The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1885-11-07 00:00:00

Mrs. Faunce smiled sweetly.

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George Ingestre paid a visit to the Baroness Bern-
stein, and entered her rooms when they were filled
even to overcrowding. He entered them with a half
smile on his lips and in his eyes. The baroness was
engaged just then in conversation with a foreigner of
distinguished appearance, and Mr. Ingestre remained
with folded arms near the doorway, quietly surveying
the crowd all round.

Suddenly his eye lighted on a dark, handsome face,
Lot far from him—the face of no Englishman, but of

some dark-blooded Indian-bred cretit;;:e-..--in-g-esTre-
did not start when he saw it—that word would not
express the feeling which seemed to rush through his
veins. If in the middle of the day, in the broad sun-
ltght, in the midst of familiar sights and sounds, we
should suddenly see the face and form of one long
dead smiling at our side, moving and speaking in all
the similitude of life and health, and yet be conscious
that the thing is but a vision after all—then the
horror, dread, and absolute terror we should experience
at this fancy, was witten with tenfold force in the
face and sudden movement of George Ingestre.
He turned away with a shudder, forced a passage
up to where the baroness sat; and five minutes after
was smiling and talking with the lady, as though the
blood in his veins were fired instead of frozen. Yet
all the time those smiles were on his lips and those
light words on his townie, his eyes were darting
furtive glances at the handsome creole face, and the
rush of his thoughts was something like this:
To think the look of a man's face should make me
feel as if I had taken a plunge in the Geysers! make
me feel like a murderer, a thief, and a vagabond !
something as loathsome and vile as a rat reared in a
charnel-house! I don't like it. I'm a man and a
gentleman. I have wealth, position, and friends. I
have children I love, and a worthy woman whom I
adore. I hate to be reminded that lam not what they
are—good and innocent. It is something hideous to
think there is pollution in the kisses you press upon
their lips—a taint in the breath you address them with
—a secret in the heart you offer t
"That man's face floods it all up before my eyes. I
am no longer in this hot, stuffy London room, but in
Jamaica, beneath a moonlight sky. The overpowering
scent of spice-trees and flowering shrubs is in my
nostrils—all but dead, I am lying out on the cool
verandah, with my face turned to the quarter where
the breeze sweeps over the Pacific, and touches my
hot forehead like a flake of summer snow. There is a
distant murmur, and, where the cinnamon trees are
scantiest, Domingo points out to me a great crowd of
people, black and white faces turned up to something
suspended midway between them and the star-lit sky
—a man htmging dead; and I know that the horrible
pain of that cold steel in my ribs is amply avenged.
The man who tried to murder me is dead—swinging
like a dog from a tree. He was my friend, and it is
strange to think I shall never see him again—that it
is Ms face staring up to heaven, as black as a negro's,
and with the tongue and eyes lolling out. We were
good friends, but he drew cold steel on me, an English
planter, and he dies! I cannot grieve for him. We
were sinners together. He tempted me, and I fell.
My safety is purchased with his death, and I do not
grieve for him. Only one sorrow is in my heart, and
that goes up to God in the bitter wail of despair. My
brothe- would that I had died with you!"
And while Mr. Ingestre wrestled thus with his
mental agony, Baroness Bernstein was talking and
smiling at his left hand, determined to subdue her
enemy. She talked of many things, but chiefly of her
daughter and Westwood Farm.
"Now, Mr. George, tell me candidly what you think
of her," she said of the former, and not for the first
time, either.
"Well, she does not resemble either you or any othet
of the Warringtons whom I remember. Who is that
man talking to her now ? "
"Oh, that is Count De Resimont ; we made his
acquaintance in Paris last year. A very handsome
man, is he not? I know very little about him, except
that he is an intimate friend of the famous Dr. Creusa,
whom you have of course heard all about. He appears
to have plenty of money to spend, and no one
to spend it on save an only and much younger brother,
whom he has not brought with him to-night. Shall
I introduce you, Mr. Ingestre ? "
He broke in abruptly:
"Bertha Warrington, do you remember a creole
fellow at Kingston, a desperate chum of mine—l mean
of my poor brother's —he was known by the name of
Don Fernando. Do you remember him?"
"You mean that awful man who was hung for
attempting to murder you—Fernando, the son of the
old Count da Ponti ? I never saw the man; or, if I
did, have entirely forgotten the circumstance. But I
perfectly well remember his cold-blooded attempt on
your life, and his being hung within a hour after;
Sir was so enraged at the frequent use of the
stiletto upon the English by the Spanish creoles.
The affair made a great commotion at the time, hap-
pening as it did so soon after the death of poor
Edward Maxall, and while you were only conva-
lescent. But why, pray, if I may ask, do you recall
the remembrance of that individual at this present
time?"
"Because if a dead man could come to life again, I
should say Ile has done so in the person of that one
yonder."
The baroness opened her eyes, and looked
earnestly at the speaker's face. It was that of a
man who had uttered nothing beyond a commonplace
remark. _ .

"Ali, you mean the likeness between the two is so
strong? That is extraordinary, as the count is a
Frenchman by birth. One would not think so to look
at him, either; he much more resembles the Spanish
Creoles of Jamaica. A very handsome man, but
rather peculiar-looking, is he not?"
"Very peculiar, indeed," returned Ingestre abstrac-
tedly.
For some time the garrulous Madame Bernstein
chattered on about her guests; but again she reverted
to the oft-repeated question—what did Mr. Ingestre
think of her daughter? There seemed something re-
markable in this determined pertinacity, and while the
good lady repeated her question, her eyes were fixed
with an eager, anxious expression, on his face. What
did he think of Una?
And then George Ross removed his intent gaze from
the Count De Resimont, and turned it on the lady at
his side, Lina Von Bernstein.
"A very pretty little lady; rather precocious, I
should fancy. My Cleland is only a couple of years
younger, and she is a child compared with her."
"Then you do not admire Lina ? " cried madame,
with a very disappointed look.
"Oh, she is pretty enough, and will get some colour
in her face if you bring her down to Westwood. Sent
tells me you think of living there yourself for some
months?"
"Certainly, Mr. George, if you have no objection—
I mean, if that will prevent any lawsuit. I will look
after the place myself, and see that it does not fall
into such ruin as your lawyer describes. But still, I
am sure, rather than go to law about it with such an
old friend as you, I will—"
"Nonsense." interrunted the gentleman. with a

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laugh. "If you come and live in the place yourself,
all well and good; all I want is that rascally tenant
of yours out of it. He's a wretched farmer, and a
most inveterate poacher on my preserves. Occupy
Westwood yourself, baroness, and we'll not quarrel as
neighbours. Where is that Maxall ? Confound the
fellow, where has he disappeared?"
"Your young friend whom you brought with you?
There ho is, talking with that tall German in the
ante-room. I see his small dark face, and glistening
teeth at this distance. Not English, is he?"
"No. I must be off. Make my adieus to your
daughter. Good night.'
"You will come on Wednesday?"
"If lam in London. Good night."
And five minutes after Mr. Ingestre was in the
street arm-in-arm with his ward.

As:usual, he had forgiven him; not a word of re-
proach had been uttered against him, not a threat
used; but still Maxall knew that while his guardian
remained in London he was in honourable captivity,
for George Ingestre did not once allow him out of his
sight. It was in no very amiable mood, therefore,
that he marched along, feeling the forcible pressure
of his guardian's arm on his as they walked on to the
hotel. He was sulky and ill-tempered, and returned
no answers to the casual remarks made by his com-
panion on the people they had seen that night at the
Bernstein& But with a patience rarely characterising
his humour with any one, George Lngestre bore his
ward's insolence without remark, and quietly con-
tinued his observations.

"I think, of all the queer-looking misses I ever saw,
Madame Bernstein's is the queerest, with that yellow
hair and great black eyes and eyebrows—such a miser-
able expression in 'em, too; even when she laughs
they look wretched. A poor thing, I fancy, and dif-
ferent indeed from my tall, nut-brown Clo ! Eh, Max,
what do you say? Have a cigar, my boy, here's one,
and open your lips. You are annved with me,
Maxall, because I wish to keep you out of bad hands,
because I act for your good, and will not, if I can
help it, let her influence you to your harm. Ido not
reproach you for yoar infatuated liking for her, I do
not say what I know to be the fact, that together you
would make a beggar of me if you could. Love her,
hate me if you will; but, Maxall, as long as you live,
you will be to me as my son, and I to you as your
father. My own boy Ross shall be neglected before I
relinquish the charge I have in you. Tell me, have I
ever been harsh to you, my lad? Tell me, have I
ever, in word or deed, thwarted you knowingly,
crossed you willfully, given you a single pain from
your youth up? Tell me, Max; and if I have, you
shall have full amends."

" Amends ! as if you could make it. Yes, you can,
though, by making a full and free confession as to
who and what I am, who put me under your guardian-
ship, and by what right lam there? Tell me that,
Mr. Ingestre, if you choose."
"I do not choose; the knowledge cannot benefit
you in any way. Be gentle with me, Max, be
gentle 3; " and drops of perspiration—drops of agony
rather—poured from tho man's forehead as ho
said it.

"You need not suppose for an instant," continued
the boy, "that I do not know the wrong you have
done me. I am your son, lam older than Ross, and
yet I am the beggar, and he gets all. I call it an
infamous shame to make me suffer so; and talking
about reparation is all stuff. You cannot make
reparation now, it is too late."
"Not too late, Maxall. You shall have half Ross's
private fortune when you come of age, and if an r;;+
thing should happen to him before that, the whole of
it; and my poor girl shall have only £15,000. I shall
make my will to-morrow, and that goes down. Will
that satisfy you ? "
"Oh, well, better than nothing. How much will
Ross have ? "

"Eighty thousand."
"Then I shall have forty in a year's time. Jolly!
That will do, governor; I'll have a cigar."
(7o be continued.)