CHAPTER 111.

Grey River Argus, 11 June 1904, Page 1 (Supplement)

CHAPTER 111.

AT ORMIDALE. Lady Ormidale enters, revealing herself tall and dignified, with a fine face, though most unhappy. Perhaps she has had more than her share of sorrow. Her husband, who had married her for her money, proved utterly unworthy of her ; dying, he had left their only child to her care, and she had loved this son with a fierce, jealows, exacting iove, against which he had rebelled. After attaining his majority he had gone abroad, arid lived there for. some years quite estrunged from his mother. Unexpectedly ho had returned, only to dio, and not one had dared attempt to console his mother in that hour of supreme grief. Her cold, proud composure repelled sympathy : enemies wrid she thought tears would only be blots on the 'scutcheon, human feeling a stain on the old name. Her son had died in her arms, but from thatrmomentyghe had not again

looked on him. She had placed beautiful flowers on the ball^ biit never once had she looked on his -dead face ; and from the day of the funeral had avoided all reference to him. Only when absolutely obliged did she mention his name. There were some who said that on his death-bed he had told her the story of his life abroad, had confided some shameful secret to tier keeping, but few believed; this. The general opinion was that she reproached herself for harshness .arid old exactions, and blamed herse,l£'fok his untimely death. "Dear Lady Ormidale, I am so glad to see you," Laura says, her rose-bloom returning, and she is truly glad of tho interlude. She introduces Sefton and Herbert. They are known by hearsay to the old lady, who is gracious to these young men, inclined ,to like them, Herbert in particular. ' Laura, is a favourite with her; and from that source she has heard high praise of the younger Mallory. They are, gentlemen, . well-bred, talented, and she thaws slightly. "Ormidale Towers -are said to possess great attractions for artists," she says. "I hope Mrs Verriner has been kind enough to tell-'you that. It would be a source of pleasure to me if you would come and go as you please, if you find the artistiO: merits of the place worth your consideration." "I shall avail myself of your permission with very little delay, Lady Ormidale," says Sefton. "I certainly have been longing to see the Towers." "Remember you have the freedom of the grounds, tlieri," she replies graciously, and then turns to Herbert, examining his face with interest ; and pleased

by its vivacity, its grace and charm of youth— "You. too, I hope," she says more gently than she has spoken to Sefton. "I shall be only too happy. You are very good to us, Lady Ormidale." "No. Of coarse I should not allow everyone the same privilege. I like my solitude too well. For you it is entirely different." . "We shall not disturb you," he assures her. "If you wished it so you would never know that we had entered your fairyland at all until you heard that we had been lifted into sudden fame by a painting of Ormidale." Lady Ormidale smiles in a still kindlier way. ' . "You know my nephew, do you not 1 ?" "Oh, yes, I know him," replies Herbert, something in Jus tone implying that it is not an agreeable or a desirable knowledge, and the old lady draws herself up a little. "He is a friend of yours?" "No; he is not," replies Herbert in the same tone. A few more words pass

between them, and, the old lady gives her attention to Nigel and' Laura. When' she is departing she reminds Sefton of his promise, with less than her former kindliness, and takes 1 leave of Herbert with some dignity and much reserve. "I am afraid you have not made a very good impression on her ladyship,"' says Laura to Herbert, who throws back his head. ; .....; "She wanted me to praise her nephew, I suppose ; but I cannot say what Ido not think, to please: anyone. Ib is not my nature. I always say what I think right." , "That doesn't make it right/ returns she, rather tartly, arid Nigel joins them ; then Laura moves away' to Sefton. "I have not spoken to you once this day," she says, taking possession of a comfortable chair, and- surveying him aoross a small table laden with books andlfljpwers. ' '^VV U haven't tried,, very hard to do so,V.'Ke retorts, but he is surprised to see that her airy gaiety is gone; that she is pale and earnest, and that, in the depths of her lovely eyes, is an'imploring look. ' ;.•• "I have been talking to Herbert," she says, in a very low voice, "and I find he istill thinks of hunting down that . wretched man." "Yes," says Sefton in si troubled tone, "the death of our mother made an impression on him even deeper than father's did, and the promise he gave her^— rashly, if you will— is always before him. It was a terrible blow." ' l "It wa's, it was," she says eagerly ; "and the man himself, if guilty, de-

serves punishment. But it seems he had a wife and child, and Herbert speaks of finding them." "Yes ; he has often done so." Laura's hand just touches his arm ; it is trembling very much. 'If they are found, Sefton, will you try to remember -that they also must have suffered ; that they are not responsible for his sin? You will remember tbat the merciful shall obtain mercy, and of that we shall all stand in need one day " Her voice breaks, and, the young man looks at her in astonishment. "What do you knowt" he asks, breathlessly. "I know nothing; but I have thought a great deal. When Herbert spoke, I seemed to 'see that, poor woman and her child. If they are shielding and saving him, who can blame them? :> . "Surely no one," he says, gravely and sadly. "You may not know that I take no part in this search ; that I did not give the promise Herbert did— not that I wish to participate in another's s":n by silence, by concealment, or defence of the ill done, but because I have always found something better to do, and because I think crime brings its own retribution." Laura passes a handkerchief slightly across her face. "You think me very foolish, I daresay," she asserts. "I am not particularly strong, and rather excitable at times. You had better forget what I have been aaying, until the necessity for remembering it arises." It is late when the Mallorys go, under the promise of speedy rebum. "They are not much' changed," says Nigel. "Sefton is just the same good, quiet, unassuming, genuine fellow, and Herbert is blessed with exactly the same amount of s*lf-conceit. He is an embarrassingly truthful young man. I wish he didn t parade that virtue of his quite so much." "You think the wheels of life go more smoothly when oiled with a little hypocrisy?" ■ ' ' v "Undoubtedly," says Nigel; coolly. Sefton soon avails himself of the permission to visit Ormidale. Towers, that fine old place, with its mellow red stone and ivy wreaths, its lovely grounds, where'/ in this season lilac, and laburnum, . hawthorn, pink arid white, lend their colour and fragrance to the scene. Food for his pencil is soon found, and he establishes himself at the foot of a great tree, busily working; now and then a furry rabbit scuds by, or the poets' bird, "the wise , thrush," surveys him critically ; but for the low sigh of the wind there is no sound. The Jong afternoon is drawing to a close before he puts his work away, and allows thought to turn homewards. As he walks slowly along the winding path, he hears the rustle of a dress, he sees Lady Ormidale carrying .a small book; among the trees,' arid well sheltered,, is. the summer house, a pretty little, nest, to which she -is evidently going, when she perceives, Sefton.,,, He takes off his hat, and approaches Tier in a manner which shows that. "Reverence, the angel, of the, world," has not yet flown away; a great pity fills his heart for this solitary old woman who is wasting her love and care on an unworthy, object, a vapid, dissipated young man, who neglects her, and leaves her to herself, except when self-interest prompts him to. make a passing visit. "I am glad to see you," Lady Ormidale says, and indeed, she finds something pleasing in his face, something that gratifies her in- the deference of his manner, a deference paid more to her age and sex than, to her rank; she extends a thin white jewelled hand to Him.- "I hope yon have not been disappointed." „. "Disappointed!" he ; repeats, smiling, then indicates his portfolio. "I am afraid to say how many sketches I have made." And then, noting her interested glance, "if you care to see them, Lady Ormidale—!' . "I do, indeed ; if' you will take the trouble to show them to me," she replies, and they enter the summer house together ; siome. cushions and shawls and a footstool have been carried out to it, and Sefton makes the old lady comfort-, able in a great basket-chair, and then displays his handiwork. Lady Orinidale is delighted ; as she recognises each sketch her pleasure increases ; she is not a little flattered that this handsome and talented young man cares to give his time and attention to her. "I admit that I am surprised, she says. "I really did' not know that you were so highly gifted. To be quite candid, I thought you would prove one of Mrs Verriner's many amateur geniuses. These are very beautiful. I nave to : thank you for a great pleasure." "The thanks sfiould come from, me, Lady Ormidale; and I am going to ask another favour from you." Lady Orraidale looks up ; the picture gallery is not unknown to fame, and this young artist may have the wish to inspect it. What would he think of it, abandoned, neglected, since her son's death? : „, „ "I wish," he says, "you would tell me your favourite view, and give me the ?ileasure of painting it for you. I know, rom Mrs Verririer, that you like landscapes." There is a sudden colour in her withered cheek as she looks at him. "You would not think ,it waste of time? Well, I will show you my favourite scene. I can reach the place with the help of your arm." It is a very strong and steady arm on which she leans, as they climb some rjsing ground, whence is commanded a beautiful view of the country, and the hand which helps her is firm and sure, though so gentle. Side by side they stand, gazing at an unrivalled picture of the Great Artist's. ' .' "Thank yon,", says Sefton; "I will remember." ..'.'., : She is looking at him with a' strange wistfulness, the haughty old face; quite softened. '.; .-'.■' ' " ' ' "Your mother is dead," she says'; "1 am sorry for it; she would have been proud of you. You were young when she died?" i : "Twenty-one; quite' old enough to understand my loss. '.Her' death was, I think, exceptionally ! sad.' Five years changed \im '■ fronj a most, beautiful

and happy woman to a wasted, deary shadow." "You must be true to her memory," says Lady Ormidale, looking stead iy ,-t him, "and true to the honour cf the name you bear. Aim for the higheit in all things. Never do anything unwoytbv your race ; all your lire is bet oro -oa yet ; be careful that you do not mar it You are the elder? Then tho dignity and honour of your father's nam.) v in you hands." "I hope I shall never forget it,' S3js Sefton, puzzled slightly by her tone >n which there is more than a tinge oi-l-ii - terne&s. • <Fo F an y° ne inclined to be jjr^hi.s tic, shesays, "the future cf these happ-. islands is not very ©ncoiirajjiag, w„■ ii one contemplates the husband* -uml fathers that will be. ,To me, the majority of modern young men seem to" i « creatures who set- foot on honour, :.mi conscience, and principle, who live intirely in and for the present, whose my to is 'eat, drink, and be nierry, ! without even 'tor to-morrow we die." Xo- morrow need not be contemplated." Sef ton's answer, whatever it- mi wit have been, is never given, for at this moment, there are footsteps and the of feminine garments, uud he beholds a fail- form approaoh.ng. It « j ™t. ? elvet > with a profusion of jet and ribbons, and the general effect is one of odds and ends, even arto its hair, drawn up from the back in oran«r C - coloured masses,, and twisted nbout Its brow in periwinkle curls. Sefton thinks of the spinster aunt in "Pickwick.'.' Thin lady is very fair, eneirties might say washed out} her waist is painfully small, and keeps her elbows well back. She is a decayed gentlewoman," filling the post of companion to Lady Ormidale. She gives a spasmodic smile, a dramatic start, and then a little rush forward ; in speaking she advances her head, and surveys sideways like a parrot. "Dearest Lady Ormidale, I have been looking everywhere for you !" she says, every second word in italics, and with innocent unconsciousness of the presence of man. kady Ormidale briefly introduces her as Miss Fox, and the is condescending but kind. V. ' . . "Mr Mallory has been good enoturji «o show me his sketches," says Lady Oi-aii-dale, as they pause at the summer -houce. "Oh, indeed! Very pretty, too. Who* a delightful gift, Mr Mallorv. Though if I were an artist, I should go In. for painting, grand historical- scenes, you know, something elevating, something awe-inspiring. But, there, it is so ea.-«f to criticise. And these little things are really very nice. I used to be Very fond of drawing myself once, but I gave it up." . Like Tennyson's "Brook," she is inclined to go on for ever, but Sefton interrupts her; her utter artificiality j a r» upon him, and a comical wonder' as to how she and Herbert would get on dar f s through his mind. Before he leaves Lady Ormidale, he has given a promise of a speedy return. ; "So that is Mr Mallory !" : says Mfcs Fox. "Dear me now, what do you suppose has brought him here, Lady.Orniidale? Is he really an old lover of Mrs Verriner's?" . ... To which question Lady Ormidale deigns no reply. It is dusk when Sefton leaves tho grounds, and he is a long way from tin* square; as he hurries through the loflely lanes, he thinks of the stern old livdy who to-day has been to him all that i* gentle andgrkindly. What is more md than neglected old age? he asks himself; he ponders over all that he has heard concerning her. The long estrangement between her and her only son,' thV> son's untimely death, affliction 'which has hardened rather than softened the mother's heart. He thinks, too.'of'Mie man for whom she has done so much, her earthly idol, who is clay indeed, and finds an answer to his question— sadrW than lonely age is wasted, mis-spent youth. Whether it is that she doeei not know, or will not know, what manner ot man he is, is hard to say; from Wr reception of Herbert's rather dtepivrnjiJti.t remarks, it is evident that she resent? adverse criticism on her nephew :to him she clings? her last hop©, the only livm*: relative ahe has, the sole tie binding her to earth. . He has walked a good distance, and is so lost in thought that he doe- not hear tho stealthy, murderous footstep*-. which have been following him for, somo way, does not see the evil eyes watching his every movement, waiting an opnortiinity to strike with a weapon fast he'd in a strong and cruel hand.. ThrouorJi the grey twilight gleam the lights of ♦in* town; a subdued hum of human l"fe U borne on the' wind; a star trembles in the sky, and birds are twittering m'fhc woods. There is the peace of the. hp^f in Sefton's own heart ; he is thinking of his future with the serenity of -on'e.wJVrire faith and trust in the Divinity which shapes our ends are perfect.; .if* fame is never to be his, if wealth is to pus* "hint by, he will have th^eatisf action of haring done his best, and life will,, not. tx 1 one long remorse. So he resolves ';, and then his thoughts turn to that more restless and fiery spirit. Herbert, wto cannot realise that hapoiness, like duty, lies ever near at hand, whose presenc ■ and future are darkened by trie snH<liV.rs of the past, from which he has emT.qrett. "It is almost .like a^ curse," Sefton thinks; "he cannot devote himself tn 6fr art, or to anything, lor any length of time ; all must be abandoned whifot ho pursues a vain search. It is as if Crawford, Hying or dead, had power to b(;eht his genius, and to ruin his* imagination : there is nothing to which he can settl^." Very near now is the dark jfigure fbflowing; there is a slight riishingf sounct. and Sefton is conscious of a tternetldouV blow, a dull pain, and of seeing !*i'e*rt , hedges whirling round ; then ho f f!« heavily to the ground, and remembers Tirt more. . . . When Sefton uncloses his eyes, J je f<» aware first of on aching head, a feeling of languor and nausea, for which he ie unable to account until memory returns ; gradually his sight: becomes, more clear, and hie finds that, he is now lying in tho lane, but on a couch in a room .quite strange to him. He is conscious of the glow of, many flowers, of the soft, snnt.hing light of shaded lamps, and wonder if he is in one of Laura's sanctums. : At

the end of the apartment is a tall Japanese screen with palms in its folds ; there is a pretty easel, a piano draped in plusli, a profusion of books, and on the rug a dog is basking in firelight that glimmers on a small table with china and silver. There is an. indescribable air of refinement and artistic taste in every inch of the room ; bewildered, ho raises himself on his elbow, contemplating wonderful clusters of daffodil and narcissi, of azalea an 3 maidenhair, and as he does to, there is a gentle movement near him, and a lady, rising from the depths of a plush chair, looks at him with an anxious interest in the most beautiful 'face he has ever beheld. There is not an imperfect line or an irregular feature in it ; the hair is touched with grey, but is silky and luxuriant; the solemn eyebrows Sweep over eyes in which dwells an almost* divine sweetness; her colouring is ivory white, save for the mournfully tender lips, and Sefton gazes at her spellbound. . "Are you in pain?" she asks, with a light, quick touch adjusting the cushions on which he has been resting. ' "No," he replies rather confusedly ; "v little giddy, that is all. And I don't remember what has happened." "I will tell you. But I musfe first ask if your friends will be uneasy or anxious about you. We can very easily send a messenger for ,you*" Sefton reflects a moment ; Herbert is not at all likely to be disturbed by his absence, and there is no one else. "You. are very kind, but I need not trouble you to do that. I shall soon be able to go home." "Oh, yes," she says cheerfully, "you were not seriously hurt, only stunned." He has risen now, with some difficulty, and is conscious of giddiness and unsteadiness. "If you will try to walk to that chair," she says, indicating one near the fire, "I will tell you what we know of your misadventure. Be careful — lean on that table and walk slowly; you will find the dizziness leave yoii as you move." He obeys her directions, and when he reaches the low, chair he feels as if ho has made quite a long journey ; there is a sharp pain in his temples, and his ■bead is heavy . as lead. The lady sits down by the tiny table with its china and silver, and he sees by the clearer light that there is something foreign in •her face and movements, and a very slight foreign accent adds to the mellifluence of her tones. "You will permit me to give you tome tea," she says; "it will do you good; there ia ako a little. fruit here, which is refreshing. And now, what do you remember?' "Only that I was struck from behind ; I remember the blow; no more. Who dealt it, or why, I can't tell." "You were attacked by a tramp," she says ; "it is not the fmft case of the kind which has occurred here lately, and thero have been several robberies in tbjp neighbourhood. Fortunately my gardener was at hand. He was not able to prevent the assault, but he did stop the robbery. The man made off, leaving your watch and chain in his fright, andyou were brought here. You have been insensible for some time, but the hurt is not serious, and will not trouble you long." "I am very grateful to you," he says, "and I am sorry to have alarmed and troubled you." "At first we were alarmed — somehow one always fears the worst — but there was not any trouble. And," she adds, with a faint smile, "something perhaps more precious to you than watca or chain is safe also— l mean your sketches. Ido not think they have suffered. You are perhaps a stranger here ; otherwise you would know that that is not considered a safe road after dark." "You are very kind," says Sefton ; "I am -a* a loss how to express my thanks—" He makes a pause, wondering what her name is, and she apparently divines his thoughts. "I am Mrs Cameron, she says, filling the blank. # "Mrs Cameron ! lam Sefton Mallory, and I believe we have a mutual friertd in Mrs Verriner," he replies, with a new interest, which is reciprocated. "Yes, Mrs Verriner is my friend in the best sense of the word. I have often heard her speak of you and your brother; I am only sorry that I make your acquaintance under such unpleasant circumstances. I have known Mrs Verriner almost) ten years ; she is always the name." Her white hands are moving over the teacups as she speaks, and Sefton is free to look at her with more close attention born of his heightened interest. She is very calm ; "her eyes are homes of silent prayer," and there is no outward sign of .the bitter battle she has waged here against the sharp assault of mean tongues, no indication of the Hying down of the enmity, the suspicion arid distrust and slander 5 her only reply to speculation and inquiry has been an absolutely blameless life ; those who have tried to pierce into her past have been turned aside and baffled by a calm silence, a steady ignoring of hints and open questions alike. The secret of that past, the wounds she may bear, the bitter tears known only to womanhood, alike are hidden ; if she has "groaned in anguish," if her heart has ached for kindlier judgment, more human sympathy,, none have known ; whatsoever grave in the pact her silence shrouds — whatsoever sorrow, loss, or betrayal she has suffered — remain untold. Laura Verriner has been her loyal friend through good repute and ill repute, has extended: to her, through clouds of calumny and scorn, the hand of a brave, true-hearted woman ; others have followed suit, Keeking the friendship of her they had formerly slighted and despised, astonished to find her highly accomplished and intellectual, as. refined and cultured as she is beautiful ; and she has borne her honours with the same tranqnility with which she bore her semiostracism, and might say with Browning's heroine — "What I am, what I am not, in the eye of the world, is what I never cared for much." There are very few who are on terms of intimacy with her; the "great people." who at first placed her at a distance, have found ,that she keeps that distance even when they are willing to remove. it> and goes her own quiet way, independent, without lacking charity or kindliness. The door is softly opened, and someone enters. Sefton looks up, and his meditations come to an end. There is a new brightness and glory in the room, a radiance shed by two large blue ,eyes and the halo of golden hair ; he is vaguely aware of being introduced, to "My daughter, Christabel," and for the rest ' feels suddenly in a mist of dreams. _ . Between mother and daughter is a strong resemblance, though' one is so fair, and the other so dark, one sp pensive and subdued, the other so bright, with the hanpiness ot a sinless youth. "She is 'The Light of Stars.' " Sefton says to himself, glancing at Mrs Cameron, "and her daughter i» 'Maidenhood.' They are those two poems realised." 3fe is very sorry when ho is obliged to

go, and he feels a curious gratitude towards the tramp .who assaulted him, "I'snould like fo call again, if I "may," ho says, diffidently ; "will you allow me, Mrs Cameron?" if she' hesitates, it is so slightly -that he does not perceive it, and ■ tiien she gives a gracious permission, with which he departs. Herbert has.ncj; returned when he enters the studio ; -he has completely forgotten his. bounden duty ot reporting the assault and attempted robbery, and is consumed by a desire to paint an allegorial picture "Spring.' Spring of course, should be represented by a maiden with blue eyes and fair silken hair, with the hue of the wild rose in her cheeks, a type of purity and girlish grace and sweetness.