A Fair Coquette.

Bush Advocate, Volume XXIV, Issue 25, 19 April 1912, Page 3

A Fair Coquette.

(Continued.) "1 had better tell you all," continued the earl, in a low voice. "We were married. I call Heaven to witness that the fault was all mine, and that I intended to act loyally, honorably, and truthfully to my dear wife; but we were unfortunate. I was proud and jealous, she was proud and impatient; she taunted me always by saying the Studleighs were all faitldess. We quarrellel at last, and both of us were too proud to be the first to seek forgiveness. Then, in a fit of desperate rage, I exchanged into a regiment ordered to India, and, with the exception of one letter, no word has been exchanged between us since." The duke did not raise his head. Tho duchess gave a long, shuddering moan.

"There is one thing more-- oh, Heaven! how could J be so cruel?—

when I had been gone some five months, my poor wife, my unhappy

wife, became a mother." "I do not believe it !" cried tho duke. "I will not believe it ! It is an infamous lie." "It is the solemn truth, your

grace." "Stephanie, my wife," cried the duke, despairingly, "do you believe this? Don you believe the child we have loved and cherished has deceived us so cruelly?"

The duchess left her daughter's side and went over to him. She laid her hand on his.

"We must bear it together," she said. "It is tho first great trial of our lives -we must make the host of it."

"To bo deceived—to smile on us, to kiss us, to sit by us, to share tlie same roof, to kneel at the same altar, and yet to keep such a secret from us. Why, Stephanie, it cannot bo true."

Tho duchess Avas not one of the demonstrative kind, but she was so deeply touched by the pain in his voice, that she clasped her arms round his neck.

"I can only say one thing to comfort you, my husband. We have spent tho greater part of our lives together, and in no single thing have I deceived you yet. Let the remembrance of your wife's loyalty soften the thought of your daughter's treachery."

The next moment the daughter whom he had loved as the very pride and joy of his life, was kneeling and sobbing at his feet. "It was not treachery, p;roa ; do not give it so bad a name. 1 was very young, ar.d I loved him very much; except you and mamma, T loved no one else. Ah ! papa, do not turn from me; I have suffered so terribly I have never been napny for one moment since. I loved vou so dearly I never could bear to look at your face and remember how T had deceived you. T have been so unhappy, so wretched, so miserable, I cannot tell you. Pity me do not be angry -with me. I loved you both, and my heart was torn in two. Kiss me, dear, and forgive

me." But he turned away from the pitiful, pleading voice and beseeching face. 'M cannot forgive you, ICsteJkv'

he said; ''the pain is too great. ' "Then I will kneel here until I die," she cried, passionately; ' : I will never leave you until you >ay you pardon me!" The duke raised his face, ar.d when the Karl of Linleigli saw : t he started back. It was as ihou;:li a blight had fallen over it - it was changed, haggard, gray twenty years older than when he had entered the room. The earl felt more remorse when he caught sight of that-pale face than he had ever before known. "Lord Linleigli," said the duke, "I want you to give me details the details of your marriage; how and where it took place; who wei'e. the witnesses. I shall want to see the copy of the register; I shall want the certificate of the child's birth and death." "It is not dead!" cried Lord Linleigli, in astonishment. "Not dead !" repeated the duke. "Do you mean to tell me, my lord, 1 1 have had a grandchild living all these years, and have known nothing about it. Do you mean to tell me that a descendant of the Herefords has been born, and I have never even sqcn it? Great Heaven! what have I done, that I should have this to endure?" "I was ashamed of the story of my marriage," said the earl, "but if possible, I am still more ashamed of the history of my child. My poor wife was ill-advised when she acted as she did." A certain nervous tremor came over the duchess. She remembered many tilings that the duke had forgotten, and a presentiment of tho truth came over her. "Estelle," she said, "tell us where your child was born, and who helped you to deceive it?" Obediently enough, she told the whole story. ""We must not blame poor Lady Delapain," said the duke, kindly; "of tho dead no ill should bo spoken. TCely upon it, she did it for the kindest and best. Now, tell us, Estclle, what you did with this unhappy .child,". , ~,,,., .;-,.'. - -But Estelle hid her faoo.- ''■

j "will you tell it for nie?" They listened with a shock of horror and surprise. So this little foundling, over whose .story they had wondered and po/.de.c.l, ci' whose future the duchess had prophesied such evil, was of their own race, a Hereford. It seemed to the duke and duchess that they could never forget that humiliation, never recover it. Tho duke rose from his chair; he held out one trembling hand to his wife. "Come away, Stephanie," he said "this has been too much for me. I thought I was stronger. Come away! We can talk it over better alono—we shall get over it better alone. We have no daughter now, dear—we are quite alone. Our daughter has been some one else's wife for twenty years. Come away!" The duchess, since Lord Linlcigh had told Doris' story, had never once looked at her daughter. She seemed the -stronger of the two as they turned to quit the room together. The duke, never speaking to his daughter, said to his guest: "I will talk this over with my wife, and we will tell you after dinner what is our decision." "Oh, Ulric!" cried Lady Estelle, "they will never forgive me. What shall I do?" But ho kissed her face and consoled her. ! "It will all come right," he said. "Of course it was a. terrible shock to them both, that Brackenisde business especially. "I am very sorry over that; but they will forgive you By this time to-morrow we -shall all bo laughing over it, trust me, darling."

But Lord Linleigh, before this time to-morrow, had to hear something which startled even liim, ho; could boast of tolerably strong nerves.

That was surely the most sil-nt

and somber dinner-party ever held at the Castle. The four who sac down to the table owned to themselves that it was a terrible mistake

-they ought to have had .sojne stranger present, il : only to break the ice. Even the servants wondered, as they looked from one grave face to another ,what unusual cloud had fallen over their superiors. The duke looked as though years had passed over his face since morning, when he went riding away the picture of a prosperous, genial, happy-hearted nobleman. His'hair seemed to have grown grayer, the lines on his face deeper; the stately figure stooped as it had ne\ or done before; the star on his breast shone in mockery, and contrasted cruelly witli the worn, haggard face above.

The duchess, ill her siiDerb dress of black velvet,' with its point-hice and diamonds, looked unhappy. She had lost none of her dignity-wom-en reserve that under the most trying circumstances-but there was a hesitation and faltering in her clear voice no one had over heard before. Lord Linleigli did his best to restore something like cheerfulness. The worst was over for him now; the story was told, and it was not given to men of his race to feel dull for Jong. They had the happy faculty of recovering from any blow, no matter how severe, in a marvellously short space of time. His confession was made, the story told, the worst known, and what had he to fear? Things would soon come right. He should take his beautiful wife to Linleigli, and their daughter would soon join them; the whole story would soon blow over, then who so happy as he? He w,as not troubled with any extra amount of conscience, with any keen sense of regret, so lie told stories of his Indian life, and ns far as possible tried to improve tho general aspect of things. (To be continued.)