CHAHEER XLIX. (Continued).

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 369, 18 May 1889, Page 3

CHAHEER XLIX. (Continued).

' On, child, child,! be compassionate to me, for God above is witness that I— l only goughtfyour welfare,' said Mrs Shepperton. ' Howcould you think to do that when ;you knew how intensely I hated and despised.jMr Denver ? You must have realised the ut>ter impossibility ot rendering me happy by such moans. Why, over and over again you heard me say I could not bear him.' ' I did not believe you, Dulcie. I thought you were too young to know your own mind, and that the love you professed for Bob Mornington was merely a passing fancy. I imagined it would not last, and that you would live to thank me for having saved you from a life of poverty. Alas ! alas !' beginning to weep piteously, *if I had only known how much you really cared, I — would n— -n— never have acted as I did, though you may be — believe me or not, as — you — you — c — choose. ' Dulcie's heart relented a little^ at the sight of her mother's grief and self-abase-ment. She began to feel a sentiment of pity creeping into her veins. 'Mamma,' she said, reprovingly, speaking in a grave but gentle, voice, from which all the stormy passion had died out, * let this be a lesson to you. You have done a great wrong, and created more misery than a whole long life of repentance can ever put straight. Money is the god you have worshipped at the expense of every kindlier feeling.' Mrs Shepperton sobbed bitterly. 'Ah ! Dulcie,' she said, 'I know I have made a mistake, what you say is doubtless true ; but, oh ! my child, will you not forgive me ?' For one second Dulcie hesitated, whilst a sharp struggle raged within her bosom. Then she went up to her mother, and, look^ ing at her with a clear, searching gaze, said solemnly : ' Yes, mamma, I will forgive you, but upon one condition.' ' What is io ?' asked Mrs Shepperton, nervously. ' One daughter's life has been wrocked past recall through your maternal schemings. Let such plots alone in the future and do not spoil that of another.' ' Explain yourself, Dulcie.' ' Marian and Mr Greyson are in love with each other, only he is poor, and both are afraid of your disapproval.' ' But, Dulcie, Mr Greyson is worse off than even Bob. He has only three hundred a year !' ' And if I had married Bob I &hould have been as happy as a queen instead of being thoroughly miserable. Mamma, don't break through your good resolutions so easily, or 1 shall begin to Jose faith in your protestations. Try for once the. experiment of laying aside all sordid calculations, and depend upon it you will, suffer no regret-. ' Mrs Shepperton wavered. It was difficult to forsake the habits of a lifetime'at a moment's notice, but DuTnie's eye was fixed upon her countenance with a calm, judicial gaze. ' Will you promise me this, mamma, dear ?' said the girl, laying a hand on either shoulder. • Yer, I suppose so,' she answered reluctantly. Dulcie kissed her mother's brow, and for a few seconds their tears mingled. ' Thank you,' she said, presently. ' This will give Marian much pleasure. And now, please go down stairs and see Dennis.' Mrs Shepperton letired obediently, feeling terribly subdued, but, at the same time, vastly relieved by the fortunate issue to this most embarrassing interview ; while i Dulcie remained behind to compose her agitated thoughts. Either through some unaccountable impulse or through some strange tenderness of spirib, she had foregone that revenge on which she had counted, and to which she had looked forward with almost savage, delight ; and yet, curiously enough, the fact occasioned her no regret. A novel tranquillity quieted her storm-tossed soul, filling it with holy exultation. At that moment life seemed to her too complex, too manifold in its workings, and altogether too mysterious, for any one particular human atom to dare to constitute itself the judge either of good or ot evil. At tho same time she forcibly recognised that when people do wrong, even though they repent, their repentance cannot do away with the consequence of acts whose results the innocent must endure.