THE STORY-TELLER WIFE IN NAME ONLY.

Waikato Times, Volume XII, Issue 994, 5 November 1878, Page 2

THE STORY- TELLER WIFE IN NAME ONLY.

By the author of " Bqu\ Thouxi:," ' « Ox Heq "\Y.Ei.w:-ca Manx," " liv- ' nKvuzn ny Love," (i A "Wojiax's ' War," &c. &n. (Continued from Tuesday' f issue). c:iAiTEJtL s xxxinr. The Eiil o' Jlouiiideau ami .Lord Avlcigh w vv. walking up a stcf p hill j one clay togcUier, when, tho former feeling tit'oi, they both sat clown

amongst the heather 10 rest. Thera was a warm sun shining, a pleasant wind blowing, and the purple heather seemed y itetf idly to, ,Amo& around them, iip?ey rllgpn'eS for Borne time m pfen.ee ; ifc -was the Earl who broj§}itf|y say ing--4|^.. ": . f""i||£o^|beautifiil ffXfc heather is ! . Jt liot:^ indeed, ottAhis frill-top is soi|tude|!S| Wo might fancy ourselves tflpb aione m the world. By the way, you have never told me, Arleigh, what it, is, that makes you so fond of solitude.' 'I have had a great (rouble/ he replicJ, brk-ily. •A trouble? But one suffers a great deal before losing all interest m life. You are so you tig, you cannot have suffered much.' ' I know no other life so utterly hopeless as my own.' The Ei'.rl looked at him thoughtfully, 'I should like to know what your trouble is/ he said, gently. 1 1 can tell you only one half of it,' was the reply. ' I fell m love with one or tho sweetest, fairest, purest o" girls.' How I loved her is known only to myself, I suppose every man thinks his own love the greatest and the best. My whole heart went out to this girl — with, my whole soul 1 loved her ! She was belo v me m the one matterof '.vorldfy wealth and position— above me m all others. When I first asked her to marry me, she l'efused. She fcold me that the difference m oar rank was too great. She was most noble, most self-sacrificing ; she loved me, I know, most dearly, but sto refused me. I was for some time unable to overcome her opposition ; at las£ I succeeded. I tell you no details either of her name or where she lived, no:* any other circumstances connected with her — 1 tell you only this, that once having won her consent to our marriage, 1 seemed to have exchanged earth for elysium. Then ws waie maivied, not publicly and with great pomp, but, as my darling wished — privately and quietly. On that same day — my wedding-day — I took her home. T cannot tell bow great was my happiness — no one could realise it. Beleve me, Lord Mountdem, that she herself is as pun; as a saint, that I know no oilier woman at once so meek and so lo r ty, so noble and bo humble. Looking at her, one feels how true and sweet a woman's soul can be. Yet — oh that I should live to any it ! — on my wedding-day I discovered something — it was no fault of hers, I swear — that parted us. Loving her blindly madly, with my whole heart and soul, I was still compelled to leave her. She is my wife m name only, and can never be more to me, yet, you understand, without any fault of her?.' ' What a strange story j* said the Earl, thoughtfully. ' But this barrier, the obstacle — can it never be removed V 1 No,' answered Lord Arleigh, ■ never !' ' I assure you of my deepest sympathy,' said the Earl. 'Itis a strange history.' 'Yes, and a sad fate, sighed Lord Arleigh. ' You cannot understand my story entirely. Wanting a full explanaiioD, you might fairly ask me why I married with this drawback. I did not know of it, but my wife believed 1 did. Wo were both most cruelly deceive.], it docs no': matter how. She w condemned to a loveless, joyless life ; so am I. With a wife beautiful, loving, young, I must lead a most solitary existence — I must see my name die out for want of .heirs— l must- see uvy race almost extincr, my life passed m repining and miser)', my heart broken, my days without sunshine. I 'repent that is a s-ul fate. 'It is indeed,' agreed the Earl — . 'and such a strange one. Arc you quite sure that nothing can be done to remedy it?' ' Quite sure,' was the hopeless reply. ' I can hardly understand the need for separation, seeing that the wife herself is blameless.' "' 'In this case it ia unavoidable.' < May I, without seeming- curious, as!c you a question V said the Earl. 4 Certainly — as many as you like.' c You can please yourself about answering it,' observed the Earl ; ark then he added, ' Tell me, is it a caTci of insanity ? Has your wife any

hereditary tendency to anything ot that kind f < No,' replied Lord Arleigh ; l it is nothing of that description. My wife is to me a perfect woman m body and mini ; I (an add nothing to that.' ' Then your story is a marvel ; Ido not -I caunot understand it. Still, I may.say that, unless tliore is something far deeper and more terriblo than 1 can imagine, you have done wrong to part with your wife.' • I wish I could think so. But my doom is fixed, and, no matter how long I live, or she lives, it can never be altered.' 'My story is a snd one, observed Lord Mountdean, ' but it is not so sad as jours. I married when I was quite 3'oung— married against my father's wish and without his consent. The lady I loved was like your owe ; she was below me m position, but m nothing else. She was the dauerhter of a clergyman, and a lady of striking benuty : she possessed a good education an an extremely graceful manner. I need not trouble you by describing how it came about. My father was m Italy at the time to benefit his health —he had been there, indeed, for some years. I married her privately ; our secret was well kept. Some time after our marriage, I received a telegram stating that my father was dying, and that he wished to see me. At that very time, we were expecting the birth of what we hoped would he a son and heir. But I was anxious that my father should see and bless my wife before he died. Fhe assured me that the journey would not hurt her— that no evil consequences would ensue ; and, as I longed intensely for my father to see my wife, it was arranged that we should go together. A few hours of the journey passed hnppily enough, and then my poor wife was taken ill. Heaven pardon me because of my youth, my ignorance, aDd my inexperience ! I think sometimes that I might have saved her, but it is impossible to tell; We slopped at. a little town called Cistledine, and I drove to the hotel. There were races, or something of the kind, going on m the neighborhood, and the proprietors cor.ld not accommodate us. I drove to the Doctor, who proved a good Samaritan ; he <ook us into his house— mj child was born and my wife died there It -was not a son and heir, as we ha<3 hoprd it raigut bo. but a little daughtei —fair os her mother. Ah, Lord Ar leigh. you have had your troubles, am 1 I have had mine. My wife was bin-iec at Castledine — mv beautiful youm wife, whom I loved so dearly. I lefi my child under the Doctor's care, hay ing arranged to pay so much nei annum for her maintenance, and m lendi"g, when I rcturnpd to England to t; ko her home to Wcod Lynton as my heirrss My father, contrary t< the verdict of the physicians, ling'erec for about three years. Then he died nnd T became Earl of Mountdean. Th< first thing I did was to hurry to Castle dine. Can you imagine my horror ant despair when I found that all trace o my child was lost. Can you imagini what this blow was to me ? Since then my life has been spent m one uuceas irq effort lo find my daughter.' ' How stramre !' said Lord ArVigh ' Did you not know the name of tb« nurse ?' ' Yes : the nurse to whose care th< Doctor had confided my child, lived a a little place called Ashwood. lad vertiged for her, and offered a largi reward, but I have not as yet gleaner the least news of her. Her husband ifc appeared, bad been guilty of crime My opinion is that the poor womai fled m shame from the neighborhoot where she was known, and that botl she and my dear child are dead.' 1 It seems most probable,' observed Lord Arleigh. llf I could arrive at any certainty as to her fete,' said the Earl, • I shoulc be a happier man. I have been en gaged to my cousin, L^dy Lily Gor don, for four years, and I cannot mala up mp mind to marry her until I hcai something cer'aih about my daughter. Winiston House was prettily sit uated , the house stood m the midsi of charming grounds. . There was ? magnificent garden, full of flowers full of fragrance and bloom ; there was an orchard, full of rich, rip< fruit ', broad meadow land, when the cattle grazed, where the daisies and oxlips givw. To the left of the bouse was a large shrubbery, whict opened on to a wide carriage-drive leading- to the high road. The house was an old, red-brick bnilding, m nc particular style of architecture, witl liivgo oriel windows and a squnre porch. The rooms were large, lofty and well ".ighrpd. Along 1 the west err. side of tho house ran a lone .terrace, called the western terrace there the sun appear to shine blight est, there tender plants flourished there tame white cloves came to be IVd ami n peacock walked m majssry from there, one heard the distant insh of the liver. There L-uly Avleigh spent the greater part of her time — there she wore her gentle life away, /fhret years had elapsed, and no change had come to her. She read of liei husband's sojourn m Scotland, Then phe read m the fashionable intelligence that, lin had pone to Wood Lynton, the scat of the Earl oi 'Mountdean. He remained there three days and then wenb abroad. Where he was now she did not know : doubtless ho was travelling froni one place to another, wretched, unlw>py, as .she was herself. Tae desolate, dreary life had begun to prey upon her at last. She had fought acrainsfc it bravely for some time — she had tried to Jive down her sorrow ; but ifc was growing too strong for her — the weight of it was wearing her life away. Slowly, but surely she began to fade and droop. At first it was but a failure m strength — a little walk tired her. l!ie least fntiguo or exercise "cetned too much for her. Then, still more slowly, the exquisite bloom faded from the kvely face, a weary luiguof shone m the dark-blue eyes, the crimson lips lost their color. Yet Lady Arleigh grew more beautiful us she grew more fragile. Then all appetite failed her. Mrs By r ton dec'ared she are nothing. She might, have led a different life— she might have gone out jnto

sooiety— she might have visited and entertained guests. People knew tllat Indy Arleigh was ' separated from her husband ; they, also, knew that, whatever might have been the' cause oft separation, it had arisen from no .fault of hers. She would, m spite of her strange position, have been welcomed with open arms by the whole neighborhood ; bnt she was sick with mortal sorrow— life had not n charm for her. She had no words for visitors — she had no wish left for enjoyment ; just to dream hf-r life away was all she cared for. The disappointment was so keen, so bitter, she could not overcome it. Death would free Norman from all burden— would free him from the tie that must be hateful to him. Death was no foe to be met and fought with inch by inch j he was rather a friend who was to save her from the embarrassment, of living on—a friend who would free her husband from the effects of his terrible mistake. When her strength began to fail her, when she grew languid, feeble, fragile, there was no sustaining power, no longing for life, no desire to combat gaim death, 110 hopeful looking for the return of the old buoyaucy. Slowly, gradaally, surely, she was fading away, after the manner of a bright flower deprived of sunshine and dew. 7o be Continued.