HER LITTLE HIGHNESS.

Auckland Star, Volume XXVI, Issue 191, 12 August 1895, Page 3

HER LITTLE HIGHNESS.

Translated from the German of Nataly

YON ESOHSTRUTH,

Author of ' A Priestess of Comedy,' ' Countess Dyoar,' * A Princeaa of the Stage,' etc. t etc.

BYELISEL. LATHROP.

CHAPTER XII.

Even on the staircase, he could emell the delicate bub inboxicating perfume which waß inaeparable from Rafaela. Cyril hesitated a moment, as he laid hia hand upon the door knob. Suppose bhe princeaa were to address him, and possibly inquire for the author bf * Madam Potiphar.'

He set hiß teeth defianbly. Should he tell her the truth, and thus play her the leading trump of hia revenge? Yes,' he will. What more has he to risk? He will lose hia place, hia position ab court, bub he waß prepared for this when he wrote the book. He is free and independenb. Castle Solbau is well adapbed to solitude and banishment, and it will nob be hard for him to leave" the world ; he has nothing more to lose. If Bhe asks him he will tell her the truth ; if she does nob, he will see thab she shall soon learn ib. Unconsciously he sighs as he opens door and noiselessly enters the room

He Btanda in the princess's boudoir, jusb behind the white silk portieres, upon which hie shadow bad once fallen and startled the duke. Through the open doorway he sees Princes Rafaela reclining in an armchair, half turned from him.

She wore a filmy, trailing morning gown of white lace and ribbons. The flowing sleevea had fallen back from the raised white arms—for the young princess's face was buried in her hands, and she wept bitterly. The duke seemed to have surprised her at her toileb; her long curly hair fell in confusion from her lovely head. The little gold comb which had held it back had slipped oub and caughb in the loose locks.

Hia back to Cyril, his head supported by one hand, sab Duke Henry ; on bhe floor, angrily bossed down, open, lay ' Madame Potiphar.'

She wept. Juab ab bhat momenb she removed her hands from her face and looked ab her brother. Tears trembled on her lashea and bathed the pale, young face, which bore a look most foreign to it. Gone was the mockery and petulance ; gone the bold, triumphant smile. The delicate lips quivered with deep and despairing pain, and her large, tearful eyes expressed the same.

No» Cyril had nob jmagined' Rafaela thus when weeping. He shivered, wished to advance, bub his feeb seemed weighed down with lead. He tried to speak, bub in vain did he open bis lips.

' Truth ? This book bbc truth, Henry ?' came like a fainb cry from Rafaela'a lips. • And you say thab to me, you who should know me better than this pitiless being, who judges and condemns without knowing whether he judges justly.'

1 Darling, he saw what, unfortunately, all could see.'

She shook her hair back from her heated brbw.

* What all could see; thab ia jusb ib. Thab man, who protends to have such a knowledge of human nature-, should have known thab appearances are ofben deceitful.'

The duke leaned forward excitedly, and seized hia sister's trembling little hand.

• Let ua apeak frankly to each obher now, Rafaela,' eaid he, mildly, lovingly. ' Leb us diacusß bhis unfortunate book point by pbinb, and believe me, I will thank God on my knees if you can free me from a fancy which has held me, as well as tho author of this book, captive during all the aad time of your marriage. Can you deny thab you have treated Carl Gustav heartlessly and unlovingly t

She drew herself up wibh flashing eyea. ' No,' said she firmly, • bub I did him no wrong in doing so. Unlovingly 1 Has tbe prince asked for my love ? Whab has ho done to win my love, Henry ? Yes, I will be frank with you. I will confess to you thab I tried, wibh all bhe hopelessness of a woman who feels herself alone and deserted as a wanderer in bhe deaerb, to win hia. I had to marry a man whom I did nob love, had to Henry, and as that was the case, I wished to feel toward him as I should toward my husband.'

Rafaela set her teeth, and her cheeks flushed crimson.

' I made use of our wedding journey, when we were often alone, to draw nearer to him. I have kiaeed him, even called him tender names—oh, Henry, he might have won my love if he had chosen, for my heart was open to him with" all the frankness of a child. But he did not. He did not conceal from me that he was too old for petting and caressing, that he despised tondernesß. He sab opposite me for hours wibh books and papers., vexed if I reminded him of my presence by,a single question. That such coldness, such heartless, unloving coldness as I had never in my life met with before, embittered and wounded me, I need not assure you, especially as I coon discovered bhe reason of hia roughness. Go in his room. Look in his writing desk. There lie the phobographs of that woman whom he loved, whom he still lovee. so that he is brutal to bis unhappy wife, who waß forced upon him for political reasonß. She whom he loved he could not marry, and therefore he vented hia hatred, hia passionate bitterness, upon me, the innocenb girl who had been forced to Bacrifice her love like him, who had not long been asked : "Do you love him ?" bub who was forced to obey her prince and people, Henry. I am too proud bo waste a kind or tender word upon a man who tramples me under foot as bhe curae of hia life. He repulsed me, drove me from him ; and as he clings with all tbe ties of memory to hia lost youth and liberty, 80 do I. What obligeß me to sacrifice my heart and entire young life with my bartered hand ? I danced, amused myself, lived in my own apartments as I was unwelcome in his. And the world saw only what was plainly to be seen, and judged me. Bub God, who sees my poor tortured heart, will forgive me.'

Duke Henry benb his face close to her convulsively clasped hands. ' Oh, Rafaela, forgive your prince and your people for imposing upon you too great a Bacritice,' he whispered in a chofeed voice. After a Bhort pause, he continued softly : '•'Bub your child, your son, Rafaela. Could not his sweet, innocent love reconcile you to your fate?'

Rafaela sprang up in passionate excitement, and buried her face once more in her hands.

' The love of my child !' came like a cry of grief from her lips. 'Ah, bhab, ab least, you. had nob grudged me this love, this only happiness. "My youth, my delicate health," were tho words which my tormentors chose. Why could I nob care for my child myself^. Then Mb bearb would have belonged to me. Bub you took him from me, and laid him on the breast of a nurse, a strange woman, and when I, bhe mother, longing for a smile from her child, came, ho turned his head away and screamed. If I took him in my arms and longed to loved him, he struck oub at me wibh his little hands. Bub he loved the stranger; cried for her, emiled at her, and I hers nob mine waa the first name he lisped,

Ah, Henry, my heart bled, and yet I was too proud bo show unfeeling people how wretched, how poor is a woman condemned to a crown and purple. What was left me bub bhis deceitful splendour, the golden cloak for a broken heart. Something like mad despair came over me, Henry. I sought disbracbion to deaden my pain, and the world saw and beard whab was moab plain—and ib—judged me.'

(To be continued.)