LOVE'S DILEMMA; OR, FOR AN EARLDOM.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVI, Issue 14, 17 January 1905, Page 6

LOVE'S DILEMMA; OR, FOR AN EARLDOM.

Br CHARLES GARVtCB, Aatkor of "The. "A Mwtywsl Love* «A W«Btt'l SoeV* "Ske Lo»ed Hiißi" eto.

CHAPTER XXH. MAN AND WIPE. Clifford let his hand touch Nellie's sleeve encouragingly. "We had a little misunderstanding," he answered drily. "No, we'll let bygones be bygones. Mr. Wood. The doctor will, I am sure, keep his own counsel. Yyse is miles away by this time. Why, how long is it ago?" "Three weeks," 3aid Mr. Wood. "Three wtekt-!" murmured Clifford, with a faint look of uneasiness. "So long! Well, by this time he is, if he is a sensible man. half-way across the ocean. It i~ the best thing he could have done, and what I advised him; the pity of it i- ihat he didn't take my advice without caving in my head. But I've quite luadf up my mind. Nothing will persuade mc to prosecute him—or anybody iKe." he added, almost to himself, as he thought of that other, the old major, ■»vhu had twice wronged him. Old Wood went out grumbling, with the doctor. :\nd Nellie was left to her solitary watch. Clifford was silent for some little time, lor the argument and the talking had tired him; then lio said: "Give mc your ha ml. N'elli' , . I want to hold it while I tdl yon —but, ah. no, 1 can't tell you how full or gratitude my tieart i* ten :ill you havp ilone for me!"' She slid ht'V hand -lowly and shyly into his. and sat with downcast face, her heari beating like an imprisoned bird in her bosom. "You thought, perhaps, that I did not know, half the time I h-j.ve beon lying here like a log. who it was that watljhrd over mc night and day; but 1 knew it. even when I was at my worst, and 1 tried, Nellie, to get strength and tell you; and, now I'm strong enough, I can't find words; words are suchpoor things! But. Nellie, this I know, that no man was ever nursed as you have nursed mc even by his own sister." She looked up swiftly, and a pang' seemed to shoot through her heart. "No man ever h-ad a sweater, dearer, more loving hpurted sister than you have been to mc. XcUie. and if I live to be n hundred. I shall never forget it.!"' There was silence. She suid not a word, arid he could not see. her face, which had grown whiter ajid whiter afttr hc> had c-alled her his. sister. Then lie spoke again. "Et was a lucky and a happy day for mc. that day 1 enm<; down into" the quarry, Ntllie. Do you knmvtltat if it had not been for vout father's kindness and generosity. I should have been an out- j c;i.st wandering about America or Aus- j tr.Jid [if the old wretched fashion. ! •J -lioulil never have known you. Xtllie. and what it was to have a clear little -ister; ati-l then I should never luve made this diseoverv which has altered niy life. You warn to know what that is. little one?" he said, with a -miU? and a pressure of the hand 1 .;" and I'm longing to tell you. But not yet, Nellii-; not yet! A day or two—when I j.'i-t a little stronger, directly I can get :• bout— you shall know all." You will understand then what I mean when 1 -ay that the day I caiue into the quarry ■UM- the turning point in my life." He had spoken with some excitement, mid. hi.s face had grown Hushed. She notieid it at once. ;md bent over him. "Yon shall tell mc all about it, Mr. Haven." she said, soothingly; "but don't talk any more now! It is time you went to sleep for a little while " He l:iu<rhed, his eyes flashing with the brightness of the last remnants of his lever. "You think 1 am still wandering in my mind. 1 see. Xellie," he said. '"But I'm as sensible as a sane man can possibly mc, and I've a very .serioirs meaning to my words. But. there. I won't repay your sweet goodness by disobedience tbe moment I'm well tniugh to disobey; I'll take my nap. but only on one "condition." "And that is?" sire said. "That you will go out and get a little run in the fresh air. You need not mind leaving mc, Nellie.; I am quite well and .strong now. you know. Come, go, there's a good girl! Why. who's to nurse you if you are ill?" She straightened the pillow and the counterpane, and he took her hand as it passed him, and raised it to his lips. "Thank you. thank you a thousand times, dear Nellie, my little sister!" he said. • • . She did not snatch her hand away, but drew it from his slowly, and, with lowered head. p.T»<sed out. " When Hie door had closed behind her, she -,r.ood with her band pressed to her heart, a dazed, benumbed look on hor face; then, with an uncertain step, she mad- her way to the pa-tli. and slowly climbing it. dropped on the grass and hid her fare in her hands, while her lips murmured in a kind of sob: "His sisrer! Only bis ,-trster! That i.s all. that is all , " " Five minutes af.er she had left tbe cottage, a gentleman eamc from the cliffs on the other side of the quarry and stood looking down into it. He wore a long ulster, and had turned up his collar, which almost concealed his face. It was Arthur Carr-Lyon. and he h.id comp to -see for himself what this Clifford Riiveu was like, who had robbed him <»i" Kare Meddon's love, and again?) whom flip ajionymous note had warned him. For a few mi/iutes he stood behind a shelf of rook, -which sheltered him from observation, iuokinp around with a stealthy glarure, as if he were bent on some murderons errand; then, seeing that no nut was about, he descended the path, kf-eping as much under the shadow of the overhanging rock as he could, and made his way to the cottage. Even then he paused, and with pale face and stealthy glance, stood listening for a moment or two. Then he knocked, and, getting no answer, softly opened the door and looked in. The comfortable aspect of the room seemed to surprise him, and he stood

looking round curiously and suspiciously, and waiting for some one to come. But as no one appeared, he knocked at the inner door, and again getting no answer, turned the handle and went in. Nellie had drawn down the blind, and tbe room was partly dark, so that, though he could see the face of the sick man, he could not distinguish his features. He went up to the bed. walking on tip-toe, and looked down at Clifford. "Curse him!" he muttered. "He looks a gentleman," and his hands clenched as his face grew red with jealous hatred. "Who is he, and Avhat is he, and what's i he playing a part here for? She meets him. I suppose—curse him, I—l could wring , his neck as he lies here!" and his hands twitched. Then, suddenly, while his lips were forming maledictions on this unknown man who had stepped between him and Knte. Clifford raised his head, and seeming to look at him. though in reality he looked beyond him into vacancy, said, in a low but perfectly distinct voice: "1 am Desmond Carr-Lyon, the Earl of Carr-Lyon. I can prove it!" Arthur Carr-Lyon sat perfectly motioaless for a moment, then he gazed wildly at the white face, and sprang to his feet like a man who doubts his own senses. For a moment or two he stood there, his eyes glaring down at the unconscious man. then he sprang, on tiptoe, I across the room, tore down the curtain, I and springing back to the bed bent down and scrutinised Clifford's face. "By heaven!" he exclaimed, shrinking back, "it is Desmond!" Then he sank into the chair, and sat holding his head with his hands, and j .still glaring at the white, wasted face. ! "It's —it's Desmond! I kno-v him! I Yes, it's Desmond! And—and he is the i earl! Then what am I. Why, I'm nothI ing! Desmond come to life again, and ! —and I'm kicked, out!" He repeated this a dozen times at least, until the words had lost their j meaning for him; then he got up and bent over the bed again. "Yes. it's Desmond!" he said, hoarse- , ly. "And I'm not dnmk or dreaming. I Desmond! What shall I do? What shall I do?" His brain whirled: the room seemed , spinning round him. and to his fancy i t\n' sleeping man's placid face was grinning an<J mocking at him. Stifling a cry, he staggered out of the j room into the air, and leaning against ; tbe door-post, tried to control his i whirling brain. ! "It's Desmond—my Cousin Desmond '■ —the rightful heir, inside there," he told himself with dogged persistence. "He isn't dead, as that old hound, the major, i swore. Does he know it?—does Desmond himself know it? If so, why i hasn't hp come forward and cl*imed the title? Why hasn't he, why hasn't he?" ( and he glared round suspiciously. "Who's at the bottom of this, and what are they J playing at? What's the major's game"? What's Kate's? Does she know that Desmond's alive, nnd I'm—l'm nobody and nothing? No, she doesn't know it: the major doesn't know it, or he wouldn't have sold her to mc and she wouldn't have accepted mc. It's for money and the title she's marrying mc. That's it! I've known that all along!" Then, suddenly, as he repeated this to himself with savage self-torture, an idea struck him. He was a. fool, but he was cunning when he was sober. . "She was going to marry mc for my . ! money and my title—and she shall ' , marry mc!" j J There was something so gratifying to ! hi.s malicious, jealous mind in the idea : 1 of entrapping those who had sought to j j entrap him. that he even laughed, a hoarse, mirthless laugh. Then he went back to the bedroom and looked at Clifford, still asleep. "Why didn't that fool kill him outright?" he muttered. "He looks weak and bad. and as if it wouldn't take much 1 to kill him, even now," and he glanced round the room. "I could strangle him easily," he hissed, and his fingers twitched spasmodically. But Arthur Carr-Lyon was too great a coward for such a decisive action, and after glowering down at the man whose title and money h.e had usurped, he left the bedside and the cottage. i When he arrived at Lydeote, every- ! body seemed in a state of bustle and con- ; fusion; and he went straight to bis room and, locking the door, threw himself into a chair. His valet had been packing, and on tin* clothes-rail in the dressing-room Arthur Carr-Lyon could sec the regula- j tioji wedding suit pot out, ready for the morrow. "Only a few hours*" he muttered feverishly. "Only a few hours oow! He can't leave the cottage; I'll take e*re no letter reaches her. No! do what you like after, Cousin Desmond, but FH marry Kate Meddon to-morrow!" The day closed, and the morrow broke clear and bright, and the sun streamed through the window upon Kate, as she stood before the glass in her white satin bridal gown. Ann was on her knees beside her. arranging the gauzy folds of the lace veil, and Lady Warrter, in the mauve silk which ladies of her age always wear on such occasions, surveyed the operation at 'a few yards' distance. Presently there came the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and the two bridesmaids were permitted to enter. They were two nieces of Lady Warner, just fres-h from school, and they started a duet of ecstatic admiration immediately. "Oh, Miss Meddon; oh, Kate, you look simply lovely! Doesn't she, aunt? Ever so much prettier than Miss Brabazon,. and everybody said she was the loveliest bride that had ever been seen! And that veil—oh, it is too beautiful, too lovely! And what exquisite flowers! And, look, Lord Carr-Lyon has given us a bouquet each, and diamond pendants — see, Kate! Oh, auntie don't you think she is ~ lucky girl to make such a match*?" Lad;. Warner simply nodded; but something in their girlish enthusiasm roused Kate for a moment, and she looked from one to the other with a strange ! smile that they remembered years after. ! "So you think I am hicky, do you?" she said; her sweet, low voice sounding very measured and cold. "Of course we do, and so does everybody else! Why, you should have heard the bishop—you knew he had come? He told the major that the Carr-Lyon earldom is one of the oldest in the kingi dom, and that you had made as good a

match as if you had had a couple of seasons in London." Kate turned her head awaj, and raised a bonquet which he had sent her to her face to hide the spasm which passed over it; then she shuddered and held the flowers away from her. "What is it, Kate?" the three asked in* chorus. "Nothing, nothing," she faltered. "T never did care much for the smell of orchids." Kate moved toward the door and then she stopped. "Give—give mc some wine, please," she said. '•Kate, are you ill ?" cried one of the girls, for lier pale face had grown white as the driven snow. "Oh, you are not going to faint, are you?" "No." said Kate, when she had drunk the wine; "no, Lucy, I'm not going to faint—why should 1? But. you see. for all my bragging. I am a little nervous." The two girls looked at each other, and the youngest, as they followed down the stairs, whispered to her aunt: "I think she feels it more than we think, aunt. Kate isn't so cool and matter of fact as people consider her to be." (To be continued daily.)