Cleansing Fires. A novel

Chapter I

" We were not born with true love to trifle, Nor born to part because the wind blowa cold." The sweet May day is drawing to a close. A soft breeze is stirring, and swaying hither and thither the boughs of the elm trees under which Harry Trevellian and his com panion are cantering. Judith's face is flushed with the exercise, her dark hair has escaped from its confinings and falls to her saddle, and the rich colour comes and goes in her olive cheek as she cries, laughingly — " Stop, Harry, I am tired ! " VOL. II. B He checks " Black Prince's " stride, and they drop into a quiet trot. Perhaps the young man would rather have pressed on to a less well-known spot than the one on which it has pleased his cousin to linger, and his heart beats fast as he tries to turn his eyes away from the place on which his pretty Frida had met him that frosty January morning, when she had blushingly plighted her troth.

His meditations are broken by his cousin's voice. " Look there," she cries, pointing with her silver-handled whip to a summit a little ahead of them. On the brink stands a girl, fair haired, a dress of rich dark blue, trimmed with velvet, falling round her slender figure in heavy clinging folds — a sweet, quaint picture standing out in bold relief from the clear grey sky. She might be carved out of stone, so motionless is she. They are so near they can even see the fringe of soft hair which shades her brow, and the parted lips, as she bends a trifle forward looking down on the equestrians coming slowly along. Suddenly the charm is broken. A little white dog by her side starts forward barking angrily, and snapping at the heels of Miss Hargrave's horse. In an instant his mistress has followed him, calling, " Floss, come here, sir," for Miss Hargrave's mare will not brook much trifling, and is chafing, and fretting, and wheeling around, requiring all its rider's energies to soothe it.

The girl stoops to seize her dog in her arms, and the next moment Miss Hargrave is aware that the form of Floss's mistress is lying prone on the road right under her horse's hoofs. She forces the animal back almost on its haunches while her companion, with an ex clamation of horror, springs to the ground and lifts the prostrate figure in his arms. " Is she hurt ? " his cousin questions anxiously. " I don't know, she is insensible !" Almost a groan burst from the young man's lips, and his face has grown strangely white : " Judith, gallop off as quickly as you can to that farm house yonder, and ask for brandy, water, anything, only hasten." As the clatter of hoofs dies away, he stoops over the unconscious girl and presses hot, passionate kisses on her lips. " Oh, my darling, my darling," he cries aloud in his misery.

And when Frida Escott opens her eyes, she looks up wonderingly into the face of her lover. " Am I dreaming ! " she asks. " Frida, did that brute touch you ? oh, say you are not hurt, my darling ! " " I don't know. I think not ! I am very dizzy, that is all." " Shut your eyes, and say nothing," he whispers. " I sent my cousin for assistance, and I hear her returning. Don't be afraid, I will take you to the farmhouse." White and still was the small oval face, when Judith bent over her pityingly; she had brought some brandy in a flask with which she wetted the girl's lips. " I wonder if we could manage to get her to the farm house," she said ; " it is a long way by the road, but by crossing that field," pointing over the hedge, " you would be there in five minutes ; could you carry her ? " " I will try, at any rate," he said ; " and Judith, I wish you would ride home and get the pony phaeton, and go over for Dr. "Warren, and bring him back with you, will you ?

I think it would be best." She nodded, and rode off at a sharp canter. In moments of necessity or danger Judith showed to advantage, for she was naturally quick witted and shrewd, and to take the initiative was her forte. There were few things she loved better than to be placed in a position requiring care and discretion. Hence she obeyed her cousin's mandate without a murmur ; little guessing how her best sympathies were lavished on her enemy, and how the wicked plot hatched between her and the Squire would now be disclosed, and all her well-laid plans frustrated by the hour's quiet chat which ensued between Frida and her lover. The girl was only shaken, and not seriously hurt as Harry had feared, and she soon pronounced herself able to walk. They took the path indicated by Judith, Harry throwing one arm round the weak and trembling girl, and guiding his horse with the other hand.

The good mistress of the house hastened to put her parlour at the service of the anxious looking gentleman, and the pretty pale lady, and while Miss Hargrave was scudding along the lanes towards Leverton, Harry and his fiancee unravelled the threads which a scheming jealous woman had drawn about them. " You never received my letter? Then where did it go ? I would trust Fanny Mason better than any one I know, and she promised to deliver it into your own hand." " Perhaps she lost it ! " suggested the young man. " No, that is not likely. I don't under stand it, but I am quite sure of one thing, that Fanny would never prove a traitor ! Oh, Harry " with a sudden remembrance of her miseries, " you don't know what I have gone through. Every day, for a whole week, I went to the elm trees ; one afternoon it poured in torrents : still I went, and got drenched through and through, and the next morning I awoke with a sore throat ; but, feverish and ill as I was, I would go — I dreaded lest you might be there and not find me, and I felt I must see you, let the con sequences be what they might.

It was not until I returned on the seventh morning, that I decided it was of no use to go any more, and then, oh, Harry, I felt as if I should like to die." " You look as if you had been ill my poor pet," he said, marking the blue veins in the alabaster forehead, and the nervous flush that lingered a moment, and, ebbing away, gave place to a sickly hue. She burst forth in a passion of tears and sobs, " Harry, don't leave me again, oh, don't. They tell me such cruel things — they all say you are going to marry your cousin. It is the anxiety and suspense, and these dreadful reports, that have changed me so. I — I do believe that if you leave me again I shall really die. Look at my hands," stretching them out, " see how thin they are. Oh, Harry, I am pining away, I cannot live with out you." And she threw herself on his breast, crying piteously.

What was he to do ? what could he do ? It hurt him cruelly to find her like this, so weak and thin, so utterly changed from the blooming saucy girl who had first won his heart ; and a vast pity woke within him as he looked down on the frail creature clinging to O O him, and realised that it was for his sake. Yet, was he not tied hand and foot ? fettered with his promises to both Captain Escott and his own father. It was a cruel dilemma. He tried to reason with her, to coax her into a little self-control, and bring common sense to bear upon the matter. " Dear Frida," he said gravely, " it is very wrong of you to make yourself sick for what is only a freak of your fancy. Nothing that could possibly happen would induce me to marry my cousin Judith ; you must know that this is so, if only for the deep love I bear you, my darling."

But she was unpersuadable. She only clung to him, crying wildly, " If you love me you will not leave me alone again. I cannot bear it." Poor little mortal ! She did seem ill-adapted to bear the storms of life, unsuccoured, un supported ; and almost despairingly' he asked — " What can I do, my poor child ? " " Marry me," she answered him, lifting her head from his shoulder, and clasping her hands together tightly ; and before he could speak she poured forth a torrent of entreaties, " If only we could be married quietly, without anyone knowing about it," she said wistfully, " I would go home, and be content to wait until you could claim me. I should be quite happy when I knew that you belonged to me, and that no power could take you from me." " Frida, dear, you do not know what you are urging me to do.

To deceive my father, and yours, in the first place — " " They had no right to make you promise," she cried rebelliously — "it is breaking my heart." " Child, it might be years before I had sufficient to maintain you," he said gently ; " you do not know what it would entail on you, my best beloved — one endless misery of separation and protracted hope. You have been reared in luxury, darling, and I could not ask you to become my wife before I could offer you a home where you would have some degree of ease and comfort." But she still urged her piteous cry — " If you leave me, it will kill me." And he believed that it was no question of foolish words with the desolate girl, but a terrible reality. Already, sorrow had set its mark on her fair young beauty. Had his father, had any one, the right to doom her to the torture she had been undergoing ? he asked himself.

And yet — did he agree to her wishes, did he grant her prayer and make her his wife, would not her position be ten times worse ? If she could not bear the separation now, would it not be far more unendurable when she had the right to take her stand by his side ? Harry doubted if the step she proposed would mend matters. Her eyes were fixed feverishly on him, and seeing that he wavers, she says — " You will do what I ask ? It can do nobody any harm. CLEANSING FIRES. And when once I am your wife all will be well with me, and I shall be as happy as I used to be— oh, so long ago." The tears filled her eyes, and fell one by one. It was of no use. He could struggle no longer. Every bit of honour and prudence melted away under the sight of that poor forlorn little figure, the tear-stained face, and beseeching tones.

O * His honour scattered to the winds, his promises forgotten and broken, he caught her to him, believing that it was a matter of life and death with her, and yielded ; and a smile of exceeding sweetness quenched her tears. That she was selfish to the very last degree, and exacting beyond all measure, Frida Escott never once considered. That, in securing what she so earnestly desired, in wringing an unwilling consent from her lover, she was deliberately wrecking his prospects, and blighting his young life, she heeded not. She wanted to feel assured that he was her own, CLEANSING FIRES. and that no one could take him away from her, and she refused to look into the future, and its possible trials and defeats, caring little or nothing so that her end was gained. Short-sighted Frida ! And strange to say, the egotism and utter selfishness of his fiancee never struck her lover.

He was so genuinely sorry for her, and so impotent to refuse her anything, that, though in his heart of hearts he believed he was doing a foolish thing, so long as he did not drag his pretty Frida with him into misery he was content, resolutely putting away from him the knowledge that he would injure him self beyond repair. He was sanguine by nature, and to go into the world and earn a fortune seemed a very easy thing to him, knowing nothing, and thinking less, of the trials and difficulties that beset the steps of a young man, encumbered with a helpless, feeble wife. How happy they were, as they sat side by side. To be sure the time went very fast, and Frida could scarcely credit it when Harry told her that in a few moments more Miss Hargrave would return with the carriage and the doctor.

She almost cried again at the thought of parting with him, but the young man spoke positively and firmly. " Frida, if you do not control your self I shall not dare to do as I have just promised, lest I should bring more wretched ness upon you. Be brave and patient, and wait until you receive a letter from me as to what will be the best course to pursue. It will require a great deal of forethought and consideration, and you must not fret or worry should it be two or three weeks before you hear from me. I shall not delay a moment longer than is absolutely necessary, of that be very sure. I must learn from Fanny Mason the fate of the letter you entrusted to her, and if I find she is a loyal friend, and will prove a safe messenger, I shall probably send my final letter by her. Act implicitly upon the course I shall there bid you pursue, for remember, that if we are de tected, everything is lost.

Cheer up, my darling !" " Yes, I will," she said, " you need not fear for me now, Harry ; I have enough to make me happy until your letter comes, and when once I am your wife I shall never have anything to trouble me again. I could not help fretting before ; you never can know what I suffered — the horror of the thought of losing you, and the unspeakable desola tion of my life were crushing me." He drew her quickly to him and kissed her hurriedly, for already he had caught the sound of voices, and he had barely time to spring from Frida's side before the door opened, and Judith entered. " I am so sorry ; Dr. Warren was not at home, so I left word he was to come on at once as soon as he returned. You are better ? " turning to Frida. The girl answered that she was almost recovered. " I am thankful to hear it," said Judith, " for I feared my horse had kicked you."

" So did I," echoed Harry, " she seemed to fall quite under Mazeppa's feet." " Well, you seem so much better," remarked Miss Hargrave, " that I think the best plan would be to take you home in the phaeton, and leave word at the surgery for Dr. Warren to visit you there." §£ And so it was arranged, Judith driving slowly and carefully, so as not to tire the girl, who lay back white and languid, and Harry rode beside them. When they reached the cross-roads, one of which led to Leverton, Miss Hargrave suddenly paused, laughing a little, " How clever of me never to have asked your name, and where you live," she said. Harry answered quickly, " Turn to the right, and then to the left, Judith, and stop at the first house on the right hand side." Judith did not appear to think it strange that her cousin should answer her query, for Frida seemed incapable of talking, as she lay back with closed eyes.

" Here we are." The little pony pulled up before the gates at Fairholm, and Harry, springing from his horse, helped the girl to walk slowly up to the house. Claire, who had seen them coming, stood at the door in no little alarm and wonder ment, and Harry was deprived of a tenderer leave-taking than pressing her cold hand and looking tenderly into her wistful eyes. " Your sister has escaped meeting with a very ugly accident, Miss Escott," he said, giving a short account of her misadventure. " But there are no bones broken, as you see, and I hope she will be none the worse ;" and with a bow to Claire, whom, despite her sundry perfections, and indisputably lady -like VOL. II. c manners, he had never liked, he made his adieux. Judith was waiting for him, and as he dis engaged Black Prince's bridle, she said, " It D O has been quite an adventure, has it not ?

" He laughed, a trifle consciously. " I only hope," he answered, "that Captain Escott will not be alarmed, and that Frida herself" — " What did you say ? who ? Who was that young girl ? " " Miss Escott, Captain Escott's youngest daughter," he replied, for knowing that her name was never mentioned at the Hall, he was at a loss to account for the sharp tone and the angry defiant face she turned to him. Not another word did Judith Hargrave speak, and when they reached their own door she let the reins fall, and bounded up the stone steps, and was out of sight before Harry had dismounted. " Only to think of my stupidity ! '' she said savagely, " never to suspect it for a moment, and to allow myself to be sent for the doctor ! All a ruse, of course, to get rid of me." For half an hour the irate girl sat press ing her hands to her throbbing temples, but at the end of that time she had made up her mind that the Squire should not be made acquainted with this unlucky rencontre lest in his wrath he should speak out his mind, and thus precipitate matters. " And, quant a moi, I must bide my time, and watch my opportunity," cried the baffled and angry Judith.

Chapter II

" How have I yearned for this one priceless hour ! Cling to me dearest, while my feet go down Into the silent stream, — nor loose your hold, 'Till Angels grasp me on the other side." Bittee Swept. The long-dreaded evening has arrived, when O O ■* Monica Hazletine must either incur her husband's heavy displeasure, or accompany him to the theatre at Friskneyye. Godfrey has made no further remark on the subject since the night when Mr. Monroe dined there, but knows as well as if he re iterated his wishes each day, that he expects her to go. In her inmost heart Monica longs to yield, but it is because it would be so dear a delight to her that she feels she ought not to go. As soon as dinner was over she leaves the room, and seeks her baby's nursery, and there, with a piece of embroidery in her hand, destined for a dress for her little one, she sits ill at ease and miserable.

Presently she hears her husband's step on the stairs — he has turned into the corridor ; he is going to her room. Yes, she hears his retreating steps, as, finding no one there, he comes towards the nursery. " Monica, why are you not dressing ? there is barely time ; the carriage will be here in half an hour," he asks, and his tone fore bodes the coming storm. " I am not going," she replies, continuing her work with trembling fingers. " Not going." He advances into the middle of the room. " What do you mean ? " " I mean that I do not wish to go to Frisk neyye to-night," she repeats steadily ; " per haps you have forgotten that I told you so a week ago." " I certainly recollect that you acted in a most ungracious manner to Mr. Monroe, and that afterwards, when I questioned you on the subject, you gave some paltry excuse about the distance being too great ; but you must give a better reason than that before I will consent to your behaving in so rude a way to my friend."

" I have several reasons," she answers proudly ; " one will suffice, — I do not like your friend, Mr. Monroe." God forgive her the lie, poor tempest-tossed soul ! " Out of a pure spirit of contradiction, I suppose," remarks her husband, " for he is a favourite with every one. Honorable and clever, gentlemanly and courteous to the last degree, I " " You need not enumerate his virtues," she interrupts, her heart swelling high in echo to his words. " Oh, yes ! — he is all this and more ! Do I not know it ?" " Monica, if you suppose that I am going to submit to any such nonsense as this whim of yours," he says fiercely, " you do not know the man you have to deal with." Ah, if she could but have fallen on her knees by his side, and whispered how she dreaded the power that this man was gain ing over her !

For one moment the cry in her heart struggles to her lips ; to love her more ! for pity's sake to love her more, and bring back the lost peace and happiness that fled with his caresses and tokens of affection, and thus to shield her from the horror that overwhelms her, as she realizes that her heart is starved of its love for him. Surely he might have known, as he looked on the serene brow, that his power was gone ; that through all the long years they might live together she could never yield him other than a wifely obedience and submission, yet at that moment he does not miss the something that of late has harassed and wounded him — the Godgiven gift that, all unthinking and uncaring, he had thrown away, for he misses something else, something that she has never failed in before, submission to his will; and this he is determined to have.

" Monica, go and put your things on at once," he says authoritatively. " I am not going out this evening," she makes quiet reply. " I don't choose to go." " It is / who have the right to choose," he says, coming close up to her, " and you, as my wife, even if you have no longer any regard for your husband's wishes, must yield. Let us have no more heroics, Monica, it is enough that I desire you to go." " You desire me ? " she looks up into his flushed features, a scornful smile flitting over her cold face. " I not only desire, — I command ! " he answers, stung by her indifference and contempt. It is enough. One moment's thought, and she throws aside her work, and stands facing him. " You are right," she says slowly, " the love for you, and regard for your wishes to which you could once have appealed, is gone ! cut down, and scattered by your own hand.

But while I am bound to you, I must yield you submission, and thus— I will obey you, washing my hands of the results. The sin, if sin there be, lies at your own door; and may the punishment fall on you, and you alone." Coldly and proudly she sweeps past him, and leaves the room. Godfrey Hazletine is genuinely relieved, when the door closes upon his wife. He does not believe that she means one half she has said, anymore than he in his anger has done; but he can scarcely help feeling sorely wounded and aggrieved. If .she had shed a few womanly tears ; if she had asked him coaxingly to let her stay at home, he would have given way to her caprice, he told himself; but she had chosen to set her will up in defiance to his, and he had had a pretty hard fight before he had come off conqueror. But very few moments did the carriage wait, late though it was when Monica Hazle tine shut herself up in her own room.

If Godfrey supposed that she would be sulky and ill-humoured in consequence of their dispute, he was mistaken. In a shimmering black gauzy net dress, with crimson roses at her bosom, and in her wondrously beautiful hair, she came into the drawing room with a smiling salutation to Mr. Monroe. Godfrey looked at his wife in some surprise. She was not wont to dress herself in that manner when she attended the theatre. " You have arrived then ? " she said, addressing 3 O Mr. Monroe, " I did not hear you come." Mr. Monroe offered her his arm, and conducted her to the carriage, privately thinking that he had never known Mrs. Hazletine to be in such exuberant spirits, nor heard her talk so incessantly. Monica could be both a witty and cheerful companion when she chose ; but truth to tell, her husband was so accustomed to the haughty barrier she erected between them, the impassible wall of reserve with which she hemmed herself in, that he. had almost forgotten how sparkling and brilliant she had once been.

Never had Nugent Monroe seen her in this guise before, and if she had pleased him when reserved, and cold, and calm, she charmed him a thousand times more in this reckless, wild, and curiously excited mood. The Arundle was a pretty little theatre, holding perhaps 700 people. It was crowded to-night, for the play was a new one, and a celebrated and favourite actress was to take a leading part. " I think she is perfectly beautiful," said Monica, to Mr. Monroe's questions whether she admired Miss Mordaunt. " I have rarely seen such a sweet countenance — is that sad and pathetic expression peculiar to her ? " " 1 believe so," was the short response. " She looks as if she had known trouble," murmured Mrs. Hazletine, her wild flow of spirits cooling beneath the plaintive voice that rung from the stage.

At this moment the actress glanced in their direction, and a flood of crimson dyed her brow and cheek. She was dressed in a white clinging garment broidered with gold around the hem, and about the bodice, which was cut low and confined at the waist with a golden girdle. And her luxuriant nut brown hair, waved over her shoulders, and fell like a veil about her. What did those glorious eyes convey ? pondered Mrs. Hazle tine. Surely — a mute reproach ! and instinctively she turned to the young man by her side ; but he, with opera-glass in hand, was steadfastly scanning the audience. Monica held a bouquet in her hand — large creamy roses, and tender sprays of maiden fern. Nugent Monroe had brought it for her acceptance, and towards the end of the second act she quietly disengaged one pale bud, and a sweet scented briar, and fastened' it among the crimson roses on her dress, and when Nesta Mordaunt courtesied to her enthusiastic audience, among the bouquets that fell around her lay that of Monica Hazletine's. Nugent Monroe started forward.

He would have prevented it, if he could, but it was too late. " That is strange," remarked Godfrey Hazletine ; " Miss Mordaunt has taken up and acknowledged all her bouquets except yours, Monica." " She had so many, her arms were full," responded Nugent nervously, " she could not possibly have carried more." " But she did not even acknowledge it ! " " Perhaps she did not see where it came from," he argued again, uneasily. Monica made no remark ; but when the curtain rose on the third act, her quick eyes discerned her rejected flowers placed on a pedestal, which formed part of the scenery. So Nesta Mordaunt had either overlooked it among so many, or she had pointedly refused to accept it. It was a trifle, and forgotten in the absorbing interest of the play, which was most sensational. The scene was Venice, the stage was darkened, it was night !

A gondola was anchored beneath a latticed window. The window opens slowly, and Nesta Mordaunt appears ; the moon rising slowly over the waters shines with a bewitching glamour on the pale features of the heroine. " Art thou there ? " she asks, " has't come to save me, Rupert ? " " Yea, my beloved ! " The figure of a tall man, enveloped in a dark cloak, emerges from the shadows — the window is deserted, and in another moment she joins her lover. He seizes her in his arms, but with a despairing wail she cries, " It is not he ! Rupert ! Rupert ! oh, come to me." In an instant the cloak is over her mouth, and her screams are stifled. Lights appear. Two or three figures rush hastily on the stage, with lighted flambeaux in their hands. She breaks from his hold, and — What was to follow few of that ill-fated audience were to know.