CHAPTER VIII.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 135, 2 January 1886, Page 4

CHAPTER VIII.

UPON THE ALTAR OF A DEAD HEART. Arthur returned with all possible speed to St. Augustine, and when one moining he suddenly appeared in his father's room, the strong man was shocked by his haggard ap; pearance. He had been very much disturbed upon learning of his sudden departure. He surmised at once whither he had gone, and he feared the worst from a personal interview with Audrey Waldemar ; but he trusted that the letter, which he had sent on before him, would do the work he meant it to do, and the result shows that he waa not disappointed. Arthur walked directly up to his father, and looking sternly down upon him without even saluting him, said, with absolutely colourless lips : "You have ruined my life— you have blighted my every hope in this world ; but perhaps you will not care for that, when I tell you I am ready to marry Miss Mon trose whenever you and her father may deem it proper. Go to him, make a formal offer of my hand to his daughter, and then settle the rest between you." Without waiting for one word in reply, the young man wheeled suddenly about and walked from the room. " Arthur !" the startled father called after him. But if he heard, he did not heed, since he went straight on to his own room, where he locked himself in and would admit no one during the day, though his father and mother both knocked repeatedly for admission. What Mr Richard Halstead may have thought or felt regarding his son's accusation and final decision, no one had any means of knowing, for he kept it locked within his own breast, though he went about with a grave face and preoccupied air, and Mrs Halstead wore an anxious look. He was however, that Mr Montrose had accepted the invitation of some friends to join a fishing excursion for a few days, and he hoped that things would settle into their accustomed grooves before his return. He had accounted for his son's absence in a matter-of-fact way, merely mentioning that he had gone North for a week or so on business of importance, and no one had any suspicion that everything was not just as it should be. Meantime, Ida Montrose had been steadily improving but was still unable to leave her room. Her physician, however, had promised to allow her to make the attempt by the time of her father's return if she continued to gain strength as rapidly as she had been doing of late. But trouble only seemed to succeed trouble, for Arthur himself waa suddenly prostrated by a dangerous illness, and for two weeks after his return lay at the point of death, He had taken a violent cold while on his journey, and that, together with the terrible grief which had preyed upon him, resulted in a fever that laid him very low Then something of remorse began to stir his father's heart, and he grew worn and aged, as, day after day, he sat by his bedside and listened to his unconscious ravings over his blighted life and his lost love. He scarcely left him night or day, but nursed him as gently and tenderly as a woman could have done, and more than once be waa upon the point of promising himself that he would try and undo the mischief he had wrought, if only his dearly beloved son and heir could be soared to him. But when Arthur's strong constitution triumphed, and he came safely through the trying ordeal, these good resolutions vanished, hig old selfish desires aud plans resumed their sway over him, hie wonted manner returned, and no word of regret or reconcilation was spoken between father and son to bridge the gulf continually widening between them: Three weeks after the crisis was passed Arthur was pronounced able to leave his room, and he resolved that he would complete as quickly as possibla the sacrifice upon which he determined. One morning, when Mr Halstead came to pay his son his usual visit before he arose, and to ask if there was anything which he desired, he was startled by the abrupt question, «« r Have you spoken with Mr Montrose regarding the communication I made to you on the morning of my return ?" "Ahem I, yes—l have, Arthur; but, of course everything, save your own danger, has been^forgotten during your illness," Mr Halstead replied, flushing, and regarding his son uneasily, jj " What answer did he return to my pro- 1 posal?" • 1

X: " W^&fcf ; $«%• Veryinudh^ graiiSedf. since this ;marnag ? c 'haarbeem. a 'dearly; ohenshed plan - with hinl' for « well 4s, with myself." ' " ;> ** ..A/^ur^s fine lips curled at. the thought that, their darling planViy.ere everything, hia t ,^own;happxnes6 nothingtto ttfem. '." Ym Y. ell th^Hin6o*iihiß "unionis to ' 0^^ 6 . of sb.muoht^oy,,'? .hVsaid, with a fine irony that r made bia father wince, 1 would like the matter settled as • soon as possible. 1 would respectfully request an .interview, with Miss Montrose, T as I suppose my duty willnot have been performed until I see her: If she is able and ; agreeably disposed, 1 will, pay her Vvieit ' this afternoon," A gleam of satisfaction shot into Richard Malstead s eyes at this, but it soon gave place to a troubled expression c when he saw how ghastly his sod,s face had grown, and the look of agony upon it. "I say, Art, you ma ke a man feel like-" he began impetuously ; but the youne man stopped him with an authorittiave gesture of^his thin, white hand. •'The time for all discussion upon the subject is past," he said, coldly. " Please present my compliments to Miss Montrose, and say, if she feels able to receive me, 1 will do myself the honour to call upon her at two this afternoon." Ab he concluded he rang his bell vigorously for his nurse to come and help him dress, thus signifying that 1 he had no more to say upon theitopic, 'and desired to drop it. r A beautiful flush overspread the face of Ida Montrose, her magnificent dark eyes grew tender, and filled with happy tears, when she was told that Arthur flalstead had formally proposed for her hand, and desired a personal interview with her. And very lovely she appeared when, at the appointed hour, Arthur sought her to hear from her own lips that she was willing to become his wife. She waa sitting by a window that was draped with crimson, the warm, rich hue making a charming back-ground for her graceful figure, which was clad in pure white, only relieved by. a cluster of pink azaleas on her bosom, and another which she held in her ?mall, slender hands. Mr Richard Halstedhad sent those flowers to her that morning, and she fondly believed— as he had meant she should— that her lover (?) himself was the donor. She looked frail and delicate from her recent illness, but the flush upon her cheeks, tho happly light in her eyes, and the smile on her lips made her wondrously beautiful, and Arthur, as he looked upon her, told himself that he had seldom seen so lovely a picture. She cast one glance up at him from her great, fathomless eyes as he entered the room then they drooped ehyly before him. She saw that he was very pale, but she attributed it to his late sickness, and never d i earned that it was caused more from a feeling of guilt and pain because he was about to a-k her to assume the most sacred relation to him while hiB own heart was so cold and dead that it could not 'give one responsive thrill to the almost idolatrous affection which, he had been told, she had grown to entertain for him. " It is a long time since we have met," he said, coming forward and taking her hand, but feeling almost like a criminal before hi 9 judge. "I cannot tell you," he added, " how sorry I am that through fault of mine you have had to suffer so much." "Please, Mr Halstead, do not blame yourself, 5 , she pleaded, earnestly. "I am sure I am the one to be censured, for I kept you from going with the party to the grotto, and then talked you into forgetfulness of time and place, and so she mischief was done. And so the mischief was done ! The words pierced him like a dagger. "Well. regrftta are vain, T know, af. thia lato day," he returned, feeling that he must say something, and then, realising, with a power such as he had never felt before how worse than vain they were, since be was there at that very moment to seal liis.'own doom. "We are all very glad, howevor," he added, hastily, anxious to getaway from the past, "that you are so fa3t recovering." "You have been ill, too," she said, raising her dark eyos and searching his pale face anxiously. " Yes ; I took a violent cold while away on a— a business trip, and it proved too much for me lam all right now, however," he hastened to add, and hurrying on toward the task that he had sot himself ; " and— and, Ida, I suppose you know why lam here to-day. I will not excita you in your present weak state by saying very much, but I have come to ask you if you will be my wife -if you can love me well enough to give yourself to me and let me take care of you during the rest of your life ?" He was white to ghastliness, and had the young girl been less absorbed in her own happiness, she must have seen how he suffered. She did notipe his pallor, but she attributed it to his weakness and the excitement of the moment; but her heart thrilled joyfully to the tenderness in his tone, and went out to meet him with all the strength of its first as well as its deepest affection. Reaching out ©ne of her white hands, she laid it trustfully in his. He felt like a guilty wretch to win her thus— to aek her to give her life and love, and offer her not one word of affection in return. His lips refused to tell her that he loved ler-they would not utter the falsehood— his heart revolted against it, while he hated himself for the subterfuge which made her weakness his excuse for the brevity ot his proposal. m But his tone had softened involuntarily into something like tenderness, for a feeling of pity took possession of him for her ; it was like asking her to sacrifice herself in all Fc xj ght y° un S loveliness to a dead man. I do not feel that I am worthy to be your wife," she said, with averted eyes and blushing face ; "but if you deem me so, the devotion of my life shall be yours." Arthur Halstead's hand closed over hers almost spasmodically. His doom was sealed, and she had thrown herself, a willing sacrifice upon the altar of his dead heart. To the trussing girl beside him that spasmodic clasp was but the involuntary expression of the rapture of an ardent lover — hissilence, the speechless happiness like that which thrilled her own soul. To her that silence, that hand -clasp, was bliss, perfect and unalloyed ; to him it was absolute torture. When he could endure it no longer, he gently laid her hand back upon her lap, saying, in a low, moved tone, for he could scarcely control his voice sufficiently to speak at all, " They told me, Ida, that I must not stay to weary you, for you are far from strong even yet, and cannot bear much excite- • me J 1 \ JB J B ? t '" he added, trying to smile, andj had she been more observing, she muet lave seen how pitiful the effort was, " before . go will you give me one of these ?" touching the flowers in her lap-" that I may wear the colours of -of my betrothed." m The beautiful girl smiled, and flushed a rich carmine ; but she selected the loveliest (blossom of all, and/with' her own hands fastened it upon thelapel' of his coat. " Thanks," he bfeatKed, f and touched those delicate fingers with his lips.

fought a battle' with himself suoh as , does not of teV fall "to line lot of man; "' - 7,,v < -' • j •Ti? e iv/? ex^ m ?'#°^ he & ad an intervieV with Mr Montrose,: andSbegge%th l atf-he would persuade-hifif^daughter tb ' namefan *HW day for their Redding. ; - As there a was iio reason for any delay, ™ e ;<* a y was fixed .fdr^ust'six^weeks from" that' date,; whereupon.Mr Halstead settled a handsome income upon' his son,' and informed him that' he w,as henceforth to consider the homestead as his :Wn, since he and his wife desired, to have their freedom" to travel a portion of every year, and' the care of so large, an estate was getting to be too burdensome to him. ■ J> -- -. But Arthur would not listen to this arrangements ■ ' "I prefer to make some other place my honae, at least for the present," he said/ " But, an my heir,-' ifc should properly belong to you," his father insisted, looking greatly disappointed." "I cannot stay here— l must have a change," Arthur replied somewhst impatiently. I do not want the place. Reverse your will,and give me Willow Glen, which you have always intended for Kate, and let her have the homestead." "But, Arthur, what will people say to such an arrangement?" remonstrated Mr Halstead. " That is the least of my concern, and if my proposition does not please you, I can take my wife and po to the city to board," the young man retorted. Halstead Farm had in some unaccountable way grown suddenly hateful to him ; while, with the present state of his feelings towards his father, he felt as if he could not breathe the same atmosphere with him. Mr Halstead read something of this, and eighed heavily. Already he began to think he might be paying too high a price for Mb obstinacy, and folly, and treachery, in the loss of his son's confidence and affection. But he conceded the point without further argument, gave him a deed of Willow Glen, a fine estate in a neighbouring county, and then the party turned their faces northward, Mr Montrose and family taking up their abode in Albany until after the wedding, and the Halsteads returning to their own home. Willow Glen was immediately put into the hands of carpenters and decorators to undergo thorough repairs, and Arthur threw himself with zest into the work of supervision, feeling that he must have employment if he would not lose his reason. Arthur Halstead and Ida Montrose were married on the sixth of May, the wedding taking place in the First Congregational Church of Albany, after which a reception was given in the grand parlour of the hotel where Mr Montrose had made his home during the last few weeks. Late in the afternoon of the same day the young couple started upon thoir tour, which was to comprise a trip to the White Mountains, up the St Lawrence and down the great lakes, thence to their own home. That very evening, in glancing over a paper, Arthur read, among a list of passengers bound for Europe on a great steamer, the names of Hon. Dudley Waldemar and wife, and Miss Audrey Waldemar. For a moment it seemed as if his hearb had stopped its beating for ever, and if he could have dropped into oblivion then and there, he would have welcomed death without a regret. After their return from the mountains and lakes, Mr and Mrs Arthur Halstead took up their abode at Willow Glen, but Ida Halstead had discove' ed ere this that her husband 585 8 heart was not wholly hers. He was negligent of no kindness or attention ; indeed, he wag too kind and attentive — too punctilious in the performance of every duty. It was too evident that he was etrivins in this way to make up for his want of affection for her. There was nothing tangible that she could complain of, but she knew in her heart that he did not love her. She grew quiet and Bad ; the light died from her eyes, the colour from her cheeks, the smiles from her lip 3. But only for a time ; then she became calm and serene, a peace that was almost divine gradually dawned upon her face, and she took up her burden of life with the patience and sweetness of an angel, meekly bearing her cross, and striving to do the best that she could, even though she had nothing but the husks of a dead love to feed upon. (To be Continued.)