A ROSALIND OF THE BUSH.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XL, Issue 12268, 12 May 1903, Page 3

A ROSALIND OF THE BUSH.

BY KATHARINE WYNNE, Author of "The Madness of Love." " A Strong Man's Love." " Silken Bonds," etc., etc., etc.

SYNOPSIS OP PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Chapter I.—The scene opens in a fashionable London ballroom, and introduces Gilbert Fermoy and Florizel Strathearn. The former is the son of an eccentric baronet, Sir Royston Fermoy, a reputed millionaire, who lives a retired life in the country. Sir, Royston makes his son a handsome allowance, and the latter lives the life of a fashionable man about town, and spends money lavishly. Gilbert is passionately in love with I' lorizcl Strathearn, a fashionable beauty, and at tho ball in question seeks an opportunity of declaring his love. He finds I lorizel in the conservatory, and just before the close of the last dance, succeeds in getting the lady to accept an engagementring, telling her at the same time that in three days he will become of age and succeed to his inheritance. Florizel questions him somewhat as to the nature of his inheritance, and he has to confess that he is ignorant on the subject, and only knows that his father has promised him his inheritance on his twenty-first birthday.

CHAPTER 11. introduces Marlow Summerton, an old school-clium of Gilbert Fermoy's. The friends go homo from the ball together, and Gilbert tells his chum of his engagement. During the ensuing conversation Gilbert also touches on the subject of his coming of age, and confides to his chum the fact that Sir Royston wishes his son to remain in London for the event, and that he will write to Gilbert on the matter of his inheritance. A wine-supper has been arranged by Gilbert to celebrate the occasion, and after talking things over the friends retire to bed.

CHAPTER lll.—Florizel tells her mother of her engagement to Gilbert, and Lady Strathearn, who is essentially a prudent mother, somewhat reproaches her daughter for allowing matters to comc to a climax until Gilbert had attained his majority. The day following the ball Gilbert calls at Lady Strath cam's and his engagement to Florizel is formally recognised. He remains to dinner and afterwards proceeds home and entertains his bachelor friends at the supper in honour of his having reached his majority. After the departure of his guests Gilbert is handed a letter by his servant. The missive proves to be the one promised him by his father, and the young man opens it eagerly, imnatient to learn what his inheritance consists of. After reading the letter Gilbert drops horror-stricken and bewildered, into a chair.

CHAPTER IV. HIS INHERITANCE. He knew! In the strength, the joy of his young manhood, the truth had come upon him. What was that truth? What revelation did that letter, clutched so tightly, almost fiercely, in his hand, contain? Tile lights yet burned on the suppertable, still in the state the guests had left it; for the servants were in bed long ago, and Gilbert Fermoy had bidden his man leave all things as they were until later morning, so anxious had he been that he had not heeded the strange communication on the envelope. And now— knew !

How long he sat stunned by the fearful shock he was not aware, he did not consider. It seemed a lifetime. It was only the smali fraction of an hour. For that time he did not- move, but sat staring blankly before him, his brows gripped, his eyes full of a strange, half-reseutful, half-indignant horror.

More strongly the sun poured in ; the sun of another day. As brilliant had it been yesterday, when he had awakened to what "different thoughts! As the sun increased the artificial lights paled, and more ghastly looked the remnants of that merry feast. After awhile his brain grew less dazed. Lifting his eyes, he gazed slowly around. On the table, the chairs, in all positions, thrust from the board, the serviettes hanging on the backs, thrown carelessly on the seats or slipped on to the floor; the drooping {lowers, the ends of cigars and cigarettes in the ash-trays. He marked them all, and vaguely he seemed to see each chair again occupied by his merry companions, recognised each face, heard the conversation, the ringing laughter, listened to the congratulatory speeches everyone had been so eager to utter. They appeared to him now unreal, intangible enough, but ghosts. Had they been ever real? Had it not been all a dream? Was he not dreaming now? Oh, it was impossible such horror could tread so swiftly on such joy! At least it was a trick, a hoax, a cruel one ; but better that than truth. Truth! He leaped suddenly to his feet and cried aloud : "It can't be true ; it can't—it can't. A fiend could not have formed so foul a vengeance, much less man — the image of his Maker." At the last sentence he buret into laughter, such as a Mephistopheles might have laughed in noting the success of some evil thought, ending ass, shortly and sharp as it had begun. Then lifting the letter he looked at it, and knew, As plain as whisper in the ear, that it was true, every word of it. That it was less wonderful being true, than it had been false ; for now .so much which had been strange, was made as clear as heaven's own light. He tried to read it once more, but motes danced before his eyes, his brain whirled, his very heart was sick. Abstemious he was, and though he had drank temperately, yet a coming-of-age supper, blended with, excitement, is not calculated to make a brain calm and clear. Besides, the shock had sent all the wine fumes to his head, and his temples were beating ms.d 7 iv. «... After awhile, however, he found sufficient control to master once again the contents. Every hard, cruel word bit into his brain like acid in steel. Then, with a great burst of grief, his two arms twined about his head, he fell forward on the table, uttering a bitter, heart-broken cry : " Florizel—Florizel, my darling! Lostlost for ever!" The letter had fluttered from his grasp to the carpet, where it lay open. There was no difficulty to read it. What did it say, that caused all this misery akin to agony? This: — . Abbotsholm, Cheshire. To Gilbert Ferrnoy,—The time has come at last —the time for which, these twenty years, I have been waiting, living. Yet, now it has arrived, my heart beats so, my brain so whirls, I cannot find words to begin. From the time you first began to observe, and reason upon what you observed, I have been a puzzle* to you. 1 know that. ell, every puzzle has a key, only you did not hold it. lam about to place it in your hands. The sins of the parents are visited on the children. Holy Writ is our authority. I did not make the law of the universe; I do but follow it. This world, so far as mail is concerned, br.s but one cfreedselfishness; one deity— We ill-use and torture our lower brothers; we call them brutes, yet they have nobler, less selfish instincts than we. But what has all this to do with the matter between you and me? Nothing. Only I would show I am not worse than my fellows. To-day I have promised you your inheritance. Can you guess what it is? No. Poverty and shame. I can see you start and wince. You do not believe, yet it is true. "Listen ! 1 will tell you the story of my life: Many, many years ago, I was a young man, but little older than you. According to those who knew me, my nature was generous, quick, impulsive, and full of warm instincts. Your youth has scarcely been happier thau mine, your trust in your fellow men 110 less. My eyes were opened, as yours are to be. I had a cousin—a young, beautiful girl— with whom, in childhood, I had been almost I brought up. I loved her passionately—as a I sister. I was devoted to her—as a ! brother. That affection was returned ; she relied 011 me. We were united by a stronger link than that sensual love one" feels for strange women. That is animal. Not the smallest thing that creeps but has its love-seasons. But the affection between mother and child, father and child, or brother and sister, is of heaven. So I loved my cousin. Ah! but she was so innocent, so bright and gay and trusting. A evil believes all ■ evil, so good sees in all others good. I had a, friend—at least, I called him one, because I thought him so. Next to my affection for my cousin, almost equal to it, was my love for him. We were as brothers; for he could assume so well, it seemed , the tiling itself. I shi-.ll' not enter into detail. There is no need. Already my brain is on fir© with recalling these matters; lot mo get quickly over it for my own sake.

My friend went abroad; he wrote as often as he could, always sending kind messages to my cousin, whom he knew and so admired that, when he had a sufficient income to make it honourable for him to propose, I was aware he would do so. This came to me intuitively, for he never spoke out, even to me, of his passion. I smiled, and liked him all the more, saying to myself, "Ho is worthy of her." Most men think but of their love, of themselves, and bind a girlthough they cannot wed, for povertyto them, for long engagements. In hope to win fortune, my friend went abroad. Soon I noticed my cousin lost her health; she became white and thin and silent, as one who pined. Her family asked her to see a doctor; she refused. Finally they insisted. He was summoned; my cousin was sent for. Her room was empty; she had fled. Fled to him, the man I had called friend, the man who had wronged, deceived her. The man I had loved, because he was so just, so honourable. HaS he com© within reach of my arm then, I should have killed him. . I repeat, I cannot go into detail. Yon ask where was the proof of his villainy? There was enough, trust me. Only in his last letter he said he was leaving where he was, leaving for quite another part of the country: he would write again directly he was settled. Is it surprising when I say he never did write? No; he had left, to throw me off the power of finding him. He had gone to meet the girl he had ruined'. In vain I sought for her and him. Nearly three months passed, when I received a communicationa telegram —my friend. It was short. "Come to me at "'once. Do not delay. I am dying." The address was an inn, in Wales. I hastened thither. If he had breath in his body, I resolved to force the truth from him. I found him at the last gasp. There had been an epidemic of some kind in the place. My cousin had fallen a victim, then this man. As I approached the bed, he rose up, a bright light, something like a smile passing over his features. Then gazing at me, he pointed. I turned, delaying to speak, to utter the curse upon my lip. A motherly woman stood behind me, an infant in her arms. I started, turning as cold as death. I knew it was her childand his. Just thon his voice fell faintly on my ear: "Roystonbe merciful —her babe— for —her sake —" I took the child in my arms, and turned but in time to catch a joyous light on his countenance as, exhausted by the effort he had made, he fell back in an unconsciousness that ended in death. He had escaped my vengeance, but—l had his child. I would not let myself think of it as hersbut his. On its head should my vengeance fall, as he was beyond it. Do you guess? Surely. You, Giilbert Fermoy—-your mother's name, markare that child. The man I taught your lips to upbraid, to curse, was your father! Well, I have reared you in all idleness, luxury, ease. Never, mind this, never having addressed you as —my eccentricity? Oh, no; I could not call you what you were not. But, all along, I have promised you your true inheritance on reaching your majority. It is this. I give it you—poverty, shame. You are a fine, useless gentleman; from this moment — From this moment my doors are shut against you. You are aj a stranger to me. From this moment not a shilling passes from me to you. lam avenged, and lam content. —Eoyston Feiuioy.

Beneath was written: I swear to the truth of every word written above.— Royston Fermoy. At the side were two names—of his household, possiblywho had acted as witnesses. This, then, was what he had waited for with such expectancy. Until now he had lived without thought of the morrow, the only son of a millionaire, spending lavishly, if not extravagantly. And all the while he had been the son of shame, of a deceived • girl and the villain who had deceived her. And he had dared to love Florizel Strathearn. Great heaven ! He, so disgraced, had wooed and won, had even pressed his lips to hers. But it was over now. Humbly, at her feet, must he crave pardon, then part for ever. Part! The thought sent the blood whirling through his brain; he cried aloud and writhed in his agony. What was the loss of gold to this? Never to look upon the woman he so loved again. For a space his suffering was beyond the power of pen to portray. When it passed, from very exhaustion/Gilbert Fermoy looked older by ten years. Could any vengeance have been more diabolical? Lying back in his chair, drawing quick, deep breaths, the thought came: How was he to meet his fellow-men? How even meet the of day? Once more, though the wax lights had burned out, and the lamps burned dimly, he saw the table surrounded by phantom forms, merry, hilarious; heard their laughter and their" talk. So real it all seemed, that, assured he was not asleep, he believed his reason was failing. Oh! if it were. If but lie could forget! Then a revulsion of feeling occurred. This awful letter and its contents were too unreal for credence. He would see Sir Royston, face to face, and by his own lip he should deny— confirm it. If the latter, what then -would he, Gilbert Fermoy, the innocent bearer of the sin and the punishment also, do? " As there is a heaven above," he exclaimed, through his set teeth, standing erect, every nerve tightly strung, his hands clinched, "I shall kill him, and the world will hold, me justified. At such a vengeance fiends themselves would blush."4 For long the traffic had commenced in the street outside, but Gilbert Fermoy had been only conscious of it by the maddening heat and throb of every sound upon his fevered brain.

Now there were footfalls on the stairs, the people of the house were astir. Soon they would be coming in to arrange the room. How they would look at him. Aware of the letter coming, they would smile if they did not speak their congratulations.^ It wits an ordeal he dared not face. Seizing, crumpling the letter in his hand, he passed quickly into the inner room, shut the door, and, staggering forward like one drunken, threw himself on the bed.

He must have partly lost consciousness, for wild, strange thoughts flooded his brain. Strange visions flitted before his eyes, yet all the while he was keenly conscious of his sharp misery, and writhed and moaned or cried aloud in his anger at the dupe he had been made. Suddenly he started up, listening. There was a quick, light step springing up the stairs; then a footfall in the adjoining room, swiftly accompanied 'by a gay voice, and a hand upon the door-knob. " What, not up yet! Taking a good spell to make up for last night. Are you visible! 1 If not, say the word. But you see I've kept mine. I said I would be the first to come and congratulate you." Congratulate him! Could any mockery be greater? The wretched man for a space could not answer. He sat up in the bed, leaning forward, staring at the door at the other side of which was Marlow Stimmerton. The fearful horror he had dreaded had come, the meeting bis fellow-men. Could lie? Dared he?

And yet, oil, how he pined, craved, for one friend —one confidant., someone's sympathy. More than all, this one's, the close friend of his boyhood. It had been so natural to tell him everything, having no sister, brother, or parent in whom to confide.

But this—this. How could he tell even him a tale so horrible, so base?

"Well, by Jove, you are sleeping soundly," began the other's voice again. " The slumber of the blest, the happy. It's a downright shame to disturb the old chap. Ta-ta, sweet dreams, I'll come again anon. Anon, sir, anon."

He had turned from the door when a voice he scarcely recognised as his friend's cried:

" Stop!" He swung back on his heel. As he did so the door was flung open,' and, haggard, ghastly, his hair and clothes in disorder, Gilbert Fermoy confronted him. Marlow Summerton stepped back, startled, appalled. " Great heaven, Fermoy!" he exclaimed, in alarmed concern, " what's the matter?"

. " Come in and I'll tell you," said the wretched young fellow, grasping the other's arm with his nervous, trembling hand. " Come, for pity's sake. I must speak to someone or my brain will give way." "By Jove," thought Summerton, allowing himself to be pulled in, "I never knew that the old chap gave way to the cup that cheers and does inebriate after this fashion.''

Gilbert Fermoy, having brought him in, relocked the door, then, sitting on the bed, bowed his face on his hands. " Summerton, I have brought you here to tell you—my brain will burst if Ido not speak— how am Ito tell you?— am I?"

"Dear old fellow! Something, I see, must be awfully .wrong!" exclaimed the other, full of sympathy. "If I can help you, you only have to speak, dear old boy. You know that." "I do ■ know it. But, oh, Summerton, you cannot guess what I have to say!" " No. They say it's the unexpected that always arrives, and I'm sure, when we "were all so merry lust night, I didn't expect to see —down like this. What is it, Fermoy? I counted upon seeing you in the seventh heaven of delight because of your inheritance—" . "My inheritance broke in Fermoy, with a discordant laugh. "Is there anything wrong about it, old fellow? Your father

Again Fermoy laughed. "My father!" he repeated. Then, abruptly pressing the letter on the other: "Read —read it!"

But the next moment he had caught it back, saying: 11 Summerton, you have been ever true and leal, a man just, honourable, of strict probity. I have never found you break your word. I am about to confide to you what I would -whisper to 110 other in the world. Will you vow to hold it sacred?" " I vow to, most solemnly," was the earnest response. " Then"—his band dropped to his side, he turned away his head—" go on." And Marlow Summerton read the letter.

(To be continued daily.)