A Long MARTYRDOM.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVI, Issue 222, 16 September 1905, Page 14

A Long MARTYRDOM .

By CHARLES W. HATHA WAT. I Author of "A Hash Vow," "Love's Gnid- ■ ing Eand." "Marjnrie's Sweetheart," J "Joseph Dane's Diplomacy." Etc., Etc. i CHAKiKK XVIiL LOOKING BACK. "This war. please." said a grave and .deferential footman to Rosalie, and he ; led the way up those "g..ir»fous siarrs" , —they were rot "gorgeous." but very handsome—and along a gallery, acroes a small anteroom, and then he knocked at a door set under an arehwav. openi ed the door, drew aside a velvet cur|tain. and announced, "Mrs Camden." ' l'osalip found herself ia an apartment 'of which she had only a genera), but dazzling expression, for a tall, richlyrobed figure sprang foi-arard to meet her. and she was in Vera's arms, and •was sobbing in the sheer delight of her heart. "Dear old Rosalie!" said Lady Sa- : bine's soft, rich voice at lastj "it is so good to =cc. tou —so good!" I "Iwas ju?t wj)d_wTth happiness when ' . I liad your letter,'" said Rosalie,"wiping ; j her eyes. "And it was sweet of vera i , to ■writr so soon.' , "Sweet of mc? You are the best j friend I harp, R/>se. Now, let mc look : at you."^ j She held the Frenchwoman off. ; "Let mc look at you!" retorted RosaI lie. "Your'e much more worth seejing.^ .So they mntualiy surveyed each I other. Rotaiie was improved. Vera thought; I she looked more s6ftoned and refined; the black costume she wore, well-cut and well-fitting, made her look almost ■ a lady". i Vera seemed to Rosalie more beautiful than ever. Three years had pass,ed over her liphtjy: she looked not a year older: and if there was yet deeper sadness in \be dark eyes, about the , lines of the tender lips, it didT'not apjpenr now that her face wore the bright- ! ness of happy moments that were pro- | babry rare enough to her. No shabby frock to-day, as in the old time in Little Compton-street: Vera ■wore a pretty tea. gown; gems sparkled on her fingers and in her ear*: she • was clothed a* she should be: a prinCPSS she had looked in poor apparel. i but none the less so for the rich and graceful garments that belonged to her, as it were, by right. "Well," she said, at length, -with that quick, vivid smile of hers, which was yet so pathetic for the shadow of pain in it. "are you satisfied? You look so. Rose." '"I should think T did. Yon don't look an inch older, you kno>v: but 1 do believe you grow more bsautiful every day. You must have been breaking no end of hearts abroad: and you will I here. I know. And it's all as it should I be." Rosalie went on. touching the ! gown, "your dress and the place" — j looking round—"what a lovely room! j You were born to all thi-;. you know, .just as I was born to different things. In the old times you lookpd like a rosediamond in a pewter setting." "T. often wish myself back hi the pewter setting for all that, EorC. But. ; never mind, dear"—as Rosalie turned. iwith q'lick sympathy in look and gesture. "I want yon to t?ll mc about yourself, and your husband, and all you do. and presenfly you sliall my • boy. Come and sit doivn here—so!" — drawing Rosalie to a low couch by the fire, and seating herself by her friend's side. ' i "Let mc take off your hat and cloak. ! Xo —Rose —not that look! You must i forget 1 am Lady Sabine! I am not j that to yon!" cried the girl, almost passionately. "1 am Vera —you must call ' mc so when we are together." j "If you wish it." said Rosalie, deeply ! moved by this outburst —it was evident that the glory and wealth of her changed life had not made YeTa happy "but. of course, there i.= a greater diiference between us than there was then, when we were both in the theatre together, and in tha.t way on equal terms."' "Yes. Rose"—Vera's hands were clasping her friend's closely—"but not when we are together —you and I: we are friends, as we were when yon~were so good to mc. and we used to have tea in my little room, or with your dear old father, in Greek-street. I must go back to it. Rose?" i ""Won't he feel honoured!" cried Ro- ; salie. "And, oh! Dick told mc to thank j you for your kind message to him, and ; ■ to give you his best respect." : "It is very good of him," , s«id Vera. ! "1 remember how nice he used to be in Jthe theatre. Don't you ever wast to | ■go bac kto it, Rose?" i > i

, J "Sometimes,"' she replied, laughing; ! ''perhaps one day I shall break out, and l j accept an engagement—Dick hasn't for- -; bidden it. you know—just to dance the i mischief out of mc." '"There's no mischief in you. Rose," - isaid tenderly; and then she asked -; many questions about her friend's home. 3: her life, etc. -1 Hers was essentially the sympathetic I nature: she was always more ready to 1 talk about other people's interests than her own: more happy in listening than in telling. No details seemed petty to ; her—how the rooms were furnished. ; what Rosalie did with her time, and -so on; and for her starving, hunirry heart, cursed with that terrible power : ( of loving, that terrible need for love. :; there was added interest in all this; for - J Rosalie had a borne: a husband who -loved her; they were happy, these two, i the stage carpenter and the dancer. 1 : Rosalie had not to maintain a eon--1 ! stant struggle to preserve her own dig- ! ] nity. to keep scandal at bay. to hide > the wounds that were always bleeding. j Her needs—her sphere—were narrower; i!no "fierce white light" beat upon her I I life; but so she was the happier; '■ j Even before her miserable marriage, i ! Vera, had learned the bitter truth, that ' to be proud, sensitive, capable of great ! things, of great passions, to feel keenly ! ! both joy and sorrow, is to be ratheV ■ cursed than blessed. A thousand times ; more fully had she felt that truth since 1 ' she had been Leicester Sabine's wife. ■ ''I seem to have done nothing but •talk about myself.'" said Rosalie, at ' last : ''it's your fault —your old wav — ■you are so sympathetic. Won't you i tell mc something now?" i "What shall I "begin with?" said Vera, 1 lightly. "11l ring- first for tea. Eh bien! ! I have to give a reception this day forti night." "Have to! I should think it delightful! Bu<U then, I dare say you're siek~ of all . that sort of thing?"' "Indeed I am. But one must do it. It is horrible to mc. that 'must do' this i or that; I am Bohemian by nainre. not fashionable. I am afraid I shall do some i shocking things, and horrify society."' "Oh: they'll think everything charming that you do." said Rosalie. Vera shrugged her shoulders. '"Perhaps I shall put them to the , test," said she. A servant caroe in just then with tea. ' "Edwards," Lady Fabine said, "please tell Marietta to bring down my boy." "Yes. my lady.' , I "An Italian nurse?" asked Rosalie, when the door closed. ,r V es. a Roman girl. She is simply devoted to Edgar and mc. She'll mafce you think of the piece at the Doric that I was m, as an Italian. ,, said Vera, laughing; "only my garb was rather more gorgeous." "And how exquisite you looked" ?aid Rosalie. ""Does Edgar talk?"' "More clearly than he ongbt to. for such a young thing."' said the mother, a shade falling on her brow; -"be is so ' precocious. But he mixes up Italian so mut-h with what, he says, that I don't think youll make much of his prattle. Here they come." There was a new light in her eager eyes as the door opened, and a handsome Italian woman, with a gold arrow struck through her hair, gold earrings, and velvet bodice, appeared, leading by the hand a little boy of two yeai-3 old, dressed like a picture. He -was a lovely child, with his mother's gold-tinted hair, and great, dark eyes—no trace of tbo father in him—bat . he looked far too irail and delicate for j eny chance of Jiving beyond infancy: , there was nothing of boy stnrdiness' about him; he seemed to be made out \ of alabaster: you felt as if to catch j him up too hastily might crash the life ' out of him. The inrtan* he =aw his mother he slipped his hand from and ran forward, with outstretched hands, and she caught him up in her amis, and i folded him to her breast, -with a passion i that made Rosalie's heart ache. She had only thi* frail creaiarre to cling to , — \ and how soon that must be taken from | her! i "I will rinw presently. Marietta.' , Vtra j s«id. in Italian, to the nurse, who f-urt- ' Plod and withdrew. Then his mother ' told Edgar to go to Rosalie and talk to ! her. "'Mother loves her very much."' she i e aid. and the boy went frankly to tne stranger, and sat on her knee, prattling to her in his sweet, young voice, in a polyglot of ■which she <~ou!d only row and then catch the meaning, playing with her watch chain, and making himself quite at home. Rosalie, enchanted, went into lhapsodies over the child, and la-ughed at the i idea of his "troubling" her. "I could never tire of him!" she ex- ■ daimed. "He is simply irresistible." Vera"? lips trembled. Only she knew ! to the full what pain there was in her ' love for her child; what daily, hourly dread of losing him. Presently Edgar went back to his mother, and nestled in her arms, till it • was time to go to bed. : "I dare not keep him up beyond h« time."' ?he explained to Rosalie: "Tie is '■ very delicate, you can see that: he does j not ail. but he is so fragile, so excitable: j he needs constant care. 5 ' So Edgar was dismissed with Marietta. j and departed after fervently embra-cing I Rosalie, and still more fervently embracing his mother. Rosalie saw him once more slumber- j ing in his little bed. when Vera took j her To see the nurseries, and finally Mrs. Camden departed with a lovely bouquet of greenhouse flowers, which Vera herself out. and sent from herself to Dick. , "I shall want you to come again ! soon." Vera said. and. Rosalie gladly i promised to come. j "She never once spoke of her hus- i band."' said Rosalie, inwardly, as she \ went homeward. ""You iright have ' thought he was dead. Shed be happier j if he was. Oh! my dear, darling Vera! i there's little enough sunlight. I know, in i ! your life." CHAPTER XIX. j WILL HE BE WORTH KNOTTING? ! In issuing invitations for this reeep- j tion. which was to be. in fact, her intro- j duction to London society. Vera Sabin° was beset by two difficulties, the first of which would be none, were it not lor the second. The first was. that she, naturally, j knew none of the people personally: the second was that she would not trust her husband'? selection. She knew, by bitter experience, how ho tried to introduce her into society more than dubious, and to force upon her guest* she did not choose to receive. ! There was no danger of her falling J into any mistakes in Paris. Vienna or Rome; but of the London world she knew little. She was acquainted with some names: others conveyr?d no meaning to her; and London society is sorely per- i ' plexiag to outsiders; it is so mixed, iia : gradations so undefined; it is so easy I to invite a man or woman who may be ; all right in another "'set," and all wrong in yours; there are people who are "re- • ceived." in a sense, and yet you would I stare to see them at so-and-so's honae. I Sftbine, Those taste in regard to hi*

; companions was never fastidious, had I not improved of l»te, bnt the rather d.c- - teriorated: and he tried to entrap her i into sending cards .to certain friends of his ■whom she declined to know. " She had heard, through hhn and I 1 through others, of these men. and much as sha hated strife, she had never yielded a principle. c ! She looked down a list he had grvai j her one day, and put her pencil through ! five names. I 1 Sabine, who happened to be lounging 3 ! near, asked, insolently: „ i '""Whose names are you striking out f J 1 "Xajnes you should not have put in, 3 7 \ she answered: "you yourself have told rj mc what manner of men some of these. .. ! arp. Clipstone is a stockbroker.^ , r ; "And a frieDd of mine." j ! "Hβ cannot_he of mine; nor will I mi- , j trodece him To my guest»; Denny has I bf-en warned of the wjjrf; Count .Vlasco- - \ viteh is a blackleg." -j "You dare to say it!" cried Sabine. » I starting up. . !*" "Dare" is a strange word to use t« ; ; mc/ replied Vera, without moving. "I r J told you the reputation that man had i abroad, aud yoa choose to shot your . ' eyes to the facts. I do not choose to do t! tie same." , ti "Bosh! what's his reputation abroad? r No one knows him here." "I know him." she said, coolly, "and i'■ that is enough for mc." » j "You set up to be a.TnoralsT. eh?" -with i a sneer. He came and looked over her . i shoulder. ""i"ou have crossed out Alma ; I Dene, and Mrs. Gillespie? What for?" - he said. There's no harm about Mrs. I! Dene: that business of a few years ago j has blown over now, and nothing was , proved asainst her/ " "Ahna Dene/ as you call her, as every - one calls her. is bad style; you know that as well as I do." returned Vera. : with that careless manner which was ! almost disdainful: "she never was in a J good s*>t. She will never set foot in my - J house/ sI "I say there's no harm iff her!* , re--1 prated Sabine: "but I don't pretend to i j care whether sbe comes or not. TVe only met her twice in mr life. But. Mrs. j • GiHespie — what's the objection to her?"' I ""She has no right to the name «lie '■ bears. She divorced her husband, and' ! married again-" ; '"Look here." said he. anjrriTy. "you s ! can't drive your head against the law of the land." ' i "The law of the church." she saii j , j rising now and facing him. "is first with j j mc. My church forbids divorce; so does ' i this woman's church. Because she puts i • the civil law above the 7/ivine, I am not . i bound to do the same. If I meet her in • i society. I cannot make a. scene; but I : ! decline to know her. or sach as she is. j men or women. I will not ask them to my house, or knowingly meet them in j any other house/ ' I ''You'd best send round a circular/ . J said Sabine, with a "and specify i the people youil kntrw. and the people i you won't knew. You're too grand for one. too pious for another, too honest for a third. And yet, after all, you're Boi hemian. I can't make you out." *"It isn't necessary. What is necessary." she said, quietly, "'is that you should cease to interfere in this matter. Otherwise I will srad out no more iavi- j tations. and cancel those I have sent, and t-be world can think what it ; pleases." '■Well, have it your own way," said j ' Sabine. yielding, as h» always did. in the i end. *"I don't care -twopence about the ! j whole thing," and he flung oat.- *>i^,^ii>e-i Too*?**** if . =% psg Txuly.srcra\s .was c nappy home i \ In the afternoon Lady Linda Durn- ! ford called. She was eWerly, bright, and ' a woman of the world, yet not a worldly woman. """Does Sir Leicester." said she. in the course of conversation, "know Vivian Esmond V "No. I know Mr Esmond's name. I ! have heard of him ai>road/* "Such a fascinating man!" said Lady i Linda, "and so handsome: All my girls ; ! are married, so T can afford to speak of j him disinterestedly. Will you let mc j bring him ? He's a man jou must know. 'of course, and the sooner the better." | 1 "I shall be very pleased. Lady Linda; j ! any friend of yvars will be welcome." ! 1 "Thanks. That's settled, then," and . Lady Linda shortly afterward took her j leave. "Vivian Esnond," Vera repeated to j herself, pausing for a moment, before i opening the book she had caught up. "Tes. they used to talk so much of him lin Vien-na : thai young Cotraiess Teresa, Ctzaiska had lost her heart to him. I 1 wonder if he will, after aIL be worth the knenrinw? - ' ; Did she ever recall those careless , words, that half cynical question, about j Vivian Esmond? (To be Continued on Monday.) 1