[COPYRIGHT STORY.] LADY WREXHAM’S NIECE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 19, 6 May 1908, Page 47

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] LADY WREXHAM’S NIECE

By

MABEL QUILLER-COUCH.

(Author of “The Recovery of Jane Vefcoe," etc.).

OF the tragedy which suddenly terminated) my happy married life, and left me to face the future broken-hearted andalone, I need

tell but little here. It is sufficient to say I found myself not only alone, but faced by the problem how to support myself and) my little child, and I pondered and pondered for long, without finding any scheme suitable, until one day a letter reached me from Lady iWrexham, an old school-friend of mine. Lady Wrexham was a born traveller. She literally could not rest in one place for more than a few months at a time, and we, her friends, had ceased to expect tier to. Her letter came now from Greece, and I will quote some of it. “ Dearest Helerf,” she wrote, “ I feel mean for running off without saying ‘ good-bye,’ but 1 rushed) away panicstricken by what has befallen me! You know that my brother Eustace Carlton died in Africa, but you do not know that he has left me his daughter Sybil, as a legacy! What am I to do with her! She is about seventeen, pretty 1 believe, ■but untrained- You see the poor old boy could not live where she could have had masters, and lessons, and she refused to leave him. - She has to now, poor girl. She was to come to me at once, and I fled at the 'thought of it. I' should only make her as wretched as she would make me. What can I d'o? Do help me!”

I need quote no more. Suddenly I saw a way out of my difficulties, and 1 sail down and wrote to Lucy at once.

By return of post I heard from her. “ You are a perfect angel. No other plan could be so desirable. Spare no expense in getting good masters for her. 1 want her to be accomplished, but of course much depends on her tastes and style. She has nearly two thousand a year of her own, so can afford what she likes, and! her lawyer will pay all bills and fees. Will five hundred a year pay you for giving her and a maid a home, looking after them both, and teaching Sybil all those innumerable, indefinable thing*; no masters or mistresses can teach 1 ”

A little later came another letter from Lady Wrexham- I hope you will not find Sybil too great a handful, but after the 1 letter she has written to me I can expect anything of her. She evidently think’s her father lived and died a poor man, and imagines all tne. expense of her is to fall on me, so she bluntly deto ' be under any deeper obligation than she can possibly help, and declares her intention of looking out for work of some spr.t. I have .written and explained her position, but.as the letter could not reach lipr before she leaves, 1 send it to you tp give to hey when she comes. , “,1 asked -her to send me a photograph of .tyerself,” went on Lucy, “that we might- have sojme idea of what she is like, but she has not done so.” I could read, 1 thought, between the ■lines, and I saw the girl’s loneliness and fear of being a burthen. A little later when I met her on her arrival in England; and I saw for myself What- she was like, 1 must admit 1 felt a sense of disappointment. 1 had, of course, drawn a mental picture of Sybil Carlton, a picture of a fair girl, graceful and relined, with a delicate, good, if not strictly beautiful face. The girl beside me was tall and large, with dark hair, and features which, at a distance, looked Strikingly handsome, but near, wore npd. unrefined, and l it was this Want of Refinement, this vague indefinable something in voice. _ manner, everything in fact, that disappointed one. 1 roused myself to talk, and asked her about Africa, and her life there, but she

■was uncommunicative, and, or so it seemed, resented my curiosity. She showed more interest when I began to talk of Lady Wrexham, and asked me questions innumerable. What was she like? Was she rich? Would she, Sybil, have to live with her later on? I was surprised at the ignorance she showed of her own aunt. Presently, when speaking of her tastes, and what studies she would like to pursue, she said, with a sigh of regret, as though suddenly recollecting herself, “I am not going in for anything that costs much, I —l must not impose on her kindness,” and she spoke as though she were repeating a lesson, and with none of the spirit which would naturally accompany such a determination.

“Nonsense,” I said, emphatically. “I—l wouldn’t have come,” she went on, “but that it was father’s wish.” “Sybil, dear,” I said, touched by the halting voice, there is a letter awaiting you that will explain things. Lady Wrexham thought you knew ” “Knew—what?” “About your means.” “Means! Have I any?” and again her manner jarred on me. When I handed her the letter, sho looked at it thoughtfully for a moment, fingered it hesitatingly, then, as though -by a sudden impulse, tore it open and read it; and as she read her face growing first red, then white, lighted up with excitement; but she said nothing, mnd turned away without once glancing at me. All the rest of the day she seemed lost in thought, indifferent to everything about, her, and I was quite troubled at the effect the news seemed to have on her.

The night, though, seemed to bring her calmness and decision. She came down to breakfast in a high state of spirits and energy, “I have made up my mind,” she said, “to go in for everything. I shall learn all I can, it is bound to come in useful later on.”

Whereupon we fell to discussing plans for what promised to be a perfectly, delightful life for Sybil. But all the time I was troubled by certain vulgarities and commonnesses of mind, and speech, and resent which she displayed, and which not only astonished but quite alarmed me when I realised that P had to correct them; a feeling which did not decrease as time went on. for Miss Carlton was not easy to correct. She was so entirely self-satisfied, so sure of herself, so absolutely unlike what I had expected in Eustace Carlton’s daughter, and Lady Wrexham’s niece. From the moment she realised that she was rich, she seeriid to change. She became restless, and excitable,- and I earned my money hardly during the month that followed, for not only was Sybil inclined to bo very extravagant, but she kept me ever on the alert with her foolishness and wild vagaries, and I was always haunted by a sense of distrust of her, I never felt at ease with her. It was a great disappointment to me, when, some months later, Lucy wrote postponing her return. I thought Sybil would have been disappointed, too. perhaps hurt, but to my surprise she seemed quite pleased. “Aren't you longing to sec your aunt?" I asked reproachfully. She coloured a little.' “Oh—yes, of course,” she stammered, “but I well naturally I am glad she’s having a long tour, knowing how much she loves it,” Thon, seeing, I supp -.se, that she ]iad failed Io convince me, she added pathetically, “I will confess T do rather drpad meeting her, it —it will bring back everything so.” But neither reason seemed to me to

ring true, for I had often been astonished by the want of felling she showed for her dead father, and once 1 had said to her, when she wished to go to a comic opera, “Have you the heart to go, Sybil, so soon? Do you never feel that it jars, that it is almost like disrespect to your father’s memory?” And she had turned

on me in one of her bursts of anger. “Can't you see that I want to forget?' she cried. “To drown thought——” “No," I answered coldly, “1 cannot Why should you wish to forget him as though it wore wrong to remember!'

It was about Jthis time that a new cause of trouble had arisen. I had introduced Sybil to many, nice girls of about her own age, with whom I thought she might have formed friendships. But none of them pleased her, and I must ad. mit that they in their turn showed no liking for her. There was always something about Sybil which j-.rred on a refined woman. On the other hand, Sybil herself showed no discrimination where men were concerned, no instinct seemed to warn her which were desirable or undesirable. In fact, it was only too apparent to most of us that the more undesirable the man, the greater the charm he seeniedito hold for her, and I often had to exert my authority,- which Sybil resented. and not only resented, but openly -rebelled, and defied .me. There, was one man in particular who caused me much anxiety—this was ’Ray-, inond Drew, a son of Sir John Drew, a handsome fellow, and as idle and extravagant as he was handsome. From the -first time of meeting- hinu I saw .that Sybil was completely fascinated; the next time they met. I felt sure that he had learned that she was an heiress, and was determined to make himself, if possible, master of her wealth. More than one told me how unworthy he was. advising me not to allow him to come to the house; which advice I followed, but I scon found that Sybil was meeting him surreptitiously elsewhere. 1 took her to France, but within a few days Raymond Drew appeared in the same place, I hastened on to Italy, sicking out the most secluded villages a:t I travelling by complicated routes, and Sybil, with a mocking smile upon her lips, went everywhere quite ‘ cheerfully, for all the time, in spite of my orders, she was communicating with him constantly. I talked to her gravely. I told her plainly all the world knew Im was seeking her only for her moimy. “I* know the world says so," she answered flippantly, “and for pnee it may be speaking the truth, but I care for him more than anyone else in the world, and ” “1 am* sorry to hear it, dear,” 1 answered sadly, “for you have before you a lifetime of misery. Once he has your money in his possession he will cave no more for you or your feelings." “Ah. but I shall always hold the purse. I have made up my mind to that, ’•hat is how I shall keep hjin.” “But suppqse you lose your riche»>?” To my surprise, her face grew white, her eyes wide and frightenqd. "How should I—why should I? Besides, Its loves me for myself, he says so anil ! am going to marry him. 1 don’t care what anyone says.” After that, I returned to England. I felt it was useless to stay away any longer. It was spring when we returned, a glorious spring, and Sybil was put all day long. She would have spent the whole of l)er life out of doors if she could, and my difficulties were consequently increased. 1* could not be always at her side. 1 had many calls ou my

time, and she evaded and escaped mA in every conceivable manner. Oh, how 1 longed for Lady* Wrexham’s return that I might hand her charge over to her. At last, to my intense relief, the longed-for letter came. “I shall be with you now within a week, dear. Give Sybil my love, and tell her I shall expect to see a very well-dressed and accomplished young person in return for all the money she has been spending st> lavishly." “I am so glad she is coming at last,” I said, unable to suppress my pleasure. “Yes,” said Sybil, slowly, "you must be.” “Aren't you? ' I asked, rather nettled by her indifference. “I? Oh, well, you see, she is practically a stranger to me, and—and she may not approve. of me.”

“That rests with yourself,” .1 answered gravely. “ Then X am sure she will not,” Sybil retorted in her flippant way. “I think X will go and lie down, my head aches,” and she left the room. An hour or two later, when I went to Bee how she was, 1 found the room was empty. But at lunch-time Sybil appeared as though she had but just risen. “Where have you been, dear?” I asked quietly. She gave me one keen glance, and then resumed her old nonchalant manner.

“Out,” she answered, “to see if it would do my head any good.” I'he next day passed quietly enough, then came Thursday, the day of Lucy Wrexham’s return. I rose for the first time for many a day with a light heart. But my cheerful mood found no echo in Sybil. She sat through breakfast, eating scarcely anything, and rarely speaking. After breakfast she strolled about the garden, while I gathered flowers for Lady Wrexham’s room. She did not speak much, and the little she did say was disconnected and dull. She spoke as one trying to make conversation, while her mind was pre-occupied. “You will change your gown before Lady Wrexham comes, won’t you, dear? Put on something light and pretty; I want you to look your best when you meet her first. Sybil was then dressed in an unusually sombre fashion, and I had wondered at it.

“Yes,” she agreed, “but I think I —l would like a walk first.”

1 was troubled that the thought of meeting her aunt should so upset her; at the same time her quietness was an improvement on her usually boisterous, self-assured manner.

-“ Yes do, dear,” I said, “but you will be back in good time, won’t you? I expect Lady Wrexham to lunch.” “Very well,” she answered gravely, and went upstairs for her hat and gloves. A few moments later there was a ring at the bell, and just as the maid crossed the hall to open the door, Sybil was coming down the stairs slowly, buttoning her gloves as she came. At the sound of the opening door she paused and looked up, and-as she looked I saw her expression turn to one of, perfect terror, then with « swift rush phe ran down,

crept round the end of the bannisters, ami, darting past me, disappeared out of the kitehen entrance. She did not speak, nor did I, but her face I saw as she passed me was ashy white, and as she ran she gave little frightened gasping moans. The next moment the maid was standing before me. “Miss Carlton, ma’am, and she wishes to see you at onee.” “Miss! —” I began, but seeing the maid's eyes wide with curiosity, 1 pulled myself together as best I could, and hastened to the morning-room. How much later it was that a carriage drew up at the house, and the doorbell again pealed loudly. I do not remember. But the moment I heard it I knew that Lucy Wrexham had come, and that I had to break to her what had been broken to me. I think my face must have prepared her for something, for as she caught sight of it she stopped abruptly in her first greetings, “What has happened, Helen ? Something is wrong, I know. Is it about—Sybil?” she demanded. “Yes,” I gasped incoherently. “Oh, Lucy, everything is wrong. She is not your nieee at all; she has been tricking us all this time. The real Sybil has now come —she is in my room. Oh, Lucy, what will you say to me —but how could I help it?” Lucy Wrexham threw her arms round me affectionately. “Try to be calm,” she urged; “tell me, who was the other girl? How could she—” “Sybil shall explain, I can’t.” Sybil, the real Sybil, was sitting looking the picture of trouble and shame when we entered. “I have brought Lady Wrexham,” I said. At the sound of my voice she lifted her white face eagerly, then dropped her- eyes again. “I am ashamed to meet you.” she said as she rose. “Aunt Lucy, I don’t know how to tell you how grieved and ashamed I am for all that has happened, I had no idea Enid Lewis would really do what I had talked of in fun- ” “It would be more satisfactory to me,” said Lady Wrexham coldly, “if I might hear the story from the beginning.” Sybil looked at her aunt with frightened eyes. “Where shall I begin?” she asked, turning nervously to me. “I—-

— was so miserable, Aunt Lucy. I wanted to do as father wished —but when I eame to face - it, I—l realised how unfit I was. I knew I was only half educated, that your ways, and everything were strange to me, and I —was afraid to come, that is the truth. I could not bear either,” her voice trembling a little, “to leave the place where father was buried, to go so far from ” “'We would have tried to make you happy, dear,” said Lucy. “My brother Eustace was very dear to me, and you for his sake.” Sybil looked at her gratefully. “Oh, I know it was alb a mistake. But—oh, you cannot imagine ho-w shy, and lonely and miserable I was, and I talked to Enid Lewis about it —Enid was the only girl I knew out there, and there was a sort of friendship between us. She was very kind, too, when father was ill, and afterwards she tried to comfort me, and she listened to all my foolish talk. ' I said I—could not—live on your charity,” looking with ashamed, appealing eyes at her aunt, “that I would hide myself where no one woud find me, and work and keep myself—” “You foolish child,” cried Lady Wrexham Impatiently, “didn’t you know there was no need for you to work, that you were, for a girl, quite rich?” Sybil stood staring, dumb with amazement. “I —am rich!” she gasped. “1 thought I had nothing—no one told me.” “You were so headstrong, you did not wait for letters from England, and I am afraid everything was delayed through my being away.” “I was so afraid I should be stopped,” Sybil pleaded. “Did you suggest that Miss Lewis should come in your place ?” Lucy asked. Sybil’s eyes drooped. “I am afraid 1 did,” she faltered, “but not in earnest, we were a silly, romantic pair, and we talked of such a plan, and whether it could be done, but I never thought seriously of it. I did not mean to deceive you, Aunt Lucy. I wrote and told you what I was going to do, and then I • changed my plans. I became engaged,and soon 1 shall have a home of my own.” Had she dropped a bomb at Lady Wrexham’s feet that poor lady could not

have looked more dismayed. “Oh!” sh* cried despairingly, “is there no end to ray perplexities! Sybil,” she went on, halflaughing, half serious, “I do think you might have spared me this! But,” mor® gravely, “of course I must know more about it. You are too young to take a step so serious, without advice. In fact, you may not, without your guardian’s consent.”

“But—l have promised,” stammered Sybil. “I—” “But, child, how could you be so —but there, tell me all about it, I will promise not to be severe—only trust me.” Sybil blushed shyly, but she told her story frankly. “He often came to our house, and father liked him very much, he was always kind to me, too, and—> and I was sorry for him.” i “Sorry! Why?” asked Lucy. “He is lame, and he suffers a good deal at times.”

“Yet he asked you to marry him?” cried Lucy indignantly. “Yes, but not until I had gone into the situation I had got. He was vexed with me for not coming to you, but when I insisted on going away and getting work to do, he made me promise that I would always let him know where I was. So I sent him my address, and soon a letter came from him. He said he was as lonely and unhappy as I was, he missed father and—and me terribly, and asked me to marry him that he might make a home for us both. He said that he would not have dared to ask me, bub that I was alone in the world.” “And you?” “I told him I would.” “But did you care for him ?” “Care! ”

There was no need to probe deeper, the tone in which that one word was spoken was sufficient. I saw Lucy’s face grow more grave.

“But you have broken the engagement now, as you have come away?” “Sybil looked up with eyes wide with amazement. “Oh, no,” she cried. “But he said it was my duty to come.” There was a moment’s silence. “You have not told us his name, or what, or who he is,” said Lucy meekly.

“He is a gentleman, Aunt Lucy,” poor Sybil answered her eagerly, “and he has

gome means. His name is Drew, Lionel Drew.”

"Drew!” cried Lucy and I in one breath. “Lionel Drew, Sir John Drew’s eldest son, of course, I know he was lame,” Lucy explained eagerly. "Well, I know he is a good fellow, the great drawback, of course, is his lameness ”•

"It is very sad,” said Sybil gravely, "but no drawback, Aunt Lucy. I am so looking forward to the time when I can take eare of him. You will give your consent, won’t you, darling 1”

I knew that Luey would succumb, and succumb she did —in part.

“Well,” she said, “I will write to Mr. Drew before I say anything, but ”

But before she eould finish her sentence, the door was abruptly flung- open, and Sybil, the false Sybil, walked in, followed by Raymond Drew'. They stopped when they saw my visitors. I

stepped forward, and tried to say something, but my mind and tongue seemed paralysed. At last Lucy found speech, “Is this —this——” she stammered.

“This is—Miss Enid Lewis,” I stammered, and could find nothing more to say.

Raymond Drew stared in utter bewilderment. Sybil—the false Sybil, stood with head erect, a defiant look on her handsome face, triumph in her eyes. But all the triumph died out of them as Raymond Drew spoke. He, in his rage and dismay, did not hesitate to break the silence.

“You—you’re not!” he stammered hoarsely. “Who are you? Speak,” and he caught her hand roughly.

“I am the woman you swore you loved,” she said, her eyes seeking his almost piteously. The change in her was pathetic. “And—your wife.”

“And you are not ?” he had decency enough to hesitate over the sordid question. But she took him up sharply. “No, I am not rich,” she cried bitterly, "but —but you know,” piteously, “how I love you.” “I know more than I want to know,” he said cruelly, and, turning away, he was about to leave the house when I interposed:— “You do not go without your wife,” I said sternly. “You did not rest until you had won her heart. You married her an hour ago for better or worse, if the -worse has come quickly you must face it. Better may follo-w, but there is your duty, arid there is your wife, be a man and stick to them.”

He glanced at me furiously for a moment, then turned to her.

“You got me by fraud,” he said sulkily, “but come along,” and they left the house together.