LADY BETTY'S LOVER.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10236, 19 August 1911, Page 3

LADY BETTY'S LOVER.

(By NORA TYNAN O'MAEONY.) [All Rights Reserved.] All her friends declared that Lady Betty Barring ton looked absurdly, unbelievably young for her years, almost as young and as lovely (even lovelier, indeed, some thought, in her riper, more fully-developed beauty) as in the old days before she had astonished her world by marrying old Sir George, twenty-five 3'ears her senior, immensely wealthy, and so learned an authority on all matters historical and antiquarian as to make his nam© a famous one throughout the kingdom.

It had been purely a marriage de oonvenancs on Betty's side, of course, for she came of a sorely impoverished stock, and would have made even greater sacrifice, if that were possible, for the father and mother she so dearly loved, and to keep dear old Ardgreenan still in the hands of her family, the de Burghs, who had owned it for so long. Still, there were some people who took leave to question if pretty Betty de Burgh would ever have given herself in marriage to Sir George were Lieutenant Rody Bellingham still alive, instead of lying with the others of his ship's company fully forty fathoms deep at the bottom of Biscay Bay.

It had taken poor Betty some- considerable time to get over the shock of that event, and thereafter she never seemed quite the same merry, lighthearted Betty any more. Still, her marriage with Sir George had been by no means an unhappy one. He had frankly adored his lovely young wife from the first, while she on her part had come to be genuinely fond of, as well as immensely proud of, her famous husband, and had mourned him long and with very real grief when, alter a dozen years or so of married life, he had suddenly met his death one day by an accident in the hunting field, being brought home to her speechless and dying. Betty had lived in seclusion tor two or three years after that, putting her husband's papers and belongings into order, and even venturing so far into literature herself as to engage in tho writing of a memorial of the great dead man at the request of one of his publishers. The book had been published, and pronounced an unqualified success; and perhaps it was partly due to the public light thus thrown on her that Betty's friends succeeded at last in drawing her out of the seclusion in which she had hidden herself, to take her rightful place once more in society. Betty herself, quiet and staid though she had grown, would have been the last to deny that her re-entry into the social world had not done her a great deal of good. By degrees she lost her grief-stricken, lonely air, her eyes grew bright, her pale, thin cheeks took on again a lovely colour and something of their old soft girlish roundness. And yet after a dozen years of wedded life and three or four more of widowhood it was plain—as one of her few envious ntischbours maliciously declared—that " Setty Barrington was certainly no chicken," even though no single thread of grey dulled as yet the brightness of her abundant golden-brown tresses.

When at last she had been persuaded to oast aside her garb of mourning, since sho realised that for others as well as herself the dull, monotonous black garments must seem gloomy and depressing, there was not a lovelier or niore winsome woman in the whole country than Lady Betty. She had suitors' in plenty, you may he sure, for in addition to her beauty there was the attraction of wealth. and Sir' George, in default of heirs, had left her practically the whole of his iraniense fortune. i

That there had heen no heirs had ever heen a great grief to Betty, who adored children, and felt that in this way at least she had disappointed her husband. But there were plenty who might benefit by her riches, and Betty did not hoard them; amongst others the long needy family at home, and the children of a sister who had. married far less successfully than she had done, and whose eldest daughter Betty had recently adopted as her own. This was another Betty, at present deep in the mastering of lady-like accomplishments as well as erudition in an oldworld Belgian Convent where Lady Betty herself had gleaned her many graoes of mind and manner and de- j portment. ; Betty often found herself wishing that the girl's education were finished, for despite her numerous friends, she sometimes folt lonely and in sore need of companionship. And yet, somehow, the most obvious and natural means of remedying her loneliness hardly ever appealed to her, despite her many suitors. There was Sir Nicholas Fairbanks, but he was a gambler and a roue, and thought only of her money, she _ felt sure. Then there was Mr Dermison, good-looking and amiable, hut without a vestige of brains—and having been Sir George Barrington's wife Betty ; felt that she could never now marry a | fool. There was the Honourable Robert Barclay, another fortune-hunt- j er; old Mr Armytage, gouty and rheu- ] matic, neither of whose pretensions ] appealed in the least to her. And there was Walter Latouche—hut she •: wasn't quite sure about him! Walter Latouche stood six foot two] in his stockings, had the handsomest;,--features, the shapeliest figure, the merriest, kindliness blue' eyes of any man in the barony—and ; was only twenty-six. That was the; pity of it! Had she heen fifteen, even ten years younger, she might have thought of it; but now, with that pitiless record in the family Bible staring her in the faee and belyir>g the tale told her by her glass every morning, that she was still young, still fresh and sweet and lovely enough for any man, how could she dare entertain the idea. And was it very foolish of her, even wicked, she wondered, that she should of late have blossomed * into a sort of butterfly radiance with regard to dress? Instead of the old dull black garb, Bettv nowadays gowned herself in the daintiest, most bewitching confections that Pan's or Bond Street could produce, robes of delicate pasteLle bleu, vioux roso, flower-strewn silken crepe de chine, everything that was softest, loveliest, most becoming. For there was something very alluring, something dangerously tempting and touching, too in the whole-hearted devotion of this handsome young lover. Walter was wealthy enough in his own right, and it was not her money ho wanted, she knew, nis adoration for her was too plain and unmistakable; to him everything about her was sweat and perfect and beautiful, even her matronly air of maturity and the distinguished name which she bore with such grace and dignity hold in his eyes for their own sakes a special charm and attraction. How could anyone ever think of Lady Betty Barrington as old—could a woman so sweet and lovely, so clever and wise, and kind and good, ever seem really old! Bettv had been attracted to him from the very first in sonie quite inexplicable way. Perhaps it was his immense good looks; perhaps it had been his very obvious devotion—though she liked rather to think that it was a certain resemblance to her girlhood's lover —the dear, dead, drowned Body who of late had become so much a shadowy dream in her thoughts—that first drew her to him. For drawn towards him in sort© of herself she certainly was. And oh, if she were only ten years younger! As it was, she refused to take him s&iou&ly, laughing him into silence whenever he attempted to broach the subject of his love for her. Once, when he had get as ne;:r to an actual proposal as she had over let him go, slio had told him, with a sudden shy fear of herself, to wait, to let things go on pleasantly and undisturbed as thev were, to give her and himself ;-. little- more time to think. It was justthree days after that, she remembered, that the terrible thing had happenod which threatened for a while to crush all the sunshine out of Walter's life, to chase for ever from his lips and eyes

the merry kindly smile she had so quickly learned to love. For Walter's father, a man in high place, but unfortunately infected with the gambling spirit, had been accused; and was subsequently found guilty of embezzlement. There were large d* falcations in the accounts entrusted to him, and, though everyone felt thai) tney were but in the nature of a temporary loan—the Latouches beina wealthy, and their name above reproach —■the law, it was decided, must never-' theless take its course. Mr Latoucha was dismissed from office, and by the time Walter and his mother had made good his defalcations, together with a huge fine that alone saved the head of the house from prison, the family coffers were much depleted indeed. From that day on, though Lady Betty watched for him hourly with aching, tender heart Walter Latoudhe never once darkened her door Poor boy, poor Walter! With that high, proud, sensitive spirit of his, how much he must feel it all! Why. did ho not come i._ As though it could ever make any difference to her, who loved him so much, so dearly. Yes, she acknowledged it to herself at lastshe loved him deeply, tenderly, poignantly, with a lore as of sweetheart, mother, wife, all in one. She supposed he was eating his heart out in misery, ashamed to meet the world, and the eyes of f}is friends. And , doubtless there were those amongst the latter, mean and ungenerous enough to para him by—nay, even to point the finger of scorn and gloat in secret over the downfall of this family which had even held its head so high! More bitterly than ever did she nowi deplore the cruel* chasm of years that lay between them. With all hep wealtn, her influence, the reflected glory of the name she bore, hdw mucl» sho could have done, how gladly sh* would have helped him now, proving herself his salvation, his good deity, hist fairy godmother. And was it after all, too late? She had always loved to play the role of fairy god-' mother to poor mortals in distress, and in Walter's case the idea appealed t<n, her now with more irresistible fore* than ever. 1

Still he did not come, and at last one day she sent for him. He cams obediently, as at a royal command, but as she entered the room and found" himi standing hat in hand awaiting her, sh« thought him a very different Walter, sad-faced, thin, and care-worn, fromj the high-spirited, debonair lad she had known a tow weeks before. Her heart went out to him in a sudden pang of longing the while she stood stock-still and irresolute', holding herself well in, hand lest her tongue should speak, he? eyes reveal the pity, the tenderness, the great love she bore him.

He looked at her a moment, noting dully that she was wearing again th«i sombre black garments which he nevert liked to see. Then suddenly he. was beside her, holding her two hands in his with a grasp that almost hurt her* " You are very good—very good as always, to send for me, when so many others have held aloof and ignore ed me." he began, and then stopped^ " I should like to be good to you—< and I am .going to be good to you, i| you'll let me." she added softly; and in her mist-dimmed eyes he suddenly caught a hint of tho thoughts that lajj behind them. " Aro you?" he cried gladly. ' 'That' would be lovely— to gain my heaven—• ■ at last!" Then his face darkened again." " But no, my dear one, my angel, T could never let you—now! Notwitli my good name tarnished; not as things aro. and must ever be for me. How. * could I let ycu link your honoured,. name with mine? Betty—Betty, dar-» ling, don't tempt me now, for Gods. sake! It is only your goodness,. yoUBJ great, divine pity, and you know,_]J have always wanted you for my own, , my own dearest wife, though you only laughed at me, and would not listen _j i > "I. am not laughing at you now? 9, she began soberly, laying her hand on his arm. "Walter,-do yon know how, old I, am?" He looked at her-in wonder, then smiled faintly. "I don't know—and I don't care,'* he answered with something of his ora boyishness. " A woman ia only as old, as she looks, anyhow. All I know is that I lovo you—that you are the one woman in the world " " That you must not marry," she finished. " A man may not marry his grandmother, you know," she laughed ruefully. " Now, I'm going to tell you how old I am. just for your good, you deer, delightful boy. I'm, over- " and she whispered the: words with ft half-comical look of mingled deprecation, amusement-and horror. He stopped arrested, and stared hla incredulity. •>' « ■" " I don't believe it," he said- flatly. "It's true, anyway," she admitt©^ sadly, yet with far less, sadness than-' she felt. " You see, how 'impossibl^thfli whole thing would be, a clear case, of 'too old at forty,' " she went.on, withi a brave attempt at a joke. "No, no*' Hove—Hike you far too well, Walter dear, to "marry you—at my age. Just think how it would be! When ybtt are forty—and a man is only art nia best then —I should be nfty^ve,;aridan,old, ; old woman. No, no, you must marry, someone younger, a girl approachiiyj your own age, a woman who will be. *i- . fitting mate for you, who will give youf i ftehaldren.— —^■' , She stopped and frhshetl ! a little, for the reproach of her owm .childlessness lay. still heavy on hit! ; 'heart, ■.. -■ " ■ '"•-- .s • "Andvyou," he asked, "are youtfl be always lonely, bereft of,ail " "I need not be quite lonely,"; 'shtL said, stopping him, •" at least not|for a' time. You see, I hare Betty—she|cam» yesterday." * "Betty?" he asked, in wonder. "Yes, Betty Carruthers," she nodded, "my niece, and my heiress.by-and-by. "You must .see her," she added, touching a bell, and tell me .what you think of her." A moment later Betty Carruthew appeared, a tall, willowy young creature wearing a girlish pink and white rose-strewn muslin gown that threw, into greater relief the wonderful fairness of her neck and face, radiant with all the fresh young beauty of her eighteen years. Walter Latouche could not take his eyes off her. She looked at him shyly, and smilod with bewitching girlish charm as Lady Betty introduced" them. "Betty, my dear, will you run upstairs and put on your hat," the latter said affectionately. "I have a letter to write, and would like you to show Mr Latouche that new bed of begonias. He will stay and join us at dinner," she finished, brushing aside his demurral. "Well, what do you think of her?" she asked again, rrith a proud fond air, as tho door closed softly behind the* younger Betty. "Think of her!" he repeated. "Why, she's wonderful—l think I have never seen any face quite so perfect before. And so amazingly like you, Betty!—in i fact, she is you!" he cried, with en; thusiasm. "As I used to be!" she corrected, " only a little taller, a little slimmer, and a great deal more lovely than I was, perhaps. Ah, well, it is good to know that one was even a little like that, once upon a time. Yes, I'm very proud of Betty, for she's good and true as well as lovely, a clever girl, too, who will make a-capital wife—for somebodyy some day." : - For aU her- assumed air. of gaiety,; a little spasm of pain crossed Lady Bettys face , when a moment or two later Walter Latouche,.still like a man in a dream or a daze, followed the younger Betty into the garden. " I do so want to be good to him!" she sighed, "and this seems the best way out, the only way. After all, it's something to be able to play the fairy godmother to those whom you love, oven though yon yourself miss the gift you most want. But it's surely the best thing for him, for him and for Betty—for myself, too, if ono could only know it!"