A Leap in the Dark

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLIII, Issue 2337, 27 January 1913, Page 2

A Leap in the Dark

(Copyright.)

OR. WED, BUT NO WIFE.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING,

Author of “The Secret, of Bantry Hall,'’ Etc., Etc.

PART 0. “Wear it, Polly, for I love you !’’ Alas, for man’s truth ! A fortnight ago that ring had been ordered of a London jeweller to tit the finger of Diana Hautton. He meant to propose down in Lincolnshire, and this was lo be the pledge of the betrothal. Only a n hour ago the London express had brought it, and here it glittered on the finger of Polly Mason ! Heavens knows wbaV further Inf might have said, what words, wnat promises might have been exchanged. Polly might have become Mrs. Allan Fane, perhaps, and this story bad never hern written for this great iomance of this young woman’s life you have yet to hear ; but at this instant (sent there by her guardian angel, no doubt) there appeared upon the scene the gaunt form oi Rosanna summoning her youthful charge in to tea.

She tendered no invitation to the gentleman. She scowled upon him, indeed, as this exemplary lady could scowl Rosanna could have told you stories fit to make your ha'ir rise., of “squires of high degree” who came a-couiting village maids, and ot the

dire grief and tribulation the aforesaid maids had conic to in consequence. Folly in love, 'indeed ! Folly—who had taken her doll to bed yesterday, as it were, and sang it to sleep. Mr. Fane lifted his bat and departed at once. The girl would not look at him. She could not meet the glance in his eyes. Her face v. as burning—her heart thrilling. She hid the hand that wore the ring, and followed Hosanna meetly into the house. On the stairs she met Duke, and that gentleman, as gravely as in the morning, summoned hex into his own room. Miss Mason fell she was in for it. “I wouldn't lot that young man dangle after me too much it I vitro you, duchess.” he began. ‘Tie but, what he pretends? to be ; he's a humhug, you’ll find . a false, fickle, mean humbug ! His fath-r’s a m-. > holiest man and a good taiim—a deuce- of a screw , though— Vo t” ‘‘Duke!" Folly cried, with indignant scorn—“a tari-. r !” The young lady sard it in much Ihe samc- tone you or I might exclaim, “‘A demon !” “Yes, duchess, a tailor 1 have bought clothes at the shop in Bondstreet many a time, and I’ve seen Mr. Allan Fane when sjc was a palefaced little shaver in round-abouts. He doesn't remember me, o! course, and I don't care about renewing the acquaintance. He’s a tailor’s sen, only thing about him not to his discredit.”

It was very unusual for Duke- to be

Miter, or say cruel tilings of the absent, but h~ felt terribly sore on the subject (>f this dandified artist,, v ith his shining boots and swell hat, and white hands, and sort voice, making a fool of Ms little Folly. “He’s a humbug, duchess, and he’s trying to get that middle-aged Miss Hautton to marry him. She’s rich and high-born, and he's only an adventurer, with a good address and a university education.” “Have you anything more to say, Duke ?” Folly asked quite meekly. She felt somehow that what Duke had said was true ; but still she looked at her ring, and her heart thrilled as she remembered his words —words so sweet to every girl’s ear and heart —"I love you !”

And meantime Mr. Allan Fane walked home, and on the way found out he had been mad and a fool. What had he done ? (liven up all the hopes of his life for a pretty f a cc with bine eyes. Very good and pleasant things in the'irwwa t , but not available as ready cash - not to be exchanged for good dinners, horses, opera boxes, and a house in Mayfair. What had he done ? Dire alarm tilled him as, he walked along, hq cursed his own folly and precipitancy with a fervour good to hear. Was it, after all, too late yet ? He had not asked Miss Folly Mason to bo ois wife.

He found Miss Hautton walking wearily round a nd round the great fish pond and joined her at once.

Miss Hautton. like Miss Mason, informed him she was going away. ’"Montalien bores me, I find." Ihe lady said, carelessly, "more this year than usual, and the Duchess of Clanrolanc! is going to the Italian lakes., and urges mo to ’’ A yawn finished the sentence. The Duchess of Clanronahi !

Her Grace of Clanronahi had a nephew— rather an impoverished nephew—who had n a.de hard runninglast year for rlie Hautton stakes. No doubt he would go to the Italian lakes, too. Starry blue eyes, a witching gipsy face, a supple form, ami sixteen sunny years are all verywell if set off with diamonds and gilded with refined gold. He couldn’t marry Dolly Mason ; he couldn’t turn itinerant portrait-painter In this dull ?tar of self into a shabby-hatted, family man. It was written—it was

his fate—he must marry a rich wife and so, alas, for Polly !

Before Miss Hautton’s yawn was ijuite ended, he had poured forth the tale of ms long admiration, and implored her to be his wife. The ro.ty light of the sun went down, and Dianna Hautton lingered by the fish pond with her accepted lover. Her accepted lover ! CHAPTER XV. HOW ROD CRT MAWKSI.KV KEPT HIS WORD. On the third day after, Polly Mason p f o'*d at the parlour window 10-okis* ISRloi'sK enough up and d »ae (*<w*rt*d country road.

There was little to he seen—there wore few abroad. The fine June weather, that had lasted steadily over a fortnight, had broken up ; yesterday it had rained all day, and all night. To-day it had ceased, but still a sullen, leaden sky frowned darkly on a' sodden earth and things wore in harmony : Rosanna was laid up with toothache ; Duke had quarrelled with his employers at the Lyceum, and was out of spirits ; and Allan Fane had never once been (near the cottage since. ! .She bad heard <>l his engagement— Ills positive engagement—to marry Diana Hautton. j Rosanna went to bed groaning dismally. Polly look her sewing and sat down by the window. The wind grew wildei. the leaden sky darker, as Ihe afternoon wore on; the rain drops began pattering once more against tne glass ; and in the young girl’s breast as she sat, her needle flying, a sharp and cruel pain ached. - She had been fooled, laughed at ; her woman’s pride hurt to the cote ; she could never again, her Lie iong, have the same perfect faith in mati or woman. She had lost something, the iueflahle bloom of perfect innocence and child-likc trust, and Allan Fane’s was the hand that had finished it off. “How dare he-—how dare ho !” she thought, her little hand clenching again. “How date he trifle with me so ! ” ! She sat there for over an hour, her anger rising and swelling with, every instant. The rainy twilight was falling, wlvu suddenly there came a knock. Her work (Popped, but before she could rise the door was openled. and the visitor, hat in hand, i walked in. He had come at last. : Allan Fane stood before her, his light summer overcoat wet with rain, his high riding-boots splashed with ! mud—under, paler than herself! I Why had he come ?

His first glance at her, as their eyes met, told him she knew all She rose up ancl stood before him. Even in the fading light he could see the streaming fire in her eyes, the scornful curl of her handsome lips. The regal grace oi mien that was this girl’s chief charm always had never been halt so uplifting as now. She spoke first—ho could not have uttered a void.

“You have come fci my congratulations, Mr. Fane,” she began, in a ci-r-ai, ringing voice, that had "neither i tiui tremor in it. v I hear you are engaged to the Honourable Diana Halit ton Well, you have them 1 It it; not every day that the son of a London tailor gets an opportunity of marrying mi oari’s granddaughter ! /•n ■ you fpei that. Mr. Fane !” with a scorn fur laugh. “i know your sect et, you see, so carefully guarded ! But don’t be alarmed 3 won’t go to the Priory and tell Miss Hautton. 1 am afranl, as devotedly as she is attached to you, she might jilt you if she knew it ! I won’t fell, Mr, Fane,; and T wish you every happiness so suitable a match deserves. /• nd this ring, which you so kindly

forced upon my acceptance the night before last” —her voice, faltered for first tame —‘permit mo to return it. If you haven't purchased an engagement ring fo: Miss Hautton, I daresay you might make this answer.”

He broke clown. He was of a weak nature, impressionable as wax, but as strong}.v as it was in his nature to love anyone but himself he loved this girl. “I cannot. Oh, Polly !•”

She flung it at his feet in a. sudden tempest of fury—tic (puck fury of a very child.

“Don’t ever call me Fully. How dare you do it ? Take your ring this moment, or I will walk straight out of this house up to the Priory, and tell Miss Hautton every word. And your books, and your drawings—here they ai a— everything you gave me, except the flowers, and those I threw into the lire an hour ago Take, them, I command you, Mr, Fane.” What could he do but obey ? And meanwhile at the Priory its lord had arrived by the seven o’clock tra'in, bringing with him a short, sombre, stout man, with a legal look. He was legal ; he was Mr. Gripper, of the firm of Gripper and Grinder, Lincoln’s-inn, London ; and he «uid Lord Montalicn were closeted together on important business for some time after their arrival. Mr, Gripper emerged at last, and was shown to his room. Ho was staying over night, it seemed and Mr. Fane was announced and shown into the library where my lord sat. Mr. P’ane took a scat opposite, looking singularly nervous indeed. I am given to understand by masculine friends who have done the business that asking the consent of a young lady’s papa or guardian is much more disagreeable than asking the young lady herself. Mr. Fane had got through this part with Miss Hautton glibly enough, and this asking Lord Montalicn was the merest matter of form ; still, like Macbeth’s “Amen,” the words “stuck in his throat.” Ford Montalicn wrenched his thoughts away from his own absorbing topic with an evident effort, and listened with bland suavity to the young man’s stumbling words. “Wish to marry Diana and ask my consent ? My dear hoy, my consent is quite unnecessary, as you know. Very correct of you, though, to come to me. Of course, I have long foreseen this, and as Diana seems pleased 1 sincerely offer you my congratulations. There’s some trilling disparity of years, 1 am aware ; but you know the Scotch have a saying that for the wife to he the elder brings luck to the house.”

" You have my ap]>roval and host wishes. Diana is certainly old enough to act for herself’’—and the young man winced—‘‘and her income, as you must know, dies with her. i’y-the-bye, Fane,’’ changing his voice with abruptness, -‘you mixed ;t great deal among the people at the fete the other day, and may know —whether there was a man by name of — of Trowel no. Mason ” referring to his tablets, "there upon that occa-

' sion ?“ Allan Fane started more nervously than before. ; “There is a man by the name of Mason living about three miles from here. Mason is a common name, i however. There may be many Masons in Speck.haven. ’’ "‘So there may. The fellow T mean is called Marmaduke Mason and h.V; a maiden sister, Rosamond —Rosalind no. Rosanna.’’ referring to the tablets again. “By occupation a scenepainter. ’’ ; “That is the man, my lord. Yes, 1 i know him.’’ I “ And he has a ward —she passes for Ins cousin—a girl of sixteen, called Polly ?’’ Had Lord MotPalicn not been so engrossed by his tablets and questions, he must have noticed Mr. Fane’s greatly disturbed face. I “Yes, my lord, there is a Polly • Mason.” I “That’s the girl !” His lordship I shut up bis tablets with a triumphant snap. “Now, what’s she like ? i I’ll lay my life she has thick ankles, a Lincolnshire accent, and a turned- | up nose.” i “You would lose you stake. Urn, liny lord. Miss Mason is”—with ! something of an effort he said this — '“one of the very handsomest girls I j ever saw in the whole course of my i life.”

Ah, 'is she ?” his lordship sighed, resignedly ; “all the worse for me. An heiress and ward with a. snub nose would be trouble enough, but a ward with a Grecian nasal appendage and eighty thousand pounds to her fortune ! Ah, well, my Fife has been one long martyrdom ’ this is only the last straw that, very likely will break the camel’s back !”

Allan Fane looked at the speaker with a face of ghastly wonder. “My lord,” he said, “I don’t understand. Polly Mason is no heiress — she is this scene-painter’s poor relation—brought up out. of charity.” "My good fellow,” Lord Montnlicn said, plaintivelyi, “she’s nothing of tlic kind. She is my ward, and she has eighty thousand pound-; at this moment deposited in the funds for her benefit. No, don’t look so imploringly—it’s too long a story to tell you. There’s the dressing-bell —you shall all hear it at dinner.” He arose. Allan Fane quitted the room, and went up to his own. He did not seek his affiir.necd—he was aghast with wonder and alarm. What did it mean ? Eighty thousand pounds and Polly Mason ! The great bell clanging high up in the windy turrets, at half-past seven, informed SpcckLaven and its inhabitants that my lord and his family were about to dine. Ford Montalicn took advantage of a few minutes before going in to dinner, and presented his congratulations to his cousin Diana on this interesting episode in her life. Mr. Gripper brought up the rear of the other people around the tabic.

“Flo doesn’t look like the harbinger of romance, or a fairy godfather, or anything of the kind,” Ford Mon italien remarked ; “nevertheless he | is. Fie conies to inform a little |»country girl of sixteen that she is Imy ward and heiress of eighty thousand pounds. Do any of you beside Fane know her? Her name at present is Polly Mason !’’ I Lord Montalicn glanced around his own hoard, and was somewhat surprised at the sen alb n the very commonplace name of a very commonplace young person created. Diana Hautton started, and turned her icy look upon her lover. That gentleman fixed his eyes upon ins plate, ami seemed slowly petrifying. Guy suppressed a whistle and looked unutterable things, and my Fady Charteris’s spoon dropped into her soup I plate with a clash. Francis Earlsconrt wmj eagerly interested ; and Hit Vane, after oir> steady look at Ins pallid and startled wife, waited with compuduie for the peer’s nest words. ■“Well,” said his lordship, “you all look as though you knew her. Being so interested before I begin, howwill you be thrilled before I hj ivc finished ? Shall Igo hack and begin at the beginning with this romance of real life? Yes, I will.” Ford Monfalicu pushed away his soup, leaned back in his chair, and j began to thrill his hearers, i ‘Mi’s just fourteen years ago, on the second of last April, that left New York for Fiverpool. The passengers fd the Land of Columbia were the usual sort of people one meets —rich mercantile and manufacturing people from the northern cities, with millions of dollars, going over to make the grand tour. There j was only one among them I ever I found worth the trouble of talking to, and he was a second-class fellow —splendid proportions—ta l !, and moulded like an athletic Apollo, with a face full of intelligence and self-reprcsson. Self-repression in man ! or woman I /jke This man looked j as if he had a story. He puzzled i me to lie puzzled means to be in- j terested. I was interested in Mr. j Robert Hawkslcy ; and on the last i day out he told me his story, men- j tioning no names but his own. The 1 name he went on hoard ship even j then I suspected, at times, to be as-{ sumod. He was an Englishman, the j only stni of a yoeman farmer, hut | educated as a gentleman. IT® had been two or three years before sec rotary to a man in Staffordshire. | 1 think he said this man had a ! daughter or niece—l forgot which—a great heiress, a great beauty, and six j years his junior. She was home | from school, romantic, as all girls i home from school arc, and she meets i my handsome secretary. What would j you have ? Why, fall in love with i each other, of course. They ran away to Scotland, and were married ! ”

My lord paused. The li.sh had been placed upon the table, and he took his knife and fork and refreshed himself with a little turbot. And over the face of Sir Vane Charteris a strange, dark change was passing, and over liic face of my lady a deathly whiteness had come. She leaned a little forward, her lips

apart, her great eyes dilated —heedless of her husband, of her dinner, of the people who looked at her. What story was this she was hearing ? Lord Monlalicn complacently set it all down to his own ■‘thrill’ing” powers of narration, and placidly went on ’

“Well, those two foolish, unfortunate, happy young lovers kept their secret for four months : then the truth came out, and then there was the deuce to pay. Little m'issy was spirited away ; my handsome secretary, through some nefarious plot on the part of the guardjian, was found gudty of stealing money and jewels, and obliged to fiy England. Now, two years after, he had made a home and a competence, and he was returning to seek his w'ifc and take her

back ,to that New World. W r e parted on the quay. As we shook hands I made him promise that if ever, in any way, I could serve him, he would command me. I liked Urn lad greatly his was a brave and loyal nature, I truly believe. ‘"Well,” said Lord Monlalicn, taking n little more turbot, ‘‘‘fourteen years passed, and 1 heard nothing more of or from Mr. Hubert HawksIcy until yesterday, when Mr. James Gripper here called upon me and informed me 1 was solicited to become guardian to a young lady, hei.ess of eighty thousand pounds, and presenting me with a letter containing further particulars. The letter was all the way from Ran Francisco, and from my old acquaintance, Hawk, day. He recalled the promise 1 had voluntarily made, and in the most manly and frank way asked me to L.1i,5 .it now by becoming the guardian and protector of his only child. And be told me bis story* in brief, from the time of our parting on the Liverpool dock.

“He had found his w’ife-~fbe wife on whoso, fidelity he said to mo on shipboard lie could have staked his existence—-how do you think ? At j the a’tar —the bride of another-a man to whom she had been engaged before he had met. her, of her own rank and station. There are more Enoch Ardens in the world than Mr. Tennyson’s hero. He left. England again without speaking a word to her, and he has never returned since ; but. by some mystery, which be does not explain, he discovered that his wife had given birth to a child—-a daughter—five months after his first flight, from England, which child, at two years old, she had given to a scene-painter named Mason and his sister to bring up, He found bis child, begged the Mason people to take every care of lor, and they should one. day be well reward'd That day has now' come. In ihe Californian gold mines this man has made a fortune. Eighty thousand pounds he has deposited to be bis lucky little daughter’s dowry, and 1 am appointed her guardian. He asks me to place her at a school, where she wifi lie educated in a manner befitting the station if, life slio is destined to till ; and he says that she may drop the cognonnn of ’ Polly Mason ’ for her own rightful name of Pauline Lisle. From this, th refore, it. is plain that, instead of his name being Hawks ley, it is Robert Lisle !” Lord Mont.alicn paused—not that he had finished by any means with his interesting story—but at that moment, with a gasping cry, Lady C’harteris fell forward, her head on the table. All started up. Her husband lifted her in bis arms, almost ghastly as herself. She had fainted dead away ' And in two days after this Miss Polly Macon learnt the full extent of her good fortune.

CHAPTER XVI. AFTER TWO YEARS. The glory of a golden September

clay lay over the earth. It was the mhldlc of the month. town at Monlalicn Priory., for the past two weeks the sportsmen had crashed through (lie stubble and turnip Helds, and the sharp ring of their fowling-pieces echoed all day long through the golden richness. Very fair, very stately, looked the grand ivied old mansion. with its wealth of glowing dogroses and shining ivy, its waving oaks and cedars, its yellow harvest fields, its blooming gardens, all gilt with the glory of the cloudless September sun. There were a half dozen men all told—Lord Montalicn and his brother Guy, Allan Fane, the artist, and husband of the rich Diana Hautton, a Mr. Stcdman, a Sir Harry Gordon, and Captain Cecil VilHers, of the Guards, All good men and true, and not a single woman in the house to mar their sport all day among the partridges—nor the perfect dinner Mrs. Hamper got up for their delectation in the evening. It was Liberty Hall—lord and guest did precisely as they pleased, and enjoyed themselves admirably.

Francis Karlscourt was I.ord Montalien now, the late lord having twelve months before passed a better,

and (with all due respect for the British nobility), let us hope, even a higher sphere, where boredom is unknown And his elder son reigned in his stead—that elder son whom, like his mother, he had never loved. Francis. Lord Montalien, walked slowly up to the house, and entered the library by an open French window. A noble room, its four walls lined with books, statues, and bronzes, everywhere writing-tables and casy-ehairs strewn around, pleasant recesses for reading, and the mellow afternoon sunshine flooding all. There were three pictures in this library—three pictures hanging together over the tall, carved mantel. They were three portraits—the late Lord Montalien, his second wife, and younger son. Venetia, Lady Montalien, a portionless Italian girl, with a face of perfect beauty, such as one does not see twice in a lifetime, and barely eighteen when her son was born. That son’s portrait hung by hers—the same dark, brilliant face, the same lustrous eyes of Southern darkness, the same proudly held head the same exquisite, smiling mouth

I Ho spoko to them as though they had been sensate things. I "‘Ay,” he said, “you have had your I day—it is my time now ! There you j bang—the father who could barely conceal his dislike—the woman who supplanted my dead mother—the boy who would have supplanted me had it been in his father’s power. You left your younger and favorite son your Benjamin—every penny you couli leave away from the entail ; now is the time for me to show my gratitude. In your lifetime he was always first—his beauty, his brilliant gifts drew all to his side, while I was passed over. • What a Pity Guy is not the heir,’ my father’s friends used to say. 1 Boo; Frank is so dull—so like his mother.’ You thought so, too, my lord —poor Frank w»nt to the wall in your icign Wh n the heir of Monlalicn came of age, who knew or cared ? When Guy carac of age belts rung, bonfires blazed, and the tenantry were feasted. Even those boors said. ’ What I a pity Master Guy isn’t the heir.’ I Ah, well, we’ll change all that ; I am j Lord Montalun now, and Guy Earls- ; court is where I have led him, on the. high road to ruin—nay, a ruined ! man and a pauper to day. ' Semper Fidelis’ is the motto of our house,; and ‘Always Faithful’ to my revenge, he shall pay me back for every sneer, every slight, every ad--1 vantage over me to the uttermost !farthing.” I It was the secret of his life. FrauI cis Far!-.court hated his brother, i and there was no evil that could i have befc’Bn him that would not have ; rejoiced bis fratricidal heart, i He paced up and down—up and ] down, while the sun dropped lower ■ and lower, and not all the glory in ; the heavens could brighten the dark

! moodiness oi his irate face, j “ttnr.se her obstinacy,’’ he matterled, sullenly. “With her fair, drooPj ing head, her fawn-like eyes, her | timid blushes, and flattering repPes, ! she has the devil’s own Will ! She j won’t yield-three times a day to | church every Sunday, as long as she i ran remember, and the, Sunday school ! between whiles, have done th ir j work. I con’d as easily remove the | Enron’s Tower yonder as that frail I milk-and ■; ose cottage girl. What I the dome shall 1 do ? —for have her I must, though I paid the dire penalty of a wedding-ring. - ’ lie paced to and fro, revolving tins question, “What shall 1 do ?’’ He j had a deep, subtle brain, like his smile, powerful to work good or evil for himself j,r others. The thoughtful frown deepened on j his face as be trod to and fro. Honking it out. Why not? Every j moment it grew clearer and clearer, every moment the dioholical scheme, impossible as it, seemed at first, grew more and more feasible. The scheme was practicable, but. where was the I convenient college friend to be found? I He thought over the men in the house ; one by one. Guy, reckless to madi ness, be knew well would stanl an 1 1 have a bullet sent through bis h?art j sooner than lift, a finger in sin hj a i matter as this, which he. the spotI less cider brother, darkly revolved j now. He felt this with secret rage. ( Allan IE n', weak and selfish, frivoj lons ami false, would he strong in |his indignation here. Sir Harry Gordon and Cecil Villiers were officers and gentlemen, to whom he would n 0 more have breathed a word of his pilot than he would have done to hi;; own mother had she. lived. Hut one remained. Steelman—his face suddenly lighted as he thought of Stcdman. j “The heart of a cucumber fried in snow,’’ he thought, grimly. “A man j with neither honour, conseiove, prin-| eiple, nor feeling —a man poor as a ■ church mouse—a man capable of poi- | soning his own mother if he could | benefit himself by the old lady’s demise and not be found out. Yes.,’’ j he said, unconsciously aloud, “Stcdman wd! do it.’’ Late that night, long after she had retired to her little room, Alice Warren penned these words ; ‘“My own darling,—l must speak one word to you before 1 go—-before f go away from my home, my dear, dear home, to be married. Yes, Fanlina —Alice is to lie married to one she loves—oh, so dearly—so dearly —the best, the noblest of men on earth. Some day you will Know his name, and what a happy, happy girl 1 am Until then love me, and trust always your own. “ ALICE.’’ She addressed this brief note to Paris, to “Mllle. Paulina Lisle.’’ She 1 kissed the name, she took the locket I from her neck, and kissed the pic- j timed face, “Darling little Polly,’’ she | said, “to think that when next we j meet Alice will be a lady, too !’’ 1 (To lie Continued).