Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3013, 9 October 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

CHAPTER I.—Continued. "You speak of wishing to see Uncle Hemy once ap;ain before you ieave England forever. Are you going far away, then? I should like to know your plans. Will you write to me fully? I only regret I am so powerless to help you in a way that, I feel sure you must netd, but my quarter's allowance is more than forestalled; and Uncle Henry is not a -whit more generous now than he used to be, although he has only one girl to provide for instead of two. Still, though I can't send money, I might be able to help you in other ways—with some of my dresses for instance, if you would not be too proud to take them. Do you remember how proud you used to fce? Poor Mary! 1 get -quite sad and depressed when I think about you, and I am afraid this> letter will not make you any happier. If I could only do as you ask, but it is impossible. Uncle Henry is quite capable of turning me out of the house for daring to disobey him, and much as I should like to serve you, I could not venture that. Are you going away soon? "Now, that you have at last broken your silence. I hope you will write to me often. It may be a comfort to open your heart to one who was for so many years almost a sister to you. I don't suppose you care to hear any news of Thrapstone; at least, not in this letter; but if, as I hoDe, you will answer this, I can in my next tell jnu all there is to tell about your old friends. Now, I must write no more, it is close on seven and we must have a dinner party to-night. Sir Rupert and Lady Hungerford, whom we met in town a little while back, are staying here. She ia such .a nice woman. "The Cortes are dining, too, so I must get dressed quickly. Good-by for the present, then. Dear Mary, do believe I pity you from the bottom of my heart most sincerely, and believe also that if it were in my power to do what you ask, I should do it only too gladly. "With love, hoping you are well, and with all good wishes for the new _year close at hand, "Your affectionate cousin, "ISOBEL MARSTON."

A glow of colour that the heat of the fire had been powerless to prodace was painted on each of Mary Ballaston's tnin cheeks, as she finished the reading of this letter for the fourth time. Sne sat a.moment staring down at the big, bold signature, with its dashing lines, and then her little hand closed over the paper, crushing it fiercely. She rose to her ieet, not very easily, and she had to steady herself by a chair as she did so; but there was no weakness or indecision in her gesture, as she suddenly flung the letter into the glowing bosom of the fire. The pathetic weariness and sadness of her face had becume proud, strong, almost hard in this moment.

"Isobel is unchanged," she said to herself, bitterly, "absolutely unchanged. Why did 1 write to her? Wny—why?" She pulled the shawl about her again, and oat down on the chair, staring into the fire with her eyes full of passionate anguish. "Was not the burden heavy enough without Isobel's stings and pricks? Did I not know her well, her callousness, her selfishness, her poor, mean nature? What, then, did I expect? I suppose she is right. I must have been a little mad, or I should never have done this!" She shivered once or twice. "Did she purposely misunderstand j me?" she asked herself, wearily, "or was it natural to .her to translate the hungry longing of my heart for forgiveness into the supplication for money, for material help? If she could only know the truth and understand it, would she be more sympathetic?" She leaned forward with her thin hands clasped between her Knees, resting like that for a moment, and then she rose again, laughing a faint bitter laugh. "Can the leopard change his spots?" she said. "Isobel would never understand, never sympathise with me. She has her own standard of men and women, and I must abide to be judged by that standard. In her eyes my longing to see Uncle Henry once more carries only a desire to ask him for money. She can never know. She can never feel the ache there is in my heart when his dear, kind face rises up before me—when I look back on that horrible mistaice, and realise the bitterness of the pain and disappointment I gave him, my benefactor, my more than father. No. Isobel can never understand this. If my letter had plainly asked for alms, her answer could not have been more eloquent. Yes, lam mad —mad to have put myself and my poor, humbled, humiliated self at the mercy of Isobel's studied cruelty. If I had only dared to write to him direct; but I had not the courage. I dreaded what he might do—if —if he had sent back my letter unopened, unread, or —if—he, too, should have misunderstood me; but fio " the poor girl cried to herself passionately as this thought came—"but no, no; I will never think that; he might refuse me again and again, but Uncle Henry knew me too well to misunderstand me. There is not much left to me for pleasure, but that remembrance I can cling to at least, and it is a pleasure. So long as have the feeling) in my heart that he knows lam unchanged, I can go on bearing my life, bitter and hopeless as it is." She was standing by the window again, looking out wearily at the streets. There seemed to be a few more people passing now, all walking quickly, evidently bound for home and bed. Mary sighed sadly. When one has dared to let even the faintest glimmer of hope radiate an iotenge gloom, it is a terrible

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS.

1 ■ / Selina's Love Story "An Inherited Feud," " Brave Barbara," " A Splendid Heart," etc., etc.

temptation to cling to that gleam of light even though it is clouded in deapa'r and disappointment. "If I could have seen him once again, have touched his hand, have looked into hia eyes; if he had only held me in his arms and said, 'Yon nearly broke my heart. Molly; but I forgive you, child, I forgive you; and I jiive you my Dlessing to carry to the other side of the world,' it would have given me courage, it would have given me strength to b gin again; it would almost have given me hope, although 1 know how hopeless it all is now." She went back from the window and sat by the fire again. The clock outside chimed twice. "Halfpast; eleven. He will be here soonhe should be here now. Unless " She broke off with a sudden, bitter laugh that had a ring of utter despair in it. "Why do I say unless? Don't I know what it will be? On?e more the horrible scene—insult and degradation from these poor people on whom we have lived this week past. Insult and shame I cannot prevent—rude words, public disgrace and he —sodden, imbecile, lost to all sense of honour, of decency, of very manhood. Oh! it is too horrible, I have endured so much. Can Igo on enduring? Is it my duty? What duty do I owe such a husband? Is it a woman's place to sink to the gutter, to be dragged forever in the mud? Have 1 not lost enough for Hugh? Can Igo lower?—is there a further depth of humiliation and degradation than that I have experienced?" She broke into a sudden flood of hot tears, and covered her face with her thin hands. "Oh! Heaven have mercy, have mercy; give me some peace, some pity—some pity" She brushed away her tears suddenly, almost fiercely, as a knock sounded at the door. No one should see her weakness while she had a grain of strength or pride in her sor-row-laden frame to prevent it.

"Come in,'' she said, as steadily as she could. She feared the entrance of the landlady—the landlady with the bill for the week. On the morrow, Sunday, it would be exactly a week since the travelling operatic company had come to the small town of Rivington. Early on the morning of the morrow the company would migrate from Rivington for the neighbouring town of Silchester. Mary Ballaston had had many weary weeks experiences of such morrows, of such evenings as this she was now tasting. The owners of the meager, dirty lodgings which were the nearest approach to a home she knew now, had a knack of presenting themselves and their accounts about this hour on Saturday night. Experience had made the landladies preternaturally sharp and wise. There were such things as quiet and very early birds who escaped from their week's abode without condescending to pay their week's expenses for that abode, and whose singularly dilapidated empty portmanteau or dress basket left behind, as a sort of deputy, proved neither remunerative nor useful in any sense of the word. A visit, therefore, on the night before the departure was sometimes found exceedingly desirable; and Mrs Ballaston had many a bitter and humiliating remembrance of sitting up with a frowsy and sleepy though determined female till her husband should reel homeward and disburse the remains of his week's salary for the satisfaction of the aforesaid female. (To be continued.)