LADY GAY'S PRIDE; OR, THE MISER'S TREASURE.

Auckland Star, Volume XX, Issue 299, 17 December 1889, Page 6

LADY GAY'S PRIDE; OR, THE MISER'S TREASURE.

By Mrs Alex. McVeigh Miller.

CHAPTER XXXII,

(Continued.)

Meanwhile, Lady Gay stßggers to her feet, filled with a sudden, swift resolve.

' Pupa must not know I am sorry,' she repeats. ' You must give me some wine to make mo stroDg, Mrs Jonea. And give me my prettiest dress—something bright and pretty—l must look ns happy as I can.' ' Lady Gay, indeed you are not fit to he out of your bed, , the maid remonstrates. * Lie down and let me soothe you to sleep. I will take down your excuses to the guests.' ' No, no ; papa must not know that I am sorry, , sho repeats—it is tbo one burden of her thoughts. 'He will be disappointed. I must seem to bo glad.' So Mrs Jones lays out a dress that has just been received from Worth—a lovely combination of cream-coloured cashmere and pale rose-coloured Surali silk. When it is on, and the beautiful hair is dressed in airy puffs and pink rosebuds, and the yellow fire of diamonds gleams at her throab and wrists, and her white arms omorge from the deep lace sleeves like snow, the proud young girl looks like a lily still—as white, as colourless, with ashen lips and heavy lustreless eyes. She looks at herself in the mirror in dismay.

' I do not look glad at all,' she murmurs. * Papa will not be deceived. lam too pale. I have never rouged in my life, Mrs Jones, but you must paint tno now—just a little tingo on cheeks and lips. I look so ghastly.' So the rouge is called in for the complexion, belladonna for the eyes, and Lady Gay look 9 far brighter when the embellishments are put on—looks too bright and beautiful for anyone to dream what a sad, heavy heart is bleeding in her breast. *It is for papa's sake,' she murmurs over and over to herself. 'He must not know that lam sorry. He would think I had no pride.' 4 You look very bright and lovely now, Lady Gay. No one would think that you had heard bad news,' Mrs Jones tells her confidently.

Lady Gay turns her dark eyes on the woman's face in silence a moment. Her lip quivers, her iashe9 are heavy with the tears thab she will nob suffer to fall.

' I want to look bright and happy for papa's sake, and for my pride's sake, , she says after a moment; ' but if I were to follow the foolish impulse of my heart this instant, do you guess whab I would do, Mrs Jones ?'

'What would'you do, my Lady Gay?' the woman asks, slowly. 'Do not call me Lady Gay' the sjirl breaks out passionately. ' The name does not suit me any longer. They should have called me Dolores, or something as sad. I am the most unhappy woman that ever lived.'

* No, no,' the woman breaks out in sudden passion, ' leave that for me to say. 'It is I—' she checks herself with stern rapidity mixed with confusion. ' Forgive me, my lady. VS hat i 3 it you would do if you followed the impulse of your own heart?'

'I would tear off these jewels and all thie pomp and nhery,' the girl cries passionately, ' and I would pub on widow's •weeds such as you wear. Then I would shut myself up away from the cruel heartless world, and weep my very heart out in a vain despair!' With the passionate words she turns abruptly away. The door shuts heavily between her and the one true heart that pities and love* her so tenderly and sadly— she cur%'es her lip into careless smiles, crests her small head definitely, and glides among her gueets again, the fairest and proudest woman there. Who would dream, seeing her so bright, so proud, so calm, that the man she loves has put her away forever out of his heart and his life, that she, Lady Gay, the belle of the season, is Alex Warren's divorced wife t

Sir Floydlooksather almost incredulously at first—the change is so great it almost stun 3 him. Then his heart gives a great leap of joy. It cocnes to him suddenly that her great joy has wrought this wonderful transformation. It thrills him to see how beautiful and bright ehe looks. In his mind he begins to frame a letter of thanks to Mr Warren, telling him in the most glowing terms of his daughter's happiness at her unlooked-for freedom.

Lord Annesley has the seat next her at dinner. He marvels at the change in her. He ha 3 not the key to it like Sir Floyd. * I have been feeling quite vexed at you,' he murmurs to her; 'you cared so little for my poor flowers that you left them upon the floor of the drawing-room.' She looks at him with her light and careless smile.

' Did I V she asks sweetly. { I beg your pardon, Lord Annesley. The truth is—l was so ill —I quite forgot them.' • I will excuse you on one condition,' the young lord replies. • And that ?' she asks indifferently.

* Only this. If the sun shines to morrow as brightly and sweetly as it did to-day, that you w.ill come with me to hunt the violete for yourself. You know, you said that the greatest pleasure of wild flowers was in the hunting and finding them,' he pleads. ' Very well. I will come with you, she answers. • To-morrow ' comes—the loveliest April day ever seen. The sun shines brilliantly, little white 'clouds sail aboub like angel shallops, in the blue sky, the dewy violets glitter like jewels in the green grass. Lady Gay, in a pretty blue dress and white zephyr shawl, walks to the wood with Lord Annesley. . . ,' ~ He is in the gayest spirits—elegantly dressed, even to the verge of foppishness, so anxious is he to win the favour of Lady Gay Last night he did not get the opportunity he wished. To-day he has it, and "'he pleads his cause bravely, eagerly. 'Lord Anhesley, you have taken me by lurpriae,'she falters, when the passionate words come to an end. «I thought this matter was settled long ago. I told papa to tell you—' . 'That you were not sure of your own mind, Lady Gay, and must have more time —yes, Sir Floyd told me that—and I have given you tince, Lady Gay. Surely you must have decided by now. Forgive me— I am so impatient! Lady Gay, you are going to be kind to me, are you not? She looks at him mutely, surprise and pain struggling together in the fair expressive face. 'Hove you so dearly,' he goes on in a voice of the greatest depth and passion. ' I have, loved you ever since the first time I saw you sitting on the broken altar-rail in the old chapel. I said to myself, even then, that you should be my wife or I would go unwedded to my grave. I love you so dearly, Lady Gay! For me there is but one fair woman in the world, and that woman is yourself!' She listens, and makes him no answer. The etrengbh and might of his passion makes her dumb. Ah ! if only Alex Warren had loved her like this ! ■~:■', • It would seem the most natural thing in the world for us to marry,' ho continues, after waiting a minute vainly for her to answer. ' Everyone eeeme to regard it) as , quite a settled thing. Your father will be pleased. He bae told me bo. Hβ aaidit

would gratify him beyond measure. Lady k'ay, you will nob refuse me—oh ! you cannob, my darling, when I love you so dearly.' . She looks at bhe happy, eager face with that look of confident love smiling on ib. How hard ib will be to blight that springing hope in his heart ! She knows the pain of unrequited love herself.

' Lord Annesley, , she answers, with a little break in her voice. 'I am so sorry, but—l do not love you. I like you, bub only as a friend. You would not wish ib, knowing this.'

She stops in hor timid, incoherent refusal, awed and frightened by the change in the gay, handsome face bending over her. He has grown as white as death itself. Inexpressible pain shines in his eyes. He puts up his hand aa though to ward off a threatening blow. ' My darling, you will not refuse me !' he cries out, hoarsely. • Think how bappy you can make rue if you become my wife—how wretched if you refuse ! I could not live without you, my beautiful love ! Only say yee, and I will teach you to love me ! Such love as mine cannot fail of winning love in return. Do you remember—what Browning ha 3so beautifully written, dearest ? '"God above Is great to grant, and mighty to make. And creates the love to reward the love : I claim you still, for my own love'a sake.'" No woman under heaven but would be moved by the depths and fervency of this man's paseion. It seems to sweep Lady Gay along on its swift and hurrying tide. A great wave of pity floods her herirb—perhaps a thrill of gratified womanly vanity. Her hearb—yot sore with the though tsof Alex Warren's indifferent wooing, and that latter divorce—is soothed unconsciously by this wealth of love poured so lavishly at-her feet. For a minute carried along on the tide of his passion, the wish comes into her hearb that the poet's words might come true. As he waits for her answer sho droops her face away from him, blushing and confused, lovely as a dream in her fair and fragile beauty, her white hands full of violets, her lips trembling with vague emotion. The tempter is busy at her heart. Alex Warren ha? castf off the fetters of his loveless marriage, and given her back her freedom. Why not marry Lord Annesley, and show him that she does not care—that she is glad of her release ? Ah ! why not ? The pride of the Elmers rises to flood tide in her heart, sweeping every barrier down before ib. She turns to him abruptly : ' If I thought that you could teach me to love you, Lord Annesley,' she says, rashly, 'I would give you my hand.' A light breaks over the eager, handsome face —vividly, startlingly joyous. ' You will leb me try,' he whispers, taking her hand, and slipping a priceless ring upon her finger almost unaware; ' I cannot fail !'

And in the instant she realises dizzily that she has virtually promised to marry her lover.

•He ' —Alex Warren she means— c will never know,' she murmurs, • that I am

sorry. . Then with somothing very like a shiver of unreasoning dread, she looks up to the ADril sky.

"' Why—it is raining !' ehe"cries out. * We must hurry back.' 'Yes, the April day, smiling like a coquette just now, has dissolved into sudden tears. There is nothing for it but to run through the shower of big drops that comes splashing and pattering down. Flushed and breathless they enter the house. But a shadow has fallen over the young lord"s happiness. Why should nature weep in this hour of his supreme gladness ? It troubles him vaguely. He is more than ordinarily sensitive and superstitious over simple things.

(To be continued.)