A MISGUIDED LOVE

Auckland Star, Volume XXXIX, Issue 306, 23 December 1908, Page 7 (Supplement)

A MISGUIDED LOVE

Or WHEN HEARTS ARE TRUE

By BERTHA. M. CLAY Au&or of "Another Man's Wife," "A Bitter Beckoning, 1, "Her Second Love," "Eedeemed by lore," "Wedded and Parted," "Under a Shadow," "In Love's Crucible," etc.

CHAPTER x v in—Continued. n partly unconsciously, Venetia tore open a the envelope, and took out the folded . piper. She brushed her hand over her eyes to sweep away the unshed tears, and a then saw that inside one letter there ■jfas a second inclosed. This she put on ~ the table, while she read the first. It i ■pas headed, "H. M. Consulate, Asun- o cion," and dated April 19th, 1S8 —. £ It ran thus: s "Madam, —I beg to forward on to 3 you the inclosed letter, which,, in com- * pany with a small wooden box, was sent to mc yesterday from the town I' of Caraquaty, distant a good journey from here. The box and , letter were left r by an Indian, who informed mc that he had given a promise to his or ] master, on his deathbed, that the same ! should be intrusted to my care with 1 written instructions what to do with ■ them. These instructions I found in a ' small note very feebly inscribed, and > were simply that I should dispatch both I to you, Mrs. Charles Lascelles, at my earliest convenience. I gathered from \ the Indian, that Senor Luiz Callado : had been ill some time previous to his death, which took place at his estancia, ; or ranch, up country, and that his only desire seemed to be that you should receive this .bequest as soon as possible. The wishes of the dead are sacred, and so I hasten to inclose you the letter, | and to inform you that the box has been dispatched, being totr heavy for the postal transmission, as part of the personal luggage of Don Manuel DAl- ,- meida, a very great friend of mine, who starts for England immediately, and will willingly undertake the charge. Trusting you will receive both it and this letter safely, I am, madam, your obedient servant. "George Lurgan., "H. B. DM. Consul, Asuncion." Venetia read this through, with astonishment growing at every word. Who and what was this Senor Luiz CaHado, who had; sent so strangely on his death-bed to her mother in England? She laid down the consul's letter, and took up the one inclosed. tl was feebly addressed either in faint ink or pencil, and the paper was very thin. The letter ,which was not a very long one, wah headed:— "Estancio Callado near Caraquaty, April 13th. 18S— "Dear Vera, —The time has come when I may break my vow of silence, and communicate once again with you, the 'best and truest friend of my old life. I am very ill, Vera; they tell mc to have hope, but. I know better; by the time this reaches you, I fell I shall be dead. üßt I eouH not die without releasing you from your promise of sechecy regarding my child, and without thanking you for your goodness and motherly love toward her. The letters youw rote mc in that horrible tune of disgrace, telling mc of her sweetness and beauty, -were hateful to mc then. but now they are my greatest treasures. I seem to see her growing from a baby to a girl, my mind pictures her a pure generous nature such as yours has evei been, yet I have only the old picture of her tiny face to gaze on, with those marvellous eyes —her mother's eyeslooking wistfully up into mine. Ah. Vera, the thought has often come, 'DW I do wrong , to leave her, poor, innocenf child? to vent my anger on her head? . You will answer, 'Yes,' in your heart I feel, but how could I have done foi her what you have done? She is a baby no longer now, but a girl o: eighteen, nearly a woman." Venetia's hand was trembling, ant her breath was coming fast. She ben nearer the lamp, and read on hurriedly almost feverishly. "And at such an age she would havi learned to shrink from my unfortunat* past—to have hated mc for the disgrae it brought upon her. I cannot writ more now. I am sending you a bos which contains a few things I hay gathered together. I should like Vene tia to have them? but will leave it ii your hands whether she shall ever kno-\ the truth or no." There v?as not a grain of colour i the girl's face, but she forced herse! to read on, though every limb, ever; nerve, was quivering with some horribl sensation that she had never exper enced beiore. There were a few unintelligibl scratches, as though the sick man's han ■ had failed; then came a few last word; written with evident pain and difficulty "You will also find the record of tha time! Forgive mc, dear Vera, for sent ing it, for the pain it will give you! have kept my secret well, dear, but i ■was for your sake, my sweet, good si: ter and friend. Heaven b.'ess you! "EUSTACE LAiSCELLES. "Known as Luiz Callado." Venetia sat staring at the letter i it trembled in her hand. What horrible mystery was this Her name was written—Venotia; the! it was, clear and plain. Who and whs ■was this man that he should dare 1 • call her his child? She was not his chile It must be Rome hoax, some cleve cruel joke—not Vera Laseelles' chile A shiver of pain went through he and then came a wave of hot sham There was disgrace, too! Oh! wh: could it all meari Crushing the letter in her hand, si Bioved away from the lamp, and crouc ed back in a dark corner to think out, aa a faint whistle came to h ear, and Philip stepped in from the ga den. He took up his letters, re-ad the/ a nd was sauntering back again, wh( his eye canght the girl's form, ai something in the attitude struck him. "What is the matter, Venetia?" : asked guiltily. What if Cynthia had betrayed 1 folly +o Venetia, and so, aroused' b contempt and indignant' anger. W( did he not deserve all he got? "Nothing." The -"oicp was low and rather husland sounded painful in Philip's ear. "You are tired out! I wish y "Would go to bed." he replied, quickly. "I am not tired, only please lea . aie.* He went slowly away. "Yes." he though to himself, "tl j toman has told her, and she despii ■ for ihe dishonourable coward «n. Bests is only ana thing left i

ne to do—that is, go away to-morrow, md nerer return." As he was passing out, Cynthia came In. Her quick eye noted at once the disturbance on both the faces before her, and her heart leaped at the sight. "There has been some explanation," she mused, as she swept softly over to Venetia. "Come, darling," she said, gently; "you must not be allowed to mope. lam so soTry 1 have been away so long; I caught jny dress on a wire just now, and tore it so badly I have had to change it." Venetia shrank a little from her touch. "I am sorry," she said, in a curiously mechanical fashion. She hardly knew what she said, for her brain was on live. She heard nothing, saw nothing but the words of that letter, which branded hex as the child of a dishonoured, disgraced man. It was not possible to comprehend it all yet! She must have time. "Decidedly, there has been some explanation!" Cynthia mentally declared, greatly to her own satisfaction. "Let mc go and play for you, and then I mean to take the law into my own hands, l and send you off to bed." Venetia rose, hurriedly. ''I—l do not think I can bear any music to-night, Cynthia, dear. I—l am tired, and if you don't mind, I will go lup now, and " 'The very wisest thing you can do, and if you will only let mc advise something even better, you will promise to remain in bed to-morrow morning, no matter how fine it is or how well you may feel!" "No," the girl said, deliberately, as though she were speaking more to herself than to Cynthia. ''No, I must be up early to-morrow morning. I am going to London," and then, without kissing her friend, still in the same quiet mechanical fashion, she walked slowly out of the room, leaving Cynthia looking down, with knit brows, at the Turkish carpet, as if to find a solution of the problem there. Out of that chaos of the tumultuous thoughts, a resolve had suddenly formed itself in Venetia's mind. She would go to Grace and ask her the meaning of this horrible thing. The lovely June sunshine that had filled Venetia's heart with so much delight had done much, to soothe Grace's troubled one. That she was happy it would be im-> possible to declare, but she had grown . content; her life was full of self-imposed duties, which she called her pleasures. ' I Babs and Rupert were with her once t again, and their childish affection went . far to fill the aching void that her I mother's death and her brief love dream ! had left. k Her father, too, was not the trouble I or anxiety she had anticipated; money t cures many things, and her money cer- [ tainly seemed to have acquired a soothj ing influence over Charles Lascelles. He { lived an existence after his own heart. 3 He wanted nothing, and if Grace ret fused to te wise and take the goods /_ I the gods of the London season provided, „ I well he would not grumble at her so long > as she did not object to bis gratifying r himself in such ways as he loved best. f Grace had settled down into her new c life almost easily. She was a born man- - ager and housekeeper, and, with Milner i, for her right hand, arranged everything d splendidly. The children, with their govt erness and nurse, were put in one end of I' the house, and rarely allowed to apt, proach their father; and Grace herself, ir j after . discharging her multitudinous a duties, and in her spare moments, shut jf herself up in a small room where she could be quite alone and comparatively happy, for a new impulse had come of •* late —an occupation not unsweetened by 1 ambition. V' She had flown from the sad burden of her thoughts to her pen, and here, safely locked up in her writing table drawer, [ lay sheet upon sheet of manuscript, _ c which brought a thrill of expectation and blush of mingled modesty and pride to her face whenever she touched them. 7 e All through the dreary March days, c- the showery April, the chaj»teleon-like in May, she had worked secretly and diliw gently, and the' June sunshine found her, pen in hand, instead of driving with the throng of other carriages in the crowded i n park and London streets. She bent over her work, and then ry looked around as a tap came at the door, . and Babs stole in. "' "The post, Gracie!" the little maiden cried, holding a letter on high. "I got c it first—ever so much before Rupert!" ld Gracie took the letter and a kiss at the same time. She changed colour us ; y* she opened the envelope and saw Lexley's at writing. £_ "Dearest Grace, —I want to see you so j badly. Will you meet mc at , in ;t Bond-street, at 11.30? That will save ; you coming all this way, though you know Aunt Eliza will be only too delighted to see you. Perhaps, if you do come you will take mc for a drive, as I want to have you to myself for half an hour, and aa I return home to-morrow. Ever, darling, your affectionate friend, i 8! "LEXLEY." :re Grace pressed lier lips together, at Tbe moment had come when she was to to hoar the news for which she bad so !d! generously sacrificed herself. Well, she er« was prepared —the worst was past long id! ago. er, Without a moment's hesitation she ae. locked her writing away, kissed Babs, -at and ordering the carriage, went to prepare herself for the drive, ihe She was looking much better lately, eh- and many an admiring glance was cast it at the slight, fair-haired girl, in hei ier heavy mourning, with her sweet, serioui ar- eyes and kind smile. " Her reputation as an heiress had soon •in spread, and Grace could have marriec ten not only several but a dozen of the met md who called themselves her father's friends, and tried hard to cultivate i he friendship with herself. But such is the contrariness of humai his nature. Grace would not be wooed int< tier even an acquaintanceship, and if shi "ell, were called upon to act as hostess to an; of these men, she proved herself so quie and reserved as to check the most hope kv ful aspirant to her hand and fortune. Lexley was waiting for her friend, am 70U after joining in some shopping, the t\v r girls drove away, choosing the quietes xve side of the park, in which Grace couL escape detection. Lexley was full of gossip, and seeme hat very bright and happy, but she did no is es appear to have any secret to impar . x nor any special reason for asking Gra< f 0 to come and merit

"I wrote a strong letter," she said, LUghingly, '""because I wanted to see you > much; it is such ages since we met, n<l I am going array tomorrow." And then she conversed upon, all and ■ny subject, and, though Raspars name ropped up, and she was full of his Sueesses—which were coining now in ■wonlerfully quick fashion—there was not !ven a hint dropped as to their engagenent, either present or in the future. Grace was puzzled, and sighed a little vearily as she drove home, having dejosited Lexley at her aunt's house at lampstead. "I wish she had told mc something deinite," the girl mused. "I —I should be tappier, I think, if it were all settled." And then she relapsed into thoughts )f him, and was not aroused until she stood before tier own door, and was met 3y Milner in a great state of excitement. "Oh, Hiss Grace! Mass Yen—l meanLady Carlton—is here. She is with your oapa, miss. She's been here more than ihree-quarters of an hour!" (To be continued daily.)