CHAPTER LVIII. GOOD-BYE, MY LOVE, GOOD-BYE.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 373, 1 June 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER LVIII. GOOD-BYE, MY LOVE, GOOD-BYE.

Two days afterwards Mr Denver carried Dulcie off to Brabazon. He remained there for nearly a week, and then, having recovered from the unlucky Hurlingham expedition, he went to Cowej and elsewheie on a round of amusement, telling his wife that it was impossible for him to say when he might be expected back again. Thus August and September glided away, and Dulcie was left alone in the great deserted Louse — alone with her sad thoughts and mournful memories of the past. One brilliant bunshiny day in October she was sitting in her boudoir, cowering over a large Hie. She looked fragile and delicate, and the pretty rounded cheeks were a? white as a lily, save for one bright red spot of colour in their midst. Hsr eyes seem to have grown prefernaturally large, and there were certain dark purple rings round them which told but too surely of ill-health. She had never recovered from a violent chill caught during the drive home from Hurlingham ; and as the weeks went by she felt a strange, dead pain in her chest. She "coughed incessantly, and her physical strength daily decreased. A languor and a listles^ness settled over her which she had neither the spirits nor the desire to resist. For latterly she had begun to think that perhaps there really might be something seriously ami&s with her, and she welcomed the very thought of death with an eager longing unnatural to one so young. A/id gradually tho idea took such a firm hold upon her imagination that she ended by honestly believing she had not many months more to live. No one noticed her serious condition Her husband was still away, having gone to Newmarket for the Coesarewitch ; Marian was on her wedding tour, and Mrs Shepperton, although she made a point of visiting her daughter daily, did not remark Dulcie's depression, and thought that at worst she was only suffering from some temporary derangement of health. By-and-by r Diiicie rose from the chair on which she was seated and walked to the window. She "looked out on the eu'nlit landscape, on the green fields bathed in an

imber haze, on the fair blue hills and golden - brown trees, from whose talL branches the yellow leaves were softly lufctoring to the ground, As she thus looked her eyes filled wifch tears, and a grreatlongingoameoverher togodown to the brook — to that very pool near the bier eltn where she and Bob had last fished ; where they had cauerht the tiny trout, squabbled aver the worms, and finally sab down imicably together, feeling as happy as a king and queen. The whole seemed to rise once more to her mind. She could see Bob as he had lain that day stretched full length on the grass, with his hands clasped behind his fair head, and the sun-light flickering fitfully on his placid goodbempered countenance. Ah ! poor Bob ! What was he about now? What would his life be to him in the Future' Had she not cast a blight over it, and deprived him of all joy ? During her many hours of solitude she had constantly meditated on this subject, and reproached herself for her own conduct. She saw now that she had done him a grievous, an irreparable harm, and thus seeing, there grew up in her heart a secret but overpowei ing yearning to meet , him just once again in order 'to, beg his forgiveness. She wanted so badly to tell him how sorry she was for what had happened. It could do no good ; it could not alter the existing state of things, but atleasc it would be a relief to her overwrought feelings. The outside woild seemed so bright and joyous this fine autumnal morning that she pined to go into the glorious sunshine, to feel the free, fresh air of heaven, to hear the eoft splashing of the water, and the birds' gladsome song. So she fetched a warm wrap, put on her hat and started for the brook. Some irresistible impulse bent her steps thither; for every yard of the little silvery stream was full of sweet associations of Bob. And, though she knew that it was wrong; to think ot, him, doing so was the only pleasure she had left. It rook her a, long, long time to arrive ac her destination, for she could only walk very slowly, with feeble, tottering steps, and her breath came and wont in curiously irregular catches. That pain at her che*b felt worse to-day than usual, and forced her frequently to pause on the way. When at length she reached the brook, she stood close to the brink and looked down at the glancing waters. The pool lay deep and still beneath her, hemmed in by walls of granite, betwixt which the slow current glided on, on, on ; gleaming bright in the sunshine with here and there a faded leaf whirling lazily lound. A few paces further up the old elm-uree stretched its stiaight bi-own branches towards the clear sky — that same elm under whose grateful shade she and Bob had so gladly sought refuge from the noonday sun— only a year and two months ago, and yet it seemed like a lifetime ! For ' old sake's sake ' she resolved to sit down on its moss-giown roots. Every word, e\ery look returned to her mind. She recalled how Bob had teased and mocked at her till she grew indignant, and then, when she had loet her temper, how kind he had been, picking raspberries so as to give her a treat by way of punishment. Ah ! there was no one like Bob. No one in the whole world to compare with him ! And yet she, who would willingly give up her life for his sake, had been the means of rendering him utteily and completely miserable. She closed her eyes in bitter agony at the thought. Grief, remorse, and despair were all tearing at her heart-strings, and rendered her insensible to external objects. How long she sat musing thus she never knew. Suddenly, a footstep close by her side made her start and look up. Was she di earning ? Did her senses deceive her? Could the brain conjure up the one being about whom ib never ceased to speculate? No, there was Bob, ouly a yard or two off, gazing down into her face with a tenderness and surprise impossible to mistake. ' Bob !' she cried breathlessly, holding out her hands towards him in joyous welcome. ' Oh, Bob !is ib you ?' •Yes,' he said. 'I have not frightened you. have I?' 'Frightened me !' she answered, with such a look. ' Oh, no ' but I had not an idea you were at Mornington. When did you come ?' ' Yesterday evening — just to say goodbye to the old people.' 'Good-bye?' ?he echoed, turning very pale. • Yes. lam better out of this country than in ib. The truth is, Dislcie, I cannot rest for a second when I fancy there is a chance of seeing you. So I have made up my mind to go back to America ; right oub of harm's way. But,' with a sudden tremor in his voice, ' I could nob leave England without haviner one last look at the dear little burn where we have spent so many happy hours together.' So the same impulse bhab had sbirrerl her had also stirred him. Was there not a Providence about this unexpected meeting ? 1 Bob,' she said, ' come and sit clown here by my side. I want to talk to you.' He seated himself immediately, anxiously scanning her countenance meanwhile. ' What's the matter with you, Dulcie ?' he asked, abruptly. * You look dreadfully ill.' For a momenb the blood rushed to her cheek«, then she said with forced composure : 'I am ill. Sometimes I even fancy that I may die, for unless some change comes soon in my life I feel I cannot bear ib much longer.' A terrible pain shib through his heart. Every brouble seemed reduced into insignificance compared with the one awful thought of losing her. 1 Dulcie,' he sail, tremulously, ' tell me that you are nob in earnest.' ' I don't know, Bob, dearest,' she said, very sofbly, with fche quick tears springing bo her eyeiS. ' I— I — have bhoughbso sometimes of late.' ' Oh, my darling '.' he cried, hoarsely, 'don'b talk of such a thing. Remenber how young you are — how young we both are. A day may come when we shall be happy yet, and while there's life there's always hope.' She shook her head protestingly, but his emotion senb a sbab bh rough her hearb. ' Don'b look so sorry, Bob, dear,' she said, gently. 'I—l,'I — I,' beginning to cry. •shouldn'b mind sro — going a bit if it weren't for leaving you.' 1 It will kill me !' he exclaimed. 1 Oh, Bob ! don't balk like that. I have nob been very happy since 1 married, as you know. Bub, heavy as is my punishmenb, I deserve ib all ; for I had no business to run counter to the dictates of my own heart. ' Since I have been ill, I have seen this very clearly ; and I never cease reproaching myself for the wrong done to you. Bob, can you ever forgive me ?' and she looked round at him with an air of piteous entreaty touching to behold. ' What have I to forgive, my darling ?' he said, hoarsely. ' Nothing — nothing whatever. You were too good for the people with whom you had to deal. They took advantage of your innocence, curse them !' clenching his hands as he spoke. ' But I did wrong, Bob, dear. I know ihab quite well now, though I did not know ib ab the time. I failed in my duty to you. I was weak, credulous, and allowed myself

bo be talked over against my better judg- 1 ruent. It was wicked of me to yield, 'and j 1 From that wickedness all our present misery ; I has resulted. Oh, Bob ! surely even you cannot declare me blameless !' and she turned to him in self-censure. • Yes, I can,' he replied stoutly. *I declare that you are an angel, and if you have a fault.it is that you are too good for this earth.' • Bob, darling,' she said, putting her little hand in his, and looking at him with swimming eyes full of a pure, unselfish love, Ido you know what 1 have been thinking lately ?' 1 No, how should 1 ?' 'I have been thinking that it will be better for you to forget me.' • Impossible ! No other woman can ever be to me what you have been.' ' But I want you to promise me something, Bob.' « Well, what is it?' • Ever since 1 was quite a little toddling thing,' she said, dreamily, ' you have always been kinder to me than anyone else. All my pleasantest memories are connected with you, and now 1 cannot endure the thought that I have been the' means of bringing sorrow into your life. Will you promise to be happy without me in tho future?' • How can I possibly make such a promise as that?' he answered, bitterly seeking 1 to avert his quivering features. Then after a slight pause, he added, with a suden buvst of nvsery, ' Oh, Dulcie, if you are going to die, the only happiness that can happen to me is to die too.' • Hush, Bob ! You mako me feel so wretched.' 'And am not I doubly wretched afc the thought of 10-ing you ?' cried the poor fellow miserably. ' Oh, Dulcie, at least give me some hope !* Whatever her own private convictions might be, the sight of his grief overcame them. 1 Perhaps I may be wrong,' she said, soothingly. ' People often take gloomy fancies into their heads, especially when they are left much alone.' 'Say that again!' he ciied eagerly. ' bay those bleased words again !' ' It is quite possible that I may get well, Bob, and in the meantime you must find comfort in occupation. Think of how many openings a man has in this world.' ' Yes, a sound man, bat not a brokenhearted follow like niyself.' ' Thete are so many things that you might do,' she continued, earnestly. ' ' What kind of things ?' ' You can help poor people, Bob, and seek happiness by giving it to others. You can be kind and charitable and generous, and above all avoid that odious vice of selfish-ne-s. J ife is a solemn thing given us to do somewhat more with it than the mere gratification ot our' personal desire?, and the feeding and fostering of our animal bodies. We should make a high ideal standard t> oui selves, and, in spite of the difficulty, strive honestly to act up to it. Do right, not for the sake of any reward, but to uphold truth, to raise the whole social and moral system, and set a good example ro those less strong and capable. This, Bob, is what I would have you do.' Human passion had fled from her voice. There was a solemnity, a pathos about its tones which struck deep down into his heart. As usual, she roused all his better J nature, even while he realised that she was wishing him a long farewell. 1 Good-bye, my love, ho said, reverently, I good bye. 1 will try to do your bidding, even though I fail.' ' God bless you, Bob. You were always a dear, good fellow, far too good for me.' • But you must reward me, Dulcie. Darling,' putting her hand to his lips, ' you must endeavour to eret well for my sake.' ' Yes,' she answered, with a loving smile, 'I will try.' A long pause ensued. Dulcie was the first to speak. 'Bob,' she said, giving a little sharp shiver, ' how cold it is here ! I mustn't pit any longer on account of my cough. Will you give me a helping hand V He acceded to the request with alacrity. But the efiort of rising -slight as it was — produced a violent attack of coughing, in the midst of which she suddenly ielt something warm and moist trickling down her throat, whilst a strange dizziness blurred her vision. ' Bob !' she gasped in alarm, staggering to his hide, ' I—lI — I feel so funny and faint. Oh !' as she put up her handkerchief to her lips and withdrew it, all stained with blood, ' what's this ?' For all at once the world seemid fading from her, life itself slipping slowly and painlessly away. Insensibly, her head sought a pillow on his shoulder. ' Bob,' she whispered, twining her arms roui.d his neck, with a sudden cia/ingfor protection, ' hold —me — tight. . . . Don't let me go. . . Ah !' as he strained her to his heart in an agonised embrace. ' Now — at List — I — am — happy !' Thsre she lay in the arms of her own true love, feeling 9trangely calm and content, whilst the red life-blood continued to flow from between her parted lips in a red arterial stream. He was strong and desperate, and he carried her all the way back. By the river's brink, through the pleasant meadows, where the tall red sorrel raised its graceful seedy head to the azure sky, along the fragrant hedgerows, and under the stately trees, he canied the woman he worshipped, whilst down stieamed the sun on her sweet pale face, casting a golden aureola round it. Distracted, terrified, bewildered, he staggered up bo the fronb door of Brabazon. Arrived there, a small boy thrust a telegram intd his hand, saying laconically, ' For Mrs Denver.' 4 Good God ! can't you see that she is ill !' ho cried, crumpling the envelope up into his pocket. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added, ' All right, my lad, you can go ; if any answer ib required, I will send one later on.' Half-an-hour afterwards he was in earnest conversation with the doctor. *Is there any hope ? he asked, whilst the hot salt tears rose to his eyes. ' I can't say yet,' was the reply. * Everything depends upon absolute quiet and good nursing. She has broken a bloodvessel, and is very faint. I shall remain with Mrs Denver all night, and you,' glancing kindly at Bob, who was an old friend, ' Perhaps you can bring some female relative to her assistance.' The hint was sufficient. Bob tore ofl at full speed to Mornington Court. ' Mother !' he exclaimed, breathlessly, breaking impetuously into her sitting-room, I 1 want you to do me a service.' 'What is it, Bob?' she asked, with a sudden sinking of. the heart as she noted his jaded, careworn appearance. 'I want you to come to Brabazon at once. Dulcie is dangerously ill — dying, perhaps ! You and I between us must coax her back to life,' and he groaned aloud. For once Mrs Mornington asked for no details, but rose without delay to make her preparations. Shortly afterwards she was installed in the sick room as head nurse. By this time the doctor appeared somewhat more hopeful as to his patient's condition, declaring that a slight improvement had taken place.

When Bob heard this good news his heart overflowed with thankfulness. Silently he prayed to', God that hie darling might still be saved. < ■ • And now for the first time all at once he remembered the telegram which ho had hastily thrust unopened into his pocket, and which hitherto had escaped his memory. It was just probable that it might prove of importance and reqnire an immediate answer. He stole from the room and tore open the envelope. Suddenly, with a sharp cry, he staggered back like one shot through some vital part. The telegram came from an unknown individual, and contained these words : "Mr Denver was run away with this morning at Newmarket, thrown from his horse, and killed on the spot. 1