CHAPTER VI. THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 423, 27 November 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER VI. THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

An hour later, when Lady Helena softly opened the door and came in, she found them still so, hi» weak head resting in her arms as she knelt, her bowed face hidden, her falling tears hardly yet dried. One look into his radiant eyes, into the unspeakable joy and peace of his face, told her the story. All had heen revealed, all had been forgiven. On the anniversary of their most melancholy wedding-day husband and wife were reunited at last. There was no need of words. She stooped over and silently kissed both. llt is growing late, Edith,' she said gently, ' and you must be tired alter your journey. You will go up to your room now. I will watch with Victor tonight.' But Edith only drew him closer, and looked up with dark, imploring eyes. •<, 1 No, 1 she said, • no, no ! I will never leave him again. 1 am not in the lea&t tired, Lady Helena ; I will stay and share your watch.' 1 But, my dear — ' 'O Lady Helena— aunt— don't you see —I must do something— make reparation in some way. What a wretch — what a wretch I have been. Oh, why did I not know all sooner? Victor, why did I not know you. To remember what my thoughts of you have been, and all the time— all the time— it was for me. If you die I shall feul as though I were your murderess. 7 Her voice choked in a tearless sob. She had hated him — loathed him — almost wished, in her wickedness,' for his death, and all the time he was yielding up his life in his love for her: • You will lefo me stay with you, Victor V she pleaded almost passionately, ' don't ask me to go. We have been parted long enough ; let me be with you until — ' again her voice choked and died away. With a great effort he lifted one of her hands to his lips — that radiant smile of great joy on his face. • She- talks almost as if she loved me,' he said. • Love you ! ,0 Victor! — hu&band— If I had only known, if I had only known !' •If you had known,' he repeated, looking at him witn wisttul eyes. ' Edith, it you eally had known— if I had dared ,td tell all I have told you to-night, would you have shrunk from me in fear and

am as sure of it as that I kneel here. You would never have lifted your hand against my life.' • You think so ?' Still with that wistful, earnest gazo. 1 1 know so — 1 feel it — I am sure of it\ You could not have done it — I should never have been afraid of it, and in time yom\delusion would have worn entirely awaj. You are naturally superstitious and excitable— moi bid, even ; tho dreadful excitementofyourfather's story warning were too much for you to bear alone. That is all. If you could have told me — if I could have laughed ,at your hypochondriaeal terrors, your cure would have been half effected. No. Victor, 1 say it again — I would never have left you, and you would never have harmed a hair of my head.' Her tono of resolute conviction seemed to bring conviction even to him. The sad, wistful light deepened in his blue eyes. 'Then it has all been in vain,' he said very sadly ; ' the suffering and the sacrifice — all these miserable months of separation and pain.' Again Lady Helena advanced and interposed, this time with authority. 'It won't do,' she said: 'Edith, you horror, as a monster who pretended to love you and yet longed for your life ? Sane on all other points— how would you have comprehended my strange madness on that ? It is gone now — thank God — in my weakness and dying hour, and there is nothing but the lpve lett. But my own, if I had told you, 1 if you had known, would you not have feared and left me ?' She looked at him "with heave, steadfast, shininer eyes. 'If I had known,' she answered,' 1 how your father killed your mother, how his madness was yours, I would have pitied you with all my heart, and out of that pity I would have loved you. I would never hays left you — never. I could never have feared you, Victor ; and this I know— what you dreaded nover would have come to pass. I must gc. All this talking and excitement may end fatally. If you won't leave him he won't sleep a wink to-,night ; and if he passes a sleepless night who is to answer tor the consequences? For his sake you must go. Victor, tell her to qo — she will obey you.' She looked at him beseechingly, but he saw that Lady Helena was right, and that Edith herself needed rest. It was easy to make one more sacrifice now, and send her away. 'lam afraid Aunt Helena is right,' he said faintly. 'I must confers to feeling exhausted, and I know you need a night's sleep, so that I may have you with me all day to-morrow. For a few hours, dear love, let me send you away.' She rose at once with a parting caress, and made him comfortable among his pillows. 'Good night,' she whispered. 'Try to sleep, and be strong to talk to me tomorrow. Oh !' she breathed as she turned away, ' if the, elixir of life were only not a fable— if the days of miracles were not past, , if he only might be restored to us, how happy we all could be !' Lady Helena heard her, and shook her head. 'It is too late for that,' she said ; ' when suffering is prolonged beyond a certain point there is but one remedy — death. If your miracle could take and he be restored, he has undergone too much ever to live on and be happy and forget. There can only be one ending to such a year as he has passed, and that ending is very near.' Edith went to her room — one of the exquisite suite that had been prepared for her a year before. She was occupying it at last, but how differently from what she had ever thought. She remembered this night twelve months so well, the strange vigil in whichshe had spent in taking her farewell of those letters and that picture, and waiting for her wedding-day to dawn. To-night she slept, deeply and soundly, and awoke to tind the October sun shining brightly in. Was he still alive ? It was her tiret thought. Death might have come at any moment. She arose — slipped on a dressing gown, ami rang the bell. It was Inez who answered in person. *I heard your bell,' she said, as she kissed her good-morning, 'and I knew what you wanted. Yes, he is still alive, but; very weak .and helpless this morning. The excitement and joy of last night were almost too much for him. And he remembers what anniversary this i&.' Edith turned away — seme of the bitterness, some of the pain of loss she knew he was enduiing tilling her owp heart. 'If I had only known ! if I had only known !' was again her cry. 4lf you had — if he had told — I believe with you all would have been well. But it is too late to think of that — he, believed differently. The terrible secret of the father has wrought it* terrible retribution upon the son. If he had told you when he returned from Poplar Lodge, you would have been happy together to-day. You are so strong — your mind so healthful — some of your strength and courage would have been imparted to him. But it is too late now — all is over — wa have only to make him "happy while he is left with us.' ' Too late ! too late !' Edith's heart echoed desolately. In those hours of his death she was neai'er loving her husband than perhaps she could ever have been had he lived. 'I will "send breakfast up here,' said Inez, turning to go ; ' ' when you have breakfasted, go to him at once. He is awake and waiting for you.' Edith made her toilet. Breakfast came ; and, despite remorse and grief, when one is nineteen one can eat. Then she hurried away to the sick-room. | He waslying much as she had left him, propped up among -the pillows — his face ; whiter than the linen and lace, whiter than i snow. By daylight she saw fully the j ghastly change in him — saw that his fair hair was thickly strewn with grey, that the awful, indescribable change that goes before was already on his face. His breathing was laboured' and panting — he had suffered intensely with 'spasms of the heart all night, sleeping none at all. This morning tho paroxysms of pain had passed, but he lay utterly worn and exhausted, the cold damp of infinite misery on his brow, the chill of death already on hands and limbs. He lay, before her the total wreck of the gallant, hopeful, handsome gentleman, whom only one year ago she had married. ; But the familiar smile she knew so well was on his lips and in his eyos as he saw her. She could not speak for a moment as she looked at him— in silence she took her place close by hie side. He was the firsb to break the silence, in a voice so faint as hardly to be more than a whisper. *How had she slept — how did she feel ? She looked pale, he thought — surely she was not ill V 'I?' she said, bitterly. *0, no— l am never ill — nothing ever seems to hurt hard, heartless people like me. Ib is the good and the generous who suffer. X have the happy knack of making all who love me miserable, but my own health never fails. I don't dare to ask you what sort of night you have had — I sco it in your face. My coming brings, as it always does, more ill than good.' ' No,' he said, almosb with energy ; ' a hundred times no ! Ah, love ! your coming

has made me the happiest man on earth. 1 seem to have noting left to wish for now. As to the night — the spasms did trouble me, but I feel deliciously easy and at rest this morning, and uncommonly happy. Edith, I talked so much last evening that I gave you no chance. I want you to tell me now all about the year that has gone— all about yourself.' - * There is so little to tell,' she responded ; 1 it was really humdrum and uneventful. Nothing much happened to me. I looked* for work and got it. Oh, don't be distressed ! it was easy, pleasant work enough, and I was much better 'busy. I began to believe plenty of hard work is a real blessing to dissatisfied, restless people— you can't be very miserable when you are very busy — you haven't time for luxuries. I got along very well, and never was ill an hour.' ' But tell me,' he persistod, ' you don't know how I long to hear. Tell me all about your life after — after — ' • Hush !' she interposed, holding his hands tight. * You were the sufferer, not I. omy poor boy ! I never was half worthy such a heart as yours. lam only beginning to realise how selfish, and cruel, and hard i have been. But, with Heaven's help, I will try and be different) from this day. Slie told him the story of her life, from the time of her flight fiom Powyss Place to the present, glossing over all that was dark, making the most ot all that was bright. But he understood her — he knew how her pride had suffered and bled. 1 1 never thought of your going away,' he said sadly» 'I might have known you .better, -.but I did upt; — I was so sure you would* have stayed, 'if* not' .with Lady Helena, then in some safe shelter,; chat you would have takeji vvha^j was justly you raj 1 was stunned when I first heard ot your flight. I searched tor you everywhere — in America and all. Did you 'know i went to America, Edith ?' ' Inez told me,' she answered, faintly. •I could not find your father — I could not find the Stuarts. I must have been very stupid somehow — I could find no one. Then arrived that day when I saw you in the Oxford-street &hop, when 1 tried to follow, you home and could not. What an evening it was ! Then came my last jdeaperate hope when I sent Inez to you and failed. It seemed almost hardest to bear of all.' llf I had only known — if ] had only known !' was still her cry. • Yes, the trouble lay there. With your pride you could not act otheiwise than as you did. For you are very proud, my darling,' with a smile. 'Do you know it?' • Very proud — very heartless — very selfish,' she answered, brokenly. 'Oh, no need to toll me how base I have been !' l Yeb, I think I like you the better for your pride ; and I foresee — yes, I foresee, that one day you will be a happy woman, with as noble, and loving, and generous a heart as ever beat. I understand you, it seems to mo now, better than you understand yourself. One day — it may be years? trom now — the happiness of your life will come to you. Don't let pride stand between you and it then, Edith. I hope that day may come — I pray for it. Lying in my grave, lo\e, 1 think I shall rest easier if 1 know you are happy on earth.' ' Don't ! don't !' she taid ;' I cannot bear it ! Your -goodness breaks my hoart.' ' There is one thing I mu&t asit, Edith,' lie resumed after a pause ; • a la&t favour. You will grant it, will you not V 1 Victor ! is there anything I would not grant? 1 • It is this, then — that when I ani gone, you will take what is your light and your due. This you must promise me ; no more' false pride — the widow ot Sir Victor Catheron must take what is hers. Juan Catheron is married to a Creole lady, and living in the island of Martinique, a reformed man. He inherits the title and Catheron Royals, with its income, as heir-at-law. For the lest you have your jointure as my widow ; and my grandmother's large lortune, which descended to me, I have bequeathed to you in my will. Sd that when I leavo you, my dearest, I leave you sate from all pecuniary troubles. It is my last wi&h- -nay, my la&t command, that you take all without he°ifcation. You promise me this, Edith ?' ' I promise,' she answered lowly. She could not look at him— it seemed like the Scriptural words, ' heaping coals of fire on her head.' Then for a long time theie was. pilence. He lay back among the pillows with closed eyes, utterly exhausted, but looking very happy. The bitterness of death was passed — a great peace had come. With the wife he loved beside him, her hand clasped in hifc, he could go forth in peace, knowing that in her heart there was nothing but allection and forgiveness — that one day, in the future, she would be happy. In his death as in his life he was thoroughly unselfish. It brought no pang to him now to feel that years after tho grass grew over his grave she would be the happy wife of a happier man. He talked little move ; he dozed at intervals during t?he day. Edith never left him for a moment. His aant 1 ' and cousin shared her watch oft and on all day. They could all see that the last great change was near. Pain had left him — he was entirely at rest. ' Head to me, Edith,' he said once as the day wore on. She took up a volume of sermons that Lady Helena was fond of: She opened it, haphazard, and read. And presently she came to this, reading of the ciosses and trials^ and sorrows of life. ' And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death ; neither sorrow nor crying ; neither &hall there be any more pain.' His eyes were fixed upon her with so radiant a light, so infinite a thankfulness, that she could read no more. Her voice choked — she laid the book down. Later, as the sunset came streaming in, he awoke from a long slumber, and lopked at the glittering bars of light lying on the carpet. • Open the window, Edith,' he said ; ' I want to see the sun set once more.' She obeyed. All flushed with rose light and gold and amethyst splendour, the evening sky glowed like the very gates of paradise. •It is beautiful,' Edith said, but its untold beauty brought to her somehow a sharp pang of pain. ' Beautiful V' he repeated in an ecstatic whisper. ' O love ! if earth is ao beautiful, what must Heaven be 'I Then she heard him softly repeat to himself the words she had, read: 'And Cod shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death ; neither sorrow nor crying ; neither shall there be any moie pain.' He drew a long, long breath, like one who is very weary and sees rest near. •Darling,' he taid, 'how pale you are — white as & spirit. Go out for a little into the air — don't mind leaving me. I feel sleepy again.' She kissed him and went. All her after life she was gflad to remember their last part ing had been with a carees on her part, a happy smile on his. She descended the steps leading from tho window with unquestioning obedience, and passed out into the rose and gold light of the sunset. She remained perhaps fifteen minutes — certainly not more. The red light of the October eky was fast paling to cold grey —

the white October moon was rising. She wont back. He still lay as she had left him — his eyes wore closed— she thought he was asleep. • She bent over- him, close — close—growing white "almost as himself. And then she knew what it was. , ' And there shall be no more death ; neither sorrow nor crying ; neither shall there be .any more pain. ' Aery rang through, the room, the long, wniling cry of widowhood. She fell on her knees by the bed. An hour after, the passing, bell tolled sombrely through tho darkness from the steeple of Cheeholm (Jhurch, telling all whom it might concern that Sir Victor Cathoron had.gone home.