A SHORT STORY

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXVII, Issue 8349, 8 February 1913, Page 10

A SHORT STORY

“ THROUGH THE VALLEY.” It was the merest chance that Amelia Burton, and Henry Murrell met. Mrs Burton, a charming woman no longer in her first youth, was a widow, and had been taken suddenly ill at Mentone, where Murrell was in charge of a dying old gentleman. They happened to be in the same hotel, and Mrs Burton's maid, in her alarm, flew to Henry Murrell for assistance, knowing him to be a medical man. He found the lady lying on her sofa in a dead faint, and applied restoratives. As she recovered consciousness her eyes met liis, steel-grey, resolute, and honest', a clean-shaven, good-looking lace, with a handsome, steady month. ‘‘You are a doctor, I suppose?” she asked. , t ‘‘Henry Murrell, at your service,’ he answered. "At present in medical attendance on Lord Brinton.” She smiled at this quaint presentation of himself. * * » • Mrs Burton had been very fond of her dead husband in a childlike fashion. Ho had been years older than his wife. She had married him at sixteen out of a youthful admiration for a handsome, stately man. Ho, on hie part, was ardently in love with the little girl, whose idealising, rapt eyes had suddenly caught a heart really simple, despite his fifty years and his brilliant legal successes. It had been quite an ideal union in its way while it lasted. There had been one child of the marriage, u v ho had died. Hardly had Amelia begun to live ae-aiu after that blow, when Henry Burton developed a dangerous malady, was operated upon, and died within a few days. Someone remarked, enviously, that Burton always was lucky; he had been a strong man all his life, and he cheated pain at the last, falling quietly asleep while the surgeons were yet talking about the success of their operation. He left his young widow amply provided for. By his will, if she did not marry again, the bulk of his property passed to relatives of his own. If she married again, and ho expressed no wish con trary to it, the property was to be hers to do with what she would, save for n few specific thousands left to the relatives, who had no need of his money. A generous will, and characteristically large-hearted; but the widow showed no sign of availing herself of its generosity. She had always been delicate and highly strung. The loss of her husband, following tho loss of her little child, seemed to have broken the mainspring of her life. She took to invalidish ways. She had not lost her old love of travel ling, and she moved quietly from ons beautiful spot to another, following thi sun and tho flowers. She felt she had not very- long to live. . A London doctor had told her there was heart trouble. The knowledge kept her from laying hold, even in her gentle and delicate way, of all her affairs long ago. She was a religious woman, and she had her solace. She was passively content to await tho moment of her summons. Then into this twilight life, where Amelia kept her face turned wistfully towards the open door of another world, camb Henry Murrell, keenly ambitiotls of this world, yet not Ignobly so, since his ambition was to fight the powers of evil as ho saw them in sickness and disease and (loath. He was tremendously keen about his profession; hill ho did not talk of it much, for he was close as an Oyster about the things ho felt most, till Amelia, the faint rfcses coming back into lier cheeks, walked up and down by his side on tho terrace garden of tho hotel, and listened to his dreams and visions. . " He 1 never thought of her as a sick woman;' though it was obvious that she was not robust. He had known those delicate creatures to be equal to things before which the robust woman went down. He had taken her off the sofa — insisted on her driving and walking. She was sometimes surprised at herself to find how much ground she had covered in these exercises without being unduly fatigued. She felt refreshed rather; she slept better; her appfetito was bettor. Still with her Secret knowledge of the LoUd-bn doctor’s verdict, she never ceased to regard herself as a sick woman. She said to herself that any \ day she might go out like the snuff of a candle. Murrell spent all the available titne awav from his (patient with her. Lbrd Brinton could receive little benefit rur.v froin anyone’s attendance. He was in his second childhood, 'and had to be fed and washed and clad just like a child. His valet pushed his chair about, in the sun or eat beside it while the old man slept- One of these days he would waken from his sleep—in another world. Tor a few days his son and granddaughter stayed at the hotel. The old man had no knowledge -of them, did hot distinguish his son, sitting by his chair, from tho valet who usually sat there.‘‘Poor old boy!” said his granddaughter, in the hearing of a hundred people. “It would be a real kindness to put him to sleep altogether.” Mrs Burton heard the remark. and shuddered. Tho careless speech inadd her perhaps unjust to Miss Newton, who was a comely, outdoor young woman, devoted to dogs and horses, dnd all manner of games. She was a little Weatherbeaten, and her voice was. roughened by her devotion to sport. She also wore mannish tailor-made gowns, and walked with her hands in her pockets. Mrs Burton did not like her. She said as much to Henry Murrell, who defended tho girl rather warmly. He won at Miss Newton’s beck and call in these days. Amelia saw less of him. She went back to living with those beloved Shades -—her husband and her little girl. Burton had hurt her without in the least intending to do so; she made theories about him in those days, when she had gone back to the loneliness he had kenAfter a week. Hiss Newton went on to Naples with some friends. Mr Newton remained. Murrell had less than ever to do, so he returned to Amelia’s side. "I have seen almost nothing of you for a week,” he said. "The modern girl is very strenuous. You are not looking well. What have you been doing to yourself f " His voice was rough with anxiety, but the roughness pleased her. She had formulated her theory about him and Miss Newton. The theory remained unshaken. But she found herself newly happy in Henry Murrell’s friendship and attendance. The young man talked with the irresistible flow of One who has kept his thought* locked up for a lifetime. There was not much she did not know about him after a time. She knew that he was poor. He had said to her, with a shamefaced laugh, that ho was not earning his fees as medical attendant on Lord Brinton; but he could not afford to refuse them. She knew all his ambitions, unrealised for want of money- When ho left Lord Brinton he would have to look for another position of the same kind. ‘Perhaps, when I am grey,” he said, “I may have a chance of doing something.”

He knew very little about her beyond the fact that she was a charming woman. an ideal friend. It had not occurred to him to think of her as a rich woman. The quiet daintiness of her attire did not suggest to him what it would have done to a woman. As a doctor, he observed her invalidism. He did not believe there was much the matter; but he knew that she was likely to sink more and more into invalidism unless it were checked. A. charming creature, there was no reason why she should not be up and about —a man’s wife and helpmeet, the mother of his children, the mini row of his household, a force for good in the world instead of living with her ghosts as he had found her on his first coming. She brightened wonderfully with his coming. When he left her she would sink back again, With that tempera-

ment she would sink iuto hopeless in* validism or the grave. ~ All at once he realised that he could not go. There came a day when Lord Brinton. failing quietly asleep, did not awa.se. Mr Newton was there to see to everything. The hotly was taken back to England for burial. Murrell was free, with a handsome cheque m his pocket, free to look about him. The thing came upon him suddenly, when Mrs Burton had nearly tainted again, and ho had to carry her to her sola. The windows were wide open, anil ibo room was full of the warm sun and the scout of roses. There were roses everywhere—in baskets and vases and bowla. He had been talking of going back to England, and she had been looking very sad. Something came over him as he carried her lo the sofa. Ho strained her to his heart wildly. Good heavens, she was horribly light! If he lost her, he would be the most bereft man under the stars. She opened her eyes full upon him, the momentary weakness passing away. She knew what had happened. The blood was running in her own longtorpid veins as freely as (he sap runs in the spring branches. He had kept his arms about her. She put up her own about his neck. The most piteous pang shot through her, because she ns a dying woman, because she must give him up presently to the handsome, healthy girl who was his natural affinity. There was no lack of ardour in his wooing, and she was glad, even though she explained it away to herself. She was glad she was still charming enough to make such an impression on a man. He was not marrying her for her money, but because) for the moment, he loved her. She smiled to herself, thinking how she had been putting forth all her attractions. He loved her for the time, and she was going to bask in love and life as she had never hoped to do in tin's world. He would grieve for her when she was gone, but in time he would turn to the girl to whom he could Hot aspire in the days of his poverty. She was going to leave him everything. Her dead hand should unlock for him the door of the happy life with her rival. There was no other way but by marrying him. She was glad there was no other way, since the marriage would not wrong him. They would have plenty of time to be happy after she was gone. Trie marriage took place very quietly ono May morning. Summer had come, and they were going home. They would Spend the summer at a cottage in tho Surrey hills, which the bridegroom know of. and had bespoken, paying an extravagant sum for it out of, tbs unexpected, bequest Lord Brinton had loft him. There was a delicious garden in front, a thick hedge of junipers and hollies which shut them from the world, and it would be near enough for him to go to town. He was keen on research work. They would spend the winter'in Paris. Afterwards, he was to take a house in the doctors’ quarters of the West End. and set up as a specialist. He knew by this time that his wife’s money was going to make tho difficult path smooth. He had made a wry face over it when first ho knew, for he was the kind of man who wants to win his own laurels, the more if they are to be laid at a beloved woman’s feet. Still, she was too dear and precious, too delicate, to accompany him on an uphill lead. He Was going to do so much with her beside him that people would forget he had married a rich Woman. Vaguely, he had disliked that elusive manner, of Amelia’s, that, way of looking away from him as though she were at a distance, and at any moment the distance might widen, Eho was an exquisite wife. She had laid by her invalidismln. time she began to entertain modestly in the cottage which he had taken. (Hie of theif visitors was Miss Newton. Amelia had to change her first opinion of that young woman, who had conceived a whole-hearted girl's adoration for Airs Murrell. She was sound aiid good And generous. Amelia said to herself witn new .:paoga that she would ho able to Arustidler husband to the young Woman when she must leave him. But as the months passed—tho summer changing to winter, the winter to spring, and again to summer—Amelia discovered that after all she was forming ties with life. 11l that second summer a little 'daughter was born. Amelia was very ill, but inode a perfect recovery. The child was all that could he desired. But —her father was Only just beginning to tolerate her. "let me forget," he said, when Amelia begged him, to look at her baby. "Lot me forget that time—when 1 so nearly lost you.” "Were you afraid?” she asked, looking at, him strangely. , She was more lovely for her illness, and in her soft, convalescent’s gown of white she was exceedingly ■ gracious! "Yes. Don’t you know. Amelia, that if I lost you there could be no second love, no second chance for me? 1 can't quite forgive that young lady—as yet, for the fright she gave me.” "Oh!” she said. With sudden anguish; "but if I had to go, Harry! I’ve heed growing horribly strong lately; but 1 know my heart is affected. The doctor told me so. He said i should have to bo very careful. Oh, dear Harry, i only allowed you to tie yourself to a sick woman like me because of the money. There was no other way of giving it to you. I thought it would smooth the way for your profession—and your' marriage with someone—whom 1 could trust. I used to think you cared for Miss Newton. She is a dear creature. But—if she could hot console yon ” He knelt down beside her and drew her closely to him. "No ono could console me for you, dear,’’ ho said. "You may put that idea out of your head. I shall not need consolation. My poor girl, to think that you have had that bee in your bonnet all the time! Why, I could have got rid of it conclusively if you had. only told me. Will you take Sir Alfred's opinion? He said that night he came, when you were so very ill, that you would pull through because your heart was sound. That after an examination, Amelia. Do you think I ooltld toe the man I am”—ho stood up and stretched himself to his full height; he looked splendidly robust, and there was a light of happiness on his face—"it there was the remotest chance of my losing you? That night when you were so ill, I asked God to take away everything else from me, but leave me yourself. I knew the one thing I coiild not do without. Why, if any' danger threatened you. I should be sitting with my head bowed to my knees.” olio believed him. There was obvious, passionate sincerity in his words and his looks. “Then I may really live and feel that you want only me,” she said. "Uh. Harry, how good it is! 1 have been feeling so weD, that I really began to think the doctor must have made a mistake.” “It is quite a common mistake,” Henry said. ‘‘.Sometimes it kills some poor devil; yet there is many a one walking about in perfect health who had Ins death sentence given him by a mistaken diagnosis years ago. I've nothing to say against your doctor, except that he made a mistake—thank God!” There was no mistaking the hearty sincerity of the thanksgiving. Then he began to laugh softly to himself. ‘Think of my being handed over to Miss Newton.” he said. "Why, she will marry some good sportsman like herself. So far she is a Vestal Virgin well contented with her estate. I can't see your lover being her lover, Amelia, although ehe deserves to be well loved.” “I believe I was dreadfully jealous of her,” sighed Amelia. “That is why l did her less than justice at first, dear girl! But you must forgive baby, now.” —“Modern Society."