ALL OR NOTHING

King Country Chronicle, Volume VII, Issue 582, 5 July 1913, Page 6

ALL OR NOTHING

(Copyright.)

A THRILLING ROMANCE —♦ ,By ihe Author of "A Bitter Bondage," "Two KeysJ "Stella," "The Unknown Bridegroom," &c, PART 18. Neither then or ever had he bee Capable of appreciating or undci standing: Evelyn, his wife. What lie said was perfectly true : few women reached the height of genius, of sellsacrifice, of devotion, of abandonment to one grand idea that Evelyn Homr.: : ne had attained. Few women were capable of such intense love—love so great that when she found hpc life stood in his way, she was to abandon it ; when she found her identity and the fact of ber marriage would be prejudiced to him, she was willing to bury both for ever..

Ncr was he capable of understanding that, although she had done this deed—released him because of the love she bore him —yet that love lay now dead, as though it had never been l-.orn. She was too just, too sensible, in spite of all her genius and romance, not to understand the shallow, cruel selfishness that actuated him. She bad loved him enough to give up all the rest of her life, to be icßtent .to .remain unknown, obscure, pc or for -his sake, and he might be aappy, rich, and honoured. But when she had made that effort her love died, never to live again. Her mind and soul were too noble ever to admit again one ray of love for a man who had proved himself untruthful, unfaithful,, and selfish. If he had understood her rightly he would have known how great was the net of soli-abnegation, how great the iiicritice, when she took the wedding- . ing from her finger and set him free ; he would have known that if in ll:c aftor years he should seek her ;:o .vr.iycrs of his would ever re- * ihi her love ; no prayers would ever induce her to return to him, or to cJ.e her place as his wife. When t he left Carbace it was to her as though 'tihe had stood by the grave of Clivc Noel, and went forth from .he pleasant home that had sheltered them, a disconsolate widow. There Was no more love, no more brightness, no more hope for her. Life was over. She had drunk of the wine ; only the dregs remained. She said to herself when she went away that, the name of Clive Noel should aevermore pass her lipS, that she would not utter it herself or to others. Looking up to the clear, bright heavens, she swore this oath. She said to herself that if she were starving and his hands, were oversowed with richest bounties, she would take nothing from him ; that if she lay -at death's door and he could save her by a word,; that word she would never ask him to speak ; that Gertie should be taught to believe him dead, and should never know his name, his position, or his rank. With her it must be all or nothing.

She did pause once and ask herself was she by these resolutions doing Gertrude any wrong. She remembered the lawyer's words that in the Gothwic family there were certain peculiarities, one of which was that a daughter could succeed as well as a son. She knew that in point of law her child was legally and properly Lady Gertrude Noel, and that if her father died without having a son she was Countess of Gothwic in her own ; right. She knew this, but aer mind never wavered. Not to have made Gertrude a queen would she have revealed to the child the selfish cruelty of her father. Not to have made her empress of the whole world would she have forced the daughter she loved into < a family unwilling to receive, her, where she .v.ould'ce scoffed H at for her mother's profession, disliked and made wretched. Gertrude, she argued to herself, would be a thousand times happier brought up in obscurity,. loved and cared for by her. Evelyn, Lady Noel, believed she was doing her child good service by keeping her in ignorance of her birth , and station. So she set out on her journey through the world alone. Her life had been one with his ; she took the shattered remnants and hid herself beneath, them, suffering as only noble true-hearted women with grand souls can suffer when they have been betrayed. * * * • * *

The years rolled on ; all the good things of this life fell in richer abundance to the share of Lord Noel. He could not live without some sentimental passion, and his liking foi Florence Ralston was sufficient tc give his life zest. He saw her fre quently, and found a delicious ex "citement in combating her indifference and her barely-concealed contempt ; content if he could win from her at rare intervals some littl. sign that he was not to her as the rest of men—that he was the one -.et apart from the crowd. Life was very brilliant for him, and full of charm. In former years the gay mansions of Belgravia and Mayfair had neither been closed against him, or he was so coldly received that he never cared to enter the magnificent portals. In those days he had been a younger son—a detrimental —a man of limited income, loaded with debt. All was altered now ; lovely women smiled upon and sighed gently over Uim. Stately Belgravia matrons bade him heartily welcome, and were no longer afraid to see " dearest Ether waltzing with him, or to see him bending over Georgiana's chair. He was privileged ; he was invited to cosy five-o'clock teas —to recherche little suppers after the opera; he had the entree when other people ■were excluded, aad him &T, *pl*a-

nure-loving nature revelled in the sunshine o£ this delicate flattery. He had been treated with a certain degree of coldness ; now fair women smiled upon, sought to please him, consulted his tastes, showed themselves delighted with his attentions. He liked the soft frou-frou of silken robes, the murmur of sweet voices, the smile of fair faces, the moving of jewelled fans, the gleaming of precious stones, delicate perfumes, and silvery laughter. He liked the homage of w»men, he liked eyes to brighten, and soft, sweet faces to Hush as he drew near ; he liked to see a little white hand tremble because he touched it,; he thought of Lhosc long days at Carbace, and he wondered how he had endured their dreary length ; revelled in the sunshine of his life, and resolutely deadened his conscience against all appeal. It was pleasant at balls and fetes to know that the fairest belles r.nd most queenly beauties waited his presence. When the Duchess of Texton, who had been wont to greet him with a cold, stern smile, came forward, and after receiving him with the greatest expressment, asked him to be good enough to escort Lady Clarinda, her dark-browed daughter, to the carriage, he was weak enough to be flattered by it, yet he knew this homage was all offered to his position and not to himself. Any other man in his place would have received just the same, and it never occurred to him to contrast such conduct with the love of the woman who had been willing to give up the whole world for him. 1165.

The day came at last when the old carl lay dying, and his last words Were a blessing on the son who had deceived him. ( "I am so thankful, Clive," he said, faintly, "that there was no truth in the rhmour that frightened me so." And the false lips answered once more :

. "There was not, father —not the least."

"And now," continued the old earl, sadly—"now that I am dying, Clive, you promise me to do as I wish —to bring home a wife to Gothwic, a lady worthy to be the wife and mother of the Noels."

"I promise, father," he said ; and the false words comforted the deat.iiLod that but for them would have been desolate.

Tne old earl died, and the new earl reigned in his place. The countess who truly mourned for her husband, retired to the dewer-house, leaving Gothwic Towers for her son. He remonstrated when she first expressed her intention of so doing, but she interrupted him. " I shall not have long to live, Clive, and my life has been a busy one. Let me have the few last years in peace—away from the gaieties cf Gothwio—amongst flowers and trees and fields."

"It shall be as you like, mother, ' he said, kindly. Indeed, no one' could be anything but kind to gentle Lady Gothwic.

"Clive.," she, continued.; ,"do pay some heed nov; to your father's wishes. Florence Ralston is still 1.11married, and I believe she likes you. Bring a wife home to Gothwic."He kissed her laughingly, telling her there was plenty of time yet. He busied himself in attending to her comfort. He was a good son, but the promise of seeking a wife was never fulfilled.

Five more years passed. He was Earl Gothwic, of Gothwic Towers, now one of the richest peers of the realm—known as a great admirer ol beautiful women, and as one <>f the best matches in Englatid. Sometimes it occurred to him that now all barriers were removed—that wealth estates, and title were all his, he might try to find Evelyn. Then his careless, debonair, selfish nature shrank from the conwrns ( ,r> remarks, the wonders which would bf expressed ; shrank,' too, from the ridicule that would be cast upoc him when it should be known that he, the Earl of Gothwic, whom all fair women smiled on, had married an actress, and kept his marriage s secret for twelve long years. No ; he must give up all thoughts of it : and devote his time to pleasure and gaiety. About this time some books ap peared which created a perfect furore. No one knew the writer, but froir the graceful imagery, the beautiful, spiritual thoughts, the noble ideas clad in such picturesque words, it was generally supposed that the> were the production of a womansweet, sad stories, so full of pathos and of grace, that they touched all hearts.. Lord Gothwic had always been more or less fond of reading, and among a packet of books that came one day from Mudie's he found a copy of "Spirit Voices." He was a gay. careless, selfish man. It was evening when he opened the book, but, despite his selfishness, tears of real emotion rose to his eyes as he read, and he never laid it down until he had finished the last word. He could not account foi the idea, but all the time he was reading it seemed as though Evelyn, his wife, was once more whispering her beautiful thoughts and sweet, wild fancies into his ear.

CHAPTER XXII. "I am sure you need not take mi home, Mr. Ainsleigh. Why give yourself the trouble ? I have but to cross one field and go down the road. 1 need not take you from your friends." '" I have just lived long enough, Miss Morton, to know the difference between trouble and pleasure, and as a really great pleasure—a real privilege—l ask permission to take you home."

"Miss Wray will miss you, and Miss Ley ton will look dull," was the smiling reply. "You delight m cruelty—all prettj girls do, I suppose. Look at that butterfly. Do you think, when it goes wooing the rose, the rose pays, ' My leaves are fragile ; you caunol rest here ?' " "I do not supnose roses sneak at

.ill," said the sweet, girlish v<>:.-.e. ' Well, look, for instance, at those i ii'ds. There is no mistake about it, if v.o could sec through the thick I r ncacLS of the hawthorn tree, we should lirnl they own a pretty little no t hidden under the leaves. Do yen .sippose, Miss Morton, that v.'ion robin, there, went wooing his ! rK'ht-eyed little mate, she told him the linnet over the way would be drill ?"

"I never was a bird," laughed the sweet voice again, "so I cannot tell what birds say or think."

" When the flowers are very thirsty," he continued, passionately, do you think- they close their golden hearts to the dew ?"

'That I am sure they do net," she replied, earnestly. "Nor, when the flowers are cold, do they turn from the warm suninys that, give them life, colour, warmth ?"

"No." she replied, gravely, " they .lo not."

"Then, Miss Morton, if the birds arc kind to each other —if the flowers love the sun and love the dew —if the roses smile on the bright-winged butterflies —why are you not kind to me ?"

rthe blushed crimson, then laughed again—a sweet, silvery laugh, that thrilled one's heart as does the chime of a melodious bell.

"I have not followed your argument closely, Mr. Ainsleigh ; you confuse me with flowers and sunshine. You talk more like a Persian poet than an English gentleman."

"I wish you would let me teach yqu Persian poetry," he said, trying to obtain a glimpse of the sweet young face turned slyly from him. "Mr. Ainsleigh," she said, "I promised mamma to be home by noon, and it must be long after. I never like to break a promise. Please let me go."

For he stood so near the entrance of the cool, fragrant, shady porch that she could not pass without he moved.

"May I take you home, then ? Be kind, Miss Morton—say yes !" He saw the conscious, sweet, shy glance ; he knew she was willing to yield ; he knew why her lovely eyes drooped beneath his. Leonard Ainsleigh understood it all. It was a pretty picture. The two speakers stood in a large porch that was covered with the starry flowers of the white jessamine, and by woodbines that grew in lovely profusion. A large garden full of trees and flowers lay before them where the birds were singing, the busy bees gathering honey from the carnation, and the idle, happy butterflies coquetting with the lily and rose. The June sunshine lay all around them ; the warm, fragrant air was full of melody ; and behind them was the grey, picturesque house where Dr. Stanley dwelt. Mrs. Stanley, the doctor's wife, had no children of her own, and nothing pleased the gentle, kindly lady so much as surrounding herself with young faces. This bright June morning she had gone out and met, first Miss Morton, who was her greatest favourite, then Miss Alice Leyton, the heiress par excellence of Carsbrook, then she encountered pretty Josephine Wray ; and nothing would please her but that the three young ladies should go home with her and taste some of the doctor's far-famed peaches. "I do not know how it ie," aaid the kindly lady, "but there always seems to me to be a kind of natural affinity between young ladies and fruits and flowers."

"Perhaps," suggested pretty Josephine, "it is because they are aIJ three so nice."

It was the brightest of June mornings, and the warmth made the idea of ripe peaches and purple grapes very acceptable. The young ladies went home with Mrs. Stanley. They were very well pleased to spend an hour or two in the pretty sum-mer-house, , where the table was spread with the daintiest of fruits. The doctor came out and spent a few minutes with them ; then Leonard Ainsleigh, who was studying medicine with Dr. Stanley, came, and he lingered there, unable to tear himself away and resume the study of "Wilson on the Nerves." Who could ! Imagine a beautiful arbour —green trellis-work, covered with rich foliage—eglantines and wild roses climbing over it ; great festoons of scarlet creepers, masses of purple wisteria and white jessamine hanging from it ; and, framed, as it were, in flowers, the faces ol three young girls ; a table spread with dainty fruit, a dish of purple grapes, of ripe, sunny peaches, and strawberries smothered in cream. Watteau would have painted the picture, and would have immortalised it. Two things were very apparent in the eyes of Mrs. Stanley, Leonard Ainsleigh was deeply in love with beautiful Mabel Morton, and Alice Leyton was just as much in love with him.

It was a pleasant little party, until Miss Morton suddenly remembered the lapse of time, and declared she must go home. The young doctor declared he must go with her—that it was impossible she could go alone, the distance was too great, with a hundred other excuses, that amused Mrs. Stanley and angered Miss Leyton.

Leonard Ainsleigh walked down the garden path, still arguing the matter and the argument lasted until they reached the large, shady porch, and there they both stood still to decide it. (To be continued.)