The Argosy — page 141: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

126 A Romance of the Cloister. palace but no prison, had suffered little from time, war or change. Perhaps the early founders of the noble house of Grandial, could they emerge from the tomb, would find as little moral change, their descendants holding the same beliefs, the same faith, the same preju- dices as themselves. From the porter’s lodge a carriage road swept upward through the park. The gates stood wide, and, unperceived, the pair now passed in. : ‘“T am surely expected,” Etiennette whispered, ‘‘ otherwise the park would be closed. And see, a tent is spread on the lawn, servants are bustling about, a banquet is prepared. Yes, it must be so; these rejoicings are for me. But we will steal into the house, escaping notice; I long to weep on my mother’s breast.” The tent had been erected at some distance from the principal entrance, and the servants busied in festive preparations did not observe the strangers. The stalwart blue-bloused peasant and his slight companion as they now hurried along the broad carriage road were, moreover, no figures to arouse suspicion, Elie’s erect carriage and frank, engaging face would bespeak confidence anywhere. Etiennette’s coarse print gown, short black jacket and white coiffe could not conceal a certain look of distinction. Four days of hope, of life indeed, not its woeful parody, had wonderfully transformed her. The cheeks so daintily dimpled glowed with health, the tender blue eyes shone with quiet happiness, the steps of the slender feet were elastic. Unhindered, unobserved, they crossed the threshold, Etiennette leading the way, her protector following, bareheaded. Airily as a fawn she bounded forward, her lips parted in exultant smile, her arms outspread, the very embodiment of rapturous expectation. They were now in the open doorway of the magnificent reception room, where stood a tall, dignified, white-haired gentleman in evening dress. ‘‘ Father,” she gasped out, utterly mastered by over-joy. ‘It is I, your long-lost child, your own Etiennette.” The figure thus appealed to remained rigid as if cut out of marble. Without stirring an inch, without moving a muscle, the master of the house glanced from the tearful, breathless, rosy-red suppliant to her companion. Had the pathetic appeal been a masquerade, a mere piece of acting, he could not have looked on more icily. ‘Unhappy girl,” he said. ‘The first renegade of your family, the first to bring shame on our honoured house! What penitence can now reconcile you with an outraged church, what tears of agony wipe out the stain? Go back to the convent. Seek the divine pardon and peace of mind in bitterest expiation ———” Just then, ere yet the words had utterly paralysed the listener, a rustle of silken skirts was heard on the staircase. One low-breathed, passionate word only escaped Etiennette’s lips—‘' Mother.” Once © CORNICE OOOMKS ae)