LITERATURE.

Patea Mail, Volume VIII, Issue 1033, 11 May 1883, Page 4

LITERATURE.

MRS- STAMER. ' —— -■ ( Continued.) To-day, as usual, Mrs Stamer is sitting in her huge rocking-chair, waiving her big fan to and fro. Her lids have dropped slightly over her eyes in true drowsy fashion ; the action of her wrist grows languid; she is in full enjoyment of an afternoon as sultry and free from air ef any kind as one living for years in the far East can possibly desire. . ; Yet there is a faint curve about her perfect lips that is hardly happy, a touch of pallor in her soft cheeks that suggests mournful, nay even hateful thought. n ;'? ?;•; / “General Steyne,” sriys a/servant, opening the door suddenly, so detaching her from a painful past as to; bring her to a yet more painful—to judge by that: covers her : fa?r. face., Bnt the servant’s .eye is on her,'and so she forces herself to rise and bow coldly, to her- visitor, and say, “How ns if-the heart in her body is not beating .wildly, madly with surprise and indignation, and something else, perhaps. Then the servant vanishes; and as he does so her enforced, courtesy vanishes too, and : with passionate contempt and anger she turns to the General: “ Yon 1 And here !” she says. It is as if she would gladly have said much more, but that hec-strength is insufficient for her. She. is literally consumed: by the emotion that is making her bosom rise-and fall; tumultously.. j,. il I .Gonldnjt/help itj” says the ..General. - il^vis-a..-perfect: puerile ,-excasej and at the least very humble—so humble that r it would' have disarmed most women’s anger. ' Unhappily it has only the effect of increasing Mrs Stamer’s,”! ‘‘ That;you should dare to seek me/’ she sjays, with a little gasp, “ to even look .upon .my face again ; to—” - “ It was that that brought me,” inter npts he, eagerly. So; eagerly that, for a . moment,. he . appears almost a young man. . “ To look upon your face once more—for the. Inst time, perhaps. That I am/unworthy to do it, I know; bnt I risked /everything, .even | yonr anger. - It was an overpowering, desire; I could riot/conquer , it.” Ho speaks somewhat incoherently, arid :whep his voice fails hini, there is a panse. “ Now that you; ..have, gratified your desire, I shall be glad if you , will go,” says Mrs/Stamer, drawing /ber breath in a spriiewhat labored fashion. She .is standing always,, and has one hand on a chair near her, as though to steady herself. Her face is white as death, her eyes are all afire. “Audrey ! -Have you forgotten ’all !” cries he, in anguism ; “all our happy past; you used to say you were happy then. Must, my one crime be a curse upon niy whole life ? Is pardon impossible? . - .... r “ Quite impossible ?” >{ “ pouldyon not try to forgive ?” “ Eor what ?’’ she asks sternly. “ To love again—to be again undone ? No, I have wisdom now,, where I had, only childish trust before. Unheard, you condemned me. Another’s voice, the Voice of. a common slanderer, t was more precious in your ears than mine,. You believed me false to you—false. How can T forgive or forget that ? You have sown ; yon now reap ; arid all is at an end between us.” “Even memory?” asked be, desparirigly. “ Are there no hours you can look back upon, and wish-—” '“T never look hack!” cries she vehemently, puttirig her hand as though to ward off soriie fatal blow. “ Never 1 I will riot.” . She is strangely agitated. She betrays a forced determination not to be won over by any argument, however specious. “ If, then, for the future I am to be nothing to yon,” says the General, in a low tone that he tries to reduce to calmness, “ tell me what of the child ?” At this a terrible fear takes possession of her;; Her lips part, but no sound comes .from them. She looks at him with a dumb entreaty in her beantifnl eyes that amounts almost to agony. !: - Will he take the child from her ? Ha? he the power to doso ? Will he crnelly deprive her of the little creature who has been to her for years as her very heart’s blood ? Must she live without the sweet companionship that has grown-necessary to her, the fond baby kisses that have rendered her said life not only bearable but almost to be desired. “Yon will not take the child from me I” she says in' a dying tone. Her face grows absolutely gray with fear—involuntary she lays her hand npOn her throat* as one might do who is in danger of suffocation. “ No 1 no 1 no I” says the General, vehemently, her evident distrust of him causing him even keener anguish than what has gone before. “The child is yours. I surrender all claim, no matter what it costs me, I owe yon so much. I will do nothing to wound you. You have suffered enough at my hands already. I shall do what ever yon wish in the future. It rests in your own hands. If you tell me to go now, I shall obey yon. “Then go,” exclaims she, and his face changes perceptibly. “And if you tell me never to return —-if yon think that will be for yonr happiness,” his voice trembles, “ you shall still be obeyed !” Though he has forced himself to utter the words, they are almost unintelligible. Is she merciless, or has she : indeed lost all love for him ? Has his one act of nnfaith destroyed for ever the hold he once had upon her heart ? “ It will bp better so,” she says, her tone uncertain. She has risen to her feet, and is staring at him with yearning eyes. Is this indeed to be the end ? Is she by two or three words, to drive him forever from her presence ? How tall he looks, how grand, how soldierlike, and —he is her husband—and once she loved him wildly. The General drawing himself up to his fall height,

wHich is magnificent, walks to the door. Has he not given bis word to pbeyiher ?” In this world how many great things hinge upon a bare circumstance. / But for an interruption he might have gone forth and never looked again upon the face dearest to him. Even as he opens the ddor ; ’ Dulce comes rushing in with flying hair and sparkling eyes, and happy crimson lips, glad with smiles. “ Oh, nurse told me you were here,” she cries,” as she precipitates herself upon the General and impounds him; upon the spot. “ It is nay General,” she says, glancing over her white irounded Shoulder at her; mother, who seems turned into stone. The child is in a very rapture ; she throws her little arms around bis neck and smothers him with kisses. ;i tl I guessed you would come'; s I told; mamma I had asked you*and that I thought you would come; i and you see,” with ial triumphant glance at.her pale mother, “ I was right.” “ Quite right,” says the General, very gently;; “ Yet, you see*' Dulce, my coming > has been >of ho use, I must go now, i even as you come.” ■ ' “ No, no,” says the child, “ Mamma, ask hiiin to stay and have tea with us.” “ I can’t stay, indeed,”, says the poor Generallhorriedly; “ Mamma,' make him,” cries the anxious little-voice. “ I want to show him my new chickens. ”; “ I shall be' glad if you will stay,” says Mrs Stamer in a stifled r tone. The sight of, the child in his arms, with her pretty cheek pressed against *his, is almost more than she can endure. “ There !” says Dulce, slipping out of his arms. “ Now you must stay, and I shall run and tell Jackson to bring the tea at once.” In a moment she was gone. The General looks with same embarrassment at Mrs Stamer, and sees that she has covered her face with her hands, and is crying silently, but.passionately. In a moment he is at her side ; at her feet.'' “Audrey, Audrey 1” he cries, forgive ?” “ No, no,” sobs she, bitterly, -but her voice is not unforgiving. “ Our whole lives must be influenced by this moment,” says General Steyne solemnly. “ T implore you to think. i.l know l am unworthy of pardon, but if—” “ Miemory would come between us,” whispered* she, sadly. T “ Nothing shall come between, us I If so blessed a thing could happen ns that yon would take me back into your heart no earthly power should separate us again.” ; < ; or. He waits with beating pulse for her reply. Lifting her streaming eyes to his she says, “ You are really-sorry ?” It is afoolish question, but very womanly, and it fills the General with contrition. “ Alas I” he says, mournfully, “ need you ask me that question, my beloved ? I doubt if even the great joy of being forgiven by you—-if that joy be mine, Audrey—can altogether blot put the recollection of these three past miserable years, during which remorse has been my companion day and night.” “ I will drive oat that companion,” murmurs she with quivering lips, yielding to his sweet caress, “My husband, how that lam your own again, all evil thoughts will fly /from.- you.” # « # ,# , * ; “ Here comes tea,” cries Dulce, dancing into the room before the solemn footman, who is following her with the tray. “Is it,” says her mother, with a tremulous smile. “ Good child 1 Now, will you go down and tell cook that General Steyne will dine with ns at half-past seven. No, Jackson, no, I want Miss Dulce to take the message herself \ n Argosy. THE END.