THE LOST LADY OF LONE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIV, Issue 178, 29 July 1893, Page 6

THE LOST LADY OF LONE.

STUBS'B.D.E.N. SOVTEWOW

j&tmroß ojr 'The Hidden Hand,' U* ' knows." 'Ohlt a Girl's Hea|T,' ; ••■" •Njsabesi and Deaeesx,' Etc., E& ■

CHAPTER XX.

Salome's protectress.

»We havo arrived. Welcome homfl my dear child,' said Sister Josephine, aj the carriage drew up before the strong and solid, iron-bound, oaken gates of thejeonvenb.

Tho aged coachman blew a shrill summons upon a litble silver whisblo tblb he Tarried in his pocket for tho purpose, i Tho gates were thrown wide open am the carriage rolled into an extensive courtyard, enclosed in a high stonewall, and havig in Its centre the massivo building of thiconvenb proper, with its chapel and officejA straight, broad, hard, rolled, gravelled carriage-way led from the gates the court-yard and up to the main enhance of the building. Thia road was borjered on each side by grass-plots, now sear p the late October frosts, and flower-beds.porn which the flowers had beon removed tqtheir winter quarters in the conservatories. Groups of shade trees, statues of stints, and fountains of crystal - clear jrater adorned the grounds at regular intervals, In the rear of the convent building >as a thicket of trees reaching quite down jo the back wall. 1 The carriage rolled along the graielled road, crossing the court-yard, and drJw up before the door of the convent. ; Sister Josephine gob out and helped Salome to alight. I ■ Tha sun was just) rising in clootllesa glory. f ' See, my child,' said Sister Josephine, cheerily pointing to the eastern horizon; •see, a happy omen; tho sun himself frises and smiles on your re-entranco info Sb, Rosalie.' I . Salome smiled faintly, and leaned heavily upon the arm of her companion as they went Blowly up the steps, passed through the fronb doors, and found themselves in a little square entrance hall, surrounded on'three eides by a bronze grating, and having immodiately before them a gratod door; with a little wicket near the centre.

Behind this wicket sab tho portress, a venerable nun, whom age and obesity had consigned to this sedentary occupation. ' Benedicile, good Mother Voroniquo ! How are all within the house ?' inquired Sister Josephine, going up to the wicket. 'The saints be praised, all are well. They are jusb going in to matins. You some in good time, my Sisters. Bub who ia ihe whom you bring with you?' inqnired ;he old nun, nodding toward Salome, even white she detached a greab key from her and unlocked tho door to adrn(D the party. | > ' Why, then, Mother Veroniquo, don b you see? An old, well-beloved pupil come back to see our holy mother? Don't you recognise her ? Have you already forgotten Mademoiselle Laiveosong, who loft us only three years ago ?' inquired Sister Josephine, as she led Salome into the portrass' parlour, followed by the two younger sisters, JD'rsncoiae and Felicitie. , ;

'Ah.'ah! so ib is! Mademoiselle Salome come back to us !' joyfdlly exclaimed the old nun, soizing and fondling the hands of the visitor, and garing wistfully into hor flushed »nd feverish face ' Yes, yes.v remember you ! Mademoiselle Laiveesong ! Mademoiselle, tbo rich banker's heiress! I am very Itappy to» see you, my dear child ! And our holy mother will bofillsd with joy ! 6be has gone ko matins now, b»t Will scon Mfcura to g'w* you her blessing1, Ah, ah, Mademoiselle Sfclomo ! Maisllelasl How ;11 aho looks ! Her bands are ice ! Hor head is fire ! Her limbs are withes ! She is about to faint!' added Mother Veroniquo, aside to Sister Josephine.

1 She is jusb off a long and fatiguing journey. She ia tired and hungry, and needs rest, and refreshment. Thab is all,' answered the Sister, drawing the arm of tho fainting girl through her own, and supporting her* as she led her from the portress' parlour. / «Ah, ah !is thab so ? The dear child ! Take her in and rest and feed her my sister. And when matins are over, bring her to our venerable mother, whose soul will bo filled with rapture to see her,1 twaddled the old nun, until the party passed in from her eight. Sister Joeophine led Salome to her own cell, and ; made her looson her clothes and lie down on the cot-bed, while Sister Frahcoise and Sistor Felicito wenb to the refectory and brought hor a plato of biscuits and a glass of wine and water.

Wine waa nob bbc proper drink for Salome, in her flushed and feverish condition. But she was both fainb and thirsty, and the wine mixed with water, seemed cool and refreshing and she quaffed it eagerly. But sho refused the biscuits, declaring thab she could nob swallow. And so she thanked her kind friends for their attontion, and sank back on her pillow and closed her eyes, as if she would go to sleep. The Sisbera promised to bring the mother abbess to her bodside as soon as the matins should be over. And so they lefb her to repose, and wenb silently away to the chapel to feiko their accustomed places, and join, even at the 'eleventh hour,' in tho morning worship. Bub did Salome sleep ? Ah ! no. She lay upon that cot-bed with hor bands covering; her eyo.s, aa it to shut oub all the earth. She might shub out all bfoe visible creation, but she qould nob oxclude jjha haunting images tbab filled her mind. She could not banish tho forms and facos that flosited before her inner vision—the most venerable face of her dear, losb father, tho noble face of her once beloved—ah ! still too well beloved Arondelle.

Tho mnsio of tho matin hymus softened by distance, floated into her room, bub failed to soothe her to repose.

At length the sweet sounds ceased, llAn then—

The abbegs entered the cell so 3oftly that Saiome, lying with closed eyes on the cob, remained unconscious of the presence standing boside hor, looking down upon her form. ■■ . ■

The abbess was a tall, fair, blue-eyed woman, upon whose serene brow the seal of eternal peace seemed set. Sho was about fifty years of age, bub her clear eyes and smooth skin Bhowed how tranquilly these yenra had passed. She was clothed in the well-known garb of her Order—in a black dress, with long, hanging slooves, and a long, black veil. Her face was framed in with the usual white linen bands, her robe confined at the waist by a girdle, from which bung her rosary of agates; and her silver cross hung from her neck.

The abbess was a lady of the most noble birth, connected with the royal house of Orleans.

in the revolution which had driven Louis Philippe from the throno, her father and her brother had perished. Her mother had passed away long before. She! remained in the convent) of Sb. Rosalie, where she was being educated. And when in the early days of the Second Ktnpire, her fortune was restored to her, tnstoad of leaving the cloister, where she had found peace, for the world, where she bad found only tribulation, sho took tho

veil and the vows that bound her to the con venb forever, and devoted her means to enriching and enlarging the houßO. The convent had always supported itself by its celebrated academy for young ladies. It had also maintained a free school for poor children. But now the heiress of tho noble house of de Cregpignie added a Home for Aged Women, an Asylum for Orphan Girls and Nursery for Deserted Infants. And all these were placed under the charge of tho Sisters of Mercy. Of tho fifty yeara of this lady's life, forty had been sponb iv tho convent, where she had lived as pupil, novice, nun, and abbess. Har cloistered lifo had been passed in active good works, if nurturing infancy, educating orphans, cheering age, and ordering and governing an excellent academy for young ladies, can bo called so.

And whatever such a lifo may have brought to others, iii brought to this priQCBB3 of the baniahed Orleans family perfect poaco.

She stood novr looking down wibh infinite pity on the'stricken form and face of her late pupil. She saw that some heavy blow from sorrow had crushed her. And sho did nob wonder at thia.

For to the apprehension of tho abbess, the world from which her late pupil had returned wa3 full of tribulation, as the convonb was. full of poaco.

She stood looking down on her a tnomenb, and then murmured, in tones of ineffable tenderness:

' My child!'

' Mother Geneviovo ! My dear mother !' anawored Salome, clasping her hands and looking up.

The abbess drow a chair to the side of the cot, sat down, and took the hand of her pupil, sayiug:

' You have como back to us, my child. I thought you would. You are mosb welcome.'

' Oh, mother, mother I lam drivtn back to you for sholter from a storm of trouble !' exclaimed Salome, in great oxcitoment, her cheeks burning, and her eyos blazing wibh tho fires of fever.

'Wq will receive yon wibh lovo and cherish you in our hearts— unquestioned — for my child, you are too ill to givo us any explanation now,' said the abbess, gently, layiDpr her soft, cool hand upon tbo burning brow of the girl.

lOh ! mother, mother, let mo talk now and unburden my heavy hoarb. Tcou.kuow not how ib will reiiovo me to do so to you, I could not do bo to any other. Lob mo tell you, dear mother, while I may, before it shall ba too late. For lam going to be very ill, mother, and perhaps I may die. Oh, Heaven, grant thab 1 may be permitted to die !' fervently prayod Salome, clasping her hands.

' Hush, hush, my poor, unhappy child. I know not) what your sorrow has boon, bub it) cannot) possibly justify you in your sinful petition. Life, my child, is Iho greatest; of boons, since ib contains within ib the possibility of eternal bliss. Wo should be deeply thankful for aimplo life, whatever may be its present) trials, since ib holds the promise of tuturo happiness,' said the gentle abbosg.

'Oh, mothor, my lifois wrecked—is hope leasly wrocked,' groaned Salome.

'Nay, nay, only storm-tossed on the treacherous seas of the world. Here is your harbour, my child. Come into port, libtle, weary on >,' said the abbess, with a tender, cheerful smile.

' Oh, mother, your wayward pupil haa wandererl, far, far from your teachings. Sho has becomo a heathon—an idolator. Yos, sho sot up unto herself an idol, and she worshipped ib aßa god, until, at last), it FULL !—IT FELL, AND CIIUSHKD HER CNDKB its ktitns !' said Salome, growing :uoro and more excited and foverish.

llb 18 well for ue, my child, when our earthly idols do fall and crush us, else wa raifthb go on to perdition in our fatal idolatry, Yos, my child, it is woll thab your idol lias fallen, even though you lie buried and bleeding under its ruins ; for our fraternity, liko tho good Samaritan ot the parable, will raiso you up and dross your wounds, and set you on your foot again, and lead you in tho/righb path—tho path of peaoo and safety.' ' Mother, mother, tfIII yon now hear my atory, my confession?' said Salome, earnestly. 'My child, I would rather you would dofer ib until you aro bottor ablo to talk.'

'Mother, mother, I havo tho strength of fever on mo now ; bub my mind is growing confused. Leb mo speak while 1 may.'

1 Spaak on, then, my dear child, but don't oxhausb yourself,' 1 Mother, tkough I have failed, through very shame of broken promises, to write to you lately, yet you must havo hoard from obher sources of my father's tragic death ?' • I heard of it, my child. And I havo daily remembered his soul in my prayerß.' 1 And you heard, good mother, of how I forgot all my promises to devoto myself to a religious life, and how I betrothed myself to tWMarqui.i of Arondollo, who is now the Duke of Heroward ?' ' You yioldod to tho expressed wishes of your fiither, my child, asib was natural you 3hould do.' 'I yielded to tho inordinate and sinful affections of my own heart, and I havo boen punishsd for it.' ' My poor child.' 1 Listen, mother ! Yestorday morning, ab St. George's Church, Hanovor Square, in London, I waa married by tho Bishop of London to tho Duko of iloreward. Yesterday afternoon I rccaived secrob bub unquestiouablo proof that tho duke was an already tnarriod man when ho mot mo first, and that his wifo was living in London.' -' Holy saints, mademoiselle. What is this that you aro telling me?' exclaimed tho astonished abbosp. ' Surely, surely she is : growing delirious with fovor,' sho muttered i to herself. ' I am telling you a terrible truth, my mother. Listen, and I will tell you everything, ovon as I know it myself,' said Salome earnestly. The abbess no longer opposed hor speaking, although ib was evident) that hor illness was hourly increasing. And Salome told tho terriblo story of her sorrows, commencing with the first appointed wedding-day at Castle- Lono, and ending with tho second wedding-day at Elmhursb House, and hor own ssscrob flight from her false bridegroom, just ac it known to our readers. . ■ " The deeply shocked abbess heard and believed, and frequently cro&sod herself during the recital. As Salome proceeded wibh what she called her confession, hor foyer and excitement increased rapidly. Toward the end of her recital hor thoughts grew confused and wandered into the ravings of a brain fever. {To he Continued.)