A MERCENARY MATCH

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1664, 20 January 1904, Page 10

A MERCENARY MATCH

I ought to have been happy—supremely happy—there was no doubt as to that. Had I not succeeded —to quote my excellent Aunt Celia—in securing the most eligible parti of the year—no less a person, in fact, than Sir John Blake, the handsome, _ debonaar Sir Jolih, whose good looks, winning tongue, and well-filled purse were discussed by all the gossips throughout the country side?

To think that Beryl Harmond, the daughter of. a country surgeon, should have, been. selected by this person of all others for his wife! It caused an. illness to the vicar’s wife, and old Mrs Stephens, of Loragcourt—Sir Johns cousin—took to her bed at the news. “That girl I” said they all, with ■spiteful emphasis. “Whatever next?” Meanwhile, I held my head up, took no notice of sneers on the one side, nor of flattery on the other. I had met Sir John in towm where I bad gene to spend a season with Aunt Ceiin. She had married a wealthy OLty merchant years back, and had been cowtent "to lead a placidly monotonous, though prosperous, existence, until her Mbaud's financial successes had earned him a title.

Then, as in duty bound, his faithful wife insisted on a house in a fashionable quarter and an unlimited allowance, in order, as she said, that they might take the position in Society due to* the aforesaid title, not to mention, therr wealth,. And so I.went up to London for a season, and, at one of any auntte most fasMonahle functions, Met. Sir John BlakeHow his eyes shone the night he told me of-his love. We were on the baloney at old Lady Scott’s, and I remember 1 wore a gown of palest pmk smothered in chiffon, caught here :amd there -with knots of roses. Just far a moment he had held me at arei’s length, then, with a little, quick-breathed sigh, he caught ■nifi to his heart.

“Barling—my Beayl—my sweet! arms seemed a pleasant restinghlaoa and Ms low" tones and passmnato S’tMiM me;\ But, when ho stoopcd and pleaded that I would press my liras to fite, then I drew hack. Iu aaa StaM, I understood what I »>d I had promised to be bis wife, I had listened to his words of Mve A I «

suffered his caresses, and all the timGi my heart did not belong to him at all,, but to my boyish sweetheart in that country. Ah 1 Cyril, could you have seen me when the dance was over, and we had driven.home, my aunt radiant with triumph, my uncle beaming with satis* faction—could you have seen me creeping, to my room, my face wMte as a ghost’s, my eyes heavy with unshed tears, you would have forgiven me—have been sorry for me—yes, even for me, the girl who’d played you fake 1

And now I was back again in my old country home, surrounded by my people eager to bear of my success, petted and made much of by this one and that, until I felt myself to be a monster of iniquity, in that. I could not feel as happy ns I tried to appeal'. The only one of my relatives whoi did not congratulate me was my younger sister, Maisie. I spoke to her one evening on the subject. “Aren’t you pleased that I’m going

fo be milady?” I asked, admiring my-self-in. the toilet-glass. “Pleased 1” My sister’s tone was expressive of the utmost scorn. “If you warik'iny opinion, Beryl, you shall have it.- B tuink you’ve behaved like a cad, nothing more or less 1” ' ' -7/ I/stared in amazemen* at Maisie.

“[Really, my dear,” I remarked oarelessly, |“your maimers are rather bucolic. Pray; what fault have- you to find with me? Sir John, ! assure you, is extremely fastidious; where he sees nothing to complain of, it’s* difficult to believe that you can.” “Sir John’s in love witli your face, Berl. Like poor Cyril Chester, I suppose, he can see nothing, but perfection in a straight .nose, large eyes, and a small mouth.” “And a passable complexion, golden hair ” * , Maisle interrupted me with a little stamp'. “I believe you have grown quite heartless, Beryl,” ■she cried. “Haven t you any pity for pool* Cyril? Just, think of the day in the Spring, when ho brought you that, great bunch of violets. You let him make 10-vo to you by the. hour. I believe” —ray sister’s eyes grew round, and she caught her breatn —“you let him kiss you!” ‘•‘l did,” I returned calmly; “several times.” “And you never meant it? Never intended' to keep the promise you made, him?" “What promise?” I stammered, fairly startled out of iny self-control. ‘Why, Maisio is it possible that you were listening outside the summerhouse? • “No.” she said shortly; “I was not. “Then, what possible knowledge can you havo as to what I have daid to Cyril or he to me?” Mv sister hesitated a little, and tried to avoid my gaze. “Well P” I said sternly. . “Cyril told me,” replied Maisie shamefacedly. “He was so happy, he oculd not keep it to liimself. Besides I promised I would remind you of him, and write how you were getting on.” “Play the part cf a spy, m short-? I said savagely. “Well, then, you can write to Cyril to-night, and lot linn know that I never wish bo-see his face again, that I dislike —no, hate—him, and that I am going to marry tho man I love best in all the world. Do hear me?” I added, as she stood lialfci*ving at the door. “I hate him!” And then, the door having shut safely behind her, I fell on my knees and cried my very heart out-possihly because I ■was about to many the man I laved best in the world! ■ Cyril Chester; os I knew full well, was cruising in the Mediterranean; so that, had 'I chosen, I couid as easily have written as Maisie.-- But, as sue had chosen to interfere, she muso piri up with the unpleasantness of breaking the intelligence to him. That,,at leas , was the excuse I gave my conscience for not sending off the letter myself. Meanwhile, the preparations tor my wedding wont' on apace. Sir John was an “impetuous wooer. He had won me in tho Spring, and was determined to wed me in the Autumn. “Not a minute after September, sweetheart!” he declared in lias masterful fashion. “Long enough to wait, i think—there’s still two months.” Two months! And in one month Cyril Cnester ' was expected home on leave, as I had learnt from Maisie. I gazed at Sir John as he lingered in the porch. Ho was taller, broaoer, bettor looking in every way than my fair-haired sailor laddie, and yet he could never make my heart beat.in the same tumultuous fashion as did Cyril. In the soft twilight of the dying day I crept nearer to the tall, straight " figure of my lover. “John,” I said wistfully, “do you really .love me?” “Love you! Why, child,. you cannot understand how much.” Ho crushed mo in-.his’arms, straining me closer, to his heart-, raining hot losses on my hair, my lips,my- throat. “Let me goM panted.' “Let me god With a last kiss ho dropped his arms, and left me: standing in the porch. I watched hiiix striding down t}io path, and instinctively compared lipn. cnce again with Cyril. Sir John • was rich, Cyril was poor. With the one X felt ill at eaeo, conscious of my defects;.!-with the other, I was a goddess, unable to do wrong. Last,'hut not- least, my bo-yish" sweetheart was ever ready to give way to me. Cyril would never havo kissed me against my will. Cyril—alas! I must no longer think of him save as a playfellow. WVhy, oh! why, was he poor; ox-, being so, why did I nob love poverty as I loved him? . That night I , dreamte-not of Cyril, ' but iof Sir John; and,- even stranger, ; in the dream-he seemed co-ld,. cohstrained, almost indifferent. Imagine John indifferent to me!” In my dr&am* woptti and, stretching '' ouh tods, ~ cai]||: lip;;him *' piteously: Jotyg- %gsm, come-back to _me 1” I xyoke .with a great start,. painVixi my. heart- 1 How foolish to be ! sad What though ray ; i°Ye£» had' tiirned-j^lifer l * was a dream. •: 'te. • And,..after all, it was. net I ;v loved, but Cyril. - V

- ? But "the remembrance of: my dream haunted me like the burden of a song, and all next day I waited anxiously for Jonn, and for once my heart ached for the sight of him. Said my father at (supper that evening : “Lady Mabel : Carr is staying at Longcourt; I met her this morning with John. Did he tell you she was coming down, Beryl?” I stammered out some vague reply, but felt. the blood rush to. my cheeks as iny father, gazed somewhat quizzically at me. “You mustn’t. give Sir John too many of your airs and graces, child.” lie said, “Remember, he is only mortal, and Lady Mabel, if report speaks true, is amiable as well as lovely. “And so she may bo for all I care!” I retorted.

But, all the same, I felt perturbed. Mbs Stephens adored her cousin, and it had long been her wish that he should marry Lady Mabel Carr —Lady Mabel, who was amiable a.s well as lovely. While I —l hastened to the glass. “A handsome spitfire!” my brother Tom had onco called me, and I tossed my head at- the description. What did it matter?- Was I not beautiful? Lady Mabel must have been sore put to it to preserve her boasted amiability of aspect, if I looked half as ~c rossly at her as 1 felt. It was the. occasion of a garden party at. Longcourt, and all the county were assembled in their best to talk scandal of each other, • drink tea, and backbite the world generally. 1 always hated the small section of Society known as “the county,” and now that I was so soon to he one of the. elect, as it were, I hated them wore© than ever. How I would snub that disagreeable Mrs ltd wards, with her perpetual smile and perennial black silk! In the old days, she had been wont to offer me two bony fingers by way of salutation; now, figuratively speaking, she shook hands ail over, consideration for her gown alone preventing her from physical abasement. But, all the same, none of them angered mo like Lady Mabel. I was putout from the moment I caught sight caller tall, slim figure, gowned in soft, white muslin, with a Gainsborough halt on her dusky hair and a great knot or roses in. her waistband.

John glanced quickly at my dross of palo green cashmere and back again to Lady Mabel. Instinctively, I felt the verdict was in her favour, and a flush of mo rtifi bat-ion dyed my cheeks.

“T think,” I said, with much deliberation and great malice, “that it is a mistake for people with putty-coloured skins to wear white. The comparison is so inevitable.” “Do you ?” he asked quickly. “Now, ,1 was 311st admiring Lady Mabel and thinking how well the dress became her, being dark.” -Lady Mabel,” said I, with freezing emphasis; “and who was alluding to her? I wars referring to Mrs Gwyn,” pointing to a comfortable-looking, welldeveloped female, habited, as is the custom of women of ample proportions, 111 the flimsiest of white cambric blouses. Sir John looked a trifle unbelieving, and after that conversation did not flourish. For my part, I was occupied in looking out for Cyril, who was to be present at the fete; and, presently, much to my delight, I saw him. “Cyril!” I called out impetuously. “You’re never going to pass me?” He flushed, gave a stiff how, and hesitated.

In an instant, I held out both my handsi dropping my sunshade in my eagerness. “Aren’t you pleased to see me?”

His lace changed. The look I knew so well flashed into his eyes—those sunny eyes—and, in another moment, wo were walking sido by side, as in the o-ld days long ago. Sir John had somehaw disappeared, where I did not know. “And. so you actually intended to take no notice of me? Pray, what have I done ?”

“Shall I tell you?” he retorted fiercely. “I can’t answer you in fine words or graceful speeches, Beryl. If you want the turtli, you must have it from me in an unpolished state.” “Don’t be cross,’ I whispered softly. “Cyril, dear Cyril !*’ And then he broke down utterly. I had been cruel, heartless ; I had flirted with, him outrageously; I had made him love me, care for me, far more than all the world beside.

Tlie wind was sighing among tho roses, the sun was shining in the summer sky, and I was young, heedless of all save the present. And he had been my first Sweetheart, the lover who, to my inexperienced eyes, had worn the guise of a fairy prince. After all what does life hold of rapture quite like a girls first .love? Where tjoes one find such trust, such faith, such utter and complete belief as hers in liimP I turned towards him flushing, and any eyes said all the rest. The rustling of a woman’s skirts recalled us to the present. “Cyril!” I cried,' horror-stricken, “that was Lady, Mabel.’Cyril laughed a little foolishly, I thought, and murmured something about “bad luck.”

/‘Cyril,”'l said quietly, “will you explain to my people: —01;'shall I?” “Explain?” Ho stammered, and looked blank#

“Explain that I havo discovered my mistake, and that, after all, I do not oare for John, but you?” Tho mere fact that I was able to express myself in such plain, straightforward language should have told me that, if I had made a mistake in believing that 1 loved John, 1 was about to commit a greater one with regard to Cyril. “Beryl 1”

(My lover’s face was expressive of many things, but the most fond and foolish damsel .could not have read delight therein. “1 don’t think you understand me. Possibly I did not make my meaning plain* Don’t you wish ”

An awful fear seized hold of me. “Uyril!” I screamed, “I believe you are engaged already I” “80 are you,” he I‘etorted sullenly, and fell to kicking the grass. 1 retained sufficient self-command to wait until I learnt the name of the girl who now possessed Ids heart. Then I turned towards him, literally choking with rage.

Unfortunately, he mistook my movement- for one of tenderness; otherwise I don’t think I should have acted as 1 did. He held otit both his hands as though to clasp my own. I stepped back quickly, and, m a fury, boxed his oars with till my force. Then I fled for dear life in the direction of tho Lodge. I must have time to think, to decide. I made some excuse about having torn iny dress, and the wife of the lodge-keeper brought me neodlo and thread, and, after a bit-, left me to myself. After a while, I grew a little quieter, and, leaning my head upon my arms 1 , tried tie think clearly. One course, and o,iie only, lay before me —I must toll John everything. Of course, he would break with me, but perhaps some day lie might come back to find a wiser, steadier, more lovable Beryl, and then

A sob broke from me. 1 was so sorry for myself.

A sound of voices coining towards tlie Lodge made me look up. It was Sir John and Lady Mabel. “Possibly,” said he, “Beryl felt tired and has gone iicuie. But, ill any case, we’ll inquire of Mrs Long if she’s seen her.” \ In my eagerness to hear’ her, I raised iny head above tlie level of the window-seat. Lady Mabel saw me, choked back an exclamation., and then, with a curious smile, turned to Sir John..

“T think I can explain her absence,” she said softly. “I should have told you before, only I can’t hear to hurt you, John. “I am afraid.” she went on more calmly, mat Beryl is not a good girl—not worthy of your love, your trust. No,” as lie turned fiercely upon her, “wait a moment. Let mo finish before you speak. I saw her this afternoon, tlie girl you aro about to marry, with Cyril Chester.” * "•Well ?”

‘tHe told her how passionately he loved her. And she” —Lady Mabel paused—“she put her arms about him, John, and kissed him many times.” Sir John drew a deep breath! then, with tnalfc charming smile of his,, he laid his hand on Mabel’s shoulder..

“Will you promise me something?” 110 asked; “that no one else shall hear of this?”

“If yon wish, John. But you won’t marry her now, shall you?” “Yes, if she will have me.”

I could see the anguish in her face, and somehow I felt I had no right to cause another woman—a better, far, than I —such, suffering. I sprang to my feet and ran into the sunshine, out to the little garden, sweet with old-fashioned flowers.

“It is all true, John,” I said. “I am a mean, deceitful girl. I promised to marry you because you were rich, but this afternoon, when I saw Cyril, I felt I could not go on with it. And then —•—” I paused. It was awful to add to the sum of my iniquity in the presence of Lady Mabel. Wi'cn a gesture, John stopped my confession.

“One question, Beryl,” he said gravely. “Answer me truly, whatever has been, do you, can you, love me now?” “It you will let me show you!” I cried. “If you will let me prove all that I think of pou. I never cared for Cyril, John; I realised it for the first that I think ,of you. I never oared for any main till now, now!” I stretched out my hands; lie caught them in. his own and held, me to him. And, with a wonderful happiness in my heart, jraised my face to his. Tho county still have much to say concerning me, but I never paid hoed ±0 gossip, and now it concerns me nab at all. I can afford to laugh, even when the vicar’s wife declares that, in marrying Sir John, I made a most mercenary match! But John and I know better I