WEDDED FOR PIQUE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 9220, 24 November 1888, Page 3 (Supplement)

WEDDED FOR PIQUE.

BY MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of ** tiny Earlseourt's Wife," "A Wonderful Woman,"" A Mad Marriage." "One Night's Mystery," " Lost for a Woman," &c.

CHAPTER 111. I' I LOVE IT AS IF IT WERE MY OWN."

A stokmv March morning was breaking over London. The rain and sleet, driven by the wind, beat and clamoured against ie windows, Hew furiously through the roots, and out over graveyards, brick-tit-Uls, marshes, and bleak commons, to the ~pon country, where (ho wind and sleet howled to the bare trees, and around i-ottages, as if the very spirit of the tempest was on the "rampage."

.Most of these cottages, out among brick- ' van"!# and ghastly wastes of marsh, had "their doors secured and their shutters rlo.-elv fastened, as if they, too, like their inmates, were fast asleep, and defied the rai. But there was one standing away tram the rest, on the hillside, whose occupants. judging from appearances, Mere ivrt.'inly not sleeping. Its two front window's were bright, with the illumination of lire and candle, and their light flared out ; , ( 1 and lurid far over the desloate wastes. '['lie shutters were open, the blinds up, and iho vivid glare would have been a welcome ;.-yht to any storm-beaten traveller, had Mich been out that tempestuous March day ; bur nobody was foolhardy enough to be ;,bioad at that dismal hour of that dismal morning: and the man who sat before the .-re.it wood fire in the principal room of the i.v.tage, though he listened and watched, like sister Anne on the tower-top, for somebody's coming, that somebody came not, mid'ho and his matin meditations were left mhlir-turbed.

lie was a young man, sunburned and ooJ-looking—a labourer unmistakably, though dressed in his best ; and with his chair drawn up close to the fire, and a boot en each andiron, lie drowsily smoked a short day pipe. The room was neat and clean as any room could be, the floor faultlessly sanded, the poor furniture deftly arranged, and all looked cozy and cheerful in the ruddy lirelight.

'There Mas nobody else in the room, and the milling of the rain and sleet against the window the dull roar of the tire, and the sharp chirping of a cricket on the k ait It. were the only sounds that broke the silence. Yes, there was another : once or twice, while the man sat and smoked, and nodded, and listened to the storm, there had been the feeble cry of an infant : and at such times he had started and looked uneasily at a door behind him, opening evidently into another room. As a little patch clock on the mantelpiece chimed slowly six, this door opened, and a young, l:ii;-haircd, pretty woman came out. Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping, i she carried a great bundle of something ioiled in tlannel carefully in her arms. The man looked up inquisitively, and took the pipe out of his mouth. •• Welllie pettishly asked. "Oh, poor dear, she is gone at last said the woman, breaking out. into a fresh shower of tears. " She has just departed ! ■ 1 tool tired, and if you will take the baby I v.ill try to sleep now,' she says, and then she kisses it with her own pretty, loving smile : and I takes it up, and she just turns her face to the wall and dies. Oh. poor dear young lady !" with another tenderhearted tempest of sobs. •• How uncommon sudden !" said the man, looking meditatively at the fire. li Is tiiat the baby " Yes, the pretty little dear ! Do look how- sweetly it sleeps." The young woman unrolled the bundle of flannel, and displayed an infant of very tender age indeed—inasmuch as it could not have been a week old—simmering therein. It was very much like any other young baby in that fresh and green stage of existence, having only one peculiarity, that 1 was the merest trifle of a baby ever was seen. A decent wax-doll would have been a giantess beside it. The mite of a creature, void of hair, and eyebrows, and nails, sleeping so quietly in a sea of white flannel, mijht have gone into a quart-mug, and found the premises too extensive for it at that. John looked at it as men do look at very new young babies, with a solemn and iwcstruek face.

" It's a very small baby, isn't it?" lie remarked, in a subdued tone. '"I should be afraid to lay my linger on it, for fear of crushing it to death. It's a girl, you told me. didn't you ?"'

"To be sure it's a girl, bless its little heart! Will you come and look at the young Litiy, John ?" John got up and followed his wife into the inner room. It was a bedroom ; like the apartment they had left, very neat ; hut, unlike that, very tastefully furnished. The floor had a pretty carpet of green and white ; its windows M ere draped with white and green silk. A pretty toilet-table, under a large gilt-framed mirror, with a handsome dressing-case thereon, was in one corner ; a guitar and music-rack in another; a lounge with green silk cushions in a third ; and, in a fourth, a French bedstead, all draped and covered with white. Near the bed stood a round gilded stand, strewn with vials, medicine bottles, and glasses ; beside it, a great sleepy-hollow of an armchair, also cushioned with green silk ; and on the bed lay the mistress and owner of nil these pretty things, who had let them, and all other things earthly, forever.

A shaded lamp stood on the dressingtable. The woman took it up and held it so that its light fell full on the dead face— a lovely face, whiter than alabaster ; a slight smile lingering round the parted, lips ; the black lashes lying at rest on the pure cheek ; the black, arched eyebrows sharply traced against, the white, smooth how, stamped with the majestic seai of death. A profusion of curling hair, of purplish black lustre, streamed over the white pillow and her own delicate white night-robe. One arm was under her head, she had often laid in life ; and the other, which was outside of the clothes, was ulreadv cold and stiff. -Man and woman gazed in awe—neither spoke. The still ma jesty of the face hushed them ; and the man, after looking for a moment, turned and walked out on tiptoe, a- if afraid to awake the calm sleeper. The woman drew the sheet reverently over the face, laid the sleeping baby among the soft t'U-hions of the lounge, followed her husband I" the outer room, and closed the door, lit- i' -inned his seat and looked seriously hito the fire ; and she stood beside him, with 0"" hand resting on his shoulder, and crying softly still. " I'oor, dear lady ! To think that she f-.'ioul'l die away from all her friends like t'lis. and she so young and beautiful, too ! ' " Young and beautiful folks must die, as wo.l as old and ugly ones, when their time tomes,'' said the "man, with a touch of philosophy. "But this one is uncommon handsome, no mistake. And so you don t know her name, Jenny?" '•-No," said Jenny, shaking her head, thought fully ; "her and him—that's the young gentleman, you know—came bright and early one morning in a coach ; and he h ''i'l he had heard we were poor folks and '■ly married, and would not object to taking a lodger for a little while, if she paid well and gave no trouble. Of course, J was glad to jump at the offer ; and he g'ivi; nic twenty guineas to begin with, and l °bl rue to have the room furnished, and "Jt .say anything about my lodger to anybody. The young lady seemed to be ill then, and was shivering with cold ; but she V ''S patient as an angel, and smiled and 'linked me like one for everything I did inr her. And that's the whole story ; and die young gentleman has never been hero since."

" And that's— how long ago is that?'' "Three weeks to-morrow. You just went to London that very morning, your-£<-'h, you remember, .John." ''■I remember," said John; " and my opinion is, the young gentleman is a scamp, a '"l the young lady no better nor she ought to be."

.''l don't believe it," retorts his wife, with spirit. "She's an angel in that bedroom, it ever there was one ! Only yesterday, when the doctor told her she was a dying, she asked for pen and ink to write to her husband, and she said if he was living it would bring him to her before she died yet •—poor, dear darling !" " But it didn't do it, though !" said John, With a triumphant grin; "and I don't believe —"

Here John's words were jerked out of his mouth, as it were, by the furious gallop of a noise through the rain; and the next niorpent there was a thundering knock at jlue door that made the cottage shake.

John sprang up and opened it, and there entered the dripping form of a man, wearing a long cloak, and with his military cap pulled over his face to shield it from the storm. Before the door was closed, the cloak and cap were oil", and the woman saw the face of the handsome young gentleman who had brought her lodger there. But that face was changed now ;it was as thin and bloodless almost as that of the quiet sleeper in the other rOom, and there was something of fierce intensity in his eager eyes. At the sight of him, Jenny put her apron over her face, and broke out into a fresh shower of sobs. " Where is she ?" he asked, through his closed teeth. The woman opened the bedroom door, and he followed her in. At sight of the white shape lying so dreadfully still under the sheet, he recoiled ; but the next moment ho was beside the bed. Jenny laid her hand on the sheet to draw it down ; he laid his there, too ; the chill of death struck to his heart, and lie lifted her hand away. "No!"' he said, hoarsely; "let it be. When did she die ?" " ]Sot half-an-hour ago, sir." " You had a doctor " Yes, sir ;he came every day. He came last night, but lie could do nothing for her." " Is that man in the next room your husband ?" '• Yes, your honour." " Tell him, then, to go and purchase a coffin, and order the sexton to have the grave prepared by this evening. In twentylour hours 1 leave England for ever, and I must see her laid in the grave before I depart." "And the baby, sir?" said the woman timidly, half frightened by his stern, almost harsh tone. "Will you not look at it ? Here it is." "No !" said the young man, fiercely. " Take it, and begone !" Jenny snatched up the baby, and fled in 'dismay ; and the young man sat down beside his dead, and laid his face on the pillow where the dead face lay. Rain and hail still lashed the windows, the wind shrieked in dismal blasts over the bare brickfields and bleak common. Morning was lifting a dull and leaden eye over the distant hills, and the new-born day gave promise of turning out very sullen and dreary. " Blessed is the corpse that the rain rains on !" and so Jenny thought, as she laid the baby on her own bed, and watched her husband plunging through the rain and wind on his doleful errand. The dark, sad hours stole on, and the solitary watcher in the room of death kept his vigil undisturbed. Breakfast and dinner hour 'passed, and Jenny's hospitable heart ached to think that the young gentleman had not a mouthful to eat all the blessed time : but she would not. have taken broad England and venture to open that door uninvited again. And so, while the storm raged without, the lamp flared on the dressing-table, the dark, wintry day stole on, and the lonely watcher sat there still. It was within an hour of dusk, and Jenny sat by the tire, singing a lullaby to the baby, when the door opened, and he stood before her, like a tall, dark ghost. •• Has the coffin come ?" he asked. And Jenny started up, and nearly dropped the baby, with a shriek, at the hoarse and hollow sound of his voice. " Oh. yes. sir ; there it is !" The dismal thing looked black and ominous as it rested near lie opposite wall. He just glanced at it, and then back again at her. " And the grave has been dug?" " Yes, sir ; and, it you please, flic undertaker has sent his hearse, and, on account of the rain, it is waiting now in the shed. My John is there too. I will call him in, sir. if you please." He made a gesture in the affirmative, and Jenny flew out to do her errand. When she returned with her John, the young man assisted him in laying the dead form within the eoiiin, and they both carried it to the door and placed it reverently within the hearse. "You will come back, sir. won't you? ventured Jenny, standing at the door, and wee] incessantly behind her apron. " Yes. Co on !" The hoarse started, and John and the stranger followed to the last resting-place of her lying within, It was all dreary—the darkening sky, the drenched earth, the gloomy hearse, and the two solitary figures following silently after, with bowed heads, through the beating storm. Luckily the churchyard was near. The sexton, at sight of them, ran »!i for the clergyman, who, shivering and reluctant, appeared on the scene just as the coffin was lowered to the ground. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" The beautiful burial-service of the English Church was over. The cotiin was lowered, and the sods went rattling drearily down on the lid.

The young man stood bareheaded, his auburn hair fluttering in the wind, and the storm beating unheeded on his head. John was bareheaded, too, much against his will: but the clergyman ran home with unclerical haste the moment the last word was uttered, and the sexton shovelled and beat down the sods with professional indifference. Just then, fluttering in the wind, a figure came through the leaden twilight. The young man lifted his gloomy eyes, and the new-comer his hat. Tie had yellow hair and a jaundice complexion, and his overcoat was a sort of yellowish brown. In short, it was Mr. Sylvester Sweet. "Good-morning, Lieutenant Shirley! Who in the world would expect to meet you here. Not lost a friend, I hope?'' " J lave the goodness to excuse me, Mr. Sweet. J wish to be alone," was the cold and haughty reply. And Mr. Sweet, with an angel smile rippling all over his face, left accordingly, and disappeared in the dismal gloaming. With the last sod beaten down, the sexton departed, and John went slowly to the gate, to wait, in wet impatience, for the young gentleman. Standing at his post, lie saw that same gentleman kneel down on Ik; soaking sods, lean his arm on the rude wodden cross the sexton had thrust at the head of the grave, and lay his face thereon. So long did he kneel there with the cold March rain beating down on his uncovered head that John's teeth were chattering, and an inky darkness was falling over the city of the dead. Bub he rose at last, and came striding to his side, passed him with tremendous sweeps of limb, and was standing, dripping like a watergod, before the kitchen fire when the good man of the house entered.

Jenny was in a low chair, with the baby on her lap, still sleeping—its principle occupation, apparently—and he looked at it with a cold, steady glance, very like that of his lady mother. " I am going to leave England," he said, addressing them both, when .John entered. " In twenty-four hours I am going to India, and if 1 should never come back, what will you do with the child ?" " Keep it always," said Jenny, kissing it. " Dear little tiling ! I love it already as if it were my own !" " If I live, it will not only be provided for, but you will be well paid for your trouble. You can take this as a guarantee of he future ; and so, good-bye !"

'He dropped a purse heavy with guineas into John's willing palm ; then going over, looked at the sleeping infant, with a cold, set face, for one instant, and then, stooping down, touched his lips lightly to its velvet cheek; and then, wrapping his cloak closely around him, and pulling his military cap far over his brows, he went out into the wild, black night. They heard his horse's hoofs splashing over the marshy common, and they knew not even the name of the " marble guest" who came and disappeared as mysteriously as the black horseman in the German tale. And so the world went on its course ! In her far oil' home, amid the green hills and golden Sussex downs, sat a lady whose pride was so much stronger than her love that by her own act she had made herself a childless, broken-hearted woman. Steaming clown the Thames, in a great transport, I a young officer stood, with folded arms, I watching the receding shores he might i never see again, whose love was so much ] stronger than his pride that he was leaving i his native land with a prayer in his heart ' that some Sepoy bullet; might lay him dead | under the blazing Indian sky. And. sleeping i in her cottage home, all unconscious of the destiny before her, lay the little heiress. CHAPTER IV. ! TWELVE VF.AKS AFTER. ! The great boll of Clifton Cathedral was just ringing the hour of live. The early I morning°wus dim with hazy mist, but the I sky was blue and cloudless, and away in

the east a crimson glory was spreading, the herald of the rising sun. Early as the hour was, all was bustle and busy life in the town of Cliftonlea. You would have thought, had you seen the concourse of people in High-street, it was noon instead of five in the morning. Windows, too, were opening in every direction, nightcapped heads being popped out, anxious glances being cast at the sky, and then the night-caps were popped in again, the windows slammed down, and everybody making their toilet, eager to be out. Usually, Cliftonlea was as quiet and wellbehaved a town as any in England, but on the night previous to this memorable morning its two serene guardian angles, Peace and Quietness, had taken unto themselves wings and flown far away. The clatter of horses and wheels had made night hideous ; the jingling of bells, and shouts of children, and the tramp of numberless footsteps, had awoke the dull echoes from nightfall till day-dawn. In short, not to keep anyone in suspense, this was the first day of the annual Cliftonlea Races—and Bartlemy Fair, in the days of Henry the Eighth, was not a circumstance to the Cliftonlea Races.

Nobody in the whole town, under the sensible and settled age of thirty, thought of eating a mouthful that morning ; it was sacrilege to think of such a grovelling matter as breakfast, on the first glorious day ; and so new coats and hats, and smart dresses, were donned, and all the young folks came pouring out in one continuous stream toward the scene of action.

The long, winding road of three miles between Cliftonlea and the racecourse, on common everyday days, was the plensantcst road in the world—bordered with fragrant hawthorn hedges, with great waving fields of grain and clover on each hand, and shallowed here and therewith giant beeches and elms. But it was not a particularly cool or tranquil tramp on this morning, for the throng of vehicles and foot-passengers was fearful, and the clouds of dust more frightful still. There were huge refreshment caravans, whole troops of strolling players, gangs of gipsies, wandering minstrels, and all such roving vagabonds ; great booths on four wheels, carts, drays, waggons, and every species of conveyance imaginable. There were equestrians, too, chiefly mounted on mules and donkeys ; there were jingling of bells, and no end of shouting, cursing, and vociferating, so that it was the liveliest morning that road had known for at least twelve months.

There rose the brightest of suns, and the bluest of skies, scorching and glaring hot. The volumes of dust were awful, and came rolling even into the town ; but still the road was crowded, and still lie cry was, " They come!" but the people and vehicles which passed were of another nature now. The great caravans and huge carts had almost ceased, and young England came flashing along in tandems, and dog-carts, and flies, and four-in-hands, or mounted on prancing steeds. The officers from the Cliftonlea barracks—dashing dragoons, in splendid uniforms—flew like the wind through the dust, and sporting country gentlemen in top boots and jaunty caps, and fox-hunters in pink, and betting men and blacklegs, book in hand, followed, as if life and death depended on their haste In two or three more hours came another change — superb barouches, broughams, phaetons, grand carriages, with coachmen and footmen in livery, magnificent horses in silver harness, rich hammercloths, with coats of arms emblazoned thereon, came rolling splendidly up, filled with gayly dressed ladies. All the great folks for fifty miles round came to the Cliftonlea Races ; even the Right Reverend, the Bishop of Cliftonlea, deigned to come there himself.

And the scene on the race groundwho shall describe it ? The circuses, the theatres, the refreshment booths, the numerous places of amusement, and traps for catching money ; the hundreds and hundreds of people running hither and thither over he green sward in one living sea; the long array of carriages drawn up near the race ground, ami tilled with such dazzling visions of glancing silk and fluttering lace, waving plumes and beautiful faces. Then the air was tilled with music from the countless performers, making up a diversified concert, not unpleasant to listen to ; and over all there was the cloudless blue sky and blazing August sun. A group of officers standing near the course, betting-books in hand, were discussing the merits of the rival racers and taking down wagers. Yivia, owned by Sir Roland Clitic, of Cliftonlea, and LadyAgnes, owned by Sir Henry Lisle, of Lisleham, were the favourites that day. " Two to one on Yivia !" cried Captain Douglas, of the Light Dragoons. " Done !'' cried a brother officer. "I am ready to back the Lady Agnes against any odds."

The bets were booked, and as Captain Douglas put his betting-book in his pocket with a smile on his lip, and his quick eye glanced far and wide, he suddenly exclaimed :

"And here comes the Lady Agnes herself, looking as stately as a queen and fair as a lily, as she always does." "Where?" said his superior oflicer, old Major Warwick, looking helplessly round through his spectacles "I thought Lady Agnes was a roan." "I don't mean the red mare," said Captain Douglas, laughing, " but the real Lady Agnes herself—Lady Agnes Shirley. There she sits, like a princess in a play, in that superb pony phaeton." "Handsomest woman in Sussex," lisped a young ensign, " and worth no end of tin. That's her nephew, young Shirley, driving, and who is that little fright in the back seat ?"

" That's her neice, little Maggie Shirley, and, they say, the heiress of Castle Cliff*;." "How can that be?" said the major. " I thought the estate was entailed." " The Shirley estates are, but the castle and the village adjoining were the wedding dower of Lady Agnes Cliffe when she married Doctor Shirley. So, though the Shirley property is strictly entailed to the nearest of kin, Lady Agnes can leave Castle Cliffe to her kitclienmaid if she likes."

" Has she no children of her own ?" asked the major, who was a stranger in Cliftonlea, and a little stupid about pedigree. "None now; she had a son, Cliffe Slurleysplendid fellow he was, too ! He was one of us, and as brave as a lion. We served together some years in India. I remember him well. There was not a man in the whole regiment who would not have died for him; but he was a discarded son."

" How was that? Lady Agnes looks more like an angel than a vindictive mother."

" Oh, your female angels often turn out to have the heart of Old Nick himself," said Captain Douglas, complacently stroking his moustache. " I don't mean to say she has, you know ; but those Cliffes are infernally proud people. They all are. I have known some of their distant cousins, and so on poor as Job's turkey, and proud as Lucifer Cliffe Shirley committed that most heinous of social crimes—a low marriage. There was the dickens to pay, of course, when my lady yonder heard it: and the upshot was, the poor fellow was disinherited. His wife died a year after the marriage ; but lie had a daughter. I remember his telling me of her a thousand times, with the stars of India shining down on our bivouac. Poor Cliffe ! he was a glorious fellow ! but I have heard he was killed since I came home scaling the walls of Monagoola, or some such place." " Whom did he marry ?" " I forget now. He never would speak of his wife : but I have heard she was a balletdancer, or opera-singer, or something of that sort."

" All wrong," said a voice at his elbow; and there stood Lord Henry Lisle, tapping his boots with a cane and listening intently. "I know the whole story. .She was a French actress. You've seen her a score of times. Don't you remember Mademoiselle Vivia, who took all London by storm some twelve years ago ?" "Of course I do. Ah, what eyes that girl had ! And then she disappeared so mysteriously, nobody ever knew what became of her."

" I know. Cliff'e Shirley married her, and she died, as you have said, a year after."

Captain Douglas gave an intensely long whistle of astonishment.

" Oh, that was the way of it, then? No wonder his lady mother was outrageous. A Chile marry an actress !" "Just so," drawled Lord Lisle. "And if her son hadn't married her, her brother would. Sir Ronald nearly went distracted about her."

"Oh. nonsense! He married that blackeyed widow—that Cousin Charlotte of his, with the little boy—in half a year after." " It's true, though. I never saw anyone half so frantically in love; and ha hasn't

forgotten her yet, as you may see by his naming his black mare after her." Captain Douglas laughed. "And is it for the same reason you have named your red racer after Lady Agnes — eh, Lisle?" Lord Lisle actually blushed. Everybody knew how infatuated the insipid young peer was about the haughty lady of Castle Clifi'e, who might have been his mother ; and everybody laughed at him, except the lady herself, who, in an uplifted sort of way, was splendidly and serenely scornful. "Lovely creature!" lisped the ensign. And those ponies must be worth a thousand guineas if they're worth one.'' "How much? Where is she? Is she here cried Lord Lisle, who was mentally and physically rather obtuse, staring around him. " Oh, I see her ! Excuse me, gentlemen ; I must pay my respects." Oft went Lord Lisle, like a bolt from a bow. The officers looked at each other, and laughed. "Now you'll see the grandly disdainful reception he'll get," said Captain Douglas. " The queenly descendant of the Clifles treats the lately fledged lordlin g as if ho were her footboy ; and probably his grandfather shoed her grandfather's horses."

[To bo continued.]