The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1885-11-21 00:00:00

A SECRET FOR YEARS

CHAPTER XXVIIL
SRADOWS.
fr was towards the latter end of the month of August
that Ferdinand de Resimont addressed the following
letter to his brother Philippe. It was written in
)'rench, but I think it advisable to translate it.
"My DEAREST BROTHER AND BEST ESTEEMED
PRIEND,—It is now a week since I have tasted
Madame Bernstein's hospitality at her rustic little
country place' Westwood, as they call it. I feel
stronger in health—am indeed better in many
degrees, for which I presume I have to thank your
famous Dr. Creusa. An odd-looking man he is, and
an odd-mannered one likewise—his words are but
Scant; I can get few of them. He writes his pre-
scriptions, feels my pulse, gives a glance from beneath
his overhanging brows at my face, and then departs.
It seems the baroness was almost offended at his re-
fusing to take up his abode in the house, especially as
tna'rnselle's health is very delicate, and requires con-
stant supervision (according to the good lady) ; but
the doctor refused, and he lodges somewhere in a
neighbouring village, not very far off, I believe.
"What is there in this man, I wonder, that reminds
Me of thee, my brother? Is it because thou art so
constantly in my thoughts that every living thing
around me seems to take a shadowy image of thyself?
Something in his deep, dark orbs—his wonderfully
beautiful eyes—resembles the glance of my brother.
"I am weak, still I can contrive to drag my weary
bones abroad in se!irch of—of forgetfulness of myself
and the present. The baroness is so kind—so good to
cle—a thousand times more than I deserve. But, oh!
She knows not what my poor beet longs for. Not
happiness—not gaiety—not change and diversion.
Oblivion—death, is the cry of my soul! Miserable
being that I am, what has life to give me ROW worth
striving for? What can existence be for one whose
existence is thus blackened? Ah, Philippe! thy
revelation proved fatal to me; thou didst rend from
Me my self-respect—my virgin honour—and left me
to despair, to darkness, and to sin!
"Yes, sunk so low, that my once upright soul is
•darkly stained. I fear to look back on the few past
'Weeks of my life and think of death. Desperation
drove me to madness, and madness to many a heinous
Wickedness. Philippe, I loathe myself in thinking
What I have been, and what I may yet become,
through the hardening of my heart.
"Thou knowest our first bargain with Madame was
'for quiet—quiet for thy poor pleasure-seeker. Well,
the second day of my arrival here, the good lady
filled my pretty little drawing-reona with visitors. At
ten o'clock in the morning I heard the sound of
horses' hoofs galloping up the hill (Westwood is on
the summit of a hill). They halted, and I heard two
deep, rather loud-toned voices in conversation with
the baroness and her daughter, who were out in the
'front piece of garden. A few minutes after, the glass
doors of my parlour were pushed open from without,
and the lady ushered in two visitors upon me—
stretched as I was on my couch—Mr. Ingestre and his
ton, our nearest neighbour and the lord of the Redfern
.saanor.
" Oh, Philippe, such a man! such a great, broad.
high, muscular man, with an eye like an eagle's, and
a head and face like nothing in the world but a true-
bred Englishman's! I have seen his; likeness, but
never his equal, and nothing—nothing like the charm
01 his frank and simple manner. He is a strong and
tender man, I can see—one who can be as fierce in
his passion as the sea in a storm; and yet weep like
!i woman when hie heart is touched. I read this
much in his mobile lips and his keen, bright eye.
"His eon is like him; the one is the morning of the
Other's day—the same bold eye, the same flexile
Mouth the same sweet, winning manner. Ross
*°ffereci me a mount as soon as I could ride. The
'father said he should send his daughter! over to drive
rue out in her pony carriage; and Miss Lina, too,'
he added; 'for I want the young ladies to be friends.
I shall get Miss Waco to bring her over this afternoon,
baroness; and you must tell me what you think of
4...a3' young gipsy.'
"And in the afternoon the' gipsy' came with the
‘adv he had called Miss Wace. Philippe, when this
tall; graceful woman entered the room through the
'glass doors from the garden, came upon me suddenly,
and, without a word, lifted her veil and looked upon
Me, I thought—yes, I thought of thee, and the words
thou didst use to me one day—words which prophe-
sied that I should know intuitively, the woman thou
lovest at my first beholding. Folly of me to dream
this one should be her; but, indeed, she is one I should
deem worthy of even thy noble heart. She took my
'hand, and uttered a few kind words—a wish for my
sPeedy restoration to health. But her soft, dark eyes
looked down on me with such gentle pity, that their
latlguage was sweeter by far than that of her lips. A
noble, gentle, graceful woman, and beautiful beside.
She cannot be English; her eyes, hair, and skin, are
too dark.
"Miss Ingestre was with her, and, with the frank-
ness of a genuine child, made my acquaintance
-directly. Papa said you were an invalid, and as
13aroness Bernstein does not keep any sort of carriage
"Yet, I was to ask you to come out in mine. Will
you?'
"She seemed pleased enough when I accepted her
'lnvitation.
"'I think I shall like you,' she said. 'You are
something like Ross in the face; but not half so hand-
some. I mean—l mean '—she turned very red, for
Mademoiselle had made a grimace at her, because
you look so pale and thin, you know;
"Then she glided up to Miss Wace, linked her arm
in hers, and opened her mouth no more.
• " Bat I noticed the expression of supreme scorn
With which she regarded Lina, who was chattering
her English more fluently than correctly. Miss
Wace, too, appeared to regard her with a sort of
steady attention, as though fearful of any one
'observing it, and yet compelled in spite of herself to
Watch and listen to the gay trifles of the girl. Observe,
say nothing in disfavour of ma'inselle ; I merely
remark that by the side of a serious, earnest, and
ligh-bred woman, the child does not show to advan-
lage. Philippe, do not think of her!
"And then the next day, Miss Ingestre drove up to
the garden gate in her little carriage and pair,
While I was dragging my weary limbs about in the
garden. (My bones ache painfully, and my breath is
very short.)
'I have come to drive you over to the house,' she
Called out. 'Ross wants you to come and luncheon
With him. Will you?'
"I replied that I thought the baroness would, per-
haps, not like her visitor to ride off in that cavalier
Manner.
"'I don't like that Bernstein,' was her answer;
'and I won't drive her in my carriage. She is only
two years older than I am, and she sets herself up for
woman, with her airs and graces. I don't like it,
ttnd Miss Wace doesn't either. Ross thinks she is
i
le'velY—only fancy! do you?'
"The tears were in her large blue eyes, and she
looked savagely in earnest.
"'1)0 you think she is lovely, Mr. De Resimont ?'
" No, I do not.'
" I am very glad to hear it,' she said, settling her-
elf firmly on the cushions. I am very glad to hear
it. I will tell Ross as soon as I get home, what you
Say; not that I think it will alter his opinion much.
' are you coming?'
Not to-day, thank you. I shall only be a bore,
ttlY weakness is so great.'
"You look very bad, but Ross will be so disap-
Pointed. He has a holiday to-day, and he wanted to
talk to you about his guns and things. Won't you
Come?'
"The little girl's pretty rosy fa"e looked at me with I
Such wistful pleading in the cause of her brother, that
I demurred no more; but got in beside her without
another word. She touched up her ponies with a
Skilful whip, and away we went at a delightful pace.
"Philippe, I felt better than I have done for many
a day, sitting beside that child, and listening to the
Cheerful flow of her simple conversation. She evi-
dently had no fear of me—none of that hoydenish
timidity which afflicts most young girls of her age
When in the society of young men. A frank, unaf-
fected, loving-hearted child she is; and as such
Showed herself to me then. The love of her father
and brother is, at present, the master passion of her
heart; the latter of the two she fairly worships. But
T
4 preferred to hear her speak of that lady I have
already mentioned. She did so frequently, and always
in the most affectionate manner.
Is" I was a
.very bad girl before Miss Wace Came;
She said. You see, papa didn't know the right kind
governess to get for me; they were such an odd
lot, and never troubled their heads about me. I was
~always in the servants' hall or the stables until
;aatherine came (that is Miss Wace, you know; I cal
n_.er Catherine now, because I am so fond of her, and
Zae likes me to do so). And now she has taken me in
Tharld, papa says I have improved very much in my
Zauners ; but it is only because he is so good and kind
"-' nae that I mind her. I hate to make her looked
grieved!
a " But perhaps, my brother, her prattle will not
Illuse you as it did me. 1..
„ " And then Catherine welcomed me on alighting at
re hall door, and Ross stood there, gun in hand, and
. beautiful dogs all round him. He was very disap-
111mted, I could see, to find me too weak to go out
th him into the preserves; but indeed, I was very
Well, and could do little more than gasp for
aoyreath on the couch they led me to. They were all
kind.
,Ab, Philippe, heir unworthy I am of it all!
tbl'uld these worthy people look upon me even, if
a"reL7 but knew what I am? I know not why they
tre all so good, .so interested in me. The baroness
atn me like a son, and Mademoiselle Lina is often
~7.117 thoughtful for me. In the 'belief that thou
'latt
e day possess her, I can look upon her as a
n A fresh spasm seizes me. I can write no more.
soon, my friend and brother. Thine ever,
B "FERDINAND."
v
tat onle strange chance, Lina was ready dressed to
sh„
_aliNvalk when Ferdinand had just sealed his letter;
P t her head in at the door.
" C
,san I do anything for you, monsieur, in the vil-
'6" r I am going out for a stroll that way?
10;:hlYuzu?l,d ma'raselle be kind enough to post a letter

I"Most certainly." And Lina marched off with the
letter, and by some unaccountable means, Dr. Creusa
was reading it an hour after, in his little room over a
baker's shop.
Ma'mselle came— home with rather a startled ex-
__ _

pression of countenance, and darted swiftly up to her
own room, where Marie was waiting to dress her for

dinner.
"Oh, Marie T-611, Marie !" she cried, beginning to
laugh, and then to cry, and flinging her hat and parasol
to the other ead of the room, "oh, Marie! I have
been so frightened!"
"What is the matter, ma'mselle ?"
" Oh ! coming across the park, I met Mr. Ingram—
only imagine, when I fancied him a hundred m;les
away. He made me sit down on a seat beneath a
great oak tree, and just on the edge of a great jagged
place, all going down, down ever so far, to a place they
call.the Bottoms. Well, so I sat there, when he asked
me, thinking him nothing but a friend—and, would
you believe—he said he had come all the way from
London to tell me he loved me! Only fancy, a music
man to tell me that! But I did not laugh at him,
because his manner frightened me; it was so calm,
and yet so fierce. I thought once he meant to throw
me down the steep place; because he said, if he found
ortrthat I loved any one, he believed Wel% should
kill that person, whoever it might be, his heart was
so set on having -me for his wife. Oh, Marie; he
seemed so very much in earnest."
"Then ma mselle did not inform him that she was
In love with the Count de Resimont ?"
"Certainly not, child; what are you thinking of?
You cannot suppose I wish him to know that? Oh,
no, I,took care not to mention such a thing, but just
let him suppose that—that I was not in love with
anybody—(come, brush out my hair)—for, you per-
ceive, I did not wish to irritate the poor man's feel-
ings more than I could help. He said he was going
back to London by the mail-train to-night, but he
meant to come down and stop at Lowmoor a week or
two, as soon as he could. Ah, me! I shall have to
tell Philippe all about it."
And the delicate, childish face looked more fright-
ened and startled than ever. Marie turned up her
nose, and grunted, contemptuously:
"I can't see the necessity for telling the count all
your secrets, ma'mselle. I think you make a com-
plete slave of yourself to that man; and he does not
seem to treat you over well for it, after all."
"No, Marie," she said, mournfully shaking out her
bright hair," no, indeed he does not; he is very un-
kind to me, often—cruel sometimes. And yet I feel
compelled to tell him every little thing that happens
to me; because, if I do not, he is sure to find it out,
and then his frown and scornful words are very hard
to bear. He questions me so closely concerning every
little circumstance which occurs in the house; even
about those Ingestre people that come here —what
they say, what they do, and all the rest of it,. Oh,
Marie, I wish I could leave off loving that dreadful
man! But I cannot; no, indeed, I cannot."
She sighed heavily, and submitted, without another
word, to her maid's manipulations. Marie bit her
lips in, and looked very contemptuous; she did not
approve of another cakfidamte in her young lady's
secrets. Besides, the count had never made her a
single present, or given her a solitary fee.
Lina went down to dinner, and left her sad,
frightened face upstairs. She was gay and lively
as ever, and sang pretty little German songs to
Ferdinand, who walked nervously up and down the
room, trying with all his might to listen, and seemed
pleased with them.

CHAPTER XXIX.
A LAST FAREWELL.

Tan last beams of the glowing Angust sun were
slanting over bill and dale, ripened cornfields, and
sweet meadow-lands of Redfern and its neighbour-
hood. The honeysuckle ani wild-roses yet bloomed
in the hedgerows, the tangled vine of the clematis was
but now showing bud, the glowing heads of the
scarlet poppies and the azure corn-flower were still
glorious among the golden-bearded rye.
Colour, beauty, and sound were everywhere; sound
of a sheep-bell tinkling in the distant park, of a
musical bark in the lively kennel, of the far-off hum
—the shouts of children in the village, mellowed and
sweetened by distance.
Two female figures stood by a stile leading into a
bean-field, calmly contemplating the exquisite effects
of the yellow sunset on the dark masses of wood, the
green fields, and the glistening lake stretched far
beneath them.
The elder lady gazed, with a tranquil, serene expres-
sion, on the golden gates of heaven. The younger
looked abroad upon the earth.
"Catherine, what are you thinking of ?"
"The better land, Cleland?
"Oh, I'm thinking of the worst land then, for I
feel desperately wicked." And she drew the lady's
arm round her neck, and held her hand fast in her
own, while she continued:
"I hate those people at Westwcod ; papa is always
there, Ross is always there, and I don't like it. I
think the mother is a vulgar, fussy old thing, and the
daughter a—a hideous, vain little creature, though
Ross fancies she is perfection." Here there was a gulp
in her throat, and the quick dashing away of a tear.
"And that abominable, creeping old man, the doctor,
that is always watching poor Ferdinand about! They
are all detestable except him; I like that poor fellow,
Catherine, he is so kind and good to me, and so
patient and gentle in his illness Don't you think he
is very much like Ross in the face? I often think

so:
"Yes, Cleland, I have thought so too."
And then he seems so fond of you," she went on.
“Yesterday, when I met him in the park, he made
me sit down by him for half an hour, only that I
might tell him little things about you. He has a
brother named Philippe, and it seems he wants this
brother to make your acquaintance very much."
"And so you do not like Lina ?" inquired Miss Waee,
quietly interrupting Cle's rapid flow of words.
"Not at all; do you?"
Even Cleland's sharp eyes did not detect the quiver
in the lady's lips as she returned:
I think her nature is gentle and amiable, and her
heart goo 3 ; but she has many sad faults, Cleland—
faults which result entiroly from her injudicious
training. The kind baroness has done the poor child
grievous wroni: through her hadulging kindness, and
Lina's faults have all been fastened on her by the
rearing she has had. Do not hate her, Cleland--do
not hate her, darling; she deserve only pity and
love."
"You looked grieved, Catherine. Have I pained

you',
The lady only smiled, and kissed the eager, upturned
face.
"You see it is Ross's liking for her that troubles me
so," she continued. "/have always been so faithful
to him, and now he has quite forsaken me—at least,
not quite, but— Oh, look! there he is, crossing
the orchard, and Maxall, too. I suppose he will turn
through the white gate to Westwood, as usual. Yes,
there he goes; I said so! I knew what it would be.
Oh, Ross! oh, Ross !"
"And Maxall is coming this way."
The small, slight figure of the ward was seen coming
towards them, his gun on his shoulder, his shot-flask
under his arm. He left the orchard, crossed the
bean-field, and approached the stile on which the two
ladies were resting. The elder was silent and thought-
ful, the younger angry and red.
"Where are you going ?" Cleland demanded, in
ruder tone than she would have used to any dog.
"1? Oh, I am going to watch up in Sandbanks
Wood to-night br those poaching rascals Gropm can't.
catch."
"What, alone ?" she sneered. -
"Oh, dear no, Miss Ingestre ; Ross will be there,
and three keepers beside."
"Then Ross has not gone to—Westwood?" said
Miss Wace.
"No," returned Maxall, putting down his gun, and
leaning over the stile; "ho will be here directly. He
said he would just take a turn in the wood."
Cleland said no more, but turned her back on
him, and watched intently the orchard and the white
gate.
"I do not like this watching in' the wood; at night,
Mr. Maxall.: I wonder Mr. Inge,stre allows Ross to
do it; all very well for the gamekeepers, but not, I
think, for him."
"And why on earth not? The preserves are his
own, or soon will be; let him look after them himself,
if he doesn't choose the fellows should shoot his hares
and pheasants. Let him look after them, I say—why
not ? "
"Because his young life is too valuable to be shot
away in a quarrel with poachers."
"No fear of that," laughed Cle. "There is not a
man, woman, or child on all the manor that would
hurt a hair of young ingestre's head; they like him
too well for that."
Maxall said nothing to this, but lent his head on
his hand, and looked at the dying sunset. Mss Wace
still urged her fears of some act of violence taking
place, and said, at last, that she should certainly speak
to Mr. Ingrestre about it.
"Better tie him to your apron-string to-night, Miss
Wace. Here he comes; catch him while you can;
Cle will offer the loan of her garter, lain sure."
"If it was to hang you, I would give it directly.
Yes, here comes Ross; a truer and better man than
you will ever be—jealous little reptile!"
Maxall showed his teeth, but not in a smile.
Then Ross came up, with his gun under his arm,
and a dock-leaf full of wild strawberries in his hand.
"I saw you both standing here," he said: "so I
thought I would go and get 'em out of the wood.
You're so precious fond orem, Cle, aint you? The bank
down there is like a coral-bed; but these are the last
we shall have, I suppose. Hullo, Max! you look
white; what's the matter ? "
And then they all looked at Maxall's face; three
pair of eyes were fastened on it, and white was no
word for the look it bore. He turned it aside,
and began to play nervously with the trigger of his

gun.
"Take care, old chap! that sun is loaded, re-
member."
"What if it is, pray ? "
"Well, I don't care you should shoot me, or de,
either, and it will be one of us, if you don't look out;
so just turn the muzzle Vother way, please. You're
such a fool with a gun, you know."
Am I? Then perhaps you would rather not have
my company to-night in Sandbanks Wood, if you think
that is the case."
66 Oh, I don't care, one way or the other; just as
you please.".

"Then _ Faeis-.43 aemain at home to-night, and
you may go on this dangerous expedition alone."
"All right, old boy; and it may be a trifle less
dangerous because you are not there."
"Thank you; after that I will say good evening."
And he lifted his cap, with derisive politeness, to the
two ladies, then leaped over the stile, and leisurely
crossed the field on his waihomewards.
"I did not mean to offend him," said Ross; "hut
he is an awkward hand with a gun —foolhardy an d care-
less, both. He's got a double charge in it now, for I
watched him load it, though he got behind a bush to
do it. He knows well enough I don't care to have
that gun of mine choked up to the muzzle; it's pre-
cious old, and I guess It -won't stand it many times
more. There will be a case of bursting, and Max will
have his head blown off."

"All the better," said Cle; and I'll sing jubilee
when it happens. Ross, when we saw you go into
the wood, we made sure you were making of to West-
wood."
"No fear ; " retorted the boy, with -a blush and a
laugh; "they have some visitors, I think, for, passing by
to-day, I saw your friend, Ferdinand, limping along
on the arm of a dark, foreign-looking fellow, whom
have not seen there before. Don't you think he is
consumptive, Miss Wace ? He looks so awfully
bad."
" I think be is very ill, poor fellow, and his frail
looks favour the idea of that disease. I wish he had
your healthy colour, as well as your bright eyes and
hair, Ross. He is like you; I see very plainly now
the resemblance Cle has so often spoken to me of. Do
either of you know what countryman he is ? "
"I don't," said Cle; "I never thought about it.
Hearing him gabble French so often, I thought him
a Frenchman. Going, Ross?"
"Yes, I must be off, or it will be nine before I get
to Sandbanks, and Groom is waiting at Holroyd's gate
for me. Good night!"
"Do not be late, Ross," said Miss Wace, laying her
hand on his arm. "I do not like this watching busi-
ness at all. I like you safe in bed by twelve o'clock,
and not lyirg hidden up in the wood. Be back by
ten."
" Not a bit of it!" he laughed, shaking off her de-
taining hand. "If I don't find out soon who sets
those wires down in the Follet, I shan't come home till
I do. So, good-bye, Cle! Good-bye, St. Catherine!"
And the young heir shouldered his gun, and strode
off, with laughing lips and sparkling eyes. How those
two, in after years, recalled the memory of that boy's
face, as it bade them that happy " good-bye! "
He looked back once before he descended the decline
of the hill, and waved his cap towards them. They
saw his ;boyish figure clearly outlined against the rose.
pink sky, as he turned to bid them a last good night.
They saw the sunlight, scarcely gonerflash on the barrel
of his gun, and give a golden radiance to his bright
brown curls. And then he turned the sharp fall of
the hill, went down and down, and they saw him no
more.

The scarlet poppies waved their glorious heads
among the rye; the corn stirred with a gentle whis-
pering sound; a golden-eyed lizard crept from the
bank, and darted for one moment to a greer spot
where the sunlight was still lingering; birds twittered
softly round their roosts; and in all that beautiful
summer evening no one inanimate thing forewarned
those two of the dark shade stealing up.
Even the sunset was loth to die. "Let me liver
awhile," it seemed to say; "live to behold the beauty
my dying hour imparts! live to behold the pale moon
Jise before me, and stars of tremulous light gain radi-
ance as I fall. Most glorious earth! most glorious.
now! it pains me to depart."
(Yo be continued.)