CHAPTER XXII.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 276, 27 June 1888, Page 3

CHAPTER XXII.

AT SJOOTOVEK HOUSE. We loft the sisters, the divorced Mrs Ashford and Florence Whitcombe, at 1 d Rectory, the guests of the Bey. "Dr. Berwick. Returning, we find them, not at the ilocbovy, but near it, at Scotover House, their aunt's residence, where they had lived previous to Eva's marriage. They had remained with the good rector and his wife some three months, it being his hope and belief that by his countenance and the fact of Mrs Ashford being a visitor at his house, her old friends

would flock round her, and would view her misfortunes in the light in which he and his wife did. Ho was mistaken. With few exceptionß, her old friends kept aloof, and even those who were in the habit of visiting at the Rectory now stayed away. Many an argument did the worthy rector embroil himself in in defence of his young friend, all with no good result. They did not blame him for being kind to her, but, in the face of all, they could not admit Mrs Ash ford among them. Then there was young Berwick's disappearance. Why, if he were innocent, had he quitted the country ? The rector had entered into full particulars with some of his more honoured friends, but he could not go to all and tell his story. I Poor Mrs Ashford soon saw how things were, and determined to leave tbe hospitable clergyman's house. She felt that her remaining there was placing him in an awkward position ; but when she spoke about it and told him what she felt, he would not hear of her going 1 . 'Wait, my girl,' he said ; 'it will all come right in time." She gave it three months trial, and during this time she experienced the greatest kindness at the hands of Dr. and Mrb Berwick and a few of their poorer friends ; but longer she would not stay. She and Florrie returned to their aunt, who lived hard by. The good soul received them with open arms and moist eyes — her darlings whom she loved as though they were, indeed, her own children. Eva had gone from her house but a short time ago a lovely bride. She returned, alas ! divorced — branded with the brand of shame. How Aunt Maria's good old heart yearned for her Eva, her pretty pet, her innocent pure lamb ! So she called her, good creature that she was. Can you imagine, reader, the feelings of poor Eva upon reentering the home of her youth — the injured wile, separated from her husband by the cruellest charge, the bitterest aspersion, the vilest stigma? She could not bear it. Nature gave way and she succumbed to a violent hysterical attack. This was probably the best thing that could have happened to her, and may have saved her many montliß of illness— of that painful illness which is the outcome of over- wrought nerves, and which ofttimes ends in fever and death. It is in this kind aunt's house that we now find the sisters. Here they have been since they left the rectory, and here they intend to remain. It is their home. Florence has had several invitations from county families to stay with them, but these invitations not being extended to her sister, who had always gone with her everywhere before her marriage, she had declined them. Eva begged her sister not to mind her ; it could not be expected that people would ask her - the divorced wife. Then Florrie had said : ' Well then, Evie darling, if they will not ask you, I shall not go." ' But that is foolish, Florriedear; there is no reason why you should lose your fiiends.' 'Evie, do you not understand me? Would you count anyone as a friend who slighted me ' Oh ! Evie, my sifter, do not ask me to go to these people.' 'My poor Florrie; I do not understand you, dear, but I wibh for your own sake you would not make my cause your own always. You know, darling, I love you, but lam not blind to your interests. It is not light, Florrie, for you to shut yourself up because I do. Even if these people did ask me I should not go now. I have done with society." ' Oh ! Evie clear, don't talk like that. You know you promised to hope,' said Florence. 'Hope. Yes. Florie, it is with me 'hope on, hope ever,' ' replied Mrs Ashford, sadly. ' Floirie,' said Aunt Maria, opening the door, ' come with me to my room for a few moments, will yon, clear 5" 'Ceitainly, Auntie,' said Florence, hastening after her aunt. ' Evie and I were just beginning to quarrel.' ' Beginning to quarrel, child ? what about, pray ? I thought you never qua? relied.' ' Well, not exactly quarrel, Auntie ; you know what I mean. She will insist upon it that I ought to go and see people who send me invitations, and I tell her I will not go to anyone who slights her. Am I not right, Auntie?' ' I don't know, dear ; \ ? ou must do as you like.' ' But vlo you not think I am right, Auntie ? Do say,' persisted Florence. ' I cannot- say, dear, I am sure. It is natur.il that you should feel as you do, but 1 wish it were otherwise,' said Auntie. 'I mean I wish you would go amongst people a little." ' Oh, Auntie ! I could not, feeling as I do about Evie ; poor Evie !' sighed Florrie. ' Well, then, my darling child, do as you like. I would not see your loving heart change for the world, nor would I see you become a dissembler and a hypocrite. No, mj child ; better for you to live with your quiet old auntie and your dear sister than go about in society and seem what you are not.' ' That's right, my own Auntie ; I was sriire you would agree with me. But what ii> it you \\ ant me for V' They had reached her aunt's little snuggery, a small room near the drawing-room, which was on the first floor. Here Miss i Whitcombe — auntie — always sat to write her letter, to read her newspapers, and [ when she tell disposed to be alone ; here she was sure of being undisturbed. Mit>s Whitcombe took up the advertisement of the ' Times ' and, pointing to the Hrst column, said : 'Kcad.' Flora read : 'On October 2nd, at St. Peter's Church, Twickenham, by the Kcv. W. Tait, Thomas Ashtorcl, of Ash ton Park and Scuclmorc Hall, Oxfoulsliiic, Ksiiniv. to Flora, relict of the late Aubray Hamilton, Esquire. No cards.' 'Oh! Auntie,' exclaimed Florrie, dropI ping her hands, still holding fche paper, and looking at her aunt. ' Isn't it scandalous ?' ' Whatever will poor Evie do ?' said the girl. ' Had we not better keep the paper from her ?' 'I have been thinking of that,' said her aunt, ' but I am afraid that will not do, as she always looks down the ' births, deaths and marriages.' I think if we try to keep it froiV' her she will at once suspect something. No, the best thing is to break it to her gently.' * But who is to do it, Auntie ?' * Well, dear, I have been thinking that you would do it best. Get her to talk, and sound her. Ask her if she would mind very much if Mr Ashford married again, or something of the sort. Do you think you can manage it ?' ' Oh ! Auntie, I do not like to talk to her about it ; poor darling ! It makes her so miserable,' said Florence. ' But someone must do it, dear, and I am afraid I should be too hard upon him. I have no patience with the brute. I should only hurt her, for she always will have it it I is not his fault, and I feel convinced — more \ than ever now— that it is.' ' Woll, Auntie, if it must be done, I will do it ; but let me go about it my own way. Don't tell me what to say, or I am sure to make a bungle of ic.' 1 Very well, my dear child, you shall have it all your own way, and I will say no more than this— let it be done soon.' ' I will go back to her now, Auntie. ( To be Continued. )