ALT RAM'S WIFE.

Waikato Times, Volume VII, Issue 408, 24 December 1874, Page 5 (Supplement)

ALT RAM'S WIFE.

I^tffEßS. — JHAFTER SECJND. town over the week. It was my ot bear him to go away with that rical cloud folded round him. I r two holidays, and persuaded him with me. I msde him go to the airaa; aucl became he thought I ! would take tickets and go with Iways an unselfish fellow. One t to the Gaiety. They had got a there just then, and were playing s comic opei'ett?^ — Barbo Bleue, I iare much for those sc:'t of things, ; would amuse Saltram, so I sugsee it. He only said : ' What a low you are, Oliarli i !' but he came 11 me he had taken tickets for two, >r me. il seats in tlie cU'ess-civcle, right in 3 : and as, from the proportion!* of ry word is audible, one could not er place. There was some slight -the Quaker, I t ! iink — a mere foam- , but it made me laugh, and even ever its utter absurdity. Tiien gan. I bad gone to speak to some a box, and having been delayed by with a woman's want of knowing s£B of things, would enlarge on the her youngest boy's tonsils, did ii.-'j place till the first scene was nai './ I looked, not at the slage, but at fivca had turned a dull, greenish were fixed ; and the line 3 about his though he were in a fit. 1 ; * good Haavens ! John, what ;.; eem to hear m 3, and I repaated the ag him uoinawhat sharply on the said, never moving his eyes from )k there !' sxw nothing save Boulotte, the fishthe pisca, miking vigorous love to rquis. Soms people iv the pit were ly at the actress's audacity. John's hideous. 3:iid again, ' what is it V BfinV he retorted, turning \m face )le look on it to me. ' Tiie girl, the I was mad ; but when I looked more |c fris'xy Boulette, with her short rmandy can, aud free manners, I lered an c::; .imation which attracted ■ two or three people near me. He Ise blue, laughing eyes, and curved lino of black, silky hair waving otf ■>row, never could belong to any but I, Hdlene Saltram .' My agitation Mb him.;-!*. The deadly pallor xe■looked cool and quiet as usual as B ! you disturb the audience. A M not V I wondering at the man still more, H You can return and speak to her H>u like.' ■ To what end ] My dear Elliott, B>ve th-.it this worn -in, ogling and ■low-mountebank here, is no more Hier wretched doll frisking th C igh j about a thcotre-door outside. I for a moment. Lat it pass; ! wife is de-.td — dead* and buried do not think much of OffenH)ur with him 1 Nothing ; and through the operetta and afternever wavered once. Now took up his op3ra-g!a^s to see looker-on might have done; looking at Bjulbtte, nothing rel and white paint, I could than she used to be. Her slender for her size, and her that was all. For the re^t, in the railway carriage. farewell from the steamolder. It want to my heart Utram could bear to look on tell, but he looked his shame it as his. I found out that John used after night, as long as acted, and sit through it to any one. He still Dl^ w a,s only talk. I felt would not go while his wife boards. She went by Saiut-H^lene, and apwith the pres» and acting, though slightly unwa3 piquante and ladyhad a pretty face and a learned that, nobody said repdtaifo'n; Mademoiselle respectable.' run. I happened to be the last night, and I asked him ; he looked annoyc: 1 , in general, but answered to arid what I had Mademoiselle Baint-llcleae t!lose w bo knew her. To hatsoever. going to the theatre. which he coloured slightly, It is the last night.' he usually occupied but to-night we had not far from th-i stag: indeed. Helene came part in the usual manner, the usual amount of a scene in whick bullying the marquii, sang it very well, with called for again, and she came forward to >r e J^ met thone of her pass from one to ; but if I ha 1 not, I had happened by the seat on which Saltram's in a moment, and he ever. She But in her face ; only H^^^^H>ewildered stare. She she was going to came to her side, and, curtain fell without sing f aoked a young people ; They give they seem to forget themselves.' h™ friend. ' Vewy enough for B.ttwithe the go in self-command, I saw look came over his to him to come 1 fiercely. *It is on Mondny. I vrill

t«i3 heat has caused Mubnuisalle S.iinte.He!ene to taint The ligping fop said : ' Pretty cweaturo !' | •l«°Mtl»ominager would come forward and apologise for her non-appearance ; but no ; whatever Heleue might luve suffered from the sudden j recognition of her husband, it had passed off now, tor she came on again, looking just the same as I ever. 1 .»:i\v her eyes go out hi search of John, | though, and meet his cold, steady gaze with an al- \ most dehant glance. Her fijure, w lich wag truly I superb, was drawn up to its full height ; .and through ! the rest of the piece, if, as people said, she acted oettcr than she had ever done before in her life, she as certainly acted for and at no living being but John Saltram. Every time her eyes turned in his direction, her manner seemed to acquire mare fores and dash, the very qualities for the absence of which her noting was q morally blame 1, and when the curtain fell on the final act, tbe house shook with the applause Bjulotto had elicited, There was'an . after-piece in which Helena was also to appear ; and as Saltmm did not stir, I concluded to wait for the finish as wall. It was a sort ; of pastoral extravaganza, comprising two or thres ve:y pretty scenic effects, a good deal of singing, ; and some dancing. Another worn m premiere dan- \ sense to the company, took the principal part, H> | 'e.ie having to act a sort of fairy genius. Shelookei very lovely when she came on, being dressed in a loosely flowing garment of some shining silvery material, which fell in.simplo classical folds around her, allowing the outlines of her graceful figure to shew to the best advantage, and leaving her neck and arms bare, and white as polished ivory. Her long hair flowed in a cascade of jetty ripples half way down her back ; and on her head a diadem of five silver stars glittered at every movement of her small head, like a wreath of moonlight. A fair vision indeed to any strang.ir. To her husbandWell, I am a plain man, and I think I would rather have claimed the dowdiest little girl present as my wife, than that queenly beauty before the light, at whom the whole house clipped their hands, aud beat their feat on the floor, in vociferous acclamation. Helene hardly seemed to hear them. As before her face was turned towards her husb.uid, and his was set in cool, contemptuous indifference. I think, if possible, she surpass jd herself in this piece. The quieter role she had to parform suited her better : and almost every time she spoke or moved, she was greeted with audible exclamations of admiration. In the final scena, a repentant Damon was clasping his easiiy forgiving Oaloe to his manly bosom, when, from the silver musts of evening (a capitally executed effect) was seen to rise the glittering figure of the spirit queen, who, slowly \ ascending into air, her hands clasped above Her head ; sang a sort of rhyming benediction over the bliosfully intertwined couple on the moonlit green beneath—over, not to, She sang to John Saltraw, no one else. I don't remember the song, but two lines of its hackneyed burden have run in my head ever since : Truor and purer than sunlight of morning, Em- was she w iose fond lore y.ju were scorning. She was sig ling them as she rose into the blaze of stage moonlight pouring downon thescene, her lovely eyes still fixed more yearningly tha^ in defiance on John's stern, impassive face, when of a sudden her clasped hauds parted ; she uttered a ahriu cry of terror, turned completely over, and after dandling for a moment from the cord which ought to "have sustained her, fell head downwards on to ttie stage. With her attention distracted by her husband's, presence, she had let go the cord above her head ; and so only held by the fe3D, Had overoalaacei hersslf, 1 wonder if any man reading this happened to be at the Gaiety that night; if so, he cannoc have for gotten ths cry of horror ani pity which rose from" every corner of the crowded house, the screams of women and children, and the rush for the stage from pit and boxos. Two men reached it long befoL-e-J the rest — John Saltram and I. He had cried out ' too ; but such a cry ! I have never heard the like before or after. She had fallen on a miniature fountain, made of spiral glass tubes, and had smashed it beneath her. When we leaped on the stage, she was lying on her back in a pool of blood ; but the nexo moment the crowd surged round and over m, till all tared were well-nigh suffocated in the man. I think I swore at them to keep back ; lam not sure. One is not answerable for such moments of excitement ; but the manager and policeman on duty speedily cleared away the people, driving the dar* rusn back like an inky wave. They would have sent us back also; but I said : ' I am a surgeon ; and this is her husband.' Then they let us sfopl Saltram never spoke, not one word, We tried to lift her; but at the first movement, Sim uttered a piercing cry. A second effort only produced the same effect. Yet it was impossible to do anything for her, lying there among tne shattered debris of glass and pasteboard. 1 Spa.ik to her, Saltram,' I said then : ' she will mind you.' He was bending over her, holding her head on his arm. When I said that, he stooped iris face lower over har closed eyes, aud whispered : ' Nellie I 1I 1 I saw her lips quiver, and signed to him to on. ' You must let me lift you on to a bed. It will be only a moment's doing. I will try not to hurt you.' He lifted her head, and I her feet, as he spoke. She shut her teeth hard, but thougu a moan broKe through them, she uttered no cry. I had not over, rated her power of self-control, or the force of early obedience to one voice : two traits to be generally found m women. We got her on to a inaiatwa nastily laid on a table, and there I examined her injuries. Her left arm was broken ; so was one of Her ribs. She was badly cut in several places.; but these were curable hurts, and I felt hopeful. Then I tout that I had not discovered the worst. Falling as she had done, she had injured herself internally! and wiien I found that, I knew Helen Saltram had only an hours life, at bust, in which to make her p-ja j^with God and man. i-ied to tall Saltram, but it was not needed : ho read it in my face, in the grasp of my hand ; and the strong man staggered, as though some one had uealfc mo! a, heavy bow. The pain of moving her for the necessary examination and of binding her wounds, had caused her to iaint ; ou-j erelong she opened her great, blue -.unethyst eysi, and said;' Dr Elliott.' Then, after a pause : < Is John there still ?' He was standing behind her, and her head rested on his biea*t. I told her so. She did not seam to hear, foi- sue was moaning heavily; but presently she said : • L. iy ma down. Ido not want you to be ptuiul to me bacaoss I am dying.' Tuen, after another long gasping breath : ' You know I am i f-Ving>f -V in g> doctor, do you not {' i ' Yes, Mrs. Saltram, I fear— l greatly fear you are. ° J ' J Through all the pain she was suffering, a smile ■JiMned over her pale lips as she said: « Fear doctor, when it will set your friend freer I could not beai to hear her, and sco the muta, grini agony in the man's face above her; and I answered warmly: < For Heaven's sake, do not speak m tiiat way, Mrs Saltram. If you never believed in your huobaud's love before, trust it now; an. l do not die at enmity with him, whom you promised at the altar to cleave to, till death did you part.' 'lam not at enmity with him,' vim aiwworud > faintly, but steadily. < l\e is with n»». A«L- {.j.^j

given him. I .-uu .j.,i,,g to spjak the truth now, and then he may ilvjivo mo if he will.' I put some o.n\li.il to hur lips, and begged her nob to exert heroeii. Kveu Waltium spoke, very gently, as though he wi-ra soothing a cnild. 'I have forgiven every thing, Nellie. Rest now in peace. 1 Sue only roi Crated : 'i will tell you before I die;' ami we had to let her have her way. What she said, I give in her own words, just as they came, in snort, panting gasps from her white lips. 'Dr Elliott, I loved John— l loved him from the first moment I saw him. I left over tiling for him because 1 loved him sj much. I was fond of my father, though he was never kind or gantle to m •■>*• but I left him for John. 1 left the nuns wlu were like mothers to ma, and whom I loved dearly, for him. I used to cry about.it sjmafcima.s, when I wa; alone; but I made Hgat of it to mm, lest it should grieve him that he h.id grieved me. . . . w,, woro very happy; I wad, at least, for a whilesNaples vrMajgiy—ravissatife, and John so «*ood. People admired me, and !• liked to be admired? ami he u- myself callei beautiful. Que voulez-vonVi I had only sevent33n years. I liked Joan to be admired too ; it m tda m?. proud. He was aivrv it I was praised. Than I tease I iiim, for I kujV he loved nu ; and I was only a child. He took un to England. 1 hated it. I hated Yorkshire more it was so cold and bleak. I hated the people most • they were cold jr soill. I tried %be polite • but they would not have me. Tuen I gave up tryin* • and John was vexed. He liked them ; they we're Ins people. . . I grew very unhappy. J ohn grew cold and hard. Yet I thought he loved me tuat he would love me better if we were back in bright, beautiful Paris. . . . We could not «o witii my father there and disosvuing me ° ' John brought ma to London for iTweek I met there the Bxcou de Montigay. He was to have married me— you recollect I He was very kind and gentle now, aud prom.sjd to reconcile my father to me. I did not tell Joiui. He had grown so jealous, I was afraid to spsak of a mm to him : and he hated the baron. . . After I went back to Yorkshire, De Montigny wrote to me. He s«ut the letters through my maid. Taey were all abjtifc my lather, and how tie progressed in his intercession -nothing else. As I had not told John at first, I dared not now. I loved him dearly, but I % vas a Vaid of him and I meant to teh him all whe.i my father had yielded; and beg him to come back to Paris for a while, aud let us be happy again. One day, John found out about the° letters M> maid told him, and gave him a letter of mine to the baron. John put it in the lire. He was too honourable to roncl it, or he would.have known all • but he came to mo, and standing "in my room, told me quite coolly-ine, a lady, a girl of nineteen, his own wife ! that I was intriguing a . ? ii:isb him ; that I was a bad worn m, an uufaitliful wife. When he said that to me, I knew his love was gone. I was passionate; and lie had wrongad and insulted me. I could not stay with him, yoi see, Dr Elliott, after that ; and I said I would go to my father. . . . D 3 Mjntigny had written to me the day before to tell me my father wisheJ to see and forgive me. The baron was in Yorkshire ; and he begged ms to meet him next day iv the Park. ... I saw him there, and told him I would go to my father at once. Then he said he would take me ; and he did. When we got to Paris, he told me my father had gone to Brittany on business, and we must follow him. I agreed ; and ha took me to a chateau near the sea-coast. — Dr Elliott, he had deceived me ! My father had never written, never heard from him. It was all a lie. He thought to make me love him by such means as thesa— l left him on the instant, aud went to a little inn. f was ill there of a fever : and when I got well it was many weeks— l wrote to my father. I got no answer. I wrote again. Then* ho sent me word that I had disgraced him doubly, and was no child of his. Thrice wronged, you see, doctor! What could Ido i And 1 was little more than a child. I tried to teach ; but no one would take me without a reference— me, a penniless girl in shabby finery. Then I got an engagement in a country theatre. I was always fond of acting. I have been an actress ever since ; and while I have earned my bread, no living being has whispered a word against me. Ask, and you will hear it is true. You cm see the baron's letters too j they are at my lodgings ; and the address of the inn at Brittany. That is all I had to say, except ' Her breathing came in short, irregular sobs. There was a cold moisture on her brow, a mist of teara in her eyes. ' John,' she said, turning her faca so as to look into his— and her lips were parted in the same yearning appaal I had seen in the fairy queen's glowing face—' won't you forgive m 3, now I am dying, and have taken the cloud off your life ? We were both to blama ; but I love you. 0 John I always loved you !' ' The last words were said with her lips "hied to his, with his arms round her body, with his scalding teu-s, ths tir.it I hid ever seen John So-ltram shed" wetting her white face. I went and sat down on a bale of mattin* in the corner, and crted covertly. I suppose it w!is very unminly and unprofessional, buc I can't help that Outside, the cabs and omnibuses rolled on in a ceaseless dull roar ; and the rain pattered down like millions of tiny feet on the muddy London stones. She died a little after one o'clock that morning John sent soma one for a priest (she was a Catholic] you remember), and one came, and gave her the sacrament. I don't know what he said to her, of course ; but when it waH all over, he told me she wanted to spsak to me. She was lying in John's aim-; then, with a smile on her lips ; and ihe just moved her cold fingers for me to take them in mine as she said : « Dr Elliott, I told you that John had wronged me, and forgave him. I know now it was I who wronged him by leaving him. lihade his life desolate, and his heart hard, by letting him believe me falss to him. You were always his friend, that is why I tell you. I have bjen a bad wif*, and he loved me more than I deserved. Take care of him, aud love him for me when I am gone.' John tried to interrupt her, to take the blame on his own shoulders. I could sac his heart was broken and so did she. One of his hands was lying on her breast, and she drooped her face and kissed it. That was the last effort. I think she died a minute or two afterwards. John S.iitram is living still. I don't know whether I take care of him, or he of ma ; a little of both, I fancy. He has ..old his estate in Yorkshire and we two old men live together in London, where 1 still practise occasionally. You may give up your rich patients ; but if tiie poor won't give you up what are you to do 1 Five or six times in the year, bultram leaves me for a day. I never ask where ho has been, nor does ho allude to it ; but I know the quiet churchyard, ten miles from London, where Nelly Saltram's body lies buried with John's broken heart ; and I know that if I live the lon^st, I shall one day stand beside the grave, aud°see another coffin laid upon that which holds the thoughtless young wife whom Saltram understood so little, and lost so early ! j

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