LORD PENDRYN'S DAUGHTER.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXVII, Issue 5372, 3 September 1904, Page 2

LORD PENDRYN'S DAUGHTER.

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THE SHADOW OF A SIN. BY HANNAH B. MACKENZIE. Author of ‘‘The Web of Fate,” " Twixt Moor r ‘cl Mountain," “After Touch of Wedded Hands,” etc. CHAPTER VII. (Continued.) “Is she at Pendryn Castle just, now?” •‘i'es—and likely to bo for some time. She is laid up with a, sprain. But why do you ask, may I know ? Are you acquainted with her?” -No oh, no!” said Danvers with a little bitter laugh. “How should tv poor dor —I beg pardon, Miss Lawrence—a poor scamp like me presume to know Lady C lara Montague? I have heard of her in London, though; she is a society queen, bur one of tho cold and stately kind, I believe. Proud, possibly; is she, Lawrence F” , “Possibly,” rejoined the other rather coldly ; he-did not like the artist’s tone. “Will you play us something else?” Danvers dashed into a brilliant bravura, without pursuing the subject, and played .on recklessly for some tune. When he finished, and rose from the instrument. it was to find his way to Gwen’s side. She was, still sitting by the window, looking out with great sad eye j upon the ocean, sinking now into the calm blackness of night. She started a little as he came to her side, and. with, a quick movement, seemed to draw herself farther from him. “Are you weary?” he asked in a low tone—that low soft tone \Vhich seemed to enter the girl’s very soul. ' “Of your ploying?—no,” she answered, looking up; and he saw that there were team in the sweet eyes. "I wish I had the gift you have? X wisli I had some gift! lam such a silly, weak, ignorant girl!” , ■ -

Tho words-hurst out from, her as if she had no power to keep thorn (back. No oho heard them but. him. Dr Mark, had gone to tho fire, which, though it was only September, was always lit at Vender in the evening; loaning back lazily in his arm-ohair there, lie was paying no attention to the other two. Ho felt ho had done his duty in bringing Danvers 'to his house, both to his sister and himself; he could trust Gwen for the rest.

Cecil t nmed from her for a moment, looking out seawards. " ; “Why do you wish that?” he asked presently turning to her again. ■''Because my life seems so weak and small and worthless,” said Gwen, sadly. "Yon don’t know how hedged in it has been—always in this wild plaoa with only tho ocean, and rocks, and sea-gulls; and what can I do to make it beautiful' for myself' or others ? If I were clever —a, poet, or' a musician——, “Thank.,.God yon are not, child !” said Danvers, with sudden earnestness. “Yon are far better, far purer, far happier as yon aro. A clever womart is generally tho saddest, or the worst, creature oni God’s earth.” : “Ah, blit I. know so Ift fieri—you don’t know how little!” sho. said, piteously. “I hare no one!to speak to—oniy Mark —dear old Mark!” sho added, with sweet compunction, looking towards tho figure by the firelight; ' , “And ; me—fo keep from evflj child I” said her companion, suddenly, laying a hand on the pretty bowed head. There was a long, long silence after that. . Danvers took tho empty seat’beside her, -and for a while tho two sat looking out on tho waste of waters before them. Tho shadows crept lower, lower, and, .spread broader and broader; .hiding Miu-k'.s figure, and the familiar background of the room,'hiding all but their own faces—Gwen's fair one, with' the deep, dreamy eyes and golden hair, Cecil’s dark and almost femininely 'beautiful. - And . tho "two, drawn, thus close for the time, might have been alone in tho room—alono .in- tho world almost—for any disturbing, sound. “it is growing dark,” Gwen.said presently, almost whispering, “and it. is so -solitary-looking out there! Will, yon ring for lights.” ' . : “Not. just for ono minute,” he answered. speaking hurriedly for him. “Do ■you feel lonely sometimes, Gwen? what must I feel then ?” ' She gave a, startled look into Ills faoo. Ha had: never-’culled 1 her by, her Christian mime before. , . “Am I- tragic?” ho-laughed, the next moment. “Do you ;know I sometimes fee! like tho' Ancient, Mariner. . ‘alone, alone, all, : all alone V It’s a miserable world; alter, all, where. wo always miss in life the-best gifts—the best, Miss Lawrenoo—arid ’ lose our energies', in chasing pliariforiis. But—Gwen—only tins. once let' nits call yon by that name 1 —will yon promise to think ot> mo—ns your friend, and let me not feel 'there is no ono in this wide world who can take pity upon ‘my soul in misery.?’ ” His arm was close to her—-so close t.nat ho might feel the wild throbbing of : that fluttering little heart, beating/ like n captive bird’s, at the'touch of its captor! ... ,; ■ ■ ■ : “If there is anythin- in your, life that eall.i lor pity,” she said, geVitly at last, then yon have mine. But I hope you do not need it. I hope that your life may be a, happy, pne, if it has not been so m the past. I hope earnestly, as I would hope for, myself, that there is sunshine in store for yon.” Sunshine in store, for liim.or for her? alas! poor little Gwen ! CHAPTER VIII. A STRANGE MEETING. “I should like to see your sister soma day,” said Lady Clare. She was • half-sitting, half-reclining on a. conch in hoi- own bright little sitt-ing-room, where an Immense fire was burning cheerfully in the grate. . The month was now chilly October, and fires had Ibecome. a necessity at Pendryn. Four weeks had passed since tho Earl had gone up to London, taking with him an immense retinue of the Pendryn servants; and Clare Montague was still tied to her couch and attended regularly by Dr Lawrence. It was to hijri slio was speaking now, as he sat beside her, looking very much at homo and very,much as if he had no particularly urgent business calling him elsewhere. A little in the background sat

i li'i stern Medusa Lady Sybil, who soomrd to think oils of .the duties of her life was to play propriety to her sister’s daughter, proud Lady Clare. .“Should you ?” asked Dr Lawrence quickly. Cline fancied there was a momentary llush on the grave, colourless face, but it‘passed so rapidly that, tho next moment .she decided it had been imagination. “I think I can -say for Gwen that sho would like it equally, Lady Clare.’'

“And is there no possibility of our' wish being gratified?” sho asked, lookl ing up with brightening eyes. "Now. toll me. Dr Lawrence, how much longer you are going to keep me chained to this couch.” “Ton know yon are not. literally chained to your couch,” retorted Dr Mark; ‘‘you have been up several times, but your anklo does not seem to have gathered much strength. I believe you requite the fresh air though. X don’t think I shall place my veto on a drive to - Pender at tho end of the week—if you will so far honour us, Lady Clare.” There was a little of tho old ceremonious remembering of 'their' different positions in his la-st words which sounded unpleasantly in Lady Clares cars after the frank, open, friendly intercourse of the past) month. It had been frank and friendly to a degree that none who knew ( taro Montague’s proud reticence would have believed. Mark Lawrence, coming two, or three times a week t o the cast leu had, -almost iii pity for the lonely girl who had no one to speak to hut tho elderly duenna who guarded her, fallen into the hn'bit; of extending his visits to a,n unconscionable length of time, and rendering them more of the. character of friendly, than professional calls. He brought books, of which there.seemed to be..a dearth at tho, castle; and Clare road them with a double interest, because I Dr Mark usually told her his favourites beforehand, and sho had a strange feeling of curiosity to find out if. her tastes and his wore alike. They .talked, bat on general subjects; on everything' relating to herself, Clare preserved her old reserve. Arid it never occurred to Mark Lawrence that their pleasant intercourse; coming into the girl’s .solitary, life like a gleam ,of sunshino across a dreary pathway, could contain any danger Ifor her; he never forgot, ‘ if she did, the barrier between them. Sho now looked at him reproachfully. “Yon speak if the favour were not on my side, Di‘ Lawrence. Do you not know how lonely my life at the, castle is?” i “It will soon ho over now,” said Mark, slowly. “You will have tho gaieties ot p London season to look forward to soon.” “I don’t think I shall go to London,” said Lady Clare. “I inn tired of London seasons, X am tired of everything, and of life itself, I think, Ur Lawrence.” "It 1 were your guardian, I should take -oaro’ to rid you of that ennui,” said Dr .Mark. Then ho paused 'suddenly, i wondering what he: had said, for the creamy white of Clare’s face had flushed into a vivid crimson. “If you were , my guardian, I : daresay many things would bo changed 'for me,” she answered, after a pause, in an unconsciously subdued voiob. In his anxiety to escape from criticising his own thoughtless words, Mark said irrelevantly—•‘But you are your own guardian, Lady Clare. No one controls your ao- ! tions; .you are n freo, agent.” “Am TP” she asked bitterly. ‘‘What do you Call a free agent ? Is'it one who :« hampered everywhere,' and in everything by conditions that cannot be ful-filled?-who can neither' move nor .speak without- tho will of another? who is compelled to submission, because' rchsllipn would bo worse* than useless? who lives in constant.fear of something' worse than control? Is that what you oi.il a free agent? ; : 1 "Good heavens!” cried Mark, in startled surprise, “yon are not tiilkipg of yourself, Lady Clare?” '“Oh, no'; why should IP” she‘asked, with a peculiar snide. “My guardian “i everything that could bo desired, is ha not P. Else surely I should have ended it long ago by tho only means of escape left for me—tho convent;” . ' , “Tell me,” .said Mark, moved by tho look on-, that .young face,“can I doi nothing to help yon ? You know, to do so would bo”—- he paused,: seeking for his words, lest by any means ho might 'say what afterwards be should repdnti—“a very great pleasure to me, Lady Clare.” “How can I tcll,”sho answered,"without looking at.iiim, “if you are in earnest—if'you are really my friend?” i (To be Continued.) - r