Literature.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XLVI, Issue 158, 8 July 1904, Page 4

Literature.

THE WIFK OK WHILES HOLLAND (Continued.) I could fancy that if !Hi.«ey »«"' •been frco, really free, Fa 'iy -vas just Xfwomin to heal all J* wound, in Ins heart, and make. UK '. (I " e '' l -"' of his life blossom agam with all the sweet roses of peace and love. Just as I was leaving my olhcc one night for home, a hoy came m and inquired for me. I lunkM rouiK. end asked him his errand. ■■llr. Strong .sent me, sir. 1 was to give this note into your own hands.' I took the piece of paper and read these words : •Dear Sir,—Your friend Mr Holland is very ill—it promises to be a auvere case of small-pox. lie feared that you would become alarmed at not having kwi for h'.m for some time, and come to seek him. He Itegged mc to bid you keep away from him, for he said he would rather die, even without seeing you, than that you should run the risk of your own life and that, of two others almost as dear to him as 10 you. He will be well nursed Charles Strong." I went home with the note in unhand. Carrying' it into the drawingroom, 1 read it to mother and Fanny. Thin for the first time I knew Ihc secret of my cousin's heart. She did not faint. Weak-looking, little creature as she was, there was a liore of .strength in her nature such as I had never dresimi. of. I shall never see her face whiter when the coffin walls k'.iim it in than it was at that moment. I can never describe that awful, ghastly pallor. Thrice she. tried to speak before the words, found utterance. "Aunt MtU'glaret, I want to go ami take oare of him ; may 1 '?'' "Child, do you think I could lei you risk your life?" "Life is not much, Auntie—my life. I have no one on earth to whom 1 lam all the world—no such close, near tie, as would make it sinlul to run great risks. Besides I have boen .exposed before, since I was vaccinated, and I have really no fears. He is; my friend ; 1 cannot trust him to • the care of a hired nurse. If he died I should l>e haunted for ever by his voice crying for mercy, for comfort which there was none to give him. Permit me to go. Send me with your blessing if you can ; hut, with your , consent or without it, go I must." My mother put her arms round her and kissed her. '■' Go to your room, darling," she Bald, gently. "In a few moments 1 will tell you what you may do." The poor child obeyed her. I believe she was glad to be alone for a few moments. My mother looked at me, when she was gone, in blank Consternation. "I feared it," she said, "and now you cam see it, too. Love will not go lightly with her. What can we do? I feel that we ought not to leave him alone. He has been too much • like a son and brother in our household. If it were not for Fanny I should go. If I could only persuade her to stay here and let me go in her stead !"

"I am the one to go," I said. "He would do as much for me. He is my friend, and I will not fail him in his hour of need. Hut what if Fanny is resolute ? I fear she will bo. I never saw that look of steel in her eyes before." "Then I should go, too. I could never trust her there alone ; poor little stricken thing !" It was Fanny, after all, who made the arrangements. Her will, underneath her childish mask, was iron. She would take care of him—none IKut 9ho. 'Jly mother was to remove, since she insisted upon it, to the house, and superintend the domestics, who, in their panic, would need some recognised authority, but, unless the need wore imminent, she was not to enter the si'jk-rooin. The rule Fanny insisted, .should also apply to me. I was to spend my nights in the house, and to come there often during the day, but I was not to see Dudley unless he were given up/ .to die, or her own strength failed her.

"It is my right," she said, with/ a look of solemn, heroic sweetness "'■lt ris all that is left for me to do for hj m in this world, and I lov.s him- f did not know it myself befarc-.llove him bo that to die for him, since I mav not live for him, >sukl be happiness, r

She nursed ..him through that horrible illness, taking regular turns in her vigiis with the nurse, a capable W °iT',^ Vj,om Ur ' Htro "S "ad pror, -vide*. The doctor .said that to the untiring care which watched over him foe owed his life. Without it ho would certainly have succumbed Ad soon as it was safe to leave him-when his strength began to Come back-Fanny canie to my mother and me will, a look of immovable resolution on her face-a look I had learnt to understand. She spoke in quiet, firm tones. ' "He is better now, and I amgoin" away. I cannot stay here now 1 owe it to him, to myself, to vou both, who have been so kind to me to go away. Knowing what n-v heart holds for that man, I J& never meet him again, now he is «We to do without me. He might in time, say or feel something that *ouM r ost llke a guilty to rd!L on S? B TI fOT C u Vol '- law »°t ™n.an- ,. he I.have thought it all over, and r - .this is my simple duty. I shall ao back to Madame Chogary'^X/i was at school. It was my J lome for three years, and Madame will ff l a(i fv receive me into her family - " We did not oppose her. ' Sad as the parting was for us, we knew she w„s right Oh, what measureless cau" for thankfulness it was afterwards Htat she had been so noble through it all !, The next day she wen< The first evening that Dudley was able to pass with us downstairs, i u . •aid.:

~ "Dr. Strong says Miss Carpenter saved my life. Am I never to thank Her? I was too ill ho know what she was doing for me then.'' My mother answered him. She _ Dover approved of mysteries which it Was possible to avoid. "Fanny went away rather suddenly," she said. "She had ind«d.devoted herself t 0 you, and she was in aeod of change. She is gone to Madame Chegary's. It was her old home, and she is going to spend a little while there again." The next day two letters came to Dudley. One was from the superintending physician of the asylum where his wife was. He wrote as follows : "Dear Sir,—Having been made aware of the serious nature of your illness by your frimd;.. I have r.--fraineri from writing to you, as I

•should Imve done, upon a subject of the deepest importance. The crisis to which I looked forward in Sirs Holland's malady has arrived. Her i (lily health is failing with fearful rapidity, but her mind is regaining its; old clearness. She remembers tin l es that bind her (o you, and longs, to see you. In order to satisfactorily account for your absence it was necessary to inform her of your illness.

She is impatient to ho to you, and I should advise this stop, as soon as you think it can lie taken without, fraii' of contngiion "or her, or risk to y o ur own health. 1 inclose a'letter from her." Her letter I read afterwards, hut I may not copy it here. It is tco sacred. She could remember nothing since the moment she was uronounced his wife at the altar. Could it be, she asked, that ten long, de a lly, silent years had parted them since—years in which lie must have felt her existence a burden instead of a b'lessingi ? And now they told her he was ill. Might she come to him ? Had hi' any love left for her, after so much pain '.' Oh. how tull the letter was of passionate, beseeching, o'" longing, overflowing love ! It moved Dudley Holland's heart to the depths 1 . Tears of thanksgiving rolled down his cheeks. He niurniuriil an inaudible prayer. Then he cried eagerly :

"fan you go for her, Ralph " Is it. not safe? I must have her home, my Edith, my wife ! Every hour she is not here is so much wasted of what (iod s.itds to repay me for all these hopeless years. Perhaps she will live. If I can but save her alive—if I can 'but realise, after all ths desolate blank, the old, fond dreams !■"

My mother's eyes met mine. How thankful we both felt that Fanny was gone—poor Fanny. As usual it was mother's clear judgment and kindly heart which came to our aid. "Ralph shall go for her to-mor-row," she said, putting her soothing hands over his restless lingers. -'This afternoon you shah be moved to our house. 'I hat will save hTr from any risk of infection. Resides I must go home, and I wa.nl her where I c a n help you to nurse her ; where 1 can have a little care of >ou both."

The plan relieved Dudley wonderfully. He said a little about the trouble it would be, and how wrong he was sure it was for him to consent ; but his faint objections were overruled, and the plan was carried into execution.

The next morning I went for Edith. Singularly enough she recognised me, and called mo by nuive. Indeed, her recollection of everything up to the hour of her marriage was vivid and perfect. Beyond that she could not go. She was evidently very feeble. She was in a state of extreme emaciation, and the could not walk without assistance, but her eyes were clear and her face serene. We tool? her inan,easy carriage, made almost like a bed with pillows and quilts. The superintending physician, accompanied us, and helped me when we reached home to carry her upstairs. We laid her gently down in the room which was to be her own, and then sent Dudley in. I think neither of them could have borne any witness to their meeting, after all those bittet years of a living death. When they had been together an iKur, he came out, his face radiant. "She has dropped asleep now, doctor," he said to the waiting physician. "She was very tired. Will you go and look at her ? She is better than I feared. It must be that there is hope. Love and happiness will restore her. She is to be all to me that I ever dreamt.'' I understood the look 0 n the' doctor's face. In his opinion there was no hope. For a few days, however. I was inclined to think with Dudley that she would yet recover. Under the spell of her happiness sire seemed to revive so wonderfully. What is this man, 1 could not help, askiilgmyself as I. watched thorn that two women should love him with such unf utteraMe devotion ?

Her mind continued perfectly clear. She remembered all the days and hours of their love as vividly as did Dudley himself. She was profoundly happy. At length she died. It was a summer sunset when she passed away—the eleventh anniversary of their marriage They had been alono for several hours—hours full of sweet and tender communion, of such pledges as those make whose next meeting will be amongst the angels. At the very last it came suddenly. Raising herself in bed, she dropped her wasted arms round his neck und pressed her lips to Ms in a long fervent kiss. -God bless you, my own !" she breathed, in a low, f ( ,nd whisper ;i and then a faint icy breath crossed his cheek—her last ! Dudley Holland mourned for her with a sorrow as deep as his love toad been long and fervent. Yet, 1 know, he could think of her with a more resigned heart, at rest in the quiet land whither all our steps arc tending, than lie could in the years of her madness and misery. She had been dead a year before he mentioned Fanny to me. Then, one day, he asked me in direct if I thought she loved him. He had told Edith, he said, the whole story of their acquaintance, especially of the devotion with which she had nursed him through his illness. She had read in it all the girl's h«irt ; had bagged him to munry her ; had told him that she should be happier to know it, even in Heaven ; to fee) that his marriage with her had not blighted his whole life, condemned him to jier]>etual solitude. Did I think she was right ?

I told him he must ask Fanny. It was all I could say. I had no right to betray her secret. The next day be went to town. When lie came Lack be brought Fanny with him. They are very happy. I do not think Dudley Holland does love, or can ever love Fanny with the passion so fervent as that wild love of his youth, when he was willing ta encounter all risks, however desperate, to cast the whole purpose and promise of his life at Edith Champnoy's feet. Hut she is very dear to him. She is his beloved as well as his honoured wife, und she is satis, lied. I believe that to be allowed to care for his comfort, to minister to his happiness, is to her the crown and glory of life. May their days be long and their' joys many. (The End.)