Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3012, 8 October 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

CHAPTER .A YOUNG WIFE'S MISERY. The room was very cold; outside . here was a sharp, clear frost; a bright moon illuminated the work], striking responsive gleams from the si cycles that decorated tree, house ana hedge. It was a very pleasant night, and enjoyable for a skating party or even for a brisk walk if one were well wrapped up in cozy or thick garments, with a propsect of a blazing fire and dainty food at the

end of the walk or skating. Inside the sm°ll room, however, the brightness, the sense of exhilaration and heartiness did not have place; it was dingy and dark; there was no light save the cold, slanting rays of the moon that came in through the curtainless window. The grate was empty. If there had been a fire it was decidedly a thing of the past: There was a chilly feeling in the atmosphere of the little apartment'that spoke of no close intimacy with warmth of any description. The very furniture was cold and unresponsive; no cushions, no rugs, nothing to break the hard hideousness of the dingy horsehair sofa and six stuffed chairs. By the

moonlight one could see round the room distinctly, and certain infallible signs, such as a group of wax flowers, in a glass shade on the mantel, flank-

Ed on each side by a green ornament with drooping leaves; a worn and stained table-cover, a print of "The Queen's Coronation," also stained and badly framed, on the wall, proclaimed the ordinary and

most unlovely cheap lodging-room. There was no mitigation of the ugliness attempted, no softening touch, no little ornament or picture to give a small grace of its own, and to speak of other and more refined associations. All was bare, shabby, miserable. And yet the moon's strong silver light discovered something that was absolutely in .contrast with all this - a something that looked much as a glorious soft-toned pearl might look resting in the hollow ot' a labourer's work stained hand. Jt was a woman's face, a f:ica so young as to belong more properly to the realms of girlhood than womanhood. The moon rested full on this face. It to have a definite pleasure and pride in so doing. .It picked out each charm, each beauty so clearly it had a tender touch for the pretty head with its wavy, darlc-lrown hair. It had a sorrowful one fcr the two big brown eves that were so weary, so very weary.

It foured its full light oil the pal; cheek as though it would force a tinge of coiour into the pallor. It played softly about the grave, s d lips, Jips that lookejl as if they had forgotten how to sinile. It enveloped the girl's whole form in its mellow, silver radiance, as though it would clothe her in some protecting garment, and shield her from contact with the rough surroundings and the bitter night. She' sat leaning forward on the

table, her head resting on her let'c hand, her eyes turned to the picturesque scene out beyond. A woollen shawl was flung over her shoulders.

She shivered sometimes, and sometimes her thickly fringed eyelids would droop and shut out the glitter-ing-night. Then she would lift them again with a little start, aa the sound of voices or footsteps came up to her from the street. As a clock in the distance chimed eleven in loud, clear strokes, the girl r lUPed herself. She brushed the ruffled hair back from her brow with her chilled hand?, and then let them re3t a moment on the large eyes, that ached a;id burned with a fever born of her mental pain and misery. She stood by the window and leaned her head against the .side. Even in her sorrowful, weighty depression she could not resist a tribute of admiration to the beauty of the night, all glittering and jewelled with the carnival King Frost had held so successfully. She was tall and slender a3 she stood there. She wouid have been very graceful had she been less t;hin, and there was a weary, feeble look about her that spoke most eloquently of weakness following an illness that had pi*obably , been severe, perhaps lengthy. Her big, brown, wistful eyes rested vaguely on the street below. It was a small village street, and the traffic was intermittent and not great, Occasional groups of people passed now and then, walking quickly, their voices sounding preternaturally clear on the frosty air. Once two or three youths came along, caroling a part song as they went. The harmony was well kept, and the girl's face lighted up for an instant with unconscious pleasure at the sound. As it died away in the

distance, the light faded from her eyes again. She withJrew-lrom the window and began to move feebly about. She stopped before the fireplace, and feeling along the mantel for the matches, she knelt to kindle a blaze in the wood and coal already 'aid for the purpose. She seemed t-j do this regretfully, as though she preferred the chilly atmosphere to the eozv light and warmth of a fire. Nature, however, and habit are closely akin. Despite her reluctance, she found herself stretching out ne' 1 hands unconsciously to the hot flames as they sprang up and began to devour the sticks. She crouched nearer and nearer to the (ire a:> it grew frcm a blaze into a glow. The warmth made her realise how c Id she hud been, it seemed to thaw her mind as well as her body. She had sat so lung in one attitude, she was, m

fact, well-nigh frozen. As the blood began to tingle in her veins, memory became acute again, und in the pain aixl rlisnppointment that had teen more litter, more piercing than the e verity ven of the night- rose

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS. Selina's Love Story "An Inherited Feud," " Brave Barbara," " A Splendid Heart," etc., etc.

again like a phantom before her. ! She hugged hex - shawl about her, and locked herself to and fro in an almost unconscious way. • Then, with a sudden gesture, she flung open the shawl, drew a crumpled letter from the breast of her dress, and with trembling hands held it to the fire glow. She had read it three times already. Each .word was stamped on her memory; yet, so keen a part; of us is hope, that she took it up for the fourth time, saying to herself swiftly, a little excitedly, that perhaps she had made a mistake, perhaps she had misread a sentence.

The letter was a long one, written in a bold feminine hand on several sheets of thick, rough paper, with an address stamped in large letters across the top: "Thrapstone Court, Westshire."

The<late was the day previous the twenty-seventh of December. This was how it ran:

"My Dear Mary: I should have replied to your letter sooner, but I only received it last night on my return from London, where we have been staying for a few days. I had left no orders to have my letters forwarded, so found a number awaiting me when I arrived. 7. was naturally surprised to see your handwriting among them, and especially to note by the postmark that you were still in England.. I had imagined that you were in America for some time past. I hope you will forgive me, dear Mary, for saying I regret you have asked me what you have. Ido hate to refuse you, and yet lam so absolutely unable to help you in any way. To dream of mentioning your name or your existence to Uncle Henry is impossible; frankly, I dare not do it. He is, if anything, more angry with you, and more bitter and hard against you than he was at the first; indeed, I fear he will never forgive you. It seems cruel to write this so coldly, but it would be equally as cruel to buoy you with false hopes that will never be realised.

"Ypu will thus see how impossible it would be for me to attempt to do what you ask. I know beforehand he would never consent to the interview you want. The one and only time 1 tried to bring your name into the conversation, he stoppsd me coldly, quietly. 'My niece Mary is dead to me; never let me hear you speak of her again, Isobel,' he said, and I have never dared offend twice

I hope you know I am sorry for you. It is rather late in the day to make co nent on what is over and dor.e, but indeed I should not be human if I did not feel sorry for any woman who had ruined so herself as you have xlone.

"What could have induced you to be so mad? —tj leave a home like this, a man who loved you as though you were his daughter rather than his niece, and Uncle Henry always cared more for you than he did for me. Why did you do it, Mary? I can never believe you married Hugh Ballatson because you loved him. But you see I am forgetting myself. I have no right to say anything against your husband, only you know you must allow me to have my own feelings; and when two girls have been brought up together as you and I have been, without a friend to help us, or look after us, except the brother of our two mothers, it would be a strange and unnatural thing if I did not feel very, very deeply on such a matter as your rash, and to me, inexplicable marriage. (To be continued.)