Mary's Great Mistake.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 3040, 10 November 1908, Page 2

Mary's Great Mistake.

By EFFIE ADELAIDE ROWLANDS.

"A Splendid Heart," etc., etc,

CHAPTER Xlll.—Continued. ! "But you must not live in here, my dear," she said to Mary, when two weeks had passed, "we shall be having you ill, too. You look as pale as a ghost already and Dr. Cartwright has declared his intention of doing all sorts of things to us if we don't take proper care of you. He has written, telling me you are to have fresh air and exercise every day, and to rest very frequently, and all sorts of things, besides which, I am sure I want to have you myself. So you will, won't you? Leave the squire a little to-day, and go out." Mary consented to go out for an hour. "But, if the squire wants me, please let me know," she said. "I have promised to read." "Indeed, I shall do no such thing. He will want you, of course; but, for once, he will have to want, that's all," said Mrs Massingham stoutly. Mary made her way down the broad staircase. She was already quite at home at Oakdene. Her own past girlish life was recalled to her in a thousand ways since her stay in this comfortable, quaint, old house. George Cartwright had allowed her to undertake her present task as much for these reasons as any other. It gave him pleasure to remember she was in har own world once more, and he knew Mrs Massingham would be a real friend to her. /"' The day was lovely, balmy, fragrant, delicious, and she reveled in the beautiful gardens. Mary never thought of seekirg for a hat, or a sunshade; she would find a shady corner under the trees. As she was passing through the hall, however, she remembered the library, and determined to go and get a book; it was wiser to read than to fall into thought. She met a servant on the stairs seeking for Mrs Massingham; she had heard the anticipated arrival of some guest discussed between the squire and his wife that morning; but this had passed from her memory. As she opened the library door, and entered the room, she did not in the least expect to find it occupied. Some one was there, however, some one tall and strongly built, standing in the long, open window. As she entered, this figure turned quickly. "Here I am at last, Mrs Massingham," a voice said, that was distinctly familiar to her, and then, before she could be reasonably conscious of anything else, a sudden sharp cry of astonishment followed on these words, a cry wrenched from the very heart of the man before her. A cry that was touched with amazement, almost with fear, and yet with joy, and a joy so distinct and living that it caused every nerve in Mary's being to thrill in a strange, indescribable way. She had come to a sudden standstill at the sound of Paul Hungerford's voice, but as she saw him reel, and catch at a chair for support, all her presence of mind returned, and, going forward quickly, she spoke his name, and held out both her hands to him in a way that proclaimed she was, indeed, her real living self, and that she had the keenest pleasure in coming face to face with him once again.

CHAPTER XIV. A YOUNG MAN'S GREAT MISTAKE. Paul stood gripping the chair with cold, nerveless fingers, for one moment longer, then, as she came nearer to him, he realised the truth all at once. "It is you, you yourself!" he hoarsely exclaimed. "You are not dead, then? Oh! if you couid only know how I have suffered—how I have mourned for you, Mary!" He spoke her name unconsciously; his whole bearing his words, his voice, were an utter revelation of his heart's secret. He hardly knew himself what he did say; he had lost all self-control in this moment of acutejsurprise, of overwhelming joy, in seeing her once more, of knowing she was still an inhabitant of the same world with himself. Everything else beyond this was forgotten; he did not even realise at this moment that his emotion, his strange, passionate words, would be almost a shock to her. He forgot everything, save the indescribable happiness of standing with her hand clasped in his, her beautiful eyes looking up into his face. '

As she suddenly drew back from him, and drew her hands out of his hold, he awoke from this moment of ecstatic forgetfulness. He grew fiercely hot; his face was crimson while Mary's had become pale as death.

"Forgive me! forgive me!" he said unsteadily. "I—l did not know what I was saying; the —the surprise, snd " he stopped; he had no more words to utter for the moment.

Mary's heart was heating very fast; beating in a wild, uneven fashion, that surprised her, and robbed her of her proud calmness; those few broken, passionate words, that had escaped him so unconsciously, rang in her ears, thrilled in her veins, worked a tumult in her very nature.

"Oh! it you could only know how I have suffered, ho;v I have mourned for you, Mary!" It was the very voice itself of deep, true love. The cry of a love that had lived through an agony of tloaih, and was unconquered by a cruel fate, or veiled by the clouds cf forgetfulness. All the tender regret, all the reproachful thoughts that had come to her that day when she had met Laurip. and knew that the brother Paul that girl had

Anhor of Selina's"Love Story "An Inherited Feud," "Brave Barbara,"

loved with such fervsur and devotion, was one and the same with Paul Dering, rose up again in her mind now. She recalled every single action of kindness she had received from this man in her bitter, desolate past. She recalled now each delicate thought, each chivalrous word, and she appreciated them at their true worth.

She had no need of further interpretation. She knew now that, side by side with the hideous misery of her sordid daily existence as Ballaston's wife, there had walked a beautiful, brilliant spirit, pure, tender, strong as a guardian angel. Loving on, neither altered nor lessened, though the gates of despair were closed across the path of the future, and she herself, in her ignorance and bitter pain, was absolutely blind to the very faintest evidence of the treasure that lay close to her touch. She was lost in a whirl of thoughts and emotions; it was practically impossible for her to speak for the moment; but nature and habit were strong within her, and her woman's tenderness rushed out to meet him, ana to make smooth the pathway of present difficulties, even though she could never obliterate the hardness and coldness of the past. "I—l am very sorry tc have atariled you so much, Mr Dering. I will call you by your old name," she said, speaking as well as she could, "although I know now that you have another; but—you will see, I am sure, that I had not the slightest idea such a meeting was lying before us; nor"—she spoke more easily, but hurriedly—"nor did I know that you, you " she paused only for a second, "had imagined I was dead. I must, indeed, have given you a shock. It is I who must ask for your forgiveness, not you for mine." She put out her little hand naturally, and Paul took it. The crimson flush had left his cheek now; he was very pale, and, looking at him with that strange tenderness still in her heart, Mary noticed how changed he was, how thin he had become. He seemed older, too, with wan, dark lines about his eyes, and a sprinkling of silver threads in his brown curls. Tne change touched her with sudden pain and sorrow. She remembered how young and bright, and fair he had always seemed; she had never given much thought to him, it was true, but his great personal charm, his handsome appearance had appealed to her unconsciousiy. She had always felt a vague sense of pleasure when her eyes had rested on him. He had seemed in this same vague way a sort of link between herself and her past life. Had she been exactly in the same mental state as she had been then, he must have aroused her. No woman living, having heard that unconscious revelation of his passionate love, his passionate anguish for her, and seeing his young face worn and haggard through suffering, all for her sake, could have remained unmoved, untouched, at such a confession, such a revelation. (To be continued.)