BOOK III. CHAPTER lX.-(Continued )

Te Aroha News, Volume II, Issue 425, 4 December 1889, Page 6

BOOK 111. CHAPTER IX.-(Continued )

1 On !' Edith exclaims, with a long-drawn breath, • how familiar it all is ! those pas-lit New York streefc*, the home-like look of tho men and women, and— you. It seems as though Ihad left Sandypoint only yesterday, and you were showing me again the wondera of New York for the first time. 1 Ho looks down at the dusk, warm, lovely face, ao near hi* own. ' Sandypoint,' ho repeats ; « Edith, do jou recall what I »aid to you there ? Have you ever wished once, in those three years that are gone, that I had nov«r come to Sandypoint to take you away ?' 'I ha\e nover wished it,' she answers truly ; • never once. I have never blumed anyone but iny?olf— how could I ? The ovil of my life I wrought with my own; hand, and — if it were all to come over again— l would etill {jo ! I have suffered, but at least— l have lived.' 1 1 am glad to hear that,' ho say* after a little pause ; *it has troubled me again and again. You see, Hammond wrote us all he ever' knew of you, an i though it was rather incomprehensible in part, it was clear onough your life was not entirely a bed of roses.. All that, 1 hope, is over and done with— there ,can be no reason why all tho rest of your'life should not be entirely happy. This is ' partly why I wished to walk homo .with you to night, that I might know from your own lips whether you held mo blameless or not. And partly, also—' a second brief pause ; — ' to bid you good-bye.' * Good-bye !' In tho starlight she turns deathly white. 1 Yes,' he responded cheerily ; 'good-bye; and a» our lives lie ao widely apart mall probability, thi*t.imeforever.lshallcertainly return here at Chriitnias, but you may have , gone before that. To-morrow morning I itart for St. 1.0ui.«, where a branch of our house i» established, and where I am permanently to remain. It isanoxcellentopening for me— my salary has been largely advanced, and 1 am happy to cay tho firm think mo competent and trustworthy. I return, as I said, at Christmas ; after that it becomes my permanent home. You know, of course,' he lays with a laugh, 1 why I return— Trix has told you ?' So completely has she forgotten Trir, so wholly have her thoughts been of him, that •he absolutely does not remember to what he alludes. ' Trix has told me nothing,' she manages to answer, she wonders at herself to find how steady is her own voice. 'No?' Charley cays, elevating his eyebrows ; 'and thuy say the age of wonders is over ! Trix in the now role of keeping her own secrets ! Well, I very naturally return for tht wedding— our wedding. It's extraordinarj that Trix hasn t told you, but eho will. Then— my \\ estern home will bo ready by that time, and we go back immediately. My mother goes with me, I need hardly cay.' Still *o absolutely wrapped up in her thoughts of hint, go utterly forgetful of Tiix, thatsho does not understand. Our wedding— he means his own and Nellie Seton's of course. Hia Western homo, tho homo whore she will reign as his wife. In tho days that have gone, Edith thinks &c has buttered— she feel to-night that *ho has never suffered unt u now j g ne deserves it, but if he had only rpared her, — only left ifc for some one else to tell. It is a minute before sho can reply — then, despite every effort, her voice is husky : • I wish you joy, Charley— with all my heart. 1 She cannot say one word more. Something in the words, in her manner of saying them, makes him look at her in surprise. I YVoII, ye?,' ho answer?, coolly ; ' a wedding in a family ie, I believe, a genoral subject of congratulation. And I must say she has shown', herself a trump — the bravest, best girl alive. And you ' — they are drawing near a hotel— 1 may I venture to ask { your plan?, Lady Catheron ? how long do you think of remaining in New York ?' ' I shall le4vo at onee — at once,' phe replied in the same husky tone. To stay and meet Nellie Seton after to-night is more than &he is able to do. They are close to the hotel now. Involuntarily—unconsciously, she clings to his aim, an the drowning may cling to a straw. Sho feels in a dull, agonised sort ot way that in five minutes the waters will have closed over her head, and the story of her life have come to an oud. 'Here we are,' his frank, cheery voice cays — his voice, that hasyet a deeper, more earneet tone than of old. • You don't know. Edith, how glad I am of this meeting—how glad to hear you never in any way blamed mt.' ' I blame you ! oh, Charley !' she says with a passionate little cry. I 1 rejoice to hear that, with all its drawback*, you don't regret the past. I rejoice in the knowledge that you aro rich and happy, and that a long, bright life lies before you. Edith,' ho takes both her hands in his strong, cordial clafp, fif we never meet again, God bless you, and goodbye.' She lifts her eyes to his, full of dumb, speechless agony. In that instant ho knows the truth — knows that Edith loves him— that the heart' he would once havo laid down his life almost to win is his wholly at last ! The revelation comes upon him like a fla*h — liko a blow. He stands holding her hands, looking at her, afc tho mute, infinite minery in her eyes. Someone jostles thorn in pa/Ming, nr.d turns and stare*. It dawns upon him that they aro in the public stree*, ami muking a scone. •Good-bye,' ho ea; s ha«tily once more, and drops tho hands,' and turns and goes. She stands like a statue tvhero he has left her— he turn* a corner, the last sound of hia footsteps dies away, and Edith feels that he has gone out of her life — out of the whole world.