FOR ANOTHER'S SIN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIII, Issue 7656, 5 June 1886, Page 3 (Supplement)

FOR ANOTHER'S SIN.

BY BERTUA M. CLAY, Author cf " A Fair Mystery," " Thrown on the World,' " Tho World between Them," "Boyond rardon," &c. CHAPTER XXXII. "it will be MY torn next I" "What are you smiling at, Allan?" asked Lady Carew. " Your thoughts must be pleasant once." It was the morning after the ball, and Lord Carew had joined his mother and wife in their pretty, cozy morning room. "Was I smiling? I am just thinking, mother, how strange it is that if an Englishman meets you and likes you, tho first thing lie does is to invito you to dinner." "It i 3 very natural," said Lady Carow, " He likes you, and wishes to share with you the best ho can offer. Of whom were you thinking, Allan ?" "Of the Duke of Ormond. I like him. He reminds me of the ' fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time.' He wants us to dine there on Friday." " That is the husband of the beautiful lady who created such a furore last evening anked Lady Carew. " Yes," replied Allan, while his face grew hot. What do you think of her, mother ?" "I found but one fault with her," said Lady Carew. " She is too beautiful." "A rare fault," replied her eon, with a quiet smile. " Aud a grave one. A woman bo wonderfully lovely requires strong principle to guide her, or she does far more harm than good. I think tho Duchess is a great coquette." "Nay!" cried Allan, eagerly, "you are mistaken, mother." "Am I?" said Lady Carew, quietly, "Then it is the first time I ever read a woman's face wrongly. What did you think of her, Lida ?" Lady Adelaide glanced at her husband before she made any reply, and she found his eyes tixed on her face with an almost wistful expression. " I cannot tell. I only spoke to her for a few minutes ; I thought her very beautiful. When I have seen more of her, I can answer you better." Her husband's face cleared ; he looked relieved, and smiled. "Do you feel inclined to accept the Duke's invitation for Friday, Adelaide," he asked. He often called her by her name, and when he did so her heart beat with a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. Should she go? She had already asked herself that question, and was quite at a loss how to answer it. Better, perhaps, to look her doom in the face boldly—to see and know the worst; better to know if any of the old love, unhallowed, now, lingered in her husband's heart; better know at once if her last hope of winning him was quite gone. At first she had been almost despairing, put now she had recovered. Sho said to herself that she would measure her strength with that of her rival; hitherto she had been alone in her struggle for love. She had tried all her skill, all the talent she possessed, to win her husband's heart; now the struggle was redoubled, for she had a living, beautiful rival to tight against. It would henceforth be war to the knife between her and the Duchess of Ormond.

At first she had felt inclined to refuse the invitation : then she took courage. What object could be holier than hers? Her husband did not love her, and she wanted to win his heart; she wanted to save him from the fascination and allurements of one of the most bewitching of women, The struggle bad hitherto bean child's play ; now it was to begin in real earnest. Which would win '! So she took heart of grace. She measured her strength with that of her rival, and ielt that she might conquer in the end. _ " I am nut so beautiful as she is, but I have right on my side," she said to herself, " aud I may win yet."

All these thoughts ran through her head while her husband stood waiting her answer to the question. Lie had asked it with some little anxiety. Of course it did not really matter whether his wife consented to go or not; but it would be perhaps moro pleasant on the whole if she accepted the invitation.

" Yes ; I shall be pleased to go," se >d Lady Adelaide, and her husband smiled kindly on her.

'• I may win such a smile for myself some day," she thought, " and not take it because I hive pleased him in accepting an invitation to the house of a woman whom he once loved."

She had been faint-hearted, and had thought it almost impossible for her ever to succeed, but now that she was face to face with the enemy, new courage came to her, and she was resolved to enter the battle-field to win or to die.

She stood before her mirror that evening with a smile upon her face. She had taken the greatest pains with her dress : a faint smile played round her beautiful lips. "I really do not think," she said, "that I have much to fear. If ho cares for beauty, I thank Heaven for the share given to me."

She noticed that her husband looked criticisingly at her when she was ready. Lady Carew, ever on the alert for kindly words, laid her hand on the girl's white shoulder.

" Allan, do you not think she grows more beautiful every day ?" Time had been when Lord Carew would have turned away, but now he Bmiled in his wife's face.

"We must not make her vain, mother," and both look and words wero bo kind that her heart leaped with joy.

She talked so gaily to him as they drove to Ormond House, that he was in danger of being charmed with her. For the first time it struck him that her wit was more playful, brighter, and more piquant than that of any woman he had ever met.

She looked radiant with happiness when they reached Ormond House. She was not even dismayed when she saw how well the duchess looked, for this evening hor Grace had eschewed magnificence. He had been dazzled before: it was not her purpose to dazzle him now, but to captivate him. Sho wore a dress of fresh, shining white silk, made so as to show the fair arms and shoulders ; it was simply trimmed with a few green leaves, and her jewels were rich red rubies, that glowed like the inner heart of a lire. Her glorious hair was allowed to fall in rich masses on her white neck. In all her ballroom splendour she had not looked one-half so imperiously fair.

There were not many guests present,'' The dinner party was rather exclusive than numerous. The Prince of Gladstein, who, on the evening of the ball, had devoted himself to the Ducheae, now seemed to be equally

fascinated with Lady Adelaide. He paid his courtly compliments to her. and she smiled

her brightest, for it pleased her right well that her husband should see that she had admirers. She was still, in some respects, simple as a little girl. The Duchess was a perfect and most graceful hostess. Lord Carew watched her with admiration. How perfectly she seemed to have adapted herself to the splendour that burrounded her ; how dignified, how calm in the midst of such magnificence as must have been full of novelty for her 5 During the important ceremony of dinner she distributed her smiles with great impartiality. Nd one could have guessed bow she thirsted to hear every word that fell from Lord Carew'a lips, as flowers long for air. No one could have guessed, calm and dignified as she seemed, that she was eagerly waiting for the time which should leave hor free to talk to him. It came afterwards, when the guests were assembled in the noble drawingroom, and the prince, who, like all his countrymen, enjoyed music, asked Lady Adelaide to sing. •'I do not ask if you dosing," he said, "for lam sure of it. You have a musical face. As I look at it, memories of sweet old melodies come over me. I pray you let me hear you sing." " What shall I sing for you V' Bhe asked, as she stood before the piano. " Nothing Italian or French. I like best the dreamy, half-sad, half-sweet, music of my native land. Do you know a German song Oil ! wort thou but my own lovo, to bo for over mine V "Yes, I know it, and I like it," she replied. "Then let us have it if you would be so kind," said the prince. Another moment, and there floated through the room music so sweet, so sad, so impassioned, that all attempt at conversation ceased. The Duchess had seated herself in hor favourite easy chair in her most graceful attitude, and with one glance from her dark eyes had invited Lord Carew to take his place by her side. He was in the very act of crossing the room when the first full, sweet notes of his wife's voice struck him with surprise. Almost unconsciously ho stopped and went over to the piano : the spell of the music seemed to draw him there. As the Duchess noticcd it, a dark frown for a moment marred the beauty of her radiant face : she bit her lips, and tho white fingers were so tightly clenched that the rings made great dents in them. | " It will be my turn next," she said ; then, | outwardly she regainsd her smiling, dignified caln). "Oh ! wert thou but my own love, to be for ever mine?" As Lady Adelaide, with all the passion of her heart, sang these words, her eyes met her husband's. She date sing to him what she dare not say. " To be, to be for ever mine," she repeated, and her eyes seemed to hold his while she poured out her passionate prayer. The sweet, sad music seemed to enfold him; the words seemed to cry to him ; he was like one in a trance, gazing on that beautiful, tender face. Who shall say how it would have ended had not the Duchess touched him with her white hand. "My Lord Carew," she said, "you are going to sleep, and that is not allowable. Come with me ; I want to show you some beautiful photographs." When Lady Adelaide turned round, her husband was crossing the room with the Duchess, and another chance was lost. CHAPTER A'XXIII. " O, SLEIiI'LKSS AND DEADLY DOLORES 1" " Who would have thought that you could have been so touched with the music!" cried the Duchcss, in her prettiest little foreign idiom. " And are you not touched by it ? I think I heard one of your numerous admirers tell you once that you had song in your face." "Not this song of England. Oh, you should hear tho ballads of Spain! Those pour tire into your veins ; these poor, cold things are milk of roses." They had reached the table where the photographs lay, and were turning them over. They were views ; but as Lord Carew li' .ed two, a third, a smaller picture, mounted on thinner paper, fell from between them—the portrait of a dark, brilliant woman, in the full Hush of her early charms. As it fell, itlay so that the top of the picture, the brow, was toward them —a position in which artists examino a sketch to catch a likeness in it, or get its character. " You ?" questioned Lord Carew. The Duchcss hastily turned the photograph. "No ; I never saw it, or the original. It is beautiful. Iso thank you for your compliments, my Lord 1" She swept him a courtesy, her splendid, flashing eyes raised to his, an arch smile on the full red lips. "It iB no compliment," said Lord Carew. " The picture is like you ; and yet—l see now —it is older than you are, and pardon me, lesa beautiful."

" Why pardon ? Do you English all ask pardon at a compliment In my own laud, men do not ask to forgive them if they say one is beautiful."

The Duke drew near,with Lady St.Clair on his arm.

"You are adnvring tho photographs? They came yesterday."

41 Wo have really only looked at this one,' said Lord Carew, and he held out tho por trait.

" There were only views on the list," said tho Duke, and he took the picture in his hand.

"Is it possible ? Surely it is she! I cannot forget the face; but the name ?" and the Duke utood with bent brows. Then his face cleared. "I remember. It is leabeau Pierre. Lady Clair, did you hear of her, some thirty years ago, perhaps'! She is a reminiscence of my Paris life—au actress, who took Paris by storm. I think if she had followed her profession, she would have eclipsed the later fame of Rachel. She starred it on tho Continent a while, and disappeared. If you admire it, Lord Carew, it is a hereditary, or rather collateral, trait. Your cousin, or great-uncle, or some other Carew, was one of her admirers, 1 remember hearing. But ho came to England, and she disappeared in some foreign match. So that all ended as many things end."

"I was noticing it because, at first, it looked to me so like the Duchess," said Lord Carew.

"Eh ? Is it so ? I must look again."

The Duke adjusted his eye-glasses and turned for the picture; but Lady St. Clair had taken it suddenly, A large, placid lady, distinguished for aplomb, why should she drop the photograph so that the edge struck sharply on the table in falling to the floor? She grew deadly pale, and caught a gasping breath. Lord Carew wheoled up a chair.

" Lady St. Clair, you are faint; the room is too warm. Allow mo."

He took the Duchess's fan and waved it gently. Lady St. Clair exerted all her selfcontrol.

"It iB nothing ; a little fatigue. I took a long drive in the park this afternoon." " Will you have some wine or iced sherbert, madam ?" asked the Duchess, dutifully. " No, my dear. lam quite well now. Let us have a little more music. Lady Carevv has obliged us; let us hear one of your songs." " It is so long since I have heard you sing," said the Duke.

" With pleasure," said the Duchess, and laid her little hand on Lord Carew's quickly offered arm.

"Now see if music does move you," alio said, sweetly. " Shall I find your music "No; my songs are in my head," she replied ; and then the dainty fingers dropped on the keys. "I shall sing of my own name," she cried, with a little soft laugh " Juanita. It is a lovely name, I think ;it reminds me of the suns, and pomegranates, and falling fountains of my Spain. You do not think me dispraising England ?" and she swept an ingenuous look around the circle. It was a ravishing glance, that would disarm all criticism ; but the glance ended with Lord Carew, and lingered longest on him. What said the softened sunbeams of these southern orbs?

Softly o'er Ilia fountain Gleams tho southern moon; Brightly o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon. In thy dark oycs splendour, Where the moonlight loves to dwell, Weary looks, yet tender, Speak thy fond farewell. Nita, Juanita, is it well that we should part i Niia, Juinlta, loan thou on my heart!"' The warm, fragrant air of the splendid room quivered with the harmony. There seemed a spell in the words. Soft love Bcenes in southern bowers rose as at an incantation. Over the gentle heart of Lady Adelaide, the words rang as with an undertone of doom, " Wilt thou not, relenting, For thy absent lover sigh 1 In thy heart repenting, For an hour gone by." Who could withstand such notes of seductive sweetness, aung straight into his£soul.

while the soft, dark splendour of the Spaniard's eyes fell full into his ? Could Lord Carew ? _ . , " Fair Duchess," said that the incorrigible Beauty Randolph, "one might almost believe it a reminiscence." "Of Spain ? No I I left my Spain when I was twelve; before then 1 had only my prayer-book and my duenna." Then she turned from the instrument and took Lord Carew's arm. The eyes of the Duke followed her with gratified love and pride. She only sought the eyes of Lord Carew. " Have you heard us both enough to tell which sings best, your wife or I2" she asked, wilfully. ~ " I never heard my wife sing before, he replied, unguardedly. •' So ? Then she does not love you," she said, calmly. "Is that your test of love? And to whom do you sing?" " To-night, to you !" she said, with a soft sigh. "Do I not know, in art, in music, and pictures, you are the man of true taste in all England?" I " You flatcer me, Duohess," said Lord Carew, with a pleased flash, I " Duchess ! Always Duchess!'' ' I " And who could wear a title moreenchantingly ? What else should I call your Grace?" "You shall speak to mo as you used to do. I hate change. Ido not change. But you Englishmen are like your climate—one never knows what to depend on. At morning, fair ; at noon storm." "One at least is to you unchangeable," said Lord Carew, looking toward the Duke. "His admiration for you shines ever the same." " So are his moors up in Scotland always the same : but it is an always the same of cold and mist. Lady St. Clair was with mo there last autumn in a party. It did seem I should die ! 1 hate Scotland 1" "Nita!" cricd Lord Carew, reprovingly, astonished. "Now what is' wrong?" demanded the beautiful young Duchess, in childish petulance, and vast delight at the old familiar name. "Your wife?—does she never say what she thinks ?"

"Always the same imperious, spoiled child," said Lord Carew, looking with wistful admiration at the entrancing face. " And your wife, Lady Carew, she is not the spoiled child ! No ; she will always be sweet and reposeful. We Spanish women — our life is not like that." But as the passionate fire of those dark eyes met his, and the rash words fell from the ripe red lips, Lord Garew felt a sudden thankful revreence for the gracious purity of his wife, whose fair face did not keep its best glances for other men. And he remembered the words of an old book, "The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her." But Lady Adelaide, also, had noted the burning glances of the Southern beauty. She knew, alas, that her husband, though armed by honour, was not doubly armed by love ; and, fair as a guardian angel, to shield him from himself, she crossed the room. Calm and welcome as the dawning after a fierce night of tropic storm, she stood before them. For the first time, Lord Carew welcomed his wife's approach. "We sang two kinds of music," said the Duchess; "you swept your husband to heaven ; I brought him back to earth." " The true home of music is in heaven," said Lady Adelaide.

" But Lord Carew and I are the children of this world," said the Duchess. No one had seen Lady St. Clair, stooping for the Duchess' jewelled fan that had slidden from her lap, take up the picture of lsabeau Pierre, and concealing it in the shimmering folds of her drapery, seat herself in a window, where, screened by the swaying masses of the silken curtain, she tore the picture in tiniest fragments, and reaching her arm from the window, strewed them on the dew-heavy air of night. Her extended arm was seized in a steellike clasp ; a dark face—a face where fires of former passions seemed to smoulder, as dying embers in the wreck of a former beauty—was thrust close to that of Lady St. Clair. " I have found you, my enemy !" " Your enemy ! Your only friend," said Lady St. Clair, calling up all iier resolution, and speaking softly. " Come now ; I've got you, and the police shall lock you up." This was the footman, swinging himself over the' light balcony by the intruder, and seizing her roughly. "James," said Lady St. Clair, "she only came because she taw my face. She is an old pensioner of mine, harmless, but partly crazy. Fray let her go. Go, isa ; I will see you to-morrow," "To-morrow! Your people will drive me away." " No. I will give orders to admit you. I am ready to help you. Go now. You know this is not right." "Right. He! he! Who is that gorgeous beauty leaning back in that chair ?" and the dartt face pressed nearer the window. ' 1 Co—for Heaven's sake, go ! Anything, if you will go!" "Yes, 1 go. Heavens! how handsome she is ! Such was I, with Paris at my feet 1" [To bo continued.]