OUR SERIAL STORY

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume I, Issue 84, 22 March 1911, Page 9

OUR SERIAL STORY

HER DEAREST WISH. (Continued.) She laughed softly. ‘•What an outrageous compliment,” she said. “Was it?” he said rather grimly. “Are you happy ?” he asked suddenly, his eyes seeking her face with something of their love-hunger revealed in them.

The question startled her. “Yes,” she said, “very happy! It is all so bright and beautiful —the music—everything. ’ ’ She looked round and laughed with innocent delight- 'on the brilliant scene.

“I am glad,’’ he said in a low voice. “it was worth doing.” “It is such a great success.” she said, after a pause. “All are so evidently enjoying themselves. Lady Royborough says that your party will never be forgotten.” “It will not—by me,” he commented.

“And you. too. must be happy!”

j she said, glancing at him. I “I am—very,” he asserted; but there was something in his tone, in the look of his eyes, that troubled her.

“You deserve to be,” she murmur-

cd softly, and a little shyly. “You are so unselfish; yon have taken all tins trouble to give pleasure to others.”

He folded his arms and gripped them above the elbows tightly. Her frank, innocent praise of. him, the soft, sweet voice, the deep eyes, were getting on his nerves. He.felt that if he stayed near her much longer he would lose the power of self-restraint. He forced a smile, and got up from the lounge. “I save my modesty by flight,” he said. “You would make a saint of me; and all the while I know that 1 am—”

He left the sentence unfinished and walked away. Mr Mersbon’s dance came, and with it that gentleman. He offered her his arm without a word, with just

one sharp glance from his guarded eyes, and they started. He was not a bad waltzer by any means, but either he had not got Decima’s step, or the emotion, which was pressing on him made him unsteady and confused him, for before they had gone the round of the room he had lost the time, and presently came to a full stop. “It is—hot, isn’t it?” he asked, looking just below her eyes, “and the room is crowded.”’ It was not. “Wouldn’t you like to sit down for a little while?”

“Ob, yes’.” replied Decima promptly. She would not have enjoyed very much a waltz with Mr Mershon even if there step had matched perfectly ; and she was glad to be rei leased. He led her, through the I great glass door at the end of the ■ room, into the palm-house, and they i sat under a marble nymph. The i light from the lamp in the hand of the I statue fell upon Deeima’s face, and Mr Mershon glanced at her in silence for a minute or two. He had paid several visits to the buffet, but he was not in the least intoxicated; and the wane had only served to givf> him a kind of spurious, desperate courage. Deci ma leaned back and fanned herself. She was scarcely conscious of his presence, but was listening to the waltz and thinking of—Lord Gaunt. The tone of his voice haunted her; and she was wondering what made him so sad ®nd grim in the midst of the general gaiety. Then, suddenly, Mr Mershon broke in on her -reverie. | “Rather a fine place, Leafmore,” be said. His voice, sharp and thin, yet nob quite so sharp and metallic as usual, jarred on her. “Yes,” she answered, simply. He stroked his clean-shaven lips and looked critically about him through half-closed eyes, and then glanced covertly at her. “I shouldn’t mind having a place like this,” he said, meditatively. “You have a very”—she could not say beautiful—“grand house already, Mr Mershon.”

He shook his head. “Y-es; but it’s rather commonplace. It’s new, you see. 1 should like an old house, something after this style. I think I shall buy one; there are always plenty in the market. Why do you smile?” he added, quickly. Decima laughed softly. “Because you said that as others say it when they are referring to quite a trivial, inexpensive thing,'” she replied. “Well; it wouldn’t break me,” he said, cooly. “I may just as well spend my money that way as not. 'rhe only* thing is, it would be rather large for a bachelor.” “fx»rd Gaunt is a bachelor,” she remarked. His fare darkened for an instant; then he smiled and nodded towards the ball-room. She looked, and saw Lord Gaunt with Lady Blanche Ferndale upon his arm. He was looking down at her as he talked, with a smile on his fate, and the girl’s eyes were upturned to his with a pleased expression in them.

“He won’t remain a bachelor very long.” said Mr Mershon “They doubted her innocence and sincerity say that the Ferndale’s daughter will be the mistress of Leafmore.” Decima looked at Lord Gaunt and Lady Blanche with a sudden contraction of the brows. “She is very beautiful—very,” she said, under her breath. Mr Mersihon nodded. “Yes; but I didn’t ask yon to come here to talk about them,” he went on, with a kind of desperate abruptness. “1 don’t take any interest in them or—or any one else but myself and—and another person.”

Decima turned her eyes on him with faint surprise. “Witat a strange speech,” she exclaimed, with a smile. “I don’t in the least know what you mean.” “You don’t?” he said, incredulously, and with a side glance at her. “Don’t you know that the only person I take any interest in is—you?” “In me! That is very kind of you, Mr Mershon. I suppose it is because you are so great a friend—you see so much—of my father.” Ho looked at her and lowered his eyes quickly. Gaunt would not have tor a moment, but this man was of different metal.

“Not al together, lie answered. “Yes, I’m a friend of your father’s, a true friend: but—but if I am it is lyecause of you.” Decima looked at him with a slightly puzzled air, and he went on, as if be had rehearsed the words.

“I’ve known you some weeks now Miss Decima,” —she frowned unconsciously at the Decima—“and it’s only natural that I should have grown to care for you—to love you, in fact.”

Now, let it lie remembered that no man had ever spoken of love to her; that she had, unlike most girls, never thought or dwelt- upon the great mystery. She scarcely knew what it meant, but she knew enough to shrink from the sound of the word in Mr XRnshon’s voice. The colour left her face and her lips grew very white. “That’s how it is with me,” he went on, after a pause. “I’ve fallen in love with you, and I want you to be my wife.” The very suddenness of the thing lessened the shock, strange as this may sound. If she had been at all prepared, had suspected what was in his mind, there would have been time for the repulsion—almost horror —to have stirred within her. As it was. she sat half stunned and bewildered. Her silence did not daunt him. Mr Mershon was accustomed to getting what he wanted, sometimes by guile, sometimes by force, sometimes l>y sheer dogged persistence. He meant getting this lovely girl—anyway. “I want you to be my wife,” he rejieated. “I suppose you have seen this coming.” Decima found her voice at last.

“No; oh no, no!” she said, like one s|>eaking mechanically; and it was well for his coolness tliat he did not see the shiver which followed her denial.

“Well, that’s because you’re so young—and innocent,” he said. “But I thought you might have guessed. I dare say your father does.” “My father!” The cry was almost one of amazement. He nodded.

“Yes; he must have seen it; and I don't suppose he’d have any objection. Why should he? Look here, Miss Decima, I’m not going to boast —I know I’m not worthy of you; I don't know any man that is; but—well, as I say, I hate anything like boasting, but I can't help feeling that I’ve got the means to make you happy.” The horror was beginning to grow u]K»n her, to make itself felt. She tried to rise, but she seemed under a spell, and there was something hideously fascinating in his cool, measured voice and tone.

“I’m a rich man. It wasnt swagger when I said that I could buy a place like this.” He looked rounu. “I’d buy a couple, half a dozen, if you expressed a wish to have them. I’m rich enough—but that’s all I want to say about that. What I meant to say is, that with all my money, it won’t bring me happiness unless I can win you. I’m as deeply in love with you as a man could be—’ ’ “Oh, stop—stop,” she interrupted. Her voice was broken, and she faltered in her eagerness to stop him, to be saved one single word more. “I —I did not know. I never thought, never guessed. Oh, do—do believe me.”

“I do,” he said. “Well, then,” she said, drawing a long breath, “you will not say any more, will not even think of it again.” He looked at her fixedly. “Does that mean that you refuse me?” he asked,'in a low voice. She turned her lovely eyes with frank amazement at his not uudei standing her. “Oh. yes—yes!” she cried, eagerly, as a girl speaks when she does not wish to wound. “I could not—could not!” She laughed a quavering laugh. “Why, I—l have never thought— I am so young; I— Oh, why did you tell me?” There was pa-in in her voice, the pain of innocence at the approach of knowledge. “You’re not too young to be married.” he said; “and as to your never having thought—well, I can l understand that. You didn’t know. But you know now, and I’ll give you time to answer it.”

“No, don’t; please don’t!” she implored with a girlish eagerness. “I could not think. I—l am sure. All the thinking in the world would, not make me. I could not!”

Every.word she spoke, every emotion pictured on her lovely face, only made his desire more intense, his determination more solid. “Do you hate me?” he asked, shortly. Decima shrank. “Hate! Oh, no, no! Why should I?” “Do you dislike me ?” She moved uneasily. “Why should I dislike you ? My father—you have been so kind— Oh why do you ask me?” “If you don’t hate or even dislike me, you can grow to like me.” he said, doggedly, with the persistence which had helped him to make his money. “I’m in no hurry. I don’t want to hurry you. . I’li give you time to think it over.” “No,” she said; and suddenly her voice had become full of womanly dignity. “I do not want any time. I am quite sure.” (To be Continued.)