THE HEIR OF VERING: OR, THE QUEEN LILY.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXV, Issue 38, 13 February 1904, Page 6 (Supplement)

THE HEIR OF VERING: OR, THE QUEEN LILY.

BY CHARLES GABVICE.

CHAPTER XIX. THE LOVE OF OTHER DAYS. We leave Kyra, surrounded by an awed and startled crowd, and return to the fortunes of some of the other personages of this history. We can leave her quite safely now, for that great feat of strength and calm audacity has settled her position in Minerva House, and no one, for the future, will persecute or annoy her; make yourself feared, and you will be respected. There is nothing a mob, whether of howling roughs or chattering schoolgirls, loves and admires so much as strength, and Kyra had both physical and mental strength. In one day she became the heroine and the leader of the mob that had hissed and cackled at her heels for a week. The London season had not commenced at this time, but preparations were being made, and the last gatherings at country houses were being held. At one of these, a country house of a well-known sporting baronet, one Sir William Pacewell, a choice little party had been got together. Lady Pacewell was as well known and held as high a place in the fashionable hemisphere as did her husband in the sporting one, and between them they could make as choice a bouquet of guests as any lady of haut ton. It was April, and warm, as it sometimes will be in this deceitful and vile climate of ours. Dinner was just over, and Lady Pacewell and a confidential friend of hers were pacing the terrace outside the drawing-room, enjoying a chat. Every now and then they passed the window of the dining-room, and caught the deep tones of the men's voices, and at such times, as is the way with women, they would become silent. In one of these pauses the Honorable Mrs Gorton said to Lady Pacewell: "Did you ever notice what a beautifully deep voice Lord Vering has?" "Yes," replied Lady Pacewell, halting a moment to listen to the voice, which was just then speaking. "Matches his face, doesn't it ? So thorough and highbred, so patrician. He is a great favourite of ihinc, Jane, and I pride myself not a little on getting him here, lie is one of the richest peers in England. His uncle was Wild Lord Jack; you don't remember him, my dear; but ask Mr Gorton what sort of a man he was. He repented in his old age, and left this young man his immense savings, and, of course, the estate. Vering is only ten miles from here, and it is a magnnilicent place." "And does he live there all alone?" asked Mrs Gorton, quite interested. "Yes, quite alone. He loves solitude as devotedly as a hermit." "Why does he not marry?" "Ah, that is the question. Some say thereby hangs a tale, but I don't know, neither does any one. else know anything about it. Some three years before the old earl died, Percy Chester—as he was then —was at one time a great favourite with us all, and two or three of our sex were supposed to be dying for him. Several women had been spoken of as the cause of his sudden disappearance—for, 1 must tell you that he disappeared one night, and was next heard of in North America, somewhere quite out of the world " "Why, then, he followed in the footsteps of his uncle," said Mrs Gorton. "Oh, he, Wild Jack, had been over the whole globe!" laughed Lady Pacewell, with a little blush. Her ladyship had been one of Wild Jack's lady-loves. "Yes, he disappeared quite suddenly, and only came above, the horizon an hour or two before the old earl died." "How romantic!" "Wait; there is more Tomance than that! It seems that he did not return alone—of. course. I am only telling you gossip now, for I am not in his confidence, nor is any other man or woman, 1 believe—but the story goes that he brought a young girl —" Lady Pacewell broke off suddenly. "Tell me* my dear—your eyes are so good—is that a carriage corning along the park?" "Yes," said Mrs Gorton. '"Then, I shall have to postpone the history of Lord Vering, for that must be the late-comers of out party. 1 expected them by this train- Go in, dear, and give the gentlemen their tea, will you? 1 must receive those people, and see if any dinner ; s left," and she turned into the dining room. The ■carriages came swiftly up the drive of Ashwell Park, and, as the gentlemen left the dining-room and got their tea in the drawing-room, the new guests made their entrance at the hall. The drawing-room of Ashwell Park was a large, old-fashioned room, with quiet nooks and curtained recesse;*, and four French windows opening on to the terrace. The party was not a large one, and by the time the new arrivals had finished their dinner and reached the drawing-room, the party already settled in the house was spread about at the piano, the whist-table, and some in the recesses, talking over the coming season- One or two of the gentlemen were by special permission smoking out on the terrace, for the night was a warm one, as we have said. Among the latter was Lord Percy, leaning ov-er the balustrade, smeking and thinking, as usual. The newcomers drew round the teatable, at which Mrs Gorton was still officiating, talking and laughing, and making acquaintance. Percy heard the increased number of voices, and, with a start, awoke from his reverie, lit another cigar, and drew farther away, to resume his meditation. Of whom Avas he thinking? Of a certain young girl, now struggling with English grammar and English manners at Minerva HousePresently, i lad.y—one of the newcomers —detached herself from the rest and sauntered through the open window on to the terrace. Presently, the aroma of a cigar reached her; she coughed slightly, and turned. A gentleman was smoking near her; at the little cough, he started, and, throwing the cigar away, came forward. "I beg your pardon. Lady Pacewell; I did not know any lady was near " Then he stopped, for the lady had started, and, with one hand resting slightly on the balustrade, turned face to fece to him"l am not Lady Pacewell," she said, in a voice sweetly soft and tremulous, with a half-doubtful questioning. At the sound of that voice Lord Percy pulled up short, and uttered a low exclamation:;

"Lilian—Marchioness!" The lady echoed, tlie low cry, and turned away from him, with her hand clinched tightly. "Percy Chester —Lcrrd V-ering!" TheTe was a moment's silence, the man looking at the woman -who had betrayed him, the woman pressing her hand to her heart and struggling for calm. She was the first to break that terrible silence. "You called mc Marchioness. I am not marchioness- I am—Lilian Devigne." "What!" he said, in a voice low and troubled. "Lilian Devigne? 7 ' "Yes," she said, with a weary smile that gave a pensive loveliness to 'her face beyond words, "I am still Lilian Devigne."' Percy's dark, •eyebrows coniiaicfced, as he looked at her and listened. "And the. marquis?" \c said, with a grim cynicism that brought tlie red blood to her delicate face.. ' "Hβ is dead." she. replied, in a low voice. "Have you not heard?' , "I have heard nothing." he said. "I have been out of the world since—" He paused, significantly, and she winced visibly. "When did he die —where?" She turned her face from him, and leaned one white arm upon the balcony. "He died the day before that fixed for our marriage; died in an hour after a heavy dinner at the Duke of Glocmin's," and she smiled, bitterlyPercy stood regarding her, in silence. And so the price she had betrayed him for had slipped from her grasp. It was bare justice—aifd yet—and yet he pitied her —a dangerous sentiment for any man in his position to feel for a woman, and such a woman! There was a profound silence; then she turned to him. "And you? Ah, but I have no right to ask! I have no right to ask, although I have thought of you so often — always! Lord Percy, I have wronged you past forgiveness; I have prayed that you might forget, as profoundly as you, no -doubt, hate mc! But I cannot forget—l cannot forgive myself!" As she spoke, she placed her hand, whifcely gloved, but not more white than her exquisite arm, against her heart, and then let it fall upon the stone balcony. "I cannot forget, and I see myself vile and base, and yet not so base as weak, and I loathe myself- 1 did not know you were here. They told mc you remained at home, secluded and alone; that you visited no one. I did not dream that I should be likely to meet you here, or I would not have come." Sitll he was silent. "What was there for him to say? "And yet," she resumed, almost inaudibly, "it was not to spare myself that 1 would have avoided you. I am punished night and clay, by conscience, by remorse, and 1 hug my punishmentIf 1 had spent one hour of happiness since—since you left mc, I should die now at your feet with shame. But I have suffered. Lord Percy. almost enough for expiation. Even you, could you but know its extent, would deem my remorse sufficient. No doubt, long before this, you have had no feeling in the matter but one of profound thankfulness for your escape from one so worthless, so worldly, so mercenary ; and my presence here can only cause you annoyance, not pain. How often do I say to myself: 'He never loved roc—thank Heaven—he never/ loved mc! No man so good, so wise, could have really loved me.' " "That assurance was false." said Percy, in a deep, low voice, speaking for the first time. "I loved you, and you knew it." She hid her eyes in her hands, and a slight tremour raa through her frame, whether of pain or pleasure, at his words, who can say? "The deeper the wrong, then. Now. I know that you must hate the sight of my face." She looked up at the sky, and smiled"lt is too late to-night, or mamma should ask them to let us go. Tomorrow she shall make some excuse, and we will get from your sight." He leaned over the balcony for a moment; then said, gravely: "There is no need for anything of the kind. If we two cannot meet without pain to either, it shall be for mc to retreat, not yon; but there should be no such feeling after these years- There is no bitterness in my heart against you, Miss Devigne; if I cannot forget, I can forgive." As he erased, "his noble words ringing low and clear on the evening air, the beautiful woman, listening in breathless eagerness, bowed her head upon her hands, and her bosom rose and fell with her efforts to suppress the sobs that, shook her. "Hush!" he said, gently. "Hush! You magnify the—the mistake of the past. You have suffered too greatly; it is all expiated, for I have not forgotten, but I am not unhappy. It is time that you should strive to" forget." "You are happy." she said, in- a "low. tremulous voice, her eyes fixed on his face, as if she could read his soul. "You tell mc that I may stay here. that you do not hate mc; if you know how great a weight you had lifted from my heart—if I could but then hope that you would ever bring yourself to forgive mc!" He smiled gravely. "I have forgiven you long ago," he said, simply. She looked up at him, with wide, tearful, abashed eyes; then, as he held out his hand, she bowed her lovely head over it, and—he fancied afterwards that she kissed it"How noble you are!" she breathed. "How noble!" Then, without a word more, she looked at him full in the face, and meekly bowed, and glid-ed away. Percy looked after her, in silence; tlhen he paced up and down, with bent head and frowning brows; his heart beat quicker than he liked it—he was not so unmoved as he had seemed. How beautiful she was—how unspeakably bewitching—-this old love of his! Her beauty had lost something of its girlishness, but it had gained a spirituality that compensated for it tenfold. He laid his hand upon the balcony and vaulted over into the garden, lit a cigar, and strode off towards the park. Among the trees a new train of thought took possession of him. These woods reminded him of those others across the sea, white with snow, and silent as the grave—reminded him of Kyra. He had not forgotten her. Ah, no! There was not an hour of the day that the vision of her lithe, dark-robed figure, lying before him. clinging to his hands, with its lovely face upturned so piteously was not before him. iNTo, he had not been near her, beHe stopped ;to ask him-

self why. Not because he did not care for the child, but because lie cared too well. It was not well that she should centre her passionate affection on him so intensely; she was young; if she did not wee him, her passionate dependence on him would slacken and grow less absorbing. He would keep away from her for a while, until she had learned to think less entirely of him — to detach hecself somewhat, to form new ideas and new friendships. It was for her good that he should do so, and —he looked up at the trees, and then sighed—perhaps also for his own. Yes, here in the solitude and stillness of the night, he knew that the child was enshrined in his innermost heart, and that she was so much to Mni that he could not tell how much, or in what way. "Little, dark-eyed, lithe-limbed Kyra, Heaven send that you learn to love mc ! less and all the world more!" (To be cautioned daily.)