Our Novelettes.

Western Star, Issue 1182, 3 September 1887, Page 2 (Supplement)

Our Novelettes.

THE COST OF A PEOMIBE.

Chapter I.—( Continued ). “ I ftm not so sure of that. We all know Monsieur de Yignoa is your most devoted admirer.” Bernard replied seriously, Desiree trade a gesture of supreme contempt. “That little imbecile! What nonsense are you talking now, Monsieur Bernard ?” she said, throwing back her dainty little head. “ Change the subject, please.” “ Certainly. It appears to be a painful one,” Bernard assented gravely. Desiree caught up a fir-cone lying close to her hand, and flung it at her tormentor’s head, with a gay laugh, “I won’t talk to you any more. Papa, how quiet you are! And what is that letter I see peeping out of your pocket—anything interesting to me ?” “ It is from England—from your grandmother,” Mr Lisle answered rather reluct’ antiy.

Desiree elevated her eyebrows, and gave a comical little grimace. “ From grandma! Really, considering how rarely we answer her letters, she keeps on writing with a perseverance worthy of a better cause,” she said demurely. “ What does she want now ?”

“ You shall read the letter after supperShe wants you to visit her,” Mr Lisle replied. “ Mo?” —and Desiree’s face expressed anything but pleasure at the prospect. “ Oh, I couldn’t! It is impossible. In the first place, you couldn’t do without me, and in the second But there —I need not go on; of course it is impossible.”

“ I don’t see that—but we will talk it over after supper,” Mr Lisle answered. “I thought you wanted to go to England.” “So I do—with you. But there ” and Desiree gave a quick glance at her father’s face —“as you say, we won’t spoil this after-, noon by thinking or talking of disagreeable things; ‘ sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.’ How is the picture progressing, Monsieur Bernard P”

Mothing more was said on the subject of the English letter. Desiree lay on the grass in an indolent graceful manner, with her chestnut head resting on a log of wood, and talked to her father and Monsieur Bernard in the clcar-toned girlish voice which was the sweetest music imaginable in the ears of both men, until the light faded, the silence, hush, and mystery of the twilight stole over the forest, and Bernard reluctantly put his brushes aside and folded up his easel. Then followed the pleasant walk through the scented pine forest and across the fields.

It was all so beautiful, there was such a perfect atmosphere of peace over everything that an indescribable feeling of content stole over Desiree as she walked by her father’s side, saying little, as was her way when happiest, but with a sweet radiance in her face, an odd dreamy look in her eyes that stirred Bernard’s heart strangely. Supper was waiting when they reached the cottage, served daintily on a round table placed in the bay-window which looked towards the hills; and the three lingered over the frugal meal, and laughed and talked —or rather Monsieur Bernard and Desiree talked, for Mr Lisle was unusually silent and preoccupied—until the moon rose over the hills ; the lights died out of the cottages, and Old Margot, who was tired and wanted to go to bed, appeared at the door and insisted on clearing the table. “ Mam’sello will lose her roses ; it is not good for her-to keep such late hours,” the old woman said decisively as Desires brought out the pipes and tobacco-jar and mixed the nightly glasses of grog for the two men, then settled herself in her usual seat, a low chair close by the window. « N ow, papa dear, tell us all about grandma’s letter,” she said. “ I am dying with curiosity to hear the news ; (and I have been very patient, have I not P I have not bothered you a bit all supper-time; but you must tell me now.”

“ Is it private news P Must Igo ?’’ Bernard asked lazily. “ Oh, dear, no ! ” Mr Lisle took the letter from his pocket, and drew the lamp nearer to him. “ I need only read the part which concerns you, Desiree; the rest is—just as usual.”

“ I know,” Desiree answered promptly, with a laugh in her clear voice; “ the state of the weather —the last dinner-party—Eva’s last conquest —my unfortunate training, etcetera. So, pater dear, don’t read all that; draw a veil over all that, as the novels say, and proceed.” “ Yery well; now listen.”

“ ‘ After what I told you in my last letter, you will not bo surprised to hear that my dear Eva is engaged to be married to Sir Norman Hunton. The young people are very much attached to each other, and it is in every way a most suitable marriage. I shall miss Eva very much ; but her home will not be far distant, and, as the change is for her happiness, I feel it would be selfish to repine. I have long wished that Desiree should visit us, and that the two cousins should know each other. Eva, when Lady Hunton, will be a most valuable friend for Desiree. Will you allow her to come to the Court early next month for a long visit P The wedding will take place in October or November, and Eva is anxious that Desiree should be one of her bridesmaids.’ ”

“There”—and Mr Lisle folded up the letter again—“ what do you say to that, little one ?”

There was a comical expression of mirgled amusement and disgust on Desiree’s face that made Bernard chuckle under his moustache.

“Do you mean to accept the invitation?” Bernard asked. “ Pass another match, there’s a dear child ; my pipe has gone out,” “Accept it! Why, Monsieur Bernard, much smoking hath made thee mad! ” Desiree said placidly, as she struck a match and held it to his pipe. “ Fancy me being bridsemaid to a fashionable lady like Eva Lisle! ”

“ But, Desiree, dear child, I should like you to go,” Mr Lisle said quietly. “ Good gracious, |papa! ” —and there was unbounded amazement in Desiree’s face as she looked up at her father. “ Sou must bo dreaming. I should be wretched—perfectly wretched! ”

" Oh, no, you wouldn’t! Things would bo very different, no doubt; but I dare say you would enjoy yourself,” Mr Lisle answered ; “ and I should like you to know your cousin.” Ho hesitated for an instant, then went on, witha fainttremor in his voice—“ Her mother was very good to yours.” Desiree was silent, but the perplexed expression on her face changed and brightened, and she slipped her little hand into her father’s Iwith a quick sympathetic pressure. It was very rarely that her father mentioned the dead wife whom he had loved with sucb passionate devotion during their short married life, whom—three months after the birth of a child, whose coming had been so ardently desired —ho had laid to rest in a quiet corner of the churchyard, under the shade of the

within hearing of the sound of the waves she had loved so well. It was not alone the love of his life that George Lisle buried in his wife’s grave, but his ambition—bis hopes -- everything most precious in life. Only De-flrde, then a puny little baby, was left to him, She had seemed a poor consolation enough then; but now ? Ah, what words could tell all that Desiree was to him now ? There was a perfect sympathy and companionship between the two which rarely exists between father and daughter. They had never been separated for more than a day or two during Desiree’s twenty years of life. She had never been to school, never h«d or wanted any companions of her own sex or age ; father and daughter had led together a pleasant wandering life, perfectly content and satisfied with each other’s society. Mr Lisle had a private fortune —small, but amply sufficient for their wantts—and they two had wandered over Europe, now wintering in Rome, now spending a few months in Venice; but always returning at a certain time of the year, when the country had put on its fairest aspect to the quaint little village on the south coast of France, and the cottage where Mr Lisle’e married life had been spent. No other place could ever be home to him, George Lisle knew; and, quiet and monotonous as the life was, it fully satisfied him. Lately however he bad scarcely felt so content. During the past year doubts as to the advisability of continuing his present mode of life had begun to suggest themselves, and every letter fiom England strengthened these doubts. It was useless, as Mrs Lisle wrote, to close his eyes to the fact that Desiree was no longer a child, but a woman. Indeed a little circumstance which had occurred only a few months before would have been sufficient to awaken him to the fact.

Monsieur Adolphe de Yignon, a young Frenchman, and one of the chief proprietaires in the neighbourhood, had proposed for Desiree, and, though the offer duly imparted by her father to Desiree had been decisively refused, it had still bad the effect of disturbing Mr Lisle’s calm repose and [causing him to think of and look forward to the future with some anxiety. Ho was not in very good health, and the thought of his darling left alone and unprotected in the world was very bitter to him. It was not without many pangs that he had at last made up his mind to allow Desiree to accept the invitation which his mother had often repeated for the girl to visit her in her English home. He had talked the matter over with Bernard Farqualo gravely enough that afternoon before Desires bad joined them in the pine forest.

Bernard Farquale, though much younger than himself, was his greatest friend, the one man whom above all others he most trusted and valued. They had known each other since boyhood, had been first schoolfellows, then college chums, and later on, when George Lisle, by his imprudent marriage to a young French girl, had alienated the affections of his family and offended his mother almost beyond forgiveness, it was Bernard Farquale who stood by his friend with increasing fidelity and cordiality, and who, still later on, had done his best by his ready sympathy to soften the blow of Mrs Lisle’s death.

Since that time, more than nineteen year 9 ago, the two friends had never failed to spend some weeks out of the year together. Bernard was an artist; he had no settled home, but he was fond of a wandering life, and was always glad of an excuse to visit Lauvinge, and spend a few weeks in the quiet little village among the hills. Desiree always looked forward to these visits with intense delight. Monsieur Bernard, as she called him, in her pretty foreign way, had been her hero from childhood, and not one of, the handsome young artists who often found their way to Lauvigne, and, as a matter-of-course, were always hospitably entertained at the cottage by Mr Lisle, could bear any comparison with him. She had always gone to Bernard with her troubles and pleasures, and had been sympathised with, or soothed, or scolded, as the case might be. Mr Lisle might be coaxed or bullied into submission, but Desiree soon found out that it was impossible to move any fixed resolution of Bernard Earquale’s. And as she grew older, and passed from girlhood into womanhood, these relations remained unchanged. Whatever dreams of some possible feeling warmer than friendship might sometimes agitate Bernard’s heart, nothing as yet had occurred to ripple the smooth surface of Dosiroe’smind. Bernard was, as he had always been, her truest, most valued friend —nothing more.

She looked up at him now a little nervously, as lie lay back in his easy-chair, with his hands clasped behind his head and the lamplight falling on his straight profile and crisp curly hair. “ What does Monsieur Bernard say ?” she asked softly.

Bernard hesitated an instant before bo answered.

“ I think, as your father wishes it, you ought to go,” he said shortly; and Desiree sighed. “ Ah, well, I suppose I must give in, if you are both against me! ” she said, a little impatiently. “ It will be horrid, I know ; but I will get over it, I dare say ! When am I to go ?” "Your grandmother says the week after next; if I can find an escort for you, that is. You could not go alone,” Mr Lisle replied. “The week after next?”—and Desiree’s face changed. “ Oh, that is a long way off 1 All sorts of things may have happened before then. I sha’n’t worry myself yet a while, at all events ; and, after all”—Desire3’s sweet laugh rang through the room—“ there is always one consolation—it will soon bo got over. ‘For, be the day ever so weary and long. It will ring at last to the evensong.’ ” Chapter 11. “It came upon me at first,” said Desiree solemnly, “ like the crack of doom j but I am getting used to it now.” “ Used to what ? Pray be more explicit, dear child,” answered Monsieur Bernard lazily. It was the hottest part of a hot summer day, and the two friends were lying on the sands under the shadow of a jutting cliff in luxurious idleness. Mr Lisle had driven into the neighbouring town to see some friends; and Desiree, taking advantage of his absence, bad coaxed Bernard to put aside his work and take her for a long boating excursion. They had rowed round the coast to a portion of the rocks inaccessible from the land, and were now—tired at last of roaming about—resting after their fatigues before commencing the return voyage, Bernard, lying flat on his back, with his hat pulled over his eyes and his pipe in his mouth, looked, and indeed was, more than half asleep, but there was not a shadow of weariness on Desiree’s face, and her gray eyes were shining with happiness. There was nothing she enjoyed more than a long ramble among the rocks with Bernard—always provided that Bernard was in a good humour, as she herself would have said ; this morning he had been «imply angelic, and Diisiree was unutterably happy. How indeed could she be otherwise? The dny was so beautiful, the sea so blue, the wind which

blow across the cliffs was full of a thousand sweat odours—how could Desiree help being happy ? “ Used to the idea of my visit to grandma, of course,” she returned gaily. Do you think I shall enjoy myself, Monsieur Bernard ?” “ I think you will find it dull, what you would call triste,” Bernard answered. “Everything will be so different, you see.” “ Different! How ?”

“ Well, in the first place ” —and Bernard pushed back his hat, and looked at his companion with a comical gleam in his brown eyes—“you will have to adopt a more fashionable, if less becoming style of toilette; you will wear gloves ” —Desiree glanced down at her shapely brown hands in some dismay —“ tie back your dress tightly, until walking becomes a difficulty, and sitting down an impossibility ” “ What nonsense! lam sure I shall not do anything soridiculous,” Desiree interrupted indignantly. “ Oh, yes, you will, my child! And you will not be allowed to go gallivanting about the country-side, as you are in the habit of doing at present, without a chaperon to take care of you.” •' I have you,” again Desiree interrupted; and Bernard laughed lazily. “ I am afraid Mrs Lisle would scarcely consider mo a desirable chaperon,” he said, pulling his beard meditatively. “ Yes, times will be changed, my child ! You have much to learn before you develop into a young lady perfectly comme il faut. You wil have to learn to coquet and lie and flatter—in short, to do a thousand things which you leave undone now, and to leave undone a thousand things which you do at present," ha added drily. Desiree did not answer for a moment. She sat gazing thoughtfully before her, with a half-petulant, half-amused look on her pretty face.

“ Am I so very unlike English girls, then,” she said at length, in a rather impatient tone —“your sisters for instance?” "My sisters!”—and Bernard laughed rather mockingly. “My sisters are—model young ladies; they have been educated up to the highest pitch of perfection—educated until they are all intellect, and no heart. They sing, play, paint, hare passed no end of examinations, and ”

“ Oh, for goodness sake, stop! ” —and Desiree put her Sogers in her ears and frowned impatiently. “ I should hate them, I know ! Is Eva like that, I wonder? I hope not.”

“ Eva ? No, she is a nice little girl enough,” Bernard answered carelessly, “ one of those colourless people whom every one likes and whom one would as soon think of hating as of loving.” “ That sounds better, but not very promising,” Desiree rejoined, with a petulant smile. “And her fiance, this Sir Norman Hunton P Do you know him ?” “ No; but I used to know his brother very well j and, if ho is anything like the late Sir Felix, he will be a conceited prig,” Bernard said, with a yawn, “ though perhaps I ought not to express an opinion.” “ Why not ?” "Why? Because he was my successful rival," Bernard answered melodramatically—“because be came, with his riches and his lands, and stole from me the only woman I ever loved—as the novels say.” Desiree looked up curiously. Bernard’s yoice was solemn enough j but there was a suppressed twinkle in his brown eyes, an amused smile hovering round bis lips, that reassured her at once; and she smiled back in answering amusement. “Poor blighted being! Tell me all about it. Monsieur Bernard,” she said in her coaxing voice, putting her hand caressingly on bis arm. “Did she treat you very badly ? Wore you very much cut up ?”

“ Fes, at the time I was. ” —Bernard stroked his beard thoughtfully—“ exceedingly cut up; but I got over it long ago. 1 was really very fond of her ; and she certainly was, without exception, the prettiest [girl I ever saw in my life. She was tall and stately, with golden hair and blue eyes, not cloudy gray-blue, like yours, my child”—and Bernard glanced up into the attentive face, beading over him—“but clear and blue as the pools among the rocks; and she had the sweetest voice, the prettiest ways! In fact, to sum up the list of her perfections, I may as well inform you at once that she was as beautiful as a poet’s dream. Not being a poet myself,” Bernard went on drily, “ I must confess that I have very vague notions as to the meaning of the phrase; but no doubt an ardent lomantic young person like yourself can imagine it all.” “ And were you really engaged to her ?”

“ Oh, yes; we were properly engaged, and for two blissful months I lived in a state of supreme happiness! My divinity was somewhat capricious no doublt; but I did not object to that, for at that period of my existence I only lived to anticipate her wishes. Alter two months, she got tired, or I did—l am sure 1 forget which now—and Sir Felix came to the fore and cut me out.” “ Poor fellow! ” But there was not much sympathy in Desiree’s voice, and her gray eyes were dancing with amusement. “I don’t believe you cared a bit. But you said ‘the late Sir Felix’ —is she a widow now ?”

“Yes; after ten years of patient suffering, Sir Felix slept with his fathers; and, as he had no children, his brother, the present Baronet and your cousin’s fiance ', reigned in his stead,” Bernard answered in his lazy voice. “ You will see my old sweetheart when you go to Lisle Court, Desiree. Since her husband’s death she has continued to live at her old homo, and will do so, I suppose, till Sir Norman is married.” “ I should like to see her ! There will be a melancholy pleasure in contemplating the remains of the only woman you ever loved,” Desiree said mockingly. “ You had better go with me. Perhaps, as grandma would say, the attachment might bo revived if you were to meet again 1 ” “ I don’t think so. No, ’tis better as it is. I have fulfilled my destiny. I can say now with the poet—• “ ‘ ’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.’ And dead fires are difficult to relight! Bolter to rake out the ashrs and commence afresh,” said Bernard lazily, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. Desiree did not answer just at first. She sat with her hands clasped on her knee, looking before her with dreamy eyes. “ Monsieur Bernard ” —and Bernard started and looked at the sound of the voice which had grown suddenly grave and wistful—- “ whenever you speak of love or marriage ” and the girl hesitated shyly a moment as she said the words—“you always speak as if—as if you did not much believe in either. And yet there are people who love each other so dearly that they never forget or grow carelessLook at pupa, how dearly he loved my mother! Why, I don\ believe,” the girl went on, with a sudden pas min her sweet voice, “ that he is ever really happy away from here—from the house where she lived and died! Is it different then in the world ? Are faith and honour only idle names, love only an empty word ? Are these among the things which you said I should find so different P” {To be continued.)