The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1885-11-14 00:00:00

FALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)

CATHERINE'S MISTAKE,

OR,
d SECRET FOR YEARS

CHAPTER XXVL
PHILIPPE'S REVENGE.
FOUNT PHILIPPE was a frequent visitor at madame's
nOUse, open as it was most hospitably to all. But
lifter that first night he never brought his young
brother. Not that he feared to trust him within the
charmed Circle of Lina's attractions; he knew too
that the infatuation the silly girl had conceived
zor his own handsome person was sufficient to insure
the boy from becoming the victim of her daizttily-laid
anares.

Madame was not uneasy at what she could not
IQ to perceive. She did not much fancy the count;
1,1,he liked Englishmen. She would have preferred
(oat her darling should have fallen in love with a
fule, dashing country gentleman, with a large estate,
kid fond of fox-hunting—in fact, a second George
Ingestre, if he could be found; but if Lina loved a
foreigner better, madame was not the mother to make
Iler child unhappy by thwarting her wishes in any re-
°Peet. So the count came and saw ma'mselle as often
43 he pleased, and all the household put him down as
the young heiress's most devoted lover.
And one evening, when the two brothers were
taking. their ease after dinner, Ferdinand told his
hroth-6,r, with a smile, that he had heard that day
%%tut Philippe de Resimont was engaged to Mademoi-
telle Bernstein. At this Philippe looked up and smiled,
tot frankly and freely, as most other men smile, but
With a subtle and meaning expression.
"And you wish to know if it is true I presume?"
"My Philippe, I believed not a word when I heard
t. You are not the man to love a trifling girl like
that —a pretty little doll, incapable of loving as true
Woman should. No, I did not believe it."
"But, Ferdinand, men do not always marry where
they love. Many motives compel them frequently to
commit that action, marriage, beside love—self-in-
terest, worldly benefits, hate, revenge."
Ferdinand looked astonished.
"Surely, brother, such feelings as hate and revenge
"Would not cause a man to marry where he did not
love!,
"If ever I marry that girl, Ferdinand, revenge will
De the cause—not on the child; I have little feeling
towards her of any kind; but on the mother."
As he uttered the last words his eyes flashed with
a red light that even the younger brother shuddered
to see.
"Good heavens !" he cried; "how has that poor
Simple hearted baroness offended you? Philippe, thou
trt cruel indeed !"

"The baroness is not Lina's mother; she is no rela-
‘'ien in the world. But madame little guesses I am
'aware of this. You look amazed. You will learn
-Many strange things yet; the time is coming when
You must be initiated into the secrets of the world,
that, to your young eyes, looks beautiful and fair
~tileugh. In the dark stream of life, my brother, there
iS Many a tide save that of pleasure; many an eddy
beside that of mirth. Man lives for a purpose, and
'Seldom is that purpose a vain one. To live to make
'Others' lives lives subservient to our own—to enjoy the full,
free tide of vital energy within us—to love success-
to hate intensely—to aspire—to rise—to wish,
Sad to accomplish that wish—in one word, to he
What we will—this, Ferdinand, is the purpose of such
a man as myself, and to gain this he will hesitate
ttt nothing. Believe in no one, my brother, and you
*Will not be deceived. That good, simple-hearted
baroness acts a lie every minute of her life, and
oWs it too. Her child—her darling—is neither
aters nor the man's whose name she takes; and her
Mother

Ilere he stopped, and looked at the wondering, eager
race of the young man, who had half sprung from the
'vouch on which he was extended.
"Mon Dieu, Philippe—does man indeed live for no
°tiler end than that of satisfying the cravings of his
-Worse nature? Is there no true nobility of heart, no
•l'eligious purity of soul, such as one dreams must
13„11rely animate the men who achieve distinction for
‘aelnselves ? And worse, is there no truth in woman
---truth such as I have imagined?"
Iffiagined ! that is it; you have spent your
're in dreams and imaginings. Now comes the time
of awakening. The world is not sucla as your philo-
tPhy paints it, nor are men and women arrayed in
e pure tints of angels' wings. Dream no longer,
trerdinand ; the morning of your life is at hand-
-awake, and view the earth around you in all its light
shade."

" 13ut,—Philippe, I would dream for ever rather
thean awake to see the death of all my hopes—my
lief in life. Much that I have seen here in London
zias dissatisfied me. Pleasure is not the pure stream I
.cvould have it. Others drink there whose lips spread
Dollution; and I—yes, I begin to loath what they
"•,„Ti taint. Is the reality of life and enjoyment so
-mliferent from all my brilliant anticipations of it,
Other?" .
Philippe's lip curled.
, 'Wait and see. Use your eyes, your ears, and
'earn the lesson of the world for yourself. For
Lou the sun has shone as yet on a lovely morning
tdscape ; but there are clouds in the horizon,
aria
charged, too, with death and destruction. I
4,Peak in Metaphors, but not beyond your compre-
"No, oh, no," answered the young man, throwing
"inaself back on the couch, with a dreary sigh. "I
Understand you, Philippe, too well; for already life
13eetas scarcely to me all I thought it. Pleasure is
Uct so sweet—happiness not so attainable. lam
ed—l am weary; and oh, Philippe, very sick at
ileart!"

- •
ihe elder brother looked at the youth (scarcely
ta°re than a boy) with a strange and almost malign
exPression in his deep, dark eyes—an expression
rich Seemed a gloating over that last sad cry—an
laftnite satisfaction in the weariness of the sigh which
accompanied it.
• r," What !" he said, "fainting on the threshold!
n'2l.lrage, brave heart! Up and do battle with your
;raven spirit. Weariness! sickness! Is it my young
erother who wails like a young girl over her lost love
. ,"-Perdinand de Resimont, young, rich, and gifted with
!Pei graces of an Adonis ? I have brought you up too
ntily—fed you on hopes too sweet—philosophy too
"ervating. Say, my child, will you turn monk, and
elater a Cloister?"
" Philippe! Philippe !" retorted his brother, with a
hot blush on his cheek, "this is cruel of you. I
ean bear anything in life better than your irony; it
life me. A monk, no! Catholic as I am, a monk's
is not a noble one in my eyes. I will live in the
'World, Philippe, and do battle with the things and the
teople lam learning to hate! lam no coward. I will
. ore no more of the enervating philosophy you talk
1, 1 will not pursue pleasure. I will strive for a
"Igher aim. I will distinguish myself, Philippe. I
Will be a great man, yet!"
" And a good one, too r
"And a good one, too, with the help of Heaven,
Vas the reply.
13 Ferdinand's bright steel-blue eyes glowed with a
,!,°acl. flashing light, his delicate skin was tinged with
; 'eautiful colour, his full handsome lips parted with
aMile of lofty expression. All that was noble and
in the young man's nature glowed in his face
ell, was warm at his heart, and earnest in his
toaes.

%Strange inconsistency of nature which could call
use two nien brothers! Truth and honour looked
of the blue eyes of the one; the darkness of sin
1,4,00ded in the intense black orbs of the other.
v:liliPPe rose and walked the room with a quiet,
tt'°llghtful step; but the calm was without only,
% ternnest raged within. These were some of
broken fragments of 'thought which were hurled
,3 ugh his brain, as the hot tide of his passion
einsUrged to and fro in the narrow channels of his
v

And this is the soil I am attempting to sow with
sonous weeds. Is the culture of years to be
ve.rthrown by the abnormal nature at last? lam
raining him for other aims than he dreams of. Such
hfe as mine has been .I would have him suffer.
,vvorrian ! your child -shall be a fitting son for me to
fl'esent to you. Ah ! you shall rejoice at the purity
hi 3 soul, the innocence of his life! At times I
ati believe he will be nothing better than the sensual
tr°lligate.l intend him for; at others, as to-night, I
131.1:1„11,,,bt my power-the force of training, the very
DC"APtings of youthful nature, to lead him into
easant vice. And then to allow a foolish regret to
I-Pss me when I think of the life for which I destine
; for I have come to love him; mixed strangely
4'th the hatred I bear him, there is a stream of love.
n0:57 Step he takes towards the degradation of his
Le nature is a sharp dagger in my heart, though
uhlae is the treacherous hand which leads into the dark
137 BS. Shall I not suffer as much as he when he
vion!? And yet what a solace have I !—the eyes of the
I love will behold that fall tleorge
Ferdi-
dost thou think to escape f=tf.:4: snitrb me this
AS h
hut e thought thus he was standing close to the
tyes.gman, and looking 4 him with those frightful
1411
unconsciously his brother returned the gaze,
•• drea—!_o.
win the evil it boded him.
hat shall' be it, my Philippe; I .will become a

4teat -
th and clever man, and worthy of the noble name
irkate with you."
terh" eyes still looked, and could the other have in-
'reted their language, this would have been the
eani
lag they conveyed-
-4 rn ust come. I will deal the death-blow to this,
Will be lost to me for ever."
5q..,7117ke said aloud—
he tone erdinand 1"
was deep and full of sorrow.
erdmand started.
keieWilat now ?" he said, looking earnestly at Philippe's
broit'-'istinction is not for you," was the reply. "NY
tittlhil,er," laying his hand upon the boy's shoulder, "the
lithff's Come when I must check these aspirations, now
4111„,°1* ever, and tell you why the name you bear
17; be left to others to distinguish."
eintinealook, the tone was so full of warning that Fer-
Wag well justified in the nervous alarm he felt
lorehZ",ng it. He dashed back the curls from his
‘4cl (a Peevliar habit with him when startled),
ed out--
4g what do you mean ?"
'sl4rage•'' was the reply. "Nerve yourself tO

hear a painful secret, which should have been hidden
from you always, but that the revelation is forced
upon me by the rash longings of your ambitious soul.
Ferdinand, you
.must be content to remain in
obscurity—remain always as my dearly loved and
tenderly cared-for brother. You must not court
fame, for fame leads to a widespread knowledge of
the history, the birth, and parentage of the favoured
one."

Well," interrupted the boy, with a haughty
smile, "and mine, Philippe, will bear the closest
scrutiny. Am I not your brother? and has my life
of eight;en and a half years been such that it will
cast shame upon me? While I have seemed only
the careless and thoughtless seeker after pleasure and
gaiety, content to receive all that you in your loving
bounty have given me, every better feeling in my
heart vies rebelling against the object for which I
seemed t live, and prompting me to become a truer
and worthier character—a man fit to reflect honour,
and not disgrace, upon the name I bear." Chap 2G
" You bear, oh, Ferdinand !"
"Yes, brother, the name I bear," said the other, and
yet with a quaver in his bold tones.
"You have no right to bear it," was the cruel reply.
"My Ferdinand, your mother was not mine."
In spite of those ominous words—those ominous
eyes, the boy had not the faintest clue to their
meaning. Ilis brave, single-hearted nature was un-
able to conceive yet the twofold signification they
bore.
"I cannot understand you, Philippe: you are talk-
ing enigmas. Am I your half-brother, then ?"
It was the last time his blue eyes ever bore that
fearless and innocent look---the bold questioning of an
honourable soul.
Philippe stood contemplating it for one moment,
with one small, beautiful hand thrust in his bosom, to
steady the fierce beatings of his heart; the other raised,
as if in mute warning.
The younger man thought, as he looked, how noble
—how perfect was the beauty of the elder; how
like some mighty Moorish king he stood, compel-
ling homage by the very power of his wonderful
eyes; and it was with a sigh of regret he repeated
the question—
" Am I your half-brother only ?"
"You are--"

Then Philippe dipped his finger in the goblet of wine
at his side, and wrote a single word on the polished
table.

"Read," he said.
And Ferdinand read.

CHATTER XXVII.
Brit:. PAUNCH MAKES HER EXIT.

JUDGMENT was given in court ; the Chancery suit was
ended, and Rossmore passed into the hands of
strangers. Ingram Ingestro had a bitter pill to
swallow that day. His inheritance was gone; the
house his forefathers bad been born in, had lived and
died in—the lands their feet had trodden, their hands
had planted, had passed away trona him and his for
ever. The hope of his young life had departed—the
impetus to work was gone—the maelstrom which
engulfed all his thought, his time, his earnings, had
suddenly ceased its whirl and flow: a stupor fell upon
him, and he asked himself for what purpose he now
lived.
Rossmore was gone—Rossmore, to retain which he
hungered after the wealth of his cousin—would have
pursued him, hunted and driven him through every
law court in England, only to succeed in wresting that
wealth from him.
" Money!" was the cry of his soul; "money to
feed the greedy maws of those men who can rescue
my patrimony if they will—give me back the old
house, the old lands, the old home, if they but
choose." _ _ _ _ .

But they did not choose; law is not always justice,
and Rossmore was adjudged to a rich man who had
grown wealthy by plundering its late master.
Thus, on the day of which I speak, Ingram stood in
the office of his lawyer with a breaking heart. He had
no tears to shed, or they must have fallen—no sighs
to lift the weight from his soul, or they must haxe
been heaved. His grief was so deep, so silent and
hard, that it was tenfold agony to bear; and he suf-
fered more in his stern, despairing calm than a
violent limn would in the first heartrending outburst
of sorrow.
He left the office, and walked away through the
crowded streets, never casting a thought on the faces
which surrounded him. His mind was fillet'i with
many bitter reflections, and as he walked on faster
and faster, their current changed. And another loss
beside that of Rossmore slowly dawned upon him: the
loss of a hope, but dimly felt as yet—something in
which his patrimony bore only a share—something
which has grown up in his breast with marvellous
rapidity, with marvellous strength and tenacity.
What was it? What caused that dull stupor when
he pondered on something he had dreamed of, beside
the old ancestral house? He asked himself the
question, and it remained unanswered. His usually
acute intellect was numbed; he could not reason;
and it was not until he had left London far behind,
and was walking along a green suburban lane, that
the answer came upon him with bitter truth and
certainty.
His path lay along the edge of a little mill stream,
and on one side grew a line of weeping willows,
which every passing breeze caught, swaying the
pendant branches into the rippling water of the
brook. Now in the sunlight, and then in the shade,
flashed the
.bright water stirred by the willows, and
Ingram stopped and watched the beautiful effect with
strange curiosity.
Something in the sunny sparkle of the water, some-
thing in the graceful tossing of the long green tresses
of the willows, echoed an answer to his question—
echoed it in the likeness it bore to a vision of his
mind. The glancing water and the waving willows
had given him back the face of a living girl, and the
eyes he saw, and the gently flowing hair, were those
of Lina Bernstein.
He strode on faster than ever. The bitter know-
ledge was dawning on him now that he loved her—
had allowed himself unknowingly, unwittingly, to
love her. He recalled the last two months of his life,
and could tell now the source of their infinite bright-
ness, their renewed hope, their joyful activity. He
could account for the stream of sunshine Heaven had
seemed suddenly to sow broadcast about his grim and
sordid path.
He knew now how s woman's face, and the hope of
a woman's love, could bring gladness and joy beyond
everything to a man, working alone in utter solitude
and desolation of heart. He knew now that he loved
her, but was ignorant as yet of the force and might of
his passion.
Some men, whose reason tells them they love
hopelessly, yield up the bliss that cannot be theirs;
they quietly relinquish their love, or keep it sealed
'hermetically in some forgotten region of their hearts.
Other men, with the courage of desperation, deter-
mine that the forlorn hope shall never be yielded up;
that it must be victory or commutation—defeat is
impossible.
So thought Ingram Itviestre. He, a poor man, with
a life of actual labour before him, loved the petted
heiress of the Bernsteins. Loved, where he had never,
to his own knowledge, received a solitary token of
favour. Nevertheless, as he stood and watched the
shadowy image of that face in the glancing water; he
registered a vow that the love of it should stand him
in place of all he had lost—that the pursuit of it should
be the object of his life, the possession of it his one
dream of happiness on earth.
And the vow made, he walked on, with a hard, reso-
lute expression on his determined lips, which promised
more for its fulfilment even than the hard, resolute
words of the vow itself.
When men of the calibre of Ingram Ingestre fix
their hearts on the attainment of any one thing, no
matter whether easy of attainment or not, it is more
than half won. Their dogged perseverance knows no
diminution—their patience no flagging; obstacles
which would daunt others, they do not even regard;
and their whole force of character is bent on over-
coming the mighty difficulties which lie between
them and the possession of the thing they crave.
Rarely do these men fail in their object; and when
they do, failure. is failure indeed: their hard natures
are not pliant; they break, but never bend.
So Ingram walked back towards London, a happier
man than he had walked from it, for the thought of
Lina Bernstein came softly and gently on his sorrow-
ful heart. He didnot dream cf asking himself whether
she was worthy of this, his best and most devoted
love; few men ask themselves that .question, when the
eye is perfectly satisfied with the fairness of the thing
it has fancied.
He saw what she was to him and to his sight, and
he asked nothing more; so this new passion he took
into his heart, and hugged to himself as a treasure he
had never even- heard of before. New, strange, and
wonderfully sweet it seemed.
He returned home, and let himself into the house
by means of his latch-key—that latch-key to which
Mrs. Faunce had such a strong objection.
His idiot sister was alone in the small front par-
lour, seated on a low stool, and, as usual, tearing
paper to pieces. He kissed her, and asked her for
the housekeeper; but she only shook her head and
laughed cunningly.
Ina Tam wanted to communicate the news of his
defeat to Mrs. Faunce, so he left the room and called
for her at the foot of the stairs.
The little servant-maid replied from the kitchen
that Mrs. Faunce had gone out that morning at ten
o'clock.
"And she took her boxes, sir, please; and I fetched.
a cab; and, please, sir, I don't think she ever means
to come back any more, sir. She did go on, sir, at the
place, and called you lots of names, and said she was
sick of the life she led in your house; you never had
anything fit for a Christian to drink, and kep' the
brandy under lock and key. And, please, sir, I think
she was a little—l mean—"
But Ingram stayed to hear no more. Ile walked
back into the parlour, and shut the door after him.
He took out his keys, and opened the cellaret—the
only place he had for the consignment of his small
stock of wines and spirits. The bottles were just in
the order he had left them the previous day, and the
contents undiminished.
Still, he lifted the brandy-bottle, and eyed it
narrowly to be quite certain. Then he took out the
stopple and smelt it. His keen eye had not been
deceived; the dark fluid in the bottle was not brandy,
it was cold tea; and the whisky was water. '
He left- the bottles out, and surveyed them for a few
moments calmly and reflectively.
" Humph ! one thing is clear: the woman is a

drunkard- as wc.li as an impostor. That aocounts for
many little things I have noticed in her manners.
Now I must set about finding out whether she is a
thief as well."

It did not appear that she was, since he could
ascertain nothing, to prove it, save the loss of his
brandy and whisky. So he sat down, and began to
think whether it would be worth his while to find her
out.

He finally determined that he must not lose Sight
of her, but trace her out by some means or other;
and we mu:Cleave hiqa, pondez lag on those methods
which seemed to him the most expeditious and sure.
(7o be continuedj