THE STORY-TELLER.

Waikato Times, Volume XL, Issue 3207, 14 January 1893, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE STORY-TELLER.

k oomestjc mm, BY MoiIUSY BOBKItTS. Geoisok Wiltox was a barrister, and as far as outward circumstances were concerned, was on tlie road lo success of some sort. At any rate, lie was past the lirst hard struggle, in which lie starved and went shabby as if lie had been 11 young writer or painter. And writing and painting are, perhaps, even less arduous than the Bar, But when he lirst began to be known outside the Temple, he knew in his own heart that he was nearer going to the: devil than he ever had been, in spite of a case argued cleverly and list, and another argued cleverly and won, lie' grew less cheerful, was at times moody and morbid, at others irritable to excess. Yet he worked hard, and without making much money increased' his reputation, .But it began to be said by some who knew him—and it is to' be remarked no one knew him well—that he drank. This was false in one sense, and true in another. He got drunk occasionally. He was accused by some of taking morphine, because he was careless in his dress; aud one of his acquaintances happened to know that those who take this drug usually end by coming out in dirty collars. Wilton did hot wear dirty linen by any means, but lie. shaved with irregularity, anil sometimes neglected to get-bis coat brushed. In spite of that and his wan face, he was a strikingly hand.some man, and few women meeting him in the street or elsewhere could direct their first thoughts to his toilette. Yet he never paid any attention to women beyond that of common politeness, and was accused by sonic wlio wore piqued, of insincerity which was no more than preoccupation, for he was preoccupied,' and not by business.

Wilton's chambers consisted of a suito of three shabby rooms in the quietest part of the Temple. They could be reached out of a narrow side street through a narrow entry. Tho first room his young cleric occupied, tho second Wilton sat in himself, tho third was.entered by a dingy door that looked as if it were never opened. His usual room was dust\', littered with law-books and papers, and wholly unadorned in any way. From his window he could see ono grimy elm-troo over a lower roof than his own.

One day, two autumns ago, Wilton wont to pacing his room iu a curiously irritable trame of mind. Ho went up aud down for a few minutes, stopped to staro out of his window at the thin mist of falling rain, walked to and fn again, and then stored dully at the wall opposite the window. He went to a shelf and mechanically straightened up some books, be looked at somo tin boxes, one of which was marked " Exors. Thomas Smith. He had been on the Bolls as a solicitor before being called to the Bar. But that locked box contained nothing moro than a mass of waste paper, For all that, he hud. a certain use for it. He smiled a grin kind of smile as he looked at it, and, turning away took a letter from his pocket book.

"It is three already," he muttered, There was a knock at the outer door; he heard his, clerk's voice, and his face brightened. "Mrs Smith to see you, sir,'! said the boy—for he .was no more than a boy: and a veiled woman stood behind him.

" Ask her iu; and, Williams, if any one calls, you will say I am engaged." Wilton's visitor was a very slight' but : tall woman, dressed quietly in dark grey. As the door closed, she threw up her veil, and Wilton went to hor and took her in his arms. He looked at her tenderly for a long time, as if to see something more than was on the surface, and then he kissed her. She laid her head on his shoulder, and did not speak. After a minute, or even more,,he loosed her, and going to the room of the third door, opened- it.. She followed: him :quietly, and, entering with him, sat down.. This room though it bore little levidence of being used, was more comfortable than the : otherj and' possessed'■ a sofa, on; which Wilton occasionally slept when ihe. felt too tired .to, go >to ! Wimbledon. (There was a firo iburning in the grate; over the mantel-piece was a mirror; there were curtains to the windows, and 'as they were halt drawn, the fireilight was;stronger than.the day; Wilton almost closed the door, aud going to her, as she sat by the fire, laid his hand upon her shoulder,

"It is good of you to come, dear," he said,, " Good l" sho replied, with' moro than a touch of bitterness, in it. ;He placed' a chair by hers,, and, 'sitting down, drew her to him. The tears rolled down her cheeks. "It is a long month since you came, Lena," said Wilton,—"a long month; and I havo only seen you once during-all that; time," "How have yuti been, George?" she asked, and l she took off her hat and veil,

110 shrugged Lis shoulders. " They say lam doing woll, but I havo little heart lor work—and you dear?" With a sudden passiounte impulse she turned to him and threw her arms around his neck.' ! ;: :

"George/I shan't/como to see; you very many more timos!" Ho started, aud, > unwinding her arms, looked at her steadily aud with'visible constraint. •■

" 19 it going to be as it used to be, Lena?"

She shook her head,

"No George, I am what you have made me, and I dou't seem to care much about it now, But I am sure I am ill, and going to bo worse. I feel so much weakor; and sometimos I can hardly got up, and I lie down all day, and if I am by myself I cry all tho tiino, aud I fool so miserable that I can't oveu soe you. Oh, my dear, my dear, I have killed you and mysolf!" Tho tears rolled dowu her pallid face aud sho sobbed, trying hard to control herself. Wilton lifted her from the chair, laid her on tho sofa, and, kneeling down, carossed her. But he, too, was very white. Twico he tried to speak and his voice broke. What he said was but an inarticulate murmur.

"My dear, it is I that havo killed you! And aro they kind to you at home ?" "Kind!—yes; but you know—you know I would rathor thoy woreuot kind. I ouly want you—aud oh, I am so misorablo! What—what will you do when I am dead?" "Don't speak so, Lena—don't! You are not going to die." He caught her in his nrms, and hold her so that sho could hardly breathe. Sho thought if sho could only die so She tried to speak, and finally sat up when ho loosed her. He rose from the floor and sat besido her. Sho put both her elaspod hands on his shoulder.

"It's what is troubling mo most, George—this: not that I shall dio but that I sha'n't be able to see you. I shall die with those I don't love near me, and I shall break ■down, George, and call for you. And if you don't come, and you can't, what shall I do ? lam so afraid, and at night I dream I am dying, and I think you are outside, nnd that you know it, and that you can't see me—and it will kill you then, as it is killing me now!" She clung to him desperately, and he was silent, with drawn lips. He could not declare for his very soul that she was deceived. There were tho very lines and marks of death about her hollow temples, whero Fate first sets his fingers upon a doomed man or woman. " If you had seen only our friend, George, as you were when—when I first knew you, you might have seon me. But you como so seldom now. George, what shall I do—tell mo, what shall I do! I can't trust myself, Sometimes I think I must got up and dross and como and see you, and tho impulse is so strong, all other things seem dying first in me. And I shall say something, I shall. What sliall Ido?—tell mo." And she shook with a passion that brolco her heart.

He caught her in his arms again, and stroked her soft fair hair. It could not bo as she said-it should not bo! He spoke at last " What did Bonson say to you ?"

" What do doctors ever say, George ?—but I see what he thinks, and his eyes corroborate what I feel. Aud I see that he has spoken to Grace and to John, And they don't know—they don't know!" "Lena, look here!" said her lover, suddenly: " four years ago I wanted you to go away with mo, I asked you, aud implored you, and you would uot!" " How could I ? It was impossiblo! And you mustn't ask me now, George—you must not!" He did uot answer her, but, taking her closo<to him again, he stopped her words, and dumbly wooed her to break her set resolve. Her nerves and fibres relaxed, her eyes closod, she clung to him closely. Aud yet when he spoke again, he did not prevail. "Let me go, George-let me go! and I will come agaiu next week and tell you. You must lot me tbink —I cannot go now." " If you go you may never return, and I may novor Beo you again," he said stubbornly. He bosed her, and walked iip and down the room. "Ihaveno mind to let you go. Do you know, Lena, I feel that I am capable of keeping you against your will ?"

" But you won't, dear—yon won't! You will be goad to me." She rose from the sofa and flung her arms about his neck. "Be good to mo, dear—l have beon good to you, and I love you so." The tears ran down his cheeks. "lama beast!" ho said; "but you will come next week ?" "I will come."

She did not qualify her promise with " if," yet in her heart was a great dread, She felt so' weak—so weak.

They sat down together hand in hand. "How miserable, it is, dear," said her lover. "It is all so hopeless, If I had only known you before!" "Yo'u-might'not have loved me then." . "Then or any time." " Dear,- my dear!" She etrobed his cheek, and he took her face in his hands. '* Do 'yoti think you would havo been well Lena, if this trouble had not come to you?" "I would rather be as I am." She' pillowed 'hor head on his breast. " "Iknow ; what lam, aud I havo said a thousand timos what others say to me. But, George, now.tl haven't enough strength to be angry,-even with myself." " Iftthere iu any God who looks on the wretched, may he bless you, dear, even yet." "Nothing will ovor bless me again, Goorge," and the big tenrs rolled down her face. "It is timo

"Next week?" "Yes, I promise," ;< Ton will write and tell me how you arc. May T not write ?" " No, don't, I don't supposebut I inn afraid. Oh, George, no one will ever know whou lam dead!"

"How should thoy?" "If I urn ill—oh,l am afraid, Goorgo!" "Next week you will bo hotter." "If only lam not very ill. Not to sou you at all! Havo I strength to dio protending as I have douo those fivo loner yoars? I thought as I grew weaker I mightn't trouble so, but I am weaker, and it is worse. It is hard to go away and leave you. You aro so miserable, too!" ''You need not go, Lena," " I must. What a wretch I am! Good-bye, dear-good-bye. George, you won't ever hate me when I am dead? I want to stay." "Look in ray eyes and think if I shall ever hato you," " I havo seon you look dreadfully at mo, Gojrgo. Sonic'tiuiea you hato mo."

" Not now—not now. I lovo you more than my own life or my own honour. Everything is dead without you. Come, lot us say good-bye —till next week, Lena. Sho sank into his arms, and there was a long silence, broken only by tho hiss of a rain-drop as it foil into the grate through the wide old chimney, Yet tho wind sighed round the room. The fire was almost out, its lifo was nearly spent, but it flickered and spurted light again as the room closed that should hold those lovors no moro.

Mrs Hill—for Smith was not the name of Wilton's mistress—lived in Wimpole street. Her husband was something of a picture-dealer, ho did a little in bric-a-brac and a good deal in usury. Sho had married him when she was twentytwo, the average ago at which marriages aro contracted in England, and did not utterly dislike him till she mot Wilton. Mr Hill was not an offensive man, ho had the appearance of a gentleman, and gonerully managed to keep up that appearauce along with others. But his wife came of a collateral branch of a highly aristocratic family. Howover long tho natural truth and hatred of deceit in a good woman may keep her on the straight path in such marriages, the continued development of divergences is most assured. For hor husband somelimes disgusted her. He not infrequently mado himself ridiculous.

In spite of the estrangement which comes at last between husband and wife, he remained proud of her beauty. He lamented her coldness to himself, but was pleased with her indifference to all others. When it was evident her health began to fail he was greatly alarmed. He allowed her more liberty, and consulted her instinct rather than his own. He believed she was ill, not that she was ill because she was miserable. His concern made her worse, yet as she told Wilton, her remorse was dying as she grew weaker. For her one and only passion was in itself true, and dominant within her. If Hill himself never doubted her, his sister was not more suspicious. But Wilton's slow withdrawal from the house had been dictated as much by his suspicion that Grace Hill was in some danger of becoming fond of him as by other reasons. He had uot been deceived. But he had never told Mrs Hill this side of the affair. In her preoccupation she missed the knowledge which might have saved her wounding Grace, though it would in one way have added greatly to her unhappincss. As for Grace, sho adored her brother, and was usually gentle with every one. For his harder qualities she substituted a strong religious feeling which lie entirely lucked. But her charity did not excuse her sister-in-!iw for having failed to make her brother happy. That he had done his best, she was assured. For, knowing little of character and nothing of marriage, she talked of duty as if that disposed entirely of human nature.

The very next day after her meeting with Wilton, Mrs Hill took to her bed. She was evidently very ill, and seemed to lose strength rapidly. The weather was bitter, and Dr Benson was seriously concerned lest an attack of acute pneumonia might supervene, and he knew she had no physical resources to assist her to light for life. "Shall I die, doctor?" she asked. "Of course you will not do anything so absurd," lie answered with a touch of asperity. But he had his doubts. In any case she coutd not live long. He saw she was mentally troubled, and, thinking it due to'simple fear of death, he did his best to encourage her, and to some extent succeeded, But it was impossible for her to write to' Wilton. Three days passed. Oh the fourth she knew he would be anxious.

When.a week'passed, and she was still unable to leave her room, she grew desperate. Grace was perpetually with her. She'was afraid to ask for writing materials. If she had had the chance, she would have.got-theiu from one of the servants, and brilied lier to post the letter. It. was so horrible to think of "him waiting—waiting, growing "gaunt -and hollow-eyed, with the insomnia \\hich she knew had'always been his'great affliction, outside of 'his: unhappy'passion for her. She waß"right^in j all'her conjec-

turcs. Pay by day Wilton worked and waited, Then he ceased to work, A passion of impatience boset him. Sleep never visited his eyes for seventy-two hours. On the sixth day he went to Benson's, lie, knew him very well. "Well, Mr Wilton," said Benson "what's this? No sleep! And you rub your uyes, don't you J-•nil it's loug odds you have ut pain in your buck; and very likely one in tho neck, too. It won't do. You arc burning up tho triple phosphates 100 fast—much too fast!"

ISo he prescribed for hiru, and seeing that mental worry was at the bottom of the whole matter, gave him good advice, which Wilton knew he wouldn't follow.

" By the way," said Wilton, "yoa are Mrs Hill's doctor, are you not? -of Wimpolc street, I mean." " Yes," said Bwison, " I see her sometimes,"

" She looked very ill when I met her in the street the other day," said Wilton, " what do you think of her?"

"She's not very strong," answered the doctor. "She's in bed now. Her lungs are very delicate." " She's not seriously ill f asked Wilton, anxiously.

" No, I should say not, But she might be." And Wilton, who did not like to press his enquiries, rose. But he never had the prescription made up. He called that afternoon at AVimpole Street and left his card, ilis Hill was in bed, he was told. He went away in a black rage of despair. It was hideous that he could not ra> the woman he loved when slin wiis perhaps dying. Next day there was no doubt that Mrs Hill had a patch of pneumonia somewhere, in the right lung. Benson, on being called, looked wry grave; he could not help seeing how small her powers of recuperation were. He spoke to Grace. "1 fear this is serious, and it seems to me that she is greatly troubled about hoim-tliing. Is it so 1 Do you know of anything that worries her ] Tf you could only set her mind at rest it would be a vast help." "She never gave me her confidence," said Grace sorrowfully. "And Mr Hill 1"

"I can tell you, Br Benson, I suppose, I don't think my brother ever had her confidence eilher." 11 Benson shook his head. " Well, you will do all you can my dear, I am sure. When Grace went upstairs, she found Lena sitting up in bed with a bright red patch on each worn wan cheek. She was greatly agitated. "I am dying, Grace-I know I am dying—am 1 not?" "No," cried Grace, "you must not think it! Lie down, dear—lie down. Shall I send for John tc come home?"

" No," said Lena hoarsi'ly; "no —better not,"

She lay down and was silent for awhile. Grace bent over her and found she was sobbing, the tears ran down heavily. "What is the matter, Lena! Tell me wlmt the matter is} Can't Ido something {or you 1 Don't cry so dear; what can I do to help youf "You can do nothing." Hut she sat up again. "Put the clothes round roe, Grace, and prop me up." She was ghastly white now, and her lips trembled. She tried to speak once or twice, but vainly. Grace wept as she held her, but she was silent.

" You will do something for me, Grace—will you f

Grace nodded. "I want to write a letter, Grace; and when it is written, I want you to post it, "To whom, Lena?" and Grace's voice had a sudden touch of harshness in it. Why was this woman so moved about a letter? Like a flash her mind travelled over countless wild possibilities. For the first time she doubted her .sister-in-law. She looked at Lena,.andthe-dying woman met her eyes: In'them there was a strange. suggestion of assent.

" For I am dy'ingi Grace, and I know it." It was the end of along unspoken sentence. " To whom is the letter, Lena!" "You must promise to post it and not look to see." Grace loosed her. " I don't understand."

"Girl, girl, what,need is there for you to understand! Understand nothing—ohjineverlearn anything, for all knowledge is misery. Will you do this thing for me f Grace tried to -move * her dips. When she did speak he'r».voicewas cold and dry. "I, cannot do this thing. You had better speak to John," Lena reached out her hand, and, weak as she was, caught Grace's arm with a,strong grip. She pulled her.

"Do you 'really want' me to speak to John? Because if you wont do this for me,,l will speak to him—l will

" You cannot," said Grace; arid, shuddering, she fretsd her arm. " I am dying, and I can do anything. ; You don't know me and never did. Nor did he. Neither of you ever could. Will you do this forme?" Grace looked at her and looked away. She "understood, "but could notfqrniulate I her thoughts. ■ This woman, her brother's wife-^np.that

was impossible. Sho shut her eyes, and, opening them again, saw Lena staring at her steadily;. :' " Bring me paper unci a pencil." j Grace rose and said " No" with her lips. ' : " " Bring them to me, or l will tell hiiii as surely as I am speakingT Grace burst into a Hood of tears. "Oh, what shall i do? Don't ask mo Lena—don't! How can 1.1 What do you moan 11 am afraid of you, I don't understand, And yon won't ask John—you shall not, he is your husband, and he loves you I Oh, it is impossible—impossible ! I shall choke—l shall choke!" The woman who had been tortured by remorse, and killed by it, who lay there dying because of the shame that had smitten her, and the long thirsty desire that had starved in silence, was now inner agony without remorse nnd without pity. She was assured of death or she would not have spoken; but the assurance of the end : made her thinlc only of herself and the lover who had brought this thing to her, The strongest passion of her being; was the last to survive—that she could speak so, was to herself a very terrible confirmation of her. own fears; ; ' '' •' ' v' ;,;

"You will do ns I say,' Grace!" And the almost'cruel insistence in Lena's face broke, down the .other's will, supported though it was by the prescriptions of her. creed,-her undonbting instincts, and her pre-, judiccs which were 'iccoming. instincts. Sho iroughl. what she was. bidden to" brings « llin "» 1) irl,,! were ■committing a sin coldly and' •without the impulse of passion, ■,•: (Tu be (attliiimd.j .■■.