MIRRAH'S WEDDING DAY.

Waikato Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2182, 3 July 1886, Page 1 (Supplement)

MIRRAH'S WEDDING DAY.

Mirrah Gay was but eighteen, and innocent, guileless, truthful, and unsuspecting as if she bad been only eight. When Mr Thorpe asked her to marry him, saying only that he loved her very dearly, and would be unhappy if she refused to be his wife, she wan almost as muoh surprised as delighted. She knew very little about him, but she had loved him from the first moment her eyes had met his with that love at first sight which comes to a few rare and sensitive souls ; and she said yes without a moment's hesitasion. The wedding was quiet and simple ; for Mirrah wished it so, and Cyril had no wish but hers. When the newly-married pair got homo to Mrs Gay's cottage there was a quiet breakfast, to which a few intimate friends had been invited ; and then Mirrah went to her own room to exchange her white bridal dress for a travelling suit. Cyril Thorpe went on the verandah, where he stood in smiling happiness, looking at the fair country landscape that stretched away on every side beyond the hill on which Mid Gay's cottage stood. It was just .six weeks since his physician had sent him to that quiet spot to gain strength after a protracted and dangerous illness; he had gained strength, health, happinesu, and— Mirrah. Within, where Mrs Gay and her guests still sat laughing and chatting in the breakfastroom, there whs so much of compliment and congratulation, and friendly goodwill in talking over the bride's good fortune, that the rapid flight of time was not needed ; and though it was already getting well on toward the hour of naying 'good-bye, : no one had yet spoken of Mirrah's long absence. But at last Cyril came in, holding his watch in his hand, and studying, the face of it. *I am getting impatient, mother dear !' he said, laughingly, to Mrs Gay, who might easily have passed for his sister. 4 What can be keeping Mirrah ? We mustn't begin our journey by missing the first train, you know.' 4 That wouldn't do at all,' said Mrs Gay. 4 What can be keeping t the ,child ? She has had time to be ready long ago. I'll call her. Oh ! I know what it is,' she added, as she left the room. 4 I gave her a letter : it came yesterday, but mo many things came, and it was overlooked. 1 gave it to her just as he left the table, and she has waited to read it.' And with that explanation Mrs Gay hurried on toward her daughter's room. 'Mirrah ! Mirrah 1' she called, as xhe ran lightly up the stairs and along the hali. 4 Cyril is wailing, and you must not be late.' Then as the door stood wide open, she entered her daughter's room ; but Mirrah was not there. The white bridul dress and veil and wreath lay on the bed, and the long white gloves on the floor ; the pretty travelling suit of silver poplin and the little hat — even the grey gloves — were gone, as Mrs Gay, who had laid them all ready, saw at a glance. And on the table lay two alips of written paper, which Mrs Gay read with terror, and then hurrying to Cyril, held them out to him with a trembling hand, saying — 4 I have read them both ! 0, my child Where is she ? What has become of her ?' No less agitated, Cyril took the letters and read them, while the miserable mother wrung her hands and moaned as if in pain. 1 1 have left you mother,' Cyril read, for the writing was Mirrah's that first met his gaze. 4 1 dare not tell you for where, for you would tell him, and that 1 could not bear. He is my husband, and I know enough of the law to know that he can compel me to go with him ; and after what this letter tells me that would be impossible. Besides, I d*ire not Nee him. He could persuade me to anything, even to forgive this cruel falsehood, and that I must not do. It would be unwomanly and wio ig. I cannot be the wife of a man who has made sport of my love for him. Read the letter enclosed— it is the one you gave me — and you will forgive me. If you never see me again, mother, love me always as I will you.' The enclosed letter was, or seemed to be, in Cyril Thorpe's own handwriting. Its words danced before his eyes as he read, and their meaning was like the sound of madness in his ears. 4 Yes, it is true that I am to marry her, little Mirrah Gay. Poor child! Her passionate idolatry makes me laugh while I pity her ; and it is easy to feign a love sufficient to satisfy such a little, simple fool. Why do I marry her ? — you must | know better than I can tell you. Partly beoause I think she would die if I didn't; and partly for something to occupy my time and thoughts — something to distract me from the hopeless, maddening love that I must ever feel for you — you whom I adore, but must never hope to call my own.' With a face as pale as her own, but with eyes flashing with indignant rage, Cyril looked up aud met Mrs Gay's agonised, reproachful look. 4No wonder she believed it,' he said, and with one arm he tenderly Hiipported the poor woman's figure. 4My handwriting is so well imitated it almost deceives myself. But I swear to you, dear little mother — this is the first, time I have Been that false and cruel letter. Oh, I know well where it comes from — a monster — a fiend, in the form of a woman, igornposed it and sent it to place a barrier HJKWteen my love and mo. But enough of lorn }|ow ; there is not a moment to lose. Whei^, where is my darling ? She would not harm herself ; she's too good aud brave for that; and she cannot be far away. Whore could she go ! Where can she hide herself from us ? I most fiud her befpre the cruel blow breaks her gentle heart. Mother ! mother I upoak to me ! What shall we do ? Whore sln.ll I look for her ? The light and colour came back to Mrs Gay's stricken face. She knew — she felt that her son-in-law spoke the truth ; and th,e. sincerity of hia love for Mirrah waa

to be heard in o\ery tone of his impassioned, quivering voice. She caught hope and courage for him ; and the search for the lost bride began. But no tidings of her could be found, until the stationmaater who had gone to a neighbouring town on business a couple of hours after Mirrah had been missed, returned to resume the duties he had left in charge of a friend. The man reported that he had sold a tioket in London, for the noon train, to a lady, in a grey travelling dress, whose face he had not seen, because it was muffled in a (heavy veil. She had not seemed excited, and she had spoken in a low, soft tone. There could be no doubt but this lady was Mirrah ; but that was the first and last clue as to the route taken by his wife and Cryil Thorpe ever found, though his search continued day after day, week after week, month after month. The disappearance was as complete as it was mysterious ; and even Mrs Gray, heart-broken and unconooUble, was obliged to accept the popular verdict at last. Mirrah was dead — how, none could ever know, since it was unlikely the body would ever be found ; but certainly dead, since that was the only explanation left. Her mother had folded away the pretty wedding drees, with many bitter sighs and tears for the hour when it had been worn, and she had put on deepest mourning for her only child, lost for ever. But Cyril did not giveup. the searoh for his wife. He oould not It was the only thing in life left to him. He felt that he would go mad but for the hope left in his heart that some day, somewhere, he would find Mirrah. Alone, and generally on foot, he wandered 'about till it seemed as if he had walked over every inch of ground in the country. But he knew that he hadn't; for many a little hamlet, with only a dozen inhabitants, he still came on from time to time, and he knew there were many more, too small, too uninteresting to be found on any map, but, for that reason, all the more likely to serve as a hiding place for Mirrah, One afternoon, nearly a year after his wedding day, Cyril wai walking slowly along a green lane in a wild but lovely conntry place, when he saw coming toward him a figure that caused his heart to lie still within him, and then to beat with a wild tumult as though it would burst from his bosom. It was the figure of a young girl, and she was dressed in white, for it was early summer time, and bunches of wild violets, with which the ground was blue, were in her hair, in the belt that girdled her slender waist, and in the straw hat that she was idly swinging in'her hand. She saw him too, and she came slowly walking on, the gentle smile on her lips unchanged, though it showed neither surprise nor recognition, while Cyril stood still, for he could not move. He could scarcely breathe for the wild beating of his heart. She came near, nearer, her white skirt brushed against him— and looking gravely, sweetly in his face, she inclined her graceful head and passed slowly on. It was Mirrah, and she knew him not. But Cyril turned then, and,with a cry of agony he called out : — 1 Mirrah !My wife— my darling! Don't leave me now — it is I— don't you know me ? It is Cyril— your husband !' But she might have been a spirit from some other world for any notice that she took of him ; and almost fearing that she was — that she would disappear as suddenly as she had come— he followed slowly after her. But Mirrah did not disappear. She kept steadily on, never pausing or turning round, till she came to a little cottage on the edge of a wood ; and when she had entered by the open door Cyril entered after her. She was seated by a small table sorting the violets she had taken from her hat, and she seemed to neither see nor hear him. An elderly woman was sitting in a wooden rocking-chair, and the crutch that leaned against it told that she was a cripple, for she did not rise to return Cyril's salutation, though she bade him a pleasant good evening, and pointed to another chair near that occupied by Mirrah. To his eager words, and the story of his search for Mirrah and his relationship to her, the crippled womanjtold a short £and simple story in return. 4 She came to us one evening last autumn. She wore just such a dress as you describe. I have it put away safe and you can see it. She was pale and tired lookiug, and her boots were worn and dusty, as if she had walked a long way, perhaps for days; aud her eyes were wild and bright, as if she hadn't slept for a long. She didn't speak to us, and we were joyful to have her. We had buried our only child a few weeks before, mv old man and me, and we were nigh crazy with grief; and it seemed as if Heaven had sent this girl to take her place. She has never noticed us or returned our love the least bit, but we re grateful all the same, for she saved us from going mad with sorrow for our Mary, and now we've learned to bear out loss with patience. We thought thie poor gill waa dumb, and deaf, too, as first, but after a while we noticed that she always' looked up and smiled when she heard the birds singing ; and sometimes she turned and smiled on us when we called her name'; for we called her Mary, and maybe it sounded like her own naTie. sir ; you see they're not so different. Mary and Mirrah. Well, we call her Mary, and she waa as our own child to us ; and she'wore our daughter's clothes, and came and went about the house a8 she pleased. But we've always felt that she was only sent for a time, and that by-and-by her own would find her and claim her. We've been prepared for that and we're willing. vVhy didn't we advertise it, or see anythin' about it in the papers? Why, sir, we never sec a paper in this lone place, not once in a month ; and if we did, perhaps we'd have taken no notice. There's nothing s > selfish alla 11 grief, and she seemed sent to us. But she's done her work here, aud you've found her. We're glad and were willing to have her go.' And Cyril took his wife home with him, and at first there seemed little hope that she would ever be anything but the dumb, Rtatuc-like creature he had found her. But gradually there came a change. Mirrah spent nearly all her days in the garden, among the flowers and roses she had loved so well ; and it was the fa niliar things about the house, and her mother's voice and sweet, anxious face, that first stole back into her heart and mind ; and then she took to talking to the flowers and birds when she was alone, and gradually to the people about her. Her recovery was very slow, and to the anxious mother and husband it brought almost as much sorrow as gladness ; for there was something very eai in watching the veil lifting from a mind once so bright and happy. But it did lift at last, and like a cloud through which the sun has burst in sudden splendour all the past rushed back to Mirrah, and with a cry of i iercing joy she threw herself intoj.her husband's aims 4 Cyril ! Cyril ! Is it you? Am I w'th you ? Waa it all a dream, »nd that letter — that letter — No, no;J,I did not dream that ! It is printed ou my heart !' 4 Forget it, my angel. There was not one word of truth in it,' he answered calmly, for he saw that the only way was to speak and quiet her mind at once: for memory had awakened at the very point where it had been lost, 'That

letter was written by a wicked woman who said she loved me, but whom I deipised. But about that,' my darling, you must trust me. It is enough that I never saw the letter till after you had read it, and if you would have trusted' me enough I could have told you tht same then — ' Oh, Cyril !— my husband !— can you forgive? But that cruel letter turned my brain. I did not know what I did.* 4 1 knew it darling. Let us never speak of it again.' 4 But it was our wedding day! Can you forgive me, Cyril ?' 'Dearest, this and all days to come shall be our wedding dty.' And Cyril Thorpe then kissed his wife on the fair and blushing face held 'up to his.