CHAPTER XXIX.

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 95, 28 March 1885, Page 4

CHAPTER XXIX.

FROM THE DARK RIVER. " By the fire I ait And softly rook, The while I knit A little sook. In time with the needles Drones the dock Click I click T-K. Olkary. So still it was ! And such a bright, cozy little neat of a room, too. Tho cool white India matting which in summer covered the floor had not yet been removed to give place to the warmer winter Brussels. Simple curtains of cheese-cloth and antique lace draped tho windows. Between the front windows hung a brassbound mirror, and just below stood a small dressing-table of home-made manufacture completely covered with pale blue cambric and book muslin. On a little oaken tier of shelves hung on the wall by an azure cord were a number of books and magazines, and on the uppermost row a few vases of Limoges. The graded wire flower-stand in the bay-window was a veritable bank of bloom. Here and there stood wicker chairs and rockers interlaced and knotted with blue satin ribbon. The same delicate colour was repeated in the curtains depending from the encircling brass poles of the snowy bed in the corner. In a little open, tiled stove a fire cracked cheerily, for the early October evening was chilly. By it in a low chair a girl sat. A slender little thing, not more than eighteen, but looking every day of twenty-three. There was nothing striking about her to command the attention of the casual observer. But looking at her once one looked again. Then one began to study her, often ending by finding in her quiet face absolute beauty. With Aurora Leigh she might have said : "I am like, they tell me, M v dear father. Broader brows Howbeit upon a slenderer undergrowth Of delicate features-paler, near as grave; And then my mother's smile brfeaks up the whole And makes it sometimes better than itself." But on the young forehead there was a slight impress of care. The hazel eyes held a shade of thoughtfulness beyond her years. . . _ , Just now, so 'abstracted had she grown, her work— a tiny bit of bright knittingdropped in her lap, her hands lay listlessly upon it, her gaze strayed .dreamily to the fir©- , „ , , So still ! Without was the cold, dark, moonless r 'ctober night ; within, the dainty room, su iKiued light, silence. Suddenly was the latter dispelled. A voice sounded through the chamber, low, silvery, tremulous. " Voyle ! Where is Voyle ? And Marc?" Geraldine Starr rose hastily and went over to the bed in the corner. Prom the white pillow a face looked up at her— such a lovely waxen, wistful face, with great brown eyes, underlined with dark hollows, and short, crisp, golden curls. . Thank heaven ! she was conscious at last. Out of the long sleep which had indicated the turn of the tide, she had awakened with clear brain and comprehension. " Ah, you are better !" Goraldine said with a smile. "Now, you must take this medicine, and you will be strong and well in no time." She took up a vial from the little stand beside the bed and poured out a spoonful. She slipped one arm under the head upon the pillow and lifted it, holding the spoon to the girl's lips with the other. ••There, now!" with soft cheeriness, "lie still, like a dear child, and don't talk." " But I must !" murmured the patient, with a little of her old imperious spirit. And then, as invalids will, her first question was a very foolish pne : "What were you doing when I saw you firat?" . , , Evidently her nurse did not understand. "Just now. You had something shining in your hands." •• Oh, my needles ! I was knitting. Now you really must not talk.", But the other persisted. " What were you knitting ?" "A sock." •• Will you let me see it ?" Ah, she was wandering again, Geraldine told herself, but she must be gratified, humoured. She went back to where she had been sitting, picked up the bit of knitting, and returned with it. The big brown eyes regarded it gravely a moment. ••For whom are you knitting it ? She spoke with difficulty. The slight attempt at conversation had exhausted her. "For my little cousin, Now, try and Bleep," soothingly. "What is his— name?" "Dick." "Dick what?" " Dick Laurent. Now, if you ask me any more questions I shall have to go away." A smile came to the sweet, childish face below. But she did not speak again. A moment more, and the white lids drooped heavily. Geraldine Starr went back to her seat by the fire. She was glad her patient was better, heartily glad, not for her own sake, but for that of the invalid herself. The poor child, she told herself, with her pretty, motherly air of compassion, ill among strangers ! It was very hard. She did not stop to think how hara had been that illness for herself. A less unselfish girl would have been grateful in the highest degree for the burden about to be lifted. The household consisted of her parents, the husband of her dead cousin, and his little boy. The menage boasted but one servant, and that one not remarkable for efficiency. Mrs Starr was a confirmed invalid, so the brunt of domestic affairs fell on Geraldine, To keep the wheels of the domestic machinery running smoothly was in itself no contemptible task. But when one black tempestuous September night— juet three weeks ago it was— there had come a violent ringing at the bell, and four men entered, bearing between them on a door from the wrecked train below a bleeding and terribly quiet figure, her duties had redoubled. The roost faithful, most devoted of nurses had she been during those weary days and nights of fever and delirium. But they had told on her somewhat. She was looking paler and a little wearier than formerly. So Doctor Laurbnt thought, as he opened the door softly and came in. She looked up, brightened and nodded, a soft dash of colour showing in her cheek.

He came forward and sat down near her. " Has Bhe awakened ?" " Yes ; I gave her the medicine." " Was she conscious ?" 11 1 hardly know. She looked so. First she called! the names she has oried so often, Then asked me suoh odd questions." " Concerning what ?" "The work I was doing— my knitting^ The child the sock was for and his name. «• That is not uncommon. The brain of a convalescent is as weak and easily attracted as that of a child. Their first questions are seldom ones requiring thought or effort." "Is Dick asleep?" " Yes. He misses you yet." " Poor little lad ! It is so many evenings since I have put him to sleep he ought to have forgotten me." Click, click, went her shining needles. A young man still, this Doctor Stuart Laurent. He had not yet seen thirty. Not handsome he, strictly speaking, but his face pleased one more than do many classically correct. It was grave and bearded with tumbled brown hair, and quiet, kindly eyes— the face of a student, gentle, serious, abstracted. " I wish we could have got a nurse ! — after a pause in which he had scanned the face bent over the diminutive bit of hosiery. "This work has been too much for you." She smiled at him. " Oh, no. lam a trifle tired, of course, but I am quite well— quite !" And then again there was no sound save the needles weaving the wine-red, yarn, clickerty, click—click ! " I hope her going will be happier than her coming— that was terrible !" she said at length. Doctor Laurent started. " Her going .?" She lifted her eyes to his in wonder. " Yes ! I suppose she will be anxious to go to her friends as x soon as she is strong enough to travel." " That is true. I had forgotten." '•What an awful night was that of the wreck !" said Geraldine, with a shudder. " Such a storm ! Such a collision !" Doctor Laurent roused himself to reply. "Had you been on the scene you would have said so. You had not to seek your duty. It came to you." She nodded and picked up a stitch she had dropped. " I shall remember it always," his eyes reading ;t; t again in the tire, " though it is a picture to be forgotten — remembered for its magnificence, forgotten for its horror. Those over-lapping cars — the prostrate engines—the shrieks of the imprisoned, the moans of the dying, the few and efficient lights, the wind which extinguished these, the driving rain, the pitch -dwkness— " He threw out his hand with an expressive gesture. It was hard to put the terror of such a scene in words. " You found her first, did you not?" " She was one of the first extricated. I knew she needed rest and nursing more than either surgical or medical skill, so I had her brought up here. Just how terrible the shock had been 1 did not then know." Miss Starr laid down the small sock and rose hastily. " She is awake again." She went over to the bed and bent above it, The doctor followed her. There was a low murmur. "What, dear?" he heard Geraldine's Roft voice question, " I cannot hear." " Have I been sick ?" "Very." " Where am I ?" " With friends." The brown eyes roamed about the room, and back to the couple at the bedside. " Voyle !" she pleaded. "You shall see him by and by"— gently. Doctor Laurent laid his fingers on her wrist. The pulsation was weak, but regular. She glanced up at him. " What is— who are you ?" "{Doctor Laurent." "Dick's father?" He started, with a glance of inquiry to Geraldine. "Yes." "And Marc?" " You must not talk," he urged. She tried to spring from the bed, and fell back, panting. " I want him ! Why doesn't he come ?" her sweeet, clear voice rising excitedly. "Marc! Marc !" Suddenly she broke in a quivering cry of pain. j "Yes, I know! I remember! In the [ depot— and he went by— passed me. Marc ! and you think— you doubt me, MarcMarc !" Her terrified wail ended in a passionate burst of tears, the weak, unrestrained tears of illness. She buried her face in the pillow, and lay so, sobbing— sobbing.