A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XI, Issue 43, 28 October 1893, Page 352

A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE.

a, N the face of the Hon. an<i Rev. Mark Lawton was an expression of blank astonishment. He took up a letter from his writing table, glanced hastily through it, and laid it dow n again. Then — ' he gazed contemplatively into the tire, as if hoping to draw some inspiration from the crackling logs. The letter in question ran as follows : — College. Oxford. bear Father.-Though I have written to you several times with reference to my intended marriage, your only reply has been the post-card you sent me last week telling me to make a fool of myself if I liked, but that you washed your hands of all responsibiiity in the matter. As that is apparently your final decision it is useless for me to say any more, but why you have acted like this I shall never understand. Of course I know that the idea of my marrying before leaving college is distasteful to you. but at least I thought you would answer my letters. Yours in surprise. Geoffrey. The clergyman rose and began to pace nervously up and down the small study. ‘ What does it mean ?' he murmured. ‘ Geoffrey going to be married, and his letters. I had no letters, it is all a mistake.' The Hon. and Rev. Mark Lawton, who bad just laid down his son s letter, was not only the third son or the Earl of Bresterleigh, but was himself a well-known man in the London world. Some five years back he had been the hero of a nine days' wonder. His action bad been variously characterised as that < f a madman and a martyr. What he had done was simply to surrender a valuable West End living for one of the poorest parishes in the East End. Briefly, to exchange a life of cultured leisure for one of vulgar and monotonous toil. But Mr Lawton had but one answer to all the protestations of bis friends. ‘ I'm tired of doing nothing,’ he said, and that was all that could be got out of him. To anyone who had known him from his youth up that answer would doubtless have been more than sufficient. To Mark Lawton, fortune had always been kind. He had never lacked for money, he was clever and good-look-ing. He had gone np with a scholarship from Eton to Oxford fully resolved to make a name for himself in the I Diversity world. And a name be certainly did make, only it was of rather an unenviable kind. Like so mauy other men he was spoilt by monev. Had he been poor he would doubtless have done well. As it was he diifted into a friendship with the fastest set in the college, and he was a familiar figure at the stage door of a certain popular burlesque theatre. Things went on like this for the first three years of his I'niversity life. On more than one cccasion he had narrowly escaped being ‘sent down,'and at last even the long suffering dons could stand it no longer. A more than usually uproarious ‘ wine,' which concluded with the lighting of an enormous bonfire outside the dean's door, resulted in Mark Lawton being rusticated for six months in company with several others of bis set. What at first looked like a misfortune was, in fact, the turning point in Mark Lawton’s life. The six months of his compulsory absence from college were passed at one of his father’s numerous country houses. His lordship himself was abroad, and Mark had the place to himself, and plenty of time for reflection to boot. He was useful at fairs ani bazaars of all kinds, and was always beset with importunities from fair damsels to bny this buttonhole, or put into that rttfle. As the summer days slipped idly by be saw dimly at first, but with an ever growing sense of conviction, how he had fooled away his life. One evening, it was early September, and in a month he was to return to the I’niversity, he had strolled ont into the garden after dinner. The no on bad not yet risen, only away in the east the brightening sky heralded its advent. The still air was heavy with the scent of the roses, and ever and anon a ghostly bat flitted past him to be lost again in the night He sat down on one of thequaintly carved seats which were scattered hereand there along the walks, and for some time did not move. In his heart the love of pleasure wrestled with the yearning for a nobler life. An hour later he rose and walked back to the house*I he tight had been a fierce one, but it was over now 4 From that moment his old self was dead, henceforth Mark Lawton wa« a changed man. At College for the first few weeks of the Michaelmas term there was bnt one topi? of conversation. ‘ Turned saint,” ha’ he ?' said Lord Bry field, with an oath. ‘ By gad, I think I will follow his example. It will be a new sensation, anyhow, and that is always something to lie thankful for it. this cussed world, and I bet 1 keep up as long as he does.' His lordship evidently viewed his quondam friend's con duct as the novel experiment of a mere pleasnre-seeker, who, bias- with his own delights, is ready to welcome anything, so long as it is only a change. But here his lordship was decidedly wrong. In spite of the protestations of his former compinions, protestations which ere long descended to abuse, Mark Lawt<>n held to the resolutions he had formed. N it orally talented as he was, he succeeded by dint of hard reading in taking his degree with first-class honours, and then announced bis intention of going into the Church. After holding a country curacy for a few years, he had laen appointed to a living in a large Yorkshire to»n, from whence, owing to bis own intellectual powers and his father's interest, he had received preferment to the West End 11 it he soon tired of the work he found there. His soul c a'ed for stronger meat than a course of sermons to a fa»bi mable congregation, and a living having ju«t fallen vacant in one of the roughest districts of the East End, he promptly grasped what seemed a luckychar.ce, and a month later was installed in his newpari-h. Soon afrer leaving Oxford he bad married, bnt his wife died, leaving him an only son, Geoffrey. As the boy grew np the relations be-

tween him and his father became rather like that of brother to brother than father to son. Mark had but few friends. The men he had known at Oxford he had no wish to see again, and living down in the country, as he had done since he entered the church, he had little opportunity of making fresh acquaintances. And so it came about that all his interest was centred in his son. He taught the boy everything himself, and indeed it was small trouble, for Geoffrey had inherited his father s genius, and proved an apt pupil. When the boy was about fourteen Mark debated whether he ought not to send him to a public school. Finally, however, he decided not to do so. Truth to tell, he shrank from parting with him sooner than he could help, and so Geoffrey staved at home till be was eighteen. Then Mark sent him up for a scholarship at Oxford, and to his delight Geoffrey proved successful, and it was settled that he should go into residence at the beginning of the following term.

The night before he left home to begin his new life Mark had a long talk with him. He pointed out how easy it was to go wrong, and urged him, as he loved his own happiness, not to let his life be wasted. ‘ Above all,’ be concluded, ‘steer clear of women. Once get entangled with a woman and yon never know where it will end.’ And Mark Lawton sighed Tne experience of his younger days had been in this particular respect dearly bought, and the reminiscence was not pleasant.

For the tiist three years of his son’s life at college all went well. Geoffrey stuck to his work, and ere long great things were prophesied of him. To Mark bis son's success was especially pleasing. He had alwaysdreaded lest Geoffrey should imitate his own unfortunate under-graduate days ; but gradually that fear passed away ; and the son’s life had made sunshine in the father’s. And now bad suddenly come a letter announcing Geoffrey's marriage. The more Mark Law ton pondered over this mysterious document the less could he understand it. In the first place, he had never received any previous letters from his son on the subject at all ; and secondly, he had never written the post card that Geoffrey referred to, and the news of the latter's marriage had come as an absolute surprise. There was a misunderstanding somewhere, that was evident, and he resolved tc go down to Oxford at once and try and clear it np. He was just leaving the room to go upstairs to pack up a few things, when the front door bell rang. It was too late to give instructions not to admit any one, and he only hoped that the visitor would not detain him long. The door opened, and the servant announced—Mrs Ashton. A tall, well-dressed woman entered. At the first glance one would have put her age down at something just over thirty, but closer inspection showed that forty would have been nearer the mark, for her face bore signs of considerable ‘ touching up.’ Still, even without the aid of art, she would have been handsome. Mark Lawton started, and his usually pale features flushed. * Good God !' he stammered—• Ivy 1’ His visitor smiled, a cruel smile wherein was no joy. ‘You have not forgotten me, then,’she said; * 1 thank you for thecomoliment ; fifteen years is a long time, and we women soon grow old.' ‘ I have not forgotten you ; I never shall forget you. That is my punishment. What do you want ? Is it money ? Take what you wish.' ‘ Money '.’ There was a world of scorn in her voice.

Have I not refused it a thousand times? No, it is not money I want.’ ‘ If there is anything else I can do, I will do it, save only that I cannot love yon -. it is useless to ask that.’ She burst into a ringing laugh. • Love ! who wants your love? Not I. Once I was fool enough to care for you, bat that was long ago. Now ' — Mark Lawton interrupted her. • If you will tell me what you want at once, I will do my best,’ he said, ‘ but I cannot stop. I have to go out of town immediately.’ •Shall I tell you where you are going,’ she said ; * to Oxford. Am I right ?’ Mark Lawton bowed, but there was a surprised look on his face. • You are quite right,’ he said, ‘ but I don’t understand how you know. I have only just decided to go myself.’ ‘ I know more than you think, perhaps,' was the rejoinder. ‘ You are going to Oxford because you have suddenly learnt that your son has married, and the whole matter is a mystery to you.’ The clergyman seized her by the wrist. * You know this,' he cried, excitedly, ‘ for God’s sake tell me. She shook herself free and leaned against the table. • Yes, Mark Lawton, I do know, and I will tell you. Listen. ’ ‘Twenty years ago now. you took me away from my country home, and when your passion was sated, tossed me aside. That is so like a man. You lead a woman on to love you, and then when the first excitement wears off, you tell her to go. I can take care of myself, you say, why can't she? What does it matter to you if her good name and her happiness are alike doomed ? And then you otter her money, money forsooth to mend a broken heart. At least, if you did not think of me, yon might have thought of your child.’ Mark started. ‘ Child I 1 did not know ; you never told me.’ Again she laughed bitterly. • Child !is there anything strange in that? Yes; you have a daughter. I daresay there are plenty more got in the same way. What of that ?’ Mark Lawton groaned. ‘ I never knew,’ he muttered. ‘ God is witness I never knew.’ But the woman did not notice him. She went on with her story appareut'y unmoved. ‘ You are her father, and if it is any comfort to hear it I can tell you she is a pretty girl, pretty woman perhaps I ought to say, at least so the men at Oxford will tell you.' ‘ Oxford ?' ‘Yes, why not? lam living there now.’ ‘ You are living there ‘ I am.’ The clergyman saw it all now : she was living in Oxford. Doubtless she had heaid the story of his son’s marriage. • You know Geoffrey ?' he said eagerly . ‘ Slightly.’ ‘ And his wife?' ' Yes.' Mark took his sons letter from the writing table. ‘Can you explain this?’ he said. ‘Before today I had never heard about his approaching marriage, and yet he says I wrote to him. She glanced at the letter e moment. ‘ Yes, I can tell you,’ she said, ‘ it s all I came here to do. You know that a woman can love ; did it ever strike you that she can avenge? Your son wrote to you again and again about his intended marriage, but you did not answer. ‘ I received no letter from him.' »Ah ! I daresay not. His letters were never posted. Shall I tell you why ? I had them intercepted.’ ‘ You 1’ ‘ Yes. 1 did more than that. You say you never wrote to him. I can quite believe it. I myself wrote the letters he thought came from you. It was not hard to imitate your writing. Do yon remember the letters I once used to write for you when you were too lazy to do them yourself in the old days when we used to be yachting together ? I had seen some of your recent letters to your son, and the hand was still the same. Why did Ido all this, you will ask? For a very simple reason. I wanted your son married as soon as possible, and without your having a chance of stopping the ceremony. The boy was always proud, and I knew that once he had received a letter such as that he thought came from you my victory was assured.’ ‘ Good God, woman, what do you mean ? Your victory ‘ Yes, your son’s marriage, that was my victory, Mark Lawton ; my victory and my revenge.’ ‘ Revenge,’ he murmured hoarsely, ‘ revenge I’ A horrrible suspicion Hashed across his mind. ‘ His wife,' he murmured hoarsely, ‘ her name, quick. For God’s sake.’ She laughed exultingly. ‘Cant you guess? Never mind, I will tell you. It will make a pretty subject for your next sermon. I have waited for this moment for years. Once I never thought the time would come. It was a lucky idea to move down to Oxford. From that day my purpose began to be accomplished, and now I have triumphed. You will hardly make such a mistake again ; you will know how we women can hate. Sweet is love they say, methinks revenge is sweeter.’ Mark Lawton stretched out his hand. ‘ Enough, woman. Tell—is it—is it, in pity’s name do not say that.’ ‘ You have guessed rightly.’ She took up her gloves and turned to go. ‘ Then I don't believe your story. You are bad enough to revenge yourself on me or my son, but no mother would so sacrifice her own daughter. Your whole story is a lie. The giil is neither your nor my daughter, and the marriage has not taken place yet. You were trying to marry my son to some drab, and in your certainty you let him write this letter to me. But some hitch has occurred, the boy would not marry till there was time for me to answer, and so you have cme here to persuade me tbe marriage has taken place, that I am too late to save my boy, and thus detain me and gain time. Get out of my way, you devil ' • Ab, you may go, hut you will be too late 1 • I shall not fail !' He almost Hew out of the room.

‘ And to think I have failed after all,’ soliloquised Mrs Ashton. • The devil may be good to his own, but he is not so good as God is after all.’— Exchange.