The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 28, 12 November 1897, Page 23

The Storyteller.

BOTH TO BLAME.

(I'y Clara Mulucllakd in Are Maria),

It was a dark, cheerless afternoon in November. The air was keen, the wind bitterly cold. From early morning a thick fog bad enveloped London like a pall ; and the streets in the AVest End were dreary and deserted, few p.-;op'e caring t«i leave their hunies on such a day unless driven thence by business or duty. In the dininy-rooni of a house near Rusaell Square the firelight danced aud flickered upon thu gr-'en painted walls and old family portraits; upo 1 the big. clumsy sofa and hijh-baeked ve.lv* t chairs; upon the thick Turkey carpet, ciimson tablecloths, and large stanu of ferns and evergreens in the window. The furniture was all good and solid, the room high-ceilinged and wellproportioned ; yet there was a dhn'v. gloomy look about it that harmonised with the gvru ral dreariness of this most depressing afternoon.

In an arm-chair by the fire sat a tall, slight girl of five or mx and twenty. She had iair hair, well-cut, regular features, and i\ small, prettily shaped mouth. Her eyes were a cleir blue, but their expression was somewhat hard; and her whole altitude spoke of weariness and dejection.

" Life is dull !" she murmured, stretching her feet toward the fire and folding her hands upon her lap. "I often envy Lucinda. She got out into the world, away from this dreary stagnation. Sometimes I te^l as if it would kill me. And yet I am well dressed, well fed, comfortably housed ; bat " — she rose to her feet and walked restlessly up and down — " my soul, my heart, is starved — dead almost within me. lam withering away for want of something to care for. And how different was the life I had planned ior myself 1" The door opened trad the servant entered the room. '•If you please, Miss," she said, "there's a poor woman wishes to sea you." " What does she want, Mary ? Is she begging !" " She did not say, Miss. She looks ill and is wretchedly dressed. She said she was your maid once." " Show her in." Mary hurried to light the gas. introduced the stranger, and withdrew. Evodia looked at the small, fragile figure, the pale, wasted face, and the trembling hands. <- " Oh, how ungrateful I am !" flashed through her mind. " I grumble, and think my sorrows unbearable, forgetting the poverty and misery some people endure." " Miss Mayne, don't you know— don't you remember me ?" inquired the poor, scantily dressed creature. " Laura 1 Is it possible !" " Ab, yes, Mi&s ! lam poor, wretched — starving."' " You ought not to be out on such a day. It is not safe."' " I had to come. My little ones are without bread to—" "Your children!" Evodia made her bit down upon the sofa beside her. " Yes ; my sweet darling. 0 Jii^, you are v. ell off, I hear! You will help us !" " But your husband — what of him !"' " He is dead. --drank hiinsell to du.it li." "My poor Laura! Why did 30a never come to me before?" asked Evodia. "I thought jeu were manied. and did not dare to faco the

ma-ter.' Evodia criins r ueil. '■He would ha>e lulpcd you. But who (.old you I — was not married .' ' '•Dr. Dlgar B.uce." Evod.a sta,ri(.ci lound, wliite iv* dtath. " Who .'" "Dr. Bruce, 11!-'!. I saw the nui^ter's d<-ath in an old pa; cr ye-terday, and I 1 wi-htd you were stJi at home.. He told m<j you were, and that 1 ou^ht to go to jou.' '•He— he sanl that / ' " Yes ; and he praised you so, Miss." " ludecd !" (cleily) "That was very kind of him. But he knows little about me; it is yeirs since we m-'t,. Is hv " — getting up and walking o\ir to tue fin place — manied y< t . ' "No. They — thit is, hi-s huu-ekce^r :-ays tnat he'll nc:\er marry. He h.ites women, never geei jj 11 1 11 1 3' place whero he d bee a lao I}'.1 }'. and ju^t li\ts lor his pr ■te---.0.i. B.it Ih'"s a good mini aud only ior him me ant mine would be de id lorg ago." "1 — I am glad to lieu- you have tuch a Iriead. And now. Laura, go down and get tc.i. ' She rang the hell. "Mary'" — as tiie servant ni>p arid — -tiVe Tu: s. Kiwjer to the kitchen and give hi r ;i gnoii l.v.d. You lucd not lie aiiaid, Laura," bhe s .id gently, pi\->i>n,r t'"e poor woaian's hand. "I'our children shall now have evtryihiiig i.'uy reg uiv." " Oh, thank you ! God buss y t v, " cried Laura, with emotion ; "and give you your heart's de^.r .' And &he followed Mary out of the 100 m. "My heart's desire ? If it were po^-..ble ! If ho " her eyes f shone, a smile softened and beautified lur t.u c—"hee — "he hates women! Thank Llod ! for, at that late, he will never, iu\er marry. But why need I c*ue .'" And her hand trembled as she rai-ed her handkerchief to h-i (yes to wipe away the tears that kept gathering there. But at la t sL.e lee them fall finely, and bobbtd as thobgli her heart would bre. t k. "Bitterly do 1 repent my folly!" she ericl. ''But, alas! it is too late — too late!" Seme seven years before Lucitida and Evodia Mayne were extremely bright, pretty girls, full of fun, and bent on getting

as much amusement as possible out of life. At the end of her first season Luanda succumbed to the charms of a gay young captain in the artillery, married him aud accompanied him to ndia. But Evodia, the most unmitigated little ilirt ever born, was hard to please, apparently, and refused to marry any of her various suitors. Then, to the surprise of everyone and the great annoyance of her parents, she engaged hers' If to Edgar Bruce, a struggling young doctor, to whom muni.ige, for the time beiner, was an absolute impossibility. Her far.h r fumed ami r-coliiel ; her mother implored. But Evoi^a was firm, t-ho loved Edgar and would marry no one el-e. So. much nsyu'M&b their will, her parents consented, and the in '.igement wis announced. For s >rue months the lovers wc-ro supremely happy. Edgar began to get on his profession, an I tlv r • m t"uul every pro-peot of their being able to marry in a naioli tLoiler time than liad bsen at fir.-t expected. But Evodia went out a groat deal ; and. E-ig.ir declared, flirted a great deal. This she did not tittymj.it 10 ih-ny : but, saying gaily, that she must have some oiMipition. laughed at his jealous fears. Bruce did his b< hL to ievl cntenr, but he suffered kee-ily. The wilful girl's liahtuis* .i,id fri\ ohiy caused him many a pang. This state of affairs went on for some tmie; and then one day things reached a oliui.i-c. a;:d their brief happiness was at an end. Amongst their acquaintances was a Ciptni'i Dtan, si man of rather doubtful character, for whom Biujc had an intense dislike. He admired Evodia, and made no secret <>f his admiration. This maddened her lover, and he implored her to keep him at a distance. She promised to do so ; and, foolish thouga she thought such a request, was determined to be true to her word. But she had no idea how difficult this wouli be. A couple of weeks later a friend or the Maynes gave a picnic on the river. Bruce was detained in town" by business. Much rejoiced at his absence, Captain Do:.n kept clute to the girl all day ; and, in spite of her cold looks and distant manner, paid her most marked attention. In the evening Bruce ran down to Mf-ider.her.d to jcin the party at dinner ; and as he stood in the gardt n of the hotel, v atching the boats approach, he looked out eargrrly for E\odia. But suddenly he flushed hotly, and his heart throbbed with indignation. In the second boat, a little apart from their cr.mpanioi.s. sat C-. plain Dean and Evodia Mayne. Her head was bent, and he was whimpering in her ear. Bruce stamped his foot, and an oath escaped his lips. " This must end, or — " " Why, Edgar, how angry you look !" said Evodia, springing lightly onto the grass, and lying her hand upon his arm. " You have disobeyed me !" he cried. " Evodia, I—"I — " " Pray be calm ' It was not my fault." " Not your fault ? I can not believe — " "Then don't!" she flashed out. "And allow mo to sny, Dr. Bruce, that I will not be spoken to in such a manner. You uo not s-eem pleaded with me oc Lite. But I—well,1 — well, all thii gb considered. I think we had bt tter end our engage nieut."' '• Evodia. do you mean it .'" " Ceri airily."' hhe was hurt and angry, and did not wik,h her words. '" You are tyr.iimital, jealous. J — ' '•Say no more!' lie gave htr on<; long look. "I will not trouble you ; yoa are free. Good-bye, 11 is-, J\l..yne !" '•Good-bye!' she replied; .11, d, scarcely knowing what she did. the tool: Captain Dean's arm ai.d quickly pitted into the dii!in< - room. Edgar gazed aft r her in silent consideration ; then, with a groan of au^uu-h. turned away and strode out oi the gardui Evodia mpuut a miserable eu-uinu 1 . Emboldened by w hat lie had seen and he.tni. Captain Dean asked the y ill to become l.i& wife. Bat she rofu-cl him indig.i uitly ; and. v.iih a htona ot teais, accused him of having wrecked her happiness ; and, v.U< 1 an angiy scene they parted njver to ireet again. As soon a- s le could. Evodia hurried h.ime, half hoping to fied E<lgor waiting to iuigne her ; but he was not— hud not u'eu thei\ . Llicn s-he thought she wouli write to 1 im. But her pride steppe- i in and s-he ecu d not bring hdi-elf to do so. He. would su;eiy c.-iiiC next d y <>r in the evening, and very soon everything would be ci.pj.iii.ed ai.d forgiven. Tne day pa^-id <i\er, however ; evt mng came .'lid the night wore on. Anott er day bruise, and anothci. and anotl er ; i>ut Edgar luither came nor vwole. rlhor lho gnl was dMraeted. He had taken her at her woid. Th<-ir 1 ngageiruiit was at, an cid ; all was over between tliem. It wa^ eiuel. unfair : lie ought not to hn\o condemn d — bel.eved the woist ot her so lvadi-y. And y. tnj peaivnccs had been against Ler. It \vr.s 101 surp i.-Miig ho viisungrv. Once she wrote a long letter telling him v.A- ; then she t- iv ie tip lie must u.ake Uiu iir h t ad\a'ue , is w s not 1 1 . * lit, tliat s!ie should do so. A!l tns happ- ned in June, ami in Aagu-i Evodia wej.f, al.:ord with ler t.itlur .nd nir.tlnr. She told them quialyth.it she b,iu rnvktn oil her enj, ig«n,ent. :<.:.d they weic not soiry. 'J hey wore ambi'ii.u-* for their pretty d.ugh.er. and linpo.l thai she. would -uo.! m;rry some one moio eligible than Edgar j-rui c. The lollowiug winter \\;..s a st veie. one. and Miv. Mayne, ne\overy fctrong, became a cciiCiimed in\.J d. E\o(im. suld.ieil and "addeued, devoted lur-tl: he.utai.d soul to her mother; j.mi thegav world, oi which bhe had been .-0 brilliant an ornament, saw Ler^no more. She now 1( d a dull, anxious life; but she never coinj la ; nnl. Her parents ofUn woniiend at the change in her, but tlic> ne eguessed what she suffered Her heart aelud and her miiul wis lv.l ot one great yearning. If only she eoi.l'i c E^g^r ;nd t<-il Inn of her sorrow and be,' his forgh. ne^s. l\v n i,g- hoi.!-- ot tlie d..y s» c would sit with her mothet, ei-wmg or reiuin.g ; ai d all the time shj was thinking 01 Edg«r — hoping, watehmg, waiting. But he ne\e-r came. He dropped completely out ot lur life; ai.d at hist she became convinced that he had ceased to care and had foi gotten her.

After a long and tedious illness her mother died ; and Evodia would gladly have lain down beside her and stifled the aching pain at her heart forever. But her time had not come ; she had still her lonely old father to console and care for. Thig she did bravely ; and for four years they led a peaceful life together, going out a little, seeing a few intimate friends in a quiet, unpretentious fashion, and spending months at a time touring in Italy or wintering in the Bouth of France.

Deeply grateful to his daughter for her love and devotion, Mr. Mayne was, nevertheless, most anxious that she should marry, and frequently urged her to do so. " When I am gone you will be lonely and desolate, Evodia." " ifon are not going yet, dearest," she would reply, smiling. " You are hale and hearty ; and — and I am happier as 1 am."' But life, alas ! is uncertain, and when she least ezpeoted it, he "was taken from her. His last illness was phort ; his death 6udden, and it was long before the girl could realise that he was gone. Mr. Mayne had now been dead three weeks ; and truly, as he had said, Evodia was desolate. All her old sorrows soemed renewed a hundredfold. There was no one now to consider, no necessity to keep cheerful or speak brightly ; and she broke down completely The very life seemed taken out of her, and she would sit for hoursbrooding over the past— weeping, sighing, lamenting for the happiness that she had lost

The doctor who had attended Mr. Mayne in his last momenta. alarmed at the girl's morbid grief and prostration, urged her to see her friends, and seek change of air and scene. But she only smiled sadly, and shut herself up the more. Then, as she sat absorbed and miserable, poor Laura came to her. and the story she told routed and interested her. Upon hearing that Edgar had spoken well of' her, and had advised this woman to seek her help, she ehed many tears. Then all at once her heart grew lighter ; a feeling of hope — an almost nameless expectation — took possession of her.

"It may be that God has heard my prayers at last.' And, oh, how I have prayed 1 We may never meet. But, if it is the will of God, I trust we may," she cried. " And he shall not be disappointed in me : I will help Laura. If he never sees me, he shall at least hear good of me. And — who knows? — our Blessed Lady may have sent this good woman and her children to me. God loves the poor and the fatherless. To help them will comfort me, make me forget myself."

So Laura was sent off with a hamper of g'ol things for her little ones, and the next morning Evodia climbed up the narrow stair to the dismal garret in which they lived. Horrilio.i at the size and closeness of the room, she insisted upon removing to a lutl»ing in a better and more airy situation. Laura was a lair dressmaker ; so Evodia bought her a sewing-machine and helped her to get work, and very soon the little family was in a fourishmg condition.

But all this time, though she heard of him irtquently, Evodia never came across Edgar Bruce.

" He cannot forgive ; he avoids me," she would say, with a sigh " Well, I was foolish to expect anything else."

Then Laura's youngest child fell ill ; and Evodia, who had come to love the little fellow dearly, spent many hour-, of the day beside his bed. And Edgar Bruce visited and looked after the boy. she knew ; yet, whether by design or accident, he never came to the sick-room when Evodia wn* there.

But one afternoon, as she went up the stair? ranying *o no jell* to the little invalid, a man came down, reading a lttur 'llu- j;iri did not look at him till he was close beside htr, aud iln-u slio rec< ionised him with a start. She stopped short, yazod at him, but \\a^ unable to articulate a word. He stood aside to let her pa-s, and as he raised his head their eyes met. He took a quick step forward, just touched her hand and then let it drop. " Miss Mayne, I hope you are well /"' He spoke slowly and without emotion. His voice was cold and indifferent.

" Yes, thank you !" she replied quietly. '• I hope our patient is doing well ?"

" Splendidly. Good-day I" And, raising his hat sl'glitly, he passed on.

Evodia leant heavily against the wall. II >r heart was beating to suffocation ; she trembled in every limb.

"Oh 1" she murmured. "Oh. how cold, how indifferent ! But what else could I expect ? It is natural." And she continued her way upstairs.

After this they often met — in- the sick-room or on the stairs. But never for long ; and beyond a hurried remark about the little patient or the weather, not a word passed between them. Evodu's manner was cold and dignified ; his, distant aud rigidly polite. " How changed he is ! How old and stiff and unpleasant I" she would cry, pacing her room with rapid footsteps. '• 1 am sorry we met again ; and yet no" (blushing deeply)* "it is a joy to tee — to speak to him — even for a moment." *

On Christmas Eve Jackie was better, and was able to join his brothers and some little friends, for whom Evodia had prepared a good tea and a beautiful Christma,s-tree in his mother's sitting-room. The party was a lively and a noisy oue ; and as E %-odia stood upon a chair, cutting off the toys from the tree, and distributing them to a number of wildly excited, clamorous boys and girls, the door opened and Edgar Bruce walked in.

'• May I help you ? " he asked. " These young people are too much for you."

" Thauks 1 I shall be glad if you will," she said ; then bent low, as with heightened colour and trembling lingers, she cut a pretty doll from a brauch.

The tree stripped of its treasures, and tea disposed Of, dancing began. Evodia hud hired a piano and a lady to play it. and the ohildren were in high delight. Waltzc-*. polk,i«. and go-mrs followed one another in quirk succession, an.l Edg ir Bruce took p.ut in lhe>u all. He and Evodia marshalled the children, joined liuud-. m " Oranges and lemons," and curtsied and danced up and dow n the room together, to the cheerful strains of '• Sir lioger de Coverly."

But when at last all was over, and even the little Sawyers had been carried off to bed by their mother Evodia turned to thank him for his kindness ; he merely bowed coldly and hurried away . With, a heavy sigh the girl sank upon the sofa. '; I must say a word to Laura before I go," she murmured, wearily ; then lay back and closed her eyes. As she lay thus the door opened, and Edgar Bruce entered and stole quietly across the floor. As he reached the sofa Evodia started up. A bright blush crimsoned her pale cheeks ; then faded, leaving her paler than before. " You are tired," he said, gently. " Oh, no ! It was only for a moment," she answered, walking over and leaning her elbow on the mantlepiece. "I have quite enjoyed it all. " You are so good to these people." "Itis a pleasure to me. You see, I want something to do." " Indeed 1 You used to have a great deal to occupy you in the old days." " Yes." Tears rose to her eyes and her colour deepened. " But — but 1 have lost everyone — I loved.' 1 "I know : and, believe me, I was truly sorry for your trouble. Your father and mo'hfr were very dear to me." Evodia claspe 1 her hands tightly together. A sob rose in her throat ; she choked it back with an effort and tried to speak. But her lips trembled, and she turned quickly away. •' Evodia," — he came close to her side — '• do you ever think of those happy days long ago ? " "Think ot them/" and she sighed. " They are never out of my thoughts." " Then,"— he grew white and his voice shook with emotion — '• then you did care, after all ? " '■ Care ! O God, if you only knew ! But, Edgar," she cried, impulsively, " I behaved badly ; it was all my fault. Yet I have longed to tell you ssto — to — "' " And you cared nothing f.,r Captain Dean ? Thf y spoke falsely who told me you -were eroirg to mm-ry him ? " '• I c.u-eii nothing tor lum. r.nd I iiave never seen him or spoken to him c ince that fatal clay upon the mer." •' My God, what a i'o<»l 1 was ! illut I was mad with jealousy ; I 10-t ontto] (.vi rmy temper . Can you c\er forgive me, Evodia ? " '• Yi'P. ireely. But we w ere bmh to blame," she paid, softly. " When I left you that ni»lv tit Maidenhead" — he ocught her hand— - I was wild with uriei. The nrxt day I was very ill ; and wh n I slowly recovered I w a-- sent r broad. Then I heard you were engaged, soon to be married to l>c>u ; and I believed it. After that I asked no more. I was wretched — miserable ; but I threw myself into my work, and — and struggled on. I never saw you, never met you, till — and then, too late, 1 learned that you were free." '• Not too — late,' 1 she whispered, '• if — " '• Evodia ! " — he drew her toward him. "Is it possible I — may I— dare I hope that you could <-tiil love me, be my wife ? " The yirl ra<\cd her It- ad and lookul straight into his eyes. '■ You may hop" if — " lie bfi, t and pvo-^cl her hand. "If vhat. '■Wbeih'viL ' Omy lo\ c —my only love — don't make the coiul tio: 1^ too hard ! " " I— >"ly meant li yo-i 1 ny >ne R.- I lore you," she whispered. Th< n. Irc-nibiii'g and blu->hirg, m :g turned away, covering her face with her hands.