"A GOLDEN HEART."

Taranaki Herald, Volume XLV, Issue 10552, 29 February 1896, Page 4

"A GOLDEN HEART."

j By Charlotte M. Buaeme,

Author of "Dora Thome," "Her Mother's Sin," "Wife in Name Only," "A Atonement," " Lady Daruer'a Secret," &c, &c.

CHAPTER VI.

jNfljjtzß^jpT WAS all over now •Hi ||r§a Dolores told herself.' There <2s^J vtf%. was an end of her dream* §^y^§% Some one else had taken her place at the piano, and a beautiful voice was filling the room with melody. Just then she was hardly capable of a clear thought She did not know that Sir Karl stood watching her with wistful eyes, eyes full of pain and wonder, that la3t '' good-by " ringing in his ears and stirring his heart. He conld not help seeing that she had snag it wath a purpose; and that purpose was to bid farewell to him. " Too late! " Ahl it was indeed too late! But if it would be for her happiness, he must be content: " She does not loob like a girl who i would sell herself for money,'' he thought " She has the face of one who could give her life for the man she loved. " Lola wa3 quick enough to see that there was something amiss; and she was not far wrong in her surmise, Dolores never knew how the rest of the evening passed. It must have been a very pleasant one, for ihere was plenty of laughter, dancing, and music, and the charades were highly applauded; but Dolores sat in a long painful dream, as though she were taking her part in a play, while her thoughts and heart were elsewhere. It had been a proper test, that little incident of the red and white roses. It seemed to Dolores as real as though Lola had said, " Which of us two do you prefer, Dolores Cliefden or myself? " and Sir Karl had answered, " I prefer you, Lola; " whereas to him it had been so unimportant that the red rose he had chosen still lay upon the floor. ''She might have said good-by quietly, " he thought, " and not have sung it in woids that must haunt me until I die. She sang thsm reproachfully, too, as though it were my fanlt that I am her lost friend. I should have been bet friend until death, but she is marrying for money and not for love. " The miserable night came to an end at last. Sir Karl went away first, and Dolores was driven home in madame's carriage. The girl was thankful to be alone, to be where she was not compelled to, smile, and talk while her heart felt ready to break. The stars were shining, and the air was laden with sweet odors. She was very young; but sho said to herself that all was ended now except duty. Never again would the sound of a voice or the fall of a footstep make her heart throb; never more would her pulses thrill at the touch of a hand. She would live her life, do her duty, and at the end wanld come sweetest rest. She had nothing lo do now but to write to the generous man who had laid his fortune at her feet and tell him that she had decided, and was ready to marry him. When she reached White Cliffe, she she heard that the sanire had gone to bed. She was relieved to know that she would have gained her composure, and would be able to meet him with a smiling face. '" - _ '- ', ■ " It was her own fault entirely; she ; repeated that to herself again and again. She ought to hare had more sense than to give even one thought" to a man who did not care for her. All that she suffered was the just reward of her own folly; no one cou'.d pity her; she could only feel ashamed for herself. She knelt down and prayed as she had never prayed in her life before; and when she laid her head on the pillow, it was with the feeling of wearied relief which one has who has fought a good fight and conquered. Eany the next morning she went to the Squire. He was in his stud 7, his favorite room, with a cup of coffee before him. He looked up quickly as she entered, and she read iv his eyes the anxiety, the hope, the fear that ho did not express in words. She went and knelt down by his side. "I have come to a decision, papa," she said. " I thought 1 would ease your mind by telling you at once. I have decided to marry Lord Rhysworth. " The Squire pushed his coifee-cup aside, looked at his daughter earnestly, laid down his paper, and sat for some moments in silent delight. "Is it really true, Dolores? 1 ' he asked at last. She put' her aims found his neck and drew the white head upon her bosom. " Yes, papa, you shall live at White Cliffe until you die. You shall never leave it to go amongst strangers; and you 3hall have all your couifoit, dear. You will he rich again, and have money to do with as you like. Yon will be happy, my dearest —happier than you have ever been." Something in her voice seemed to disturb the Squire, for he raised his head, and in his turn, drew the beautiful face down to his. He looked at it long and anxiously; even to his dim eyes there uas a wonderful change in ir. The [ brightness was gone; the light that; shoae there now was of heaven rather [ than of earth; it was the calm of con-! tent hardly acquired; it was an expression quite different from anything he had aeen on his daughters faca before.

" Doloreß, " he cried in a sharp voice, 'yon — are yon hapjiy? 1 ' " Quite happy, " she answered. " There is no one yon care more for ilmn Lord Rhyaworth, is there? Tell me the truth, Dolores? I would not [et you sacrifice yourself for me; you must not do that. Is there any one you like better? , I—lI — I would sooner be dead, nay child, than that for my sake you 3hould marry a man whom you do not love, and lose one wham perhaps you do love. " He never forgot the strange smile that came over her face as she laid her hands upon his shoulders and looked at him. " You may believe mo, dear, " she said. ''There is no one who cares for me; who shoula? Ido not see manj people. I am too young to havo thought of such things. No one cares for me; believe me, papa. " ■ If he had been more shrewd and | worldly, ha must have noticed that, I although she repeated her statement | that no one cared for her, ahe never ouco said that she cared for no one. The Squire went on: " I was a coward yesterday, Dolores. The idea of poverty frightened me. 1 could have cried like a child then: but, now that 1 look at you, Dolores, in the light of another day, I feel braver and stronger. Iv the course of nature I cannot live many years. What does j it mntter, if only you are happy, i dear? " i There was a faint quiver on her lips; and then she said — "1 am quite happy, papa. In the years to come, when you think abent this, and about my marriage, always remember that I was quite happy, that I had no regrets, and that I was most grateful to the generous man who rescued us. " He listened attentively. " Those are pleasaat words. Dolores; but they havo not the right ring. " " You may believe me, " she said. " You mu9t always remember that I am perfectly happy. If ever yon see a cloud on hit face, tell me about it; if you find my spirits flag, then yon may believe that lam not happy. Kiss me, papa, and tell me you bolieve me. " He kissed the sweet face and laid his hand carelessly on the golden '• head. " I believe you, my darling, and I am qnite happy too in the belief. " Then she rose from her knees and busied herself in arranging his papers. " I will write to Lord Rhysworth today, " she said ; " and perhaps he will come over. Papa, grant ma this favor; if he comes, see him for me this once. ) will see him to-morrow. " TO Z>E CONTINUED.