HEARTS OR DIAMONDS?

Star (Christchurch), Issue 6072, 8 January 1898, Page 2

HEARTS OR DIAMONDS?

[By KATE A. SIMPSON.] Author of " Eileen-na Roon," " A Pickaxe of Pearls," " Loo : A Love Story," &c. (All Rights Reserved.)

No ! There is no need to. talk to me of romance ! for my own life has been, so far, a great romance. Perhaps, looking at me, no one would think it ! lam an ordinary-looking mortal enough, to all appearance. ' I am short, and rather fat; I have blue eyes, and fair hair, a good temper, a good cOmplexioh, and I know how to ." carry my head." lam only just twenty-three, but in the last six years I have lived through enough to mako me feel liko a hundred — but I don't. Well, to begin my story, I must go back to when I was just seventeen. No one imagines that girls of seventeen ever think of falling in love perhaps, but I can tell you that they do ! And I can tell you that they: draw very hard and fast b'nes as to "what the looked-for lover must do and be. I have five sisters, three older and two younger than myself. We were not rich," hut* we were by no means poor, and I had drawn some vivid pictures of what my life would be like when the time came for me to leave school and join my elder sisters in their roundsof gaiety. Fancy, then, what a blow to my feelings and my expectations when I went home, to find that it had been arranged that I was to be sent to live with a maiden aunt in the -country ! " Horror of horrors !" thought I— London bprn and bred — "to be sent to be tied dbwn to the everyday rules and regulations of a country 'old maid.', How should I bear it?" But as my common sense soon showed me, I should have to bear it, so I might as well go about ifc wifch as good, a grace as I could. My mother tolerated no discussion of the subject, merely telling me that I was too young to " come out " (my sisters were not too young afc the same age !) and I should find my time heavy on my hands at home ; and she murmured something about "such a heap of big girls in the house/ So it was all settled very quietly, and I went. Now isn't it curious that so many girls look upon their mothers as quite young, and feel very near them in their interests, but expect to fincLsomething rather old and dried up in a maiden aunt ! At any rate, such was my idea, and I was destined to be most agreeably disappointed. Aurt Nellie was tall and slight; very thick brown hair, .piled high on her head, amd a pair of grey . eyes were the mosfc striking things abont her. It had not occurred to me, till I saw her, that she was nearly fifteen years younger than my mother, and herself barely thirty. Where were all the "old maidish" ways? Where were the high-backed ohair, the knitting, and the numberless cats, I had expected ? As she came down the garden path to meet me, with a fat little pug dancing and barking in front of her, and two mischiev-ous-looking silky Skye terriers bringing up the rear, my notions of "primness " and fear flew to the winds. And when she put her arm around my waist and kissed me I fell in love with her without more ado !" Well, the time passed on. My aunt was a cultivated woman ; a good musician, a lover of painting, and an indefatigable reader. We went a great deal into Society (though of course it * would hardly have come under such a heading in my mother's vocabulary), and altogether I found life charming. Amongst the people! met was one girl about my own age, who soon become my "chum "; she was alone in the world, excepting for one brother with whom she made for home. About three months after I made "her acquaintance Hilda was taken J ill; a violent cold which settled on her lungs, and for some time her life was in jeopardy; but soon the worst was over, though the doctors decided she must go abroad for some months before she oould really recover. Of course Osmond would not hear of her going without him to take care of her, so it was all arranged, and their pretty old house was to be shut up for the winter. I shall never forget the evening Osmond came to tell us of their plans ; it was late in the autumn, but one of those rare days which are so delicious at the end of summer, when [the fragrance of the flower seems at its sweetest, for just the tiny suspicion of frost that had touched them. Aunt Helen and I were strolling in the garden at twilight, when we heard the gate bang, and the next minute he stood in front of us. There was something in his face, I could not tell what it was, but it made me feel inclined to run away ; but instead of doing so, I only stood and stared stupidly •up at him. It did not take very long for him to tell ns what they had decided to do^ and then Aunt Helen exclaimed, " And so you've really comeito bid us ' Good-bye ? ' My dear boy, I'm very sorry." Then she begged him to come indoors for awhile ; but this he would not do, and together we moved slowly down towards the gate, then we paused, and silence fell upon us all, which Auntie broke in her genial way saying : " Well, if you won't come in and rest, at least you must have a glass of wine before your walk home," and she hurried away. Osmond opened the gate, and stood for one moment irresolute. My tongue seemed tied. I tried in vain to speak. The next minute he had bent over me, 'I must say it, Gwen, don't forget me be fore I come back" — a hasty kiss on my forehead, a great thumping at my heart, and I was alone. How loudly, the birds were singing, and the grasshoppers near me seemed trying to vie with them; while my own heart was beating madly, and a sort of wild chorus was surging through my brain.* When Aunt Helen came back, I don't know what she saw, or thought ; I only know she took my hand fondly in her own, and led me up to the garden seat, and it was a long time before either of us spoke. When we did it was nofc of him, and the chance never' came to me again to tell her how miserable I felt at the moment, and yet how wildly happy ! The next morning a letter came from my mother, saying that my eldest sister was going to be married, and I must go home for the " happy event." Aunt Helen was also invited; my mother did not men-, tion the name of the bridegroom elect, only said that sho and my father were much pleased at the " honour conferred " on their child ! The wedding was to 'take place at Christmas, so we were very soon to be in the midst of active preparations. Poor Eunice ! I wonder whether she was happy ! She couldn't be ! She was to marry a gouty, crabby old Earl, years older than my father, who had already had two wives, and had taken a fancy to her freshness and beauty, for she was very handsome. Her marriage made this great difference to me, that now my other sisters spent a v great deal of time with her, so I was to stay at home instead of going back to the pleasant life with Aunt Helen. We went in for a whirl of gaiety that season; my mother was pleased with her eldest daughter's social success, and wished the others to try and follow her example. Sometimes in a hot, crowded ball-room a swift remembrance would come to me of a scene in the twilight, beside a wicket gate, but the time seemed long ago ; I had heard no more of my friends, and I was too proud to acknowledge, even to myself, how I longed to be quiet, and think it over once more. I seldom heard from my aunt, and she never mentioned Osmond, so I did not te : - know whether he was at home or abroad.

j But I must hurry on with my story ; well, ' it came to this Six weeks after Eunice became Lady Montreal, to my mother's great delight, a chance came for me to follow in her steps. . A chance qf a title ! He was only a viscount, but still, as she said proudly to papa, "to have two daughters in the I peerage " i But I didn't mean to go " into the peer- • age," not if I could help it ; but sometimes my courage almost failed me ; it was a very * hard fight, and I thought they were going j to prove too much for me ! _ i Aunt Helen was abroad ; how I wished I • was with her ! A girl of seventeen has a hard time of ifc, between her parents, who j are ambitious for their chiidren, and a* wealthy and importunate lover. , j Well, I had a hard time, of, it ;. but j I never would have given in but for one * thing. j My father lost a great deal of money in j some speculation, and began to grumble at j expenses ; day by day this went on, my j mother losing no opportunity of painting j my -H obstinacy," and "wilfulness" in high J and vivid colours ; so at last, at the " third J time of asking" I was goaded iato ; giving a grudging and unwilling j "Yes." j How the man could condescend to • take me I don't know, after I had i made myself so disagreeable; but he did! • I was quite determined not to be married till Aunt Helen returned to England, and ' they yielded to my wishes in this respect. She was coming in June, and my wedding was fixed for the first week in July. Never was bride-elect more miserable. I tried in vain to escape. I told him more than once I knew he would grow to hate me, and I wished he would stop before it was too late. * # •* #. # It was the first of June: it had beon a glorious summer's day, and all the afternoon we had been paying calls. Ah, how the congratulations sickened me ! How people must despise me if they could only know what a puppet I felt in the hands of Fate! I went to bed that night feeling very weary and tired of it all ; and I fell into a , restless and uneasy sleep. My sister shared my room, and she slumbered placidly beside me. At last, towards morning, I fell asleep, and 1 dreamt a curious dream. I was tanding at the altar in my wedding-dress, and all the people were crowding round, waiting ; I seemed to be standing alone ; there was no one at my side, and I heard my mother whisper, "Take your gloves off." I began obediently to unbutton them, but as fast as I undid them they buttoned themselves again. I struggled wifch them, and then I saw that Viscount Erner was at my side, and I heard a solemn voice beginning " Wilt thou have " " No! no ! " I cried, " I won't, I won't ; oh, why will they make me ? " And with one wrench, it seemed to me, I got off my glove, and my diamond engagement-ring,fell from my finger, and rolled away through a grating on the church floor ! " Gwen ! Gwen !" a distracted voice called, "whatever is the matter?" and looking round I found myself sitting up in bed, J and Connie in the opposite bed, gazing at J me with wide-open startled eyes ! j " Oh !" 1 said, with a gasp for breath, I " such a horrid dream." I shuddered as I ! spoke, and Connie jumped out of bed, and came to my side. "Poor darling, how scared you look. Tell me what it was ?" But I couldn't have toldtherforthe world; so after talking for some time, we settled down again, and Connie went cosily off to sleep, bufc I lay awake, thinking {deeply. If the dream was so horrible, what would the reality be ? The next few days seemed, weary, and heavy; and yet how swiftly the fcime was flying ! The June days were all too short, and seemed to be hurrying me relentlessly onto July. One evening a few days after my dream we were at dinner, when a telegram was brought to my mother: "Just, arrived in England; let Gwen meet me afc King's Cross." So Aunt Nellie had returned, and there was no hope now of any longer delaying my wedding day. In the morning I went to meet her, expecting to spend an hour with' her on her way down to the country. I saw her train come into the station, and her pleasant face soon greeted me from tbe carriage window. Imagine my surprise when she called out as she opened the door, "Jump in, dear ; we have only a very few minutes here !" " But, Auntie," I stammered, " how do you mean?" And I gazed at her in astonishment. " It's all right, dear, Elliott is getting ! your ticket, and has sent off a telegram to \ your mother for you r belongings to follow j you. I was determined to have you to myself for a few days, Gwen, so j used a little strategy to get hold of j you!" , J At this moment the maid returned with j my ticket ; the guard stood waiting to I close the carriage door, so in I got, in a ] state of confusion and joy. Dear Aunt j Nellie, I found she had telegraphed to my , mother, and had also posted a letter to j her, saying that as she intended to make * me her heiress, she thought she had a j right to a few days sole possession of me, and that as she would tako no refusal, she had thought it as well not to risk one! The train flew through the- country at i express speed, and much conversation was j impossible. Perhaps ifc was as well, for j words seemed to have no place or part in j the present; indeed, I should have dreaded ; to break in upon the feeling which sur- j rounded me, like a mantle of peace, with j any commonplace remark ; and to speak of . the things nearest our hearts in moments ( like these, seems impossible, though they often well up to the surface to the exclu- | sion of everything else. | It was enough for me to sit there, feeling, as I had my hand in Aunt Helen's comforting clasp, aB though I had found a refuge, for the time being at least, from my troubles; aud as if the past was a horrid dream, which her loving hand was blotting out. Only when her fingers closed over my engagement-ring a shudder, which I could not repress, ran through me, and as she turned to see the meaning of it, a wild impulse came over me to throw my arms round her neck.and tell her all.and implore her to save me. But even at the same moment came the recollection of my father's powerful arguments ;it was not the " peerage " alone that urged him to such measures — as 1 knew now, only too bitterly ! How thankful I am now, that I did not follow my first selfish impulse I can' never say. I had only time to realise that even i to Aunt Nellie I must be silent on that pointy;. when there was a fearful crash, and i I knew no more till I felt myself being lifted up, and was conscious of an awful pain in my head and back, and for the first i time in my life I fainted away ! 1 I remember nothing more until I heard 1 voices round me, and opening my eyes I i- found myself in the dear little blue-room I ' knew so well, in Aunt Nellie's house; for ' fortunately the scene of the accident was nofc far from fche end of our journey. For ' days I must have lain there, knowing '• nothing of what went on around me ; now '• I began to wonder where Aunt. Helen was, ' how I came to be lying there, and a whole : host of things. I looked around, and saw a pleasant-looking woman, seated at the ~> bedside, watching me. ■ "What day is it?" I asked. I " Tuesday, Miss." f " But what day of month ?" " The ninth of July, Miss." i " The ninth of July !" I cried, half-start-f ing up. "Why, that is my wedding day! '• What has happened?" £ And then she told me all about the'railt way accident, and how badly I had been > hurt and crushed. She would let me ask 1 no questions, and indeed I was too weary to wish to do so. a After a few days I knpw all about it. fc My aunt and I bad both been seriously „ hurt, she even worse tban I and was still

*in her own room up able to be moved. It seemed strange that my mother had not come to me, but at first thero had boen no one who knew whera to send, and afterwards, as I had all that care could do, and I quiet was tl c great thing, the doctor had not urged her coming. I was the first to leave my room, though Aunt Helen was recovering rapidly, and i one day 1 was lying on a sofa by the open I window, looking over the pile of letters which had accumulated for me. I I had been able to write home, and had I made as light as possible df my' illness, { though the doctor had written telling . them it would be some time before I was fit to travel ; so, of course my wedding was indefinitely postponed, and now I wa* I expecting one of my sisters to come and be | with me. A step on the path outside made me ■ raise my eyes. Only the telegraph boy,' with the usual orange-coloured envelope, which was soon brought to me. It was a message from my sister, saying she was sorry nofc to be able to come that day, as they were all going toa grand picnic the next day. She would writo and ; explain. j f knew ifc was foolish of me to feel hurt, I for I had made light of my injuries. Still, I they knew I had been very ill. There i were three of them at home, surely one might have come. I lay back on my pillow, with some hot tears making their way to my eyes. Suddenly a shadow fell across the window, and I looked up hastily. A shadow, did I say? No, surely ifc was the very j brightness of Heaven itself that met my | gaze. j " Osmond !" I cried, holding out both ! hands to him. | He stepped over the low window sill, | and taking them in his own, fell on his knees beside me, and buried his face in my pillows. I was too happy to break the silence that fell upon us, but at last a crowd of thoughts came rushing back upon me. What had I said? What right had he to be kneeling there, with my hands in his strong warm clasp ? j 1 pulled them hastily away, and — perhaps my fingers had grown thinner, at any rate Osmond didn't observe it— my ring fell to the ground ! He raised his head and looked at me. "Thank God!" he said, and I could have echoed his words aloud, in my foolishness and confusion ; I thought he meant about the ring. "Thank God, Gwen, that once again you are restored to me." I don't think I need tell all that followed — some people may probably guess, and some poople might think me a wicked 1 deceitful girl not to send him away at once. But I was ill, and weak, and I had just got what I had longed for more than 1 anything in the wide world ; and wicked, lor not, I couldn't part with him all at i once ! j So we sat there together, in the cool fcwi- . light, and told oui* little story. He had loved me from the first, but his heart had been torn with anxiety about ! his sister, who was now completely restored to health, and, man-like, he had j goae away without it ever having entered > his head that anything might happen to j turn my life out of the peaceful channel in [ which he had left it. \ Then "he had met Aunt Helen in Florence, j and she had casually mentioned the niar- | riage. He had shown only too plainly what he 1 felt, and dear auntie, judging from my I letters that I was not too happy, had guessed the sequel. So she had persuaded Osmond to travel home with her (and he had actually been in the same train), with her mind made up to find out the truth of things before it was too late. I "Why didn't you tell Viscount Erner that you loved somebody else ?" he said, i and he looked mischievously into my eyes. i "Because," I answered, trying to look I dignified, " you don't suppose, do you, that i a well brought-up young woman would ' acknowledge, even to herself, that she (had given away her love where Awasn't tasked?" i He was looking so hard at me that 1 I couldn't keep up that tone, so I added in ! answer to the look in his eyes, " How did I know it was asked for ? You might have mistaken me for Aunt Helen that night at the gate." " Well," he said, warmly, " and there isn't a sweeter woman in the world than Aunt Nellie— except her niece !" The last three words were added before I had time for the intended " pout," and so the happy moments flew, until he had to go, and then we mutually exclaimed : " What about the Viscount ? " "Ah!" I cried, "leave that till the morning ; we are so happy to-night, do not j let us spoil it." So he said " good-night " i and left me. I# # # # * I didn't dream that night. I slept sweetly and soundly, and only woke when j I heard, a tap at my door, and the maid ! entered, with a lovely bunch of flowers in j one hand and my morning letters in the | other. j I knew where the flowers came from eyen i before I caught sight of the little scrap of ; twisted paper, stuck amongst them; and .' after a time I turned to my letters. One from mamma, one from my sister Amelia, and one from xny " devoted Erner." " I'll keep thafc sweet thing till the last," I said. His last letter had made ! me very angry^ as he took upon himself to ! lecture me for having gone away without j consulting him ! Time enough to consult him later on, I had thought-to myself, and I had sent him no answer. The first lettei* I opened, was from . Amelia: " Dear Gwendoline, "I leave it to Geoffrey to explain matters to you ; he says he hardly understood his own feelings at the first. I hope yon will give me your good, wishes, and not let your own disappointment and annoyance make you treat -dear Geoffrey jin anything but a becoming manner. No j doubt you will feel it vary difficult to | restrain your jealousy, but I can only rejoice to think how a kind I Vovidence has intervened to let dear Geoffnoy find out his mistake ere it is too late. " Your affectionate sister, Amelia." " P.S. — The wedding wall be next • month." I What did it mean ? " Dear Geoffrey " — i who was tho girl talking about ? j I opened Viscount Erner'slefcter in amaze. ■ I scorn to try and quote it. Osmond • put it in f'e fire as soon as he had road ; it — such a shuffling, miserable produc- ', tion ! I First he tried upbraiding/me ; saying a3 I chose to neglect his authority and . had sent no apology fOr my conduct, he felt quite justified in doing -what he was about to do, for the sake »of his own dignity. . That my unseemly and ungrateful behaviour had convinced hiim I was quite unworthy of his favour, and of tho honour he had been about to bestot 7 upon me ; and that he was pleased and gratified to recognise in my dear sister Amelia a very different spirit, and had decided to confer upon her the honour which had so nearly been bestowed up ion me, as he believed that in her he should find a most amiable partner of his house and name. , So there it was. I was saved the trouble and difficulty of ' writing any explanations;, and— was ever any girl in her senses -so delighted, and relieved, to be jilted be-fore!. And— by a member of the ".Peerage},"- too ! | No balm would be neo (led for my mother's angry spirit— no eonso- lation expected for •my othor parent's wa landed pride. The ' only blot in their ey-is before had been ■ that I was preferred before my elder and ! more beautiful sister ; and now, how very smoothly it had all settled itself. Was ever before swcfli a blessed end to a railway accident? i; wrote at- once to : Amelia, first having semt the housemaid to hunt under the sofa, for my ring, which had lain there sincai the preceding night, , and I offered her .Day fullest congratulations. I asked her to accept the ring, to put

amongst the priceless ones he was sure to give her, and added — hypocrite that I was — that I had for a long time folt myself unsuited to wear it. I didn't say unworthy though, 1 couldn't bring myself to say that. Then, having finished my correspondence, I gathered together the various wonderful effusions I had received from my family, and with a light heart went down to meet my lover. I don't think I looked much of an invalid as I met Osmond in the Hall. Could it really be only twenty-four hours since I had lain, on that sofa, Avith tears coursing down my cheeks because of my sister's unkindness ? I would never reproach her again, no, never! She had not come- to see me, true, but she had gone where I had so nearly been dragged against my will — " into the Peerage." And so my story is told. It is five years now since Osmond and I were married, but it seems like yesterday. How time flies when one is young and happy. I am glad to say that Aunt Helen has not " left " me her money yet, and I don't fancy she ever will now. For it turned out Osmond was not the only person she m6t accidentally abroad, and before I had been many days engaged to Osmond, Dr Wilfrid Lisle turned up, to try and gather up the threads of a romance of ten years before— threads, it seemed, which had been purposely scattered by my mother, who even then had had a perfect craze for match-making, and had managed to send awpy Aunt Helen's lover, then only a rising young doctor, with a very sore heart. Well, Aunt Nellie is quite the right person for a doctor's wife, she possesses tho "art of healing" to perfection, and has long ago healed that old wound to their mutual satisfaction.