A GOLDEN HEART.

Auckland Star, Volume XXX, Issue 76, 1 April 1899, Page 6 (Supplement)

A GOLDEN HEART.

A NOVEL

,^By BERTHA M. CLAY.

Author - of * 'Thrown f on f the • World, •Wife*!* Tame Only,' 'Her' Martyri&Tm,' 1 'Beyond Pardon/ ' - True Magdalen,' 'Dora Thorn*,' 'A Mad jjLore,' The Duke's Secret,' 'A ■Broken i'Wedding- Ring,' 'Thorns and Orange .Blossoms.'

CHAPTER XXXIII

Lord Fielden was in no way daunted by the darkness of the night. If the moon or the stars had been shining, the woman, let her be whom she might, would never have ventured through the park. The darkness had favoured her; it would also favour lum in finding her. He thought that the best thing to do first was to go down to the lodge and see if any person had been noticed there.

The people at the lodge had seen no one; they were quite certain that no strange woman had passed through the gates-in fact, no person could pass through them w.thout their knowledge; nor did they believe tnat it was likely any person could get into the park by the other entrances. . , Lord Fielden's suspicions increased. The woman had evidently gained access to the park in some secret manner; therefore her purpose could not have been legitimate or honest. It was idle to suppose that robbery had been the motive; consequently Harry was more convinced than ever that the stranger was some person who had read the advertisement about Lola de Ferras, and wanted to discover the reason for it. As the woman had not passed through the gates it seemed probable that she might still be m the park. If he could but find her! He knew the grounds well himself, but he could not decide at what point to bejrin a search. He vowed to himself that he would linger all night in the park rather than she should escape him. ~ , , More than an hour passed, and he was no nearer the object of his search. Oh! surely there was a sound at lastthat of slow, creeping, stealthy footsteps on the other side of the beeches. The footsteps came nearer. He must see who it was without alarming her, and so he began to noiselessly retrace his footsteps, only pausing now and then to see if the other stealthy footsteps faltered. He reached the end of the grove and stood waiting. He .was brave and fearless as a lion, but there was a queer sensation at bis heart as the stranger drew nearer and nearer. The footsteps grew more distinct now that the grove was past, and presently they sounded quite close to him. He put out his hands, and they grasped a woman's garments. The woman stopped with a faint low cry. 'Who are you?' he exclaimed but there was no answer. It was too dark to see. He only knew that he clutched a tall figure that seemed frozen with. fear. There was a silence for a minute, and then the woman struggled violently to free herself, all without a-word. , , 'You shall not go,' cried Lord Fielden, 'until you have told me who you are! You need not struggle; you are a strong woman, but I am a strong man. Such efforts to escape are useless. Tell me who you are and what is your business here, and then I will let you go.' t » She struggled with such violence to free herself from his grasp that the Mack cloak she wore was torn, her bonnet fell off, and with it something white and soft. She knew it was the ■wig which had so effectually disguised her, and with the knowledge came an access of despair; it made her so strong that this time she almost tore herself from her captor's grasp. 'No,' he said, 'I will not hurt you. I could bind you fast this moment if I liked; but I will not. If it pleases you, though, we will stand here until morning—until daylight dawns —so that I may see, if you will not tell me, who. you are.' It was as much as he could do to hold tho strange woman, but he kept her hands tightly grasped in his. How long a time passed in the terrible struggle he could not tell. He found presently that she was panting for breath, and that her strength was failing her, and that in a short time she must be still from sheer exhaustion. So it happened. After a# few more efforts to free herself, she gave up struggling, and stood panting and .trembling., Then came a long drawn sigh, a low, piteous cry, 'For Heaven's sake, let me go^-let me go!' she murmured. 'Tell me who you are and what you want,' he said, 'and you shall go the next moment.' 'I am no one whom you know. I have been looking for work. I am a poor woman, and I have been to all the big houses to try to get some sewing. I came here to-day; but there was nothing for me to do. I was tired I and hungry, and I fell asleep among the ferns in the park. lam only trying to find my way out of the park. I have done no harm. Let me go, for Heaven's sake!' The woman's story might be true. He relaxed his hold. 'Tell me,' he said, 'was it you who looked in at the dining-room window at the Manor and terrified a young lady?' ' She was silent. He repeated the question. 'Yes,' she said, 'it was. I did not mean to frighten anyone. I was cold and hungry. The bright lights attracted me, and I looked in. I meant no harm—l did no harm. Let me go!'. That one word 'attracted' proved fatal. She had spoken in a low, murmuring, hoarse voice, almost impossible to distinguish; but in that word he had recognised the never-to-be-mistaken roll of the French 'r' which the people of no other natiomcan imitate. He grasped her more closely. 'You are a Frenchwoman!' he\ cried. •You have perhaps come from' that wicked woman herself!' She struggled afresh with the strength of a man, uttering low, piteous cries; but in his strong grasp> she was helpless as a child. 'You cannot escape,' he said. 'Your struggles are more vain than those of a bird in the fowler's net.' • Just then a few rays of light broke through the clouds; they parted in majestic grandeur, rolling away in heavy masses, of black and white vapour, leaving the moon sailing peacefully in the sky. 'Thank heaven!' he cried. 'Xow I can see you!' 'Let me go,' she wailed, piteously— let me go!' Resolutely she turned r.nd»bent her

head, lest the moonlight should fall upon her face. 'I will kill myself if you try to look at me!' she cried.

'You cannot. Have you not the sense, woman, to know when you are conquered?' She made a wild dash at him. Jt was her last hope. It was as though I an ocean wave had flung itself against a rock —useless, vain, indeed injurious to herself. The last shred of disguise fell from her, and she stood revaled in the moonlight, which she cursed in her heart —a tall, statel/ woman, with a mass of black hair, and dark, wild eyes, contrasting vividly with her white face; the false hair had been trampled under foot in the struggle. The moon now shone out more fully and clearly, so clearly that Lord Fielden could see every line of the stranger's face and figure. In a moment it flashed across him who she was. This was no poor, common woman looking for work. She was rather like a queen of tragedy. 'I know you," he s.aid. "You are the woman for whom 1 have been searching morning, noon, and night, for whom I have sought all over Europe —you are Lola de Ferras!' A low cry came from her lips, and. Lord Fielden releasing his hold, she fell upon the ground, shuddering., trembling. 'You are Lola de Ferras.' he repeated, 'the woman who alone knows the secret of Sir Karl Allanmore's fate. Yon must <>ome with me.' Her strength was gone. The mention of her name seemed to have paralysed her. He raised her, and she made no resistance. He trampled the false hair under his feet. 'You will not want this again,' he said.. 'You will have no more need for disguise. Come with me." As he took her hands for the second time, his eyes fell upon her wedding- ring-, and it startled him. Was she married, and to whom ? • 'Whither are you taking me?' she tasked. 'I will not go to the Manor House. Where are we going?' 'To the keeper's cottage,' he replied. 'I shall detain you there until you solve the mystery of Sir Karl's absence for us.' 'Then I shall die there!' she replied, with a triumphant laugh. 'There are many clever inventions in this world, but I have not yet heard of one which can make a woman speak when she chooses to be silent.' 'Nor have I.' he agreed gravely. 'I shall leave it to your sense of honour to speak. 1 am quite aware that I cannot compel you.' 'You can lock me up. shut me in prison—you can do anything and everything- you will; but I am queen of the position, and I shall remain so.' They reached the keeper's cottage at. last; and she stood in silence while the door was unfastened. Lord Fielden kept a keen watch upon her, knowing well she would make her escape if it were possible, and that he was resolved she should not do. CHAPTER XXXIV. The keeper looked bewildered when he opened the door. There stood Lord Fielden, and by his side, held fast by him, was a lady, with a face very beautiful and proud, yet white and weird, with great, black eyes that seemed to blaze with liquid fire, and a mass of black hair. She had neither bonnet nor shawl; her dress was of plainest black; yet, in some ' vague way, ' the man felt that she was a lady. 'Walk in, madam,' said Lord Fielden. 'Mrs Turnbull will find you all needful accommodation. You will like tea, or coffee, or some refreshment, perhaps?' He closed the door behind him as he spoke, and then turned with a stern face to the keeper and his wife. 'I have brought this lady here,' he said; 'and here she is to remain in close custody until to-morrow morning. Let her have every care, every attention —all that she requires; but she must not be left alone, so that she can escape.' Lola looked at him defiantly. 'You may do all that, yet you cannot make me speak,' she replied. 'I tell you frankly that, if I can get a chance to kill myself, I will do it; if I can find the least opportunity to escape, 1 shall take it.' 'Will you excuse me, 'my lord?' said the* keeper, after a steady look at the flashing black eyes. 'I am afraid to undertake the charge of this lad}', I am not used to such a task. Foxes, pheasants, and partridges ,and such like I understand, but not ladies. I should not be able to detain her, my lord, if she made up her mind to go.' 'Then I will stay myself,' said Lord Fielden. 'You have a room up-stairs, Mrs Turnbull; the lady will prefer it to this, and you can take her some tea there. I shall sit up here. Ma.dam>' he continued, turning to where Lola stood with a white, defiant look on her face, 'I shall be ; on the alert. I can hear the stealthiest of footsteps, the slightest creak of a board or upraising of a window, liemember, if you make any desperate attempt to escape, I will give you in custody for a crime you would not like to hear me name.' 'Merci, monsieur, 'she said, with a mocking smile—'merci, you will have to prove every charge you bring against me.' She went up the narrow staircase more with the air of an injured queen than of a prisoner. It was a plain, pretty room into which she was shown. " For a few moments she stood like some caged tigress in the middle of it, and then hastily opened the door. .; . • 'Are you open to a bribe I she asked, turning to the keepers wife. 'I will make you a rich woman for life if you will do one of two things. Either bring to me poison that I may destroy myself, or give 'me chance of escape through the window here. 1 swear to you that > I will make you rich for life.' 'I cannot,' said the woman. I dare not; we have always served my lord faithfully.' 'If he and you but knew what was best for the whole family, you would teg of me on your knees to go, she said. ,;-.. , , But the woman shook her head; she could never, come what may, betray her trust. The night passed in pleading and useless prayers. Once or twice the keeper's wife nodded, and awoke suddenly to find the dark', beautiful face bent over her with murderous gaze. 'I warn you,' said Lola; 'I am a desperate woman. I should set little value upon your life. If you wish well to yourself, do not expose me to temptation.' This so effectually scared the keeper's wife that she checked all further inclination to slumber, and watched every movement of her companion. It/ was pitiful to see the way in

which Lola de Terras paced up and j down the room, at times wringing her hands and crying out that she was trapped and lost, at others that they should never make her speak—never; i !no one could do that.

When morning came and the watch was ended, when the dark head, tired ! and wearied, was laid" to rest. Lord Fielden wrote a little note to his mother to say that she was to come to the cottage at once, and bring Gertrude with her—that there Avaa immediate need for their presence. He cautioned the keeper to keep silent as to what had happened—indeed, he had little to reveal—Lord Fielden had told him nothing. In less than an hour the two ladies were on their way. Lady Fielden deeply anxious and agitated, Gertrude full of wonder. 'I am- sure,' said she, as they drove along, 'that it is something about the advertisements; Lady Fielden I feel quite certain of it.' Lady Fielden's first words to her son were of reproach that he had been out all night, and that she had been greatly alarmed about him. He went up to the side of the low pony carriage, and in a few words told'them what had. happened. Gertrude's face flushed, and her eyes flashed. 'Lola de Ferrars!' she cried. Is Jt possible? Has Heaven granted our prayer at last? 1' But Lady Fielden grew deadly pale. 'Lola de Ferrars! Oh, Harry, I cannot see that woman — that wicked

woman!' ( , 'You must see her for my sake, cried Gertrude. 'Oh, Lady Fielden, my dearest and truest friend, you must forget everything else except that you have to help me, and that my father's name must be cleared.' They spent some few minutes discussing what had happened. 'She will never speak,' said Lady Fielden; 'she is still,^ as she says, "queen of the position." ' 'She will speak,' declared Gertrude, 'for I shall implore her to do so in my father's name.' ' Then Lord Fielden asked if they could go npstairs, and Mrs Turnbull answered, 'Yes.' They fonnd Lola sitting in a chair by the window, and in her eye was the look of a hunted animal driven to bay. She never glanced at the ladies, but spoke to Lord Fielden at once. Have you any further indignities to offer me?' she demanded. 'Am Ito be kept here in prison, a show for you and your friends?' 'Lola de Ferrars,' said Lady Fielden, in a- solemn voice, 'do not usa such words to my son. Wicked and weak as you have been, make the best atonement, you can.' 'I have no atonement to make, she answered. 'I shall die as I have Jived mute; you may be sure of that.' 'Tell us one thing,' said Lord Fielden —'you and you alone can tell it. Is Sir Karl living or dead?' A curious smile curler! her lips. 'I shall tell you nothing,' she replied. . rm .. 'Do not be obstinate, madam. THink of the lives that'you have ruined already.' ... 'Have I?' she cried. 'I am rightwell pleased; that is just what I intended to do. I tell you eandidl," that you are all right in your supposition. I, and I only, so far !is 1 know, can solve the mystery of bir 'Karl's fate. You want to know, o± course, if he went .away with me or not—if he asked me or I asked hurt— if he thought the world well lost ior love of me—if it was he who placed this weddding-ring upon my fingeivif he be living or dead. All these things you want to know; but you never shall. I am the- only one who can tell you, and I never will— never! 'You shall be compelled!" cried Lord1

Fielden,, , 'I do not think so. jSo human power can compel me. I would rather . Ah, well, never imnd what! Let me remind you of one thing, my young lord,' she said. ■ lie pleased to bear in mind that you are laying yourself open to a heavy penalty, if not imprisonment, by the course you are pursuing.' Harry knew that what she said was perfectly true. 'Justice before men and justice before Heaven are very different things, he .said. 'Before Heaven you know your own crimes; you know the lives that have been ruined by your sin; and, whatever man may say, Heaven at least will not misjudge.' The smile she gave them was most insolent. ', . 'You will find out your mistake, she said, 'I am queen of. the position. 'Will you tell us one thing, at least? Ts Sir "Karl living or dead?' asked Lady Fielden. 'That is the one thing. Lady Fielden, that I refuse to tell,' (she replied, defiantly. , _. , n 'But yon know?' said Lord Fielden. 'Certainly I know; but I will never share my knowledge. You can do anything you please—imprison me, place me in a madhouse, kill me, if you will —anything; but my secret and his you shall never force me. You cannot prove a single thing against me. I defy you!' 'We have your letters,' remarked Lord Fielden; 'and you must remember how they criminate you.' 'I do not believe,' she said, that it you laid them before the most skilful lawyers in England, you could find a single damaging statement against me.' , He feared that it was true, no matter what their own opinions of her might be. They could take no proceedings against her for anything she had written.. 'It will be your wisest course, she said, proudly, to Lord Fielden, 'to let me go, or I may probably do what you are doing to me now—imprison you. I have warned you. If you keep me here until I die, what will you gain if I refuse to speak?' 'Unless you had something to conceal, or something to fear, you would not have struggled so desperately with me in the park,' declared Lord Fielden. '1 wanted to be free,' she said. I came over here in disguise, I wanted neither to be known or to know anyone. The plain fact of the matter is, I saw your advertisements, and I wished to know why I was wanted— what had happened. Foolishly enough, I left my home and came in disguise.' 'Do you know why you are wanted? asked Lady Fielden. 'No,' she replied, 'I am still in the dark about it.'

Lady Fielden appeared surprised. ■ 'During all these years,' she said, 'Sir Karl's name has been associated with the commission of a great crime; but the time has come when people refuse to believe him gtmty of that crime, when his fair, young daughter here demands, in childlike, guileless fashion, proof of his innocence to give the whole wide world.'

Lola de Ferras smiled again the mocking, hateful smile for which Lord Fielclen could almost have struck her. ■ 'Innocence is a most charming quality,' she said; 'the difficulty in the present instance is to prove that it ever existed. I refuse to speak. I have not kept silence ull these years to be compelled to speak now; there is no power which can force me to do so.' 'A'ot .if you lost all womanly feeling-,' said Lady Fielclen. 'If pity, compassion, justice, and honesty are all dead in your heart, then is all appeal m vain, both for the living and the dead.' 'I appeal to you, Miss de Ferras,' cried Lord Fielden, 'by the memory of that which on earth you loved most dearly, by your mother's memory, by your lover's memory.' She held up her hand. 'It is Jill in vain,' she said. /T will tell you what you will no doubt '■faltik a vivy shameful truth. This moment, in which I see my enemies humbled before me, is one of the proudest and sweetest.of my life. After that, have yen anything- further to say to me?' It was Gertrude who spoke next; umii now she had kept perfect silence. 'Let me speak to you,' she entreated. 'Dearest Lady Fielden—Harry, loave me with her; for my father's sake she will surely speak to me. Go and leave me alone with her.' CHAPTER XXXV. As mother and son descended thfl stairs, it occurred to Lord .Fielden that it might not be safe to leave (iortrude with Lola de Ferras; she was so violent that she was quite capable of doing her bodily harm. Hut he contented himself by pacing up and down beneath the window, where he would be within call of Gertrude if she had any cause for alarm. As soon as the door closed behind .Lord and Lady Fielden, Gertrude wer.: up to Miss de Ferras. 'Let me speak to you,' she said. 'You repulsed me yesterday; you will not do so to-day. They tell me that you loved my father very dearly, so dearly that your life was ruined for his sake. If that be the case, you must love me, for I am Sir Karl's daughter.' 'You are also the daughter of Dolores, who stole him from me,' was the sullen reply. 'But for her, he would have been mine.' 'That is all past,' said Gertrude. 'I d-> not know what your life has been, but no one could have been more unhappr than my mother. She is so sweet and true, so thoughtful and good, so well fitted to adorn a high position; yet, since my father's disappearance, she has been buried alive. Dear mamma, I have never seeu her enjoy one moment's happiness. Have you no pity for one whose life has been wrecked through your instrumentality?' "'I have none for Dolores. She took from me the only treasure on earth for which I longed. Even now the mention of her name maddens ms. I have no pity for my old rival, the white rose. I hate Dolores. Do not name her to me again.' 'Then if you have no pity for mamma have you none for me? You loved Sir Karl. I am his daughter; and. strange to say, although you have been our most bitter enemy, I cannot help liking you and feeling a kind of sympathy for you because you loved my father.' For the first time, the defiant expression on Lola de Ferras> white fa.-c softened, and her pale lips quivered piteously. How long was it since any human voice had spoken kindly to her? 'You loved my dear father.' went on the pleading1 voice. 'They say that 1 am like him, that I have his eves and hair, and that my voice resemWes his. Look at me, and tell me if it be true?' Lola de Ferras was seated in a low rocking chair by the window. Gertrude went up to her, touched with sudden emotion, and kneeled by her side. , , , 'Look at me,' she " repeated, and tell me if I have my father's eyes.' The pale face bent over her, the pride and hardness dying out of it ■>« the unhappy woman met the clear, honest gaze of the sweet, loving ayes. Gertrude went on— 'I was a little child when my father left us, but I feel the deepest and most passionate love for him. I wish that I could remember him, that I had some recollection of. his dear face, of his kissing me,, of sitting on his knee; it would soften my pain. I cannot even go to his grave and sob out all my grief and longing there. I love mamma most dearly, but the deepest love of my heart is for my father. All these years,' she continued, feeling that her companion's interest in her was aroused, 'I have honestly believed him dead; but suddenly, and quite accidentally, .1 have discovered that death is not the cloud which overshadows us, but shame. My mother, who had kept the story from us, was compelled, through our meetings with Lady Fielden, to tell us the truth, but while my mother, my sister, my friends, and the Whole together believed my father guilty, judged and condemned him, a voice cried ever louder and louder in my heart that he was innocent, and that I must clear his name. It was as though by night and by day he called to me, 'Gertrude, my daughter, for long years all men have traduced me; come.and prove to the world that I am innocent of the crime with which I am charged.'. Think, you loved him, that in all the wide world no one believed in his innocence but I. I stand alone to do battle for him, and there is no one but you who can help me. Mamma has told me everything—how you wrote t,o my father and begged him to see you, and how he went out to meet you. After that night he was never seen nor heard of again; everyone says and believes that he went away with you. I alone refuse to believe it.' 'Why do you refuse to believe it?' asked the elder woman in a low voice. 'Because I have faith in him. I have looked for hours together at his photograph. His face is not that of a man who would be disloyal. People may say what they like; I do not believe that my father went away with you. Then a letter came from you, saying that yoii had had your revenge, and that my mother should never see my father again. Do you know how I interpret the letter? I found no proof in it of my father's t guilt. I came to this conclusion, that, whatever might have been my father's fate, it was known to you,and that you alone could solve the mystery. You may/ hate my mother because you found that she was your rival; but you, even with those hard lines on 'your face, look too proud and pure to have spent your life as the world believes you to have done.'

The pale lips quivered, and it seemed as though the elder woman's eyes were filled with tears: she held out her hands with a gesture of pain. 'Do anything,' she cried, 'except be kind to me; that is the one thing 1 cannot bear.' 'If kindness Avill win you, let me be kind,' pleaded Gertrude. 'Try to think that it is my father who is kneeling here, pleading to you, asking you to clear his name from a foul stain,_ to clear me, his innocent and loving child, from the shadow of guilt that is on me. I call upon you by the memory of the love you had for him to speak!' With a bitter cry, Lola fell upon her knees. 'You torture me,' she said. 'For Heaven's sake, let me alone!' 'I cannot,' answered Gertrude. 'Oh, tell the truth! Tell me one thing, I pray, I beseech you? Is my father living or dead?' Lola de Ferras was silent for a few moments. It seemed to her as though the words pierced her inmost soul, while ,the thought overwhelmed her that Karl's daughter, with Karl's blue eyes and clustering hair, with the well-remembered tones of his voice, was prajing to know whether he was living or dead. CHAPTEPi XXXVI. 'T long for my father,' said Gertrude to Lola de Ferras, who still kept silence.' 'My heart is thirsting for a loic, a ■word from him. Ah, tell me, if you ever loved him, is he living- or dead ?' 'He is dead,' replied Lola, in a low voice. 'Dead.' repeated Gertrude, with a burst of bitter tears; 'dead! Ah, then T shall never see him! Oh, my dear, dear father, I have longed for you, I have worked for you, and I have loved you; yet I shall never see you! But better a thousand times dead than living as they believed! Tell me one thing more. Did he go away with you?' 'No,' she answered, 'he did not.' She paused, startled even in her own pain by the cry which broke from Gertrude's lips. 'I knew it, I kne.w it! Ah! my darling, if I could but see you, hear you, tell you how much and how dearly I love you, and how I have always believed you'innocent!' Then, turning to Lola, she added, more earnestly, 'Heaven bless you for telling me even so much!' It was the first time for so many years that any one had prayed Heaven to bless her, the first voice for so many years that had spoken kindly to her, that Lola was completely overcome. Gertrude's excitement had almost reached fever-heat. 'How could they say it of him?' she cried. 'How did they dare?' Lola, bending over her, safd — 'It was I who caused them to say it for a purpose of my own.' For some time the young girl's wild, incoherent crjes for her dead father continued; then she sprung suddenly from her knees and looked at Lola. 'If he never went away with you, and if he is dead, tell me how and where he died. After being so good to me, you will not refuse me this? There was a struggle in the heart of the miserable woman; and then she answered, slowly— 'Ask Lady Fielden to come here, and I will tell you all. Lord Fielden. followed his mother into the room with Gertrude. 'You are too clever a woman not to guess that whatever you have to tell is life or death to me for Miss Allanmore's sake,' he said to Lola. 'For Miss Allanmore's sake?' Lola asked, looking at the noble face with a wild longing that it were possible to undo the past.. 'Yes,' he replied. 'What touches her is life or death to me.' She was deeply moved. She remembered having seen the expression of Lord Fielden's eyes in those of the men who haVl loved her, but never, alas, in the eyes of the man she loved! 'I have something to tell you,' she snjd—'that which I have long kept secret, and which I reveal now for her sake —only for hers, for she is the only being who has touched my heart for years —this girl who is Sir Karl's daughter.' , She resumed her seat in the low rocking-chair, carefully keeping the lace on Gertrude's dress clasped In. her hands. Lord Fielden placed a chair for his mother, and stood behind it. 'Your, eyes and your voice to me, child,' went on Lola, 'are like those of one come back from the dead.' 'The dead!' cried Lady Fielden. 'Sir Karl is dead then? .Oh, Dolores, Dolores!' 'Yes, he is dead,' said Lola, slowly. 'You must not think that I am a repentant sinner, nor that, if my life could begin again, I should act differently. L am proud, after my own fashion, of what I did. Few women would have had the strength of mind to act as I did, to keep the silence that 1 kept. I have had my revenge!' A touch from Gertrude's hand controlled her. She avoided looking at the pure, sweet face as she spoke; but her eyes were fixed on Lady Fieldn. 'It will be no news to you,' she said, 'that Dolores robbed me of the only love of my life, Sir Karl—that she came between us and stole my life's happiness away. It is no secret either that I swore to have vengeance. I ought, perhaps, to feel ashamed of myself, but Ido not. I loved Sir Karl with all the strength of my heart—a strength that your weaker natures do not even understand. I may have been blinded by my affection; but I certainly thought that I saw. in him some sign that he loved me. It all ended when Dolores became a widow, and he married her. It was then that my blind, mad, furious hate against her began, and I resolved upon-reveng-ing myself, cost whatsoever it might. I loved Sir Karl so well that, if he had asked my life, I would have given it to him without asigh. From the day of the marriage I was like one mad. I had sworn to her and to him that I would be revenged—and I 'was! I persuaded my dear mother to leave Beaulieu and go to Gei'many. She did so, and she died there. I need not dwell on any of the details; but w rhen she died I was alone in the world, .my heart full of bitterness of disappointed love and of a fierce longing for revenge.' 'I heard how happy Sir Karl and his wife were—that a little daughter had been born to them, that they were a' model couple—she so tender, he so proud. In those dajrs I had many correspondents-in this neighbourhood, and my brain was fired by these home pictures. I felt that I must see him or die. I wanted to heap .burning reproaches on him, to make him wretched by seeing my wretchedness, to show him my great misery, that the sight of it might chill his happiness. Let me be truthful. I hungered tolook on his face, to hear his voice, to touch his hand. Never djd thirsty

heart pant for living- streams as I for one look at the man 1 loved! • •Oh, blind, mad folly! As well might a hungry man try to. eat stone. L thought that looking at him would slake the thirst of my fever, would cool the fire that burned my brain. I wrote to him, telling him that I had a favour to ask him. I begged that 1 mi "lit sec him, prayed and implored him to meet me. 1 told him that 1 would wait at the white gate near the coppice, i .went to Deeping by train; no one recognised me. At eight o clock I was standing at the coppice gate, wondering with a doubting heart if he would come. 'The night was fair and brilliant. 1 remember the odour from' the trees, the song of the nightingale, the soft murmur of the brook. I remember— Oh, heaven, would that I had died then and there! Look at me, child, with your father's eyes. With kindly light those same eyes rested on me that night so long ago—there was no reproach in them, no anger, no contempt. '[ trembled when T saw his shadow on the grass, I trembled when he spoke to me. He held out his hand in all kindness to me. ' "My dear Lola," he said, "yon should'not have done this." "I wanted to see you," I cried to him. "How can you be so hard and cruel to me? I have been longing for a glimpse of you. How caii you scold me? My very life was fading because I could not see you." "My dear Lola, you must not speak to me in that fashion." he said. "You must remember your own self-respect, al 50 that I am married to the woman I love." "The poor man who begged the crumbs from the rich man's table asked only for1* the crumbs, not for the luxuries. I am the same. I ask only for what you have to give—your friendship and kindness; 1 cannot live without them," I replied. ' "You are cruel —cruel," I cried at last. ' "I came to you in deep distress and you te!l me only of your own happiness." He stopped abruptly. "You are right, Lola," he said. "1 am selfish —horribly selfish." Then he tried to console me. All I next remember is that we walked away from the light of day, and that my heart was full of burning" hate towards Dolores.

(To be Continued.)