THE ROYAL ROSE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIV, Issue 230, 26 September 1903, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE ROYAL ROSE.

(Copyright Story.)

By CLIVE R. FENN (Author of "The White Flower,

It was perfectly well known throughout the neighbourhood that Mr ■ ,as hia young English pupils called him, or Senor Olivar, carried his head rather- high for a man in his position; but that shortcoming was forgiven him because of bis many good qualities, his unfailing bonhomie, and his ability to tell a good story. w e of course, had his sad moments, for he'was a Spaniard—a Spaniard with a past but with no present to speak of es'Jept'as a poor fencing master, and this change in his circumstances, or rather, to ■peak more correctly, in the circumstances of his family, made the hidalgo dreamy, speculative and very interesting. "My country will rise again. It will come again with mighty power, as in the days of the Great Emperor. Then its enemies shall tremble." So he said to young Mr Alleyne ton one of the pupils who went to his small salle d'armes; off Regent-street, to learn the graceful art; but the latter, despite his semi-French parentage, did not sympathise. It was only when Reyna Olivar, the daughter of Gaspard, whom he sometimes happened to meet when entering the little apartment in Glass-house-street, spoke on that subject, that he listened. ,On the evening of June 3rd, IS —, Olivar, who had got rid of all his pupils by five o'clock, even a little before on that day, since the summer heat had made violent exercise unwelcome, returned home earlier than usual from the short walk Tvith a halt at the comfortable little cafe with coloured blinds. As he entered a Toice called:

"Is that you, father?" Hβ took his cigar from between his lips, and gave a melancholy shake of his head, for there was a sadness in the voice, which had come during the past few weeks, and said: "Yes, yes/ , A pretty dark-haired girl appeared immediately at the inner door. "I didn't expect you so early, papa. Do you •want to have dinner at once?" Olivar put down his stick and hat and took the girl's hands. "Why so pale? No, I don't want dinner. I have to go out again." "To go out again?" "Did 1 not tell you?" "No, papa." Mr Vereton asked me to take his foils Jo his chambers and lend him a hand." "To take away his foils?" exclaimed the girl, drawing back, and with the black lines round her eyes—typical lustrous, black Spanish eyes—showing up in Btronger relief. "Then he is going away.' "Yes. His father in Paris is ill." „ "But he can't go away," she protested. "I don't see, Keyna, what his going away has to do with us, you and I, for you see we are nothing to him. I am only his old fencing master after all." For answer the girl burst into tears and rushed from the room. I Olivar sat down on a chair in the din-ing-room and plunged into deep, grey thoughts for a space. "Is she in love with the man?" he musled. "1 have seen nothing. Mr Alleyne was the quietest of them all. No, it can't be. But, poor little girl! Something ig wrong. I must see. I must see." And he rose from his seat and left the room, going upstairs quietly. On the landing he heard a sound of sobbing and entered the room where his daughter slept. , She was sitting by the window, weeping, and her black hair was disarranged. She did not look up as her father entered the room, and it was not till he had gone up and touched her on the shoulder that she knew of his presence.

"What is it?" he asked softly. "What » it, little qne? Come, come, tell me all. Between friends like us, you underBtand."

She did not answer for.a moment, and then suddenly she seemed to shake off her grief, and jumping up quickly with a jerk she drew out the dagger which fastened he* hair.

Mr Alleyne is going away. Well, he mwl not go without seeing me. I will «U him. I him," she cried, hysterically and passionately. The old Spaniard blanched, but he did jwt hesitate. He put his arms round the girl's lithe, graceful form and drew j'erdown on to his knee as he dropped on «' the couch. She did not resist, not even Mien her father took hold of the dagger it gently away, saying: Tell me all, Reyna. You should trust n tte. I will see that no injustice is

"ft is all over. It ia no U3e hoping; "one whatever," she said, breaking down a gam and leaning her head on hei ether's shoulder and crying. JJon't cry," he said; "don't cry. Mr shall not go away if you don't *"? h it. Your old father can do other JMngg besides teach fencing. Only it is J*, you who must go to see Mr Vereton. "J" lie who, shall come here." fm, vi* hen a3 the old soldier no had ' ou gnt in many of those frontier battles! J. ™. where life is risked but « winch scant justice is done, tried to Cv? r Words of comfort, several things !nlr : u? roa ß h his mind - Of course he "Who \ for the trouble - It was he i Vu ould hav e guarded his treasure «er against all the world; he should ElTa left her ' never ' never » M dmw U , PI omised her mother, who on her , jg-bed had said, "Be as good a and M . you have been a husband, h\» ] be well with Reyna." But ; ouZ t n °u b6en as g° od a father a* he ' tb f i , r ye been > d early as he loved ■thin? i • had made ,ife worth s ° mem and\ 9pite the downfall of his race tedlv 7 ,i orrows which had so unmeriSpain fo a i le " on hw country, on that blcoS t whom he would have shed his U 6o t* ent y times over. But he had about patriotism, about that

reeulement pour mieux sauter of the great Iberian race; he had indulged in visions as hopeless, as intangible as the tobacco smoke which filled the cafe, while talking over old times with expatries like himself at the Uafe of La Caridad, with the coloured blinds; refighting their old battles, talking of

comrades who; had gone into yonder room and were no more seen, while he had neglected at home that poor little girl who in the end —what can one say? —was ten, was twenty thousand times dearer to him and more important than that far-away land beyond the blue seas, beyond the mountains, where he had hoped to return to die. For Reyna, little Reynita, was his queen, his country, after all, his treasure, the only thing left, and he should have watched over her and guarded her as one watches over and guards one of those souvenirs which suggest largely and finely that thi3 world is not all. And as he mentally went over the events of the past, a tear stole into his eye, a lachrymal trespasser which the old warrior dismissed angrily, like the intruder which came once on the battlefield in Cuba, when a comrade died in his arms.

So he tried at that moment by infinite tenderness of speech to make up for years of perhaps fancied neglect. He heard her piteous cry, "He promised; he promised." "Don't cry; don't cry," he repeated as he pressed the girl's form in his arms and kissed her again and again. "Don't cry; all shall be right." And when she was calmer and had ceased to tremble he set her down in an easy chair and said. "Now I must go, but I will not be away long. You trust me don't you?" She looked up at him and seized one of his rough hands and put it to her cheek, and seemed to derive comfort thereby. "All shall be right," he exclaimed, as he prepared to leave. But she shook her head in a wise, sad little way. "If he is going away." Yet Gaspard Olivar waved the suggestion imperiously aside. "I, Gaspard Olivar, say that all shall be α-ight, and all shall be right," he said, with a touch of braggadocio in the manner of "You and I, Destiny and Olivar, have to settle this little matter between ourselves. Therefore, be good enough to prepare." But it was a rather different, a sadder. a more thoughtful Gaspard who went downstairs and out into the street. That evening he did not light one of those long Mexican cigars which he loved, to have ao company as he walked down the thoroughfares looking at the world, gazing out at an idealised past, or look-ing forward into an impossible future when he would take Reyna back to Spain, back to that old castle near the range of hills behind Valladolid, the Castle of Fuentes Azules, which was formerly, so tradition said, the property of the Olivars. But it was more than tradition! In Olivar's little fumoir there was an old parchment over the mantelpiece which proved their descent from the old Kings of Leon. And Reyna was a queen, the royal red rose of Spain. Why had he not watched more closely? He thought that he had guared Reyna from danger. He had worked hard for her —he, a soldier, who might well, had circumstances been slightly different, have sat down in the shadow of philosophy and thought about the battles where he had fought and about the glories to come for Spain, in that far-off misty, intangible future when all the latent forces of his country so great of old time should make their appearance; when Spain should hold once more a foremost place in the Council Chambers of the world.

But, Santa Maria! He had better have left visions alone, and then maybe this calamity might not have come. Poor Reyna! That evening he walked straight on towards Jermyn-street, crossing Piccadilly Circus, disdaining even to glance at the tempting portals of the Cafe Monico, and Striking Waterloo Place, proceeding in a determined way. "Ah! Mr Alleyne Vereton himself would have a long account to settle, provided that — But he was rich and had the position of a gentleman. Was it likely! It should be, however. The friendship which he had always felt foi the young man during the six months he had known him should go for nothing He had only to go in and say, "Mr Vereton, you will marry my daughter, or else—" else what? Why, it was simple. If he demurred —if he did not accept the proposal right away, there would be a fight, with serious results, in the salle d'armes. He would kill him surely, but not in the Castilian assassin's way with navaja, with a knife thrust in the back. Oh, no! He would fight, and the champion of justice should win. How the ways of this world sometimes made one sick at heart!

If he loved Reyna, why could he not have come to him, Olivar, who was descended from one of the oldest families in Spain, and have said "Let me marry her?" But no, he must enter like a thief in the night. Yet Vereton had always acted so well, so generously. He was over in England to learn the business of exchange, and to perfect himself in the English language, which, although his father was English, was necessary; and he had during the six months he had spent in the English metropolis divided his time between the river, the salle d'armes, the desk, and the family of that distant English relatives whose firm was affiliated to his father's place of business in the Rue de la Bourse.

And everything almost which he had| heard pertaining to his pupil returned that evening as Olivar strode into the doorway of the house in Jermyn-street where Vereton lived. He had an appointment with him that night and was expected evidently, for as he walked up the stairs a door opened and he heard himself called: Olivar! Is that you? Make haste!" And as he gained the landing and paused on the threshold of a large saloon the old Spaniard took off his hat and said: "Yes, Mr Alleyne Vereton, it is I." n. Alleyne Vereton had received a shock early that evening. He was about leaving the office in Budge Row, Cannonstreet, where his post was one of that description which placed him far above all the others employed in that office. Eut he was such a good fellow tha-t there would not in any case have been jealousy, while as matters stood there could have been no such thing, seeing that it was recognised he was there merely .to learn the language and the business before entering the Paris house. Sir James Saltoun, the head of the house, and a distant of Vereton's, was no very sympathetic or genial employer, but he was moderately gracious to his young relative, who too found in the Saltoun family, who_ lived I at a abort distance from London in the

south, some staunch friends. Notably was this the case with Margaret Saltoun, a beautiful blonde, who centred in her person many of the most alluring characteristics of the race.

He thought over one of her last remarks to him on the preceding Sunday, when he had passed -the day at Valory Court. It was apropos of an opinion he had expressed with reference to the existing political situation. She had said:

"You must not give up all your time to making money, Aileyne." "Why not?"

"You should remember other things as well."

The attention he had received from her had made him think much, had even made him, practically speaking,' forget that promise. If subsequently someone had said, "But you are engaged to Reynita; she. has given herself to you. You are not free," he would have tossed the reminder aside.

Reynita! The daughter of a poor fencing master! A penniless Spanish girl! Did she really think he was goinj; to marry her? A promise! Well, perhaps he had promised., Such promises are made —and forgotten. It was not to be thought of for a moment that because of a youthful egarement his future -was to be prejudiced and imprisoned in a narrow limit. It was ludicrous, that idea. What would his father, Baron Vereton of Saint Germain en Layo., and the Avenue dcs Champs Elysees, say if he took him such a daughter-in-law 1 He knew what his father hoped, or in part at least, though he may not have gone quite so far in his ambitious schemes as did his father, who was chairman of a great French line of railway, and a financier of indubitably the first rank.

Yet she was certainly very pretty, Reynita, as he pictured her now and then when she appeared to him in memory, though that was rare, for it is not so very difficult for a young man of twentyfive to iorget, or to reason himself into the belief that he is acting in the right, or a>t any rate that he has not turned very far out of the correct way. Re would always be her friend; she should never want.

But she seemed to be pleading to him, she who had given so much, only to be left deserted. While Aileyne was out for lunch that day Mr Smithson, the manager, tapped at "the door of Sir James Saltoun's private office. There was a stern,

"Come iir." . , "A telegram for Mr Alleyne, sir," said the old clerk deferentially. "For Mr Alleyne? Where is he?" "He is out for lunch, sir." "Hum—a telegram—that had always better be opened. It may be on business —though I don't believe his lather's affairs are prospering as well as they make out." This was said half to hi"iseJf. lhen he went on, "Let me have it," and he took the message from the old man's hand and abruptly tore it open. His eye quickly ran over the black printed words on the pasted slips of blue paper, and though he exclaimed, "Tut-tut!" there was not a single trace of tenderness, of sympathy, to be seen on that stern visage with its iron grey whiskers, stiff shaven upper lip, and slightly protruding chin. The Baron was too much mondain to please Sir James. "No bad news, sir, I hope," said the manager. "Yes, Smithson; yes, it is bad. Head it. Mr Alleyne will be in directly, I expect. He will want to be off to-night. I am afraid Vereton pere is not long for this world." The manager read the wire. "The poor Baron!" he said, as he finished. The Baron Vereton was a signally great favourite in that office, as he was everywhere: he was affable to the smallest, genial to the lowest, a veritable grand seigneur of the old school. When visiting his relative at his London office he had always time to have a chat Avith Smithson, quite in an easy way—that manner which endeared him to all the world. The old man's eyes somehow turned quite moist when he saw the words: "To Alleyne Vereton, Saltoun and Company, Budge Row, London. Come at once. Baron Vereton ill. Rorthays." This was the Baron's sub-manager. "I will let Mr Alleyne know the moment he returns, sir." "Do, Smithson, do," replied Sir James Saltoun, rising from his revolving chair and taking out his cigar case. "And as I am going now, and shall not probably see him, tell him how sorry 1 am to hear the bad news, and that we shall hope to have more satisfactory intelligence from him in Paris." "I will, Sir James." The old clerk left the room, and heard Sir James leave his office by the private door. It was not for fully an hour that Alleyne came in. He exclaimed as he entered: "Hullo, Smithson, you look ill; what's up?" "It is this, Mr Alleyne. ,, Alleyne took the wire, and glanced at its contents. "Poor old dad!" he exclaimed softly. Then sonlething hard stuck in his throat, and he leaned against a high stool in the outer office and gazed at the staring black letters. Was his father very bad, for him to be wired for? His father, who was so different from that cold, angular, automatic reckoning machine, Sir James Saltoun; his father, who had always treated him more like a comrade than a son; his dear old father, who wa3 always so warm-hearted, so generous, and whom he had not seen for six months, not, in fact, since that cold day in January when he had left the mansion in the Champs Elysees for London, there to learn the English side of business as his father had advised in a friendly way, with the counsel of camaraderie, saying: "It will make you stronger here my dear fellow, and we want more strength in Paris." , He thought of his mother, who died when he was ten, and whose portrait he had always with him—a little medallion similar in style to the likeness of a marquise of the ancien regime. ' His father could not be very bad, for he was perfectly well when last he heard news from France. '1 hope," exclaimed Smithson, "that you will find good news waiting for you, sir." "I hope so, Smithson. ,, "And if it is not asking too much, may I send a message to your father —just that I hope he will soon be all right." "1 will give it to him," replied Alleyne, and he grasped the old clerk's hand. "Thank you, sir; thank you. Can 1 do anything for you?" "Nothing, thanks—yee, you can. Send on one of the office boys to old Olivar's

in Glasshouse-street, and tell him that I want to see him to-night, most particularly, and that I should be glad if he brought the foils along with him, too." "Yes, Mr Alleyne: >'t surely you are not going to Paris to atop?" "How should I know? But I hope that I shall return."

He said good-bye, and left the office, deep in thought. It had been a- very pleasant six months altogether, with enough work thrown into it to prevent any lurking sense of desoeuvrement, of belittling disenchantment. He had never quite realised the sense of trouble or its contingency. The loss of his mother was a very far-off dream', relieved of a part of its sadness by the idea he jealously guarded of her —a lovely woman standing in the dreamy terraced garden of the old chateau at Saint Germain en Laye.

But for his father to be ill—his father who talked of the world as though it belonged to him • and not he to the world! That was . another thing entirely.

And somehow as he hailed a cab and drove to Jermyn-street there came into his mind another regret —tlie thought of Reynita.

"Poor little girl!" he said to himself.

But there was not much time in which to think. On arriving at his chambers he found he had but little time to spare.

He would have to start by the 9 p.m. mail train, and there were several things to be done first.

Firmin, who "valetted" for the three residents on his floor, helped him to pack. He did not know when he should be coining back, and was therefore ] bound to take a good deal of luggage. When the polite, clean-shaven Firmin asked urbanely, "Shall I put in your evening-dress, sir*?" he replied, "Yes, you may an well," though the thought of it seemed to make the moment a trifle more lugubrious, for it brought up the notion of the last ball at which he had danced with Margaret Saltoun, while he also recalled that day in the country, few week.g since, with the family and with Margaret, l for whom he had a great admiration; every detail of that day returned—the view, the 'fores*, the rustic villages, and the glimpse of the sea they had had quite on the other side of the downs. He was glad when he heard Olirar's familiar step on the stair. ' HI. "Gooi l evening, Olivar," he exclaimed, as the old Spaniard entered the room. "I want a few words with you in private, Mr Vereton, if you please." "Certainly. You have about finished, Firmin. I will do the rest. Thanks." The man withdrew, with a sovereign tip in his hand. When he had gone Alleyne looked hard at the old Spaniard, and said: "You talk strangely to me this evening, my dear Olivar." "There is no longer a dear Olivar." "What do you mean?" "It means, Mr Vereton, that I want to know how soon you intend to marry my daughter?" "MaiTy Reynita!" .he exclaimed. "Impossible!" ; "Miss Olivar is a suitable match for •you. You have plighted your word. There is no reason for delay. To-mor-row will suit us." "My dear Olivar—" The old man made a movement of impatience. " —You must see that this is impossible." "It is well you should know," said the old man proudly, "that if we do not find it impossible it is for no one else to do so. Our family is a noble one, any objection to a mesalliance could only come from it." "I am sorry—" "Will you many my daughter?" Alleyne gave a gesture of uncertainty and bewilderment. How could he appease this old man? How could he make amends for his crime whilst Margaret Saltoun was there to render such a step impossible? "You must give me time," he said at last. "You must give me your word and honour as a gentleman that you will marry my daughter, or else—"and Olivar took out the foils he was carrying , under his ann, "we will fight this matter out." "It is absurd. We don't fight nowadays." "Die old custom is good enough for an Olivar," said the old man, majestically. It seemed too ludicrous. At length Alleyne said, "You see how I. am situated. My father in Paris is ill. I have to be starting directly to see him." "It is good to think of your father, but you must also think of your wife." "When I return lot us resume -this conversation." "When you return," he said. "Shall you return? Do you mean to return? Is not this a contemptible ruse to escape from the consequences of your wrongdoing?" "It is no ruse, Olivar," said the young man, and all of a suaden he grew thoughtful whilst the old Spaniard approached him and laid his hand affectionately on his arm. "Come, Mr Vereton," he exclaimed. "I should not have spoken as I did, but my daughter is dear to me. She is all T have, and it is taught in our country that honour is all. I want her to be happy—tha/t is all." Vereton turned and held out his han-L "You are right. I will do my duty," he went on, huskily. "Come what may." "You will marry her?" "Yes." "You will not regret it. She will be a good wife, but " Vereton made a step towards the door as if afraid that his determination would not endure. "It can be now," he said, briefly, "before I leave London—now. I dare not wait long. But before I go to Paris I will make your daughter my wife." The old man wae transfigured. "I am ready," he said, quickly. "Ah! Reyna," he went on, musingly, "she will be happy yet." Together they went downs-tairs, and Vereton scarcely said a :word as he ac companied Olivar through the crowded thoroughfares, but as they turned into the narrow street where the old Spaniard lived, he gave a convulsive movement as if to draw back. ■ Olivar darted a glance of anxiety a.~ him. "You do not repent?" he said. Vereton shook his head. •

"No." he exclaimed, "but let us away on " He said not a word more untiVtney entered the house, and then the silence struck him as stranffe. Tteyna was not to be seen. Olivar called her. "Revna! Are you not here? There was no reply, and the old man dashed into the little salon• **«* « grievous sight met hie, eyes. Hid daugh-

ter was lying on a couch apparently dead. Yet no, she was not dead, for as he dropped on one. knee and took heT cold hands she opened her eyes. "He is there," she whispered, and then she "gave a cry of happiness for she caught sight of* Vereton.

"He has come to marry you,' , ' cried the old man, "All will be well —but. Reyna, my Reyna, what have you done 1"

The girl smiled up at him

"I wanted to die,' , she said, quietly. "I wanted to die," and as her father started to his feet she signed to Vereton. "Tell me that you did love me—■ once," she whispered. "Tell me that." The young man bent over her. "I did," lie said, huskily. "I did love you, Reyna—then—and now." She gave a sigh of content and fell back. "Thank you! I knew—when —when I heard that you were going away -that I had no hope and—and I determined not to live. I " But Vereton dashed to the door. "She has taken poison," he said, wildly. "I will get help," but even as he spoke it was too late to invoke human aid, and Olivar checked him by raising his hand.

"My daughter is dead,"' he murmured, as he placed his hand over her heart. which had ceased to beat. "But "he hesitated a moment—"you would have done your duty," and he held out his hand.