Beneath Their Feet.

Lake County Press, Issue 2290, 16 September 1909, Page 2

Beneath Their Feet.

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL AR RANGEMENT

By Iza Duffus Hardy.

Author of “The Lesser Evil,” “MacGilleroy’s Millions,” “Man Woman and Fate,” “Oranges and Pomegranates,” “The Butterfly,” etc., etc.

COPYRIGHT,

CHAPTER I. “Who was she?” “Nobody knows. I didn’t even know George Brantynham was married! At least if I had heard of it, I had forgotten. I have such a dreadful memory; do you know, I asked Mrs. Langworth how her husband was, and he had been dead two years! and worse Still, when Colonel Meredith came back from India I congratulated him on his marriage, and the poor man thought I was congratulating him on his divorce.” “And the Brantynhams ?” the patient listener reminded the forgetful lady, after the tributary laugh . “Oh, well, they were as poor as church mice. Alice went out as nursery governess or something in an American family— went out to America with them, and George tried his hand at tea and oranges. No, not grocery! The idea of a Brantynham behind a counter! I mean planting and gro'wof course. Ceylon and Florida. No one ever thought of such a thing as his coming into the title, when there were those two cousins of his, such fine boys! One would have thought they would grow up and have half-a-dozen sons a-piece! but there’s a sudden transformation scene, the diptheria swoops down upon the school and carries off that poor young Sir Cyril and his brother both in one week. So here is Sir George back from Florida bringing home a new Lady Brantynhom.” “Was she American?” „ “No, I don’t think so. If George had picked up one of the American heiresses we should have heard of it. I fancy she was quite a nobody, but I hear she’s very pretty. George always had good taste.” “You haven’t seen her then?” “Nobody has seen her yet, except Lady Marlowe. “ Of course, being a connection of the family, she was down at Brantynham Hall for the funeral ; she was first in the field, snapped them up and has got them here staying with her while they were settling their plans; but I hope we shall see them this afternoon. Here we are!” as the carriage stopped at Lady Marlowe’s door. It was disappointing to the visitors -to find the hostess alone; but they were soon assured that her interesting guests were expected in every minute. George was looking so well; and his wife was sweet! perfectly charming ! Alice was coming over from America next week; no, not New York—from Savannah, in the South —there had been illness in the family where she was, and she felt she couldn’t be spared till now. Alice was always so good and unselfish and devoted! Be- # fore the first cup of tea had gone round, the absentees came in with apologies for being late —apologies cut short by Mrs. Ashley-Browne’s gushing greeting: “How are you', I am an old friend of youar husband’s 1” The new Lady Brantynham smiled sweetly, but did not say much. Mrs. Ashley-Browne jumped to the conclusion that George’s wife had not much to say for herself. As a matter of fact, George’s wife had not much chance —Mrs, Ashley-Browne had so much to say herself about old days and mutual friends; her “dreadful memory” was not so bad as to fail her In recalling everything and everybody George ? So delighted ! And this is your wife ? Dear Lady Brantynham, Sir George might be supposed to remember. Lady Marlowe too was ready in catching up allusions to old associations and acquaintances, so that, as they tossed the shuttlecock of reminiscence to and fro, it was little wonder that Lady Brantynham played no prominent part in the conversation. But there was nothing unsympathetic in her silence, and Mrs. Ashley-Browne had heard aright; she was certainly very pretty; no one could deny that, although she had been inconsiderate enough to sit down with her back to the light, unkindly disregarding or ignoring the amicable if critical curiosity of which she was the object. The family bereavement which had conferred the title on her husband being so recent, she of course wore black, and her dress of some light semi-transparent summer fabric, set off her exquisite fairness to perfection. Fair though she was, her eyes were dark; and though the shady hat with its lace veil and drooping feathers almost concealed her hair, there was fust a glimpse beneath the brim of a coil of dark smooth tresses. Her mouth had the true Cupid’s curve, her eyes were large and soft as a gazelle’s.

her smile was gentle and winning, her voice pure music. She was certainly, as Lady Marlowe had said, “sweet,” a little shy, perhaps, but that, as Mrs. Ashley-Browne thought amiably, was only natural, considering the transformation scene in her life, her elevation from a mere “little nobody” to the position of the wife of Sir George Brantynhara, seventh baronet, of Brantynhara Hall, a husband to be proud of in every way ! —“an English gentleman from top to toe” —a fine specimen of the stalwart fair-haired Saxon type in the early prime of manhood. “I have a pleasant surprise for you, George,” said the hostess, presently. “I have asked an old friend of yours to dinner this evening—Douglas St. Quentin.” “St. Quentin? What, old Don Quixote ! Good ! I shall be glad to see the dear old chap again,” said Sir George heartily. Lady Brantynhara, setting her cup down with a haste and abruptness that seemed out of character with her usually soft and leisurely movements, dropped her teaspoon; and as she stooped to pick it up she coloured more vividly, and seemed more discomposed than need have been by so mere a triviality. Mrs. Ashley-Browne, looking on with not unkindly criticism, concluded complacently that George’s wife was ill-at-ease in her new honours, “I suppose you know all George’s friends, by name, at least?” she observed, in a tone intended to encourage and set her at her ease. “My wife has met very few of the old set yet,” Sir George answered for her as she hesitated, “and she has never seen Don Quixote.” “Why do you call him Don Quixote?” asked Mrs. Wynter. “Because he’s always counsel for the defence; no one ever heard him for the prosecution yet. He used to be always taking up desperati* cases —charging -frith lance in rest to get off some interesting culprit.” “He’s a thoroughly good fellow,” observed the hostess, “and can make himself very agreeable when he likes to come out of his shell. I hope we shall be a pleasant little parti carre tonight.” On their homeward drive Mrs. Ash-ley-Browne and Mrs. Wynter laid their heads together in eager comparison of their impressions of the new Lady Brantynhara. Pretty, they agreed, but no presence. No style. Rather a nice figure, that would “pay” for dress; but she would never be “smart.” A domestic type of woman; looked as if she would be in her element darning her husband’s socks and seeing after his dinner. “How old is she, do you think?” “About two or three and twenty. Might be more than that; those fair clear complexions never look their age.” “I should put her at about six and twenty.” “She certainly has a beauiful skin; she will set off the Brantynhara diamonds. I wonder how the dow'ager will like to give them up to the reigning queen?” “I shouldn’t think an old woman like a withered apple would want to call attention to her collar-bones,” observed Mrs. Ashley-Browne. “She was always as gaunt as a clothes-horse. Now, George’s wife you can see, has a neck and shoulders that will set off the family jewels.” * * * “I’m awfully sorry, Lady Marlowe,” said Sir George, who looked a little vexed, a couple of hours later. “Cara's head is bad and she can’t come down to dinner.” “I am sorry indeed,” replied the hostess, looking concerned and surprised. “I had no idea she was nut feeling well.” “Nor had I until I went up just now; she seemed all right when we came in to tea.” “Perhaps she over-fatigued herself,” Lady Marlowe suggested. “Is she subject to these headaches?” “She gets these turns sometimes, but they don’t often come on so suddenly. She hopes you will excuse her,” he added, remembering the polite regrets with which his wife had charged him. “Of course —of course,” Lady Marlowe waved the apology aside. “I am only sorry she is so poorly, I will send up her dinner. What do you think she would like?” “Oh, nothing, except perhaps a little soup. I’m awfully sorry she has got

one of her attacks to-night. I wanted her to meet St. Quentin.”' “I have just had a message that he can’t come, so you and I must have a tete-a-tete dinner. He hopes to come on Friday—the evening the Fortescues and Lightvvays are coming—and I had asked another old friend of yours, Rhoda Frewen, but she can’t come.” “Rhoda Frewen?” Sir George smiled as if in pleasant reminiscence. “And is the fair Rhoda as handsome as ever?” “Of course, she isn’t getting younger,” replied Lady Marlowe, “but she wears well. In fact, our Rhoda is not the sort of girl to allow herself to wear badly. You’ll see her at the Cope-Hamiltons’, no doubt.” “Not asleep, Cara? Head better?” asked Sir George later, with a wellmeant attempt to subdue the usual cheery ring of his voice in sympathetic inquiry. “Yes, I am better, dear.” Cara was looking pale, but very lovely, sitting up with her soft dark hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. “That’s right. Had everything you want ?” “Yes. Lady Marlowe’s nice maid has been most kind and attentive. And had you a pleasant dinner, dear?” “Oh, yes, all right. Missed you, of course. There were only Cousin Charlotte and I. Douglas St. Quentin didn’t come, after all, but he is coming on Friday. Charlotte is getting up a little dinner party for that day. Why, Cara, are you feverish? You were so pale, and now you have flushed up. You get so red and white, and your pulse is fluttering like a bird ! Are you sure you<’re no worse? Oughtn’t 3'ou to sec a doctor?” “No, no, indeed. Don’t be a bit anxious, darling!” with an eager, loving, reassuring smile. “It’s only one of my usual heads. I am really better, and shall be quite well to-mor-row.” But on the morrow Lady Brantynham excused herself on the plea of continual headache from joining the party to a matinee; still she was able , to go out and do a little shopping on her own account. The following day she was out on business of her own all the afternoon, returning in time to dress for dinner, a task which this evening claimed unusual attention. It was the Friday of the dinner party, and there was another reason for her toilette demanding extra care. She had no maid, and had gratefully declined to deprive her hostess, even temporarily, of the services of her treasure. She was accustomed to do everything for herself, and even on this occasion, when devoting more than usual time and trouble to the duties of the toilette, she sought no assistance. As she stood before the long pier glass and gazed at her own reflection she scarcely recognised it as herself; the face that “swam in the mirror” seemed strange to her. Instead of being framed in coils of dark smooth braids, it was crowned by a halo of waved and curled golden hair. It was a complete transformation, and seemed to change even the character and expression of her face. Her dress was an artistic combination of lace and chiffon and glittering jet, with white roses in her breast and hair, while around her fair smooth throat blazed a necklet of the Brantynham diamonds. She looked at the brilliant figure that looked at her from the mirror with earnest seeking eyes, and her lips parted between smile and sigh, between relief and doubt and hope. Surely years and marriage, and this day's, change, had altered her beyond recognition ! She was herself well satisfied with the result of her experiment—but whpit would George say? That was always the first question in every action of her life. George’s wishes were her law. By that law of love he possessed and ruled her life —save and except in one locked and sealed chamber to which as he did not even dream of its existence, his hand had never sought the key. He was in truth a most amiable and affectionate autocrat, else she would hardly have ventured on this | step without his sanction, and as it ' was she would not take him by surprise by the first sight of her altered self under other eyes. She had dressed early, feeling that she must see him first alone; but as he had not yet returned she went downstairs with some reluctant shyness to introduce her new self to her hostess. “See what I have done!” she exclaimed, forcing a confident smile as Lady Marlowe regarded her with startled perplexity. “I was quite tired of my dark, sleek head. I think this style and colour suit me best, don’t you ?” “If you really wish for my honest opinion, my dear Cara,” the elder lady replied, after a moment’ silent contemplation. “No, I really don’t ! I liked your sleek head of yesterday better.” “This way is so much more fashionable,” young Lady Brantynhara suggested with something pleading in her tone. “Certainly it is that,” her hostess assented. “But what does George say to the change ? He is the chief person to be considered.” “He has not seen me yet, and 1 haven’t told him. I want to see him as soon as he comes in, before anybody else comes.” “Quite right, my dear,” her hostess rejoined with a smile. Certainly George was fortunate in his choice, she thought. He had taken no “New Woman” into his life. Notwithstanding her half child-like attempt to bring herself up to date and be “fashionable,” there was very little doubt that Cara Brantynham would be the good old-fashioned wife. “And, please, dear Lady Marlowe,” Cara added, rather nervously and hesitatingly, “I dare say you will think it

very silly, but 1 don’t want people to know that I have altered my hair.” “Certainly, I should not think of mentioning it —not that it would call for any special remark or wonderment; plenty of women dye their hair, and a ‘transformation’ is as common as one’s gloves nowadays. But if you want to see your husband, my dear, there he is, just coming in. Run away and show yourself to him.’ ’ Cara ran upstairs after Sir George, followed him into his room, and as he turned to close the door flung herself into his arms, taking him so unawares that he wondered for the moment who was the graceful blonde who had so unexpectedly favoured him with a tender embrace. “Now, don’t be vexed, darling,” whispered the familiar voice in the most coaxing and caressing of tones. “I wanted to take you by surprise," “And you have succeeded,” he answered, half startled and annoyed, half flattered and melted by her caressing appeal. “My dear Cara, whatever has made you turn yourself into somebody else ! Why, I hardly recognise my own wife!” “I thought fair hair would suit my dark eyes, and I was getting tired of my sleek straight braids always looking the same it was so cld-fashioned too, George. I was beginning to feel I looked quite peculiar! People don’t do their hair in that straight sort of way now.” “Why, Cara, you are waking to the calls of fashion with a vengeance! I suppose next thing you’ll be getting tired of your husband as well as your hair?” Cara laughed joyously at this suggestion, with which indeed George himself was well pleased, as an excellent joke. She was delighted that he had accepted her transformation in such an amiable spirit. “Now don’t you think I look well, George?” she added, drawing herself from his arms and glancing over her shoulder in the glass. “Isn’t it an improvement?” ‘Well, I can’t say I think it’s that,” he replied. “Frankly, I prefer your other self; but certainly 4 you look very handsome,” he added, contemplating her with critical eyes, “and perhaps when I have got accustomed to the change, I may like it well enough. Why, Cara, you have got yourself up in gorgeous array to-night!” “I thought you would like me to wear my best,” she said, smiling haphappily, “this dress has just come home from Madame Cecile.” ‘And the diamonds, too,” he said, regarding the glittering jewels just a little doubtfully. “Well,” mofe heartily, “anyhow they look well on you, Cara; a sight better than ever they looked on old Aunt Henrietta!” Indeed Cara had never looked more beautiful. As Mrs. Ashley-Browne had said, she “paid” for dress, and there was an unusual colour on her cheeks. Innocent George did not suspect it to be anything bul natural. Still less did he dream that what he thought an almost childish vanity, harmless and even amusing, was the desperate venture of a fear that was born of love. ‘l’m glad you’re looking your best, Cara, to-night. I hope Douglas St. Quentin won’t fail this time.” “That’s your old friend, ‘Don Quixote,’ whom you want me to meet? Yes, I hope he will come,” said Cara, eyes and smile defiantly bright, as if she defied Fate, him, herself ! For she felt now that she had burnt her ships, and one lie the more or less did not matter ! The first of the invited dinner guests v, as just arriving when the Brantynhams went down: others followed soon, and last of all Mr. St. Quentin was announced. Cara was standing chatting with a lively group, her face turned from the door, but she was aware in every nerve of her hostess’s approach bringing up this latest arrival to present to her. She drew herself up, steadied herself, and compelled a set smile to her lips as by sheer force of will she nerved herself to look up and meet Douglas St. Quentin’s gaze. CHAPTER 11. The light fell full on I.ady Brantynliam’s face as Douglas St. Quentin, smiling, bowed his acknowledgment of the introduction to his old friend’s wife. He gazed at her intently, bu* there was nothing strange in any man’s fixing an intent look on a face so fair. It occurred to Lady Marlowe that for a moment he looked almost startled as if the new Lady BrantynI’am’s beauty had utterly taken him by surprise. He spoke, but a rushing sound was in Cara’s ears, and she hardly knew what he said; she gathered it was some expression of pleasure in making her acquaintance, and she murmured some polite commonplace in reply. Lady Marlowe’s attention had been called to another arrival, and she did not observe a slight huskiness in the voice of her fairest and most interesting guest which would probably have aroused her kindly solicitude. To Cara’s great relief the announcement of dinner followed almost immediately on her meeting with St. Quentin, and it appeared that the stars in their courses fought for her, on this occasion at least, for she found that her place at the table was not, as she had dreaded it might be, next to his, but cn the opposite side. She sat through the dinner with apparent equanimity, with even occasional spasmodic and not altogether urn successful attempts at more than her usual animation. Never had a dinner seemed so long. She felt like a captive, straining at her fetters, chained to her chair, yet dreaded the move that : would set Douglas St. Quentin free to seek her if he chose. She strove to forget his presence, yet every now

and then some magnetism drew her glance across the table to him, and over and over again she found his eyes straying in her direction. They were keen yet kindly eyes, deep and serious. Fits was a thoughtful face, not in the least handsome, but strong and characteristic. Still in the early prime of life, he looked older than his years, and his hair was thickly streaked with grey at the temples. There was nothing striking in his appearance at a first glance, but those who bestowed a second look on Douglas St. Qutntin’s face were more than likely to give a third. After dinner, when the men, returning to the drawing-room, followed the natural laws of attraction and affinity, Lady Brantynham, without turning a look in the direction of the door, was aware in every nerve of St. Quentin's entrance and of his making his way towards her. .. Fie took up his post by her side with an air of being disposed for conversation, and she forced herself to respond with smiling words, but her eyes wavered and sank before his, though there was nothing to alarm her in his look, no dangersignal in his pleasant, courteous tone. “And is this your first visit to London, Lady Brantynham?” he asked with a kindly smile. (To be continued.)