CHAPTER lv. HOW THEY PARTED.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 421, 20 November 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER lv. HOW THEY PARTED.

That ride— all her life io came back to her like a bad nightmare. She kept her eyes

turned away as much ag she could from that rigid form and ghastly face opposite^, but in spite of herself they would wander' back. What Alias Cathoron had said was true then— he was dying — death was pictured in hisface. What if, alter all, there whs some secret strong enough to mako his conduct in leaving her right? She had thought it over and wondered and wondered, until lior brain wos dazed, but could never hit on any solution. Sho could not now- it was not right. Whatever tho seciet was, he had known it before he married her — why had ho not loft her then- why in leaving I her after had lie not explained ? Thoio was no exeuso for him, none, and in tpite of the white, worn face that pleaded for him, her heart haidened once t-ioro — hardened until she felt neither pity nor pain. They leached the hotel. Jamison, the valet, camo down, and recoiled at bight of his master's long-lost wife. 4 My lady !' he falteied,ataring as though 1)0 had seen a ghost. I Your master has met with an accident, Jamison,' Eliith said cilmly, ignoring tho title. How oddly ib sounded to her. • You had better have him convoyed to his room and send for a surgeon. And, if Lady Helena is in town — ' ' Lady Helena is in town, my lady. Will — ' Jamison hesitated, ' will you 'not come in, my lady, and wait until her ladyship comes?' Again for a moment Edith hesitated and thought. It would bo necessary for some one to explain— sho could not go away either, without knowing whether the injury he had received were fatal or not, since that injury was received in her service. Sho set her lips and alighted. I 1 will remain until Lady Helena arrivos. Pray lose no time in sending for her. 1 'I will send immediately, my lady," answered Jamison respectfully. ' Thomp=on,' to a waiter, 'show this lady to fi parlour at once.' And then Edith found herself following a gentlemanly tort of man in blaclc, down a long lnll, up a great staiicase, along a carpeted corridor, and into an elegant pmate parlour. The man lit the gas and went, and then she was alone. She sat down to think. What a fetrango adventuro it had been. She had wished for her freedom — it seemed ab though it were near at hand. She shuddered and shrank from herself. 1 What a wretch I am,' she thought ; 1 what a vile creatuie I must be. If he dies, 1 shall feel as though I murdered him.' How long the hours and half hours, told oil' on the clock, seemed -eight, nine, ten, — would Lady Helena novor come ? It \\ as a lonjj way to St. John's Wood, but she might surely be heie l>y this time. It was half past ten, and tired out thinking, tirwd out with hei day's work, she had fallen into a soit of uneasy sleep and fitful dreams in her chair when she suddenly became half conscious of some one near her. She had been dreaming of Sandy-point, of quarrelling 1 with her cousin. 'Don't, Charley!' she said petulantly, aloud, and the sound of her own voice awoke her fully. Sho started up, bewildered for a second, and found herself face to face with Lady Helena. With Lady Helena, looking \ciy pale and borrowful, with tear- wet eyes and cheeks. She had been watching Edith for the past five minutes silently and sadly. The girl's dream was pleasant, a half Miiile parted her lips. Then she had moved restlessly. •Don't, Chai ley '' she said distinctly and awoke. It was of him then she was dreaming - thoughts of him had bi ought to her iips that happy »mile. The heart of the elder woman contracted tvith a sharp sente of pain. ' L*idy Helena !' ' Edith !' She took the girl's hand in both her own, and looked kindly at her. She had liked her \eiy much in the days gone by, though phe had never wished her nephew to marry her. And she could hardly blame her veiy greatly under tho circumatances if her dreams wete of tho man she lo\ed, not of the bridegroom who had left her. 1 1 — I think 1 fell asleep,' Edith 3aid confusedly ; ' I was very tiied, and it all seemed so quiet and tedious heie. How is heY • Bettor and asleep — they gave him an opiate. He knows nothing of )*our being here. It wrs very good of you to come, my child.' 'It Mas nothing more than a duty of common humanity. It was impossible to a\oid coming,' Edith answeied, and then briefly and rather coldly she nai rated how the accident had taken place. • My poor boy !' was all Lady Helena said, but there was a heart f-ob in every word ; 'he would gladly die to saveyoua moment'? pain, and yet it has been his bitter lot to inflict the worst pain of your life. My poor child, you can't understand, and ue can t explain — it must seem \ery hard and incomprehensible to'you, but one dr»y you will know all, and you will do him justice at last. Ah, Edith !if you had not refused Inez,- -if you were only not so proud, if you would take what is your right and your due, he might bear this sepaiation until Heaven's good timo. As it i=, ib is killing him.' ' He looks very ill,' Edith taid ; ' what ib the matter with him '.'' ' Heart disease — brought on by mental sufTeiing, No words can tell what he lias undergone since his mo*t miserable wed-ding-day. It is known only to Heaven and him&elf, but it has taken his life. As suroly as ever human heart broke, his broke on the day ho left you. And you, my poor child — you have suffered too.' •Of that we will nob f-peak,' the girl answered, proudly; • what is clone, is done. For me, I hope the worst is over — I am safe and well, and in good health as you see. I am glad Sir Victor Catheron has not meo his death in my service. I have only one wish regarding him, and that is that he will keep away from me. And now, Lady Helena, before it trrows any later, T will go home.' 'Go home ! Ab this hour? Most certainly you will not. You will remain here all night. Oh, Edith, you must indeed. A room has been prepared for you, adjoining mine. Inez and Jamison "will remain with Victor until morning, and — you ought to see him before you go.' She shrank in a sort of horror. ' No, no, no ! (hat I cannot ! As it is so late I will remain, but see him— no, no ! Not even for your sake, Lady Helena, can I do that.' 4 We will wait until to-morrow comes,' was Lady Helena's response ; ' now you bhall go to your room at once.' She rang the bell, a chambermaid came. Lady Helena kissed, the girl's pale cheek affectionately, and Edith was led away to the room she was to occupy for that night. It was certainly a contrast in its si^e and luxurious appointments to that she had used for the last ten months. She smiled a litt'e as she glanced around. And sho was to spend the night under the same roof with Sir Victor Catheron. If anyone had predicted it this morning, how scornfully she would have refused to believe. • Who can tell what a day may bring forth ?' was Edith's, last thought as sho laid her head on her pillow. 'I am glad — very glad, that the accident will not prove fatal. I don't want him or am one e!&o to come to his death through mo. I

She slept well and soundly, and awoke lube. She sprang out of bed almost instantly and dressed. She could but illy a fiord to lose a day.< ; Before her toilet was quite completed there was a.tap,at the door. She opened it and paw Miss Catheron. 'I fancied you would be up .early, and ordered the broakfasb accordingly. Aunt Helena awaits you downstairs. How did you bleep?' •Very well. And you — you were up all night 1 suppose V ' Yes. 1 don't mind it all, though— -I am quite used to night watching. And I have the reward of knowing; Victor is much better — entirely out- of 'danger indeed. Edith,' she laid her hands on the girl's bhouldcrei nud looked down into her eyes, *|he knows you are here. Will you be merciful to a dying man find tee him ?' She changed colour and shiank a little, but .-he answered proudly and coldly : INo good can come of it. It will be much better not, but for my own pait I dare little. If ho wishos to urge what you came to urge, I wain you, I will not listen to a word ; i will lea\e at once. 1 I 'Ho will not urge it. lie knows how obdurate you, are, how fruitless it would be. Ah, Edith ! you area terribly haughty, oeltwillod gul!>He will trot "detain you a i moment — ho wishes to make but one parting request.' •1 can grant nothing — nothing,' Edith said, with, agitation. < > -, . • You will grant thin, I think,' the other answered sadly. ' Gome, dear child, lot us go down ; Lady Helena waits.' They descended to breakfast ; Edith ato little. In spite of herself, in- spite ot hor pride and self-command, it shook her a little—the thought of speaking to him. But how was she to refuse? She rose at Ida*', very pale, very etern and resolute looking — the sooner it was over and she was gone the better. 'Now,' she said 'if you insint--' 'I do insist, 1 answeicd Inez steadily. ' Come.' ' She led her to a d6or down the corridor and rapped. How hoiribly thick and fast Edith's* heait beat ; she hated herself for it. The door opened and the grave, professional face of Mr Jamison looked out. ' Tell Sir Victor, Lady Catheron is here, and will see him.' The man bowed and departed. Another instant and he was again befoie them : ' Sir Victor begs my lady to enter at once. ' Then Ine>s took her in hor arms and kissed herr It was her farewell. She pointed forwaid and hunied away. ' Edith went on. A door and curtain separated her from the inner room. She opened one, lifted the other, and husband and wife were face to face. lie lay upon a low sofa — the room was partially dm kened, but even in that semidarkneßfc she could bee that he looked quite as ghastly bloodleLS this morning as he had last night. She paused about half way down the room and spoke : ' You wished to see mo, Sir Victor Catheron V' Cold and calm the formal words fell. • Edith !' His answer was a cry — a cry wi ung from a soul lull of love and anguish untold. It struck home, even to her heart, steeled against him and ail feeling of pity. 'I am sorry to see you so ill. lam glad your accident is no worse.' Again she f-pokc, still, formal, commonplace woids, that sounded horribly out of place, even to hei&elf. " " ' Edith,' he repeated, and again no words can tell the pa-thos;- the despair of that cry, • forgive me — have pity T on me. You hate me, and I deserve your hate, but oh ! if you knew, even you would have mercy and relent!' He touched her in spite of hersolf. Even a heart of stone might have softened at the sound of that despairing, heart-wrung voice — at sight of that death-like, tortured face. And Edith's, whatever she might say or think, was not a heart of stone. I 1 do pity you,' she said very gently ; ' I never thought to — but from my soul I do. 13ut, forgive you ! No, Sir VictorCatheron ; lam only moital. 1 have been wronged and humiliated as no giii wasever wronged and humiliated before. I can't ao that.' He covered his face with his hands -she could hear the dry sobbing sound of his wordless miseiy. 'It would have been bettor if I had not come here,' she said still gently. ' You are ill, atid this excitement will make you worse. Uut thoy insisted upon it — they said you had a icquest to make. I think you had better not make it — I can grant nothing — nothing.' ' You will grant this,' he answered, lilting his faco and using tho words Inez had used; ' it is only that w hen I am dying, and send for you on my death-bed, you will come to me. Before I die I must tell you all— the I terrible secret ; I dare not toll you in life ; and then, oh surely you will pity and forEdith, my love, my daiiing, leave me this one hope, give me this one promise before you go : 4 I promifp to come/ was her an-wer ; • I pi omise to listen — lean promise no more, A week ago I thqught I would have died -ooner thsn pledge myself to that much — sooner than look in your face, or speak to you one woid. And now, Sir Victor Catheion, faiewcll.' She turned to go without waiting for his reply. As she opened the door, s,he heard a wailing cry that struck chill with pity und tenor to her inmost heart. 4 Oh, my love ! my biido! my wife! 1 — then the door closed behind her — she heard and saw no mover So they had'*met and parted, and only death could bring them together again. She passed out into ,tho sun.shine and splendour bfitlio'-wimmer" morning, dazed J and cold, her whole soul full of untold compassion for the man .she had left.