WEDDED FOR PIQUE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXVI, Issue 9307, 9 March 1889, Page 3 (Supplement)

WEDDED FOR PIQUE.

BY MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING, • uttor of "Guy Earlscourt's Wife," "A Wonderful ffovnxn," " A Mad Marriage," "One Night's Mystery," " Lost for a Woman," <fec. CHAPTER XXIV. —(Continued.) WHERE THE BRIDEGROOM WAS. Mb- Sweet closed the door, went through the hall, down the steps, along the gravelled fl-alk> ou k i' l * ,o the busy, bustling street. And how was Mr. Sweet to know that he and his bride had parted forever ? With the last sounds of his footsteps, Barbara had tottered to the divan and eank down among the cushions with a prayer in her heart she had not strength enough to utter in words, that she might never rise again. All the giant fury of her passion had passed away ; but she had no tears to shed—nothing to do but to lie thoro a nd feel that she had lost life, and that her seared heart had turned to dust and ashes. There was no wish for revenge left; that was gone with her strength—no wish for anything but to lie there and die. Sho knew that it was his wedding night. She heard carriage after carriage rolling away to Castle Cliffe, and she felt as if the wheels of all were crashing over her heart. The last rosy ray of tho daylight had faded, the summer moon rose up stealing in through the curtains, and its pale light lay on tho bowed young head like the pitying hand of a friend. There came a knock at the front door—a knock loud and imperative, that rang from end to end of the house. Why did Barbara's heart bound as if it would leap from her breast ? She had never heard that knock before. There was a step in the ball, light., quick, and decided —a voice, too, that she would have known all the world over. She had hungered and thirsted for that voice—she had desired it as the blind desire sight. "And am I really going mad?" was Barbara's thought. It was no madness. The door M'as opened, the step was in the room, and Elizabeth, the housemaid, was speaking : " Missis be in here, sir. I'll go and fetch a light." " Is ever mind a light." The door was closed in Elizabeth's faco, the key turned to keep out intruders, and someone was bending over Barbara as she lny, or rather crouched. She could not tell whether she was sane or mad. She dared not look up; it must be all an illusion. What could he be doing here, and to-night ? " Barbara!" Oh, that voice ! If this was madness she never wished to be sano again. " Barbara !" Someone's hair was touching her cheek— someone's hand was holding her own—the dear voice was at her ear. "Barbara, have you no word for me, either of hatred or forgiveness ? Will you not even look at me, Barbara ?" She lifted her face for one instant. Yes, it was he, pale and passionate—he here, even at this hour. She dared not look— she dropped her face again in the cushions. "Have I then sinned* beyond redemption ? Am I so utterly hateful to you, Barbara, that you cannot even look at me !" Barbara was mute. " Do you know that I was to be married to-night—that my bride is waiting for me even now ?" '■ I know it! I know !" she said, with a port of cry—that arrow going to the mark. '•Oh, Leicester, you have broken my heart!" "I have been a traitor and a villain, I know : but, villain as I am, I could not finish what I had begun. At the last hour I have deserted them all, Barbara, to kneel at vour feet again. She is beautiful and good ; but I only love you, and to you I have come back. Will you seud me away, Barbara ? Her band only tightened over his for answer. In that moment she only knew that she was utterly miserable and desperate, and that she loved this man. She felt her herself standing on a quicksand, nnd that it was shifting away under her feet, and letting her down. "When I left you and went to London, Barbara," the dear, low voice went on, "and saw her first, I was dazzled; and somehow —Heaven only knows how ! —I promised to f ultil an engagement made years before I had even heard of her. While she plittered before me the daze continued ; but the moment I left her the scales fell from my eyes, and I saw it all. I came back to Cllftonlea, determined to give up everything for love and you—to make you my wife, and seek together a home in the New World. I came. As I passed the cathedral I saw a

crowd, and entering , , the first thing I beheld was you, Barbara, the wife of another man—my repentance and resolution all too late !" His listener had a long account to settle with that other man. It was only one more item added to the catalogue, and she said nothing ; and still holding her hand tighter, and coming nearer, the voice went on : " I thought I would give you up, forget you, aud take the bride they had chosen for me; but now, at the last hour, I find that life without you is less than worthless. Your marriage was a mockery. You cannot care for this man. Will you send mo away, desolate and alone, over the world ?" Still she did not speak. The sand was slipping away fast, and she was going down. "Barbara," he whispered, "you do not love this man—you love me ! Then leave him for ever, and fly with me !" CHAPTER XXV. THE STORY. The road from the town of Cliftonlea to the castle was a somewhat long one ; but by turning oil' and going through Lower Clific and the park gates, the distance was shortened by half. Mr. Sweet, however, did not choose to cake this short-cut, but walked on through the town, at his usual pace, neither slowly nor hurriedly, and the white summer moon was shining over his head as he passed tin- Italian cottage. The whole park seemed olive. Up on a hill fireworks in full blaze, and a vast crowd was gathered round them, l)own in a smooth hollow the Cliftonlea brass band was discoursing merry music ; and on the velvet sward the dancers were Enjoying themselves in another way. The place was one blaze of rainbow light from the myriad coloured lamps hung in the trees, and the moon was more like a dim tallow candle, set up in the sky to be out of the ffa y, than anything else. The joy-bells were clashing out high over all, and mingled w ith their loud ringing, the lowyer caught the sound of the cathedral clock telling nine as he entered the paved courtyard. Jf p auge d f or a moment, with a emife on his lips. 'Nine o'clockthe appointed hour ! Perhaps I will be too late for the ceremony, a fter all," he said to himself as he ran up the steps. The great hall door stood open to admit 'he cool night air, and, standing in a blaze °f light, he saw Sir Roland and Colonel Shirley at the foot of the stairs. No one else was in the domed hall but the servants, w ho flitted ceaselessly to and fro at the farther end; and he stepped in, hat in band. The two gentleman turned simultaneously and eagerly, but the faces of both fell when wey saw who it was. . " Good-evening, Sir Roland ; good-even-ing. Colonel Shirley," began Mr Sweet, bowing low. " Permit me to offer my congratulations on this happy occasion." "Congratulations !" exclaimed the Colonel. "Faith, I think there will be something besides congratulations needed Portly ! Have you seen Mr. Leicester Cliffe anywhere in your travels to-night, Mr. sweet V ' Mr. Sweet looked at the speaker in undisguised astonishment. " Mr. Leicester ! Is it possible that he is °ot here?" ' e ry possible, my dear sir. I shall bo JDo.st happy to see him when he comes, and jet him know*what it is to be disgracefully wcked." "■ls it really possible? Where in the work! can he be to-night, of all nights, if not here ?" Ah ! that is what I would like to have !?meone tell me. Wherever he may be, astle Cliffe has certainly not the honour of containing him, and the hour for the cere°nv > you see, is past." . | fc is astonishing," said Mr. Sweet, ow 'y, and looking a little bewildered by news. It is incomprehensible ! I never •efw anything like it !" i A a " ree with you. But, unhappily, that <*8 not mend the matter, and if he does uc appear within the next fifteen minutes,

you will have the goodness to go and stop those confounded bells, and send all those good people in the park about their business." "And there has been no wedding, then, to-night?" said Mr Sweet, still looking bewildered. " None; nor is there likely to be, as far as I can see." " And Miss Shirley is still—" " Miss Shirley—and seems in a fair way of remaining so, for the present at least." " You have something to say, Sweot, havo you not?" asked Sir Roland, who had been watching the lawyer, and seemed struck by something in his face. Mr. Sweet hesitated a little; but Colonel Shirley interposed impatiently : " Out with it, man ! If you have anything to say, let 113 havo it at once." " My request may soem strange—bold— almost inadmissible," said the lawyer, still hesitating ; •' but, I do assure you, 1 would not make it were it not necessary." "What is the man driving at?" broke out the Colonel, in astonishment and impatience. "What's all this palaver about? Come to the point at once, Sweet,, and lefc us havo this inadmissible request of yours." "It is, Colonel, that I see Miss Shirley at once and alono ! I have two or three words to say to hor that it is absolutely necessary that she should hear." Sir Roland and Colonel Shirley looked at each other, and then at Mr. Sweet, who, in spite of every effort, seemed a little nervous and excited. "See Miss Shirley at once and alono!" repeated Sir Roland, looking at him with some of his sister's piercing intentness. : "You did right to say that your request was a strange and bold one. What can you possibly "have to say to Miss Shirley ?" "A few very important words, Sir Roland." "Say them, then, to the young lady's father—she has no secrets from him." "I bey; your pardon; I cannot do so. That is, I would infinitely rather say them to herself first, and leave it to her own good pleasure to repeat them." "Are you suro it is nothing about my son ?" " Certainly, Sir Roland. Of your son I know nothing." " Well, it's odd !" said the Colonel. " But I have no objection to your seeing Vivia, if she has none. Come this way, Mr Sweet." Ascending the wide staircase as lightly as he could nave done twenty years before, the Colonel gained the upper hall, followed by the lawyer, and tapped at the door of

(-he Rose Room. It was opened immediately by Lady Agnes, who looked out with n anxious face. a "Ohj Cliffe ! has Leicester come?" " No, indeed ; but a very different person has—Mr. Sweet.' 1 " Mr. Sweet! Does he bring any news ? Has anything happened ?" " No ; though he says he wants to see Vivia." "See Vivia!" exclaimed her ladyship, looking to the last degree amazed, not to say shocked, at the unprecedented request. " Has Mr. Sweet gone crazy ?" " Not that I know of. But hero he is to answer for himself." Thus invoked, Mr. Sweet presented him self, with a deprecating bow. "Ibe£ your pardon, my lady. I know the request seems strange; but I cannot help it, unreasonable as the time is. I beg of you to let me see Miss Shirley at once, and the explanation shall come afterward." "I shall do nothing of the sort. I'm surprised at you, Mr. Sweot! What can you mean by so outrageous a request ?" " My lady, if you insist upon it, I must tell you, but I earnestly entreat you not to force me to a public explanation, until I have spoken in private to Miss Shirley." " Oh, it is something about Leicester ! I know it is, and he wants to prepare her for some shock. Mr. Sweet, do not dare to trifle with me ! I am no baby; and if it is anything about him, I command you to i speak out at once !"

" Lady Agnes, I have said, again find again, that io is nothing about him, and I repeat it. Of Mr. Leicester Cliffe I know nothing whatever. The matter simply and solely concerns Miss Shirley alone." "Concerns me!" cried a silvery voice, and the beautiful, smiling face of the bride peeped over grandmamma's satin shoulder. " Who wants Miss Shirley ? Oh, Mr. Sweet, is it you ? Has anything happened to —" She paused, colouring vividly. "Xothing has happened to Mr. Cliffe, I hope. Miss Shirley," said Mr. Sweet, turning his anxious face toward that young lady. "I have no doubt he will bo here presently. But, before he comes, it is of the utmost importance that I should scoyou a few minutes in private." Miss Shirley opened her blue eyes according to custom extremely wide, and turned them in bewildering inquiry upon her papa. " Mr. Sweet; has some awful secret to reveal to you, Vivia," observed that gentleman, smiling. "The 'Mysteries of Udolpho' were plain reading compared to him this evening." "If Mr. Sweet has anything to say to Miss Shirley," said Lady Agnes, haughtily, "let him say it here, and at once. I can-

not have any secret interview and mysterious nonsense." " It is not nonsense, my lady." "The more reason you should out -with it once. You do not need to be told that anything that concerns Miss Shirley concerns her father and myself. If you do not like that, you had better take your leave." At this sharp speech, Mr. Sweet turned so distressed and imploring a face toward Miss Vivia that that good-natured young lady felt called upon to strike in. "Never mind, grandmamma. There is nothing so very dreadful in his speaking to me in private, since he wishes it so much. It is not wrong— is it, papa ?" "Not wrong, but rather silly, J. think." " Well, Mr. Sweet and I are so wise generally, that we can afford to be silly for once. Don't say a word, grandmamma ; it's all right. This way, if you please, Mr. Sweet." Turning her pretty face as she went, with an arch little smile, she tripped across the hall, and opened the door opposite —what was called the winter drawing-room. The lawyer followed the shining figure of tho bride into the apartment, whose pervading tints were gold and crimson, and was illuminated by amber-shaded lamps, filling ib with a sort of golden haze. lie closed the door after him, and stood for a moment with his back to it. " Will your two or three words take long to say ?" asked Miss Shirley, still smiling— " which means, am I to sit down or stand ?" " You had better sit down, I think, Miss Shirley." " Ah ! I thought it was more than two or three words ; bub you had better be quick, for I have not much time to spare on this particular evening." She sank into an easy-chair of scarlet; velvet ; her go3,«amer robes floating about her like white mist ; her graceful head, with its snowy veil, and golden curls, and jewelled orange-blossoms, leaning lightly against its glowing back ; the exquisite face whereon the smile still lingered, as she lightly waved him to a distant chair. Truly, she was dazzling in her splendour ; but her companion was nob dazzled— was smiling a little as he took his seat. " Well, Mr. Sweet, what is this terrible mystery of which papa speaks ?" "Colonel Shirley has termed ib rightly— it is a terrible mystery." " Indeed ! And it concerns mo, I suppose, or you would not be so anxious to tell it to me." " Yes, Miss Shirley, I am sorry to say ib concerns you very closely indeed." " Sorry to say ! Well, go on and leb mo hear it, then." "It is a somewhab complicated story, Miss Shirley, and requires me to go back a long time over eighteen years." Miss Shirley bowed slowly her willingness for him to go back to the Flood, if he liked. "More than eighteen years ago, Miss Shirley, there lived, several miles from London, in a poor enough cottage— they were very poor people —a certain man and wife— Mr. and Mrs. John Wildman." At this unexpected announcement Miss Shirley opened her blue eyes again, and smiled a little amused smile, as she looked at him inquiringly. "This Mr. John Wildman was by trade a bricklayer, and often absent from home weeks ab a time. One morning, very early, during one of these absences, a oarriago drove up bo tho door, and a young lady and gentleman made their appearance in the cottage. The young lady appeared to be ill, and tho gentleman seemed exceedingly anxious that she should lodge there. Mrs. Wildman was nob many months married; they were poor; she wished to help her husband, if she could ; the gentleman promised to pay well, and she consented. He went away immediately, and for the next two or three weeks did not make his ap-

J pearance again, though money and fur--3 niture were sent to the cottage. At the - end of that time two events happened —a child was born and the lady died. Before , her death she had sent a message to the r , young gentleman, who came in time to see her laid in the grave, and consigned his inr fant daughter to the care of Mrs. Wildman before departing, as he thought, for ever from his native land." During this preamble, the blue eyes had opened to their widest extent, and wore , fixed on the speaker with a little bowildered I staro that said plainly enough she could . make neither head nor tail of the whole thing. " Several months after this," Mr. Sweet went on steadily, "this John Wildman, with a few others, perpetrated a crime for which ho was transported, leaving his wife and child—for they had a child some weeks old—to get on as best they might; the strange gentleman's infant with them. Ib was by means of this very infant thoy managed to exist at all ; for its father, immediately on his arrival in India, for which place ho had sailed, sont her plentiful remittances; and so, for nearly six years, thoy got along tolerably well. At the end of" that time "she fell ill, and hor husband's mother, who lived in some out-of-the-way place in the north part of England, was sent for, and came to nurse her and the two littlo girls—whose names, by the way, I forgot to tell you, wero Victoria and Barbara." During all this time his listcnor had been much perplexed by this to her incomprehensible story. But now she started as though sho had received a galvanic shock. "What! Victoria and Barbara! It isn't possible that—" " Permit me to continue, Miss Shirely," said Mr. Sweet, bowing without looking up, " and you will soon recognise the characters. Yes, their names wore Victoria and Barbara. Victoria, the eldor by a few months, was the daughter of the dead lady; and Barbara, the daughter of the transported felon. Judith, the mothor-in-law, came to take charge of them, and heard for the first time the whole story. Sho was a crafty old woman, this Judith, with little lovo for the daughter-in-law or granddaughter whom she had come to take care of. But she was wicked, ambitious, and mischievous, and a demoniac plot at once entered hor head. A letter was despatched to the gentleman in India—he was an officer, too—telling him that the Wildmans were about to leave for America, and that he had better come home and take charge of his daughter. Miss Shirely, he came ; but it was not his daughter he received from the old woman, but her granddaughter. The children wero not unlike ; both had tho same fair complexions, and light hair, and blue eyes. The real Victoria was kept carefully out of sight, and he carried off the falso one in implicit trust and placed her in a convent in France. Miss Shirley, I beg—" He stopped and rose hastily for Miss Shirley had sprung from her scat, and was confronting him with flashing eyes. "It is false ! It is false ! I shall never believe it! What is this you havo dared to tell me, Mr. Sweet?" "The truth, Miss Shirley." " Oh, Heaven ! Do you mean to say that I am really—that I am not — Oh, it is too false, too absurd to hear ! 1 will not stop and listen to you any longer." She turned excitedly to go ; but he placed himself between her and the door.

"Miss Shirley, I beg, I entreat, for Heaven's sake, hear me out! It is every word true. Do you think I would come here and repeat such a tale, if I was not positive ?"

" Oh, Mon Dieu! what is ho saying ? Am I dreaming or awake ?" " Miss Shirley, will you sit down and bear me out?"

" Miss Shirley !" she said, with a sort of wildness in her look. "If what you have dared to say be true, I have no right to that name ! It has never for one poor moment belonged to me !" " You are quite right; but tho name, just now, is of little consequence. Will you be pleased to sit down and listen while I finish ?" " I am listening, go on. She sank back into the seat, not leaning back this time, but sitting erect, her little white hands clinging to one arm of the chair, the wonderful blue eyes fixed upon him wild and dilated. Her companion resumed his seat and his story ; his own eye lixod on tho carpet. "The little girl in the convent, who bore the name of Victoria Genevieve Shirley, but who in reality was Barbara Wildrnan, remained there until she was twelve years old, when the Indian officer, who fancied himself her father, again returned to England, his mother, and his native homo, and his little girl, the supposed heiress of Castle Cliffe, was sent for ami came hero. Miss Shirley, to tell you any more of her history would be superfluous ; but perhaps you would like to hear the story of the real, the defrauded heiress, the supposed Barbara?" He paused to see if she would speak, and looked at her; but one glance was all he dared venture, and he lowered his eyes and went hurriedly on : " The sick mother knew nothing of tho change until it was too late, and then she went franticwith grief. Old Judith,a-larmed, as she very well might be, managed to remove her to London, by telling her she would recover her child there ; and when there, gave out she was mad, and had her imprisoned in a mad-house. It is all very dreadful, Miss Shirley, but I regret to repeat it is all quite true, nevertheless." She covered her face with her hands, and sank down, her face resting on the arm of the chair, quivering all over for a moment, and then becoming perfectly still. "The old woman changed the name of Wildrnan to that of Black ; and during the next two or three years lived on the money paid her by Colonel Shirley. That began to sive out, and she resolved to make Colonel Shirley's daughter find her more. Barbara —the children's names, as I told you, were changed—was a pretty little girl of nine, and attracted tho attention of the manager of a band of strolling players. She became one of the band —the most popular one among them—and for the next two years she and her grandmother managed very well, when one day they were astonished by the unlooked-for nppearanec of the transported Mr. Wildrnan, who had made his escape, and had found them out. Ho, too, took the name of Black—Peter Black—attached himsslf to the same company, and the three went wandering over England together. Are you listening, Miss Shirley ?" Ho really thought she was not. she was so rigid and still; but at the question she partly raised herself and looked at him. " Barbara Black that was—your wife that is—is then the real Victoria Shirloy ?" "She is."

Hβ did not dare to look at her; but; ho felfc the blue eyes wero transfixing him and reading his very heart. It was only for a few seconds, and then she dropped her head on the arm of the chair again, and lay still. " They came hore to Sussex six years ago, and, strange enough, settled here. The old woman and her son had each probably their own reasons for so doing. It is an out-of-the-way place, this little sea-coaefc town, and the returned convict was not ambitious to extend the circle of his acquaintance ; and his mother, probably, was actuated by a desire to see how her wicked and cruel plot worked. So the real and the supposed heiress grew up, both beautiful; but all similarity ended between them there —one in the lap of luxury, envied, admired, and happy; the other wretchedly poor, little cared for, and miserable. But I; Miss Shirely, knowing nothing of all this, loved her, and married her ; and it is only within the last day or two these facts have come to my knowledge. I beg your pardon, but are you really listening ?" He could not tell what; to make of her. She lay drooping over the side of the chair, 80 immovable that she might have been dead, for all the signs of life she exhibited. But she was very far from dead ; for. she answered as she had done before, and at once ; and the sweet voice was almost harsh, so full was it of suppressed inward pain. "I am listening. Why need you ask? Go on." " This miserable old woman was fond of you—excuse me if I pain you—and her exultation began to show itself when she found you were to be the bride of the first gentleman in Sussex. Her reputed granddaughter, whom she feared and disliked, was my wife; all her schemes seemed accomplished, and, in her triumph, she dropped hints that roused my sus.picions. I followed them up, suspected a great; deal, and at last boldly accused her of all. She was frightened, and denied my accusation; but her denials confirmed my suspicions, and at last I orced irom her the whole disgraceful truth. It wasn't over an hour ago. I catno here immediately. And that, Miss Shirley, is the whole story."

He drew a long breath, and looked rather anxious: She neither spoke nor moved. " Miss Shirley !" "I am listening." "I have told you all. What-is to be done now ?" " You are to go and leave me." Ho rose up and walked to the door. " Yea, Miss Shirley; bufc I will remain here. Lady Agnes and Colonel Shirle,, must know all to-night." He opened tho door and passed out. The hall, in a a. blaze of light, was deserted ; but he heard the murmur of voices from the room opposite and from below. "Ye*, life murmured to himself; yes, s , my dear Barbara, thanks to you, it is all mine at last." [To bo continued.]