CHAPTER I.

Taranaki Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 11818, 16 November 1901, Page 2 (Supplement)

CHAPTER I.

TJNTIL DEATH DO 08 PART.

A delicious languor 6eemed to be over all nature that evening in hot Jniy whin Gladys Heathcotc and Colin Ramsey bade each other good-by at the gate of Crompton Woods. The sun had nearly set, and its golden shafts were falling upon the summits of the stately tree 9, beneath the inviting shade of which the lovers had sat and wiled away rapturous houra, and on the wide cornfields behind them, and the broad white road, leading one way to the Cliffsea rocks, and the other way to Gladys home. A handsome pair they were — the man with tall, athletic form, well-cat features, Wnd well-poised head ; the girl moulded in the delicate, though rounded, contours of matured sixteen. The man was quite thirty, though perhaps at first sight he might have appeared younger. Now he was looking down with infinite tenderness and longing at the fair girl, around whose graceful wast his arm was tightening at this hour of i parting ; but there were times when Colin Ramsey could be stern and grave in righteous, indignation, when the lines of bis face showed up sharp and severe, and made him look older than his real 'age. 'Well, little one,' he said, glancing eagerly, in triumphant love, at the delicate face upturned to his, 'this is our last meeting before the one which is to make us man and wife. Do you doubt our happiness ? And would you draw back now if you could V He knew well what the answer would be from those ripe red lips. The violet eyes drooped, and a bright blush suffused each cheek, but the answer came bravely enough. , 'No, no, Colin I You know there is no drawing* back for me. I love you, and to-morrow I Bhall be your wife. Others may doubt, but I do not, and never shall.' He rained passionate kisses oh her lips. Well he knew that no one would^observe them. That unfrequented and lonely spot in Cromptoa Woods bad often before been a silent witness to their meetings' and their parting ems braces. 'You darling 1' he said. 'How proud, how happy I am that I have won you — that I shall take with me to India the knowledge that a sweet little wife is waiting for me in England, whom I can claim as soon as fortune smiles on me 1 Ah, your chsek pales, dearest J That thought is the one cruel thing in till this happiness. Can you bear the long parting, the doubts and fears, tbe incessant pressure which can be put upon you by your mother V The girl looked at him steadfastly. «-I shall be your wife, Colin,' she said, 'and that will give me strength for all.' Once more their lips met, and the fairy form of the childlike maiden was pressed to Colin's heart. Then he resolutely put her away from him. 'You mast hasten home, darling !' he cried. , 'This evening, of all other?, you must not excite suspicion by being late. Think what it would be for mo if to-morrow, my last possible day in England, and our wedding day, you were io be kept from me !' And, without waiting for a reply, ha leaped over the stile leadipg to the opposite meadows, waving his band as be went. Gladys lingered a moment to flutter her little handkerchief in response, and then, with a bosom palpitatiog^with a variety of emotions, she sped away toward Heathcote Lodge. The Fleathcotes had resided near Cliffsea for two years now — ever since Gladys had been fourteen years old. Mr Haatbeoto, a reputedly wealthy stockbroker, had died jnst six months before their arrival, leaving his widow a thousand a year instead of the five thousand she had expected, and to Gladys instoad of a fortune — nothing. And so Mrs Heathcote, disgusted and disappointed, had retired to a seas side place, # where she could make a better display than she could elsewhere with her modified income, aud, having secured a good match for her daughter, rlrift again into the sea of matrimony herself. For, though Gladys was sixteen, her mother was only thirty-Bix, and still a handsome and well -preserved wonmu. She had not chosen Cliffsea without reasons.

She had carefully studied the Valeshiie Directory before she selected the spot, and hud worked her ca-ds so well that she was on visiting terms with all the best families in the neighbourhood. Already the curate of the parish, the Rev. Septimus" Palmer, had succumbed to her charms aDd the thousand a year; and, in fact, so had several of the susceptible gentlemen in the vicinity of j Cliffsea — though report seemed to have selected Sir George Aaiwel', of Amwall Hall, a? tbe gentleman who was most likelj in tbe future to replace the late lamented Heathcote. It was an understood thing, however, that fabe would not marry until she had secured a husband for Gladys, who would be allowed t» flutter away from the maternal wing at the age of 18. In npite of her youth and the fact of her being portionless, sweet Gladys Heathcote had not been without suitors, among whom may be reckoned the Earl of Featherstone, of Featherstone Tower, a man some twenty-five years her senior. But to al! she turnei a deaf ear. The rosebud of her heart expanded not until, at the county ball at Cliffsea, she had met her fate in the person of Colin Ramsey. Always the same old story. He was but a " younger son, a poor lieutenant in an infantry regiment ; but he was handsome, debonnair, with a suave mauuer, a geuerou3 heart, good aud noble to the core. But he was a "detrimental"' — one who ought, as Mrs Heathcote said, to have been a fortune-hunter, and had lost his head when he dared aspire to the lovely, penniless maiden w^ose beauty must be sold for gold. , A stormy scene indeed there was at Heathcote Lodge when the truth came out. In vain he spoke of his expectations. Mrs Heathcote laughed his words to scorn. 'Nothing will ever change me, Mr Ramsey,' she said. 'My daughter is portionless, and must marry money. I consider your conduct shameful in entrapping her sffections ; but she is a mere child, and will soon forget this folly.' Colin smiled a peculiar smile. 'I don't think she will,' he said ; 'and I can tell you that for myself I am determined she shall be ray wife. Mark me ; listen ere you speak again.. If I were the hopeless adventurer you represent me to be, I would not dream of pressing my suit. But in two years I shall be in receipt of a fair income, and, meanwhile, remember that I am rightful heir to a title and thousands unrighteously withheld from me.' Mrs Heathcote laughed disdainfully. 'A very pretty story, indeed !' she said, so insultingly that Colin wished for the moment that she wore a man ; 'but I refuae to believe it. This interview had better end ; my daughter, through me, declines the honor cf a phantom corouefc.' 'We shall see,' smiled Colin, and with a bow he left her. Then folloVed secret meetings and rapturous vows of constancy, vows heard only by the thrilling birds in the leafy coverts of Croropton Woods. Colin was supposed to have left Cliffsea with his regiment, and with eager delight Mrs Heathcote noted the fact that it w«s ordered on active service in India. It was just the worst thing that could have happened. Every day Gladys contrived, by some excuse or another, to meet her lover, if only for an hour, in the woods, where in a nest so spcluded as to be invisible save to those who knew it, the two dreamed away sweet hours of mingled bliss and woe — bliss at the fondnes9 of their own two foolish hearts, woe at the prospect of a speedy patting. And now the expected end had come; mere vows and promises, however sacred, would not suffice ; they were to be wedded on the morrow, to be bound together by chains so strong that neither her mother nor Lord Featherstone, with all theit power and ait, could break them. As the fluttering little deceiver elided in at a side gale of tbe Lodge which lei into the woods,- book in hand, as v from a ramble with a favourite author, she was met by her mother. The latter, for a wonder, was all beams and sunshine. 'Soch a pleasant su/prise, my dear !' she cried. 'Whom do you think has arrived here to stay with us V The girl laughed pleasantly. Her heart was so full of joy that she could be merry at the merest trifle. 'I don't know, indeed, mamma,' she cried ; "but, I hope it is some one nice' 'Nice ! Yes,* he is, really,' said Mrs Heathcote. 'It is your cousin, Lawrence Weyvillo. You have heard mp apeak of him, but I have not seen him since he was quite a child. His father,

your uncle and my brother, baa jnst died, poor dear ! and left him — oh, immensely rich ; and, between you' and me, my love, since you think the Earl of Featheratone a trifle too old, this would be a very good exchange for you. Sir George Amwell, iv fact, was becoming impatient ; and to a first cousin Mrs Heathcote would not have objected to hand Gladys over, even at the tender age of eighteen. A sickening feeling, a dread of the trials which she saw coming thick and fast in the future, nearly overwhelmed the young girl for the moment. But the thought of the morrow sustained her ; she would be a wife then — no earthly power could uudo those bonds, unless she or Colin were untrue.. She laughed with affected merriment. 'You are a' dreadfnl matchmaker, mamma !' she cried. 'But pray let me be introduced to ray unknown cousin ; I am all impatience to sea him.' Mrs Heathcote, utterly deceived by the manner of the young girl, whose pure heart and generous impulses she could never understand, led her quickly into the parlor, where, immediately upon their entrance, there arose from a lounge a tall, fair-haired man, to whom in that instant Gladys took a most intense 'dislike. His hair was of a sandy hue, his eyes of a greenish-grey and too close together, aad his large, light moustache did not hide the coarseness and sensuality of his_heavy-lipped mouth.' He was of the stontish onler of young men, and had a limp and flabby way with him, which was especially shown in his manner of shaking hands. He fixed his eyes with a wondering upon the beautiful vision which accompanied Mrs Heathcote, and said : 'Really, aunt^ you led me to expect' a pretty cousin. But' this is a vision oE loveliness that qnite surprises me. Gladys, I hope we shall be great friends.' ,\ Gladys almost started at the sharp, incisite voice, coming' as it did from so inert-looking a body. She tooif his hand kindly, however, but drew back as he seemed inclined to indulge in a warmer and more cousinly salute, •I hope so, indeed, Cousin Lawrence/ she said. 'I have often heard mamma speak of you.' And then, by a quick manoeuvre, she" sank into a chair, so that Mrs Heathcote was between her and the new arrival. . j He was in no way abashed or disappointed. He simply smiled in his own flabby way ; spoke of the delight he felt at stopping at Cliffsea for an indefinite period, told stories of his life abroad, and spoke, with a meaning look at Gladys, of his intention of buying an estate and settling down as soon as hi 3 poor old dad had been dead another three months. •You see, my dear,* said Mrs llpathcote, laying her fair, plump hand on Gladys' knee, apologetioally, 'my doar brother has beon dead nino months, though we did not know ie ; so the very slightest of mourning will do.' Mrs Heathcote hid no idea of disguising her brunette beauty in doleful black just at the very moment that her marriage with Sir George Amwell seemed approaehiag nearer and nearer. Gladys remained silent, and looked sympathetic, not knowing exactly what part to take in so peculiar a conversation. She was as sensitive as she should be when the sorrows and misfortunes of others were concerned ; but- she certainly did not wish' to tb;nk of mourning when the joy bells of \ber heart were ringing to such a merry time. As soon as I 'possible she escaped to her room, under the excuse of dressing for dinner, which Mrs Heafchcote always made a ceremonious 'meal, even when uo visitors were at the Lodge. 'It keeps one's hand in, you know,' she said, using her late husband's somewhat slang expression ; 'it one does not attend to these little matters one is apt to get slovenly.' Alone in her own room, Gladys reviewed her position with something akin to dismay. The morrow was all bright and glad in anticipation, and her heart swelled with rapture at the idea that she would then have overcome all difficulties, and be linked for life to the one to whom her best love had gone forth. But in fhe midst *of this blissful thought woMld come the dread of the days thereafter, when Colin • would be gone, when she would have no one to advise and protect her, when she would have to endure tbe presence and attentions of her newly-found couain. or of tbe equally objectionable Earl of Featherstone. She knew well her mother's projects, and how she vras to be sacrificed to them.

Would she have strength to fight the battle without betraying her secret? — the secret which Colin had told her most be kept for her sake. She knelt and prayed to Heaven for help, and, during the evening that ensued, she seemed nerved to bear with greater calmness the vapid compliment* of Lawrence Weyville, the open allusions of her mother, and the torturing plans for the future hinted at by both-. How glad she was to escape once more to the privacy of her owu room, to creep into her snowy bed, and to murmur herself off to sleep with Colin's name upon her lips. i The morning broke bright and beautiful, y Gladys, rising early, threw up her window, and leaned out — in her daintywrapper—to inhale tbe first breath of the Bummer morn. The birds were chirping gleefully in the cri3p, still air, the balmy breeze came sweet from the meadows, theleaves scarcely stirred, tbe scent of the roses rose voluptuous and full from the* bed beneath the casement. Everything was redolent of chltn, delightful repose. The young girl glanced round her as with a new sense of the beauty of nature, aud blushed faintly to herself tbat that morning would be the last of her maiden life. Next dawn might be as bright and gay and beautiful ; but she would be another's then, linked to Colin forever, till death them should part. "'Did she repent ? Did she dream or drawing back? Not once. Her faith was strong and true, her love pure and perfect, and, with a sigh of gladness, she began to dress herself in plain yet tasteful garments, which, would not be sumptuous for breakfast^ and yet be bright enough for the bride whom Colin would wish to see at her best. 'You look fresh a 9 tbe morning star.* cried Lawrence Weyville, making one of his commonplace compliments, with his usual flabby t»mile. 'I am delighted to see you looking so well, for I wish to ask you to honor me by showing me the way to cliffsea. I want to be there by ten.' There by ten ! It was now nearly nine, and she had to meet Colin at tbe door of the village church of Tenterden at half-past ten. Among all the unpleasant contingencies she had conjured up she had never dreamed of this. However, though the color left her cheeks, and a trembling invaded her limbs, she attacked the position boldly. *Very well, cousin,' she said, with » laugh, ,'I will promise to go with yon and show you all the beauties of Cliffsea, on one condition. ♦And that ib ?' he asked eagerly. 'That you will descend to the regions of common sense and not pay me compliments on the way,' she answered ; 'if you do, it will spoil the whole journey.' 'Very well — I a(?ree,' he cried ; 'in : fact, what is there I would not agree to for the sake of two hours of your company ?' Gladys raised her warning finger. 'There now,' she said, 'you are beginning again. But I forgot one thing, I have to run over tb Mrs Pearson's i cottage first, just on the hillside ; you. must wait in the front garden 4ill I come back* She rose as she spoke and moved toward the door. ' Then, actuated by a sudden impulse, she returned and kissed her mother's forehead. 'Good-by for the present; don't be impatieut, Lawrence, if I am a little longer than you expected.' . And with a merry smile she was gone. Well might Lawrence WeyviUe wait in the garden, impatiently pacing to and fro and muttering words which would have shocked even his doting aunt, for it was dusk before Gladys returned—a happy, blushing wife !^