved to make his own ifc, to master it. and nothing would keep him back. So he had gone, and for smeen years had struggled,' and suffered many a hardship, many a throw back, but at last had conquered and now at the age of thirtv-four had made a considerable fortune and returned to civilisation, finding that money was power, for the golden kev seemed able to turn all locks and give an entry wherever he might choose

CHAPTER lII.—INA. The girl was bewildered by the strangeness of her new life, it was crowded with new sensations, new ideas, new ways of living, and was like a leap into another world. Sometimes she thought she must be dreaming, and would wake up to find herself back in the old world garden of the convent, behind those high moss-grown walls, with the little tinkling note of the chapel bell in her ears or the sweet-toned chanting of the sisters as they filed in to vespers.

She had longed to leave the place where she had lived her life, longed 'or a glimpse of the world outside, and craved most of all for a break in the grey monotony of her existence, hut now it had come she was startled, almost frightened, and had vague longings for the quiet and rest of the cloister, the safety of that harbour of refuge from the temptations of the world.

Her uncle was kindness itself to her, and her heart went out to him at once when, on landing at Dover, he had given her an affectionate welcome and taken her under his wing.

But her aunt —who at first she thought must be her cousin, so youthful did she appear, until she noticed the wrinkles and lines beneath the pearl powder and rogue that covered her cheeks; her aunt was cold, stiff, unbending towards her, and the poor girl felt repulsed and sorrowful, for she was warm-hearted and affectionate, and longed for love and tenderness.

Then there was Flora, a girl a couple of years younger than herself, who was incomprehensible, who talked of things that lna Chisholme knew nothing about, who danced like a circus girl, and sang in a cracked voice to the accompaniment of the banjo, songs that seemed to the convent-bred maiden, vulgar and in bad taste. So in the home at Harley Street her surroundings were not congenial, for of her uncle lna saw but little; he was a hard-wroking man absorbed in his profession and seldom seen by his family save at luncheon and dinner. For the first week after her arrival she spent the days fitting on and trying clothes, for Mrs. Bellew declared she wasn't fit to be seen in her plainlyde school dresses and simple hats, and forthwith took her off to milliners ;md dressmakers, the doctor having iiovidcd a handsome cheque for the cquired rig-out, of which his wife took <ood care to keep a share herself. After the first week Mrs. Bellew discovered that lna might be a help instead of a hindrance, for she had many accomplishments and capabilities, and these should certainly be made use of. So Flora's music mistress received her conge, and lna took the post of teacher in her place. It was also discovered that she was so brilliant a musician, that she would be a real acquisition at Mrs. Bellew's parties. She could dance, too, graceful dances with no contortions or high kicks, but that were the poetry of motion, and indeed the girl had not passed ten years of her life at a convent school for nothing.

The night at the opera had been a treat that Dr. Bellew had provided; he was passionately fond of music, and had been delighted to find that his niece appreciated the pleasure so thoroughly.

"It was wonderful! wonderful! wonderful!" she exclaimed enthusiastically. "And, oh! lam so grateful to you, uncle," she cried, pressing his hand in the brougham. "For heaven's sake don't gush! Nobody does, and it is bad form nowadays !" said Mrs. Bellew irritably. And Ina sank back repulsed and silent. "By the way, did you see Cyril Carlyon in the stalls?" continued her aunt, addressing the doctor. "The man with him was, I expect, Hatherley, the Australian millionaire. We must get Cyril to introduce him." "Another lion for your parties !" replied her husband. "A lion who will be very much run after for his money-bags," retorted his wife. "It is a pity Flora isn't old enough to be out; she misses this chance," she added. "You forget that the millionaire's tastes have to be consulted, as you say he will be sought after, and probably able to pick and choose, it's not likely his choice would fall upon a girl like Flora!" said the doctor, with a glance across the carriage at his beautiful niece.

"Girls change so. In a year's time Flora may turn out to be quite seductive !" answered his wife. "She's modern and amusing:, and has her wits about her." The doctor made no reply. In a measure he knew he was to blame for the manner in which his only child had been brought up. It had been a great disappointment to him not to have a son, and oddly enough, he could not feel the affection for his little crirl tW most fathers feel. The consequence was that he had ignored the child, leaving her bringing up entirely to his wife, who left her to governesses and servants.

On reaching the house, Ina went at once to her room after saying goodnight, refusing the refreshment of wine and sandwiches that the docter pressed upon her. She wanted to think over the pleasure of the evening, and was still haunted by the glorious music of the opejea. She had barely closed her door and was turning up the light when she gave a little cry of alarm, for the door of the cupboard that served her as a wardrobe, was slowly pushed open, a figure wrapped in a hooded cloak peering cautiously out. "Mother isn't about, is she?" Flora's voice and commonplace question re-assurred her, and she exclaimed

in wonder at the girl who was supposed to be in bed by ten o'clock.

"You are in earlier than I expected. I was so frightened, and dashed into your room to escape meeting the mater on the stairs. Thanks so much for the loan of your cloak, it's as good as a domino!"

She slipped out of the black folds as she spoke, letting the enshrouding mantle fall in a heap on the floor. "But what did you want it for? Where have you been? What have you been doing ?" demanded Ina, bewildered by the apparition. "Ah, wouldn't you like to know? but that is my secret. You won't tell of me, but no I am sure you won't, you are not a sneak, good night and plea'•ant dreams." The girl blew a kiss iom her scarlet lips and vanished. Ina picked up the black hooded cloak i lay it in its place and as she did so .Kunething fell from an inside loose pecket, a bit of crumpled paper. At first the girl thought it was a relic of her convent days, a school programme of a concert entertainment, and taking it to the chest of drawers btneath the gas she smoothed it out and read the heading.

In big red letters was the name of a well-known music hall, then followed the programme for that evening's entertainment. What did it mean ?

Surely—no surely Flora had not stolen out to such a place whilst they were away, oh, it could not be ! And her cloak, the convent wrap that all the girls wore in their promenades round the walled-in garden, she had put it on to conceal her identity. Ina gave a little shiver.

Flora's escapades did not amuse her, and the deception was wrong—wicked, besides making her an unwilling accomplice. It was true she would not tell her aunt, but on the other hand she felt the burden; of a secret that was forced upon her, and resolved to speak to Flora very strongly about it in the morning. A music-hall!

The name of such a place suggested impropriety if not wickedness to Ina Chisholme in her ignorance of the world, and she shrank from the thought of her cousin having entered a place where she believed no lady would go. She was so troubled that there was no sleep for her, and after she had been lying in bed tossing and turning from side to side craving the rest that would not come, she rose and wrapping a dressing-gown round her opened the narrow window of her attic room to welcome the dawn.

She waited till the sky was flooded with tiny clouds of rose, a feathered softness against the pale grey blue. Then closing the window she stole back to bed ; and as the sun rose she slept. The next morning she had no opportunity of speaking to Flora, who did not appear at breakfast, sending word down that „§he had a headache and would have a cup of tea in her own room, and as ina was about to seek her after the meal was over, her aunt called her into the morning room to write some invitations for an "At Home" she was giving- the following week.

How alone she was in this world oi teeming life, how strangely apart she felt, how utterly lonely 1 If her brother had but lived what a difference it would have made to her. She recalled ihe anguish of their parting when he had come to the convent to say goodbye before going to America to a situation in business that their uncle had used his influence to get for him. She had never seen him again. He had written for some time to her at regular intervals, then had suddenly ceased, and the next thing that happened was the news being broken to her of his death—his death—it stunned her, the suddenness of the blow, for she had lived for him and he—as she believed—for her. He had worked to make a home for her, had spoken of his hopes in his letters, and then at the age of twenty-one, early manhood, to be cut off and taken. He would aave been twenty-eight now had he lived, and they would have made a home together, a little home sweetened by hard work, a struggle perhaps, but made perfect by love and sympathy. A mist of tears crept over her eyes, and when she brushed them away there was a tinge of red in the east, the dawn was breaking. She stretched out her arms to welcome it, and a prayer that burst from her lips in a passionate cry rose from her soul.

"Give me some, happiness in life, give me love; ah, God, don't let it always be cold and grey. I want something different—something- more." She kept her employed all the morning, and in the afternoon wished her to do some shopping- with her and drive in the park, so that it was not until the evening that Ina at last tapped at her cousin's door. Flora was up and reading a pictorial paper, looking much as usual. She dropped it on the floor on seeing Ina, and told her to sit down and make herself at home. The girl looked so perfectly nonchalant and careless that it made Ina nervous to start the subject she wanted to speak of. Her lips positively trembled, and her voice shook when at last she said: "I have brought you something that was in the pocket of my cloak; you left it there last night." "I? What?" enquired Flora, innocently. Ina handed her the music-hall programme in silence. There was a quick rise of colour in Flora's face for a moment as she saw what it was ; then, crumpling it up in her hand, she tossed the programme into the waste-paper basket near her writing-table. I

"What's the matter? What makes you look so shocked ?" she demanded lightly.

"Oh, Flora! that you should go to such a place unknown to your fathei and mother, to go like that when we were out —how could you ?■ How dared you?" cried Ina. The girl burst into a ringing laugh. "You noodle," she said, "it was a programme of the entertainment Justine had been to with some relations of hers who are visiting London for the first time. Motheg. allowed her an evening' out last night, so she spent it at 'The Zig-Zag,' and gave me the programme to look at. Well, you are "

"Is that true ? Oh, lam so glad ! ] could not sleep for thinking about it and worrying about you. Can you ever forgive me, Flora, for my shameful suspicions ?" cried Ina with intense relief, but also with shame for herself.

"I don't know; we'll see whether you deserve to be forgiven," replied her cousin.

Then, recollecting the circumstances of the cloak, the other girl enquired why she had put it on, and why hidden in her cupboard. "Because I had clone the daring thing of running down the street to the corner to see if Justine was com-, ing, had raced back with her only just in time to whirl in before the carriage drove up with the,dad, mater and you. You can guess I was frightened, and flew upstairs to put the cloak in your 100 m, not really meaning to tell you anything about it, but I was caught by you coming straight upstairs instead of going into the dining-room for sandwiches. There! that's the whole of the story, so now, sweet coz, go down on your bended knees and ask forgiveness, humbly and prettily," Ina smiled. "I am sorry to have misjudged you, Flora, please, please forgive me; it was horrid of me, but, dear, it was naughty of you; don't do such a thing again, will you?" To be continued.