THE FRENCH MASTER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXIX, Issue 12066, 9 September 1902, Page 3

THE FRENCH MASTER.

I (PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

» BY ALFRED WILSON BAEBETT. SYNOPSIS OP PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I,—Lawrence Ensor, a young barrister, suddenly finds himself heir to a tortune of £1000 a year. He gives a supper in honour of the event. He leaves the restaurant, about eleven p.m. to go to his chambers, ana on his way hears cries for help proceeding from a cab which is being driven rapidly away before he can render assistance. Law rence reports the matter at the nearest police station, and then made his way to his chambers, where his dreams were haunted by the face oX the woman whom he b&w in the cab. chapter ll.—Seated at the dinner-table of the Hotel d'ltalie, Lawrence sees three late-comer.*} take their places—one of whom is a young and beautiful girl about 18. Eater in the evening, while strolling around, Lawrence rescues the lady—Miss Leicester—from a perilous position. He escorts her back to the hotel, where she thanks him, and then bids him good-night. CHAPTER Major White and Mr. Walters —two curio-collectors—strike up a friendship and are joined by Mr. Ensor, who, through them, obtains an introduction to the Misses Leicester and Walters. The ladies and gentlemen then spend a pleasant afternoon on the beach. CHAPTER IV. I, Lawrex'CE Ensor, have discovered that lam an ass. Yes, lam an ass. The fact that a large proportion of my fellow-crea-l tures are in the same predicament (whether j they know it or not) does not tend to les--1 sen the shock, of my discovery. ... ! As a matter of fact, is it a discovery at all? J As a matter of fact, haven't I often made an ass of myself before, and known it--Yes, hub then I have never been such an ass. When I was struggling along as a briefless and, what is worse, a penniless barrister, J. always felt that, the only tiling needed to make life a complete success for me was money. 1 used to put the amount at five hundred a year —in consols. To me, blind, in those days (only a few months ago) that five hundred a year seamed the one thing which would certainly smooth every obstacle from my path and lay it open to all my plans and ambitions. I didn't see what could stop me. I see now. Yes. I am, and I was, an ass. I have been at Yiareggio six weeks: and it seems probable that I shall stop here through the season, for it seems probable that Mr. Walters and his party will stop too. At first sight, indeed, why should I not stay on? I like old Walters'. He is a fine, wellread, agreeable, intelligent old gentleman. I like Miss Lucy. too. She is everything that is charming in English girlhood; and .we are the best of friends. I don't knowwhen I have liked a. girl so much. I like —no ! that is where the mistake comes in—■ I do not like, I love. Madeleine Leicester. What an ass lam ! Were there not hundreds of other girls to fall in love with. Why, if it comes to that, need I fall in love at all? I was happy, free, and independent for the first time in my life: at liberty to go where I would, do what 1 wished. And now Inow lam hopelessly, madly, in love with a woman who thinks of me. cares as much for me, as if I were the Grand Lama of Thibet, or the Mot in the Moon, or—Does she'' That is just it: that is where my folly shows itself — | in that doubt that comes sometimes, that wild hope which makes my heart beat faster. Cold as she is, impassive, almost sullen—Heaven help me! there are moments when it almost seems not too mad to fancy she might soften and— Those moments never come when I am alone with her. It is only when Lucy is present that she changes. She is fond of Lucy, that is very plain.: and sometimes, under the influence of the young girl's gaiety and laughing ways, she softens and smiles even on me. But her eyes never smile, I notice. Rarely, very rarely, they have met mine ; and in them on those occasions there has been such a depth of sadness, such a pathetic, imploring look, that I have always been forced to drop mine, or do what I feel I should bitterly regretblurt out the. burning words which hover on my lips. Yes, i should regret it, I know I should. There is some mvstery about this woman, I which I doubt if I shall ever solve. There | is some barrier between her and the everyI day world of love and life. And, though j sometimes those deep grey eyes rest on me I with a look almost kind, almost as if they t guessed my feelings and did not repulse I them, still, always, a chill at my heart, in I spite of myself, £eems to tell me that that barrier is there, and even that ii is inrpass- : able. CHAPTER V. "An impassable barrier!" I almost laugh as I read over the words with which the last chapter closes. Impassable? for me, yes, doubtless; but for others? Lucy Walters came to me one morning on the Nettuno. It was too hot to bathe, lor something; and I was sitting watching | the swimmers, myself one of a mixed crowd of English, Germans, and Italians who were ! either seated or who paced up and down the little wooden pier. Lucy and I are 1 friends, and I quiz her about her admirers, officers chiefly, victims merely to the rather freely scattered glances of her laughing blue, eyes, however, for Mr. Walters has made no acquaintances but myself and Major White, and Lucy's admirers had to be content with ogling. | This morning, however, I noticed that the I crowd interested her less than usual. Her I replies to my sallies were a little distracted. Her eyes bubbled over with suppressed intelligence. I saw that she had news. "Miss Lucy," I said, at last, "your admirers are having a bad time of it this morning. You are snubbing them shamefully. T>ee how they are drooping under the* treatment. Is' it possible thai blue cloaks and black eyes are beginning to pall on you? Cast a glance on those two uniforms over there and tell me in confidence what von think of them." i Lucy looked, and turned her laughing I eves again to me. " No, they do not pall," she said; '"they never could. Italian officers are too lovely for words. I adore them, but— Have you seen our new French master?" _ _ ! " Your Dew French master? No. I j didn't even know von had an old one. | Where is he? and who is 'us,' and why are j you learning French?" j Lucv laughed. "'Us' is, or are. me—l mean I (do help me. Mr. EnsorJ) and Made- I leine. He is at the hotel now. And we are ! learning French, or at least I am, because grandpa wishes it." " 1 thought Miss Leicester spoke French," ( I said. j '• Not very well, I think. Not well I enough to teach it, at least." " Ah! Well, I have not seen this master of yours yet.- Tell me about him. Is he amiable?" Lucy drew a long breath, expressive of ecstasy. "He is too handsome for words." " I 'thought that was what the Italian officers were— no, they were ' lovely,' I remember. ' Miss Lucy looked across to where some blue-cloaked figures stood in graceful attitudes against the rails. Yes. they are lovely," she said thoughtfully. "But he— the French master (he is not Frenchl think he is Russian or Polish), he is more beautiful than all of those put together. But it is almost lunch time. He will be at the bote!. Why not come and see him?" I laughed, and we made our way back to the hotel. Even in these days, at the theatre, doesn't farce sometimes precede tragedy? As we arrived at the hotel we met Miss Leicester. She had evidently been for a solitary walk, and was returning, looking rather fagged out, I thought, from the heat of the Italian noonday. She did not see us until we were almost upon her; she was walking slowly, with her dark eyes fixed ill thought upon the ground. When - she looked up at last, startled by our proximity, she smiled affectionately at Lucy, and cast a quick glance at me. Was there a deeper meaning in that, flash of the dark grey eyes than 1 noticed at the time, or has my memory, influenced by what has passed since, invented one? I cannot tell. My heart sickens at writing*whut I must write to tell the story which follows that morning's walk with Lucy. When I write of Madeleine Leicester, her proud dark face rises up before me, and tells me suspicion is impossible, incredible— yet, when one ■dines to think what history'tells us women rave been, when one remembers what experience has taught, us they ..can be, it all seems likely enough.

Lucy took Miss Leicester's arm in the hall, laughingly drawing her forward, and whispering, as L could tell by a word caught here and there, about the new French master. Miss Leicester had apparently yet to meet this paragon, and Miss Lucy was telling her wonders about him. He had been', it appeared, very well recommended to her grandfather. They had made his acquaintance that morning, when he had called by appointment upon Mr. Walters, having "sent in his letters on the previous day. His manners had been so charming, he was altogether such a superior person, that Mr. Walters had engaged him on the spot to give lessons to his granddaughter. (Mr. Walters apparently intended residing some time in Paris, where he had relations, and where Miss Lucy was "debuter.") Miss Leicester was to participate in these lessons, it appeared, as watchdog probably. Watch-dog Ah, well ! The French master was not, as it happened, at the hotel when we got there. But his lessons were to commence at once, and he came that afternoon. We were all seated on the verandah when he arrived — Mr. Walters, Lucy, Miss Leicester, Major White and I—and so I chanced to be present at his introduction to the companion. She gave no sign. I swear she gave no sign. He was the handsomest man I have ever seen, and taken with some foolish, boyish feeling of jealousy to see how she would meet him 1 was watching her face. She nsither changed colour nor expression. She met him as she had met me, with a cold inclination of her dark head, and that almost sullen, indifferent glance with which she seems to meet the gaze of all the world but Lucy Walters. And it was all acting. She knew him all the time ! I have thought so since, and I have doubted it since. God help me, I know it. now. This French master's name is Riga : and it seems to me that that name, like its owner, might come from any one of several different countries. But, take it all together. I should say that he was bora in England, of foreign parents, probably Polish or KuWian. He is, at least, a complete master of the French which he professes to teach. I have said that he is the handsomest man 1 have ever seen, but I hardly know how to give the reasons which make me say so. A woman might do it easily enough. His description, as 1 can write it, might do for any one of a thousand men taken at random in any of the great Italian cities. He is tall, dark, and well made. His hair is cut very short, showing a rather exceptionally high forehead. He has an aquiline nose. very finely drawn eyebrows, a black moustache turned fiercely upwards towards his cheeks, and what women would call "' very good eyes." Independent of their "goodness"' they strike me as being capable of a great deal of penetration, but generally they seem merely watchful — i watchful. I believe the man to be a scoundrel, but I am doubtless prejudiced (perhaps every man thinks the man who is preferred to himself is a scoundrel) ; but I must confess that very few people, probably 110 woman, would declare against him at first sight. Should I have done so had I not seen what I did? Riga was so unlike one's idea of a French master ; bis manner was so good, he was so evidently a man of the world and a gentleman, that for some time the object of his appearance on the hotel verandah was completely forgotten, and we all sat chatting together on various subjects, It was he himself who first reminded us of the object of his presence there, and requested Mr. Walters to say where he. would like the day's lesson to take place. Looking back now, I can sec all sorts of meanings in the glance and little bow with which he drew back and motioned Miss Leicester past him to lead the way to the room which the proprietor suggested for the lesson. I can even fancy a hot flush rising to her pale cheek as she glided forward, her eyes bent on the ground. But it can be only fancy, I know ; for certainly I noticed nothing at the time. It was not until the evening that the firsthint came to me. After dinner I had felt disinclined for my usual stroll with Major White, and 1 had lazily thrown myself down on a sola in a little smoking-room on the first floor of the hotel. In front of this room runs a broad verandah, on to which open all the windows on that storey. It had grown dark, but ■flfere was no light in my room. One of the hotel servants had come in to arrange the lamp, but seeing me stretched out on the couch with my eyes closed he had gone out again, thoughtfully leaving me undisturbed. "After a time I "heard the window of the next 100m —a drawing-room open, and someone pass out on to the verandah. The next moment a second person followed hastily, and I heard a man's voice say eagerly, " Madeleine !" Innocent of any intention to listen, yet almost involuntarily. I sprang to my feet. "Madeleine?" What did it mean? " Are you mad?" 1 heard her voice reply. '"Can you forget! I tell you. as I told you just now. that never, willingly, ■will I hear your voice or see your face again. Leave me if you are wise. Go !"' * I heard a quick murmur of expostulation, entreaty, I know not what. And then the door into my room from the verandah was flung swiftly open, and a tall, dark figure swept past me. I heard the inner door bang', and I was alone. She had not seeu me. For a second I stood still bewildered. I could hear a muttered oath outside, and an uncertain step approach the door : then it turned, without entering, and I heard it pass through the drawing-room and descend the stairs. As I walked to the verandah and looked over into the dusk I could faintly distinguish a tall masculine figure which made its way along the front. I felt my* brain i eel as I fancied I recognised in this figure the French master. Riga, whom I had seen introduced to .Miss Leicester only that morning! (To he continued daily.)