CHAPTER XVI.

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 92, 7 March 1885, Page 4

CHAPTER XVI.

4< I DID FORGET !" " Till now thy soul has been All glad and gay ; Bid it awake and look At grief to day." A. Proctor. " And now, my dear, how is this going to end ? That's what I'd like to know. " Half nn hour had elapsed, and the first excitement of the meeting was over. Aunt Dorothy's valise had been eagerly depleted and presto !— a transformation. Where had stood blue-suited, straw-hatted, faggedlooking Rob Henderson, was a slender, roselipped young lady, clad in a street costume of lustreless black silk, a dainty wreathbonnet of English daisies on her pretty golden head, long ecru suedes on her slim hands. One of these she had just finished buttoning when her aunt spoke. "To end? I have no fear of that," glancing up with a charming smile. " Voylo has probably given Mr Claflin the slip ere this. As for me, Marc will be back soon, and—" She did not conclude. There was no need. Marc would be back soon. That said all. Miss Vernell sighed and shook her head. "My pet, you talk like a child. Yes, you do. What else are you, anyway, but a big, overgrown baby? In this wonderful world you see no one— nothing— save your lover. With your marriage, doubt, anxiety, disappointment, all are at an end. The romance of such a state of mind is entrancing, but the common sense — Vella, where is the common sense ?" Vella, with one positive little finger on the last button, stopped in amazement. •« Auntie ! ' "My dear, Marc is out of town. He may be away for several days longer. Even were he here, you could not go to him. He must seek you." A bright colour flamed into Vella's cheek. "Aunt Dorothy, you know me better. You—" " Yes, yes," hastily. " I didn't mean to infer anything of the sort, dear. But till he does return where will you stay ? You can hardly come home. Of course, your uncle will know of the deception sooner or later, but you cannot be his informant. Again — I ail nervous about Voyle. After such a serious escapade as this he, no more than you, dare return. James's temper is terrible when aroused, and you know what a piece of dynamite Voyle is. A look, a word, and he is a blaze. I would not have those two meet for worlds. And what the lad is going to do to keep his head above water is what troubles me. Vella looked grave. It was more serious than she had thought. " We have both had some money in bank, you know — just a little, the aggregate of trifles put there by us when we formed some quixotic scheme last winter and grew suddenly economical. I drew Voyle's this morning. They thought I was he. Mine is there yet. It is more than Voyle's— I think between Jive and six hundred I will write you an order — the cashier knows you, and you must try and get it out. As soon as we discover Voyle's whereabouts we shall give or send it to him. He will be sure to let us know. How will that do ?" " The amount is insignificant, but may prove enough to ward off want till he finds congenial employment. But the first question is not yet settled. Where are you going ?" There was a brief silence. "I would have said to Mrs Sylvia's," Vella declared, slowly, " were it not that she did not come to me to-day in answer to my letter, nor in any manner reply to it, though I was assured it bad reached her." " You could not dream of going to anyone in Chicago," Miss Vernell interposed in hurried decision. " Where then ?" "Is it possible you don t know ? Your marriage is published in every paper in this city this morning ?" Vella whitened. She grasped a chair for support. Her marriage ! Published ! And every soul of her acquaintance would know it— think they knew all — discuss her — place the affair like a dubious picture in different lights, and regard it critically in each. The thought was monstrous ! " Who dared ?" she gasped. " Your uncle sent the notices last night. You forget, dear, he did deliberately no wrong. That Vella Vernell had married Jonas Claflin was, and is, an undeniable fact to him." " Yes ; I did forget that 1" She sat down trembling still. Ah", as Aunt Dorothy had said, what would the etultsof that wild impulse be— what? Upon her mind began to crowd \ague fears, misgivings; no ray, though, of the truth of the desolate hours to be, of the struggle between love and honour, of the loneliness, the misery, the yearning, the j heart-ache; of this terrible truth, no faintest dawning. " Ah, truly indeed, is the future's veil by the hand of the Angel of Mercy woven r

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