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DD POD LB LBLRBLD®D) Dy KER RVD <COygp) | + /-S tour, bus ne coud expiain to ner; x“ OX Wage’ oe DWP Ye Ge Ge GO es) and of all girls he has ever met, she
. By seeins the most reasonable as well as the S'G 1) PR && j} most beautiful, and the most—ete., ete ef AS
tA a oo | f \ ; IN i a CHAPTER XV. ~ : |S)
' a: falf through the night Hilary lies € *‘—— + 6% | awa! thinking—thinking «always of - o- this new mi ‘ntous step she is about to
rcs . a es . “ 6 By THE 4 D ” @ 6) ta : Me ASKING ners AL Shall she take it Ki S UCHESS. ws [s it advisable? Is it too late to with-
' AD uraw : sf, £ 46 . or , . 22 Docs she like him? Like him, that is, a A uthor of Lady V erner s Flight,” “The Hoyden,” “Lady eS vell enough to marry him ? ue an al Dp i on ‘ ‘ ” aI) Gestion « ratty, A Conquering Heroine, Etc. 2 | Of course, love is out of the question. . ; - 29. 20. 20. .2e <0 eae yy j i ' her thoughts wander a little— Sor WoGe ee NS Yo PV CEP GO VE SEO EDHLBWWE | ‘afield indeed, and lose themselves \4 © SO SRY NSRYY NOW SOW" ‘ ; +f f ,
i | nm & reeccliection of his eyes—so dark and (Continued.) nest; his mouth—so firm, so kind, his | W it sits upon his head, and “nT sound sadly familiar, says “Was, 2 KMOW; Fes, cr course,* ure | What « cody head it has to sit upon! cif I ry a Diana are }| Tiedly. ‘‘ But is always worse for—the rself here With ar cc woman I think.’’ an : ck to her ques- ( spotless Pether ‘*T don’t see that: I don’t, indeed. You ti 4 we Liki he has for bre— > n Miss Kinsella, | put it rather unfairly.”’ Mr on very barest tik dis ‘Mrs. Clifford, me deag, ee Lo marry just for position: 1g, ¢ rit ‘ has cn y ‘nd of Mrs. MelIntyre’s, | ¥es, + know, it sounds beastly, but—”’ a A) ud 1 rong enough to I ‘ you go up to her, | **But what?’? She has gone back to nable | t 1\ her whole life with : Pether off You | her destruction of the innocent buds by | 3 “wou to xecept him? { ‘ tear, that he this time | He must | he. ‘Look here,”’ says he earnestly, 3 \nd would i , £0 » oF 6 seizee « Diana | found, on mecting you, that I—well, | herself to thus en ‘k on & voyage that i ‘ savs she hated you for example, I wouldn't marry | would last all tin baa TAT or then oi litt and youmust | You if I were to lose ten times the money | certainly—without so fees thing te tak Mrs. McIntvcre ye urself by my refusal. But I ean’t help thinking | g0 upon? y now ¥ are at favorite of | that as we are both free—By-the bye,’ It is a most vexed question. And ther hers, a s] an refuse you nothing. | >Teaking off, ‘‘you are free?”’ ire so few days given in which to think Vi plain the case, an@ yeu can “Oh, yes; as air,’’ breaking into a | of it. That miserable will has rusied di , little shy laugh. “m into a corner. Only a mont!: i: “You couldn’t come with me, me “Well, then,”’ says he, with an evi- | Which to decide the woe or the wi dear! dent sigh of relief, ‘‘there is notso much } of two lives! Does she like him well “T could,’’ says Diana thonehfully, | to fear.’’ enough? As usual, the first thought “but I know I should spoil 1 latters. as oe are so eloyuent, dear Miss | She lances at him. somes back again. And he—does he like Kinsel juire no advocate.’’ ‘*For you,’’ says she. ‘But,”’ she leans | her? He had hesitated about coming The old maid brightens up perceptibly, toward him. “But how for me? Have atly to-morrow. and gives her head an airy little shake, | f°U.”’ her dark, blue eyes search his anx- When she wakes, to-merrow is here, Elognent! Yes, she has felt that all her iously, “never been in love?”’ christened by another name. <A very iif. Bat it is pleasant to see the fact ‘In love?” He colors slightly. ‘‘Not in | lovely tomorrow too. All blue sky and acknowledged at last. love; I may have fancied people.’’ ; tender warmth, mellowed by the singing
“Well, me dear, there’s some truthin | Fancied them?’’ She looks uncertain. | of innumerable birds.
what you say,’’ returns she modestly, | ‘Well, yes, liked them—in a way.” . . P
“and lil take the note. Whilst you're | | Once?” Three o’clock has come and gone. The
writing it, I'm thinking I'l! tell youa This is tao much for Ker. He smiles clock strikes four. Hilary, who had put
little thing I said to thet brazen crea- | | 0), balf-a-dozen times,” says he. | on her prettiest frock an hour ago, for
ture, Mrs. Dyson-Moore. My gracious, f ‘That's better,’’ says Hilary gravely, | evidently no purpose whatever, is now
i fiend did ten cee tee petticoats?’ unmoved outwardly by his mirth, if | feeling a little angry. <A little, to the “I tried hard,’’ says Clifford. “I think. | secretly a little annoyed by it; “I prefer | outsiders. Inwardly she is raging.
etter a bit, I did.” that.”’ Presently she comes down ready “Scandalous! Scandalous!’ Miss Kin- “On the ‘idea that there’s safety ima | dressed for a walk.
sella uplifts her arms. multitude.’’? He is still smiling. “You are going out, Hilary?’ says
|
“What did you say to her, Miss Kin-
gella?’’ asks Hilary. “Just a word, me dear. No more. I went up to her when she was dancing
with one o’ them stravaglers from the barracks, an’ I asked her wouldn’t she like the loan of a kilt? It struck me.”’ says Miss Kinsella thoughtfully, ‘that she was a little short with me, when I met her at supper afterward.’’
“You?’’ begins Clifford, ‘‘but—’’
At this moment a loud knock at the hall door is heard.
**Who’s that?’’ demamds Miss Kinsella,
‘*Yes,”’ a little coldly. ‘‘But anyway you have got the best of this bargaim, as I have never been in love at all!”’
‘“Well, but neither have I,’’ says ‘he. ‘You remember I told you that.’’
“Still you have ‘fancied’ people. I,”’ slowly, ‘‘have never fancied anybody'!’’
lxer takes a step toward her, and lift- ing one of her hands, raises it lightly to
| his lips.
eagerly. “*Some friend, no doubt,’’ says Diana | carelessly. ‘*Now, here is the note. You
ought to take it at once. You know if the account is sent to the papers—”’
“I know.’’ Miss Kinsella is peering out of the window that commands the hall door. ‘‘Why—if it isn’t that young man that is staying with Mrs. Dyson- Mocre.’’
“Is it? Very likely. to see about that nephew—”’
‘Is he coming to see you now, cr Miss Burroughs?’’
**Both—he,”’ desperately, ‘‘is a sort of consin of ours. But if you don’t—’’
You really ought at once, if your
Ss
‘“*‘A cousin? You don’t say so. On the mecther’s side, or the father’s?’’ ‘“*The father’s. No, the mother’s—I
assure you the first—’’ “Then, let me see, has name should se
“Ill see you to the gate, Miss Kin- sella,”’ says Clifford genially, conveying the old lady safely out of the room just as Ker enters. Miss Kinsella manages to give him a good stare, hewever, as they pass each other.
CHAPTER XIV.
Luncheon is over; it had proved in the beginning rather a trial to Diana, who eould not forget that other Juncheon, in which Hilary had played such a leading part. But Clifford had said something about it, to which Ker had responded with an utterly nnembarrassed air, and
then they all laughed. So it had ended. After luncheon Ker had asked Hilary
to show him the pretty garden outside, a glimpse of which could be caught from the dining-room windows, and she had pat on a big straw hat, pieturesque to the lust degree, and brought him out— here. '
** After all,’’ says Ker, had better talk about it.’’
They are sitting in the little arbor br this time (all overgrown by trailing roses), and a slight pezuse had come in the rather hurried conversation that up to this has been carried on between them.
*“About—*? Her tone is a little faint. Her pretence at ignorance poor indeed.
“I know it is hard for you,’’ says he hurriedly, ‘‘but it has to be done, you See, and—you must only try and forgive me. Of course, you have only to say one word, and I’m off to India again to-mor- row, and that blessed £18,000 a year may go anywhere you like for all I care. If only your refusal of me would give it to you, I should feel contented. But as it is—’’
‘Or,”’ says she slowly, looking on the
ground, ‘i fi ’
f your refusal to marry me—’
“‘T suppose we
Well, I haven’t refused,’’ says he, tracing 2 pattern in the gravel with his stick.
“Well, ‘neither have I,"’ says she with @ queer little laugh.
“Now, what do you mean by that?” He up and stands looking at her. I don’t know what I mean. TD stand there staring at me.”’
> Oo, and, turning fro: nf, : : } Sete, * i oa ing rr}
i ; 4uis 1
lor
’ i h a
it ; ’ 4) ‘ ’ ( i . { Ww tke Worse j f PE we . 1 ; } | ‘ Vv rs g , e. i 1 i i Ci ’ +
| people if we don’t. | we found we did not like
‘Then, perhaps there is a chance for me?’’ says he, not ungracefulhy. *‘ Will you give me my chance?”’
Hilary takes her hand out of hie.
““The whole thing is so absurd,’’ says she ruefully. ‘‘I want to marry you, and you want to marry me, just because we shall be rich people if we do, and poor But once married, if each other— how would it be, then?’’
“It is a risk certainly,’’ says Ker, very
gravely. He pauses; then he looks at her. ‘‘I.am content to accept it,” says he.
Hilary flushes faintly. Her eyes are
downeast, her lovely face is looking a
little sad, a little thoughtful. All at once Ker Knows that to him, at all
events, it is the one beautiful face in the world. In an impulsive fashion he takes her hand again, now holding it closely. **Will you risk it?’’ asks he It is a proposal. He feels tremble wégfhin his. Will she? She raises her eyes to his. ‘There would be some time before—’’
her hand Will she?
before—
‘Some little time—a month. You know the will is very stern.’’
‘*Well—wres,’’ says she with a sigh. The sigh is hardly complimentary, yet
Ker accepts it with an excellent grace.
“You are too good,’’ says he with quiet earnestness.
She breaks away from him impatiently.
“Tam not. AndI hate myself. To consent to marry a perfect stranger, ane of whom I know nothing?’’
“You know, at all events, that I like beer. ”’
‘“‘Oh, you are too bad,’’ she frowns, but after a struggle with herself, she breaks into merry if unwilling laughter.
‘“‘There, go away,’’ says she petulantly. ‘‘T want to be alone.”’ ‘‘I may come to-morrow, however?’’
““Ye—s. Yes, of course. To luncheon?”
‘‘I’m afraid not so early as that. Mrs. Dyson-Moore has something on for to- morrow; I forget what. Some people to luncheon, anyway, but if I may come at three?’’
‘““You may.’’
Her tone is a little low. Somehow, she had not liked his refusal to lynch with her. However little she may be to him, she certainly ought to be more than Mrs. Dyson- Moore.
‘‘That is settled then,’ says Ker.
‘*Good-by,’’ says Hilary.
“*Good-by.”” He takes her proffered hand and holds it. ‘This mine?’’ questions he, tightening his fingers over it.
Hilary makes a little
is
affirmative ges-
ture. A most unsatisfactory one. “You will be my wife?’’ asks Ker,
more decisively this time. He had dis- liked that silent assent.
“T will.’’ Her answer now is enough, anyway, if ideally cold.
Ker, after a second’s examination of her face, stoops and presses his lips to her cheek. It is the calmest kiss on rec- erd, yet he has the satisfaction of seeing that it touches her. She grows, indeed, crimson. true, with a little offended gesture, in doing so she lets him her eyes. They are full of tears, and a little quick surprise and indignation, and a new sweet suspicion of shame, but nothing at ali of horror, or shrinking, or dislike.
distinct
see
‘ * 2k a
‘aves her, well satisfied. He goes licht and cheerful step up the How beautiful she is; how full of life. No silly fool! He
endured a_ silly fool, For the first time in his life he knows himself to be honestly in love. And she—she will come _ to love him in time. He will be so good to her.
He } with a road, strong, young could not have
however pretty.
His life shall be hers. By-the-bye, why can’t he get out of this luncheon at the Dyson-Moores’ to-morrow? If he started by the morning train he could get to | Cork by 11.30, and could there buy her | a ring—all girls like a ring, and he would like to give her something. Of course, that would prevent his being
with her at three o’clock as_ he had ar-
ranged. He coyld Rot possibly be_there
She draws back from him,it is | but |
| Diana, in dismay. ‘‘ But—Frederic?”’ ‘‘Well, what of him?’ says the girl,
| turning upon her sharply. ‘‘After all, Di, 1 feel I have laid myself open to this sort of thing. So put an end to it, once | and for all. Please tell Jim I would not | marry Mr. Ker, if he were to go on his ' knees to me.”’
“Ts this quite wise?’’ falters Diana. *““Oh! wise! He is wise if you like.”’ **You mean, darling—’’
“‘That he detests me!"’
** Hilary !’’
But Hilary is gone. Up-up the hill she runs, the energy that euses her
angry pain that is desolating her heart. In this fresh place, the air is full of twittering of birds—of new-blown breezes. She is feeling so low down in the world —so dejected—that this evidence of joy | and hope in Nature comes to her asa | tonic. She is not in touch with Nature | at this moment, it is true, and yet the
sweetness of it restores her in a measure to her usual state of mind.
She had reached an outstanding bow1-
der on the hill, and resting there for.a | moment, looks first to the lovely sky, and then behind her.
Behind her is Ker—advancing toward her with rapid strides.
‘‘I’m afraid,’’ exclaims he, as he comes up with her, ‘I’m awfully late. So’'— breathlessly—‘sorry.’’
‘I’m sorry to see you so dreadfully out
delighting ia of half the
of breath,’’ says Hilary courteously— icily. ‘It really would not have mat-
tered.’’ with a distinctly hostile smile, “if you had not come—’’ she hesitates— she would have given anything to say ‘‘at all,’’ but the rudeness is too much for her—‘until a little later.
Ker stares at her.
“I tried my best,” says he—the first warm friendliness @f his tone gone—a friendliness so near to love—‘‘ but—’’
‘It is sometimes hard to get away.”’’ Her lip curls involuntarily.
‘*Sometimes! Esneeially when—’’
train, which had been fifteen minutes late, but she interrupts him.
“IT quite understand. You really must not apologize to me. There is no reason why you should.”’
‘*Certainly there
is reason,’’ says he,
with quiet determination. ‘I told you
I should be with you by three, and it is | .
now considerably later than that. I owe
’
you an apology—so far.’’
“YH let you off,’’ returns she, calmly. ‘“‘A guest is often tied more or Iess.’’
‘*Mrs. Dyson-Moore, however, was not the cause of my being late.’’
**No?"’ Vhe disbelief conveyed in this word is very faint and hardly reaches Ker. who has gone off on another soiu- tion of this mystery.
Good Heavens! Fancy her being riled over a mere trifle like this. Even supposing he had been late, without go- ' ing to Cork at all, need she have taken it like this? <A fellow has lots of things to keep him sometimes. Only yesterday he had told was the most reasonable girl in the world, and now—
They are coming down the hill again and he finds after getting out of his dis- agreenble revery that she is saying some- thing.
50
himseliz she
‘“‘Of course Mrs. Dyson-Moore would | not be the cause of anything disagree-
able. She is altcgether charming, L’yve— been told.’’
The meaning in the emphasis is clear.
“‘TIs she?’’ says Ker abruptly.
‘*You should hardly be the one to that question. You are in a position to know—you who are staying with her— whether she comes under that name or not.”’
‘* *Pon my word I haven’t thought about it,’’ says Ker impatiently. Hilary throws up her head. Contempt takes possession of her. Was ever prevarication clearer? She is preparing another topic of conversation—the Rule bill for choice—that will take as far as the hall-door (still a good half- mile away), where she hopes the good oak door will close against him, and bar him out of her life forever, when sud- | dently he takes the initiative.
‘‘What’s the matter with he
The question is so blunt, so unexpect- ed, that it leaves her without speech for @ moment, but with a considerably heightened color.
‘With me?’’
ask
a as.ss
you 99
yntinned.)
(To be e TO LFI.-- A cottage a: Rocky Foint, suit aale forasummer residence. Avpiy to R. » McMillan. la7 tf pat gar.
i-
all-absorbing Home |
her |
Pe
He has been about toanathematize the :
co é
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