CHAPTER VII. TWO YEARS AFTER.

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

CHAPTER VII. TWO YEARS AFTER.

One brilliant, Aug^ht noonday a Cunard ship steamed gallantly clown tho Mersey and out into the open sea. , There were a great number of passengers on board— every cabin, every berth was filled. Every country under Heaven, it seemed, was represented. After the first two or three days out, after the first three or four times assembling around the dinnertable and congregating on the sunny decks, people began to know all about ono another, to learn each other's names and histories. There was one lady, passenger who from the first excited a great deal of talk and curiosity. A darkly handsome young lady in widow's weedsyMrho >rather held herself aloof from everybody, and who seemed all sufheient unto herself. A young lady, pitifully young to wear that ap^hbre'dvesi* and' widow's, cap, remark^le anywhere for her' beauty, and digmtfy; a'nd grace. Who was she ? as with one voice all the gentlemen on board, cried out that question the Jnorhent' they sa<\v 'her fii-s't. •"L She was a lady of rank ,. ami title, an English lady, travelling with her two servants - - otherwise quite alone — the name on the passenger list was Lady Catheron. , For ohe first two days that was all that could be as-certained — just enough to whet curiosity to burning-point. Then in the solitude and seclusion of the ladies' cabin the maid servant became confidential with one of the stewardesses, and narrated, after the manner of maids, her mistress' history as far as she knew it. The stewardess retailed it to the lady passengers, and the lady passengers gave it at third hand to tho gentlemen. This is what it was : Lady Catheron, young as she looked and j was, had nevertheless been a widow for two j years. Her husband li'ad .been Sir Victor Catheron, of Cheshire, who hud died after the first year of married felicity, leaving an immensely rich widow. . Miserable) Sir Victor ! thought all' the gentlemen. She — Sarah Betts — the maid — had not known her ladyship during the year of her married life ; she had been engaged in London, some tnonths after my lady's bereavement, to travel with hor on the continent. My lady had travelled in company with her aunt, the Lady Helena Powyss, and her cousin, a f.Mrs Victor.' They had spent the best part of two years wandering leisurely through every country in Europe, and now ray lady was finishing her tour of the world by coming to America — why, Betts did not know. Not many ladies of rank come to America alone, Betts's thought, but she had heard my lady was American by birth. Everywhere fny lady went she had been greatly admired — gentlemen always raved about her, but she seemed as cold .as.^ piarble, very high and haughty, utter-lyT indiiFerent to them all. She did not go into societyshe had been awfully fond of her late husband, 1 v and quite., j>rdken - hearted at losing him so soon. That* was Miss Betts's story, and like Sam^ feller's immortal valentine, was just enough to make them wish for moie. , - - , * For the. man servat><V%n'd avant courier of my lap*y, he was a genteel, dignified, taciturn -gentleman, like an elderly duke in difficulties with whom it was impossible to take liberties or ask question-) — a sort of human oyster, who kept himself and his knowledge hermetically sealed up. He told nothing, and they had to be contented with Betts's Version. "^ So Lady Catheron became the. lady of interest on board. Everybody saw her on deck, railway rug spread in the sunriiitie,<ihert low wickerwork chair placed !,upon it, a large umbrella unfurled over her head, reading or gazing over the sea toward the land they were nearing. Sho maae no acquaintances, she waa perfectly civil to everybody who spoke to her, friendly to a degree with the children, and her smile was blight and sweet as the sunshine itself. Her reticence could hardly be set down to pride. Before the voyage was over she was many times forward among the steerage passengers, leaving largesses behind h«r, and always followed by thanks and blessings when she came away. Not pri,de, surely — the great dark ig,f-^^^^ s eyes were wondrously sweet and goto ;' the lips; that might once have been haughty tfhd hard, tender and gentle now, "'and yet r there waa a vague intangible something about her, that held all at arm's length, ttjat let no one come one inch nearer than it was her will they .should' come. Lady Catheron had been their interest from the first— she was their mystery to the end. Yes, it was Edith— Edith going horne — home ! well T h'at'dly that, perhaps ; she was going to see her father, at his urgent request. He had returned once more to Sandypoint,' he had- been ailing -.lately, and he yearned to see his darling. His letter reached her in Paris, and Edith crossed over at onco and came. "Was there in her heart any hope of feeeing, as well, other friends ? Hardly — and yet, as America drew nearer and nearer, her heart beat with 1 a hope" and restlessness phe could no, more explain than I can. In Naples, six monrhs ago, she had met a Tparty of Aix&r^dify, aftic^ amojig- them^ Mrs Featherbrain", of ligh't-ft&raed' memory; Mrs Featherbrain had recognised an bid acquaintance in. Lady Catheron, and hailed her « ith effusion. For Edith; she shrank away with the old feeling of dislike and repulsion, and yet she listened to her chatter, too. ' How sad it was," said gay Mrs Featherbrain, ' about the poor, dear Stuarts. That delightful Charley, too'! ah! it was very sad. Did Lady Catheron correspond witli them ? But of course she did, being a relative and everything/ ' No,' Edith answered, her pale face a shade paler than usual ; ' she had entirely lost sight of them lately;. She would be very glad to hear of them, though. Did Mrs Featherbrain know — ' • Qh, dear, no !' Mrs Featherbrain answered ; * I have lost sight of them too— everyone has. When people become poor and drop out of the world, as it were, it is impossible to follow them up. She had heard, just before their party started, that Trixy was about toi be married, and that Charley— poor Charley ! was going to California to seek his fortune.- But she knew nothing positively, only* that they were certainly not to be seen in New York — that the places t*nd people who had known them once, knew them no more.' That , was all. Ifc could not be, then, that the hope of meeting them was in Edith's mind yet, her whole soul* yearned 'to meet them— to ask their forgiveness, if no more. >To clasp Trixy's hand onco again,

— honest, loving, impulsive, warm-hearted Trixy — to feel her arms about her as of old, it eeemed to Edith Catheron, she could 1 have given half her lifei Of any other, ehe would not 1 let herself think. He had passed, out of her life for ever and ever— nothing coulfl alter that. 1 Everywhere she went she was admired,' her servants had Baid, * but to all she was as cold as marble.' Yes, and it would always be so while life remained. There had been but one man in all the world for her from the first— she had given him up of her own free will ; she must abide by her decision ; but there never would be any. other. One loveless marriage she had made ; sho nover would make another. Charley »Stuart might — would, beyond doubt-for-get her and marry, but she would go to her grave, her whole heart his. They reached New York ; end there were many kindly partings and cordial farewells. Lady Catheron and her two* servants drove away to an up-town hotel, where rooms had been engaged, and all the papers duly chronicled the distinguished arrival. One day to lest — then down to Sandypoint, < leaving gossiping Betts and the silent elderly gentleman behind her. And in the twilight of an August day she entered Sandypoint, and walked elowly through. the little town, home. Only three years since she had left, a happy, hopeful girl ' of eighteen — reluming now a saddened, lonely woman of twenty-one. How strangely altered the old landmarks and yet how familiar. Here were the stores to which she used to walk, sulky and discontented, through the rain to do the iamily marketing. Here spread the wide sea,: smiling and placid, whereon she and! Charley used to sail. Yonder lay tho marsh where that winter night, she had saved his>' life. Would it have been as well, shethouj-ht' with weary wonder, if they had. both died that night ? Here was the nook where he had come upon her that wet, dark morning with his mother's letter, when her life Reemcd to begin — there the gate where they had stood when he gave her his warning : ' Whatever that future brings, Edith, don t blame me. 1 ' No, she blamed nobody but herself.:-the happiness of her life had lain within her grasp, and she had stretched forth her hand and pushed it away. There was the open window where he used to sit, in the days of his convalescence, and amuse himself sotting her inflammable temper alight. It was all associated with him. Then .the house door opens, a tall, elderly man conies out, there is agreat cry, father and daughter meet, and for an hour or so she can forget even Charley. She remains a week — how oddly familiar and yet strange it all seems. The children noisier and luder than ever, her father grown greyer and more wrinkled, her stepmother, shrill of tongue and acid of temper as of yore, but fawningly obsequious to her. The people who used to kno«v her, and who flock to see her, the young men who used to be in love with her, and who stare at her speechlessly and afar off now. It amu Fes her for a while, then she tires of it, &he tires of everything of late, her old fever of restlessness comes back. This dull Sandypoint, with its inquisitive gapers and questioners, is not to be endured, even for her father's sake. She will return to New York. In the bustling life there — the restless, ceaseless flow of humanity, she alone finds solitude and rest now. She goes, bub she leaves behind her that which renders keeping boarders or teaching classics for ever unnecessary, to Frederick Darrell. She goes back. What her plans are foi the future she does not know. She has no plans, she cannot tell how long she may remain, or where she will eventually take up her. ab.ode. It seems to her she will be a sort of feminine Wandering; Jew all her life. That life lacks something that rendei'S her rostless ~ she does not care to think what. She may stay all winter - she may pack up and start any day for England. September passes, and she has not gone. A few of the acquaintances she made when here before with tho Stuarts call upon her, but they can tell her nothing of them. If the Stuaros were all dead and buried they could not more completely have dropped out of the lives of their summer-time friends. It must bo true, she thinks, what Mrs Featherbrain told her. Trixy is married and settled somewhere with her mother, and Charley is thousands of miles away, ' seeking his fortune.' Then, all at once, she resolves to go back to England. Her handsome jointure house awaits her, Lady Helena and Inez long for her, love her- she will go back to them — try to be at peace, like other women, try to live her life out and forget. She has some purchases to make before she departs. She goes into a Broadway store one day, advances to a counter, and says : ' I wish to see some black Lyons velvet.' Then she pau3es, and looks at some black kid gloves lying betore her. 1 What is the number?' she &sks, lifting a pair. young man behind the counter makes no reply. She raises her eyes to his face for the first time, and sees— Charley Stuart ! (To be Continued, )