For Honor's Sake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXVIII, Issue 7963, 14 February 1906, Page 2

For Honor's Sake.

By Bertha M. Clay. Author of "Wife in Name Only," ** Wedded and Parted," "Bora Thome," " A Queen Among Women," " A True Magdalene," etc., etc.,

CHAPTER XlV.—Continued. "Come into the- garden with rne," ne said earnestly; "it is a lovely night, and others are going. Don't refuse ae; let me have you for a little while to myself; the last time I scarcely spoke to you." Claude had flushed a little when be first spoke, but she rose now. Why should she refuse him, even if her own heart had. not pleaded so strongly for him? So she drew her hand on hi%arm, and led ber out into the garden, still and twilight under a starry sky. Other couples were strolling about, laughing and talkiug carelessly, or murmuring low, and Stewart and his voung companion, ad they passed through the groups, talked of this or that, as ordinary friends might who raeol under the same roof; bat when they were almost beyond sight, nearing the trees of the shrubbery, Stewart's free hand dosed like a vioe over the hand on bis arm, and he bent down, bis voioa sinking to a passionate whisper: "My deaiest, my own love! I dared'not hope for such happiness as this!" Almost as the words passed his lips they had gained the trees that bordered the lawn. Stewart, silent now, went on still, till they were deep under tbe black shadows, then he stopped, and folding the girl to his breast, covered her faoe with kisses. "Btar with me," he said, pleadingly, at lasi, as she shrank a little, trembling; "I have been so long starved, and Heaven Knows, darling, bow soon again I may feel your heart throb against mine, and your lips yield to my kiss. Ah! my darling, you have so changed my life for me. In all the pain and anguish thare is always our love-to lire for; always, such moments as these to hope for, to remember." So they stood again heart to heart, in the night and the darkness, nieet setting for a love that moved through shadows; and, by and by, Stewart asked the girl, still keeping her within bis arms, what it was she had wanted to ask him. 'Tour wife," she began very low. and paused, as she felt him start and shiver at the name; but he laid his hand tenderly on the bowed head. "Go on," be said, in a repressed wny; "my wife—" "The other, day, you know," j €laude said, speaking with an -effort, "we called, and she bad still j that same manner to me—as if she i meant to he friendly—she asked us to come to her soiree, some time in the next fortnight—and 1 could not exaoty refuse then but oh! Esrio!"—trying tu choke down the sob in her throat-~"I can't go! ¥ou don't want me to go, do you?" "My precious love," Stewart said hoarsely, "No! it was only for your «ake I /wished her te know you at all—only lest the world should say I visited where my wife would not visit. Come this way, sweetheart; I must not keep you too long out of all sight; there is a bench a little way from here where we shall be practically alone, but shall not seem to shun ail other eyes." • He led her to the plaoe he spoke of, a rustic bench set just at the edge of the lawn backing the shrubbery, and here they sat down, and Stewart drew the girl to his breaßt again. "Sweetheart," he said, after a moment's pause—she felt him draw his breath painfully—"l said there should be nothing hidden between us—we are one, darling, are we not? You must not fear to tell me all that is in your heart, and J will be as frank with you. Will you promise me that, darling." "Ye?,"' she said, her face hidden against him; "but I could not bear to speak against her." "And I will worship you the more deeply, Claude, for that noble compunotion; nor will 1, to any but you, breathe a word against her. Tbe chains that bind me eat into my flesh; i endme the wounds in silence; but you are my comrade, my trusted darling, in hear and soul, in all that honour may allow, since I cannot make you all my own; and to you alone 1 can speak of things bidden from every other human creature; and you can speak your thoughts, your feelings to ine—even when they touoh this mortal •wound." She could not answei in words, but lifted her face to his; and he stooped and kissed/ the soft lips that sought his own. "I would to' Heaven," he said, presently, "she had never known yon for tbe woman I loved. But it was easy for he rwhen she met you, and heard that I bad seen you in Paris, to conneot you with my confession to her. No need forme to tell you"—what a passion of bitterness there was in the low, suppressed voice!—"what her professed friendship for you means; she is false to the core; she hates as much as it is in her shallow, passionless nature to have; she hates you only less than she loves the world, and all the world can give her. She dare not slander you—couple by word or suggestion your name with mine. I warned her how I would visit upou her any suoh tactics; 1 told her that 1 would hold ber responsible for evil report of you, and leave her entirely; and she knows that the world would judge her, not. ine, and what suoh judgment would mean. But there are a hundred ways in 1 whioh such a woman can wreak her spite. So she changed froot—would call at The Ferns—affected friendship for you. She has no fineness of nature but she rocognises by some instiDOt given to , these tigress women? fineness in others, and she knows when and how to strike where the wound will be deepest. She means to torture me; she thinks I will endure it—as ■you will for the sake of the countenance her name gives you—and then she will turn upon you suddenly, and close

her doors against you by offering you some covflit insult that shall make it impossible for you to mis-, take her meaning; and I am powerless there, "Oh my darling, my darling" bo quite broke down for a minute, bowing his head on hers, in uncontrollable agitation; "Heaven help me if the black wish some times cones to me that she were dead." No words could give comfort here, and Claude offered none; indeed, no words came to her lips but she clung to him more closely, and the unspoken sympathy of touoh aud prr feat communion of spirit, she gave a thousandfold more than it is in words to express. "Sweet comforter." he said, straining .her to him—it was only for o minute that he gave way—"forgive n?e. Surely 1 make you suffer enough without added pain." "Ob, Eerie." said the girl, passionately, "have you forgotten what you said only a little while ago? I'ou gave me the riant to your whole heart. Whatever you suffer you must let me share it." "My dailing." There was as much reverance as of passion in the kiss be pressed on her lips. It was hard to break through that sweet silence, the sweeter for its underlying pain, pain of suffering that even Jovo could not kill, but through which love proved its di viaity; but Claude, «t last, raised her eyes wistfully to her lover's faoe. "Esric,' she said, softly, "mußt we not go back now?'' (To be Continued).