A HASTY JUDGMENT

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XI, Issue 46, 18 November 1893, Page 424

A HASTY JUDGMENT

By MRS HUNGERFORD.

Author of ‘MOLLY BAWN,’ ‘LADY BRANKSMERE,’ Etc

FTER all, Digby, you are more forgiving than I thought you,’ says Major Carlton, coming up to where Digby Vere is standing beside a heavy velvet portiere that hides a recess beyond, A waltz has just begun and Vere has the expression of one who is looking among the dancers for some one particular person. • How so’’ says he, smiling. He is a specially good-looking young man of about twentynine, and the smart Lancer uniform he is wearing seems to suit him. ‘ Why, I’ve just heard from Waring that you have been Miss Gascoigne’s devoted slave for the past three weeks.’ * Slave —well, as for that—l confess, however that I—like her.’ ‘Twill serve,’ says Carlton, laughing. ‘And so you have forgotten the past then ’ You have condoned her sin and all those dark threats of vengeance you used to breathe in India are so much—vapor. 1 thought you were never going to forgive her scandalous treatment of your cousin, Sir Charles’’ ‘ What do you mean?' exclaims Vere, wheeling round to look at him more intently. ‘ What are you talking about? The woman who wrecked Charles Vere’s life was called Florence Grant.’ ‘ And is now called Florence Gascoigne.’ Vere bursts out laughing—there is terrible relief in the laughter. * My dear fellow, you have got in a muddle of some sort. Miss Gascoigne is Miss Gascoigne, she is not married.’ ‘ I know she isn’t. But she has changed her name for all that. Only a year ago she was still Florence Grant, but a distant relation died, leaving her all her money on consideration that she changed her name to Gascoigne. See ?’ There is a dead silence for a full minute, then—- ‘ There must be many Gascoignes,’ said Vere in a low tone. His eyes search Carlton’s as though imploring him to support him in this opinion. Carlton is shocked at the change in his face. ‘ Look here, Vere. I’m awfully sorry. I’d have cut my tongue out if I had only known. But,’ stammering, ‘ I bad no idea you were so hard hit—and besides, lots of girls do that sort of thing, you know—fling a fellow over, and ’ At this moment there is a slight rustle behind the velvet curtain, as though someone has entered the little room behind and seated himself or herself upon a lounge. Both men, however, are too agitated to notice it. ‘ But not with the cold brutality that was practiced by Miss Gascoigne,' says Vere, in a stern, hard tone. • Miss Grant rather ! If what you say is true, no wonder she was glad of the chance of putting that name behind her. It is useless any one’s defending her, Carlton, because I had the whole story from his own lips a month before he died. She deliberately led him on until he was half mad with love for her, and then, a richer man appearing, she calmly, without a kindly word, flung him over. She broke his heart. He said so.' There is another sound behind the curtain now, as though a fan has fallen with a little crash to the floor. ‘ By Jove !’ said Carlton, who is now wishing himself well out of it, ‘ he didn't look like a fellow whose heart would be easily broken ; he seemed to get a good deal of good out of that little flirtation with the Colonel’s wife up in the hills. I,’ awkwardly, • I shouldn’t think so much about itif I were you, Digby. If you fancy her as much as you say. I'd just put that old story in my pocket and go in and win, if she would have me !’ ‘ Never !’ said Vere, with a sudden violence, suppressed indeed, but perhaps the more terrible for that. • I—l—to cast a thought on a heartless coquette like that I I swore in India that I would seek her out and upbraid her with her conduct to Charles ; try to wring a passing pang from her cold heart ; but now Carlton, 1 confess that is beyond me. She was dear to me—l never knew how dear until this moment when I—know 1 shall never willingly look upon her face again. It is all over, that dead dream ! Her face may be like heaven bnt her soul—her soul must be like hell! Though it cost me all the happiness of my life I shall cast her out of my heart.’ ‘ You will give her an opportunity to explain it. Since it has gone thus far with you—for your own sake, dear boy—do give her a chance of saying how it was.’ * No. A woman like that ! Do you think she has not words at her command wherewith to twist and turn her phrases and show herself the injured innocent ? I refuse to listen to her exculpation. I refuse to listen to one word that she could say. There, let us foiget all this,’ turning a ghastly face to Carlton, but conjuring up a smile all the same. • What about these races ’ You are riding?’ * No ; but I hear that you have the choice of two mounts. I'm glad you are going to have nothing to do with Younge’s Firewater—a dangerous brute. Waring is mad for you to ■ ide his mate, and he says you have almost promised. ‘ Tell Waring, if you see him again to-night, that I have changed my mind, however. I shall ride Firewater for Younge. ’ ‘ Oh, I say, Vere, I wouldn’t if I were you. A beast like that has killed his man already. I ’ ‘ 1 shall ride him,’ says Vere, impatiently. ‘ He’ll win if I can only manage him. And besides—what does it matter ?' * It would matter a lot to the regiment if anything happened to you, old boy,’ says the Major, almost affectionately. * There’s Waring over there. I’ll go and talk to him. He may persuade yon.’ Carlton is hardly gone when the velvet portiere behind Vere is swept aside by an imperious hand, and a girl, tall, graceful, beautiful, with flashing eyes and a face as white as death, confronts him.

• Come in here,' commands she, beckoning him with a little royal gesture of her hand. He follows her. She drops the curtain, and in this small, dainty, perfumed corner of the house they are virtually alone. ‘ So !’ says she, in a voice low and soft, yet trembling with passion, ‘ you had decided on giving me no chance of explaining myself. You were bent on refusing to listen to my exculpation ! You were prepared to treat me as the dust beneath your feet —you—’ vehemently, ‘you—who only last night thought me worthy to be your wife.’ ‘ Ah !’ says he, as if stung to the quick, ‘ last night.’ ‘ But you shall hear me !’ cries she, her beautiful eyes on fire, her slight figure swaying as if her anger is consuming her. ‘ I will not be treated thus by you. You shall stand there,’ with a tragic gesture of her hand, there,’ —before me —until you hear the truth. It is not a vindication you shall hear—l do not care to justify myself in your sight—a man who would condemn a woman unheard, it is the truth of your cousin’s story that £ shall lay beir to you, and then, when,’ she draws back her hand and lays it on her breast as though to still its throbbings, ‘ when you have learned that

my soul is not like hell—when you have seen me as I am, the injured, not the injurer—then—' she pauses, a great light flashes over her face, * then I shall refuse to listen to you I’ She takes a step forward. * Your cousin, Sir Charles Vere, asked me to marry him two years ago. I was very young then—a mere child. I did not like him, but they—my people—persuaded me to accept him. I was portionless, and a title always counts. As I said, I was a child ; we were engaged. He came often to see us in the beginning of our engagement, as often as is usual, but toward the close of it he came nearlj' every day, sometimes twice a day. I wondered at this, because his manner was in nowise different to me—it was kind —but I thought it was a little less loverlike than before. Still he came every day, and sometimes twice and three times a day. Several times it occurred to me as odd that he called at the house when he must have known I was driving in the park with my married sister. I—’ she pauses, and a quick breath parts her lips, ‘ have another sister, a little girl, and she at that time had a governess, a young lady, as young as myself. She was pretty—far, far prettier than I was ! One day, coming back much earlier from my drive with Gertrude than was usual with me, I went straight to the schoolroom to see Mimi, my little sister. I did not find her there ; but 1 found your cousin—Sir Charles, and Miss . No, I shall not mention her name. There was a screen half across one corner of the room, and they sat hidden behind it. Only half hidden. They had not been very careful, you see, as they thought I was quite sure not to return till six o’clock. They did not see me. They were on the sofa, and both were looking into each others eyes. He was sitting beside her. ‘ I said nothing. I went away. He was dining with ns that evening, but I said I had a bad headache and did not come down. ‘ The next day my sister’s governess was gone. They

made many inquiries about her, but I said nothing. Sir Charles came and went as usual, but my headache still clung to me. I would not see him. At last I took courage I went down. He was in the libiary. He came to me arid would have kissed me, but I thrust him back. ‘“Where is Minnie?” I asked. That was the girl’s name. ‘ I shall never forget his face. He recovered himself, but it was too late. * “ What should I know of her?” said he. ‘ “ Coward !” I cried, and left him. My engagement ended that day. ‘Seven months afterwards I had a letter from her. I went to her ; she was dying. She told me all ; she showed me his letters. She gave them to me. If you wish to see them,’ this contemptuously, ■ you can ! I wrote to him at her request under a feigned name. He was then in India, and it took some time to get the answer. When it did come she was dead. But—you can see that answer, too.’ ‘ I don’t want to see it,’says Vere, hoarsely. ‘ Still, you shall," with cold determination. ‘ I shall post all those letters to your quarters to morrow. It proudly pleases me to do so. Well, she died. I saw that she was properly buried. I had come into some money then, and was more or less my own mistress. I suppose he heard of the money, because he wrote me again. He denied everything about Miss about Minnie. He did not know I had the letters. I answered, refusing him. 1 did not explain. I could not. He,’ she pauses, her hands clinched together, ‘ he, you say, died, declaring I had been false to him.’ There is silence again. ‘Speak,’ cried she, passionately, ‘ he said that?' ‘Yes—and—’ he hesitates, terrible as all the foregoing has been to him, there has still been balm in it, but there remains something that seems more to be desired now than anything else on earth. ‘ What more ?’ ‘He said you had given him up to marry another—a richer man.’ ‘ Must I answer that ?’ says she wearily ; ‘is not all this enough? Well, it was but another lie. there was no other man. Now go!’ • Florence,’says he, fallingather feet, and catching a fold of her dress, ‘ have mercy. I was mad. I know it. But—it was madness born of my love for you ! Hear me ! Pity me !’ ‘No!’ The word rings out right royally. She looks like a queen standing above him in her exquisite robe of clinging silk and with the diamonds flashing on her neck and brow. ‘As you would have behaved towards me, so I behave towaid you now.’ She pointed to the door—‘ Go !’ ******* There is quite a gay scene on the impromptu grand stand, though these races are a thing got up in a night, as it were, as a merely local amusement. Everyone’s thoughts are for Sir Digby Veie, who has elected to ride that wellknown misdemeanant Firewater against the advice of all his friends. They have started by this, and aie well over the first hurdle, Captain Waring’s mare—a plucky little thing—leading by thiee or four heads. The second hurdle is past now, and some one in the grand stand says that Firewater is gaining ground. Florence Gaiscoigne, who is leaning over the ledge of the balcony, gives a start, and, putting her glasses to her eyes, scans the scene beyond. Yes, beyond all doubt, Firewater is overtaking the others. Slowly—slowly he is creeping up. And now—now—they are at the stone wall. Firewater refuses it—there is a second’s pause—a short, low, terrible cry from Florence, heard only by her sister, who lays her hand in warning on her arm ; and now Firewater is over it, his rider still upon his back. After that all stands out in a little mist before Miss Gascoigne's eyes, and it is not until now, as they sweep round the corner and are tearing toward the water jump that her senses quite return to her. She sees now ! She throws up her head ; the light returns to her eyes. He is leading. Firewater is a good head beyond all the others. He is racing madly for the water jump. Vere lifts her well, she rises to it—she is over ! Over ! What is this ? What is this sickening heap upon the ground ? The horse —one can see the horse, but the man——Somebody carries Miss Gascoigne fainting out of the stand.

She is kneeling beside his bed. They had given her permission to enter awhile ago. He had been restored to consciousness last night, and had spent each hour since, at intervals, asking for her, demanding her. The doctor had at last said that she must be biought to him if they wished to hold him back even for a little while from the land of death. Mrs Margrove, her married sister, had brought her, but outside his door she had begged piteously to see him alone, and even the doctor had not the heart to refuse her. ‘ You have come,’ says Vere, softly, faintly. For all answer she lays her cheek against his hand. ‘ I—wronged you.’ ‘ Oh, no—no —no,’ cries she, ‘ you shall not reproach yourself. And what is your sin to mine, Digby ? You condemned me unheard, I know—but I—l heard you say you were going to ride that, with a shudder, ‘ that awful horse, and yet,’ bursting into tears, ‘ I said nothing to dissuade you. Oh ! it was not that I did not love you, Digby—only —only—l thought ’ ‘ I know ! you could not bear to lower your pride !’ says he. ‘My darling, don’t cry like that. 1 could not bear to lower my pride, either ; I said, do you remember, to Carlton, that I would not hear an explanation from you. But ‘Oh! It wasn’t that,’ said she, lifting her head, and looking at him through lovely, tear-stained eyes. ‘lt wasn’t pride of that sort. My pride was that I was sure you would win. that you would conquer Firewater. ‘lf ’ —hurriedly— ‘ if I had thought there was any real danger for you I—l would have gone to you, to dissuade you from riding him, even if I had to run into the messroom before them all.’ In spite of his weakness he laughs a little at this. He Holds out his feeble arms to her. She creeps into them. ‘ You are nobler than I am,’ says he. ‘ I wonder you ever came near me again. I wonder, too, Florence,’ looking at her very sadly, ‘if you do really in your heart forgive me. You are sorry for me now, seeing to what a sad pass I have come. But if I were to get well and strong again—would you forgive me then ?’ He draws her to him—even closer—but he does not attempt to kiss her.

* What do you take me for !' says she, half laughing, half crying. ‘ There is nothing to forgive, and even if there was —why, I have forgiven it.’ ‘ Then—if you have—and if you love me even a little,’ says he tremulously, ‘ you might—might— !’ ‘ Why, I’ve been longing to kiss you,’ says she, with a little sob. She presses her lips to his. ‘ Now, I shall get well,’ says he, smiling at her a faint but radiant smile. * There is, however, one thing I don’t forgive,’ says she, her old happy self come back to her again. She is laughing a little, sitting on the chair by his bedside, and holding his hand. ‘ And that, my own ?' * That you didn’t win that race. I was so longing to see you come in at the bead of them all.’ ‘Never mind. I have won something else; something far better ; the best in all the world.’ He draws her to him again. * I have won you,’ says he.