Orion, The Gold Beater; OR, True. Hearts and False.

Auckland Star, Volume XX, Issue 173, 23 July 1889, Page 6

Orion, The Gold Beater; OR, True. Hearts and False.

A TALE OF NEW YORK LIFE.

B . SYLVANUS COBB, Junk., Author of the "Gunmaker of Moscow," 44 Tho Storm Secret," Etc., Etc.

CHAPTER XVI. (Continued.

The females were upon the point of leaving bhe parlour when the door bell wa3 rul1 _- , , • It may be the Count, returned for something,' said Isabella ; and so they waited to sco who it might be. One oi the kibchen girls went to the door, and the hostess heard her conversing with someone there. In a few moments tho door of the parlour was opened, and the servant ushered in an old, decrepit, poorly-clad woman. Both the mother and daughter started back in affright, and as the intruder threw open her old cloak they absolutely cried out with fear. She was a very old woman—certainly near eighty— wibh feabures all browned and sunken by exposure and bime; her form bent and trembling; her sparse locks grey and matted, and her garb somewhat poor and soiled. She walked with a stout staff', and as she stood now, leaning heavily upon it, she looked the very picture of Old Age, as set down in books. 1 Julia/ sho spoke, in a feeble, cracked tone, ' don't you know me'?' 'I don't want to know you,' the frightened hostess cried. ' What did you come here for ?' ' Julia,' repeated the poor old woman in mingled astonishment and pain, ' don't you know me ?' ' Why should I know you ?' •Bub you haven't forgob your poor old Aunb Rhoda, have you ? "Julia—my child — I am your poor old aunt.' Julia Tiverbon turned very pale where tho paint did-not hide it, and her frame trembled ab every joint. She knew her aunt, and she knew bhab her aunb had always been very kind to her; and yet she did not wish to have hei remain fchere. ' What on earth induced you to como here at this timo o' night?' the hostess ablength uttered, having regained her presence of mind. *' My servant must have been very stupid to lot you in.' 'This bime oi night?' repeated Aunt Rhoda, in surprise. ' Why—you would not have had me remain out of doors all night while you had a large house ?' 'But you can't stop here. Our room is all taken up.' ' Yes,' chimed in Isabella, ' all our room is occupied. Bub you can rind lodgings ab any of bhe houses where they have signs out on the avenues.' And then slipping up to her mother's side, she whispered : ' Do get rid of her in some way, for mercy's sake !' 'You must go away now, old lady,' Julia urged, turning once more to the visitor. ' Perhaps, some time when I am at home, you can come and see me !' 1 And is this Julia Tiverton ?' spake the old woman, slowly and painfully. _ ' Is this the gin who was once my little niece— my Julia Church ? Oh ; you wouldn't ' ' I can't stop to hear you now,' cried the hostess, trembling more than before. ' You ought to have known better than to come here to a fashionable house at this hour.' 'Butl surely might come when I saw lights burning,' pleaded Aunt Rhoda. • Do get her off !' whispered Isabella. Ah ! the mother had reasons for wishing that old woman away which the daughter did not dream of. But tho scene was broken in upon in a most summary manner. The outer door was heard to open, and in a moment more Mr Tiverton entered the parlour! He started back in surprise upon seeing the decrepit old woman, and his wife and daughter in an apparently frightened state. ~ * Ah—what's all this ?' he asked after he |ad scanned the visitor's features. •This old woman won't go away, pa/ "eabella cried. 'Who are you?' ho asked, turning towards the intruder. 'You havo seen me before, Paul nverton/ she replied, in a sad, broken tone of voice. ' Many and many a time you've been upon these knees, and in these arms. Don't you remember when you used to visit at Mr Church's, wiien you were a boy- a little boy no more'n so high ; and Juha was a child too ?' ,__'_. __■ ' What ?' cried the merchant, starting forward and grasping the old woman by the hand. ' Is this Aunt Rhoda ?' «Yes, Paul—l am poor old Aunt Rhoda. ' And you've been very unfortunate, haven't you ?' , T ... ' Yes, sir,— bub nob so much as 1 mignfc have been. I have just come back from Maine, whero I went to see my business in person ; and 'cwas fortunate I did so, for I've saved something by ifc. I've saved nigh onto a thousand dollars, and have lost twelve thousand.' ' Well— we won't stop to talk about business now.—Bub in mercy's name, whab are you standing up for ?' Thus far Mrs Tiverton had looked on in silence, bub now she had resolved to speak. •Mr T./ sho said, moving to her husband's side, 'we will send one of the servants to show this old woman to some good lodging-house—ot course she cannot stop here.' ~ 'Julia Tiverton !' uttered the merchant, in astonishment, ' aro you in earnest ?' 4 Why—of course I am, she said. ' And do you mean to say that you would turn your poor old aunt—your own father's sister —out of doors ?' 'Don't be a fool!' cried tho wife, pettishly. ■' You know I would find shelter for hor-.; but wo haven't gob room for her here, and you know ifc 1' • I know wo have room for German count 3, and all othor trash that comes into {ashioo,! So I think we can find room for

one of our own kindred. Is ifc possible that you have been trying to drive this poor woman from the house ?' But he go j no answer. At the mention of German counts Isabella tried to go into hysterics, but she saw her mother seemed inclined to do the same thine*, and fearing fchafc there would ho nobody fco take care of her if she losb her senses, shs concluded to keep them. ' Wretch!' gasped Mrs Tiverton, fiercely. ' You only harm yourself, Julia,' returned the husband, coolly. You should know me better than to suppose thab I would see our good aunfc leave our roof ab this time.' ' Then you may take care of her!' snapped out the mad wife, at the same time starting for the door. Bub she did nofc go out. She hesitated, and finally turned back. She gazed into the old woman's face, and when she spoke her whole tone and expression were changed a3 if by magic. 'Aunt Rhoda,' she said. 'You don't know how much I have to bother me. I didn't mean fco bo unkind. Come — come wifch me. Forgive me if I have wronged you. Bufc come wifch me now.' She took tho old woman's hand as she spoke, and led her unresistingly from the room. ' Ah —I thought my libtle Julia couldn't besocruel,' uttered the aunt, as she hobbled along. But little did she know thab devotee of fashion, if she thought so. As the door was closed Mr Tiverton started across the room with a nervous, hurried step. Ho saw very plainly that there mas something hidden. He knew too well thafc his wife had not been moved by any feeling of affection or gratitude—nothing under the sun could have moved her bufc fear! He knew this. Suddenly he stopped, and a painful light shot across his laco. With this strange'freak of his wife he had associated tlie mystic scene which had transpired upon tho visit of old Daro Kid.

CHAPTER XVII. COUNTER I'LOT. When Mr Tiverton went up-stairs he found his wife still up and alone. Tins wa3 the tiisb opportunity he had had to speak with her in private sinco that evenbfui morning on which Daro Kid called. Ho hesitated at first aboub going into her room now, bub he was resolved to"question her on the subject, and he knew of np better time than the presenb. So he entered the apartment where she sat, and book a seat near her. She gazed into his face with a sour expression, but was willing to let him speak firsb, seeming to expect a lecture of some sort, if one might judge from the compression of her thin lips. •Julia,' her husband said, in a low, earncsb tone, ' I have come to you at this bime bo ask you foi- some information touching a very peculiar subject, and I hope you will give me a candid return. You must be aware bhat the strange scene of bhe other morning has lefb a very troublesome tendency to surmise and doubb upon my mind. Does ib nob appear reasonable to you thab such should, be bhe result V Mrs Tiverton made no reply ; bub she trembled violently, and her face was very pale. The paint was washed off now, and her pallor could nob be concealed. '■ I shall take your silence as an affirmative by assent, and proceed. And now mark me, Julia—l do nob ask this from mere idle curiosity, but from far deeper i motives, in which your own welfare has as , much weight as mine. Now will you tell . me what dealings you have ever had with 1 thab man who came here under bhe name , of Daro Kid ? I hardly think that is his real name.' , The womaja gave a keen, searching i glance into her husband's faco as ho made this last remark, bub if he had any concealed knowledge she could not detect it. ' I cannot give you the information you • seek, sir,' she replied, in a low, tremulous • tone. 'But you can tell me something, Julia, I only ask you to tell mo whab you know. • You havo surely seen thab man before. Is t ib nob so . • ' I could nob tell, sir, I am sure,' she • answered, gathering more composure as she \ went on. 'I may have seen him; but I [ think—bhere must be some mistake.' 4 Then you think he did nob really know • you ? You think he mistook you for someone else ?' ' Mrs Tiverton grasped at the bait too eagerly.' ' Yes, yos,' sho quickly returned. ' That ia it exactly. Now the merchant had thrown this oub : to see if she would nob adopt ib, and findj ing out that she did he resolved to try another experiment in an opposibo direcbion. 'Julia Tiverton,' he said, looking her [ directly in the face, and speaking sternly j and almost menacingly, ' do you dream that a few short years can so utterly have ob- • literated alf memory of the past ? Did you • ever know Daro Kid when he bore another name?' Again the wife turned pale, and her wasted frame shook more fearfully than before. She first cast one searching look into , her husband's face, but she could read nothing there, and in a moment more her gaze fell to tho floor. 'I have nothing to tell, sir,' the woman uttered, making ono violent effort to overcome her emotions. ' I know nothing, and can tell nothing.' Mr Tiverton knew his wife well enough to know thab he should gain nothing more from her. He knew when he saw thab expression upon her face thab #yen bhe presence of death would not move her, so he arose and turned towards the door; but ere ho passed out he stopped and looked once more upon his wife. •Julia,' he said, more in sadness than in passion, ' I will question you no more now., You know best the reason you have for concealment—stop—l mean nothing thab needs reply. I can see very plainly that you have things laid away in your thoughts which you will not impart to me. If you imagine thab you could lose anything by trusting mo you are mistaken. Confide to me anything that lies heavily now upon your mind, and, let ib be what ib may, you shall be bhe gainer thereby. Oh, Julia, you know not how I i could lovo and cherish you if you would ■ I only confide in me, and love me in return,

Let me see that I have your confidence— let me sco that you are anxious for my happiness—let me see that you would make my home happy by your smiles—aye, only smile upon me as you smile upon those whom you cull your friends, and with one sweep I will cast all the past away, and tako you to my bosom and hold you there for ever more ! Oh, will you not listen ?' A softer shade crept upon the wife's face and there was a moisture, in her dark eyes. The husband saw ifc, and for bhe moment a wild hope sprang fco life within him. He took a step forward and held out his hands. • Oh ! Julia—my wife—l know you havo a heart—you have reason—you have intelligence — love — grace — and ambition. You know how you smile upon others. Listen to me—oh, listen—and understand. You know how you smile upon those who come here to visit you—how happy you make them—and how you can interest them when you please. Can you give to me, whose all—all of home joys is in your keeping, the same that you can give to others who have no claims upon you ? Julia—wife—love—thins of ib. Cannot you do it ? Can yon not give mo those same sweet smiles when 1 come to my home?— oh—how easy the task—how simple and how proper ! Speak—tell me—will you nofc , try ?' I The poor, hoping, longing, prayerful man had gradually worked his way to his ' wife's side while he was speaking, and as , he concluded he held oub his hands —he | held them both out—and he thought she would take them. Julia Tiverton hesitated. She knew that she held ib in her power fco make her husband happy—thab from this moment she could secure peace and joy for herself. She knew thafc one word from her lips would bring thafc noble man upon his knees with gratitude, and secure her own honour. All this sho knew, and ali this passed through her mind. For ono moment there was a quivering of the nether lip, aud a slight convulsiveness was perceptible in the whole frame. But it was quickly gone—the spark went out from her eye—the frame became cold and rigid—the lip grew pale as it pressed upon the pearly teeth, and while a shade of mingled pain and pride passed over her face she said : ' I hoped you had gone. You only annoy me by such oufc-of-place propositions. I am fatigued !' Poor Paul Tiverton ! But—oh ! doubly — trebly—aye —a thousand times moro bitter for thee, unfeeling woman, shall bo the consequences of this hour ! Peace was within thy grasp and thou didst cs.sfc ib from thee ! Honour would havo placed its matchless diadem upon thy brow, but with that one polluted breath thou hast dimmed its brightness for ever. The unhappy husband stood for a single instant and gazed upon his wife, and thon he hurried from the apartment,. When he was gone the woman started to her feet and walked to and fro across the room with quick, nervous steps. 'I could not do ib,' she said to herself, stopping and clasping her hands before her. ' Whab would I be bied down within such a compass? Whab is Honour ?—The tame, submissive state of those who fear to be free ! What is Peace?— The result of implicit obedience to one's husband ! What is Happiness ?—The enjoyment; of life at one's will!—the perfect freedom to go and come at pleasure, and own no mortal catecbiser 1 Aye, Paul Tiverton, I know what life is, and I will enjoy it!' But even as she spoke there was a ' still, small voice' whispering in her soul that she lied ! She heard ifc plainly—she knew its truth—she fclb the lie in her heart—and she shut up tho theme, and thought no •moro about it, save such thoughts as would force themselves in between her otherwise occupied moments ; bub they were quickly thrust down again, leaving no impression behind, other than a worrying sting for the while. She did nob resume her scab again ; buc as soon as she had disposed of the thoughts her husband's remarks had called up, she book a small waxen taper from the marble mantel, and having lighted ifc at the gas she left the room. A few steps brought her to the hall, and there, with a noiseless tread, she ascended the stairs to the third storey. She stopped here .'only to listen, and then kept on still higher up. On this fourth floor there were four chambers, and in one of them poor old Rhoda Church had laid her weary limbs down to repose. Julia Tiverton moved carefully up to the door- and listened. She heard tho heavy breathing of the aged sleeper, and thus knew that she slept. She opened the door and entered, and having closed it behind her, she wenb bo the bedside. She had as yeb had no opportunity for private conversation wibh her aunfc, Isabella having been in the way unbil the old woman had retired ; bub that conversation she must have, and she had come now for thab purpose ; so she placed her hand upon bhe sleeper's shoulder and administered a gentle shake ; but this produced no result. She gave a smarter shake, and the wayworn woman moved heavily upon the pillow. Another—and another—and yet another ; and finally Aunfc Rhoda opened her eyes. She seemed frightened at firsb; bub gradually her eyes became used to bhe light, and she sat up in her bed. "Half-an-hour after this, as Mr Tiverton had started'to go from the bathing-room to his chamber, he heard a light step upon the upper stairs. He hastened to his room, but left his doar so far ajar that he could see anyone who might pass. In a few moments more he saw his wife hurry by wifch a small lighted taper in her hand. In an instant he suspected thafc she had been v p to the old woman's chamber. He retired to his dressing - table and sab down. He must see the aged visitor in the morning, for he had determined to draw from her, if possible, whatever she might know concerning his wife. He knew—or, ab least, firmly believed—bhab Julia had some hidden motive for wishing to gofc rid of her aunt. Paul Tiverton was not a man who would have allowed any mere spirit of curiosity to govern his movements ; but in the present case he felt a deep and painful concern, and he could nofc rest under the vague suspicions and shapeless phantasms that were continually crowding upon his mind. 'She must have had some deep motivesome powerful reason—for going up and awakening the tired sleeper .t such an

I hour,' the merchant said to himself, as he I started up from bis, chair. ' Very likely she means that I shall not sco her—she means that the woman who holds the secrets of her life shall not see me alone face to face. Awhile he sfcocd, with his head bowed, and his hand 3 clasped beneath his chin, pondering upon this matter. Then ho lighted a taper—jusfc suoh an one as his .wife had used—and having drawn on his dressing-gown he lefb his chamber. He descended the lower stairs to the front hall, and from thence to the basement. ( To be Continued.)