THE BLUE ROSETTE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3475, 19 October 1920, Page 46

THE BLUE ROSETTE.

THE NOVELIST.

(Published be Special Ahhancemewt.]

• o By Gerix Dane. Author of “Lord Lorrimer’s Legacy," “The Mystery of Hazel Wood,” “A Daughter of Eve,” “The Wooing of Winifred,” etc., etc. [Coxtright.] SYNOPIS OP PREVIOUS CH^ACTERS. CHAPTERS I andi ll.—The narrator, Goinor Ronayne, settles to write her story. She has been six weeks in London. She was Australian born and bred, but had brought her invalid mother to London to consult a specialist. Her mother is now dead, and she has accepted a situation in Russia as governess. Her friends, the Corringtons, are going back to Australia and are to leave London the same evening as herself. She arranges to meet Mr Oorrington in front of the Broropton Oratory, and arrives there 15 minutes too soon. A. dense London fog falls. A motor draws up, andi Mr Oorrington says in a low voice: “Is that you, Geinor?” She gets into the car, and they drive off. She falls asleep. She awakens to hear a heavy iron gate being opened. Then they move on. When they draw up again she notices they are in an avenue of dark trees. Mr Oorrington says i “Hurry up, Geinor.” She alights to find the man is not Mr Oorrington, but a stranger. He is equally astonished to see a woman instead of his man-servant, Gayner. She helps the stranger to carry a sick man wrapped in a nig into the house by walking before and holding one of the motor lamps. The form is placed on a couch in the first room on the right. A sudden fear seizes Geinor that the man is dead. She rushes away up two flights of stairs and into a room known as the oak-room. There she slams the ,d : oor and shoots two bolts. The man is left shouting outside. Geinor faints, and when she recovers she notices an oil-painting of a woman in a Gainsborough hat with a face the duplicate of her own. Finding herself a prisoner in this gloomy shuttered house, Geinor goes to look at the face of the corpse lying on the couch. She draws from the clenched hand of the dead man a blue chiffon rosette. CHAPTERS 111 & IV.—Geinor Ronayne takes possession of the blue rosette. She escapes from the house through a window, but in her jump and sprains her ankle. She binds it with her sash, and trudges on through the snow for hours. At length she collapses and sinks into unconsciousness. When she comes to herself she is lying in bed in a luxurious bedroom. For days she is ill. Dr Barty tells her she is staying at the country seat belonging to Sir Jocelyn Illverston. It was his sister, Lady Des Barres, who rescued her. Lady Illverston spends most of her time in London. There is one eon, a little cripple boy. Geinor tells Lady Des Barres her story, but omits to mention the strange house and the corpse. When she gives her father’s name as Patrick Barrymore Ronayne, Lady Des Barres tells her that she and Geinor’s father were sweethearts in the long ago. , CHAPTER, IV (Continued). From this time on my convalescence was steady though tedious. One day when I was feeling better than usual, a soft tapping came at my door. I said, “Come in.” The door opened, and there entered the strangest little figure. I knew at once who it was. He was on crutches, and the poor little spine was curved. He had a curiously old-young face, which bore upon it the unmistakable imprint of suffering. He stood shyly by the door, looking at me with grave, wistful, brown eyes. “Why, you must be Stevie!” I said. “Do come in. I’m. so glad to see you. I was hoping this morning that you would pay me a visit.” tie flushed with pleasure and smiled—a lovely radiant smile which transformed the wiiole .face., He closed the door very gently, and hobbled slowly towards me on his crutches. I saw his legs were deformed and almost useless. My heart went out to the poor little creature. I thought of what Lady Des Barres had said one day: “His father worships him. I tremble to think how my brother would bear the loss of that child—and it must come—it must come!” “Will you sit on my bed, Stevie?” I said. “I will give you a couple of pillows to make you comfortable.”

"Thank you very much," he replied, with grave courtesy, "then I can sit at the end of your bed a.nd look at you—that is," he added hastily, "if you don't mind being looked at." "No, I don't mind at all."

He climbed up on to the bed. I handed him down two pillows, which he arranged for himself, and, leaning back, gave a deeD sigh of relief. "I hate being looked at," he went on. "Sometimes people stare and stare at me —strangers, you know, —and I don't like it at all; but Daddy says I must not mind, because it is only rude people who do it. That is whv I do not care very much for strangers." "Yes, Stevie," I said, "I can quite understand that."

"But I don't mean you," he continued earnestly, "because you know you are not really a stranger. Sometimes I have peeped in at you -when the door was open. Aunt Consie said I might, if I was careful not to let you see me. I was careful, and you never saw me, did you?" "No," I smiled. "I never saw you; I wish I had."

"Oh, no, it wouldn't have done at all," he protested with much earnestness. "Doctor Barty said you were on no account to be disturbed."

"Oh, well! That is all over now," I declared cheerfully. "I shall soon be quite well and strong again, and I hope you will come to see me every day." "1 should like to come twice a day, if you don't mind —if it won't 'noy you." "Annoy me! Why, Stevie, I shall be delighted. - Somehow, I have an idea that

you and I are going to be great friends, real pals, you know!" He smiled at me—that exquisite smile. "How very nice of you," he murmured, evidently deeply gratified. "Daddy says that I make the very best pal in the world. I think you would make a good one, too. Do you think you would like to have daddy for a pal?" This required thought. "Why, yes," I replied, after a moment's reflection, "but, you see, your daddy 's a very busy person, and I don't expect he would have much time for me."

"Oh, ye 3, he would," he returned, with conviction. "You are so pretty, he would like to sit and look at you." This was embarrassing. "Oh no, Stevie!" I said hastily. "I am not very pretty ; and besides, you know, being pretty doesn't matter, as long as you are good." I thought thi3 was an opportune moment for the utterance of this lofty sentiment. "Perhaps not, " he said doubtfully, "but Aunt Consie thinks that being pretty matters a lot. I heard her say to Uncle John last week, 'You men are all alike; the sight of a pretty face, and your heads are turned; it's disgusting, that's what it is, disgusting.' I think she was talking about my Mummy, because you know my Mummy is the loveliest lady in the world. You have never seen my Mummy, have you?" 'No," I replied, "I have never seen her." "Would you like to see her picture?" he asked eagerly. "I will go and get A, for you; I have it on my dressing table." He began eliding off the bed. "Never mind now, Stevie," I said; but he was off, hobbling rapidly away. It was wonderful to see the rate at which the little fellow could travel. He returned presently with a photograph in a leather frame. Clambering up on to the bed, he handed it to me. "Isn't she a beautiful lady?" he asked anxiously, watching me as he spoke. She undoubtedly was. ' The face was an exquisite oval, the eyes very large and dark with level brows, nose rather short and beautifully chiselled, the mouth was small but the lips.were too full. -She had a mass of black hair, waving back from the forehead. She was undeniably beautiful, and yet the face did not attract me, and seemed in some curious way familiar. I had seen it before, somewhere, or else some one extraordinarily like it. But where ? "You haven't said if you think she is beautiful," exclaimed Stevie, a little impatiently. "Why yes, dear," I replied quickly, "I think she is very lovely, and no wonder you are so proud of her." He sighed. "I do wish she would live here with us at Illverston. But she can't, you know, she is so very, very busy in London; and she simply can't be spared. She comes down two or three times a year and stays a little- while." . "Don't you ever go to London, Stevie?" 'l've only been twice," he replied sadly. "Daddy doesn't take me now. He says it makes me too tired, and it does, too. Daddy hardly ever goes to London; he doesn't like leaving me, you know." "No, my dear,' I said gently, "I shouldn't think he would. He would feel lonely without his little pal." The child's face brightened. "That's just what Daddy says. Fancy you guessing! Would you please tell me what your name is?" "Geinor Ronayne," I replied. "Geinor," he repeated meditatively, "I think that is a pretty name. May I call you Geinor?' "Yes, my dear, I would love you to call me Geinor." Just then the door opened, and ..Lady Des Barres entered "Ah Stevie!" she said. "Making friends with Miss Ronayne?" Lady Des Barres laughed. "You haven't lost much time. Now, my dear, you must run away; Dr Barty is coming." He clambered down obediently. "Will vou give me my Mummy's picture?" he asked. As I handed it to him, I saw the expression on Lady Des Barres' face as she recognised the photograph. It was not a pleasant or a friendly expression. "Good-bye, Stevie," I said, " and come and see me as often as ever you like." "Thank you very, very much. I hope I haven't tired you. Daddy says lamto be sure not to tire you." He turned at the door, and smiled at me—a quaint, little bowed figure, infinitely pathetic. I felt a queer choking sensation in my throat. I smiled back at him; he closed the door and was gone. CHAPTER V. The day following, Dr Barty gave me permission to leave my room. I went into Ladv Des Barres' sitting room and lay all day on a lounge near the fire. In the afternoon I met Sir Jocelyn liverston for the first time. He came is with his sister. "I have brought my brother in, Miss Ronayne," she said, " to have tea with us, and Stevie is also coming. Jocelyn this is Miss Ronayne, who has made a complete conquest of your son's heart.". Sir Jocelyn smiled as he shook hands. I knew at once whence Stephen had got his charming smile. "It's a great compliment, Miss Ronayne. Stevie is most reserved, and like most reserved people, he is very faithful." "H'm!" said Lady Des Barres. "More's the pity, sometimes." 'Not in this case, I am sure, Consuela," said Sir Jocelyn, with slightly raised eyebrows. Before she could reply Stevie came in. Hobbling quickly to his father, he climbed on his knee. "Daddy," he said, "Aunt Consie says Geinor's eyes are just the colour of a lobelia floWer. Do you think they are?" Sir Jocelyn laughed. "I haven't had time to look yet, Stevie." Lady Des Barres held up her finger at the child.

''Stephen Illverston!" she said, half reproachfully, half severely, "how many times have I told you that you must never, on any account, repeat what people say. Especially what your father and I say—it's a dreadful habit." Stevie looked most crestfallen.

"I am sorry, Aunt Consie," lie murmured contritely; "I try to remember, I really do." ,

" "Never mind, old man!" said his father, pressing his face down on the child's soft dark hair. "You haven't done any harm this time, and I think Aunt Consie was quite right about the particular shade of blue."

I changed the subject hastily, feeling rather embarrassed. Sir Jocelyn did not stay long. He went out carrying Stevie in his arms.

Lady Des Barres sighed. "I am afraid Stevie will never live to inherit Illverston. Poor Jocelyn! Poor Jocelyn!" "That will be very sad," I said. "In that case, who would inherit?" "A second cousin—an Australian—who, by the way, is coming to pay us a visit. I haven't the least idea what he is like; we have not yet met. I hope when the time comes, that he will learn to love the place as dearly as Jocelyn and I do; though I suppose that is too much to expect."

"It is very sad about little Stevie. Was it an accident, Lady Des Barres? Or was he born like that?"

'He was born so. It was a great blow to my brother—his only child. It is hard for a man to feel that the home he loves will at his death pass to a stranger; for this man, although a cousin, we have never met before."

"Yes, it does seem very hard." '"Jocelyn just worships the child, and indeed, the whole household does. Some children would become unendurable with such treatment as he gets, but Stevie's nature is too fine to be spoiled." 'He 'told me that his father never leaves him. I suppose Sir Jocelyn is anxious lest anything should happen to- the child during his absence?" "Yes, he cannot bear him out of his sight." I wanted to speak of Lady Illverston, but felt that this should come first from Lady Des Barres, and shti apparently avoided the subject. The next day nurse left me, and Stevie's nurse, Bessie Burnett, was told'off to help me in whatever way I needed , assistance. She was a bright, fresh-faced country girl, with very round wide-opened china-blue eyes. .She always looked surprised, as if she were about to say "Good Gracious! You don't say so!'! And curiously enough, she had a way of saying "Goodness me. Master Stevie! You surprise me!" I got to like the girl very much, and found her kind-hearted and most trustworthy. The weather was bitterly cold, and Dr Barty would only allow me to go as far as Lady Des Barres' sitting room. When I had begged for permission to go a little further afield, he had frowned portentously. 'You have been quite enough anxiety for weeks past. N.o relapses thank you. You will keep to these two rooms, please, till you are quite out of the wood." As the days went past, Lady Des Barres and I became good friends. She was an unusual character without doubt—imperious, fond of her own way, a staunch friend (but Heaven help one if one gave her any cause for dislike), very shrewd, a keen judge of human nature, with a sort of contemptuous tolerance for its weaknesses. She and her brother got on together excellently. They were alike, and yet unlike. He was much more reserved than Lady Des Barres —"cold and reticent" some. people called him; but by his tenants he was idolised.

Lady Des Barres was fourteen years his senior. He was a handsome man, and most distinguished-looking; the expression of his face was habitually grave, even sad. His eyes were grey, his face clean-shaven, his hair on the temples almost white. His face, I say, was sad, but when he smiled, like Stevie's, it was completely transfigured. I had been a month at Illverston, and had. begun to feel it was time to make plans for my future. Though a good deal better I was still far from strong. I was sitting by the fire one day in Lady Des Barres' sitting room, just before afternoon tea, when she came in to me, an open letter in her hand.

"My dear," she said, "I have just received a letter from Miss Percival, Stevie's governess, who, as I think you know, has been away for the last six weeks on account of private family troubles. She says in this letter that her return. to Illverston is quite out of the question. Jocelyn and I have been talking the matter over, and we both think that It would be an excellent idea if you would accept tho appointment." For a moment I was taken completely by surprise—it seemed too good to De true.

~"0h, Lady Des Barres!" I exclaimed. "Do you really mean it?" "Yes, my dear, of course I mean it, I shouldn't have spoken otherwise. My brother and I like you, and Stevie adores you. It is more as a companion for Stevie than as a governess you "will be required, though, of course, he will have a few hours at' lessons every morning. My brother is a very busy man, and cannot devote as much time to the child as he would wish, and T shall be away from Illverston within the next three or four months —at least, I may be, it is not quite certain yet. If I go, a cousin of ours—an old maiden lady who had lived here for some years—will return." "Oh, Lady Des Barres! It is awfully good of you ; but you kno-w nothing about me. I am a complete stranger to you. Howcan you be sure that I am to be trusted—that I am a fit companion for your little nephew?" She'looked at me with those shrewd grey eyes—a long, steady, searching glance; then she smiled. "My dear, I haven't knocked about the world for sixty years without being able

to recognise an honest face when I see on». And besides, you are. Pat Ronayne's girl. That counts for a great deal. So what do you say?" "What do I say? That I am thankful beyond all words, and, (Jod helping me, I will never give you cause to regret your confidence and generosity." "There, there, my dear! No sentiment! —no sentiment! 1 never could endure it. Noiv that's settled, thank goodness! Your appointment starts from to-morrow; the salary will be a hundred and fifty pounds a year, paid quarterly in advance; now that's all." I burst into tears. "Oh, no, it isn't all!" I said. "How can I ever thank you for your goodness, your faith in me? But it is only right that I should give you proofs of my identity. I will give you the addresses of some of my friends in Australia—the clergyman of the district where I was born, also the district magistrate, and the doctor, who are all my friends. For though I am a stranger in England, I am well-known in the part of : the country where I was brought up. Will you please write to them, Lady Des Barres? They will tell you all there is to know." At'first she would not hear of this, but at length yielded, as she said, to satisfy me. s When Stevie heard the news he was delighted; indeed, everyone seemed pleased about it, and all were most kind. Lady Des Barres save me my quarter's salary the next morning. "I think," she said, "now that you are better and able to get about a little,- we must consider the question of clothes. I will drive over to Danesford and try to get a dressmaker to come in for a wee K- . is good with the needle, she can help. I will get a pencil and paper, and you must tell me what to buy, for I must do your shopping for you, as Doctor Barty wili not hear of your putting your nose outside' the door until the weather takes up." She was as good as her word, returning from Danesford the following afternoon with her motor piled with packages. The next day a dressmaker came over from the old town and staved for a week. She was an excellent workwoman, really clever at her trade, and she and. Bessie got through an extraordinary amount of sewing between them. Lady Des Barres sent to London for a couple of evening dresses and for a tailormade costume, also for hats, gloves, shoes, etc. Within a fortnight I had a complete outfit, not by any means an extravagant one, but dainty and pretty, suitable to my position. Diversion was a lovely old house, built in the reign of Elizabeth, and added to at later periods. There was a main building, an east wing, and a west wing. The east wing the servants lived in; in the west wing Sir Jocelyn had his suite, with Stephen and Lady Des Barres. My room was next to Lady Des Barres' sitting room. When on one sunny morning, a week before Christmas, I was permitted to see it for the first time from the outside, I was deeply impressed with its beauty, nay grandeur. I ,had often read of such homes—"the stately homes of England,"but had never even imagined anything so beautiful as Illverston. It was built of red brick which time had softened and mellowed to the most exquisite tints of deep reds and browns. Ivy covered its walls in many places, and lichen showed dull green and grey on the old tiled roof. There were terraces with marble balustrades ; lovely gardens; clipped hedges of yew, and a sun-dial—a real, old-fashioned sun-dial. The park sloped away from the lawns and gardens in a long gradual sweep, with wooded hills to the right, all bare now, and in the far distance a long blue line —the sea!

Sir Jocelyn and Lady Des Barres'were with me that morning as I stood for the first time gazing round me, drinking .in the exquisite scene. "What a beautiful place!" I exclaimed. "What a grand, stately home! I have never pictured anything like this! No written descriptions in the world_ could convey to one's mind a erally just impress sion of Illverston!"

They were both pleased at my warm admiration and evident sincerity. • "It has been in our family since Elizabeth's time," said Sir Jocelyn, looking at the house with love and pride in his eyes—and sadness too. I felt for him. It must have been hard to think that in all probability no son of his would ever inherit the home that was so dear to him, and which had been in the possession of the Illverstons for centuries. "Is it a very large property?" I asked. "Yes, there are many farmers, most of which are let, a few I farm myself. My tenants and their forefathers before them have been almost as long on the Illverston estate as I and my people have been."

"That must be very pleasant all round," I said, "and give a feeling of friendliness and homeliness."

"Oh, yes!" said Sir Jocelyn, smiling, "to some of the old men I am still 'the young master.' and will continue to he." "And now," said Lady Des Barres, "it is high time vou went in, young lady. We don't want any chills or relapses." The Illverston interior was quite as beautiful in its way as its exterion. As I grew stronger Lady Des Barres took me round from room to room, showing me all its old-world beauties. It was filled with treasures. Sir Jocelyn's father had been a great traveller, and had gathered objects of art from all quarters of the earth, bringing them to Illverston. It was a wonderful sight for me—a girl brought up in the Australian bush. I, of course, was unable to appreciate them at their true worth, or understand their real value, but I could see their beauty. There were bronzes and marbles from Italy; there was beautiful brass work from Benares and Japan; lovely old china, almost priceless, Lady Des Barres said, and a thousand and one things which were new to me. But it was the picture gallery which fascinated me—filled with paintings of the dead and gone Illverstons. They were a handsome race, an undeniably handsome race. Sir Jocelyn bore a striking likeness to many of them, and little Stevie, too, was a real Illverston. Sometimes the memory of that wild adventure of mine, in the lonely house, seemed like a dream, growing dim and far off as the days went by; and then something, trivial, perhaps a careless word, would revive the wretched memories, and I would lie awake through the long night hours, with the horror of it all back upon me. Once more I was in the old house, with its gloom and shadows, with its dreadful silences and the still more dreadful time when it seemed filled with whispers and unseen presences. I thought of the moment when I realised that the form on the sofa was dead, and when I- saw that expression in the stranger's eyes that had terrified me. It struck me for the first time how strange it was that I had dashed up those stairs in the darkness, up one long-flight after the other, and turning, raced down the corridor and into the oak room, barring the door behind me. It had been perfectly natural to me at the time, arid the place quite familiar. I remembered how, when I had closed the door behind me, I had, without a second thought, stooped and shot the bolt into the socket, and, straightening myself, stretched up to the one above my head and driven that home too. How did I know those bolts were there? How did 1 know anything about the place ? I had never been there to, my certain knowledge! I had been born" in Australia and had never set my foot in England before. And yet. in that agonising moment of terror, I had known where to fly for refuge! And then, the picture hanging on the wall of that room! My own photograph was not more like me than the face of that woman! And her colouring was the same. The dark blue eyes, the bright brown hair, and rather pale complexion were all mine. Those eyes that seemed to follow me round the room. Who was this lady in her wide Gainsborough hat and sweeping plumes? And what was she to me or I to her? And that poor dead man, stretched out there on the couch in that great drawingroom! How had he come by this end? Who was he, and who was the stranger who had brought us to that lonely place? Apart from this, I was very happy. It was a respite, a breathing space, but I did not know this. I thought foolishly, that the good, the happy time was going on for ever.