Steben Lawrence, Yeoman. A STORY.

Otago Witness, Issue 851, 21 March 1868, Page 16

Steben Lawrence, Yeoman. A STORY.

SILVER AN3> BLUE.

By the Author of "Archie Loveli," &c.

A welcome respite : the solitary change Katharine ever got from Mrs Lawrence and Mrs Lawrence's associates : was during the forenoon— a time of day when she and the Squire were free to run about Paris after their own fashion, untroubled by the dress and talk and thousand-and-one monotonous frivolities of butterfly, Champs Elysees' life. Their only companion during these early walks was George Gordon, the "old dandy" who had first awakened Steven's jealousy in London, and whoso friendship, in the present sick state of Katharine's heart, was more than ever welcome to her. George Gordon talked on none of the themes to which, among Mr Clarendon "White and his fellows, she was forced, silently-indignant, to listen. With. George Gordon she could fool once more that she ■was with a man, her equal, not a popinjay. George Gordon belonged, too, to the past ; the girlish untroubled past, ■when she had believed herself to be happy in her engagement, . and when all the realities of life, the passionate pain, the restless fever of the last miserable months, ■were as yet unknown. With George Gordon, the Squire trotting on contentedly in front, Katharine could linger through the picture galleries and churches, or walk along through the crisp sunny morning air, and' almost forget that she was in Paris ; almost forget that Steven was at Mademoiselle Barry's side, and that she had not so much as the right to ' mourn over Ids lost allegiance.

One February morning, the day on ■which Lord Petres was expected to return, Mr Hilliard, wearied to death, in reality, of Paris and of sight-seeing, declared his intention of remaining at home by the fire to nurse his rheumatism, and Katharine and George Gordon went off alone to spend the forenoon, for the last time, among the pictures at the Louvre. "I hope papa means to get better by this evening," said Katharine, as they were sitting in their favorite rest-ing-place midway down the French gallery — for Miss Fane, I must confess, had no more appreciation of high art than Steven himself ; preferred, and owned she preferred, Greuze to either Michael Angelo or Titian. "Ifhe is not, you must be my chaperon, Captain Gordon. "We have got a box at the Chatelet, and as it will be almost my last Paris dissipation, I should be sorry to have to stay at home."

She was looking paler, more spiritless, even, than usual this morning ; and George Gordon scrutinized her face steadily. "The thing they are playing at the Chatelet is Cendrillon still. Nothing whatever to see in it but fireworks, ■upholstery, and milliners' work, with a hundred or a hundred-and-fifty exceptionally ugly Frenchwomen dressed as fairies. If Mr Hilliard's rheumatism gets worse, I can assure yon you may congratulate yourself on being allowed to stop quietly at home."

" But upholstery and milliners' work are what we like," said Katharine, "or at least what Dora Lawrence likes. She has seen Cendrillon twice before, and tells me it is the most beautiful thing was ever put on the stage."

" Dora Lawrence I—but1 — but if you go with her you will want neither Mr Hilliard nor me," said George Gordon. " Mrs Lawrence will chaperon you. For myself, I am really and truly engaged to dine with Petres, if he arrives."

" Mrs Lawrence ! oh, I never look upon poor little Dot in the light of a chaperone," said Katharine. "Most people," she added, with rather a faint smile, " would not be as anxious to decline the offer as you are, Captain Gordon."

Captain Gordon remained silent and meditative for more than a minute. " Miss Fane," he said then, "if I speak to you like an old friend — I've a right to do so, mind, in virtue of my great age and the length of time I have known you, and Petres too — I wonder whether you will forgive me ?" Katharine's eyes sank abashed. Instinctively she felt that some mention of Steven, and of Steven's iniquities, was coming. "You. know quite well I will not be offended," she said. "You know I shall be alway ready to hear whatever you think fit to tell me."

" Well, then, I will say it in three words. We have never spoken yet about that letter I wrote you— l'm afraid what I was forced to say in it gave you pain 1" " It gave me infinite pain," answered Katharine, without lifting her eyes from the ground. " And your coming to Paris was a little perhaps the result of what you heard. So much I have guessed. Well " " Oh, don't hesitate !" cried Katharine.

" Tell me in three words, please, as you promised." " Well, it's a pity you should be seen so much with Mrs Lawrence, then," said George Gordon, point-blank, i "A great pity. I ought to have had the courage to tell you so long ago." And now Katharine did look up ; her face all aglow with indignant surprise. " A pity I should be seen with Mrs Lawrence — with my cousin 1 You are prejudiced ; you never, in your heart, liked poor little Dot, or you would not speak like this."

"I believe I am the least prejudiced man living," said, George Gordon, in his gentle voice ; " still, I hold it a pity that you should help, or be thought to help, on the intimacy between your cousin aud a man like Clarendon Whyte. These things happen every day, of course. Mrs Lawrence is a very pretty little woman, and a very nice h'ttle woman — I have not a word to say against her — and her husband, like a man of sense, reconciles himself to his position. What I do say is, that 'tis a pity Katharine Fane's name should be mentioned in connection with i the Lawrence household. If Petres was \in Paris he would tell you the same. There are a few women — just a very few in the world — whose names deserve never to be so much as breathed upon, and I hold you to be one of them, you know."

" And I hold that the world is a cruel and an unjust world !" exclaimed Katharine. "You have spoken plainly, so will I. Your letter was the cause that brought us to Paris, and we found— found " But her voice broke down, died, when she would have forced it to speak a condemning word of Steven. "You found Mrs Lawrence enjoying herself immensely, engaged to three balls a night, half the young men in Paris wild about her, Mr Clarendon Whyte her inseparable companion, and resolved ''

" I found my cousin less happy than I would have liked to find her in her own home," interrupted Katharine, coldly, " and I intend to be seen with her, to be intimate with her, always. Let the world say its worst — I can bear it ! What does the world know of the sorrows we women have to endure, silently, in our own hearts ? Dora is like a child !as fond of pretty dresses and dancing as a girl of fifteen. Her life, when she returns to England, will have few enough pleasures in it — poor little thing ! and I am glad, yes, Captain Gordon, glad to see her make the most of any poor amusement she can get now. She needs something more than her own home can give her, heaven knows !" 'And even while she says this, with flushing cheeks, with kindling eyes, in her inmost heart Katharine know* every word she utters is uttered against her own conscience, and stops short.

" And why (more than all other women, that is to say) does Mrs Lawrence need amusement that her own home cannot give her?" George Gordon asked. "Don't be angry with me ; this is the last disagreeable thing I shall say ; but why — for you are always logical, Miss Fane — why, married to as good a fellow as Lawrence — Petres told me all about him — is your cousin to be so deeply pitied ?"

" I think you spoke of Steven Lawrence in a very different strain when you wrote to me," cried Katharine, reddening. ' ' Pray is he icoing through his apprenticeship to Lansquenet and baccarat still ? The subjects of each other's failings is one on Avhich I will allow that men have fullest right always to be heard."

But of Steven, Captain Gordon could tell no more than he had already told in his letter. Mrs Lawrence, the beautiful little Mrs Lawrence, "la Bebe Anglaise," as she was called — gilded Parisian youth fixing on the same name for her that she had gone by sixteen years before in the Faubourg St. Marceau — was a theme on which half the clubs of Paris talked — in a certain strain. The companions, the actions, the existence of the Bebe's husband, were details, naturally, of supremest importance to everyone. Captain Gordon had. heard accidentally that Steven Lawrence spent his time among a set of men where, sooner or later, spoliation was certain ; but what of this ? Most men had to pay pretty dearly for their first introduction to Parisian play. It might be a good thing for a simple kind of fellow like Dora Lawrence's husband to be well fleeced now ; would teach him, at least, the wisdom of playing with men of whose character he knew something for the remainder of his life.

' ' If Dora Lawrence's husband were only the simple kind of fellow that you think !" cried Katharine. " Unfortunately he is not, and for a man such as Steven Lawrence is, 1 would not have much faith in the good that was to be attained through doubtful associates and lansquenet. But come away," she interrupted herself, rising hastily, " and let us look at the pictures — a far pleasanter spectacle than the lives of men and women living in this work-day world ! It was right of you, no doubt, to say what you said, and I ... must just do all I can to take care of poor little Dot now. We

have each of us our own burthen to carry, you know — our own burthen 1" And, with her face wearing a more spiritless look even than before, she put her hand under George' Gordon's arm, then walked away silently at his side.

Greuze and Wat beau, as usual, were the favorites with the crowd of patient female copyists in the Louvre. Almost with a feeling of envy Katharine looked at these women as she walked along. That briskeyed, grey-haired old Frenchwoman en amellingthe " Cruche-Cassile," on porcelain, with such Chinese fidelity of touch ; that slim young girl standing, in her linen blouse, bofore the easel where the exquisite faces of the cottage bride and her sister were growing into life under her brush. How peaceful the existence of these artist-women must be, shut away in this quiet gallery from the glare, and noise, and tronUe of the outer world ! What care cmild they know, save over the drying of paint or varnish 1 what despair but the momentary artist despair of emulating some turn of lip or eyebrow in their models ? And, even as she thought this, the girl whom she was watching looked round (showing a face with beauty beyond that of line or coloring, on the delicate, broad forehead, the serious, sensitive lips), and Katharine saw, with a sudden start, a tall man's figure upon her other side. It was Steven, and this was Mademoiselle Barry. No need for Katharine Fane to be told her name ! This woman, whom a moment ago she had ignorantly envied, this girl-artist, shut cut from the noise and trouble of the outer world, wasM. Barry's daughter ; the clever adventuress who was "educating" Steven ; holding captive, not his senses alone, but his intelligence, as she, with her shallow gift of beauty, had not done in t"ae fairest days of their shortlived friendship ! M. Barry was with them of course — no mother was evermore scrupulously watchful than this Irish adventurer over his girl — but him Katharine never saw. With her hand pressed closer on her companion's arm, she walked quickly by, giving a cold, half-bow to Dora's husband as she passed ; then turning to George Gordon, began to smile and whisper with him jxist as she had done on that night when the poor backwoodsman learnt his first bitter lesson in civilisation at the opera. " That was Steven Lawrence himself — don't you remember seeing him in our box at Co vent Garden, before he was engaged to Dot ? He has such singular acquaintance that I never know whether I ought to speak to him or not. If it had not been for the person who was painting, I would have liked to -Lake one last look at the village sisters before bidding them good-bye. "

And she turned : met Steven's eyes looking after her with the look she knew so well, and felt, with sudden repentant revulsion, that all his misdeeds were condoned on the spot ! Must not any man of sober sense choose to spend his time thus, rather than amidst the parade and glitter, the dressing and driving, of the Champs Elysees ? Might not Steven Lawrence find greater profit in Mademoiselle Barry's society than in that of Grizelda Long and Clarendon Whyte, yet be guiltless of infidelity to Dora ? If she, Katharine, held out her hand, could she not at this moment save him from the Banys— from every dangerous influence in the world ? And was it not a duty (quick as thought itself came this impulse, now that she had seen the enemy face to face) that she should, at least, make an effort towards his salvation 1 Pride, doubtless, forbade that she should stoop so far — but what mattered pride ? This Moloch, before whom she had already sacrificed so much ; this Moloch, but for whose senseless worship she might now, instead of looking forward to a starved, a barren future, be leading the wholesome country life for which nature had fitted her : her hands full of work, her heart of love ; finding pleasure, not in Parisian toilettes, but in the seed-time and the harvest, the summer's blossoming and the autumn's fading ; in all the commonest sweetest joys of human life, and with the man who loved her, whose character, whatever it lacked of outward polish or fine-breeding, suited hers so utterly, at her side !

She walked through the remainder of the Louvre and home to the Hotel Pdvoli in silence that must have offended any one less devoid of personal vanity than George Gordon. Then — the Squire still happy over his rheumatism — started to pay her daily visit to Dora. "I have been thinking all this time over what you told me," she said, as Captain Gordon was leaving her at the door of the Lawrences' apartment — the moenad having signified, after slight hesitation, that Madame might be visible for Mademoiselle ; "so you must not wonder at my being such a stupid companion. If you see Lord Petres this evening say I wish very much to speak to him, also," — with a tremble ot the voice, this — "that I am well, and have been enjoying myself in Paris."

Early though it -was, Mrs Lawrence already had a visitor— Miss Grizelda Long. A mass of sky-blue silk, silver cord, and white satin, hastily pushed aside on Katharine's entrance, was lying before the two women on the table. "And now I may go away!" said Grizelda, with playful affectation of jealousy, as Dot jumped up to receive her cousin : the old feeling of mutual repulsion between Katharine and the Phantom had in nowise lessened of Late. " I suppose, Dora love, we may safely say that everything i 3 settled now ?" •

" I suppose so," said Dora, brusquely : " but if you come to-morrow morning you'll know for certain." Then she follower! her friend to the door, exchanged a whisper or two with\ her at parting, and coming back, seated herself, with a little wi'll-auted yawn of weariness, beside Karh; ri to.

"Tn.it good, ca-^er, tiring oM Phantom ! Wh it ,\ hi.irtyr I am to her ! What a tor.-il.ly long ell creatures of her species do take when you have once given them an inch ! Why didn't Uncle Frank come? Is Lord Petres really expected? What makes you so early to-day ?" Mrs Lawrence was not thoroughly at her ease, and Katharine noticed it. " Papa is laid up with rheumatism, Lord Petres is really expected, and I came early because 1 have something especial to say to you. What is all this new finery that you and Miss Long were so intent upon, bliie silk and silver, and white satin jacket . . . waistcoat . . . what is it? Dora, is this a costume for the Phantom or for you ?"

"For neither," cried Dora, promptly ; and as she spoke she rose, opened the door leading to her bedroom, and consigned the whole heap of millinery into the hands of Mademoiselle Aglae. ' ' There is to be a fancy ball, for charity, and Grizelda, who of course takes a paot in everything, is getting me to help about some of the costumes. It was of this ball she was speaking, with her usual absurd air of mystery, when you came in. Poor dear Grizelda ! I hope when I get to her age I shall have done with all these tiring pomps and vanities '" Dora threw b erself down again in her arm-chair, and clasped her hands solemnly. "I've had just seven weeks of it all now, and I assure you, honestly, I'm tired of my life and everything in it — myself most — and am quite, quite ready to go back with you and Uncle Frank to England." " I am glad to hear you say so," said Miss Fane. "It was precisely about this I wanted to speak to you. You must come back to England with us, Dot ; I will get papa to wait another day or .two, if you choose, and while you are here do try and make Steven go about with you, and don't be seen any more with Mr Clarendon Whyte. I know, from authority I can't doubt, that your intimacy with him is — is talked about." Having said which, Katharine held down her head, and blushed as furiously as if she herself had been guilty. "We discussed all this once before," said Dot, calmly ;— " don't think me rude, Kate, I can't help yawning to-day — and I think I told you the exact light in which I regarded Clarendon Whyte and his friendship. Who is your authority? What can even the most malicious person find to say of me ? Why, during the last week I have never been seen at all, except with you. As to making Steven go about with me more "

" Have you tried it 1 Have you done your best to persuade him ?" cried Katharine, as Mrs Lawrence hesitated, and shook her head wisely. "I asked him this morning, Kate — woke early on purpose to speak to him before he went out — and asked him to go with us to the theatre to-night (I was afraid, from the way Uncle Frank complained yesterday, lie might be laid up), and, Katharine my dear, imagine what he answered ! He had already promised — strange coincidence ! to go to the Chatelet to-night with M. Barry and his daughter, but would come round to my box during the evening. We had already had separate engagements so long that I must not be offended at his refusal. After the kindness he had received from the Barrys he could not think of breaking his word to them at the last. Now, shall we give up going !" said Dot, plaintively. " Wouldn't it be better to stay quietly at home, for me to spend the evening with you and Uncle Frank, than be placed in such a humiliating position as this ?" "lam not quite sure that the position is humiliating," was Katharine's answer. " I have been considering a great deal about all this, Dora, and the conclusion I come .to is, that both you and I have judged Steven too harshly. You told me the world had only one opinion of his intimacy with Mademoiselle Barry; it seems that the world has never troubled itself about their intimacy at all ! And I have seen her — I saw her with Steven in the Louvre not an hour ago — and " the words went sorely against her heart to speak, but she brought them out steadily, generously, " she looks a quiet }

simple, little English, gjoi— not as;ftll like the designing adventuress "we have said such bitter things about. * Thia much, at all events, I know, Steven would never •ome to your -box. from Miss Barry's unless he felt that for^ him to do so could be no humiliation to you."

" Well — well — perhaps aye had better go, then," said Mrs Lawrence, after narrowly watching the expression of her cousin's face. " Perhaps a woman always does make the best of a bad position by accepting, or seeming to accept it, quietly. Only one favor I must ask of you, Kate— if we go — if, that is to say, you have a chance- of talking to Steven — warn the poor foolish fellow about the position he stands in, make him promise if you can (alas ! you would have more influence with him than I should) to return home at once, with or without me, as ho chooses. Will you do this, Kate, for my sake ?"

" 1 will speak to Steven, certainly, if he gives me a chance of speaking to him," said Katharine, rather hesitatingly. "But I don't know why I should ask him to go away from Paris. .What possible necessity can there bo for him to leave before we all go ? Lord Petres will be here to-night, Steven always gets on well with him, and "

"And if I tell you that there is every reason for him to leave at once ! If I tell you that his honor may be saved that way, and that way only !" exclaimed Mrs Lawrence. " I have been told to-day — ah ! how shall I put it into words ? — that people begin to say Steven Lawrence does not lose, perhaps, because he and M. Barry understand each other so well ! Charlie Wentworth of the Blues— not left Eton a year, poor child — has lost near upon a thousand pounds at the Barrys' house in the last two nights. Did your friend, who knows so much of Paris news, tell you that ? And they say the police are getting scent of it, and any night they may be all seized — Steven and everybody. Who shall tell whether as victims or accomplices ?" Mrs Lawrence's lips quivered with emotion.

" And who says tins ?" cried Katharine, after a minute's silence, broken only by the voices of Mademoiselle Aglae and the Mcenad babbling and shrieking, as Frenchwomen would shriek- and babble upon the brink of doom, in the other room. " Who that knows Steven Lawrence makes this monstrous assertion, and dares repeat it to you 1"

" The person who repeated it was Grizelda Long. (You do not give me your authority for the cruel things that were said of me, but I can guess it," cried Dora, kindling. " George Gordon never loved me. Pity he's not at his favorite amusement, fighting with men, instead of slaying the reputation of helpless, innocent women !) Grizelda Long — and in this she acted as a friend — told me this dreadful story about Charlie Wonfworth and the Avay poor Steven is bein^ spoken of, and everything. You promised once to be my fiiend whatever happened, Kate ! Hold by that promise now. Don't believe a word that cruel tongues find t© say against me, and — and get Steven away from Paris, and from the Barrys* influence." And Dot covered up her face between her hands and wtpt. I have said before that, following the dictates of such narrow visdom as she possessed, Mrs Lawrence seldom trenched further than was necessary upon absolute falsehood. If the moving of heaven and earth could get Steven out of Paris before next Thursday — only two days hence — Dora would do her best that heaven and earth should be moved. And Grizelda Long had really told her the stoiy, units only multiplied by tens, of Charlie Wentworth's losses ; Grizelda, with her usual readiness in aught that affected the sapping of a man's character, had, out of her own phantom consciousness, evoked the world's probable opinion of Steven for not being ruined ! Finally, rather that her story should have artistic finish than because facts authorised the statement, Grizelda had hinted at the likelihood of M. Barry and his friends being eventually seized by the police. All that Dot said had truth in it — leavened by just the necessary admixture of falsehood. And she was* sorry m her heart that she need enlist falsehood on her side at all ; sorry that she ws forced to play a double part towards Katharine, whom she loved, towards Steven whom she half feared, half reverenced, wholly pitied ! If he had been a tritie less bi-oted, could only have bt en brought to see th; t the silver and blue, on the authority of L idy Sar.ih Adair, might be worn by a decent Christian matron, all this had 1 een spared her. Still, the silver and blue tnu>t be worn. That crowning necessity submerged all smaller mobilities as to. "means in Dot's conscience. The silver and blue must be worn ; to wear it Steven must be sent away out of Paris, and the influence to send him thence was Katharine's. And in a few more days all would be over, she thought — a fresh tinge of remoise seizing her as she watched the quivering pain on Katharine's face, heard her falter out promises to do her utmost in turning

aside this threatened shame from Steven.* And sitting by the dull fireside at Ashcot she would have the delights of a crowning Parisian success -to " think over '; ' gnd Steven and Katharine be none the worse for the little white lies into which circumstances had driven her for its attainment.

No thought whatever of Mr Clarendon Whyte filled Dot's soul ; no human passion, innocent or guilty; nothing but passion for the blue silk and silver c6rd in which her last Success was to be won. Unhappily, blue silk and silver cord can, on occasion, be quite as strong a motive power for evil as was ever the love of Cleopatra or of Helen. Stronger, perhaps, in the present great millinery epoch of the world !

(To be continued. )