SHADDECK LIGHT.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 141, 15 June 1892, Page 6

SHADDECK LIGHT.

ST MRS MA V A GNES FLEMING, Author of * Wedded, Yeb No Wife,' * Lost for a Woman,' * A Little Queen,' * A Wouderful Woman,' • Norine'a Hevenge,' Etc.

CHAPTER VI

*OH, WE FELL OUT, I KNOW NOT WHY.'

A quiet scene—a prebby picbure. A handsomely appointed parlour, the too ardent afternoon sunshine shut out, a young lady sitting alone. She sits in a low chair, the absolute repose of her manner telling of intense absorption—her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the door. She wears black—a brailing black silk up to the throat, down to the wrists, thab falls with the • soft frou jroit dear to bhe feminine heart, whenever sho moves, unlit by rose, or ribbon, or gem. It is thab consummation, so impossible to attain excepb by the very rich—eleganb'simplicity.

She has been waiting here lor ten minutes. There is always something in waiting, in expectation thab makes the heart beat; Vera's heart ia going like a trip-hammer, her eyes excitedly gleam; she is bracing herself for bhe mosb trying ordeal of her life. It moves her to the very depth of her being, but ib simply musb be, and she is wise enough in her two-and-twenty years to know the folly of fighbing Eate.

Perhaps of all the trying positions in which a woman can be placed—and life holds many—there can never be any so thoroughly humiliating and crushing as the knowledge thab she has been forced upon the acceptance of a man who does nob want her. To Vera it is a clear case. She has been guilty of a foolish fondness for a man who gavo her in return the sort of amused regard he might give the gambols of a kibboo, bub who, forced by hi 3 friends and his own overdone sense of chivalry, has married her.

And now he is here ; he comes to-day to plead for his legal freedom thab he may marry that 'some one' in Cuba, and she must stand and listen to the cruellest,xaosb humbling words that ever were spoken by man to woman.

A tap—Felicia gently opens the door. ' Colonel Ffrench, mademoiselle,' she an nounces, and goes.

Vera starts up. He stands before her, and something she mighc have thought wistful pleading, if seen in other ayes, looks at her oub of his. He holds oub his hand.

'Vera!' he says, in a tone that matches the look.

She makes a rapid gesture and passes him, and once more his hand falls. She is excited as she has never been excited before in her life. She trembles through all her frame, so thai; she has to lay hold of ibhe low marble mantel for support. Her voice, when she speaks, is nob like bhe voice of Vera.

'Oh, waib !' she says, in a breabhless way, ' give rae bim_, I know whab you have come to say, bub wait—waib one moment. Listen bo me first. Ib has all been a mistake—from first to lasb, a mistake that can never be seb righb,' bub I am not so much to. blame—so much—to '

She breaks, words will nob come, the words she wishes to say. She tries bo catch her breath to stop bhe rapid beating of her hearb. 'Oh !' she cries oub, 'whab must you have bhoughb of me in bhab past time — whab musb you think of me bo-day ! How bad, how bold—Colonel Ffrench !' She turns bo him passionabely, and holds forth bobh hands, ' for Heaven's sake bry bo believe me if you can ! All Mrs Charlton said bo you thab day was false— talso every word. It seems hard to credib, I know, bub, indeed, indeed, indeed, when I wenb bo you thab evening, when I sbayed wibh yon thab nighb, I had no thought, no wish, thab you—would—make me your— wife f

The words thab nearly stifle her are out. She burns from him again, and bows her face on the hands thab clasp bhe marble. In all her life ib seems to her she can never suffer again the pain, the shame, she suffers in this hour.

As for Colonel Ffrench, he sbands and looks at her. The whole scene, herexcibed manner, her rapid words, seam liberally bo have baken away his breath. Is bhi3 bhe

dignified, haughty, self-possessed princess of. lasb nighb—bhis passionately speaking woman, shaken like a reed by bhe storm of feeling within her ? He simply stands mute; he has expected something so entirely different, and looks and listens like a man in a dream.

* You defended me from my enemy, I know,' goes on Vera, still in that agitated voice; 'every word of that interview is stamped on my remembrance. Ib was like you—you would have dono it for anyone maligned. She wronged me cruelly. I went in all innocence thab nighb, try and believe that, too, with no thought in my child's heart bub that you were suffering and alone, and that—l liked you so much. And from that hour until I sat and listened to Mrs Charlton," no thought of the actual truth ever crossed my mind. Dora told me nothing — nothing thab was true. Neither did you. Oh ! Richard Ffrench, neither did you ! She told me you wished to marry me bofore you went away, that you—how shall I say it?—cared for mo as men care for the girls they marry. And I believed her, and wa3-glad ; how am I to deny it ? and I wrote you that poor, foolish, fatal letter, and you came, and in spite of your coldness, your gloom, I never read the truth. Until Mrs Charlton spoke I knew nothing, and then —Heaven help me—l knew al} !' She catches her breath with a dry, husky sob, and stops for a moment. Her hands are locked in their grasp to a tension of pain. It seems to her that if she lets go her hold, she will turn dizzy and fall. ' You wont away,' she hurries on, ' and I was alone, aud had time to think. Your letter came, but I would nob road it—then, "/•lylaid ib away, and waibed unbil the muddle '■■ would grow clearer. Time mighb have soothed and sofbened even whab I felb then, if something else had not come. That something else was a letter of yours. Colonel Ffrench, do you recall a letter you wrote to Mr Charlton just afber my acceptance of you ? In thab letber you spoke your mind-how, overpowered by the tears and reproaches of Mips Lighbwood, to save my honour, to shield me from the consequences of my own act, you would marry me, although you knew bhab marriage to be utber folly and insanity—albhongh I would be an jgcubus bo you for life. I remember it a\[-W> well ! so well ! I found it among some papers given me by Dora to read. Mrs Charlton's surmise might be false or true—that mattered little ; bub Iheld in my hand that dayyour own thought*, your own words, and knew ab last, for bhe first time, the full extent of bhe dreadful mistake thab had been made. If you had but told me— if Dora had bub told mo. You were my friend, sho my sister—but you v/ould nob. I was a child, I know, but I would have understood, and the sacrifice mighb have been ppared. Colonel Ffrench, your life may have been spoiled hy a forced marriage, but tell me if you can what do you think of mine ?'

Ho cannob speak if he would, bub she giveti him no time. Carried away by the excitement of all she has hidden so long, she is unconscious that he haa spoken but one word—her name—since ho has entered ; that he still stands mute and motionless, borne down by the whirlwind of her passion of grief and regret. That rainy twilight is before her—she is back at Charlton, with tho wind tossing the trees, the shine of tho

rain on the lamp-lib flags. Dora in her trailing crape and sables,- and small, pale face, and she herself a wan, forlorn libble figure enough, in the recess of the window, reading that cruellest letter, ib 3eems to her, that ever man wrote.

. 'Well,' she says, • all thab is past. Whab is done is done ; your wife you made me, your wife I am. But, Richard Ffrench, as I stand here, I would give my heart's blood to blob out that day—a hundred liveß, if I had bhem, to be free once more.' He makes no sign ; he still sbands hab in hand, and listens and looks.

* I liked you in the past, in those Charlton days. Oh ! I know ib well jas a chiid may like, wibh no thought of love or marriage, so hear me, Heaven, any more than if I had been six instead of sixteen. Dora spoke—you were silent, and I consented to marry you. You thought I was in love wibli you, and you pitied me ; I had endangered my reputation for your sake, and you made me your wife. But, Colonel"Ffrench, listen here ! 1 was nob in love wibh you, either then, or ever, or now—there have been times when ib has been in my heart to hate you since, as ib is in my heart to hate you as you stand before me now. You did rnea cruel wrong when you made me your wife, and, as I say, I would lay down my life gladly, willingly, this hour to be free.' She has never intended to say this, to go so far, but the force of excitement tbab shakes her, carries her away. She sees Mb face turn slowly from its clear, sunburned brown to a dead, swarthy white, which makes her draw back, even while she speaks.

* Undersband me,' she says, in a sbeadier voice. * I knew you meanb well, honourably, chivalrously, bub, as I tell yon, ib was a mistake, a cruel, dreadful, irreparable mistake. No, not irreparable—my sister tells me otherwise, and if the law will give you back freedom, take ib ! then, indoed, I may learn to forgive and forget. As I said to you when you came in, I think I know why you have asked for bhis interview—what ib is you wish to say, bub do not say it — I would rather nob hear. Dora has told me all bhat is necessary for me bo know. For tho rest I wish you well and happy, but after to-day I see no reason why we should ever meet again. We have managed bo spoil each obher's lives—if you can sob your own life righb no one will rejoice more bhan I. Bub whatever the future may bring you, Colonel Ffrench, leb ib bring you obher thoughts of me than bhoso you must have had in the past. Think of me no longer as a girl who cared for you so much that she forgot modesty and delicacy, and ip.n after you wherever you wenb; but think of me a3 a poor, ignorant child, who knew no bebter than to like the gentleman who was kind to her, and tried to amuse her, and who never knew thero could be harm or shame in thab liking. Think of me as I am—so ashamed of bhab past,' so sorry, so bumbled, thab never for one hour is the sickening memory absent from me. Think of me as a woman v/ho would give you back your freedom by tho sacrifice of her life, if she dared—as a woman whose own existence is marred and darkened by that • insane marriage. Let ua meet no

more, leb us speak of ib no more. Our ways lie apart—leb us say good-bye here now and for ever.'

She turns from him as she says ib, sbill hurried, breabhless, scarcely knowing whab she does. He makes no answer, he makes no abtempt to, he makes no efforb bo set himself right—bhe rush of her rapid words' has carried him away as on a torrenb. Bub the picbure she make 3as she stands there is with him to the last day of his life -r-beautiful, impassioned, erecb, noble, vindicabing her womanhood, a memory bo be wibh him when he dies.

As she turns bo go anobher door opens. Dora comes in, and sbands stricken mube on bhe bhreshold. a gorgeous little vision, all salmon pink silk and pearls. He glances at her a second, then looks back, but in that glance Vera is gone.

CHAPTER VIL

CHARLTON PLACE.

October. The yellow after-light of a lovely day lingers over the world, glints through the brown boles of the maples and hemlocks burning deep ruby and bright orange in their autumn dress ; flashes away yonder in a million ripples and sbars of light on bhe mirror-like bay, and turns bhe western windows of Charlton Place into sparks of fire. Charlton in its full splendour of rubies and russets, and yellows, and browns, as we saw ib once before, with Dora Charlton and Vera Ffrench .sitting beneath its waving trees. Six years, with thoir numberless changes, have come and gone since then, and the sisters are here once more, with life wearing a newer, saddev, stranger face for each. Those six years have changed Vera into a beautiful woman, wise wibh the wisdom that is twin si3ter to sorrow, with a wearier light in bhe large, dark eyes, a graver sweebness in the smile than of old. Those six years have changed Dora unutterably for the worse—harder, colder, more selfish, more worldly beyond measure she is than even the hard, selfish, little woman who made herself Robert Charlton's wife. Robert Charlton lies, with folded hands and the daisies above him, over in Sb. Jude's churchyard, a monumenb of granite and gilt bearing bim down, and setting forbh, in glowing record, his virbues. Dora is bhe wife of another man —a man who never was worthy bo bie the latchet of Robert Charlton's shoes, at his best! If a man bhoroughly shallow, conceited, and vain can ever have any bast. Two yeara and a half the husband of the rich Mrs Charlton have lefb him ab his worsb. Dora's greatest enemy could hardly wish her a more wretched fate than is hers as Dane Fanshawe's wife. If Richard Ffrench had ever desired retributive justice to befall the little usurper who stands in his place and rules ib ab Charlton, he need bub look abhor aa she paces up and clown her room bhis October evening, waiting for the sound of carnage wheels bhab will tell her husband has come. Her small face, pale ab all bimes, is bluish in its pallor now : the rich dinner-dress, of black lustrous silk and velvet, thab brails afber her, increases thab pallor ; her blue eyes flash wibh bhab lurid lighb of rage blue eyes only can flash ; her lips are sefc; her litblo hands are clenched.

' The villain'!' she breathes. ' The scoundrel > the liar! the forger 1 After all I have done for him—all he has made me suffer—the position in life he has attained through me—to return me this ! Oh, I hate him ! I wish I had been dead before I ever married him ! But I will deserc him —1 will tell him so this very night! He shall learn whebher lamto be robbed and outraged in this way wibh impuniby !' She clenches her hand more viciously over a crushed paper she holds, and walks excitedly up and down the room. Now and then she puts her hand over her heart, as a sharp spasm catches her breath. Oh ! these spasms, daily increasing, daily growing sharper—harder to bear. Is it nob enough- bo be a martyr to them, to feel wibh an awful thrill of horror that ab any moment ono of these spasms of the heart my stop bhab heart's heating forever? Is not this enough that she musb also bear bhe endless misery and wrong inflicted upon her by her heartless husband ? If she only did nob care for him ! But is it nob in bhe spaniel nature of woman to love best the hand thab strike hardest. And she knows she cares for him—that she could nob leave him if she would, in spite of infidelity, coldness, indifference, slight—or may it be said, because of them ? She cares for him, and that i 3 why the blows fall so bitter and hard to bear- Itis only those we love who have power to wound our hearts. Others may sbab our-vanity, our amour -propre, but love no one and the whole world combined will never break your heart. She is in the whibe heab of rage jusb now, and,

in bhab rage is capable of saying and doing prebby much anybhing, so the lookout that awaits Mr Dane Fanshawe is not a pleasant; one, did be bub know ib. He is used to warm recepbions, though nob in the endearing sense, and the knowledge that be richly deserves every rating he gets, and a good many he does nob geb, enables him bo endure them with philosophy. Indeed, this gentleman is a philosopher, or nothing. There is nothing new, and nothing true, and it doesn't signify, and ib is the Song of the Wife, the world over, this tune Dora loves to sing. He is a Sybarite, and never lets life's rose-leaves crumple beneath him if ho can ; worry glides off his mind as dea off a cabbage-leaf, never a drop sinks in. Ib is one of his principles, and aboub the only principle he is conscious of. Two months have passed since the return of the Dane Fanshawes and Miss Martinez from their prolonged European sojourntwo months spenb albernately at Newport and in New York. Mrs Fanshawe lefb Newporb in haste, because Mr Fanshawe became suddenly and violenbly in love wibh a certain dashing young widow of bwo-and-bwenty, which gay little fisher of men netted all alike, married or single. They spenb September in New York, andthe transition realised the brubh of the old saw—'oub of the frying-pan into the fire.' Mr Fanshawe's excesses were simply maddening to Mr Fanshawe's wife. The green-eyed monster laid hold of Dora's poor little heart, go where she would, and never—let it be said for Mr Fanshawe—never once wibhoub good, solid, subsbantial reason. The latest reason was a popular opera-bouffe prima-donna, substantial in the sense bhab she weighed well on to bwo hundred avoirdupois. The bracelets, diamond rings, bouquets, aud poodles—thia last melodious luxury had a passion for poodles—that found their way bo Mile. Lalage's hotel, and thab Dora's money paid for, would have driven Dora mad had bhe known ib. What she did know was, thab Mr Fanshawe lived ab the rate of aboub bwenby bhousand dollars a year, and thab even the Charlbon ducabs would nob hold oub forever wibh a double, breble, four - fold drain upon them. The paper she holds in her hand bo-day is bhe lasb sbraw that breaks the camel's back—it is a forged cheque for the sum of five thousand dollars, and Dora is white with passion bo the very lips. Large as her income is, she lives beyond it —doubly beyond ib, as Mr Fanshawe draws upon her. She dresses herself and Vera superbly, she denies herself no pleasure, no luxury thab money can buy; bub if the forged cheque system begins before five years more she will be as she was -in the Dora Lighbwood days—penniless. And ib seems to her now, after bhese years of wealth, that sooner than go back to that phase of existence, she would glide quietly oub of life in a double dose of morphine.

Hark ! Carriage-wheels at lasb, driving as Mr Fanshawe drives always, recklessly fast. She pauses in her walk, her eyes glibtering with passionate excitement, and waibs and listens.

She was ill when he went up to New York two days ago—surely common decency will send him first of all to her side. ' Bub common decency and Dane Fanshawe long ago shook hands and parted—he does nob come bo his wife. She hears him run upstairs whistling cheerily, pass on to his own • rooms quite at the obher end of the passage, and the door closes after him with a bang. She waits two, four, ten minutes, then patience ceases to bo a virtue. She flings wide her door, and raises her voice— always of unsuitable compass for her small body, and shriller now and more piercing than ever, sharpened as its edge is by anger. ' Mr Fanshawe !' 'My angel!' promptly and pleasantly comes the response. Mr Fanshawe knows better than bo feign deafness when Mrs Fanshawe calls in that tone. His door opens, he stands half divested of hid dusty travelling suit jusb within ib. ' Come here, if you please,' commands .Dora, in a voice bhab would go very well with a box in bhe ear, and to bell bhe truth it is the very endearment Dora's little fist is tingling bo administer. Mr Fanshawe looks in plaintive appeal from his wife bo his dishabille.

'My angel,"' he murmurs, 'if you could waib, albhough I know you won't, until I have had a bath, and dressed for '

' Never mind your dress. Such wedded lovers as we aro need nob stand on the order of their costume surely. Come here at once.'

'Now, I wonder whab is the latest indictment,' says Mr Fanshawe bo himself, with a gentle sigh, bub obeying. 'My lady looks as if bhe jury had found a brue bill.'

He enters his wife's room deprecatingly, submissively. If a few gentle looks, a few pleasant words, even a few off-hand husbandly caresses will soothe her down he is willing, mosb willing, more than willing indeed, to administer them. They cost so little, and he had known them to go so far. Like penny buns, they are cheap, and very filling ab bhe price. Fine words may not, as a rule, butter parsnips, bub from a neglected husband to a weak-minded wife they do wonders. Mr Fanshawe has tried their powers and knows. So he gives Dora a pleasant look, a pleasant littlo smile, and holds out hia hand to draw her to him. But Dora waves him off and back, standing like a small, furious tragedy - queen in her sweeping silks and velvet, and thread lace, her bine eyes alighb with rage, her littlo finger quivering in the intensity of its passion. Her husband has done as much, and more than this, many a time before, but she ia smarting under a long course oi slight and wrong, and pain and affront, and this is just the lasb drop in a brimming cup. Ha sees that it is a hopeless case, tho coming tornado is nob to be averted ; so wibh a gentle, regretful sigh, he sinks weavily into bho softesb chair bhe room conbains. There is to be a scene ; it is inevitable. Poor soul! its her greatest; failing, this tendency bo make scenes. They bore him horribly; reproaches tire him,, and it is so foolish of poor Dora, boo, for they do no good; they never by any possibility can do good, and it is bad for her health aud everything. -He really wonders ab her. Ib would be so much more pleasant all round, if she would bub bake things easily. He never finds fault with her. What, is ib now ? Can his having escorted Mile. Lalage to Rockaway yesterday, and given her those diamond earrings have come to

Mrs Fanshawe saves him all further surmise. She holds oub the crumpled paper, in a blaze of wrath. ' Dane Fanshawe !' she cries ; *do you sco this ?' The question is pertinent, for Mr Fanshawe lies back in bis soft chair, his handsome blonde head lying againsb its azure blue silk back, his handsome blue eyes closed, apparently sinking gently into sweetesb slumber. Bub at this ringing question he looks up. 'That, my love?' He deliberately puts up his eye-glass, and inspects it. * Well, really, you know, one piece of paper looks so much like aoobher bhat—'"

' It is your forged cheque for five thous and dollars !'

'Ah!' says Mr Fanshawe, and drops his glass. ' Yes, the forged cheque.' He looks his wife, steadily, quietly, deliberately in the eyes. ' Yes,' he says again, •it has a familiar look, now that I see ib more closely. Well, my love ' —a sneer, devilish in ibs calm, cold-blooded malignity—'whab are you going bo do aboub it ?' She lays her hand on her heart, and stands panting, looking ab him. One of bhese ghasbly twinges has jusb grasped her, her lips burn blue, her breath comes brokenly ; she absolutely cannob speak, so deadly is her anger. He sibs and regards her unmoved, his face hardening slowly unbil for all feeling ib shows ib mighb be a handsome maak of

white "stone. Nob one faintest touch" of compassion. for the Jjvoman before him moves him. An. evil life has thoroughly brutalised and hardened him ; under all this sofb socieby languor, half real, half affecbed, there is the pitiless heart of a tiger. •' ■■"'■ -'-'; '■.':'•. 'This—this is all you have to say,' she gasps. . ":- 'All,' says Mr Fanshawe, and watches her unflinchingly. : ,0 His hard, pitiless gaze, something in the cold, cruel steadiness of his face frightens her—appals her. yShe realises,for the first time thab she is talking to a man of flint— thab beneath those sleepy blue eyes, that low voice, thab silken smile s there is neither hearb bo feel, soul to pity, nor conscience to know remorse. Her hands drop ; for the firsb time she has found her master. In all their maribal babbles hibherto she has sbormed on to bho end^'and he has listened, bored, wearied bub resigned. * i have drunk the wine—l must take the lees,' his pabienb silence has said. Bub this is differenb—somebhing, she cannob define what, in his face, in his eyes, turns her cold wibh a slow, creeping sense of fear. She shrinks from him and turns without a word. There is a blank, thrilling cause. Not even when she goes to the window and looks oub does he averb thab basilisk stare. For Dora—her bransporb of rage is gone, the whole world seems dropping away from under her feeb. She is realising in, a strange appalled sorb of way that this man, nearer and moro bo her than any obher human being on earbh, is a villain, and a villain without one redeeming trait of love or pity for herself. Heaven help bhe wife to whom this truth comes home—good or ill she may be—but Heaven help her in thab hour, for help on earbh there can be none.

' Is this the end ?.' asks the deliberate voice of Mr Fanshawe,. ab last. ' May I go and dress or has more gob to bo said?' , \ ,

' Go !' she answers, in a stifled voice, * and I pray Heaven I may never see your bitter, bad face again.' She covers her own wibh her hands, crushed as he had nover seen her crushed in bheir married life before. She pinks down on her knees by the bed, and hides her whibe, quivering face upon it. For him, he rises and sbands gazing down upon her, nob one brace of the hard malignity leaving him. ' Listen to me,' he says. ' I have a word or two to say, and as I don't speak often— in this way—l hope it will have weight. There comes a time in. bhe lives of mosb men, I suppose, however long-suffering, when curtain lectures pall and conjugal tirades weary. 1 have borne them for two yeara and a-balf. I decline to bear them longer. I married you for your money— you are listening, I hope, Mrs Fanshawe? — and you know it, or if you do not the fault is your own. Ib was nob worbh while bo try double-dealing ; I never strove to deceive you, or—if you will pardon me—to win you. I married you for your money, and your money I mean to spend if nob by fair means, why, bhen by foul. I asked you for one thousand dollars a week ago ; you refused, and were abusive, according to your amiable custom. I said nothing : I took the easier plan—l went and drew the money. lam disposed to be agreeable myself; I like peace and pleasant smiles, and friendly words, and I mean to have them—if not ao home, why then abroad. If your aged til! the day of doom you could nob change me or my intentions one iota. It is foolish on your part—itis telling on you, my angel; you are growing prematurely old and disagreeably thin—scraggy, indeed I may say —and if there is one creature on this earth I abhor ibis a thin'woman. Take my advice, Mrs Faneshawe—it is bhe firsb bime I have proffered it, ib shall be the lasb—while we live togother let us sign a breaby of peace. Whab lam I intend to remain. Money I must and will have ; amusement; I musb and will have also. The cheque I admit. Ib is the first time ; if you loosen your purse-strings a little it may bo the last. Pardon mo' for having inflicted this long speech upon you, bub a man must strike in self-defence. Are you quite sure you have no more to say ? lam going,'

She makes a gesture, but does not speak—a gesture so full of stricken despair that ib mighb have moved him, bub it does nob. There is absolutely a smile on his lips as ho burns to go. He is victor, ' A new version of the " Taming of the Shrew,"' he thinks. ' Poor soul! she dies hard, but ib will do her good in bhe end.'

( To be Continued.)