Hugh Gretton's Secret.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXX, Issue 8493, 24 July 1907, Page 2

Hugh Gretton's Secret.

By EFFIESABEIsAIBE ROWLANDS. Author of "Selina's Love Story," "A Heart," "Brave Barbara," "The Temptation <>i Mary Bar," "Ihe Interloper," etc, &<:.

CHAPTER XXIII. ««OH, FORGIVE HIM! FORGIVE THEM BOTH!" The night was a beautiful one, with that translucent clearness that belongs only to the new-born spring. The sun had died away in a glory of gorgeous colouring, the pink and orange-tinged clouds, gradually submerging beneath the veil of misty twilight. A girl stood looking out over the housetops at the mysterious sky. The light was dim in the room. It was a bedroom, and a figure lay on the white-draped bad, the head that had been propped with many pillows being now placed flat and in a horizontal line with tht feet. Lady Yelvertonn had died twelve hours before. She was dead when Sigrid arrived. The girl had been met by Henry, the old travelling companion, and one glance at his face had told her she was too late. She drove thiough the streets of Paris in the early morning. Life was just awakening. The sight of the bluebloused working men clattering along the pavement, the noise of the wheels over the rough stones,, all came to the girl's understanding in a blurred and indistinct fashion. Thought became acute as she found herself once again with Christine, felt the maid's arms about her neck, and the hot, tear-stained cheek Dressed against hers. "Oh, miladi, miladi!" was all that poor. Christine could moan. "Oh, my poor darling!" No memory was there in this faithful creature's breast of tha harsh words, the ceaseless work, the indifference that had characterised her years of service with the dead woman; nothing but pity and genuine regret. "Oh! how sad that you arrived too late!" she wept on Sigrid's shoulder. *'She asked so many times if you had' arrived. Oh! my darling!" i Sigrid's eyes turned to the other | maid's in a very anguish of despair and pain, and Powell answered that appeal in the best and simplest way. She took Christine into her care, and leftthe girl free to go to that room where, with a sad irony of fate she was to meet her mother for the first time, and to meet her —dead. A whole day had passed since that supreme moment; to Sigrid, as she stood dreamily looking out into the approaching night, it seemed to her as if a century, not a mere day, separated her from the hour of her arrival. She had shed no tears, not even when she had taken the small penuiiled'iiote from the beautiful cold hand, and had read the broken, tender words inscribed in it. Such feelings as overwhelmed the girl were not to be washed away in. the relief of tears; they rose into an iron barrier between herself and all ordinary weakness. She could not have wept She remained in that still chamber of death all that long unforgettable day. Powell and Christine both came in to try and draw her away, but she entreated them to leave her. She prayed incessantly, though the prayer was not coherent or calm as it usually was with her. She felt that her mother, had she been still alive, would have been comforted by those i prayers and she yearned to do something, even now that it was so late, to give expression to those pent-up longings that had grown so strongly in her three years' association with the dead woman. It seemed to Sigrid so very strange that she should have never imagined the truth, that no instinct should have spoken to her, told her of the bond that existed between herself and the woman she served. It seemed to her as if she were looking at a second image of herself, as she gazed on that silent white face. Death had set a wonderful seal of youth and beauty on the well-known features; they wore an expression now that had been lacking in life. The lips, half parted, had a sweetness that seemed half a smile; a tenderness that was indescribable. None of the fear or t»e ordinary horror of death came' to her; she was quite calm. She had seen death before, for she had knelt and prayed in her childish days beside the body of a i loved little companion of the conventschool. In these 6ilent hours she seemed to live all the years of communion and companionship with her mother that had been denied her. As the sunshine faded away, and night drew near, the first touch of exhaustion came to her. She rose and staggered toward the window, her limbs so stiff, that she almost fell. She threw wide open the casement and let the keen, fresh night air rush into the room; stars were beginning t) break and sweep over the greygreen sky. She looked at each one with a sobbing prayer. They had for her a benign significance to-night; they were the visible expression of that tender welcome which her pure faith knew was given to the spirit just departed. § It came to Sigrid suddenly that she herself felt very ill. She had mt touched food or drink since the early morning; the weakness that ' .baset her was most painful. Little by little the landmarks of the world slipped away from her. the hum of tha street noises from below made a sort of lullaby in her ears; the stars and great wide sky receded; she coukfnot feel the air on her hot lips and brow any longer; her hands went out in a helpless feebleness, and then, as the;/ touched nothing, and no help was given her, she was cons:iou3"only of some heavy weight oppressing her, i.nd then she knew n > more. No two women could ever have b 'en more relieved than were Christ'ne and Powell when John Bynge

reached that bu>; I'aris hotel. He had followed as swiftly as train and boat v.-.-'jid let him, £and the worn, changed likeness that sat upon all connected with the sad event was written legibly on him also. He was very differert indeed to the tall, handsome rr-;n\ who had sat and chatted on iiu- promdenade-deck of the Columbia witi: Lady Yelvertoun, and had aroused .- uch an amount of admiration in tho breasts of the several young on board. He had come to Paris on a twofold mission, as Mrs Harlovve's representative and as his own. He had hoped to have found that the news of the illness might possibly have been exaggerated; it was a heavy shock to him to hear the truth. It w r as hard, moreover to reconcile death with that brilliantly handsome woman. There had been about her such an imperious indifference and such a proud self-reliance, and selfimportance that it almost, seemed as if she might defy death itself. Time for much thought was not given him, for he was instantly approached by the hotel authorities and pleaded with to make every necessary arrangement with as much speed as possible. Death is an unwelcome guest everywhere, but in no place more so than in a large and fashionable hotel. John Bynge was equal to all demands made upon him. He constituted himself for the moment the authority, and gave all orders as if Lady Yelvertoun had been his own kith and kin. Indeed, now that he knew of the tie that should have linked the girl of his heart to the woman who was gone he had the sorrowful, satisfaction of being assured that all he did was to give her comfort and help. He did not see Sigrid till the close of the third day. It was enough for him to know that she was near, and to know also that she realized his presence and that she might derive comfort from it. Christine and the other maid brought him constant reports from Sigrid's room, and the doctor, whom he had immediately summoned, set his anxiety at rest. The shock and the agitation, of course had been excessive, but Sigrid's normal calmness and her wonderful command over herself had soon come to her rescue. She was weak, but that would quickly pass once she had left the confinement of her darkened room and was out again in the fresh air and spring sunshine. There was so muchj to do that Sir John had never had time to sit down and ponder fully on the matter of Millicent and Lord Yelvertoun. He had been surprised violently by the news of the girl's faithlessness and elopement. Flighty, shallow, poorly intellectual as he had felt her to be, he had imagined her capable of having had a feeling of real love for him. He had speedily seen that selfishness and her pet desire for excitement had been the ground on which, this affection had been based but had never imagined she could have changed with such incredible swiftness. "When his sister, Sylvia Langtone, had sent him a frantic telegram mysteriously begging him to come to London immediately, he had gone with a nervous thrill of apprehension about Millicnt's health, urging him almost to impatience. So strong had been his fear that the girl was ill, that when Mrs Langtone with a tear-stained face and inarticulate confession, had flung herself in his arms, his first feeling had been one of intense relief that this fear was unfounded. His old attitude of protector to a child had not yet passed away. Once t he had grasped the full situation, however his heart contracted with hot anger. And it was for this vain, meannatured girl he had sacrificed so .much,suffered so much, lost so much. It was for Millicent's sake he had put the dagger of a deathlike separation into hi 3 own heart and the heart of the beautiful girt he loved! He listened to all that his sister had to say in contemptuous silence. His resentment and anger had strong place for her also. It was her hand that had pushed him into the engagement with Miilicent, from her lips he had received the news of the girl's supposed love for him, through Mrs Langtone that he had been forced to turn to a duty which some people would have held quixotic, but which for Millicent's sake, he had accepted simply and unresistingly. (To be Continued.)