The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXV, Issue 6, 7 February 1907, Page 3

The Storyteller

HIS DAUGHTER EtIZABETff

,• ' It hardly seems right,' sighed; ";JYlrsy yWing, and her tired, eyes sought mat corner where her daughter ,sat. ' Laura, if Euiabeth knew the sore - straits we were - in— surely, surely,' she could iiot'- ~refu.se to ' help us. Her father was your father,' oliildj s and you are but asking for your own.', -,-... The girl at the window brushed back, her fair hair wij.li -a thin blue-veined hand. ' She hates us, mother;' \ ' ' Bulj thiat wab when we were as well-oft as, she, and happy and had no -afflictions. I was good to her in those days when your father was harsh and cold. Perhaps now if you go to her, and tcir her the true -condition of affairs — _ \ -' ' Laura Wing could bear.no more.. Her -sewing < dropped . < npop. heir lap, and , her blue eyes filled with ■ tears. 'Mother,' she said tenderly, 'I wrote" to Elizabeth two months ago. Not receiving a reply, I—l1 — I went to her. Her, servant — they are all new servants ~,now, mother, none of the old ones are left — brought my name to ' her mistress, returning to me with the message that Miss Wing was busy, : and nf future would not' be at home to me.' - - "Laura ! ' cried the mother in horrified accents. - 'Ah ! ' returned the girl sadly, 'it was-Jor your dear sake alone that I so humbled myself— l could not bear to sp& you sufier, dearest "mother.' She rose -arid, advancing to, her mother's -s&dj?,., putag&er arms about her.- ' Surely father knows thj^truj^^iow— sure ' ly he realises how Elizabeth must^^^r^^^igntfd' us,' who 'so loved him, and whovwere so anxiowfe to do right.' She sighed. ' God knows it, toot^-adid— when God_ is" ready, Tie will end this misery.' - .■ " • Mrs. Wing 'clasped -her- daughter, to her heart.. . A >, look-- of spiritual joy. flashed .across her- wj|n\ face. . ' Thank the good Lord that no .. hardship' 'can dim our faith in ""Him-, 1 she said. 'I will confess that lor .many days I have been "thinking over, this plan of a last appeal to Elizabeth;; and had^almosti "convinced myself that she could not resist usfe But since yo,u .have gone to her without av-asifethen^four'case is hopeless.' ' ' _ - -'-.-- 'Hopeless,' said' Laura, with, conviction,-/ unless \God - feels that our privations have- been long (pnough endured. Somehow, mother, 1 cannot rid myself of the conviction that the day is fast approaching when we shall know the truths Meanwhile — '. - ' Meanwhile, you are growing pale and miserable and "wretched. Long hours of toil have driven the jLoses 1 from your checks, the light" from your eyes. If ' 1 were gone — ' i .../-" s . " v

The- girl shuddered. ' ' . : . ' Would you reduce me altogether to despair ?"'* she asked, in trembling tones. 'Oh," I -beg of,' you,i my ■ mother, do not, -do not even dream in your own mind ,of such a terrible catastrophe. Then -indeed, I would be able to bear no more.' . ' My good little daughter ! ' whispered Mrs. Wing, gently kissing her. 'My good litrtle girl ! ' " • ■"•.,.- The fate, of Mrs. Wing and her young, daughter, . Laura, had astonished the circle in which they moved, and which, as is the way of the world — had by this time forgotten* them.. All save a few,, who .helped Laura— -by giving her < orders for embroidery and odd * jobs" at fancy sewing-4t© support herself and her mother. V "~ : r -gi,.. ■ - . ' Benjamin Wing, the : wealthy manufacturer, had been . a widower "with one daughter, Elizabeth, when he met Laura Dent at the home of a friend. His married life had been a brief^.' and stormy, and, only that his Catholicity forbade it, he would have separated from his wife during the first year of their marriage. She had no love for the child ihat was- to be born, and when it came, Mr. Wing- had to see ' that proper - nurses ' were engaged and that it received the attention so necessary to a young babe. At- the end of their fourth -year of -wedded urihappiness, the gay and * brilliant" wife, known as the belle of. her own particular set, caught a severe cold. Her strength was undermined by late hours and much pleasure, _ and in a ~ fortnight she had succumbed- to the sickness " that had come upon her. '• • ■ . - ~ Behflamiox - ; Wing buried her, a<nd raised a haindsorae monument to her memory. His conscience smote him that, after the first natural pang, he had no

real regret. He could wish that she had been- different, that she could have realised his conception of her as he imagined her at first. For that concept ' lion he could mourn,- but not for the frivolous woman who had courted death by her folly i Eliza/be'ith was fourteen when' he met Laura Dent. He had- no. thoughts of a second marriage ever, until then, and although he came in contact with the }JUI many times during the year ' that followed, still" the idea was remote from him: Outbursts of temper on" the part of Elizabeth, .always violent, became more •pronounced that year, and at last her father deckled to place her in a convent to finish her education. By every means in their power the good nuns strove to help the self-willed, girl. What little good they succeeded in doing her wasN uprooted,- when, the year following, her father wrote., to her of his .approaching marriage. Just as long as..they«dared -the "Religious kept hen*, ami then -reluctantly informed " Benjamin Wing that he must take his daughter home— that she was a menace to the discipline of the house. Laura Wing welcomed her husband's daughter with open arms. In her own gentle, quiet way, she stood-*-between her and his anger. Many t»imes she niade , peace when war seemed inevitable. " With soft_speech she strove to win her favor, but all her efforts were in vain, and oftentimes Elizabeth wrung her stepmother's heart. All this she conce,aled> from -her Jiusfoand, praising his daughter to him, and praying without ceasing for the poor girl who, she felt, had never known a mother's love. , N One day, however, Benjamin Wing returned unexpectedly, and found his wife in tearg. Elizabeth had been particularly belligerent, and, even before Laura could make excuses for her, turned stormily • upon her father. A dreadful scene ensued, and Laura became deathly ill. That night Benjamin Wing resolved that Elizabeth must find shelter under another roof, and belore Laura recovered 'had himself taken the girl to a distant relative of her mother's. i The years that followed for man and wife'- were' happy ones. Laura ,was> ,an ideal woman, indeed, gentle and lovable. One beautiful little • girl came t o them to complete their happiness, and for the decade that passed over their heads, the man, "once so cruelly disappointed and disillusioned, knew what it was- to lead an existence almost like that of paradise. His little daugjhter was 7 ten years old, , when he; one morning, received a letter from Elizabeth, announcing that she would pay him a short visit the following month. ' And »it shall be a short visit,' he said, and his tone was stern. ' She has never tried in any way to conciliate me. All her life she has seemed to hate me— as if i were a stranger who had wronged -her, and not her father, who had done his best to make her happy. And I warn you, Laura, tMat unless she proves of different mind than she was ten years ago, her visit must' terminate immediately.' Strangely enough his daughter Elizabeth— no longer a passionate, self-willed child of fourteen, but a slend- "* er, dark-eyed young woman of twenty-four,— seemed, indeed, a new character. She was brillaint as her mother had -been, gay an-d talented^ and devoted her- ' self at once to her father. Her %isit, instead of being a short one, lengthened into-, months, -arid at last the father decided that she must remain with them altogether. To his praises of his daughter, Laura listened, and tried with -all heir heart, to echo them. ... Only she seemed to read below the surface ; only he knew what Elizabeth made her suffer by quiet snubs, 1 by petty meannesses. , Little by little Benjamin Wing leaned less '- upon ■ • his wife and more upon Elizabeth. Elizabeth decided this question and that, Elizabeth decided this change or that plan, Elizabeth; always Elizabeth. She had ' the elusive charm of her mqfther— the oharm that had captivated Benjamin Wing in the 'past years, and which had so soon vanished, once the shallow nature underneath asserted itself. By and by Laura -withdrew more and more, and •- allowed Elizabeth to Jbecome first— as she' had meant • to be from the day she entered the house. She sWI- " fully concealed her contempt of her- stepmother, her dislike of her half-sister. The man, mait-like, noticed • the subdued demeanor of -the wbman, and ascribed it 'as meant he should, to -jealousy. He' did not mean to be cruel or unjust, and he loved Laura and his second daughter. But the gay manner of Elizabeth -held him. She was always happy, always^oheer- - ful, her wit pleasant, * her talents nranv— a striding contrast to the others. ' The climax came when Benjamin Wing was stricken with apoplexy one day, and was carried to the room from which he • was never to emerge alive. Here, in '

the Tight lie waged with death, he' had no .desire to have any one aboul him but his' daughter Elizabeth. i\ighff and day, ,she tended him and"- was assiduous in her att.entio.ns andc care. • ' .' • . - - . 5 . • Well, Benjamin -Wing died, - and" when' Benjamin Wing's will was read, it was discovered^ to the astonishment of - all, .that his. widow- and His , daughter' Laura had not even been left the proverbial shilling, while every bit of his leal estate and pro-* perty went to Elizabeth. >o * one - realised the" meaning of this less t'haii the gentle-hearted woman—not" even when Elizabeth, without' preamble, told her that she must leave the house. Indignant friends sought Laura and advised her to contest the will. But in all her wedded life she had nevet gone contrary- to her husband's desires,' and now she w a s too stunned to comprehend. There seemed to have been some frightful. . misunderstanding— surely the husband who had' been so much to her could not have been capable of an «ct so cruel. , Smitten and "wounded she stole quietly away— she and -her little „-girl—a nd buried herself in an obscure street, hiding from air those who ;bad known her. Here the sale of her personal belongings" kept her -for a few years. SKe made no provisions for the . future, since she could foresee* no future. Presently . the little girl, grown into blossoming maidenhood, took from the weary shoulders, the burden of struggle. She aippealed to certain, friends for aid in securing employment. They helped, her, doing what they could, but /as it- so chanced, the wealthiest are not always the most willing. / Laura was glad to secure the hare necessities of life, and. TVLrs. Wing's heart ached to see her daughter — who should have been surrounded by every luxury — thus reduced to the condition of a -drudge. - „If Laura longed for the privileges whichjhad been taken away from her, she suppressed - "the longingquietly. She was an odd' creature in her own" way/ deeply : religious, and in all this privation 'she lead*" the will of G6d.> Her faith that things would" change nev^ 1 er failed her: • - - . . - , . , ■ , l l don't know "why father made- such "a will, she would say „ often to the heartsick., mother ;.' and I doufo't 1 if he ever did. I do not accuse JElizabetfo. of dishonesty— l understand how she -could manage to be dishonest— but some day we will "find out the truth.' ' • ■ And tnis/hopefulness came part of.-;her. **- * *" * * ♦' * •• - .< . Dr. Burton entered the house, drew of? his watersoaked overcoat, and rubbers, and ' then,- . "damp : ~arid tired, sought the cosy study where warmth and comfort awaited him. , A summons brought his ; tidy • sefrvant with- a steaming bowl of coffee ' and .'as he sipped .. it "he gazed - into the open -fire thoughtfully. For that very evening, he - had listened to a singular "story — one that read like a romance. He had been called to the- bedside of a protege of Miss Elizabeth Wing's— a wealthy young -woman, whom he admired very much. In fact she had shown a decided preference for his society, and he- in turn had been attracted by -her charm and So when, she.lgave , him the address^ of a certain John Hemp-, stead, and told him, in. her dignified way, thit he had ' /"been a faithful servant of her father's, and was now a pensioner on' her bounty, he made "haste to call upon him: His two visits -were made in the presence of Mss Elizabeth herself. She was much concerned, and drew Di\ Burton aside to find" "out if there was any hope of him. Dr. Burton could give no hope. 1 I must make a thorough -examination . of the man first,' he said ; ♦ I will' return later— say in about an hour.' - ";*"■, t V " ■ - • He did so— to find Miss^Wing still with the old man, as faithful in her care as if he had been her fatiher, and' not her father's servant. Several tbinjgs happened during that visit to annoy' Dr. Burton. - In the first place, E-lizabetih did not seem inclined to Teave-. him alone 'with John Hempstead, and when he requested her politely but firmly to retire for a short while, the old man in turn begged him to allow herto- remain. And, in spite of the apparent earnestness . of his . request, there seemed such * an v expression 'of .pleading in his eyes, that the look haunted the physician. ~ *"" ' .' If this" medicine does not' help him within the nex_t few days, let me know,' he said, ..writing - -.put the prescription. . He did not think it necessary . to tell. Elizabeth that he had resolved to call"' "at some -unexpected "hour, so that he might have the patient to himself. And at ten o'clock- that evening, in spite of "fhe ' uncomfortable weather and his own 1 state, of fatigue, he had stepped into the hallway of John

Hempstead's modest home. The housekeeper, a peculiarlooking woman, evidently simple-minded, recognised him. .. '-"ies, I know you are the doctor — but Miss Elizabeth says that no one— no one— is to see Mr.-Hempr stead, unless she is' here. - And now Miss Elisabeth is not here.' - - '"' f But Miss Elizabeth sent me,' he said. », 'Sent you ? 'she, asked. -","".' 1 Sent me,' ' .of . course— l am to examine Mr. , Hempsteaid • now. %It f is "all right,' he said,, assuming a masterful manner. '1 must huiry — 1 have no time- to waste.-' •' „'-:-"* " . .] She brqke out into further and voluble speech, but he brusihed her aside without listening and went upthe stairs to John Hempstead's room. - , The dark eyes of the.- sick- man met :his glance - stolidly. " „ - ' . ' ' • ' How are you feeling ?' asked the physician. '..I was passing this way . and s thought 1 would drop in. Miss Wing is evidently bent on taking good care of you.' 1 She is here ? ' asked John Hempstead, in a weak voice. y , ' No,' answeicd the " doctor, ' she is not here.' - He was amazed at the' expression that shot across the sick man's countenance. He put .one .trembling hand upon his arm. ' 'You are sure she is not here? Look, oh, look. To satisfy him the young man did so, first propping him up with pillows. When he, approached the bedside again, {he dying man clutched at Mm, < 'Oh, in the name of God, "and His blessed- Mother, bring me a priest ! Do not let me die in my sins. It is not too late to .redeem myself, and to do justice to those who have been wronged.' . ' But why—' began the joung man, bewildered. ' She will not permit it. The woman below stairs is my jailer ; I have seen no one but her and Elizabeth Wing for the last five years, and I have not been to confession in over eight— -not once -since Benjamin Wing, her father, died.; Dr. Burton stared at him, wondering if the nearness of death 1 " had made him distraught. ' But there was something convincing about his appearance — the light in his eyes, the expression of his face were those of a sane man. ' You will have time to make your peace with God,' he sa»xd gravely ; ' that much >1 promise you. But we are not likely to have this chance to be alone again*— l shall go for a priest as soon as I leave heje and bring him back with .me.' ' But you must- listen first— l was Benjamin Wing s - servant— he had a wife and a second -daughter, Laura. I know * that he had made a will leaving them the bulk of his property and Miss Elizabeth very little, as she bad inherited some from his first wife, her mother. I know that the will was hidden away—' His eyes grew wide, with fear, jhis fingers clung wildly to the physician's arm. ' I myself, saw Benjamin V\*ng conceal that will, sir, but to save my very soul I cannot remember where. She does not know this— l have kept her in - ignorance of my ignorance, for I was old and neededsome one to look after me. So I promised herthat- • I would tell her on my deathbed where ;the wi'il" is. That is the reason why she is so constant in her attendance and urges and" keeps urging , me and worries out my heart and brain with questions which I cannot answer.' 'But where are the , other two— where are the • wife andd the other, daughter ? ' . ' God only knows", sir ; she turned.->hem from the house. An old Will which left everything to her was probated, and- because Mrs. Wing did not contest it, it was carried out. She was , kind enough to them, untir the law decided^, ii£ her favor, and then she showed her - true ' hatted:' ' But why did \ you not say something— why have you concealed — ' ' I might be believed, . sir, . if I could -tell where the real will was, but how could I make any claim like that with nothing to prove it ? I told her of tins other document, and she promised me all sor^s- of things if I would, ..give it. to' her, and then I saw the chance to take things easy for the rest of my life and I -did it. I did it, that's all, and blackened my own soul, and now I see the wickedness oC it.' -_ - - ' Even now, the fact_that there is a will, will not help matters unless you. can recollect "its hiding-place,' said Dr. Burton. ' ' I'm hoping and prayitig; that after 1 ani reconciled to 'God, He will- bring back my memory,' said the old man fervently. • 1 Then you shall see the priest at once,' .said Dr. Burtoo. ' I will go for him this moment.' -

He had forgotten his fatigue, as he put on hat and coat again and left the room.' Some instinct made him tread softly. As he passed the door- of : the. halt? opened sitting-room -. he glanced in. The housekeeper, in bonnet and cloak, sat nodding over. the. fire. -Dr.' Burton paused irresolutely. Jtuther she was- waiting for Ms departure to go- to Miss , Wing, ., or had "just returned! The former conjecture was prooably "the correct one. He stole out, very softly, pulling the., doormat over so * that the door would not ciose behind him, and ' lost no time in finding tbe nearest .Catholic church,, where one of the Fathers responded at once to the call. -As they 'went along, Dr. Furton" tolti 'the priest of tbe possibility"~of not being able to gain entrance, and that they might have, to force one. Fortunately, however, this contingency did not present himself. The door; was as Dr. Burton had -left it, . and the woman still sat cloaked and 'bonneted and fast asleep. In a few seconds, the priest was- at the bedside,- and "Dr. Burton remained In the hall while the penitent made his confession and received the last rites of his Church — ail without interruption. - -" '"" ' You have certainly been' accessory to 1 a great crime, ' ' said the priest, " r only prevented from being a_ greater, one by God's divine providence. Ask him now, with all the fervor of your souflp*. to forgive you and enable you l to right this wrong before you die.' < ~~ They left , a comforted heart behind them this time, Dr. -Burton closing the door very softly; for the housekeeper still slept in blissful ignorance of all that had transpired under her roof, ' • ' - '- .

' A marvellous working of the ways of God, said Father Reade, quietly. 'He told -me the story he says - he toUtd you, 'before beginning his confession at all, and you' will be astoi&sfaeu, no doubty to hear that both mother and daughter are members of "my- parish.' ' ' Grood heavens ! ' ejaculated Dr. Burton. - ' They are poor— very poor. 'The mother is weak and ailing, the daughter a heroine, with .-the firmest faith. I ever saw in a woman. I cannot tell you how I rejoice at this prospect of a turn in their fortunes.' • '\ ■ And that was the stcux. 011 which Dr*. Burton, „* sat pondering, when he reached his comfortable study— the' story, of John Hempstead, and the - events which had followed. He could not see. the outcome, but ., before he retired that nigjht - lie offered .up. a fervent prayer that God would enable the old _man .to' remember. ■When he called the following day Elizabeth Wing met him. .Her handsome face was quite- 1 forbidding .in its coldness. 'My woman informs me that you were- here -> last evening,' she saiuV - ' **• - *•-*> "Yes,' said Dr. Burton, a genial smiley 'in the interests of science. This man's illness is due to. a rare combination of diseases, and it is a chance to be able to watch them work out. That woman downstairs nearly \took my head off,' he continued" in an off-hand manner, ' but I knew you would understand.' Disarmed by his unaffected. demeanor, • Miss Wirig relaxed. \ ; " \ ' ' I would not want him annoyed unnecessarily,' she said. 'He was a faithful servant to my father, and I feel it, my duty to,- make his last -few .'hours- as comfortable as possible. 1 _ " .N. N A f gain she stood at Dr. Burton's elbow" as he asked questions and ascertained his- patient's condition. It was the same during the weeks that .followed. Every day saw John . Hempstead weaker/ Miss Wing more worried, the doctor more anxious.

(To be concluded next week.)