CHAPTER X.

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

CHAPTER X.

THE SECOND ISJUIMU Miss Nkllie Skton came early next morning to ?cc her friend, Mr Charley Stuarfc, off. HeislooVinsr rather pale at he bids them goodbye — thovicionof£dith'«oyedupturned tolas fullof mute, im passionate appeal, have haunted him all ni^ht long. Thoy haunt him now, long after tho last gcod-bye has been said, and the train in sweeping awnv Westward. Edith loves him afc la*t. At lnct? there has, never bcon a time whon he doubted ib, bufc novv he known he has but to the word, and she will lay her hand in his, and toil, and parting, and separation vriil end between them for ever. But he willncver' cay that word — what Edith Darreli in her ambition once refused, all Lady Catheron's wealth and beauty cannot win. Ho feel» lie could as easily leap from ti\w car window and end it all, iq ask Sir

Victor Catheron's richly-endowed widow to bo his wife. She made her choice three years ago— she mutt abide by that choice her life lon p. • And then,' he thinks rather doggedly, ' this fancy of mine may bo only fancy. The leopard cannot change his spots, and ah ambitious, mercenary woman cannob change her nature. • And, as a rule, ladies of wealth and title don't throw thomaelvcs away on impecunious dry goods clerks. No ! I made an egregious ass of myself once, and once is quito enough. We have turned over a new leaf, and are not going back at this late day to the old one?. With her youth, her fortune, and her beauty, Edith can return to England and make a brilliant second marriage.' 1 , And then Mr Stuart sots his lips behind hie biown moustache, and unfolds the morning paper, smelling damp and nasty of printer's ink, and immerses himself, fathoms deep, in mercantile news and the doings of the Stock Exchange. . He reaches St. Louis in safety, and rosumes the labour 1 of hii life. He has no time to think — no time to be sontimental, if he wished to bo, which he doesn't. ' Love is of man's lifo a thing apart,' sings a poet, who knew what he was talking about. His heart is not in the least broken, nor likely to be ; thete is no time in his buby, mercantile life for that sort of thing, I repeat. He goo* to work with a will, and HstonUhos even hinisolf by his energy and brisk business capacity.- If he thinks of Edijth at all, amid his (lry-as-dust ledgers and blotters, his buying and selling, it is that she is J probably on the ocean by this time — having bidden Tier native land, like Ghilde Harold, 'One long, ono last goodnight.' And then, in the midst of it all, Trixy's first letter arrive 3. It is all Edith, from beginning to end. Edith hae nob gone, she is etill in New Ydrk, but her passage is taken, and she will leave next week. ' And Clurley,' says Trir, 'don't be angry now, but do you know that though Edith Darrell always liked you, 1 fancy Lady Cathoron liken yqu even better. Not that she ever says anything ; bless you ! the i& as proud as over ; but we women can tell. And last night she told ma and me the story of her past, of her married life— or rather her im-married life —of her separation from Sir Victor on their wedding-day — think of it, Charley ! on their wtddimj-day. If ever anyone was to be pitiod, it was ho— poor follow ! And she wa« ,not to blame — noi her could have acted other than they did, that I can seo. Poor Edith ! poor Sir Victor ! I will tell you all when we meet. She leaves next Tuesday, and it half breaks my heart to see her go. Oh, Charley I Charley ! xchy need Bhe go at all ?' He reads this letter as ho smokes his cigar— very gravely, very thoughtfully, wondering a great deal, but not in the least moved from his (steadfast purpose. Parted on their wedding-day !ho hrtd heard that before, but hardly credited it. It is true then — odd that ; and neither to be blamed— odder still. Sho has only been Sir Victor's wife in name, then, after all. But it makes no difference to him— nothing does — all that is past and done— she Hung him off onee — he will never go back now. Their paths lie apart— hers ovor the hills of life, hiV in the dingy valleys — they have said good- bye, and it means for ever. He goes back to his ledgers and his counting-room, and four more days pace. On the evening of the fourth day as he leaves the store for the night, a small boy from bhc telegraph oftico waylays him, and hand* him one of the well known buff envelope?. He breaks ibopen where he stands and reads this : ' New York, Oct. 28. '70. 'Charley: Edith U dangerously ill-dying. Con:* back at once. *Bj:atkix.' Ho reads, and the truth does nob com 6 to him — he reads it again. Edith is dyimjAnd then a greyish pallor comes over his face, from brow to chin, and he stands fora moment, staring vacantly at the paper ho holds, seeing nothing— hearing nothing bub these word 8 : 'Edith h dying.' In that moment he knows that all his imaginary hardness and indifference have been hollow and false— a wall of pride that crumbles ab a touch, and the old love, stronger than life, stronger than death, fills his heart still. H$ has left her, and — Edith is dying ! He looks at his watch. There is an Eastwardbound train in half an hour— there will be barely time to catch it. He does nob return to his bourding house — ho calle a pussing hack, and ia driven to the depot juet in time. Ho makes no pause from that hour —he tiarelrf night «nd day. What is bu?ine«d ? what tho prospects of all his future life ? what is tho whole world now ? Edi;h is dying. He reaches New York at last. It seems like a century since that telegram came, and haggard and worn in the twiliehb of the autumn day, ho stands at last in hia mother's home. Trix is there— they expect him to-night, and she has waited to receive him. She looks in his face once, then tuni 9 away and eo\ers her own, and bursts into a woman's tempest of tears. 4 1— I am too late,' he says in a hoarse sort of whisper. •No,' Trix answers, looking up; 'nob too late. She is alive still— l can say no more. ' • What ie it ?' he asks. . 'It is almost impossible to my. Typhoid fever, one doctor aays, and ctrebro->phtal mtninyitis pays the other. It doesn't much matter what it is, since both agree in this — that she is dying. Her sobs break torth again. He sits and gazes at her like a stone. 1 There is ho hope?' 1 | While there is life thcro is hope.' But it is in a very dreary voice that Trix repeats j this aphorism : • and — the worst of it i.«, sho doesn't seem to care. Charley, I believe j bhe wants ro die, is glad to die. She seems to have nothing to care for — nothing to live for. "My life has been all a mistake," she said to me the other day. "I have gone wrong from first to last, led astray by my vanity, and selfishness, and ambition. Ifc in much better that I should die, and make an end of it all." She has made her will, Charley- .«he made ifc in the first days of her illnce*, and— she has left almost every tiling to you. 1 He makes no roply. Ho sifcs- motionless in the twilib window, looking down ab tho noisy, buttling street. ' 'She has remembered mo mosburenerously, 1 Trix goes softly on ; • poor, darling Edith ! but she has left almost all to you. "Ifc would have been an intuit to offer anything in my lifetime,' she eaidtome; "bub the wishes of the dead arc sacred, — ho will not be able to refuse it then. And tell him not to grievo for me, Tiixy— l ne*cr made him anything bub trouble, and disappointment, and wretchedness. lam sorry — sorry now, and my last wish and prayer will bo for the happiness of his life." When she is delirious, and «ho mostly ia as night draws on, she calls for you incessantly—atking you to come back — begging you to forgive j her. That is why I sent.' 4 Does she know you sent ?' he asks. 1 No— ib was her desiro you ghoul i nob be told until — until all was over,' Trix answered with another burst of tears ; 'bub I couldn't do that. She says wo are to bury her ab Sandypoint, besido her mother— nob send her body bo England. She told me, when s-he was dead, to tell you the story of her separation from Sir Vicbor. Shall 1 tell Ifc to you now, Charley V

ifo makes a motion of aasenfc ; and Trix begins, in * broken voice, and tells him the sad, strange story of the two Sir Victors, ' father and eon, and of Edith's life from' her wedding-day. The twilight deepens into darkness, the room is wrapped in shadow long before she has finished. He never stirs, he never speaks, he sits and liitona to the end. Then ther* is a pause, and out of the gloom he speaks at last : 1 May I see her, and when V •As soon a« you come, the doctors say ; they refuse her nothing now, and they think your prosence may do her good, — if anything can do it. Mother is with her and Nellie. Nellie has been her best friend and nuiso; Nellie has never left her, and, Charley,' hesitatingly, for something in his manner awes Trix, ' I believe sho thinks you and Nellie are ongaged.' • Stop !' he says imperiously, and Trixy rises with a sigh and puts on her hat and shawl. Five minutes later they are in the street, on their way to Lady Catheron's hotel. One of the medical men is in tho sickroom when Miss' Stuart enetor it, and bho tella him in a whisper that her brother has como and i* waiting without. Hi* pationt lies very low to-night — delirious at times, and sinking, it seems to him, f&st. She is in a restless, fevered sleep at present, &nd he stands looking at her witfi a very sombre look on his professional face. In spite of his skill, and he is very skilful, this case baffles him ; tho pntient's own utter indifference as to whether she lives or dies, being one of tho hardest things he lias to combat. If sho only longed for life and strove to recruit- - if, like Mrs Dombey, *he would 'only make an effort. 1 But she will not, and tho flame flickers, and flickers, and \ery soon will go out altogether. 1 Let him come in,' the doctor says. 'Ho can do no harm — he may possibly do some yood.' • Will she know him when she awakes ?' Trix whispers. He nods and turns away to whore Miso Soton stand? in tho distance, and Tiix goes and fetches her brother in. He advances slowly, almost reluctantly it would seem, and looks down at tho wan, drawn, thin face that roses there, whiter than the pillows. Great Heaven! and this-//<t« is Edith! He sinks into a chtir by tho bedside, and takes her wan transparent hand in both hia own, with a sort of groan. The light touch awakes hor, the faint eyolids quirer, tho large, dark eyes open and fix on his face. The lips flutter breathlessly apart. 4 Charity !' they whisporin glad surprise, and over th© deathlike faco there flashes for a second an electric light of gteat amaze and joy. ' Humph !' says tho doctor, with a eurpriscd grunt ; 'I thought it would do her no harm. If we leare them alone for a fow minutes, my dear young ladies, it will do mi no harm either. Mind, my young gontleman,' he taps Charley on the shoulder, ' my patient is not to excite herself talking.' They softly go out. It would appear the doctor need not have warned him ; they don't seem inclined to talk. Sho lies and looks at him, delight in her eyes, and draws a long, long breath of great content. For him, he holds her wasted hand a littlo tightor, and laya his faco down on the pillow, and does not speak a word. So the minutes pace. v ' Charlej',' sho pays at last, in a faint little whisper, ' what a surprise this is. They did not toll mo you were coming. Who sent for you ? when did you como ?' ' You're not to talk, I-'dith,' he answers, lifting his haggard face for a moment — poor Charloy ! * Trix sent for me.' Then he lays it down again. 4 Foolish boy !' Edith says with shining eyes ; 'I do beliove you arc crying. You don't hate me., then, after all, Charley ?' ' Hate you! ' he can but juat repeat. 1 You once said you did, you know ; and I deserve i it. But I have not been happy, Charley — I have been punished as I merited. Now it is all over, and it is better so — I never was of any use in the world, and never would be. You uill let me atone a little for the past in the only way I can. Trix will tell you. And, by. and-by, when you are quite happy, and she i? your wife — ■! The faint voice breaks, and she turns hot face away. Even in death it is bitteier than death to give him up. Ho lifts his head, and looks at hor. 4 Whon sho is my wife ? when who is my wifo ?' lie ask?. 'Nellio— you know,' she whispers ;' she is worthy of you, Charley — indeed sho is, and I never was. And she loves you, and will make you hap — ' 'Stop!' he says suddenly; 'you aic making somo strange mistake,* Edith, Nellie caren for mo, as Trix- doe* 1 , and Trix is not more a sisler to me than Nellie. For the ro*t— do you remember what J said to you that night at Killarney ?' Hor lips tremble — her eyes watch him, her weak fingers close tightly over his. Remember! does she voti ' I said — 41 1 will love you all my life l' ; ] hare kept my word, and mean to keep it. If I may not call you wife, I will never call, by that name, any other woman. No one in this world can ever be to me again, what you were and are.' There is another pauße, but tho daik, uplifted ©yes are radiant now. • At last ! at last !' sho broathes ; 4 when it is too late. Oh, Charley^! if the past might only como aeain, how different it all would be. I think ' — she says this with * weak littlo laugh, that reminds him of tho Edith of old — 4 1 think I could sleep more happily oven in my graye — if "-Edith Stuart " were, engraved on my tombstone !' His eyes never leave her face — they light up in their dreary sadness now at these \ words. •Do you mean that, Edith ?' he says, bending over her ; 4 living or dying, would it make you any happier to bo my wiVe V Her eye*-, her faco, answer him. * But it is too la to,' the pale lips *igb. •Iti* never too late,' ho says quietly; 4 wo will be married to-night.' • Charley V 4 You are not to talk,' ho tolls her' kissing hor softly and for tho first time > 4 1 will arrange "it all, I will «o for a clergyman I know, and explain everything. Oh, darling ! you should have been my wife long ago — you shall bo my wifo at last, in spite of death itself.' Then ho leaves her, and goes out. And Edith closes her eyes, and lies still, and knows that never in all tho years that are gone has such perfect blips been hers befo> o. In death, at least, if nob in life ehe will be Charloy's wife. He tolls them very quietly, resolutely—her father who is there from Sandypoint, his mother, sinter, Nelli*, the doctor. Thoy listen in wordless wonder; but what can they say ? • ihe excitement will finish hor— mark my words,' in tho doctor's verdict ; 4 1 will never countenance any euch melodramatic proceeding.' But his countenance does not matter, it seems. The laws of tho Me'des wtro not more fixed than this marriage. The clergyman comes, a very old friend of tho family, and Charley exp'ains all to hinV. He listens, with quiet gravity — in iiis experience a death-bed marriage is not at all an unprecedented occur r«nc\ The hour fixed u ten, and Trixy and Nellie go in to make the few possible preparations,

The sick girlliffcs two wistful •jtn to the gentle face of Nellio Setoh. It is very pale, but she stoops and kisses her vrith her own sw«rot stnile. •You will lire now for his sake,' she whispers in that kiss. They decorate the room and the bed with flowers, they brush away the dark soft hair, they array her in d dainty embroidered night-robe, and prop her up with pillo'vs. There is the fovor tyre on her wan cheeks, the foyer tire in her shining eyee. But she is unutterably hr«ppj —you have but to look into her faco to see that. Death is forgotten in her new bliss. The bridegroom cornea in, pale and unsmiling — worn and haggard beyond the pownr of words to tell. Trix, weeping incessantly, stands near, her mother and Mr Darroll «ro at one citle of fche bed. Nellio is bridesmaid. What a strange sad, solemn wedding it is ! The clergyman takes out his book and begins — britlo and bridegroom clasp hands, her radiant eyes never leave hia face. Her faint replies fluttor on her lips — there is an indescribable sadness in hia. The ring is on her finger — at lußt she is what she should have been from the first — Charley' 6 wife. He bends forward and takes her in his anne, With nil her dying strength the lifts herself to his embrace.. It is a last expiring eflbrb— hor weak clasp rolaxes, there is one faint ga.<»p. Her head falls heavily upon hta brcast^vthcre is a despairing cry from tho w6iwon\r "C6H ami lifcloye, Charley StiVarfc lays Ilis !Wide of a'lnoment buck among Ihb pillows— whether dead or in ti dead swoon no ono can tell.