FIGHTING HER WAY.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 9719, 15 February 1910, Page 2

FIGHTING HER WAY.

CHAPTER XVIII.-Continued. 'lt was always a relief to my own childish sorrows to cry heartily over them on my mother's breast, and I wished her to indulge the same natural inclination.: but she woulcl only pat my face and say: '"Darling,, maimna cannot afford to cry; she must keep her eyes for this pretty work that the rich people would not buy if it were done badly, and eyes faded out by tears could n«t select the fine,, faint tints of colour that must go into these delicate d&" signs.' 'I did not then understand all the sad meaning of my mother's words, but they stayed in my h.'art, and have become strangely eloquent of her sad lot.

'After a little I became able to do small errands for her —to bring and return the flowers loaned her to paint by a neighbouring florist, from whom she used at first to buy a few cheap ,flowers, but her sweet, gentle wavs, and fragile looks so enlisted tha sympathies of the florist, that he questioned her about the use she made of the flowers, and on learning her occupation he offered to lend her more expensive ones when ever she would come or send for thern. In this way I took my first lessons in the art that I have since got my living by. Often when I would call for the flowers my mother wanted, 1 would find the florist busy making bouquets, or filling forms for floral decorations, and while he slopped his work to get up the flowers for me, I would take his place and go on with his job for him. Once I made an entire wreath for him, and when it was finished h,e exclaimed :

"Christine, I'd like to employ you. You've got the hand and eye of a real artist'.'

'I told my mother of his words, and she smiled sadly as she answered: "My little gill shall never work for hire «>hile her mother can keep, her from it.'

'I soon learned to assist her with her painting, ana together we made enough to pay our rent, feed and clothe us decently, and buy the few books required to carry on my education, to yvhich my mother devoted all of her evenings. But during ail these years I never once htard faer speak of my father. Indeed, such was my sublime simplicity of life and thought that it never occurred to me that my existence had any other source than the beautiful patient being who was all in all to me. Once Mr Morris, the florist, asked me a question about my father. I looked at him in a bewildered sort of way, and said: "'I haven't got any father.'

'He said no more; but the expression that his face took troubled me. I told my mother of the occurrence, and she fainted.

'After that I was careful never to allude to it again. I was almost thirteen years old when my mother fell ill of a maelignant fever that almost without warning attacked her health She became d«lirious, and talked wildly of a imn whom she called Alphonee. 'Sometimes her ravings were passionately tender, sometimes full of mournful reproach. Aftsr ten days of exquisite suffering, my poor mother rested from her troubles, and I was left alone in the world,'

" "At this point in her narrative Christine's tears were flowing so fast that she could not go on. The old wounds had been too violently torn onen, ard were bleeding profusely. "'Oh my poor little girl, how can I help or comfort you,' said Roland, softly and reverently bending over the bowed head, that he dared not to6ch, though he so longed to lay it against his heart. His words seemed to quir't her. She pressed back th hot tears and went on speaking slowly. 'Whether my mother had ever intended to tell me the story of my birth or not, I cannot even imagine —her end was so sudden that she had no power t > make the revelation, however she may have desired it.

'After she was gone, when even the poor white casket that had held her sweat soul was taken from me, I gathered what strength I could to meet my dreary future, m the first sad days I devoted myself of folding away and locking up everything that had belonged to, or been used by. my mother. Among her effects I came acioss a curious old case ot Russia leather, much faded and worn, but not otherwise injured by time.

'On tha top of it was inscribed, in gilt letters. Gabrielle C. Montclaire; the case was secured with heavy bands ot gilted metal —it must have cost a great deal—and it resembled a lady's travelling dressing case. The key to its curious lock was nowhere to be found; and a seal in black wax, s'amped with the signet ring my mother always wore on her first lefthand finder, was placed over the keyhole. I l'elt instinctively that the secrets of my dead mother's life were locked in that old case, and witli them my own history. My soul recoiled tliei , as if does now, from the sacrilege of breakiug that sbmbre seal that my mother's hand had fixed

5 BY ROSE ASHIEIGH. £ I I* Author of ''Eleanor's Luck," "The Widow's Wager. b ? "Pure Gold," 5 J Etc., etc. /

upon her past. I have come to believe of late since my own heart has been made wiser in life's tragic meanings—that a sorrow too dark and bitter to be revealed lies locked behind that seal. God forbid that I should meddle with it! Of one thing lam sure: My mother was the saintliest woman that ever suffered the 'brief calamity' of life; sinned against she may have been, but sinning—never!'

The last words fell from Christine's lips so solemnly ar.d with such noble conviction, that for an instant th<s breath paused on Roland's lips, so lost was he in admiration of the pure, exaked filial piety of this young creature whose snowy nature the world had laid no faintest stain on. Roland felt as if he could nave knelt at her feet in adoration. <

He said very gentsy, as if afraid his voice might jar too rudely on the vibrating heart chords over which sad memory had been sweeping her pale fingers: 'I understand so well what you feel about that silent ami cnvsttrious legacy of your dear mother, yet may you not be doing her as well as yourself a greater injustice by leaving it untouched?'

'I teJl you that she can never suffer the smallest injustice in my thoughts a host oi angels could not make me believe she was not spotless as themselves. But no matter what comes to me, her secret shall be safe with her child. Yet you can now understand that I will not, dare not, burden any other life with this mystery. I shall carry it alone till I join her.'

'lf there were no other reason, this one is enough to silence forever hereafter such words as you have spoken to me to-day.' As she said this she raised her eyes to him; they were dayk with the pains he had suffered in this abjuring the happiness he had offered. He held out his hand to her and said pleadingly; * ; 'Put your band in mine for a moment; you may trust me, Christine.' She obeyed him, and a feeling of ecstasy crept through her, as his fingers closed round hers. His manful pulses beat time to his words as he said simply, but with all the solemnity of an oath: 'Before God, 1 declare to you that I love you more tenderly—desire to have you for my wife more fondly—and honour your womanhood. more profoundly than if I knew you to be the daughter of a king. Let the dead past bury its dead, Christine. Your mother's secret shall be no burden to me, but a sacred trust that I shall help you to guard. Give me the holy right to shelter your sweet life hereafter; and, since we have both learned to grapple with poverty, we can afford to wait patiently for each other a few years. You will be, you are, my own dear wife, Christine. Your eyes tell me so, and I will not let your lips deny it.' His tone had grown imperious as the great passion tides of his healthy nature rose up in rebellion against the decree of a morbid sentiment that threatened to wrest from him the woman of; his heart

Christine trembled like a leaf in a storm as these tumultuous currents swept over her. Alas! her heart bowed willingly to them, though her will combated them unswervingly. The most potent attributes of her nature arrayed. themselvses with Roland's love against her heroic resolve to reject the proffered joy. He saw how the contest swayed toward victory on his side, and, bringing all the force of his will and his magnetism to bear down upon the wavering strength of the lone but valiant foe that opposed their mutual passion, he rose to his feet, and lifting his noble stature to its full proportions, he held out his arms to the shrinking, quivering girl, and, with all the energy and tenderness of love in his voice, sad: 'I am waiting for you, Christine, my soul, and I command you to forget everything but that we love each other, and together will brave the whole world.'

A hush fell over them, in which only the low panting breath of the pale girl was heard.

CHAPTER XIX. HUBERT DERRING THROWS A WINNING CARD. Christine Castlebar had not lived het sad, lonely life of If-repression for nothing. The lates io which Roland Marlow put her courage was a dreadful one for a creature io young, sn tender, so sympathetic, and. above all,so fascinated by a man as she was with him; hut endurance and resistance had been the rula of her whole existence, and it was rot to be conquered by this wild dream of passion, all blissful though it opened to her young soul. TO BE CONTINUED