Welsh Newspapers

Search 15 million Welsh newspaper articles

Hide Articles List

26 articles on this Page

'¡DARBY AND:, JOAN : I,,

News
Cite
Share

r- |POT9CtCgHP BY BPEmAL '¡DARBY AND:, JOAN I, BY "EITA," Author of "My Lord Conceit," "Damo Purden," "I Coriuna," etc., eoo. (Continued.) UHAPTER XVII. FOR BETTER — FOR WORSE. So I put my romance aside and looked upon my future as settled. Two days after I had agreed to marry Sir Ralph, he left us in charge of father, and went back to England. He declared that Moorlands must not be sold. There were a hundred ways by which that might be averted. He talked and argued with fatner, until in sheer desperation he bade him please him- self, and do what he liked. I was lamentably igaiorant of all business matters, and quite ready to believe Sir Ralph when he told me my father had exaggerated atfairs; that they only wanted" managelllont." Accordingly he went off to give them that mysterious remedy, and we remained quietly on at the villa. As soon as Sir Ralph came back we were to be married. The I ceremony over, father was to return to Moorlands, and I and Sir Ralph to wander about Switzerland and the Rhine until such time as we felt disposed to settle down at the Hall. Darby was to be with us, at his suggestion- another proof of unselfishness, for I suppose few bridegrooms care for a third party attendant on their honeymoon; but the child's grief at the first hint of my leaving her had at once resulted in this decision, and I was only too glad to acquiesce in it. I had grown strangely calm and content. It seemed sometimes as if years and years had passed over my head since that morning of the storm. I made my quiet preparations for the forthcoming event. A French modiste came to the house, and she and my maid concocted wonderful garments on patterns sent from Paris. Other magniticent articles arrived direct from there, sent by my generous lover, and Darby was not forgotten either. So the weeks glided on, and my wedding-day approached, and I was looking forward to the arrival of the boys, all of whom were to be present. Sir arri Ralph and they were to arrive, and I must say I began to feel horribly nervous at the idea of receiv- ing him in their presence under such changed auspices. But I need not have been. His unfailing tact and goodness covered any embarrassment. He quietly stood aside till their effusive demonstrations were over, and then, as they turned to Darby, he simply laid his hands on my sluulders and kissed me quietly and tenderly on the brow. Then I marched off to show them their rooms, leaving the child with Sir Ralph. 0 Once we were aione, the whole four turned and faced me with a general smile of intense amusa- inent. Well," they cried simultaneously, so you've been and done it!" "Yes," I said, growing crimson at the scrutiny of those critical glances. You see, I took your advice, after all." And—and how do you feel?" asked Ted. Feel! I answered, my cheeks growing hotter every moment. "Why, how should I feel? Just the same, of course." "You have grown belter looking, I think," Eughie said candidly. "I say, Jo." dropping his voice into an awestruck whisper, does he—does he spoon ? I I Good gracious—no!" I cried, growing scarlet to the roots of my hair; never-never He would not do such an idiotic thing." I should," said Ted with a grin. "But perhaps he's too old." He's not old at all!" I exclaimed indignantly. "And he's the very best and kindest man in the world." Bravo said Alfred, who had been surveying me critically. And you're fond of him, of course. I wonder how it feels to be in love. You might de- scribe the sensation, Jo." Wait till your turn comes," I answered lightly. An now you've heard enough about me, tell me tlb.oi i i',)urselves. What sort of Christmas did you havel Was it very dull? Didn't it seem strauge not 1 11-, home *e "j<> :>tly," said Teddy laconically. No matter, it's over now. Next year I suppose you'll have iall at your place. By Jove! Fancy talking ot' Monk's Hail as your place Doesn't it seem fanny ? And how we used to joke about the Rover, and to think you're going to marry him, after all! There's many a thing sa.id in jest,' etc., etc. quoted Alfred. "I say, Jo," going over to the window, what a jolly place this is And what a view! It's done the child no end of good being here. I never saw any one so much improved." Are you going to leave her with us while you're honevniooniiiir r inouired Ted. No," I answered as coolly as I could; she's coming with us." By Jove the Rover is certainly not one of the spoony ones of earth," cried Hughie. Fancy taking a sister-in-law as well as a wife with you on Such an occasion!" It's only his goodness," I said warmly. "He knows very well that the child has never left me, that she would fret and be unhappy, and so he Decided she should come with us." "You know he's having some alterations in me Ball? interrogated Alird. "A boudoir or some- thing arranged. Men down from London, and DO end of fuss. Is he very fond of you, Jo ? Fancy an old chap like that falling in love! Does he think you're pretty ? He never said so," I answered laughing so I don't suppose he does. As for being fond of me, well, he wouldn't want to marry me if he wasn't." I suppose not," said Alfy dubiously. You've no fortune, have you ? Fortune I gasped then I sat down on the nearest chair and SLLI-VCI) t(I them all. Do you mean to say you haven't heard—that he hasn't told you? Heard what ? Why, you look like a tragedy- queen. What's up ? they all cried. So I told them there and then the story of my future husband's generous conduct, and the merry boyish faces grew grave and quiet as my own. By Jove he in a brick I" said Alfy, when I ceased at last. And I don't wonder you're fond of him," added Toddy. And we'll never tease you about his age any more," joined in the others. "Though," Ted added, as an afier-tnought, H they'll certainly take you and Darby for his two little girls, when you're on that honeymoon trip. But perhaps that will be all the better it won't be so embarrassing Faster and faster the days fly by. We ride, and drive, and boat, and walk. We go to Monte Carlo; we show the boys the sights of the Riviera, and explore Nice and Monaco, and drive on the famous Promenade des Anglais which is half deserted now that the winter is over. Father is amiable beyond all previous experience of him. Darby is happy, and merry, and strong, the boys in the best and wildest of spirits, and Sir Ralph uniformly genial and kind to us all. I am swept along in the whirl. I have little time to think. I tell myself again and again that I too, am happy-more than happy and cheat myself into believing it. But one thought is always in my heart—one question trembles unasked upon my lips and till that thought and question are answered, I fed my peace is insecure. I long to ask Sir Ralph if there is any news of his nephew, and yet, try as I may, I have not courage to do so. Yet it seems to me that he must have informed Yorke of his intended marriage—Yorke, who is his only living relative. It comes to the last day of my maiden life at last. The last evening, after dinner, Sir Ralph asks me to "walk with him in the garden for a few moments. We have not been alone for a single instant the whole day but now everything is ready—all the arrange- ments are complete, and I rise and take my lover's proffered arm, and together we pace the soft green- sward, and I listen to his voice explaining some details of our journey. Ö You are sure," I say at last, remembering the boys' words, "you are sure, Sir Ralph, that yon don't mind Darby coming with us ?" I mind nothing that pleases you, my dear," he says in his gentle, tender way. I should not like my first marital action to be one that would part you from your little charge. Besides, I am quite sure you won't neglect me altogether, even for Darby's sake." Oh no I exclaim eagerly. Then a momen- tary feeling of compunction sweeps over me. I hope," I say, looking up at him in the moonlight, "I do hope you have not thought me neglectful sipce the boys have been here ? You know they will never have me to themselves again—they are always telling me that; but you-" But I! What about me ?" he asks, as I hesi- tate. You will have me-always," I say, with a little break in my voice. I am afraid you will get tired Of me, in fact. I don't think I am at all good com- pany, you know—indeed, I have often wondered and so have the boys, what on earth could have made you fall in love with me iii He laughs pleasantly. It is very wonderful, no doubt," he says, clasp- ing my hand a little closer. But the fact remains tkat I did and, having done so, I must make the best df it-oh. Joan 1 hope," 1 say earnestly, j. do nope you mil not repent. Sometimes I think I am too foolish and ignorant to be your wife. You are so wise and so good." "Perhaps," he interrupts, colouring like a girl, that is why I like foolishness and ignorance." "Well," I say, laughing, "you will have to put up with them; and then I try for the hundredth time to nerve myself to ask that question, and for the hundredth time I fail. We pace to and fro in silence. The boys troop out with Darby, and go down one of the shady alleys. I make no attempt to join them, though this is our last night. Sir Ralph watches the slight young figures, and half sighs. "I was thinking of Yorke," he says to me suddenly. For the life of me I cannot repress a start. I feel the blood fly in a hot wave to my face, and then as suddenly recede. Yes," I stammer, looking down at the ground in momentary dread. "He is still away," he goes on. "I find he draws his allowance quarterly, as I directed, but 1 can't discover his present address. The bankers say he was at Paris when they last heard." I seem to grow faint and sick. I have told myself all is over- again and again I have said it, but still the mention of his name can affect me as no other can, and I tremble as I think that chance might Iriiag him across my path before I have acquired self-comman(I-before I have schooled myself into the indifference I have sworn. I have left a letter with them to bo forwarded to him," Sir Ralph goes on. Of course he ought to know of my marriage. I am afraid it will not please him, though," he goes oA, looking down at me with a little tender smile. "Why?" I ask huskily. Because it will make a grave difference to his prospects," he answered a little diffidently. "If I remain as I am, he would be my heir, and at my death Monk's Hall would go to him." "But it can go to him just the same," I cried eagerly. "Surely I cannot make any difference. Oh, don't let me make any difference," I go on passionately. "It seems wrong—unjust— fov a stranger to step between him and his rights. "W I had known that was what it came to I would neve#1 have agreed to many you. I—I could never have a happy hour if I thought 1 was defrauding him-- wronging him." My dearest Joan," cries Sir Ralph, looking at me in amazement, "you are talking downrighi nonsense. Yorke must take his chance, as others have done before him. No man is bound to sacrifice his own happiness and comfort for the sake of an heir-presumptive. I-I hope I am not a selfish man but it seems a little hard that I should not marry and have a home, and wife, and children of my own simply because my nephew does not wish it. He has youth, and health, and strength, and ability. He must carve out his own fortune r: himself. No one can say 1 have not been generous to him, but you surely don't expect me to strip myself of everything—even love-for the sake of one who cares little enough for me." I was silent and abashed. I knew he was right —quite right but I knew, too, that from the hour I became Sir Ralph Ferrers's wife I became also the enemy of his nephew-the deadly foe of the very man to whom I had given the iirst passionate If.ve of my youth-the iirst fair fruits of heart and life. I shuddered as I thought of it. We had parted last in love and bitter sorrow, but how would we meet-ah, how would we meet? Sir Ralph's voice broke across -the troubled cur- rent of my thoughts. I hope you did not mean what you said-that you would not have promise 1 to marry me if you had known. I-I thought you cared for me more than that." So I do-so I do I" I cry with momentary c)mpunction. I spoke heedlessly. But it seemed very terrible to me to place myself in the position of an enemy to your only living relation." Yoll, must think of me, and not of my rela- tive," he says playfully. Perhaps, in time, you may be able to soften his present humour towards me. You were very good friends once—were you not ?" "Oh, very good! I say bitterly and then wonder if I ought to tell. But I have not courage. I cannot rake up those painful memories. I cannot expose his perfidy, and my shame and sorrow, so I let the opportunity slip by. "And now, enough of other people," Sir Ralph says suddenly. You never seem to think of your- self, Joan. Tell me, are you happy?" "Yes," I say, driving back the treacherous tears, and looking full up into the earnest, pleading face above me of course I am happy. You would make any one that, Sir Ralph." He takes my face between his hands, and looks down into my eyes. "This time to-inorrow," he says in a low pas- sionate whisper this time to-morrow, and you will be mine—my very own—my wife You must not call me Sir Ralph any more." "Oh no," I say briskly "I shall say, 'My nusband' then, of course. I was not prepared for the effect of that riisl,) admission. Despite the fact that the windows look out upon our halting-place, that the boys are in ilAT1û'P1'Ol1l¡ nrn-vimifv. Sir Ralnh fol s me in his -0" r-J' -c-- arms, and for the first time since I have promised to be his wife, kisses me rapturously on the lips. I hear an ominous rustle in the bushes. I seem to catch a faint chuckle, a smothered burst of dis- tant laughter, and I tear myself from my lover's arms, scarlet with sudden shame. A few n inutes afterwards I meet the boys as I go in search of Darby, in order to take her to bed. They place themselves in various attitudes, and cover their faces bashfully. "Oh," says Ted, "who said we never spoonedr On no—never "Permit me to suggest an umbrella on the next occasion," says Alfy politely. Or a timely warning, and we will then play at being ostriches," chimes in Hugh. I pass them in dignitied silence, my head very high, but my cheeks most uncomfortably hot. After all, brothers are a great nuisance. CHAPTER XVIII. LOVE AND DUTY. "I never saw any thing so lovely in the whole course of my life You have made that remark a good many times, my dear," says my husband's voicf. But I pardon its repetition here. This place is an earthly paradise." I am standing, or rather we are both standing, on the platform of the railway- station at Salzburg. There is a pile of baggage beside us; there are polite officials suggesting the various excellences of their respective hotels there is my particular maid a little distance off, and there is Darby, with meek and wondering face, listening to my raptures. And they arc raptures, for, as I ftand there, looking up at the great snowy heights, it seems as if I need only stretch out my hand to touch the moun- tains. Yet here, at their feet, the warm sun pours out lavish beams, and in the west the clouds lie piled like a bank of roses, flushed and warm as the cheeks of a young child. We leave the station presently, and then I catch a glimpse of the river-its rapid waters turned to hues of gold and violet in this magic sunset, and then the quaint old-world town and lovely valley steal upon me as fresh surprises, and everywhere in that rarified air those wonderful mountains seem to stand out close, and distinct, and touchable and soft winds float by, scattering blossoms from chest- nut and fruit trees at our feet, and I draw my breath in a sort of ecstasy, and almost wonder if I am awake. Presently we are at an hotel, and I am shown into a room all white lace, and dainty furniture, and with a balcony beyond the window, from which I behold a perfect panorama of loveliness. The sun is just sinking behind the highest of the mountain- peaks—it is the Gaisberg, I learn afterwards. The rich, soft air seems like a breath of purer life, and as I stand and gaze, the river and valley fade intc pakr tints, and the trees stand black as shadows against the rose hues of the sky. I hear the sound of rushing water where the river runs beside the chestnut-walks, and under the old stone bridges; and against the rocky back- ground, I see the old, old houses in grim and rugged strength, while forest trees crown the crags above, and hold them safe in leafy shelter. How long I stand there, and gaze, and gaze, and gaze as if my eyes would never weary How long c! I stand, forgetful even of the quiet little figure by my side, who waits as usual for my lips to paint the colours, and the scenes she may never behold for herself. One is glad of life at such a time," I say at last, and I draw the child closer to my side, and tell her in low, hushed tones of those wonderful heights with their crowns of snow that reach far, far up to heaven, of how the clear stars leap into the violet dusk of the sky, of the waters that grow so dark a the spell of night creeps onward, and how one by one the distant lamps gleam out through trees and avenues, and shine down into the shining river, "l can see it all," says the child, as I cease speaking. How beautiful it must be, Jo I can hear the river quite distinctly as I stand here." It seems the only thing that has life or motion," I answer dreamily. There is such a sense of still- ness and restfulness about the whole place." Hpw accurately you have described it," says a voice close at hand-a voice that makes me start as if, indeed, the dead had found me here in this faint dusk, a voice remembered as only pain remembers; and cold, and sick, and trembling I turn, and beside me, on the adjoining balcony, I see Yorke Ferrers. For a moment I do not speak. No worcl-not even the commonest form of greeting Trill my lips frame. I only stand as it turned to stone, ana gaze at tne race oetore me with eyes that must surely speak the terror of my heart. He bends a little nearer. I have some dim, con- fused idea that he puts out his hand, but I do not touch it. I draw further and further away-a sort of horror seizes me. I feel as if I hated him—hated him because he stands there, calm, smiling, com- posed and I—what agony has me in its grip as I lean against the cold stone balustrade, tongue-tied, paralysed, by the shock of this strange meeting! Darby's voice rouses me. Darby it is who runs forward and clasps the hands that to me are as the hands of a murderer. "It is Yorke," she cries gladly. "It is really Yorke, and here too How funny Did you know we were here ? No," he says I did not know." Why don't you speak to him, Joan? the child goes on. "Are you not glad to see him? You were so fond of him once. Was she not, Yorke ? Yes," he says, in an odd, cold voice "I think she was fond of me once. But that was a long time ago, Darby—a long time ago Then something gives me strength, and I stand up calm and straight though pain seems draining the very life-blood from my heart. i was too surprises to HpeaJr to you," i say in a voice that is no more like my own Mian these falling evening shadows are like the radiant sunset I have watched. How-how did you come here ? By train from Vienna," he answers. May I ask the same question of you ? or, shall I wave ceremony, and say at once, why have you never answered my letters ?'' Your letters ?" I gasp. What letters ?" Those I wrote before leaving London, and again from Boulogne," he says. I grew sick of it at last. Aone-sidod correspondence has few charms at the best of times. It certainly possessed none for me." Your—letters ?" I repeat. Why, I never had one after last July. Never, though I wrote to you again and again, though I begged and prayed for one word to say you had not forgotten." "I never forget," he says in the same hard, strange way—"never. It is my misfortune to have a fatal memory. There is something odd about this. I can't understand it." "But I can," I cry with a sudden passion of wrath and indignation. You are not telling me the truth-you can't be. Why did you go away with that woman ? If-if you had loved me, as you said, you could never have done tliat-nover And as for letters, I have none. And all these months I have waited and waited in vain Oh," I cry in sudden despair as I wring my hands together, what does it all mean?" Earth, sky, the veiy stare and moon are whirling madly about me. With a last effort at self-com- mand I seized Darby. Go in, child," I cry hurriedly; go in and wait. I will be there in a moment." I forget Sir Ralph. I forget everything. I only remember that I am here face to face with my false and perjured lover, and that I will have the truth from him at any cost. Darby obeys. I go close to the little stone bar that separates the two balconies. "Now," I say, looking at the face that is white as my own, tel* mewhyyou have deceived mo so ?" His eyes met mine. Oh, the sweetness and the misery of that remembered look The hands of time go back. We are boy and girl once more—lovers, loving and beloved. We are in the school-room at home. My heart leaps in mad and fierce defiance of the present and the future, claiming once again the old rapture and the old belief. Then I hear his voice, and grow calm, as with the icy chill of death. I never deceived you," he says, and his face does not blanch nor his eyes sink, There is no guilt or shame in the eyes that meet my own, but they arc stormy with sudden anger, and that very anger seems to claim kinship with all my memories of him. A woman has always the right to insult a man if she chooses," he says; "I thought the right to reproach lay on my side. Heaven knows I have raged at you, stormed at you, hated vou at times but-" "But she?" I persist. "Where is —that woman who stole you from me-that woiu„_i who stands between us ? Be silent! he cries in a sullen, stormy way. "Don't take her name on your lips. How you have heard of her passes my comprehension. It is a short story enough if you care to hear. Yon know where i lodged ? THerc were only 1 ancf another follow in tho house, and tlie-lidy- who kept it represented herself as a widow. I told you that long ago, when I first went there—did I not?" "Yes," I say stonily. She-slit) was only an adventuress." ho goes on, A sudden streak of crimson showing itself on his check, and she took a—a sort of fancy to me. It became a nuisance at last, and I left. Then she followed me to Boulogne. That is uU-the plaiu facts as they stand. Of course you'll say I m not blameless; a fellow never is blameless when a woman throws herself at his head but I give you my word of honour I never encouraged her-in fact. I disliked her rather than otherwise." And have you—married her ?" I ask abruptly. Married her Groat Heavens—no Do you take me for a fool, J 0an r" Then I turn sick and dizzy; I see before me ship- wreck, sorrow, desolation—only these; and a few moments before life had looked so fair and full of peace. A few moments Why, it seemed as if years had passed since I had stepped out on that balcony and gazed with raptured vision on the white snows and gleaming waters. So that is-all," I say brokenly, finding voice at last. Then she must have stopped your letters and mine. She took you from me, whether with your will or not. Absence is a hard test. I thought it too hard for you. I-oh, Yorke-Yorke, what you have cost me Do not say that!" he cries with the old passion in his voice. Remember I, too, havo suffered thinking you changed, for—oh, Joan, how can I explain to you ?—a folly like that does not change a man's heart—nay, rather it sickens and disgusts him, and makes him turn with deeper longing to the pure love of a pure woman. And so I turned to you and prayed to you, and you gave me only silence. But now Fate'has been kind—kinder than 1 deserve. For you look at me with remembering eyes, and I —I think I never loved you so well as now. Dear, look at me as you used to look—say you forgive me —say Oh, hush—hush?" I cry bitterly. "Ia it possible you don't know that you have not heard-" Heard what? he says, and his lips grow white, his face changes back to the wrathful, storm-lit face I know so well. That I am-married." He does not speak. He does not even move. He simply stands there and looks at me with a look I cannot bear-a look that makes me shudder and cower back in very terror, and long to hide myself from sight of men-from every sound and sign of human life. There comes a step on the bare waxed floor of the inner room-a step, and a cheery voice that rings out in frank and kindly accents C, Why, Joan-Joan, my dear—where are you ? Star-gazing still? Don't you know dinner is waiting ? My hands drop I look up at Yorke's face I see the lurid flush that leaps into his eyes, and a worse terror seized me than ever thrilled my heart in all the pangs and fears of its beating life. N So it is my uncle he says in a voice low and deep as thunder. Curse him I" Then stars and moon faded suddenly from my sight, and amidst an awful darkness I felt myself falling—falling—falling—whither, I neither knew nor cared. (To be continued.)

Advertising

" THIS HOUSE TO LET."

Advertising

DUTY.

.-----====::) HUNGARIAN CORRUFION.

THE FRENCH IN AFRICA.

I .THE SPANISH THRONE.

MUTINY IN CUBA.

EXECUTION OF A MURDERER.

WARSHIPS IN COLLISION.

[No title]

[No title]

Advertising

i THE ISLE OF WIGHT MURDER.

BRAWLING IN CHURCH.

1 A DUEL IN IRELAND.

DISASTROUS BALLOON TRIP.

[No title]

Advertising

--------MR. JUSTICE DAY AND…

THE NEW VACCINATION ACT. --

1'.L..r¡l_111'1JJi...1...:1..

-_-SHOCKING NEGLECT OF AN…

[No title]

Advertising