LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2370, 7 November 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A FIGHT FOE HIM

(Concluded )

She said this with considerable emphasis, watching me meanwhile, but I did not betray myself, ... ‘ I have been in a false position here, he says,’ she continued ; 1 It was against everybody's wish I came,’ ‘ D.d he not know yon were coming 2 I inquired, * Nobody knew. I corresponded with Mrs Selcombe, when I had made up my mind, that was all, ’ ‘ You had some especial reason, perhaps, besides the recovery of your health ? ’ I suggested. Once more she flushed up quickly. * Perhaps so. But I wish to recover my health. I had heard so of the benefits derived fr m this place. It was strongly recommended to me I was anxious to get •well for his sake, as well as my own. You unders'.and that, Douglas ? * she inquired. •Oh, yos—perfectly.’ * And you have got well,’ she continued ; ‘you are a living example of what miracles can be effv cted by the Seaoliffe air. For you came here woise than myself.’ ‘ How did you know that, Mies Forsyth ? ’ * Mrs Selcombe has told me,’ she replied, ‘that she thought you would net recover speedily— if at all.’ She had had the same idea of me, then, as of Miss Forsyth. * I was not strong when I first came,’ I said. ‘ But now you are quite well P ’

* Almost.’ * You are quite well,’ she said ; ‘ I see no mgu of illness in you. I think,’ she added, ‘ it la your duty even to make room for those who are waiting eagerly for vacancies,’ 1 I have thought of that,’ I replied ; ‘ but Mrs Selcombe presses me to remain another week or two.’

1 You are not obliged to go back to work yet,’ she said, , to the wholesale house you told mo of. tou might take a holiday with some friends.’ * I think not.’

1 Oh ! it shall not be a question of money,’ she said qniokly ; ‘ you have been very good to me, and I have a right to show my gratitude. and prove that 1 was not so unkind as you imagined. Yon are poor, and lam rich —I don’t know what to do with my money —and you must not stop my wish to be of help to you in any way.’ * I don’t understand, Miss Forsyth. I

‘ I want you to accept as a favor from me if you will—say a hundred pounds. If it is not enough for you to go abroad for a long holiday, say so, but don’t return to that hateful business again,’ she said. Yea, Mrs Selcombe was right. This lady had a great Interest in me, and was disposed to be generous; and yet I was not grateful in my heart towards her. The generosity was tco suddenly exhibited ; the interest in me was hardly real, and only the anxiety to get me out from the Home was strikingly apparent. To get me away at any price, it seemed !

‘Thank you, Miss Forsyth,’ I replied, * tut I can take no money from yon.’ ‘lt is customary to reward those who have shown attention or sympathy to the lady patients. I am only a little extra liberal, ’ she said, • and you must not be too proud to stand in your own light.’ ‘ I can take no money. I shall be glad to get work again,’ I reolied, ‘and I shall go straight to the old business when I am strong enough.’ ‘ It wilt be very rash of yon.’ ‘ And I shall not leave here for a week or fortnight longer,’ I said, watching her now in my turn, ‘ you shall not accuse me of acting rashly, Miss Forsyth. I will be extremely careful.’ ‘ Very well. Do as you please,’ she murmured faintly, ‘ but don’t worry mo any more to day. I shall be glad if you will leave me. 1

She had turned very pale. ‘■•hail I ’ I began, when she Interrupted me. •No. no —I don’t want any assistance,’ she cried, hastily ; ‘ I only want to he left to mvself till to-morrow.’

* Very well. Miss Forsyth,’l replied. I bade her good night, and went away. I felt that I had won a victory, but in what way I could hardly guess Doubtless Luke Macfarlane and she had just planned this together, and without a doubt I had foiled them. I would not give in to them, or what they wished me to do, and the thought of oiForlug me money made my cheeks tingle, and set ray heart aflame. I might be an object of charity ; but not of the charity of these two. I would prefer to starve rather than be indebted to them, or follow any with of theirs conveyed in so secret and miserable a fashion. THE LAST SKIRMISH. Next day there was a fresh surprise for me. It was a cold, bleak morning. When I went down-stairs somewhat earlier than usual I saw through the glass windows of the hall that a closed carriage was waiting in the drive. ‘Who 1s going away to-day ?’I asked of the housekeeper. ‘ Miss Forsyth.’ ‘ Going away—and at once?’ I said in my surprise. ‘ Yea—she gave orders for a carriage to be here very early this morning,’ was the reply ; * she is determined to go. Mrs Selcomo is vexed, but cannot perande her to wait till the forenoon.’ * And Mr Garfchorne ?' Mr Garthorne was the resident surgeon of the Home. * He has expressly forbidden it, but it is of no use. I don’t know, Mias Douglas, that I ever remember a more self-willed young lady than she is. It may be going to her death—but go she will.’ ‘ I will see her, ’ I said. ‘Oh! she particularly wi hed not to be distressed by any leave-takings, and said that you were not to ’ I did not wait to hoar any more. I was self-willed on my own account, and resolved —even for reasons hard to set down hero—to see her once again. I felt I was the canso of her determination to quit the institution—that, for some inexplicable reason, it was either she or I who must leave Seacliffe I would ask one question—and then tell her I was sorry she was going away so hastily. Strange as it may seem, I did feel suddenly ard unaccountably sorry for this girl. 1 cid cot. wish to ask permission for an interview ; I presumed upon my old position as her maid, and went suddenly and quickly into the room where she was sitting, in the same chair in which I had left her last night, only equipped now for a journey. She had been -rranging various small sums of money from her purse —douceurs for services of the attendants, I supposed—but she started up, and scattered some of the silver pieces on the floor, in her surprise at my appearance. ‘ I did not send for you—l did not know you were up,’ she said. ‘ I thought I would rise early this morning,’ I explained, ‘and I hear you are going to leave us. May I ask why this is ?’ ‘ ‘"’h, you may ask,’ she cried, Impudently and rudely ‘ And yon will not answer me ?’ ‘ Why not ?’ she rejoined ; ‘ is it not sufiicient answer that lam sick of this place—heartily sick of it, and everybody in it? That I want Co get away ? ‘ At a groat risk to yourself, leaving thus unceremoniously, and on so cold and bleak a day.’ •It is cnly two miles to the station, and I am not made of barley sugar,’ she cried, flippantly. ‘ You are not strong.’ ‘ I am as strong as you are,* she retorted. ‘ I can go away and make room for others if you cannot.’ ‘lf I had gone, then. I said slowly, • you wcuid have rem-iined ?’ She looked at me for a moment, then turned aside her head.

*I do not say that. What are your move l ments to me?’

* Ah I that Is what I want to know, Miss Forsyth,’ I replied; ‘for you have shown great interest in me, have offered me a large sum of money to depart and will withdraw your elf in haute, and at any personal rllk, ra’.licr than remain hero with mo.’

‘ You—you must cot speak in this way,’ she murmured.

‘ Pardon me, I havo not much to say, and I will nut willingly distress yon,’ I said, earnestly, ‘ but there does not seem room in this vast establishment for yon and me now; and for some mysterious reason you are »f aid of onr being hero together.’ * Af-ald 1’

‘ Give me a fair explanation. Miss Forsyth, why yon wish mo to withdraw, and I

will spare you the risk of this day’s journey,’ I concluded. ‘ I have nothing to explain.’ ‘ Yon will not tell me ?’ I urged. ‘I have nothing to tell,’ was her reply. ‘ I think you have,’ I said. ‘ Well, let mo set your mind at esse by saying that you need not fear mo—that Captain Maofarlano need not fear mo eithei—and that_ I shall suffer no distress of mind by meeting him again.’ ‘You knew he was here yesterday, then? You knew it ?’

‘ And if you are afraid of his meeting me,’ I continued, ‘pray disburse your mind of any jealous fancies, and—let me go.’ > ‘ For my sake yon would do this now ? she asked, wonderingly. ‘ Hardly for anyone’s sake, but simply for the general convenience,’ I answered, carelessly ; ‘ you ara not strong enough to go away to day. ’ ‘ L will go 1’ she muttered ; ‘ I have made up my mind. Don’t unsettle me,’ ‘ Why should this fear ’ ‘I have not said I have any fear of you,’ she cried, in great excitement; ‘ why should I ? All was over between him and you long ago.’ ‘Yes.’

‘ Then why should I mistrust him ? Why should I think for an instant that ’

The door opened again, and Luke Maofarlane entered. It was a ghost-like entrance to us both, and scared us equally as a spectre might have done. We looked at him for a while, and he, turning white as death himself, advanced towards me with both hands outstretched, like a man with a claim to love me yet, and which he had a right to assert. * Kate—my own Kate,’ he exclaimed, ‘am I dreaming?—is it possible it can be yon ?’ I backed from him. I did not like his hands —this was no friend of mine, I thought —only a man whom I had loved once, and lost. Bis very profession of friendliness even filled me with alarm. I did not understand it.

‘Mias Forsyth—she ’ I began, and he cried impatiently, ‘Yes, yes —she has found you, and I will thank her presently. Bat now let me think of you—let me tell you how long I have searched and prayed for such a meeting as this.’

‘You—you did not know I was here?’ 1 oried.

‘No; I—l was afraid you weae dead. Since my return from India I have been seeking for you every day. Kate, am I not forgiven ?’ he exclaimed; ‘ will you not allow me to explain even now ? Lydia, pray intercede for rk —tell her all that I have suffered by my cruel haste.’ Was I in a dream—and was this Luke Macfarlane ? I looked from him, so bravo and handsome, and so little changed, to Miss Forsyth cowering In the chair with her face averted from ns both. I began to see my way Through the murky darkness of the mystery a glimmer of the dawn was piercing. ‘Leave us, please, Luke,’ I said to him, ‘ for a few momenta, whilst she explains it all.’

* I will wait in the garden ; you will come to me soon—pr»y do,’ he said. As the door closed upon him, I turned at once her. I stood before her as the mistress of the position—l the victorious and she the vanquished woman. • You are not engaged to Lnko Macfarlane V I exclaimed.

• I am not,’ she murmured, ‘ don’t toll him I said I was. Oh ! don’t tell him that.’

‘ You have never been engaged to him ?’ ‘ Never,’ she answered ; ‘ spare me to him save my self respect a little; I have been very wrong ; oh. don’t tell him !’ * And why 7’ I asked. * l have loved him very much—l have loved him desperately, and he has thought me so good and kind a woman,’ she confessed ; 1 I hoped he would take to me in time, when he had quite forgotten you ; I prayed night after night that you and he would never meet again—that he would never find you.’

‘ He has been searching for me, then ?' ‘ Ever since his return from India/wheaco he was telegraphed by the sudden illness ot his father.’’ ‘ Hence his silence.’

‘ I was commissioned to explain all to you presently to search for you. He thought ho could trust mo and my mother —he knew nothing—he knows nothing of my love for him. He will never know it now, but for you,’ she said, ‘ and if you will keep a poor weak woman’s secret, I shall bo very grateful ’

‘ You would not have spared me.’ I answered ; * you never came to me ; you were going away lest he and I should meet ; you know he loved me still, and guessed my heart was broken by what seemed to me his cold indifference—you would have let me die.’ * I loved him.’ ' And hated me ?’

* Yes,’ she answered. ' Poor woman,’ I said, ‘learn to hate me no longer. Ho shall not know the truth of this.’

She seized my hand before I was aware, and raised it to her lips.

‘ God bless you,’ she said ; * but you may tell him presently. When I am dead I should like him to Know how much I loved him. But not before —lest he should despise mo for my enmity to you. ’ ‘ Is the enmity at an end ?’

‘lt has been a bitter straggle between us,’ she murmured ; ‘an unfair fight—for I was defenceless.'

‘ Yet you had right fighting on your side against me,’ she answered with a sigh; ‘ and 1 was malicious and bad. Forgive me if you can in time.’

‘I was ill myself, and it was a fair excuse,’ she said ; I had tracked you out, and the thought occurred to me to face you. I had a hope that I should hear you say you had forgotten him—and he was nothing to you. Then I could have gone back happier in my mind, and waited for his coming.’ ‘ How long has he been In England ?’ ‘A week.’ ‘Ah, Lube, I have judged you very hastily,’ I murmured to myself. ‘Go to him,’ she said, ‘he is waiting for you.’ * Yes, I will go now,’ I replied ; ' and you wil remain here ?’

‘Of course, of course,’she said ; ‘despite of my plans you and he have met. ‘lt is like fate.’

As I went out of the door, she looked towards mo with the old piteous look. ‘You will spare my woman’s pride?’ she said again. ‘ I will,’ was my answer back.

I went out to my old lover, to hear his story and relate my own—a sad story of misconception, hasty words and quick repentance, the record of a lovers’ quarrel lasting two long years. The reader will not care to hoar its details at the eleventh hour like this ; he will take my word for it, and leave me happy with the man so lightly sketched forth here. This is the history of two women who fought for him, and Luke Maofarlano is simply a shadow to every one but me. Like a shadow he passed, too, from the life of Lydia Forsyth, and she saw him not again. She had left the Home at Seacliffs when we went back to her room. At the last she feared to meet him, or to trust my word, or to witness that hsppy era of reconciliation which she had striven to thwart. Bnt, poor woman, she had loved this Luke of mine, and, unlike a woman, perhaps, I could forgive her for it.