HER MARRIAGE.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 61, 28 November 1907, Page 3

HER MARRIAGE.

V ROMANCE OF PIONEER DAY'S IX THE WEST. Almost two centuries ago young Jonathan Chapiu, marrying the prettiest "irl he knew on the eastern coast, journeyed west to hew a home out of the unbroken forest. The girl was brave and capable, as well as good to look upon, a real helper, and so they prospered, wresting, as years passed, a small arm from the wilderness, living airopIv. healtl.ilv, happily- One daughter was bom to them-Mas- a fraglie, «- ouisitc creature, whom they shielded wiib insinuate tenderness until * he entered her fourteenth year, when the father w;i> killed bv a tree swerving uni.\pcetPdlv from the rourse marked out for it bv'hi-, axe. The helplessness of woman and child wan tragic, with no mans strength to aid in the arduous lalKinr of the farm, a .shield from dauI g.-rs menacing through the surroundI Tug forest, but the mother struggled I 1 ravelv until elianct —was it chance?— -ent a" young hunter to her door for rhelter "from a storm. Morning showed -ever.il feet of snow, drifts higher than 1 the tinv cabin and a lowering skv pro-,„;-:„"'a heavier fall. The lad. for he wi- hi his twenties, staved with them until -pring. Then he grew n-lless: but. a lift' a short absence, returned, -hitin" their frugal home for three vears. C He was a cheerful, willing worker, and Mrs. Chapin felt him scut from ) Heaven to help in her dire necessity.

During the last winter, with its cxitrcmc cold, the mother's vitality, sapped by years of anxiety and hardship, failed, and she felt death near. Great as was her physical suffering, it was nothing to her mental agony at leaving her child, her tenderly-guarded darling, alone in the world. Calling the man to her bedside, she scut the girl from the room, on the pretext of preparing food, and, fastening her still beautiful eves on his, said with difficulty: "Koger, 1 am going to die—nay, seek not to interrupt; 1 know it. 1 am desperately ill; help cannot reach me in I time. I feci my illness to be mortal. How can I leave my child, my lovely Lilas, unprotectedY" The young man replied earnestly that lie would essay anything she wished to ulieve her distress. Before the girl returned they had i'greed that he should try to reach the .Jinall settlement miles below on the liver, bring back a priest, and marry Ist ere the mother's eyes closed in :!eath, that she might die with less anguish, feeling her child to be left in a husband's care.

"For f trust you, lioger," she conI eluded, faintly, exhausted by the pain of speech. ''You may,' he replied simply. The journey must be made on snowshoes; he could not return before the third morning. "I shall live until I see you again," she saiil firmly. "I will not die until my Lil.v, i= safe!" She kept her word. The third afternoon brought youth and priest, and a few words gave Lilas a protcetor. "My own. own dear child," whispered the mother hoarsely, "Koger must be everything to you—father, mother husband. You must learn to love him, and obey him as you have obeyed me. He will be kind to you, Moved." Her agonised gaze entered the young man; and as his blue eyes met her dark ones steadily a look of peace passed over her face, and she died, her strength spent by the effort of will that alone kept her alive until the. marriage was solemnised. On the following day the priest left them, after assisting at the simple burial.

When Roger re-entered the cabin, the living room .as vacant; there were two other rooms, his own, a narrow closet at the rig' t of the huge chimney, and the larg.-> one occupied by mother and daughter at the left. Knocking softly, he pushed open the door of the latter, seeking the orphaned girl. Her small face shone dimly through the gloom like a white flower at twilight, the dark masses of hair looked too heavy for the slender neck to uplift, her delicate hands were caught in a tense clasp.

'•Ulas." She did not reply save by turning her large eyes upon him, and he saw a pulse leap in her throat. A sudden wave of tender pity BWept over him, setting his heart to beating violently, flushing his face with scalding heat, for, with sympathetic insight, lie realised that the child was sick with terror of him; even as he gazed the scarlet of her lip paled to a bluish white, her figure grew more rigid. Although he had lived with them three years, the young girl had seemed remote. She was a fanciful creature, timid, thinking her own thought, living her own life apart, while physically so near. They were strangers; her mother had suiliced, and she seemed scarcely to have realised his presence. He, on his part, had never ventured to look upon her as a man might look upon a maiden in the enforced intimacy of a three-room cabin. Sanctified by her mother's adoring love, he had never dared to think of her as a possible wife. She seemed more like a child—beautiful, exquisite, not to be touched by a man's rough hands—than a woman to share his life.

"Lilas,' he repeated, "will you listen to me?" She bowed her head mutely, the frightened eyes clinging to his face. Across his vision flashed the memory of a fawn he once surprised in the forest. It had stared at him with the same fascinated fear, until a movement on his part broke the spell, and it had fled like the wind. This frightened fawn could not flee—that refuge was denied. "Try to believe inc, Lilas," he continued, simply. 'Tou are a sacred legacy to me from your mother, who was my friend. The" priest's words have made you my honoured wife"—she shivered—"but I swear to you by her dear memory that 1 shall never claim you as my wife unless 1 can teach you to love me. Bo you understand?' "I shall never cross the threshold of this room again until you bid me. Try to trust me. Do not be afraid. Here is your father's pistol; I will place it here, with bullets and a powder-horn, Hint and steel, on this shell by your bed. You will feel safer so. I—l would 1 could bring back to you her who is gone." lie turned toward the door. Her lips parted, her small hands twisted to-

get her. "You are kind to me," she stammered. "As 1 shall be all my life," ho answered gravely. The winter days passed swiftly. The girl busied herself with household tasks, the man hunting, chopping wood, occupied with the countless duties incident to life far from the conveniences of civilised centres, saw each other only at meal times and during the evening's leisure. How Roger anticipated the hours thev spent before the glowing logs, talking of the great world unknown to the girl, ' that stretched beyond the forest! He had travelled much for so young a man, an (I time slipped by unheeded as he described the peoples and customs of other lands. He spoke no word of love, but set about the task of winning her confidence, of interesting her in himself, of becoming necessary to her happiness—after that love would come unforced. He was a blue-eyed, fair-haired, ruddy man, of strong build, who would win by untiring persistence rather than a brilliant'coup, who cared not what effort victory cost so that at the Inst it was his beyond ipicstion. One "day when a hint of softness in the breeze suggested spring, Itogcr, hunting in the forest, was struck down by a mass of ice and snow falling on him from a rocky height, and lay inI sensible beneath 'it. A few weeks earlier lie would have frozen to death ere consciousness returned. Now the cold I was less intense, and he struggled back to life. Hot as he strove to rise. lie. I found to his horror that he could not | lift his body from the ground. The blow bad injured a nerve, paralysing his le"S. anil he was powerless to move. An icy hand clutched his heart as the consequences to Lilas flashed before him. For the first time in his life he tasted fear. Not for himself. Kvery man must die, and his gun insured him painless death—but the girl! lie pictured her glancing from the window in surprise at his absence; at first not anxious, but. as night settled down on the cabin, as days passed, with distressing suspense, with overwhelming tear, ami her niter helplessness ;,,,-

palled him. She. 100, would die—not swiftly, with steady linger on the trigger as he would, but lingeringly, in agonising pain and tenor. He struggled savagely to rise: raged, cursed, prayed, with fieree demands for help; then' lay hack, exhausted, to plan—for lie would not die, leaving her alone. The distant howl of a wolf acted ns a spur, and, setting his lips, he rolled on his breast, dragging himself along on his hands, with useless legs trailing on the path. His progress was slow and painful, the rough, snow-covered ground, the weight of his large, body taxing arms and hands to the point of torture; but it was progress. lie never forgot the nightmare of that grim passage through the forest, accomplished ' only because labia safety demanded his utmost; but while sunset hues si ill stained the sluice readied the clearing, then—unspeakable relief!— Hie door, the last rods being made hideous by mournful howls in. farther away than the edge of the timlier.

Once before a severe winter had brought wolves about the cabin, but then, in full strength, and aided by his mistress's sure gun. they had liven an aunovaiice. not a menace. . . . Now? Alone, half-para I.wed, could he win? A passion of determination shook him. I,ilas should not suffer! The leasts might gain entrance to the outer room, but only across his dead body tdiould thev reach her. The huge fireplace, bright with blazing logs, guarded her attack on the Tight, he and his gun on the left, the heavy table forming a partial shield in front. Tiffing himself into a chair, he called the girl, telling her in a few words of his accident. T T nder his direction, she placed ammunition and nil his small -tore of weapons within reach, her motions hastened by nattering feet and howls now close to the cabin. "I.ilas." said Hogcr gently, when the simple preparations were completed, "if the brutes burst in, T claim, for the first time, the obedience you vowed at

your mother's bedside to yield me. Go to your room, bar the door, and open it on no pretext until daylight shall have sent them skulking to the forest. Dost heed my words, child?" "Yes, Roger," she murmured, lowering her eyes before his steady gaze: ''but 1 beg you not to send me away. 1 cannot leave you, wounded, alone, in danger.' "Yon can, and will I" he replied gravely. "Co." He was interrupted by a crash of splintering wood, and through the shattered window-shiuter hurtled a dark body. "(io, go. Lilas!" he cried, as he fired, denying Him - -If a last glance at the girl, whom he might never see

again. The latch of her door fell softly as another and another wolf leapeu" across the sill, until seven tore ravenously at the still twitching body of the first. Tn those days reloading was a. matter of time. He knew the moment must come when He, would be unarmed, so no shot must be wasted, and his aim was careful as he fired at the fierce creatures, tearing their loathsome food as each wounded wolf made a hideous meal for the survivors. The moment came—all save one wolf was slain,- but only his clubbed gun remained for defence. Oh, to move! Were he on his feet, he would yet win, 'but chained to a chair, cramped in action by its arms, till half his force was useless, the result was doubtful. As the untrounded wolf leaped at him across the table, he struck with a \ hoarse shout, but close beside him rose a burst of llame, a deafening report, the suffocating odour of powder, and, half stunned, he saw the mangled body slip to the floor. Through the smoky haze he saw the girl, a nistol dropping from her nerveless hands, her lily-white face and dim eyes telling of faintness; even as lie looked she wavered to a fall. Vainly he strove to rise, for she must not fall against the iron fender at her feet. "Lilas! Lilas!' he cried in a loud

voice, piercing her faintness. "Come to me! Come to me at onee! How dare you leave your room when I bid you stay!" The wandering eyes lifted to him vaguely. "Lilas!"—the harsh voice held her above the waves of unconsciousness as a strong hand may uphold a drowning man—''to me!" In those far-distant days a dutiful wife submitted to her huslund's will; the marriage vow of obedience was no empty form, and the terrified child, feeling hers doubly sacred because spoken at her mother's death-bed, crept toward him, sinking on her knees in fear of she knew not what punishment for her disobedience, her face hidden in the tender curve of her arm, one small hand outstretched in supplication. The young man took the entreating hand in his own firm clasp, drawing her nearer, until her heart.beat against his side like a startled birds. "You save my life, dear one," . he said, "at great peril to your own." "You—you are not angry?" she faltered. "No, sweet; I eluded but to check your swoon. Did I frighten you?" "Yes," she replied with a sobbing sigh, "yes, of course, yes!" "Forgive me." he begged, regretting but not repenting his roughness—how else could lie have saved her from injury? "lint for your courage I must have met deatli in hideous form. ... I

Dear, can you not give value, beauty, to the life you have saved! 1 crave your love. For three long yearn, ever since the groat storm drove me here for shelter, 1 have loved you with all my heart never venturing to plead my cause, or even (o touch these dear fingers; but our common danger has unlocked my lips and 1 dare speak. Can you not learn to love me, Lilas?" f-ihe was silent, but from the mute loveliness of her eyes stole a shy glance more eloquent than words. l '\ ou love me!" he cried, covering her face with eager kisses, "X have waited long . . . long! . . . Kiss me, sweetheart!" She trembled liefore the compelling beauty of his gaze, but could not escape his encircling arms. A soft flush tinted her delicate face, and satin-smooth as n butterfly's wing her lips brushed his cheek—Harriet Rowland.