CHAPTER II. EDITOR

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 419, 13 November 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER 11. EDITOR

Tun last night of tho July day had faded out, and a hot murky night settled down o\er London. Thy air wun stifling in the city ; out in the subui bs you still caught a. bionth, fiesh and sweet scented, from the fragnnt fieUK At Poplar Lodge, St John's Wood, this inuiky, Mimmer night all the windows stood wide. In the drawing room two women sat together, the elder reading aloud, tho younger busy over some feminine handicraft. A cluster of waxhghts burned above them shining full on two pnle, worn faces - the faces of women to whom suffering and sorrow have long been household words. Both woredeepest mourriing— the elder a widow's weedp, the hail of the younger thickly streaked with gfty. Now and then both raided their eyes from a book and needlework, and glanced expectantly at the clock on the mantel. Evidently they waited for some one who did not come. They were Lady Helena Powyss and Inez Catheron, of course. 'Eight,' the elder woman said, laying down her book with a sigh as the clock struck. 'If he were coming to-night he would be here before now.' 'I don't give him up oven yet,' Inez antuered cheerfully. ' Young men are not to be depended on, and he has often come out much later than this. We are but dull rompany for him at present, poor boy— all the world are but dull company for him at present, since s//e is not of them. Poor boy ! poor Victor ! it is very hard on him.' '1 begin to think Edith will never be found,' said Lady Helena with a sigh. IMy dear aunt, I don't. No one it, ever lost, utterly, in these days. She will be found, believe me, unless — ' • Well ?' ' Unless she is dead.' ' She if? not dead," affirmed Lady Helena ;' of that I am sure. You didn't know her, Inez, or you wouldn't think it ; the most superb specimen of yuuth and strength and han Jeome health 1 ever saw in my life. She told me once she never remembered a sick day sinco she was born — you had but to look into her bright eyeei and clear complexion to be suie ol it. She i» not dead, in the natural course of things, and she isn't one of the uind that ever take their lives in their own hands. She had too much courage and too much commonsense. ' ' Perhaps so, and yet surtering tells— look at poor Victor. ' 'Ah, poor Victor indeed ! But the case is different— it waa only her pride, not her heart, that bled. He loved her -he loves her with a blind, unreasoning passion that it is a misfortune tor any human creature to feel tor another. And she never cared for him- not as much as you do for the sewing in your hand. That is what break-, my hoart — to see him dying before my eyes for love of a girl who has no teelmg tor him but hatred and contempt.' Inez sighed. 'It is natural,' <-he*>aid. ' Think how she was left — in her very bridal hour, without one word ot explanation. Who could forgive it ?' 1 No one, perhap.s ; it is not tor that I feel indignant with her. It is for her ever ac cepting him at all. She loved her cousin — he would have raanied her, and for title and wealth she threw him over and accepted Victor. In that way she deserved her fate. She acted heartlessly ; and yet one can't help pitying her too. 1 believe she would have done her best to make him a good wife, after all. I wish—] wish he could find her,' ' She might be found readily enough,' Inez answered, ' if Victor would but employ the usual means— l allude, of course, to tho detective police. But he won't set a detective on her track if she is never found — he peraiets in looking for her himself. He is wearing his life out in the search. If ever I saw death picturod on any face, I saw it in his when he was here last. If he would but consult the German doctor who is now in London, and who is so skilful in all diseases of the heart— hark:' she broke off suddenly,; • here he is at last.' Far oft" a gate had opened and shut — no one had a key to that ever-locked outer gate but Sir Victor, and the next moment the roll of hie night-cab up the drivo was heard. The house-door opened, his familiar etep ascended the stairs, not heavy and dragging as usual, but swift and "light, almost as it used to be. Something had happened ! They saw it in his face at the first glance. There was but one thing that could happen. Lady Helena dropped her book, Inez started to -her feet; neither spoke, but waited breathless. 'Aunt! cousin !' the young man cried, breathless and hoareo, 'cshe is found !' There was a cry from his aunt. As he spoke be dropped, .panting and exhausted with his fpeed, into a chair and laid his hand upon his breast to still its heavy, suffocating throbf«. •Found !' exclaimed Lady Helena; 'where — when — how ?' * Wait, ftunb,' the voice of Inez said gently ; c give him time. Don't you see he can scarcely pant ? Not a word yet, Victor — let me fetch you a glass of w ine.' She brought it and he drank it. His face was quite ghastly, livid, bluish vinga encircling his mouth and eyes. He certainly looked desperately ill, and more fitted for a sick-bed than a breathless nighfc ride from St. James Street to St. John's Wood. He lay back in his chair, closed his eyes, struggled with his panting breath.

They sab and waited in silence, far more I concerned for him than for the news he bore. He told them ab laeb, slowly, painfully, of his chance meeting with Lady Portia ! Hampton, of his enforced visit to the Oxford - street dressmaker —of his glimpse of the tall girl with the dark hair ; — of his waiting, of his soeing, and recognising Edith, hie following- her, and of his sudden-giddy faintncss that obliged him to give up the chase. 4 You'll think me an awful muff,' he said ; 1 1 haven't an idea how I came to be such a mollicoddle, but I give you my word I fainted dead away like a schoolgirl when I got to my room. I suppose it was partly this confounded palpitation of tho heart, and partly the shock of the great surprise and joy. Jamison brought me all right somehow, after a while, and then I came here. I had to do something, or I believe I should have gone clear out of my senses.' Then there was a pause. The two women looked at each oMier, then at him, his eager eyes, hia excited, wild - looking, haggard fnce. 4 Well,' he cried impatiently, ' have you nothing to bay? Is it nothing to you that after all these months — months — great Heavens ! it seems centuries. But [ have found her at last — toiling for her living, while we— oh ! I can't think of it - I dare not ; it drives me mad !' He sprang up and began pacing bo and fro, looking quite as much like a madman us a sane one. 4Be quiet, Victor,' his aunt said, •It is madness indeed for you to excite yourself in this way. Of course we rejoice in all that makes you happy. She is found— Heaven be praised for it '.—she is alive and well— j thank Heaven also for that. And now — ! what next ?' ' What next?' He paused and looked at her in astonishment. 4 You ask what next ? What next can there bo, except to go the first thing to-morrow morning and take her away.' 4 Take her away *' Lady Helena repeated, setting her lip? ; 4 take her where, Victor ? To you ?' Hi& ghastly face turned a shade ghastlier. He caught hiss breath and grasped the buck of the chair as though a epaem of unendurable agony had pierced his heart. In an instant his aunt's arms were about him, tears streaming 1 dou n her cheeks, her imploring eyes lifted to his : 'Forgive me, Victor, foigive me! 1 ought nob to have asked you that. But I did not mean — I know that can never be, my poor boy. I will do whatever you say. I will go to her, of corn-he— l will fetch her here if she will come. ' If she will come •' he repeated hoarsely, disengaging himself in.m her ; 4 what do you mean by if ' There can be no 44 if 'in the matter. She is my wife— she is Lady Cathprou — do you think she is to be lett penniless and alone drudging for the lood she eatt. ? 1 bell you, you must, bring her ; t,he must come !' His passionate, suppressed excitement terrified her. In pain and fear and helples,sne&B she looked at her niece. Inez, with that steady self-possession that is born of long and great endurance, came to the rescue at once. ' Sit clown, Victor !' her full, firm tones baid, 4 and don't work yourself up to this pitch of nervous excitement. It's folly — usele&s tolly, and it? end will be prosbi-a-tion and a sick-bed. About your wife, Aunt Helena will do what she can, but— what can she do ? You have no authority over her now ; in leaving her you resigned it. It is unutterably painful to speak of this, bub under the circumstances we must. She refused with scoin everything you offered her before; unless these ten past months have greatly altered her, she will refuse again, yhe seems bo have been a very proud, high-spirited girl, but her hard struggle with the world may have beaten down that — and — ' 1 Don't !' he cried passionately ; ' I can't bear it. omy God ! to think what 1 have done— what I have been forced to do ! what I have been made to suffer — whab she musb think of me — and thab I live to bear ib ' To bhink I have endured ib all, when a pistol- ball would have ended my torments any day !' 4 When you calk such wicked folly as bhat,' said Inez Catheron, her strong, steady eyes /ixed upon his face, ' I have no moie to saj f . You did your duty onee — you acted like a hero, like a martyr— ib seems a pity bo spoil ib all by such cowardly ranb as this.' 'My duty ''he' exclaimed huskily. 4 Was ib my duby V Sometimes, I doubb ib ; sometimes I think if I had never lefb her, all might have been well. Was it my duty to make my lifo a hell on earth, to* tear my heart from my bosom, as I did in the hour I left her, to .spoil her life for her, to bring shame, reproach and poverty upon her? If I had not left her, c uld the worst thab might have happened been any worse than that ?' 4 Much worse — infinitely worse. You are the sufferer, believe me, not she. Whab is all she has undergone in comparison with what you have endured ? And one day she will know all, and love and honour you as yon deserve.' He hii bia face in his hands, and burned away from bhe lighb. 'One day,' they heard him murmur: 'one day— bhe day of my deabh. Pray Heasen it may be soon.' 4 1 bhink,' Inez said after a pause, 'you had bebter let me go and speak inebead of Aunb Helena. She has undergone so much — she isn'b able, believe me, Victor, to undergo more. Let me go bo your wife ; all Aunb Holena can say, all she can urge, I will. If it be in human power to bring her back, I will bring her. All I dare tell her, I will tell. But, after all, ib is so little, and she is so proud. Don't hope too much.' * Ib is so libble,' he murmmed again, his face still hidden, 'so liotle, and there is so much to bell. Oh !' he broke forth, wibh a passionate cry, 'I can't bear bhis much longer. If she will come for nothing else, I she will come for bhe truth, and bhe truth shall be told. What are a thousand promises to the living or bhe dead bo the knowledge that she bates and scorns me !' They said nothing to him — they knew it was useless— they knew his paroxysm would pass, as so many others had passed, and that by to-morrow he would be the lasb to wish to tell. 'You will surely not think of reburning bo Sb. James-sbreet to night ?' said Jnez, by way of diversion. * You will remain here, and ab bhe earliesb possible hour to-morrow you will drive me to Oxford-street. I will do all I can— you believe bhat, my cousin, I know. And if— if lam successful, will ' —she paused and looked at him— ' will you meet her, Victor ?' 'I don't know yet; my head is in a whirl. To-night I feel as though I could do anything, brave anything — to-morrow I suppose I will feel differently. Don't ask me what 1 will do to-morrow until tomorrow comes. I will remain all night, and I will go to my room at once ; I feel dazed and half-sick. Good-night.' He lett them abruptly. They heard him toil wearily up to his room a"nd lock the door. Long afber, the two women sat togebher balking wibh pale apprehensive faces. ' She won't come — J am as sure of ib as that I sib here,' were Lady Helena's parting words as they separabed for the nighfc. 4 1 know her better bhan he does, and I am not

I carried away, by his.wild ,hopes< She will not come.' Sir Victor descended to breakfast, looking unutterably pallid and haggard in the morning light. Well ho might; he had not slept for one moment. I Rut he was more composed, calm, and quiet, nnd there was almost as little hope in hift heart as in Lady Helena'?. Immediately after breakfast, Miss Catheron, closely veiled, entered the cab with him, and wns driven to Oxford street. It was a ■ veiy silent drive; she was gl.ad when it! was over, and he set her down near the shop of Madame Mirebeau. ' 1 will wait here,' he said. 'If she will come with you, you will take a cab and drive back to Poplar Lodge. If she does not' —he had to pause a moment — 'then return to me, and £ will take you home,' She bent her head in assent, and eutere'l the shop. Her own heart was beating at the thought of the coming interview and its probable ending. She advanced to the counter, and, without raising her veil, inquired if Miss Stuart were come. The girl looked inquisitively at the hidden face, and answered : ' Yes, Miss Stuart has come.' | I wish to see her particularly, and in private, for a few moments. Can you manage it for me?' She slipped a sovereign into the shop woman's hand. There was a second curious | look at the tall, veiled lady, but the sovej reign was accepted. A side door opened, and she was shown into an empty room. ' You can wait here, ma am,' the girl said. '11 bend her to you.' * I Miss Catheron walked over to the window ; that nervous heart beat quicker than , over. When had she been nervous before ? The window overlooked busy, bright Ox-ford-street, and in the distance she saw the waiting cab and her cousin's solitary figure. The sight gave her courage. For his sake, poor fellow, she would do all human power could do. ' You wish to see me, raadame ?' A clear, soft voice spoke. The door had quietly opened and a young girl entered. Inez Cathoion turned round, and for the second time in her life looked into the face of her cousin's wife. Yes, it was his wife. The face sho had seen under the trees of Powyss Place she saw again to-day in the London milliner's parlour. The same darkly handsome, quietly resolute young face, the game gra\ely beautiful eye?, the same slender, graceful figure, the same silky waves of blackish-brown hair. To her eves there was no change ; she had grown neither thinner nor paler ; she had lost none of the beauty and graco that had won away Sir Victor Catheron's heart. She wan very plainly d i eased in dark grey of some cheap material, but fitting perfectly ; linen bands at neck and throat, and a knot of cherry ribbon. And the slim finger wore no wedding ring. She took it all in, in three second? ; then she advanced. ' 1 wished to «cc you. We are not likely to be disturbed ?' ' We are likely to be disturbed at any moment. It i<; the room where Madame Mirebeau tries on the dresses of her customers : and my time is very limited.' The dark, giave eyes were fixed upon the close veil expectantly. Inez-Catheron threw it back. ' Edith !' she said, and at the sound of her name the girl recoiled — ' you don't know me, but I think you will 'know my name. Tarn Inez Catheron.' She recoiled a step farther, her dark face palinsr and growing set — her large eyes seeming to darken and dilate— her lips setting themselves in a tense line. ' Well ?' was all ehe ?aid. Inez stretched out her hands with an imploring gesture, d-.-uving near as the other letreated. ' Oh, Edith, you know why I have come! You know who has sent me. You know what I have come for.' The dark, deep eyes met he.ig, full, cold, hard, and bright as diamonds ' I don't in the least know what you have come tor. I haven't an idea who can have sent you. I I- now who you are. You are Sir Victor Catheron 's cousin.' Without falter or flinch she spoke his name — with a face of stone *he waited for the answer. If any hope lingered in the breast of Inez it died out as ?he looked at her now. 'Yes,' she said sadly; 'I am Motor Catheron 's coutin, and theie could be but one to ssnd me here— Victor Catheron himself.' ' And why has Sir Victor Catheron given you that trouble ?' ' Oh, Edith !' again that imploring gesture, ' let me call you so — need you ask ?' A' l these months he has been searching for you, losing health am 1 rest in the fruitless quest — u eat ing himself to a very shallow looking tor you. He has been to New York, he has hunted London— it has brought him almost to the verge of death, this long, vain, miserable search"' Her perfect lips curled scornfully, her eyes shot forth gleams of contempt, but her voice was very quiet. ' And again I ask why — why has Sir Victor Catheron given himself all this unnecessary trouble ?' • Unnecessary ! You call it that ! A husband's search for a lost wife.' • Stop, Miss Catheron !' she lifted her hand, .uid her eyes dashed 'You make a mistake. Sir Victor Cafcheron's wife lam not— never will be. The ceremony we went through, ten months ago, down in Cheshire, means nothing, since a bridegroom who deserts his bride on her wedding day, resigns all right to the name and authority of husband. Mind, I don't regret it now'; I would not have it otherwise if I t-outd. And this is not bray do, Miss Catheron ; 1 mean it. In the hour I married your cousin he was no more to me than one of his own footmen— l say it to my own shame and lasting dishonour ; and I thank Heaven most sincerely now, that whether he were mad or »ane, he de sei ted me as he did. At last lam freenot bound for life to a man that by this time I might have grown no loathe. For I think my indifference then would have grown to hate. Now I simply scorn him in a degree less than I scorn myself. I never wish to hear his name--but I also would not co an inch out of my way to avoid him. He is simply nothing to me — nothing. If I were dead and in my grave, I could not be one whit more lost to him than I am. Why he has presumed to search for me is beyond my comprehension. How ho has had the audacity to hunt me down, and sendyouhere, surpasses belief. I wonderyou came, Miss Catheron ! As you have come, let me give you this word of advice : make your first visit your last. Don'c come again to see me — don't let Sir Victor Catheron dog my steps or in any way interfere with me. 1 never was a very good or patient sort of person — I have not become more so of late. I am only a girl, alone and poor, but,' her eyes flashed fire literally fire—and : hei hands clenched, 'I warn him— it will not be safe !' Inez drew back, tt hat she bad expected she hardly knew — certainly not this. •As I said before,' Edith went on, •my time is limited. Madame does not allow her working-girls to receive visitors in working hours. Miss Catheron, I have the honour to wish you good -morning.' ' 'Stay!' Inez cried, 'for the love of Heaven. Oh what shall I say, how shall I soften her* Edith, you don't understand.

1 wish--I wish I.dared tell you the Secret that took Victor from your side that day ! He loves you — no, that is too poor a word to express what he feels ; his life is paying the penalty of his loss. He is d> ing, Edith, dying of heart disease, brought on by what he has suffered in losing you. In his dying hour he will tell you all; and. his one prayer is for death, that he Imay tell you, that you may cease to wrong and hate him as you do. 0 Edith, listen to me — pity me— pity him who is dying for you ! Don't be so hard. See, I kneel to you,! -— as you hope for mercy in your own dying hour, Edith Catheron, have mercy on him !' She flung herself on her knees, tears pouring over her face and held up her clasped hands. 'For pity's sake, Edith— for your own sake. Don't harden your heart ; try and believe, though you may not understand. I tell you he love? you - that ha is a djing man. We are all sinners ;as you hope for pity and mercy, have pity and mercy on him now/ With her hand on the door, with Inez Catheron clinging to her dress, she paused, moved, distressed, softened in spite of herself. 'Get up, Miss Catheron,' she said, 'you must not kneel to me. What is it you want ? what is it you ask me to do ?' • I ask you to give up this life of toil — to come home with me. Lady Helena awaits you. Make your home with her and with me — take the name and wealth that are yours, and wait try to wait patiently to the end. For Victor — poor, heart-broken boy !— you will not have' long to wait.' Her voice broke- -her sobs filled the room. The distressed look was still on Edith's face, but it was as resolute as ever. ' What you ask is impossible,' the said ; 'utterly and absolutely impossible. What you say about your cousin may be true. I don't understand — 1 never could read riddles — but it does notalter my determination in the least. What! I live on the bounty of a man who deserts me on my wedding- , day — who makes me an outcast— an object of scorn and disgrace ! I would die first ! I would face starvation and death in this great city. I know what lam saying. I would lather sweep a etoesing like that beggar in rags yonder ; I would lie down and die in a ditch eooner. Let me go, Miss Catheron, I beg of you ; you only distress me unnecessarily. If you pleaded for ever it could not avail. Give my love to Lady Helen • : but 1 will never go back — I will never accept a f;u-bhine from Sir Victor Catheron Don : t come here more— don't let him come.' Again her dark eyes gleamed. ' There is neither sorrow nor pity for him in my heart. It is like a stone where he i 3 concerned, and always will be —always, though he lay dying before me. Now, Tare well.' Then the door opened and closed, and ; Bho was gone. | ( To be continued. )