Literature.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XLVI, Issue 207, 5 September 1904, Page 4

Literature.

V THE NIGHT BEFORE,.

ijllgyeryone said it was a sacrifice, a jnfiilg 9httme, a case 'of barter, arid || «eemed surprising of the Hewisous fallow it. Yet everyone agreed Mrs, Clarence Brooker had summed up the mattery when, she stated her opinio at the Trou bridge Womaa's Clul».. "X should' like you to tell tqe," said that .eminent lady, "what else Adelaide Hewison could do ? She has been so long in the - .market, and they are actually so E.poor, that a successful greengrocer » Ia a perfect godsend to the family, vAt least they can be assured of vegetables for dinner in| the future. ' iHe is ten years older, by no means f handsome, and his grammar is faul- - There are no eligibles of her own in Troubridge. Tte town is 'i getting as barren of men, aa a nio- & thers' meeting.'' L'r When Mrs Clarence Brooder spok» £%■' was with authority, and Troug"H]*tdge Jkwuxl, murmured, and suibSlßitted. "Bhey were all sorry, how- ■\ ever, that this was to be the end of Hv Adelaide Hewison, in whose good K. looks and good blood they had a -secret priide. for the parties involved in the transaction, they showed tto fecial emotion as the days £ of the engagement passed. i : The "greengrocer," a commission w merchant with" the largest business I Of its kind in the town, Hugh Trevis :by name, called punctually at the ' Hewison mansion every, night at half * past 'bight, and left with egual : promptness at ten. ~ Adelaide wore a large diamond in if. an indifferent position, and sewed all giMSrctang her gowns in the old i 'dining-room of tihe old house, jp Treviu, always a silenit man, gave sno confidences, and Ajielaida deigned (none. * 1 The Hewison family, though evi- ■; dently sensitive about the matter, bwere exceedingly cheerful, and so the v. weeka of the betrothal drew near. ; Thawedding was to be no mean i * Thedying glory of tb|e Hewisous s blazed up to add lustre to the sacrir; flcial act, or, to change the metaphor, the sale was to take place ia f good form. % The night before, Adelaide urucl her lover sat alone in the cold majesty !?).<>{ the Hewison dining-room. It was getting late, and there had fallen ups on them an awkward silence. He rose at last, and, with a few - nervous sentences of farewell, made to depart. tlie girl turned ijuickly frpm her rat. contemplation of the fire. * 1.-/' Please come back. There is something X ant to say to you." i He slat;.down and looked at her Kj Jteadily, The light shone softly from Sjtea old chandelier 00 her pretty, faNjgd complexion and fair hair. She under his gaze, i- "What lam going to say," she jiL- continued hastily, "is very unnece&- • Jtory aild foilish and sentimental, no j but, still .1 think it is only f < t&rl and, 'well—honourable. I had a > letter last week from Eustace Will:c'\. lagr Did you ever hear, of him 0 r * . ids career in Troubridge 1? No? It if ' seems -strange none of my friends told you oboist Mm," she continued. i. "You forget," he said quietly your friendsr are not mine."F , Hec colour deepened. jL "Well, then I must , tell you. He I', was in father's office for a while. We - were cousins in a way, and: later we ' of each other. We were never engaged—that is, puiblicly, you know.- He : was poor, Kke the rest of us, and it was impossible. Finally h he went to India and I stayed here, * ..'Pdyoii .met me at the club onp ? and—you'know the rest." >. She paused* r- "Yes,' 1 ■ he. said slowly, "I know the rest, but this letter. What was v id the letter ?" g The colour died from her face. She £> ~ dropped her head. "It soys—he is to be nalrried, a rich wife—and he wishes me happiness.His voice broke the silence sharpf - -ly, "Why, then', did y o u tell me of (fi- ■ the aSair at all ?" f- She drew in her breath and he h , leaned forward to catch her words. £ He could jus{ distinguish them, k "If ijhe letter had been different—- • » if he had asked. If he—don't you waft • derstand ?'■ L v She covered her eyes with her !- bands, and he saw his diamond r ' flash in the soft light. !?■ Hie watched her for a moment or & two ; then walked restlessly up an'd down the long room, stopping at r 4 last beside her chair. "IVJor child,'' hie said, in his heavy rough voice, "is it as iblad as that ?" » She shivered as he spoke. "Please gfc go away. I will many you as I ispromised to-morrow, only now please K go. I will ibe all right to-morrow. I ™ will never intrude thisn-thing again. 'We ran be good friends. Few mar- &.... riages amount to more anyway." J'l will go in a few minutes," he £* said, and his voice made her lift her head with a sudden fear- It could not be possible that he would not j.-: forgive her little confession. A ceitain innate honesty had forced her L" to speak against her better juidgr -- -ment, and she knew that she had rer - vealed more than she had intended, e- What il he departed in anger, The ■ scandal, her mother's anxiety, her [g t sister's necessities, these roused her ffi] to a new danger. She (began' an. Inly coherent sentence of excuse and exjs planation when he interrupted her as Bp If he had not heard. KV His manner had changed. He seemW' ' spossessed of some new dignity, L, " and * His voice was very gentle, I', "Let me tell you a story also, f Have you never wondered why lam W So willing to take the little you ofK- ferad'me in the way of—affection ? p Did you think I was blind to your, E,: fcalf-hearfeiiness and deaf to all the 1.. nonsense the town folks have been k talking these' last six months 1 Of r : course I knew you were poor, and , things were in a bad way ; still un- &•; til to-night I thought it was just pride you were suffering from. I ■v didn't know you loved another p.- oaa."

She made a frightened gesture of dissent. But he went on steadily : f'' "I never had much to do with women, so know little about them ; but there was one girl that I was going to tell you of. She wasn't of your

class. She lived up In the country where I cauie l'roiu, and we were children together. Jtoth of us were poor, and hod had hard tunes, but she the hardest.

"At last I left the place and came down here. I had a tough fight. There was many a day I never had a decent meat ami many a night when jumping into the river seemed the only thing left to do ; but I did pull through, and made money finally, ant now, as you say, I'va the biggest business in the town.

"I had never forgotten the girl, and .she, poor thing, used to write to every week to cheer me up and keep me going while she was dying by inches. I didn't know it, you see.

"At last, when the worst was over for me, I went up there, but it was too late; nothing could save her. Hard work and poor food and the long cold winters had crushed out her life. You think, my girl, that you've known some dark ways and that your folks ore poor because you can't buy all the bonnets and trinkets you want. God graut you may never learn what the real thing is. I stayed with her until she died, and did what I could. You see, she hajd always cared for me,and it used to please her in those days to lie and fancy the future, and dream and plan for me. She was always talking about my wife that was to be, what she was to look [like and wear, and all that.

"One day, by chance, I showed her some local papers that had pictures in them. Something about a dance, t think. Among them was your photograph. "She picked it out as the prettiest of them all, and grew mighty fond of it. 'lt's the face of tho woman you must marry,' abo would say, 'good, and sweet, and lovely !' And then sho would mako mo repeat the little I knew of you, your name, and who your people were, and she would dream and wonder by the hour, and always come back to the picture andiher desire for me. At last she died, and I came back here and went on with my work, and made mora money than ever, but I was mighty miserable and lonesome-like. None of the women I knew I cared for, and I missed the dead girl and her letters—not that I had really loved her, but she cared l'or me. "But one day you came. It was a hot day last June, and even now I can see the crowd in the shop and smell the fruit on sale. You walked by outside, all dressed in white, and the sun shone on your hair and your sweet face.

"The sight of you brought back sharply the memory of the dead girl and her strange fancy t when I heard two men, standing in my do o rway, speak your name.

" ' Adelaide Hewison,' said one, 'grows old fast. She is eating her heart out in that old house. She needs money and care and a chance.' 'A good husband,' said the other ; 'but where'a he to come from ?' Then they turned to tho clerk and spoke of other matters. "But it seemed to mo that ]] had had somo wonderful thing told me, and my brain was full of a new thought, and my heart burned with a new desire, X went crazy over a fancy, perhaps,, me a middle-aged man, a sellea of vegetables. No wonder you look at me in surprise ; still my head was set and I started to get my way. I worked my plans so that I met you at the clubi. My money, I find, will take me anywhere in Troubridge, even into tho Hewison family. I bag your pardon. The words sound r o ugh, but It don't seem to know what I am saying to-night. As for the rest, you said, 'We both know it,' but I am not so sure about that, I only begin to know what your thoughts have been, and as for me—l have hoped and believed that perhaps you were sent to me in somo mysterious fashion, and that tho dead girl's blessing might be ours. God knows how I have frayed to be worthy, aud tried lo tb-nk tihat somo future day you \\ou.'d earnestly care for me, and now—mow —I am afraid " His voico broke. 'What shall wo do ? Still it was square in you to tell me." He stopped. The girl rose suddenly from " her seat and faced liiin. Her eyes were full of tears, yet they were shining. Sho put out her hands.

"I am not fit for such a good man as you ; I was going to marry you for your money, and perhaps it is right that you should go away. But before you go, let me say how sorry I am I havo made you Buffer, and that I think you are the bravest and kindest man I ever knew." His eyes searched her face. He had grown very pale. "If we could put away thepasit," she whispered, "if you would forgive, perhaps the dead girl's fancy might bless us yet. If you—" She hesitated, amd her voice died into silence.

And the man without another word, for the first time clasped her in his arms.