Hilary's Folly OR, The Marriage Vow.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXII, Issue 129, 1 June 1901, Page 6 (Supplement)

Hilary's Folly OR, The Marriage Vow.

BY BERTHA M. CLAY AUTHOR OF " Dora Thome," » Another Woman's Husband, " Marjorie Deane," "Between Tv.o Hearts," etc., etc.

: CHAPTER XVII. (Continued.) J GABRIEL'S STORY CONTINUED. j . I remember well one evening when j lady May, Miss Sheridan, Lord Aber-j dale and I happened to be together j in the drawing-room at Helme House. | "You have never asked mo to sing, j Gabriel," said Lady May. "Do you | remember how, when we were children, we made duets of all the songs J we knew?"' "I wish T were a child now," I answered, in a low tone. . . "Would you like to sing with me again?" she said. '"1 will do something, for you far better than that; Twill sing for you. Here is a. little song that I have set to music myself." Lord Aberdale came forward eagerly; but with a. pretty graceful gesture she held up her hand. "No, my lord," she said; "this song is for my poet laureate."' lie laughed and went back again. The words were kind, but they angered me. If she had sent me away for him, I should have been half mad with jealousy; I should have detected in. her conduct a, certain sign of preference; but that which hurt and strnig, me was that Lord Aberdale only laughed. There was no sign of jealousy, no darkening face, no frown; he merely laughed and returned to his place. Yet that laugh spoke volumes to me. It showed me that he was not jealous of me, and it showed me why. I was not worth the trouble. He liked me well enough, but socially I -was not his equal. I saw that he considered me quite beyond the pale of those who could be admirers of the heiress of Chesney Manor. "We must all give way to Mr Holmes," he said good-naturedly. "Necessity knows no law," rejoined Lady May. "Now, Gabriel, come and hear me sing. Mind, you must tell me exactly -what you think of my voice. Every one else flatters me; but you must tell me the truth." . Thi's is the song she sung to one of the sweetest melodies I have ever heard. It is called "Memory in Dre/ams." "I fall asleep. Then he arrives ana whispers in my ear, 'The past is not; he whom you love is here. •'{'/..' No longer weep.' ' : ) " 'I am not dead,' He says- and takes me gently by the • hand, And leads me to the pleasant yellow sand ?'. We used to tread. "He softly talks O,f all the things we talked of long i ago; And I am happy, pacing to and fro Those well loved walks. "But when I try !To tell of what has happened' since that day, He goes. Ah, me, he slowly fades away. I wake—and cry." "There, Gabriel," said Lady May, with a smile; "how do you like it? The -words are quaint and pretty; are they not?" "The words are beautiful; but the music is even more beautiful." "You are sure to think so," she said archly, "because I composed it. The words haunted me until I was compelled to set them to music. I suppose, Gabriel, you did not think that I had. a soul, above jewellery and dresses?" "I have never thought any such jibing-," was my indignant reply. "Then why do you not say something about my other qualities?" I had no time to answer, for Lord Aberdale came up to us. "How are we to thank you, Lady May, for that most beautiful song?" he said. "By keeping silence concerning it, toy lord," she replied. I said to myself with a cynical Emfle:] "This bitter love i 9 sorrow in all lands, -Draining of eyelids, wringing of drenched hands, 'l&lghlng of hearts;, and filling up of graves— 'A sign across the head of the world ! foestrown." "I am sure," said Lord Aberdale, Svith bland politeness for which I *ould most cheerfully have knocked Sum down, "we ought all to tender our Ifchanjks to Mr Holmes for having jsvolied so beautiful a song." . '"Lady May did not answer him. "Will you sing for me, Gabriel?" ehe asked. What prompted me to singl these Svords, one of the sweetest and sadBest laments ever sung by lover?, "Oh let the solid ground ; ■ ■ . :. ' Not fail beneath my feat, ' ' ."; Before my life has found What some have found so sweet. Then let come what come may; What matter if 1 go mad.? I shall have had my day. • , "Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me Befor.e I am quite, quite "sure Tlvat there is no one to love me. Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad; I shall have had my day." i. ■From the magnificent dark eyes no look had ever come that told me that Lady May ever understood how much I loved her; but, as I finished my song, our eyes met, and for the first time hers fell. Of that night I remember no more. ■ ■ • ■ a ■ ■ I One evening I went to Helme House .to dine; and, by Lady Lulworth's invitation, 1 went an hour earlier than most of the expected guests. Exi and Rose, I was told, had a new rockinghoi'se, aud nothing- would content the children but that Gabriel should come and see it. Gabriel must find a name for the horse, and must rock them on it, "Ind-eed," said my dear benefactress to them, with a charming smile, "Gabriel spoils you completely." We spent a happy hour with the little ones, and then went into the dra-.ving-room. A stranger was there, It Mr Cyril Ardean. Lady Lulworth introduced me to himi and at first

sight T ]iked him exceedingly; we talked. ;m<! the countess joined in the conversation. -.

1 was quite at my ease with him. The Ardeuus of T'nrion Abbey were like oiil frit*nils: I remembered the name- as long as L remembered anything. 1 knew that he must be acquainted with the fact that 1 was .lane Holmes' son, who had lived at the south lodge at Langton Wolde until the kindness of the earl and countess had rescued me and made me what I was. He was clever and gifted: but there was a certain air of melancholy about him—a shadow on his face and in his eyes.

We were standing together discussing Swinburne's last poem, of which we took widely different views^ when suddenly I saw him start and tremble, and a change such as 1 had not seen before came over the handsome, melancholy face. My eyes, following his, found out his secret at a glance. Lady May Flemyng had just entered the room, looking superb in her dress of white silk trimmed with dead gold, and with amber roses in her dark hair.

He did not utter a word, and her name was not mentioned by either of us; but I saw that it was a case of love at first sight. Presently, under some pretext, he left me and crossed the room to speak to her, tin.1 third victim to the magnificent dark eyes of Lady May. Lady Lulworth came back to me. I thought there was something rather strange in her manner. "Gabriel," she said, "have you ever met Mr Cyril Ardean before?" "No," I replied. "Do you like him?" she asked; aud she looked at me attentively as she put the question. "Yes, I like him very much," I answered. 'Why did she sigh so heavily? Why did her beautiful face cloud over and grow sad? "He is a distant cousin of Lord Ardean's," she said. "Of course there is no probability of such a thing; but, if anything happened to Lord Ardean and his two sons, Cyril would succeed him." Why did she look so wistfully at me? The affairs of the Ardeans couid not possibly concern me. Lord Aberdale also came to dinner that evening, and Miss Sheridan was there. The rest of the party consisted of several friends of the earl ana the Marquis of Doone. It was not a grand dinner party, but a gathering of friends. When dinner was over, the older men lingered" over their wine, and the younger ones sought the ladies, who had gone out into the garden, which was laid out in such a fashion "that it seemed to be twice as large as it really was. I was anxious to see how Lady May would manage her admirers; and I perceived at once that Lord Aberdale and Mr Ardean were mortally jealous of each other. My sympathies were equally divided, although I believe I suffered the most myself. Lady May's serene indifference was her shield. 'The garden paths were not very wide; yet, as she walked up and down, she had a lover on either side. If I had not felt so jealous myself, I must have laughed. Neither of the men would give way. The usual courteous instincts of gentlemen did not forsake them; but they were evidently each afraid to leave her lest one should take the advantage of the other's absence. "It would be nice to have coffee out here," said Lady May. "I am sure Lady Lulworth would enjoy it. Will someone ask her? Gabriel, she will not say 'No' to you." # I went at once, though L.ate bhendan said it was unnecessary. Surely a footman could do the bidding of Lady May? "Not while I can do it for her, I answered warmly, not caring in the least if my words offended her. Lady Lulworth was only too pleased to comply. In a short time the table was set under some trees, "Shd-thre' countess joined us, and two or three other ladies who were with her. Lady May distributed her favours in an impartial manner. She took a cup of coffee from Lord Aberdale and sugar and cream from Mr Ardean. "I should imagine that those gentlemen, fancy there is no one in the world except Lady May," observed Miss Sheridan to me. "Bo you think, Mr Holmes, that she is any way a coquette?" "No; that I do noV' I answered, quickly. ' "Do you think her more beautiful than any one else?" she asked, looking down with a demure smile. "You know that I do, Miss Sheridan. Do you remember quoting for me the story of the moth and the taper?" "Yes, and I remember how angry you looked at the time." "I was not angry," I answered.- "I knew that you meant it as a kindly warning to me. I think those two unfortunate men require the warning as much as I did." "Yes; but they do not interest me," said the American heiress, "and you— well, you do." "Y Tou are very complimentary, Miss Sheridan." "A poet is common property," she said, with a smile. "Any one and every one may admire him, or his genius, rather. Now, Mr Holmes, why do you stand with your eyes fixed upon Lady May? Look at me instead, just for a change. Let those poor moths burn their wings if they like."

Miss Sheridan was very kind to me, and she was very beautiful; but I could not feel interested in her, although I tried my very best. How could I, when I saw the dark, beautiful face opposite to me radiant with animation — saw Lady May's mischievous glances and bright smiles? How I envied those who were near her! I am sorry to say that Miss Sheridan spoke to me several times without my being aware of it. I apologised; but she seemed to be getting impatient. "You had better go in search of

'Your heart." she said to me. I* -Perhaps 1 would not know where, 110 go," I. answered. ••I think,"—and la belle Amei-k-ame looked me straight in the face— I "that I should know where to send i you. Tour eyes Follow your thoughts, ! aud your ' thoughts follow your j heart." I I tried to laugh away her remark', ' but she was very stately in her offended dignity. ' Suddenly I heard the voice 1 loved best cry "Gabriel!" Looking round, 1 saw that Lady May had risen; she must have dismissed both admirers, for they had joined Lady Lulworth. and she was alone. "Gabriel," she said in a slightly impatient tone, "we are going to have some music. Will you come and sing for us?" "1 would uot be ordered about in that fashion even to please the most beautiful woman in the world," said Miss Sheridan. "And I would give all the world to please Lady May," I replied laughingly. "Gabriel, are you coming?" said the sweet voice again. Then with a low bow, I left Miss Sheridan and went to Lady May.^ '•We are going to have some music; but I want to have a few minutes chat with you first," she said, laying her little hand on my arm. ."! am tired; talk to me." Tired of what —the homage of two men like Lord Aberdale and Mr Ardean? Tired of whispered words of love? I could hardly believe that I had heard aright. Tired and seeking mj' company! "Talk naturally to me," she said. "I feel as though I had been stilled in an atmosphere of perfume. Talkto me about something we like, Gabriel—about Lang-ton Wolde, or some fancies, or, better still, recite for me that little childish poem of yours. •What the Blackbird Sung on the Blackthorn.' " I laughed, even while I was touched at her recollection of my early essay. She made me repeat the lines twice. "Ah, that is different!'"—and she gave a long sigh of relief. "I grow very tired of compliments. Gabriel," she said abruptly, "what, a strange child you must have been! Lady Lulworth tells me you used to believe that you could really understand what the birds sung." "So I did in all good faith, Lady May," I answered. "And that you listened to them for hours together, and then went home and wrote down what you thought they said. Is it true?"' "I had such fancies, Lady May," 1 replied; and it seemed to me thai the fancies of the boy were sweeter than those of the man. "Gabriel" —looking- at me with ' large wondering eyes—"you must have been born a poet!" "If so, 1 thank Heaven for it. My notion of a poet is that of a man who interprets the beauties and the voice of nature to those who do not under- ■ stand them so well." "Why," she said, abruptly changing the subject, "do you talk so much to Miss Sheridan? Do' you care about her?" "She is always very kiud to me, ■ Lady May." The little white hand tightened its clasp of my arm. "Am I not always kind to you? • Now tell the truth] Gabriel?" "You are always adorable!" I an- : swered. The -silvery moonlight, the ■ odour of the flowers, the intoxication of her presence, of her voice, the touch of her light hand, all combined, bewildered me. "I like you to say that I am adorable, Gabriel; you say it so earnestly. ' Now do what I ask you. Forget Miss Sheridan and recite some, of your finest poetry to me; will you?"' So we walked up and down the garden paths, and I told her under the guise of poetry what I dared not hint ;in prose. CHAPTER XVIII. GABRIEL'S STORY CONTINUED. "Alas, how easily things go wrong, : A sigh too much or a kiss too long, . There follows a mist of weeping rain, And life is never the same again." How those words haunted me; for, by my own folly, I had broken the calm of kindly affection that existed between Lady May and myself— broken it in such a way that I did not see how it could be the same ■again! However great a man's self control may be, there are times when it fails suddenly as mine did. I had stood by, my heart tormented with jealous rage, while other men had shown the earl's ward the greatest homage. I had seen her bestow smiles and favours, and had said nothing; but one morning I suddenly lost my self-control. I had called at Helme House, and was told that Lady May was with the children in the garden. On going thither I saw Lady May playing with the little ones. I stood for a few minutes watching- them, until Ru espied me and called "Gabriel." Lady May raised her beautiful face, and I could not help seeing the pleasure that came into it, the bright flush that enhanced its loveliness. She did not put Rose out of her arms, but held out her hand to me. "Good morning, Gabriel," she said. "I was just wishing that you would come. What a lovely morning. I almost wish that we were back at Langton Wolde!" "A strange wish for the 1 belle of the season!" I remarked. "Yes; but the belle' of the season really likes the country best, Gabriel," she rejoined. "I suppose," I said, "that the world is pretty nearly the same to you everywhere—rose without canker, sky without clouds, life all harmony and happiness!" "That is a poet's idea of an earthly elysium, Gabriel. Still to some extent you are right. I do most thoroughly enjoy and love my life, butthen, you see, lam only just beginning- it. I

know nothing of sorrow or pain yet; I. have all that to come."'

"I wish I could boar all your sorrow and pail) lor you!" 1 cried.

"Do .yon, Gabriel? How kind you are. Each one of us, I fear, will have to bear his or her burden."

"Xo sorrow ought ever to come near you. Lady May," I said earnestly; "it should not if I could help it. I wishbut the wish is a wild one—that I could stand before you all your life and shield you from every shadow, from every approach of trouble or care. '.If 1 could do that, I should value my life." A softened tender expression came over her fare. "Do you care so much for me?" she said softly. •■('are for you? Oh. Lady May, you musl know, (.'are For yon? Why, no man - •--" The:! I stopped abruptly. What T was going' to say must never be said, i must be loyal and true, and noe presume on the kindness that bad been shown to rup. I stopped I lie flow of passionate words, and the effort was so great that my whole frame trembled, and I know that my face must have turned deathly pale. She did not speak, but bent down and kissed, the lips of little Rose, who was lying in her arms; and when 1 saw thai, L stooped and kissed the child's lips in Ihe same way. so hiking from her, as it were, the caress that Lady -May had given her. It was almost the same thing, 1 thought, as \ though I had kissed the proud young beauty herself. A profound silence fell upon us. wich lasted two or three minutes; and then 1 ventured to look at Lady May. Her face and neck were one crimson glow, and 1 could see that her lips were quivering. She spoke no hurried, angry word, but rose, and, placing the child on the ground, went away. 1 reproached myself bitterly. What had come over me? What had induced me to take such liberty? In the madness of my love, [ had displeased one of the proudest and purest of women; perhaps she would never speak to me again. ' What should I do. The self-control, the long restraint of weeks, was gone in five minutes. Lady May would certainly never be friendly with me again. I caught the child in my arms. "Oh. little Hose, what have I done?" I cried. She laid her charming little face against mine. "Never mind. Gabriel." she said. But she had not the least idea what was t lie mat ter. f stole from the house, ashamed and sorrowful. It seemed to me that I was in some measure guilty of a breach of trust. They had trusted me :;o implicit lly. my beloved patrons. They had never said to me: "Remember* that between yourself and the heiress of Che-:ncy Manor there is a vast difference in staiion. Remember that she is a wealthy heiress, and that yon have been admitted in all confidence to her society. They trusted me fully; had 1 respected the trust so placed in me? An intolerable son?! 1 of having done wrong possessed me. II was true that f could not help loving her; but 1 could have helped telling her so, or letting her discover it. I tried, in spite of the passionate love that blinded me. to look at the matter from the only honourable point of view. Suppose I told her how deeply and dearly I loved her, and won from her her love in return? What could 1 do then, the .son of a lodgekceper. educated by charity, without a shilling to call my own? Could I ask her to be my wife? 1 She had money, and lands, and property; I had none of these things. She bad every advantage that rank gives: I had but one single giftgenius. \o, no—a thousand limes no! Honour forbade the revelation. I might love her until the pnd of my life with the deepest and purest affection: bill no hint of it musl r-^r fass my lips. Better >'. life spent in loving- her without return than in receiving the love of any other woman. 1 should love her until I died, but. nv\fr again must, I lose my self-con-trol. Before many hours had elapsed 1 was punished for my folly. Some gentlemen came to see Lord Doone on political business, and. when it was ended, the topics of the day were discussed. Among the questions asked was one that pierced my heart. Colonel Chilvers, looking at the mar- . quis, said: "Do you know if-there is any truth in the rumour of Lord Aberdale's marriage?" "I have not heard of it," answered the marquis. "A story is going the rounds of the clubs that he is to marry Lady May Flemyng, the Earl of Lulworth's ward."

"I have not heard it," said Lord Doone. "Mr Holmes probably knows. Is it true, Gabriel, that Lady May is to marry Lord Aberdale?"

Coolly and calmly he put the question that was like a death-warrant to me. Colonel Chilvers looked at me, and I was forced to reply.

"I have not heard of such an arrangement."

I could not have uttered another word to save my life.

"It would be a very suitable marriage," observed the colonel. "I hear that Lady May is one of the belles of the season, and I know Lord Aberdale well. I travelled with him in Africa, and a braver young fellow never lived. He is my beau-ideal of an Englishman. It is a marriage which every one would approve," continued the colonel. "Beauty and courag-e would be united. I hope with all my heart that Lady May Flemyng will be Lady Aberdale." I could not listen to another word. I must go out and discover if there was any truth in the rumour. There might be. I knew how devoted he had been to her; and, if they were to be married, they would not tell me. The air seemed to grow hot and stifling-; I could hardly breathe. I must go somewhere, but not to Helme House, for Lady May had not forgiven me. What if she whom I had worshipped were the promised wife of Lord Aberdale? I thought of the kiss which she had left on the child's lips and I had stolen again. Deeper shame came over me. Surely 1 had not been stealing- the caresses of the promised wife of another man!

Suddenly I remembered that she was going that evening to the opera; for the most charming of singers, Adelina Patti, was to sing, and Lady May wished to see her. I must go. I must see if he was with her. I. came to the conclusion that, if I found him there, if he were hy her side in the box, I would believe the rumour that they were engaged. If he were not there, I should look upon it as false.

On the way to the opera-house I said' to myself:

"True or not, what could it: matter to me? I could never ask her to be my wife. Why not be content to see her happy V:' Then I tried to reason with myselt, to ask myself why I was going on this foolish errand. What could it matter t) me whether she was there or noi? Yet some impulse hurried me on. The streets were all blurred and indistinct to tire as 3 drove through them. Should I find Loid Aberdnle with hexor not? I asked myself this question again and again.

I remember a hum of voices and oa of face.-. Alter a time. T could di.si.in.guisli one from out of the many—lh" dark, beautiful face of Lady May Memyng. She hud a deep r»d rose in I hi' coils of her dark hair, and one nesllin.'.'; against her breast. Her black trailing- laces ware, fastened with diamond* star.«, ami Jier white arms shone like alabaster. Oh. how fair was my dailinj;-! I sighed as 1 looked ut her. Was he i here? In the pleasure of seeing her f had forgotten that 1 came to look for my 'rival. Yes. he was there; and on 1 lie other side of Lady May sar Cyril Ardean, with the samest;, half-melancholy expression on his face which distinguished him from every one else. Then.: was safety, after all, in Cyril.--pi (.-.-once. 1 reflected. As he was with them, Lady May and Lord Aberdale could converse only on general topics I asked myself whether theyJooked like an engaged couple, rind flip answer was "No."' I could tell by the countless little attentions of his lordship, that he loved her; but on her face f saw no sign that his love was re turned. She looked calm and proud as usual. T felt relieved. If she loved him, she would not look like that. Had T been sitting by her side, I would have taken care that her face lost its proud composure; but who loved her as I did? i' remember watching Cyril A7'dean intently, never dreaming that the tinu' would come when his life and mine would cross, and in some inexplicable! manner I felt my heart drawn toward him. In his way he differed from the generality of men as much as Lord Aberdale. Cyril was tender and chivalrous, with a certain vein of melancholy t hat had always a charm for me; and he always took the loftiest aud noblest view of everything. As 1" watched him, T thought how strange1 it was that these two men—men of such difierciu characters and tompernmenfs— should both love the• same beautiful woman; yet each, I knew, loved In;1 with a love that would mver be ielt

again. 'What torture I suffered! f had gone into the stalls, and from '.here t could see my darling's box plainly. The. only expression on her face was one of calm content, derived doubtless from her enjoyment of the music. Noi one of ail the glances and looks she gave to those two men was like the look she hud given inc. I felt, .although Lord Aberdale was with her, that if her eyes had rested upon me for one instant a bright look would have crept into them. It comforted me to remember this and 1 went, home. The next morning i resolved to see Lady May. If she was angry and offended it was better for me to know it and to have all the anguish and misery of it over at once. If she would not forgive me I—well, a hundred ideas came into my mind as to what I should do. Lady May had always been kind to me. Yet it seemed to me that to snatch the loving caress she had left on the child's lips was a species of affront that so proud a girl could hardly brook. And yet it only showed how much I loved her. She was not for me, this dainty young beauty. She was for the handsome young curl. Nevertheless, 1 must have from her splendid dark eyes at least one look of forgiveness. , When f reached Helme House I asked for her. instead of going as I generally did to the nursery or the study. She was in the morning room. T was told, and 1 was to go to her there.

On the previous evening I had seen her in evening dress. This morning I .saw a tall, slender girlish figure robed in pure while, with dainty ribbons at her breast and a rose in her hair. She was reading when 1 entered the room. She looked up with the same expression of glad surprise that I had seen in fancy ' the night before, held out both hands to me. and her sweet face seemed to glisten with welcome. "Gabriel," she said, '-'why did you not come last evening?" "I did not like to come, Lay May." T answered hesitatingly. "I was afraid that I had displeased you." "How?" she asked, arching her brows in wonder. "How, Gabriel ?" Thorp was nothing for it now but to speak plainly. "By taking from little Hose the kiss you gave her." I said, bluntly, and again the lovely crimson dyed her face. She smiled and my heart grew light. She was not angry. "1 do not think, Gabriel," she said, "that it was an unpardonable offence. If I had known what kept you away I should have sent for you." '•'lhenyoti are not really angry. Lady May?" "Not in the least. I rather admire bravery in men." What could that mean? Was it a compliment, satire, or what I dared not ask her? I was only too content to be so easily forgiven. "I wonder what you would have said, Lady May, if Lord Aberdale had done the same thing?" The whole expression of her face changed. * "Lord Aberdale is not you, Gabriel," she answered. "No, but I wish I were in his place." "Do you?" she said. "Why should you? I would sooner be a poet than a peer." "Would you, Lady May? But you forget how much a peer may do that a poet cannot." "A poet may sway a whole nation with his verse/. He' influences the people, makes them loyal or seditious by the songs he sings. He beautifies life for them, brings them nearer to heaven(, makes them more noble of soul, more lofty of mind. Take Victor Hugo and any French nobleman, no matter how old his family, how ancient his title, which has influenced France and the French more? Take our Shakspere and compare him with the noblest English peer. Why, Gabriel, there can be no comparison. Gabriel," she continued, and there was a note of dissatifaction in her voice, "surely if you do live amongst worldly-minded men and women you are not bound to be worldly." '•I am ambitious of one tbing only," I replied. "And what is that?" asked Lady May. "A man's ambition should always be great. What is yours?" I was silent. My ambition was to win her, but I could not say so. "I hope it is a worthy one," she went on. "I admire men who have a great ambition, not a selfish one. They are

almost always noble men. Your mission to educate and ennoble people, to fill their hearts and minds with sweet words that, have a high meaning. That is a grand mission, Gabriel* That is more than the mere accident of birth that makes a peer." "A peer may win what I can never win. Lady May," I answered. ."I would not exchange my birthright, 1. would not give back the gift heaven has granted me. for a peerage, but, as I said before, a peer may win what I never can."' '■What, is that?" she asked, and. then she remembered that we. were both standing. She vent to one of the opun windows and stooping gathered a flower from the bed beneath. When 1 saw her white lingers caressing the blo.ssom how I longed to be the (lower just, for one minute! Despair, I suppose, made me reckless. J took^ it from her hand. She glanced at me with a sliv. sweet smile. "Why do you do that?" she asked. 'Because i- cannot help it. I ,annot, bear to see you touch it so kindly and lovingly.'' 1 could hardly believe my senses. Shfi laid her hand on mine a warm soft hand, with slender pink-tipped fingers. She had never done so before. Little did she dream how ray whole frame trembled under her gentle touch. "We are such old friends. Gabriel." she said, "that you ought to tell me' everything. Sit down here; we shall have a long half-hour together. Now tell me all about your ambition and your hope's." They were all centred in her; she was my life, my hope; but I dared not tell her that she was the one object of my ambition. "T cannot understand," she proceeded, "what a peer can win that you may not, Gabriel." "The 'woman he loves, Lady May," I answered, boldly. "The woman be loves," she repeated, slowly. "Well, cannot you do the same? What is to prevent it?" As she spoke 1 saw a sudden pallor come over the fresh, smiling lips, and the wiiite hand that held the flower trembled. "Because I have nothing to offer the one ] love best," I said, sadly. "Nothing to offer? You—a poet, Gabriel, a genius that some day the world will recognise—you to say thai you have nothing to offer!" T said to myself, may heaven keep me loyal and time! If ever man was tempted, that man was surely myself. Her face, her words, seemed to over-power-me; but T told myself that T must remember honour, the rock to which I had chained myself. "Lady May," I said, sadly, "in what manner do you suppose any Belgravian mother would receive my proposals for the hand of her daughter?" i "T never had such a mother, so T cannot tell," Lady May answered, laughingly. ! "She would inquire blandly what were my prospects, and what I pro- j posed settling on hey daughter." •'You have quite a. business-like idea of the matter, Gabriel. What answer would you make?" "I should have to tell her that my dear mother keeps the south lodge at Langton Wolde, that I was educated by the kindness of the Earl and Countess of Lulworth, that I had nothing- to offer but the salary I earn.'* "You forget that you may be poetlnureate some day, Gabriel," she interrupted with a smile. But I went on: "A Belgravian mother would show mo the door, Lady May, and you know it," "You are wrong, Gabriel. However, what does it matter how such a mother would treat you? The proper tUing is to know what the woman you love would do; and I say that, if »\\o were worth the name of. woman, hi return for your love, she would g-ivo you hers. True women do not tttfti'ry for money." "They do not marry without it, Lntly May. How can they?" "Certainly there must be some money. 1 tell you what % you had better do, Gabriel. Work' hard, make money and a name for yourself; then you can imitate the peer of whom V"« have been talking." "Yep. T can do that; I intend to do that, Lady May. But then, while I ?Un spending- the best years of my life hi working to win her, someone eke may come and take her away." "Not if she loves you," said Lady May. "She does not love me; and she has more lovers than I can count," I answered. The shapely head was turned from me In such a way that I could not even nep the face. There was a slight quiver in her voice when she spoke nest. "Perhaps," she said, gently, "the cmo for whom you care likes you better than you think, Gabriel." t would not say more; I dared not. TTrul T remained with her another minute I should have asked her to be my wife; and prudence and honour forbade it. My kind patrons had trusted me, and I could not prove myself unworthy of their trust. There was growing upon me a conviction that Lady May was not indifferent to me. I noticed that she had' lost nruch of her frank demeanour towards me; she no longer met me as of old. When she saw me now her beautiful face grew either red as a rose or white as a lily: and, if she was compelled to speak to me, her eyes drooped. She never came into the play-room now when I was with the children. If I asked her to sing she had always some excuse ready; and she never seemed to remember that I had a voice. She seldom called me "Gabriel." Her mode of address was frequently "Mr. Holmes." And the worst of it was that the more coldly she treated me the more I loved her. Was she really unkind, or did I fancy that the colder she was to me the more gracious she became to my rivals? I called them my rivals, for it was becoming a matter of serious moment to us all. I was sure of one thing—she was not indifferent to me; she either liked or disliked me. With others she laughed and talked just the same; with, me there was a change in her manner. "Gabriel," said Lady Lulworth to me one day, "have you had a quarrel with Lady May?" "No," I answered. She looked at me curiously. "You are not so much with her as you used to be/ she went on. "You are sure there has not been any disagreement?" As her ladyship's beautiful face softened I longed to tell her of my -wild, passionate love, how I had fought against it, how it had mastered me, and how I felt that I must leave her and go

where the witchery of her wards lovely face would not haunt me. 1 longed to tell my kind patroness, but honour bade me be silent. I said that Lady May was so popular, so much sought alter, that it was not so easy to see her as it hud once been. Try as 1 would, nay voice broke and tears Jllled my eyes, jf her ladyship had not looked so kindly at me it would not have happened. '•She is very much sougr,;: alter, Gabriel, but I am s-ure she is not one to forget old friends," answered Laly Lulworth. No. I knew that. I told her that I appreciated tin: nobility of her character. As a. child she had been Um>\ of me and kind to me. bur J could not presume on our .childish friendship. 1 could not intrude when she was surrounded, by those of her own rank. Lady Lulworth smiled and then sighed deeply. ■• . "There is some truth in-that, Gabriel,'' she said. Then an expression of pain came over her face. 1 wondered at it. Surely she could not feel distressed about me. "1 hope.. Gabriel,'' she continued, "that Lady May has not made you feel the difference in your social position?;' i told her that Lady May was an angel, and she Ja.ughed. -You have your idea of angels. Gabriel," she- replied. "All poets have: but for my part 1 think her more like a fascinating, changing, wilful woman." I tried to banish aIJ concern and trouble from my voice a.s 1 asked her if she had heard the rumour that Lady May and Lord Aberdale were soon to be married. 1 "I have not heard it," she said, "but I cannot help seeing how devoted he is to her. It may culminate in marriage some day. But the first person to hear of it, Gabriel, will be Lord Lulworth."' I felt relieved. So long as Lady May remained unmarried I should not give up hope. Someone came to say that Lady Lulworth was wanted, and I was left alone. Just at that moment 1 heard the voice of little Eu calling out: "Gabriel, come here. I want you." I knew the children were at play on the lawn and T went. Every time I saw Lady May her beauty struck me afresh. On this morning she seemed fairer than ever in the simple white morning dress, which showed every line of the graceful figure. I took courage. I knew she was true as steel. I would ask her herself if what I heard was true. "Wait- a little while. Pat," I said. "I want to speak to Lady May." .Slip had not seen me, as the child had called me from the other end of the lawn. She was standing under a cedar, singing, and 1 thought of the lines: "A voice by the cedar tree Tv the meadow under the hall; She is singing- an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad, gallant and gay. Singing- lone in the morning- of life, In the happy morning of life and of May." 1 ■>. Surely the poet's Maud was no fairer than the girl before me. No wonder that the young lover went mad over her and slew him who would have parted them. Suddenly Lady May saw me and the sweet song died on her lips. Her eyes fell, and a Hush passed over her face. "Mr Holmes!" she said. "I thought it was Ru." "Are you sorry that it is not Ru?" I asked. "No. Why should I be? lam pleased to see you." But she did not look at me. Her eyes were fixed upon the grass. I knew that if I waited I should lose all my courage, and I said to nryself that it was better to end all my suspense at once. I dared not take her hand as I should have done once, for I had grown afraid of her. "Lady May, I want to ask you a question, and I am not sure whether you will think me presumptuous and refuse to answer it, or whether you will he sorry for me and tell me the truth." She raised her head with the proud, graceful gesture which always fascinated me. ■ ,"if I speak at all it will be to tell the truth," she replied. "Ask what you like." "Everybody is saying that you have promised to marry Lord Aberdale. Is it true." The flush died away and the sweet face grew pale. The dark eyes were raised slowly until they looked into the depths of mine. "Do people say that?" she asked. "Yes. The union is spoken of everywhere, and everyone seems pleased at it. I know that I ought not to ask you such a question, that it is. a breach of etiquette, but I cannot help it, Lady May. Tell me—that I may know—the best —or —the worst." "It is quite false," she answered, promptly, noticing the hesitancy in my speech. "There is not one word of truth in it. But why are you so agitated?" Ah, why? I did not dare to tell her the reason. I stood silent until I had regained my eomposureee. "Why are you so different with me, Gabriel?" she went on. "We were like brother and sister once, and that not so long ago; now you are so changed, so cold, so proud, so unlike your usual self. Why is it?" I did not answer; words were on my lips, but I dared not utter them. I must stifle my passionate love, I must not let her know of it, 1 said to myself. I must not stretch out a. hand to win her. It would be as base as though I stole her ladyship's diamonds. Colder and prouder grew the beautiful face, and I saw a quiver of pain on the sweetu lips. I could have died of my own anguish; but honour kept me dumb. "What have I done to you, Gabriel?" she asked; and there was a share rin'oof pain in her voice. "Why have you so changed—to me? I wish you would tell me." "I have not changed," I replied; and my voice was both hoarse and unnatural. "I could not change—to you." "But you have, Gabriel; you are not at all the same; you avoid where you used to seek me, you are silent where you once delighted to talk. Look me in the face and tell me if it is not so " I dared not look at her; if I had done so, my secret would have been told by my eyes. "There," she said, bitterty—"you do not even look at me; and yet you say you are not changed. W 7hy will you not look at me when I bid you, Gabriel?" "I dare not. A man cannot look long at the sun without injuring- his eyes." . to "But I am not the sun. How cruel you are! I cannot think what I have done to you." "You will never know," I replied. "Then I have done something-" she said, quickly. "I thought I had, I knew that X had. You must tell me

what it is, Gabriel." "I have nothing to tell!" I cried, in desperation. I did not know how long my strength or courage would last; each moment was new torture to me. If T. could but have thrown myself on my knees be. fore her and told her the truth, that! had dared to love her! But honour stood between her and' me. "1 do not understand you, Gabriel." said Lady May; "•you are not just, yon tell 'me plainly that I have done something, but you do not tell me what it is. I insist upon knowing." How could 1 toll her that she had stolon ray heart by her beauty and lu-r Sjn , (i ;,'■.' Vr.t ono word must I say;! therefore 1 stood silent. and she looked at me willi pained eyes. •■Will you not tell me what T. havß ■ done to you. Gabriel?" she persisted. I. dared not tell her what she had done. 1 stood before her. not venturing io raise ! by miserable face lest she should read the in:rh (-herein. "I t:annov toll you'"' 1 cried at last. "You haw dune nothing Io me that you could help. J': 1 have been blind and mad. Lady May, it is not your 1 fault. You have been, an angel of kindness and goodness to me all my life, and T am not worthy of it." She c;mic nearer "i me, nnd said witis a yoke iMiit trembled slightly: "Then, v f have done nothing- to you, Gabriel, if I have always been kind and good, why are you so changed to mo? Why do you speak in this way—why turn your face from me—why look 5.0 sad. so wretched? Tell me; forget lh» years that have passed, Gabriel, tha V'-'ars. that have made a man of you and a woman of me. Try to think of me as though we were children again." She laid her hand for a second on mine, and the gentle touch maddened me. Tarn afraid I shook off the dainty white hand; T was reckless, desperate, mad for the moment. Was ever man so tempted? There was creeping into my heart, a stronger conviction that she was not so indifferent to me as I had once believed. She did not look like a proud beauty or a victorious coquette; there were both pain and sorrow in her face. She started when T drew away rcy hand, and sighed deeply. I cannot tell how I controlled the longing- I had to cla-.p her in' my arms. I felt that' I must go. A few minutes more, and I should have forgotten the resolution I had formed. "You c-ra angry with me, Gabriel," she said: "but I cannot imagine why. You think, perhaps, that I have encouraged Lord Aberdale. I have not. Not one false- worcKhas passed, my lips. I have nevev misled him even by a look. I know you are angry because of him." Was tiiis the proud'beauty, the q^en of London society, speaking- in this gentle, almost tender fashion to me,' concerned because she thought she had vexed me? I told myself that I must go quickly before I betrayed myself. (To be continued.)