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t-"1 RIGHTS RESERVED.] I -1 i. OS AURA: A TALE OF LOVE AND TRAVEL BY LADY STELLA KIRKLAND, AUTHOR OF 44 The Lilies of Helen" Ulric,"$c.,$c. CHAPTER VI. I IT v.:) Christmas Eve in merry England. On the ftar.1 the Thames, a mile beyond the pretty town Of Kn hn or.d, stood the mansion where Lord and lady Si intrville were spending the Christmas-tide With tin re little daughter. The splendid drawing- Lr- igoom is ablaze with lights, and decorated with the time-htnorrpd holly and ivy; the ladies, in their •••Costumes of satins, lace, and jewels, flutter hither -and thither, like beautiful birds of paradise. But is one who stands aloof-on whose face the festive sirile lingers not. And yet how beauti- ful she is! A robe of white velvet, embroidered with pearls and trimmed with rare lace, adorns her exquisite form the bodice is cut square in front, and ;gnov. dn ps, that gleam like white stars amongst their :.green idinge, nestle almost lovingly upon her bosom whilst another bunch of the same pure blossoms Jeeps out from the heavy coils of her dark hair. Hamonds encircle her throat and gleam on her lofly brow. The men flock around her, as if drawn there by the magic of her beauty, and many a witty speech is uttered in the hope of bringing a smile to the crimson lips. The women shun her-she has never been friendly with her own sex they dislike, and almost fear, the cold and haughty Lady Somer- Tille. Suddenly the door opens, and litle Claire dances into the room and springs with a low laugh of delight into the arms of her father, whose careworn face ehnmres as if by magic when he feels his little daughter's arms around his neck. Christmas has ever been a privileged time with her, and when she has chatted for a few minutes, her father whispers something in her ear, and the child springs from his knee, and goes demurely across the room to where tier mother stands coldly apart, turning over the pages of an album. 41A h-ippy Christmas, mamma!" exclaimed the little prattler, with a joyous light in her sunny eyes :then, hardly waiting for her mother's cold embrace, ahe danced away to "play with the pretty ladies," who spoiled the loving little fairy to her heart's con- tent. To-night there is a burning pain in Rosaura's lieart, and a presentiment hanging over her for which she cannot account. She looks wearily ground the splendid rooms, with their festoons, and notices that most of the ladies and gentlemen have Crowded round little Claire, offering her presents and sweetmeats, and trying to entice the child from her father's knee. None notice the proud, haughty Spaniard, a a she Stands apart; and, with a gesture of disdain she turns away and enters a conservatory, from which the passes out on a terrace that overiooks the grounds, and runs half way round the spacious mansion. The gleam of the pure white snow relieves her eyes, after 4he glare of lights she has left behind her. There is a solemn stillness around, and she gazes up to the dark vault of heaven, where the pale stars are shining. After a little time the cold, haughty look fades from her face; the night-wind cools her hot brow, and she feels that here at leatt she can think of her own fair Spain, and her loved but lost Lorenzo. Once more, in imagination, she sees her self a beautiful Spanish girl, wandering in the summer meadows with him. He gathers rich flowers of crimson hue, and with happy, laughing eyes, entwines them on her brow; and then with passionate love Clasps her to his heart, and their souls seem to mingle and become as one. Then, with a thrill of pain and anguish, she re- members her last parting from him in the grey old town of Puerte, and thinks of that passionate. face as last she saw it, the demon of despair and jealousy blazing in the eyes, as he pressed burning kisses on her cold lips. Oli,Lorenzo-Lorenzo," she moans sorrowfully, "why did I betray your love and my own heart?— and will death never come to release my tortured soul ? Oh, where is he now? I know he will be ever true, for the Spaniard loves but once. Would that I might see him again before I die 1 Lorenzo! Lorenzo and she bent her head upon the cold marble of the balcony, and wept in all the bitterness Of her heart. Even as she wept, a dark figure, with a wide hat drawn over the eyes, was climbing the balcony, and a moment later it reached her side. 44 liomura!" The voice is hoarse and trembling -With emotion, but she recognises it, and raising her head with a low cry, gazes wildly at him. All the superstition of her native land awakes in her soul as she falls at his feet, crying 44 Lorenzo, art thou Come from the tomb?" Brushing back the dark masses of hair from his gile forehead, he said in a low hollow voice 44 No, osaura, I live; but had I died, my spirit would have Sought you still. Listen," he continued, as he raised her in his arms and clasped her passionately to his heart: li For five long years have I toiled and worked for wealth, and when I had won it, I set myself to discover the betrayer of your sister, so that I alone might be the one to avenge her for your dear sake. All my undertakings have succeeded. I am wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, and I have slain the man you hated. And now, Rosaura, that I am no longer the poor, despised youth of long ago, I come to lay myself, and all I possess, at your feet, and win you from the cold English lord. Oh, my Rosaura, when you left me I stood the blow firmly; but I swore you should be mine at last. I have come for you now and when I listened yonder in the cold and dark, gazing with burning eyes at the lighted windows where I pictured you reigning the queen of mirth and beauty, my soul fainted with a sick sorrow; until, like an angel's whisper, I heard my name called upon in accents of passionate love by these dear lips, and all the years of toil and sorrow passed away like a dream of the night, and I had my reward. Rosaura," he continued tenderly, as she remained still and silent in his arms, you will not refuse to come with Lorenzo? If you do," he said fiercely, drawing his .tilleto, this shall drink the life-blood from his heart —ay, here at your very feet, and he shall trouble you no more." She shuddered as he spoke, then in a trembling voice replied, Lorenzo, put away thy knife. In one "hour I shall meet you below this balcony and I shall be yours henceforth, for heaven knows my life here has been a curse to him and to me. With triumph and love in his eyes he drew her closer to him, and whispered-" If you have children, my Rosaura. bring them also. He shall possess no- thing belonging to my Spanish maid." 4 "Lorenzo, my heart's dear love," she answered, "he has but one golden-haired girl; nay, leave him -that for his consolation." "Never!" he replied, passionately. 44Bring the child with you, Rosaura. I cannot forget she is yours. I can e'en love her, too, for your sake. Hasten, my love," he continued, anxiously, for time is precious; I shall await you below j" and pressing her cold hands in his burning clasp, he sprang lightly on the wall, and she could see him slipping down by one of the pillars, and then cross the lawn towards a shrubbery near the front entrance. Rosaura was obliged to return through the drawing- ,room in order to reach her own apartments, to prepare for her hasty flight; but when she entered, her features were as composed as though nothing had -occurred to change the whole current of her life. As she re-entered the room, her husband, who had been wondering at her abscence, approached, saying, They are asking a song from you, Rosaura. Will you favour us with one ?" I am tired, my lord," she replied wearily, and would wish to retire. Have they taken the child to oed?" Claire's mother does not always feel interested about her movements. Yes, the child has been taken away by her nurse and there was a tone of reproach 1D«'iLfT°'ce ^at annoyed her. My lord is not pleased that I do not wish to sing to-night," she said coldly. "However, not to dis- appoint his friends I will sing a Spanish song I composed in one of my lonely hours." *> s?]lIed sadly, and led her to the piano, stand- ing beside her whilst she sang the following lines, in ft voice tremnlous with feeling and passion: SPANISH LovE SONG. I I. iffy heart is far away In the sunny land of Spain, Where flowers are blooming gay Upon the golden plain. ° ° I ir. Oh, happy, happy land 1 I ne'er shall see thee more, Nor roam thy shining strand, As in the days of yore. III. Lorenzo, oh, my love! This heart is only thine, And weeps, though skies above With summer glory shine. IV. In sorrow and despair With thee I fain would fly, 'Neath Spanish skies so fair In thy loved arms to die. As she finished, the guests crowded around her to express their thanks, but she turnod away with au air of hauteur that repelled them, and arising from the instrument, made a hasty excuse for retiring Her husband, who had never heard the song before but the melody of which was destined to ring in his heart for many a weary year, arose also, and held the door open for her. As she passed, he looked straight into her eyes—reproach and regret in his stern glance but his face grew darker still as he saw the mocking look she bestowed upon him. Rosaura was gone. Her husband closed the dooi after her, and there was a pain in his heart he could not account for. A longing to go to her, and ask for an explanation of her song, came over him but wounded pride held him back. He next saw Rosaura the Spaniard—where? CHAPTER VII. I THAT night, when the guests had all retired to rest. and the great rooms were wrapped in silence and gloom, Lord Somerville, whose heart was full of vague unrest, went out on the marble balcony where Lorenzo had surprised his wife. Hestood there full of silent sorrow, and listened to the joy-bells ring in the Christmas dawn, his thoughts travelling back to another day, over five long years ago, when he heard them in the little town of Puerte. Oh, how her magic voice rings in his memory, as, seated with her guitar on her knee, she sang for him the beautiful songs of Spain that Christmas night so long ago. A sigh escapes from him, as he remembers the silent group in the old Spanish church the mother of his bride who has long since passed away to that un- known land from whence none return), and the white-haired clergyman who had joined their hands in wedlock. But there is one face he recalls more vividly than any other-that of the man who glared upon him with so much envy and hatred from out the dark corner of the church. He remembers now that it was on this man's arm he had seen Rosaura lean on each occasion when he had watched her leave the little theatre, where first he had felt the power of her wonderful voice and her great beauty, and also that she had called him Lorenzo." Why had she sking that wild Spanish love song, and introduced his name into it with so much despairing love ? Alas! he sees it all now. She had married him for station and wealth, while she loved this man—this Lorenzo —with all the fire of her Southern blood. His face hardens, and a feeling of deep bitterness fills his heart against the woman on whom he had bestowed so much, and who had so ill requited him. But he will go to her this very hour he will caution her against showing her love so openly for this man; and should he ever cross his path—let him beware! Turning wearily away from the peaceful white snow that seemed only to mock his pain, he returned to the wide drawing-room, opened the door, and went up the wide corridor that led to the sleeping apartments. Pairing at the room door where his child slept, he knocked gently. The nurse opened the door. He went towards the cot where the little one was wont to sleep. Not seeing her, he looked wonderingly at the nurse, and asked for her charge. The woman informed him that the child was with her mother. She had come some hours before and taken her away, saying that she would keep her with her for the remaining portion of the night. He went from the nursery without a word. A moment later he stood in his wife's room, looking with stern set face at an open letter that told of her faithlessness. There was no sign of a hasty flight; only a dress of white velvet, all pearls and lace, thrown carelessly on the ground, and some snow- drops that had been crushed under foot. He stooped and raised the tiny blossoms in his hand, and looked bitterly on them. He knows all; but yet this man is as cold and fixed as fate itself. Yes, Rosaura," be murmured as he gazed on the dying flowers, you have gone to your lover—your Lorenzo. Long have your coldness and ingratitude tortured my heart, but now it is my turn. And yet my child-my innocent Claire! Oh, God I" he cried aloud, have I deserved this ?" He remained half stupefied with grief for some minutes, and then with a groan took up a travelling valise he had hastily packed, and drawing a revolver from his breast, gazed on it with grim satisfaction, as he vowed that he would know no rest until he had shot the Spaniard as he would a dog! Soon after, the great doors closed after Lord Somerville, and he went forth in the frost and snow of that Christmas dawn, to seek for his perjured and faithless wife and the man who had brought dis- honour to his hearth. CHAPTER VIII. I SPRING in the beautiful Cadore country, where the child Titian caught his first inspirations, as he watched the fierce Piave hurl itself in a foaming torrent from the Carnic Alps upon the smiling plain beneath. The beech trees of the deep forest of Con- siglio are already clothed with foliage, and the mighty branches interlace with each other, forming green shady aisles and woodland bowers where fairies might love to dwell. Within a mile of the fair city of Belluno is a villa, shut in by a grove of noble beech trees, beyond which stretches a beautiful landscape of hill and plain. It is here Lorenzo and Rosaura have flown to hide their guilty love from the world, and live and die together. It is within an hour of noon, and they wander listlessly by a silver stream that waters the smiling plains around them. He leans caressingly over her, and she looks up into his dark eyes with an expres- sion of love in her gaze that he alone could win from her. All around is so bright and so fair, and they two are happy—too happy for earth Not far off the little Claire is feeding some swans with bitouits but there is a sad look on the pretty baby-face that had never been there in her father's stately home in England. Lorenzo looked towards the child, and then taking Rosaura's hand drew her gently to the spot where the little one stood. As they approached, Claire glanced shyly up, and then turned once more to cast her biscuits to the swans. What would you with the child ?" asked the mother in a low tone, as she turned slightly away. I would speak with her, for she always avoids me, young as she is," he answered, smiling into her averted eyes; then, raising his voice, he called, < Claire, come hither, little one." The child approached with downcast face, and crumbling biscuit between her baby-palms nervously. Will you not learn to love me, my little Claire ?" he asked persuasively, seating himself upon a fallen trunk, ana drawing her between his knees. The child looked frightened, and the rosebud mouth trembled, as if she was about to cry. Rosaura stood coldly by. When she saw the little one's emotion, a gleam of impatience shone in her eyes, and she exclaimed hastily. Speak, Claire, tell your new father you will love him dearly, and do everything to please him." Little Claire drew back, and bursting into tears, ran to her mother's side, and taking hold of her dress, cried, Oh, no-no, mamma; I do not like him for a new father I Take me home-ch, take me home! I am so afraid, and I want my own papa Oh, I know that he is crying for his own little Claire I" Rosaura's face "grew pale with annoyance, and drawing her skirts from the clinging hands she walked away, whilst the Spaniard once more endeavoured to make friends with the little one, who recoiled from him as if by instinct. There, do not cry, my pretty baby," he said kindly: I will not vex you. See all the nice toys I have for you." The child only shook her little golden head, and breaking from him, ran once more to her mother, weeping as if her baby-heart would break. But the mother pushed her from her. She could not bear to look into the blue eyes, that were so like those of the husband she had dishonoured. Go into the house, Claire," she said impatiently, and do not come near us again to-night." The man looked with a pitying glance at the quivering baby-face, and turning to her mother, said, 44 Do not scold her, my Rosaura. Poor child! I wish she would learn to love me, and forget him I Go with her. my darling, and give her those toys I bought for her, for I cannot bear to see the little mouth quivering with sorrow;" and putting his arms affectionately around the mother's shoulders, he drew her towards her child, and, taking the little pink hand, placed it in hers. Lorenzo watched them go up the marble steps and enter the hall, then, with a happy song on his lips, he turned away into the green spring woods, where the birds were singing merrily, heedless of life's sorrow and life's tragedy. But his dream of joy and bliss was destined to end; that very hour the Fatea were marking off that portion of his life's thread which they would soon sever from their distaff. Lord Somerville had tracked him to the sunny land in which he had taken up his abode, and at that very moment was crossing the meadows towards him. The Englishman had seen the Spaniard come out from the shadows of the wood, and with a pale, set face, was drawing step by step nearer to him. The young Spaniard, wrapped in his dreams of rosy love, heeded not his coming, deeming him some stranger, or tourist artist perhaps, who was admiring the landscape that Titian had loved. At last he is rudely aroused from his dreaming, as a strong white hand grasps him by the throat, and a voice thunders in his ear, c, Hound I where is my wife ?" Lorenzo realised at once in whose grasp he was, and struggled fiercely to release himself. With a quick movement he drew his stiletto from his bosom; it gleamed in the noonday sun, and the next moment would have been buried in his opponent's heart; but the wary Englishman struck the knife from the descending hand, and a second later Lorenzo fell back, dead-shot through the heart! Lord Somerville stood for some minutes lookinp down upon the dead body, neither triumph nor regret on his face-simply the look of a man who has performed a duty, and is satisfied that the task, is fulfilled. It was only as it should be," he told himself; this man had dishonoured him, and he had sworn to slay him, and had kept his oath." For the space of nearly six months he had fought him, and at last had been guided to his retreat by a chain of events that had conspired to aid him. An hour before, he had set out from his hotel to find the villa in which Lorenzo and his own false wife were spending the early days of summer. He had come across him in the sunlit fields, and there had slain him. Fate had aided him, and he had retrieved his honour. Never again would Lorenzo gaze into the eyes of the woman he loved. And she? How would she bear the tidings of her lover's death? Stooping over the dead body of the Spaniard, Lord Somerville dips his handkerchief in the blood, and placing it carefully in his breast pocket, returns to his hotel. Retiring to his private apartment, he seats himself at a desk, and taking paper, pen, and ink, indites the following letter to his wife 41 Madam,—Accept the accompanying parcel, which contains a handkerchief that I have dipped in your lover's blood I would have presented it to you with my own hands, but that I might have been tempted to slay the mother of my child. The stain on my honour is now washed out, and I will await the arrival of my daughter at Venice. I send her old and faithful nurse to take charge of her, so refuse to give her up at your peril 1 EHIC SOMERVILLE." He gave the letter and parcel into the hands of the woman who had been little Claire's nurse and foster- mother, instructing her where to take them, and tell- ing her not to leave without the child. It will take you three days to reach Venice," he concluded; I must start at once, much as I long to see my child. However, the morning after I arrive, I shall expect you." Immediately after, Lord Somerville started on his journey to the Queen of Cities and the woman, with the parcel in her hand, set out across the summer fields to find her former mistress. On reaching the villa, she was shown into a pretty boudoir, hung with azure satin, where Rosaura was reclining dreamily in an arm-chair, and counting the moments until her lover should return-that lover who was already cold in death. On seeing the woman she arose to her feet, pale and trembling, for she knew her only too well. Whence and from whom come you ?" she asked faintly. I come from my lord, and he sends you this letter and parcel, my lady," replied the nurse re- spectfully, all unconscious of what the parcel con- tained. Rosaura took them, and then calling one of the servans, bade her take the woman to the house- keeper's room until she sent for her again. When the door was closed, Rosaura broke the seal of her husband's letter, and read the-to her-deadly con- tents. Pen could not describe the change that crept slowly over that marble face. Oh, for the brush of a Titian, to portray the despairing light in those eyes! —the pallid brow, clammy with the sweat of horror —and the lips livid those of a corpse! And then-- oh, sudden change !—the demon light of revenge and almost madness that gave back strength to the numbed limbs and heat to the frozen heart! Whither goes she, with that wild gleam in her eyes, and those clenched hands ? She pauses for a second outside a closed door; then opens it and enters. Seated amongst her toys is her child. She beckons her to- wards her, and the child comes, wondering in her baby-mind at the awful look upon her mother's face. Seizing the little hand, she dragged her with her from the house across the beech-woods, and out into the burning sun, guided as if by instinct to the spot where her dead lover lay. She reached it, and with a wild cry of madness cast herself by the side of the dead man; then, her lips unclosed for the first time, and heedless of the cries of the terrified child, she exclaimed aloud—41 Lorenzo-Lorenzo I dead- dead Pre- sently she raised herself with a moan, and looking around at the noonday brightness, continued, with a dazed look in her eyes, And yet Nature laughs at my misery, and is glad I" Then the look of madness came into her face again, as she saw the blue eyes of Claire-so like her father's fixed upon her, and seizing the child, she cried-" Vengeance !-I shall have vengeance t He slew my lover-I will slay Irs child I" For three days Lord Somerville awaits, in anxious suspense, the arrival of his child; and on the fourth morning the nurse arrives alone, with a letter, which she hands her master without a word. It is in the delicate handwriting of his wife, and runs as follows: 44 The revenge of the Englishman is bitter, but that of the Spaniard is terrible. I received your letter and parcel. Yes, you slew my lover, but I wept not. I was as calm when I knew all as when receiving guests in your stately English home. Listen now to the Spaniard's revenge: I took your daughter by the hand, and led her through the blazing sun to the spot where he lay, and taking the stiletto that lay by the dead form of Lorenzo, I plunged it into her body; then, with its keen edge I severed a golden lock from her head, which I stained with her blood, to send to her father in return for his gift. In the accompanying parcel he shall find it. My Lord Somerville, is it of equal value to the one you sent to ROSAURA, THE SPANIARD ?" Mechanically he took up the parcel, and as he did so, a little tress of golden hair, stained with blood, fell at his feet; then with a white look of agony upon his face, he threw his arms above his head, and, with a cry of horror that rang through every room of tbe house, he sank to the ground unconscious (To be continued.)

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HOME HINTS.

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LORD SALISBURY'S HOBBY.

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THE WOMAN'S WORLD. I