CHAPTER XXIII.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 417, 6 November 1889, Page 3

CHAPTER XXIII.

' ' THE SECOND'ENMNU 'OV TllliJ/I'K.Va^DY. The .morning dawned ;pver J^pwyss _,J?lace —dawned in wild wind, iand driving', rain' still - dawned upon "Ediths niore 'strangely than ibride was ever deserted, before. 4 - She had .darkened her chaniber'; she had forpe,d herself resolutely tOwslqep,. But the small hours had o6mo 'before sho liad succeeded, and it was long after ten when thq dark oyes opened from dreamland to life. Strange mockery ! it was ever of Chaulev the days that were) /for 'ever gone she dreamed now.' • ' ~J/, „" . Tor hours and ljour^- she,, ha,d " paced ,her room the evening and night tfe'foie^' all' thedesolation, all r the'em]sllhe^Saii«R'lo^a of her life spread out before' her. ,&h.o..had sold,, herself d&libcrately'with her cyjes open, and this was her i-ewurd.". Deserted in the hour/ of her triumph — humiHatcd as never bi'idol was humiliated before — the' talk", the ridicule of the country-^raji^ohjjeQt of contemptuous^ -I*it#.- ~to^'±\]e w.hole world. j&nd Charley' a m^Trixfy,. wttat3iwoul<]7/*d7/ . say whon they "'hoard— .ssoL, her _ downfall ? She was very proud— no young princess had ever htiughtifer blood rcotirsing i through her royijl vein? than this portion1 loss American ,girl. For wealth and rank ! she had bartered life and love,- and verily she hncl her reward. '< () ~--' . SJio suflored horribly.-.t/As she paced up. and, clown her whole face was distorted with the tot tin c within.' She Hung herself into a seat and tiied to sfcjilj'tlie'cea&eless, gnawing,, maddening pain. In vain ! She could neither sit still, 1 not* think, -nor deaden her torment. -And, >j;he,n f at ty*t she throw herself lace dow.nw^d,pn'her bed "it was only to sleep the spent sleep of utter ex- ; haustion. But she'tv'as- 'pluck' to .the backbone. Next r 'dtfj«, * when, she l^ad bathed and made her toilet, and descended to the breakfttfettroom,. the closest obsei ver could have read nothing ofla&t night in the iixed calm of J hei 4 face. * "The worst th,at could ever happen. had.happened ;s>ho was reatly now to live and dje game. Lady Helena, very paje, very t'remuloils", ' very , .frightened and helpless-looking,, awaited her. A large, rod' hYe burned on the hearth. Her ladyship wa-&'W,ro.ppcd in a HulFy" white shawl, but she sl]i\eied in spite ot both, --The ii^vs Jihat touched Edith's cheek were almost as'cold ns that cold 1 cheek itself,. Tears statteVi'to her eyes* as 'she spoke tti her." ' -' i 'V 'My child,' &ho>isai{l, 'how white, you are ; how oold and ill you look. 1 am iafraid you did not sleep at all.' 'Yes, I "slept, ' answered Edith ; 'fora few hours, 1 at least/ 'The > weather has something to do with it,/ perhaps; I always fall a prpyr. £o -honois in wet and windy weather.' _ _ ~ Then they sat ~ Sown Cd'the" fragrant and tempting breakfast, and ate. with what appetite they "might. ' For" 'Edith, she' hardly made a" pretence of eating — she eTrlink a Inrga-cup of strong eollee, and arose. - ' Lady llelbna,' she began abruptly, 'as I came out ot'Hiy> room, two of the f-ervtints were whispeiing in the corridor. 'I merely caught a word,, or- two in passing. 1 '-They stopped immediately upoti Seeing me. But from that *wnM*'"Qr two, I infer' this— Six' yictor*Cut f h*!ro"a>vas- heie to see you last' 'iii'ght'.' >f "lot'; j- , l - " •' , -Lady U<?(ena-<va^ tr.iHing' nervously Vifch •her e-poon— it feirwitl]ja cla&h <n6.«f>in>&f bei\ 'cup, and her terrified eyes lookqd piteo/tsly •at her companion/ ' i • <U j'bu desire to keep this a seeie^, too,' Ed it'll said, her lips curling scornfully. .' of cowse you aro, at liberty to, do so— of course I piesume to a&k no questions. Put if not, 'I would liko to know — it may in some .measure iniluence my own movrments. ' ' )jVHat do you intend to do'i' her ,lady- | ship brokenly asked. s ' ' STbnb you shall hear presently. Jast now , the question is : Was your nephew heie last night or notV' ' lie wap. ' She said it with, a sorfc of &ob, hiding her face in her 1 hands. > ' MayJ^eav^" U.olp »">e,' .she cridd ;" vk it is, growing more 1 than 1 can bear. O,niy child, what can 4 pay to you ? h,o\y can I* com fort" you in thls'great tiouTjle t!ih6 lia's'colne upori-you ?'■■' '-, • „ ' '• '- Voii are very good, but r I would not be cqinforted. I ha\e^ been utterly ba?e and mercenary from' first? to last — a wretch who has lichly earned her fate. Whatever has befallen me I J deserve,. I married your nephew without one epnrk of 1 airection for him ; he was no more to mo than any labourer on his estate — I doubt whether he ever could have been. I meant to try — who knows how it would have ended ? I married Sir Victor Catheron for hi& rank and riches, his title and rent roll— l marriod the baronet, not tho man. And it has e.^.ded thus. lam widowed on my wedding-day, cast ofl", forsaken. Ifa\e I not earned my fate?' She laughed drearily— a short, mirthless, bitter laugh. ' X don't venture to* ask too many questions — I don't - battle -with fate ; I throw up my arm.3 and yield ,ac once. Hut this 1 would liko to know. Madness is hereditary in his family. Unworthy of all love as I am, I think — I think Sir Victor loved me, and, unless he be mad, I oan't understand why he deserted rap. Lady ( Helena, , answer me this, as you will one "day answer your Maker— ls Sir Victor Catheron sane or mad V' .' There was a pause as sheasked tho (jireadful question— a pause in'i.which the beating of tlto autumnal rain upon the glass, the' soughins of the autumnal gale sounded preternaturally loud. Then, brokenly, in trembling tones, and no'fe looking up, came Lady Helena's,' SnSfox :'° jLOod pifcy"Mifi anclyou^he is not mad.' Then there was silence-again. The elder woman, her face buried in her hands and resting or. the table, was crying silently and miserably. At the window, the tall, slim liguro of th,e, giifl, stood motionless, her hands clasped loosely before her, her .deep bright eyes looking out at the slanting rain, tho low-lying, lead-coloured sky, the black. trees blown aslant in the high October gale. •' Not mad ?' she repeated, after that long' pause; 'you are quite certain of this, my lady 1 Not mad— and he ha 3 left'ihe ?' , ( 1 "' ''lie has left you. ,0-my child ! if I dared only tell you all — if I dared only tell you how it is because of his great and passionate loye for you he leaves you! If ever there i was a martyr on this earth, it is my poor boy. If you had aeon him as I saw him last night— worn to a shadow in one day", suffering for the loss .of you until death would be a relief—even you would have pitied him.' ' "','•' . ', Would I ? Welli perhaps so, though my heait is vatUer l«il «i 'hard one.,. Of course I don't undeirtan.d a wqrd of all this— of course, oe he said in hi 3 letter, some secret of gu,ilt;n>jd shame Jjiefc behind it all., And 1 yet,' 'perhaps, coiilU come nearer to the " Secret) "" than either you or he think." Lady' Helena .-looked suddenly up, that •terrified/hunted look in her oyes. • « What do you mean ?' she gasped. 1 This,' the firm, gold voice of Edibhsaid* as Edith's bright, dark ej'es fixed them*

splvo's ' pitilessly upon her, • this, Lady Helena /Powyss : That the secret which takes him 'from 'men's the secret of ,his mother's murder — th& secret which lie learned at his father's deathbed. Shall I tell you who committed that mujrder V Her ladyship's Tips moved, but hd'soundcame; she sat spellbound, watching that pale, fixed face bofore her. . ' ■• ' Not Inez Catheron, who was imprisoned Joy it; not Juan" Catheron, who was sus-. iSected of it. lam a Yankee, Lady Helena, and consequently clever at guessing. I believe that Sir Victor Catheron, in cold bJoocj, murdered, his own wife !' There was.a sobbing cry— whether at the shock of .the terrible words, or at their truth, who wds to tell? 4 1 believe the lato Sir Victor Catheron to have been a deliberate and cowardly murderer,' Edith went on; * so cowardly hi* weak biain turned when ho saw what he had done and thought of the consequences : and that he paid the penalty of his crime In a life of insanity. The motive I don't pretend to fathom— joalousy of Juan Catheron perhaps ; and on his dying bed he confessed all to his son." With face blanched and eyes etill full of j terror, her ' ladyship looked at/ the dark, Contemptuous, 1 resolute speaker. 4 And. if, this be true—your horrible surmise; mind, I don't) admit that it is— would that-be> ahy eveusc for Victor's conctuetin leavirtg-you ?' ' No !' Edith answered, her eyes flashing, ' none ! Having married me, not ten thousand fftmilv secrets should be strong enough to ' make him desert me. If he had come to me, if he had told me, as he was bound to do before our wedding-day, I would have pitied him with all my soul ; if anything could ever have made me care for him as a wife should care for a husband, it would have been that irity. But if he came to mo now, and knelt before me, imploring me jto return, I would not. I would die sooner.!' ; She w.as ( walking up and down now, gleams of passionate scorn and rage in her dark eyes. %A --' 'It is all fblly and balderdash, this talk of his love for me making him lea\e me. Don't let us have any more of it. No secret on earth could mak'oa bridegroom quit his bride — no power on earth could ever convince me of it !' ' And yet,' the sad, patient voice of poor Lady Helena sighed, ' it is true.' 1 Edith stopped in her walk, an'd looked at her incredulously. * 'Lady Helena,' she* said, 'you are my kind friend — you know the world — you are a woman of sense, not likely to have your brain turned with vapours. Answer me this — Do you think that, acting as ho has done* Sir Victor 1 Catheron has done right?' L'idy Helena's sad eych met hers full. Lady Helena's voice wa.s full of pathos and earnestness, as she replied : ' Edith, T am your friend ; I am in my sober senses, and I believe in my soul Victor has done right.' ' Well,' Edith said after' a long pause, during which she resumed her walk, '1 give it up ! I don't understand, >andI never shall. lam hopelessly in the daik. I can conceive no motive — none strong, enough to make his conduct right. I thought him mad ; you &ay he is tane. I thought he did me a shamctul, irreparable wrong ; you say he has done light. I will think no more about it, since, if 1 thought to my dying day, I could come no nearer the truth.' ' You will know one day,' answered Lady Helena ; 'on his death-bed ; and, poor fellow, the sooner that day comes the better for him.' Edith made an impatient gestuie. • Jjec, ii^ talk about it no more. What is done is done.' wneuiv.* a:., vfnt'or Crtthc- . ron lives or dies can in no way concern me now. I think, with your permission, I will go back to my room ami try to oleep away this dismal day.' 1 Wait one moment, Edith. It was on your account Victor came heie last night to talk over the an angemeut& he was making for your future.' A curious smile came over Edith's lips. She was once more back at the window, looking out at the rain-beaten day. 'My future !' she slowly repeated ; 'in what possible way can my future concern Sir Victor Catheron ?' *My child, what a question! In every way. You are honest enough to confess that you married him — poor boy, poor boy —for, his iank and lent-roll. There, at lertst, you need not be disappointed. The settlements made' upon you before your marriage were, as you know." liberal in the extreme. In addition to that, every farthing that is in his power, to dispose of lie intends settling upon yen besides. His grandmother's foitune, which descends to him, is to be yours. You may spend money like water if it pleases you -for title and wealth for which you wedded are still youis. For himself, he intends to go abroad —to the East, I believe. He retains nothing but what will supply hi& travelling expenses. He cannot meet you — if ho did, lie might never bo able to leave you. O Edith, you blame him, you hate him ; but if you had only seen him, only heard him laat night, only knew how ine\itable it is, how he°su(rored, how bitterer than death this parting U to him," you would pity, you! would! forgive him.' • You think so,' the girl said, with a wistful, weary sigh.. ' Ah, well, perhaps so. I don't know. .1 ust now I can realise nothing except that 1 am a lost, forsaken wretch ; that I do' hate him ; that if I were dying, or that if he wore dying, I could not say '* I forgive you." As to his liberality, I never doubted that ; I have owned that I married b,im for his wealth and station. I own it still ; but there are some things, not the wealth of a king could compensate for. ,To, desert a bride on li'ev wedding day is one of them. I lepeat, Lady Helena, with your permission, I will. go to my room ;, we won't' talk of my future plana and prospects just now. To-morrow you shall know my decision.' She turned to go. The elder woman looked after her with yearning, sorrowful eyes. ' If I knew what to do — if I know what fl to say,' she murmured, helplessly. 'Edith, I loved him more dearly than any son. I think my heart is breaking. O child, don't judge him— be merciful to him who loves you while he loaves you — be merciful to mo whose life has been bo full of trouble.' t Her voice broke down in 'a' passion of tears. Edith turned trom the door, put her arms around her neck and kissed her. 1 Dear, friend,' she said,' ' dear Lady Helena, I pity you from the bottom of n»y heart. I wish — I wi&h I could only comfort you.' ' You can,' was the eager answer. ' Stay with me, Edith : don't leave me alone. J3o a daughter' to me ; take the place of tliB son I have lost.' But Edith's pale, resolute face did not solten. ' To-morrow ,we will settle all this,' was her reply. ' Wait'until to-morrow:' Then she was gone— shut up and locked in her room. ' She did not descend to either luncheon or dinner— one of the housemaids*. I served her in her dressing-room. , AndJ-ady Holena, alon^andiniserable, wandered uneasily about tho lower, rooms, and wondered iiow she spent that long rainy day. . She spent it busily enough. The- plain black box ehe ! had brought from New York, containing all her ealthly belongings, she

drew out and packed. It was not hard to do, since nothing \yent in but what had belonged to her then. " AH the dresses, all the jewels, all the costly gifts that had been given' her by the man she had murrfed, and his friends, she left as thoy were. She kepb/Dothing,, not even her wedding-iing ; •she, plaped it among the rest, in the jewel ;caskot,; closed and locked it. Then she wrote' a letter to Lady Helena, and' placed" the' key inside. This is ( what she eaid : ' '■ ' I)jsAit Friend : When you open' this I shall havo' left Powyss lala.ce l or ever. II will be Quite useless to follow or endeavour to bring mo back. JVly mind is made- up. 1 recognise no authority— nothing will induce mo to revoke my decision. Igo out into the world to make my own way. With jouth, and "health, and ordinary intelligence, it ought not to Le fmpossib c. The things belonging to me when 1 lirst came here I have p ickeil in the black bjx; in a' week you will have the kindness to forward it to the Euston station; The r. st I leave behind—retaining one or two books as souvenirs of you. I take nothing ot Sir Victor Catheron's — not oven his name. 'You must see that it is utterly impossible; that I must lose the last shred of pride and self-respect before Icruld assume his name or take a penny belonging to him. Dear, kind Lady Helena, good-bje. ,lf we never meet ajrain in the world, remember there is no thought in my. heart of you that is not of affection and gratitude. "Eimtii.' 'Iler hand never trembled a? she wrote this letter. She placed the key in it, j folded, sealed, and addressed it. It was dark by this time. A& she knelt to cord and lock her trunk, she espied tho writingcase within it. She hesitated a moment, then took it out, opened it, and drew forth the packet of Charley ' Stuart's letteis. She took out the photograph and looked at it with a half-tender, half-sad smile. ' I never thought to look at you again,' she said softly. ' You are all I have left. She put the picture in her bosom, replaced the rest, and locked the trunk, and put the key in her purse. She sat down and counted her money. She was the possessor of twelve sovereigns — left o* er from Mr Stuart, senior's, bounty. It was her whole stock of wealth with which to face and begin the world. Then she &at down resolutely to think it out. And the question rose, grim before her, ' What am I to do?' ' (Jo out mtb the world and work for your, daily bread. Face the poverty you have feated so much, through fear of which two days ago, you sold yourself. Go to London — it is the~centre of the woild ; lose joureeif, hide from all who ever' knew you. Go to London. Work of some kind can surely be had by the willing in that mighty city. Go to London.' That was the answer that came clearly. She shrank for a moment — the thought of jtacing life single-handed, poor and alone in .that great, terrible, pitiless city, was overiu helming. But &ho did not ilinch from her resolve ;, her mind .vas made up. Come woe, come weal, she would go to London. An •A. B. C railway guide lay on the table — she consulted it. A train left Chester for London at eight o'clock a.m. Neither Lady Helena nor any of her household wa& stirring at that hour. She could walk to Chesholm in (he early morning, get a Uy there and drive to the Chester station in time. By four in the afternoon she would be in London. No thought of returning home ever recurred to her. Home ! What home had she ? Her. step mother was master in her mantel's house, and to letuin, to go back to Sandypoinr, and the life .she had left, was as utter an impossibility almost as though she should take a rope and hang heisclf. She had not the means to go if <-he had desired, but that made no difleience. She could never go back, never &cc her father, or Charley, or Trixy more. Alone sho must live, alone she must die. The ilood-ga'es'were opened ; t-he suffered this last night as women of her strong, scltcon,taiued temperament only suffer. *Su\u me, O Uoti i for hlie waters are ~~«, o infn mv soul •' That was the wild worclles-s prajer ol ncr nenuw n« m^ •><■' wrecked, her heart wu^ desolate; sho must go lorth u beggar, air! an outcast), and fight the bitter battle of life alone. And luve, and home, and Charley Might have been hers. 'It might have been ?' I? there any anguish hi this world of anguish like that wo'Vark with our own hands ?— any sorrow like that which we bring upon ourselves? In the darkness she sank down upon her knee j , her face covered with her hand?, tears, that were as dreadful as tears of blood, falling ftom her eyes. Lost —lost! all that made life worth having. To live and die alone, that was her fate ! So tho black, wild night passed, hiding her, a? miserable «* woman as the earth held. The grey dawn of the dull October morning was cieeping o\ r er the far-off Welsh hills a-s Judith in shawl and hat, closely veiled, and carrying a hand-basr, came softly down the stairs, and out of a fjide door, chiefly used by the servants. She met no one. Noiselessly she drew the bolt, opened the door, and looked out. It was riw and cold, a dreary wind still ! blowing, but it had ceased to rain. A& she I stood there, seven struck trom the turret clock. 'One long, last, Unset ing look behind' — one last upwaid glanco at Lady Helena's windows. 'Good-bye !' the pale lips whispered; then she passed resolutely out into the melancholy autumn morning and was gono (To ba Continued. )

It has recently been stated that at least 2 per cent, of the animals of the bovine speciesin Pennsylvaniiaretuberculous. Nor is this a haphazard statement ; it is founded upon icliablo data, [t is unlikely tint the extent of infection in other States falls much below that in the Sfate mentioned. One of the most fatal maladies which the human family suiters fiom is malignant nustulo, and that may be acquired by c .nsuming the llesh and milk ot animals alllicted with contagious anthrav, a disease' which, according to Professor Law, 1 has become increasingly frequent in cattle ond sheep throughout; the mo.-t of the United States during tho past few years. Pleuropneumonia quite frequently occurs' in epidemics. • Everyone must know that in pork" thore not infrequently is found tlie parasito trich'na. Then there is the parasite from animals which develops in man into the Jape-worm. Besides these, there are others which are also communicable to the consumers of affected flesh. It is a recognised fact that the milk, butter, and cheese from cows suffering from the foot-and-mouth disease may communicate the disease to man. Commenting on this subject, the ' Medical News ' very aptly pays :— 'Facts and authorities might be stated to show how common is Ihe existence of, dangerous communicable diseases among animals, and that many of these affections can be transmitted t to man, either by accidental inocculafcion or by consuming the diseased flesh or milk. It is .time that concerted action should be taken for the protection of the public health against these sources of injury, as well as for husbanding the agricultural resources of the country. Local and State action is only of limited benefit. ' The subject •is ot so momentous n character as to demand "the interVention of the National Government, and it would appear to be a wise couise to dolegate the control of animal v sanitation, Especially tho animal contngia and parasites which aflect man n& well, to a National Booml of Health, clothed with ample' authority to investigate' the&o diseases and apply measures foi their restriction or extinction.