LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 89, 14 April 1892, Page 6

LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

BY AMELIA E. JBAEIt, Author of 'Friend Olivia, , * Beads, o* Tasmor,' ' The Household of McNeil, , etc.

CHAPTER T,; '. THE HOUSE OT I»KAI'H. All houses wherein nior. havo lived and dkd Are haunted bouses. Through the open Tho harmless phantome on their erramis glide, With feet that rat'.ke no sound vpon the floors. LOXPFELtOW. Go to th V rest, A quiet beC M>o!t Mother Earth with turl , shall spread, T .Vhnrc i no more thy a'.ocp may break With fevered dream, SIOOUHNEY, Lancelot went at ones to hia father's chamber. The low oakon room was nearly dark, the air heavy with fever and the s ickly odor of drugs. Stephen flushed, and restless, had heard his eon's step, and was watching eagerly for hia entrance.

i My dear lad, , he eaid, ' thero is somethin;,- wrong wi' me—something more than ooramoi). And the doctor doosn't do me a bit of good. I chink, nx-bbc, lam going to die.'

' Ob, father! Life h such » weariness, I wish I could go with you. 1 '.Nay, nay 3 Lanco i Bido where thou urt. Thou knawa whab Yorkshire is. And petting out of life before you hey earned your grave is. mebbo, like running away from school. Happen you'll hey to come back and loam your lea.son over again.'

'But I am going away from Yorkahiro, from England, from all I love.'

Why-a '. Whafciver i--> ta up to?' Then Lancelot explained his plan, and Stephen thought very highly of it.

'If good luck isn't hare it must be somewhere in the world, and ib isn't a bad thing ia tiieo So go and seek it, As for mo, I a?r. fighting to the last gfl3p. I moan to keep fast hold on Garsby mill, if all olso hc~- to go. Peace is bound to como soon, Lance, and then a year or two will put iverything right again, Thou must speak to thy mother. She is varry unreasonable. She would let tho mill and all its twelve hundred looms and grand machinery tumblo down and rust to bits rather than hey an olu nhair or an old china toacup bring a penny to save us. 'On the subjoct of Leigh Farm, I am afraid, father, she vail not listen to 'reason.' 'J *m Leigh as much as sho is; but if tihe Jxjigiia behind mo know no more than to aov etoro by things that are no use to live by or live with, I would just as liof hoy their disapproval as their good will—l would that! I'm none afraid of them, living or dead. Thou wilt nob leavo mo till I am bettor, Lance?' 'Not for tho world, father * Nofc until you feel sure it ia safe to leave you' ' That is as ib should bo. I would stay jby thoe. Go now and get a bit of supper.' ' Father, would you like to see the lector?' ' Whab for? Dooa ta think I cannot speevk to my Maker withoub a priest to go between us ? Nay, nay ; I wont straight to Him last night, and I said my say—"God be merciful to me a sinner !" Ia there aught else? I hey tried to do to my neighbour as I would hey him to do to me, and it's a good brt harder to love your neighbour than it; is to lovo God Almighty. Doea ta think lam feared to go to the God who made mo '.' Not I, He'll be no harder to me than I would be to thoe, and, God love thee, Lance, I wouid lay my life down for thy life—l would, indeed!'

Lance stooped and kisßOd the large, hob face, and Stephen continued with a smile ,

'I hevn'b been a church-goer—l knaw that. My mother took mo once to get christened, and thy mother took me once to get married; and I hope, when Igo again, thou and a few that love mo will go with me. Bub I shall not bo tried for eternity on bhafc question. If I am, I hey a texb ready—ono my mother made me learn when 1 was a litfcle lad, and I hevw't dono so bad in setting my life to it—"And whut doth the Lord thy God require of ihes but fco fear the Lord thy God, to walk In ail His ways, and to love Him ; and to sorve the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul." Ho can't aak me for moro than to keep His awn laws, and I hey tried to do that much—l hey, I hey, indeed !'

'I do believe you, father.'

• And as for the day o , death, it is a day to bo fearless and strong, and to put away fears, if you iver had any. There is no " blessed," my lad, for the despairing; aeither in thia world nor in that beyond it.'

Lancelot was astonished and troubled to hear his father'B words. He had never before- seen this side of his father's character. Ho had nob, indeed, suspected that such a side existed, for there are periods, especially In middle age, when religious life seems to have lost all potency, and all controlling power over the individual. But this is no proof that relipiou3 life does not exist; it may merely bo flowing through unseen and unsuspected channels—channels too deep for mortal ken or observation.

Certainly the conversation seemed fco give Stephen pleasure. Ho cvidontly, at (tbi3 uncertain hour, wished his son to know that he had never been without religious instincts and aspirations j and that ho found the comforts of tho God he had worshipped in secret to bo sufficient for hia extremity. Indeed bo was far more anxious and uneasy ■about the affairs of this life than about anything that wae to come r.fter it. He ■heard his wife's steps, and ib recalled him at once to the actual.

'Go down to thy mother, Lance, , he said. 'Sho is a bit trying these days. Thou .must bo pationb with her. Wβ all hey a weak side : raino is my mill; hers ia her "house ; and thine, I'll bo bound, is that fcoany la3s of Athcrton'e. Kiss mo Eh, Lance—Lance! I can't help thinking of the days, when thou wort a baby, and I carried thee on my shoulder, and next my fteart. I can feel thy little hands yet about my nock, , and he lifted hia large trembling bands, and drew hie son's face down, and looked steadily into it, and said, solemnly : 5 God blesa thee, my dear, doar, Lance !'

' My dear, dear father !'

' Thou wilt come a bib after mo, bub I shall find thoo out in the next world. I shall jknow thee by thy loving eyes and thy likeness to mysen, and by chat sweeb, sweet voice of thine. Leave me now. I'd like to be a bit by nayson.'

Lancelot meb his mother on fcho stairs ; he took her hand and walker! to tho parlour ■with her. As they wont, she eaid, in a melancholy way.

There is a cup of tea ready for theo.'

The room was as spotless and orderly as if there was no sickness near the place. Tho birds twittered in tha ivy outside, and the scent oi the wallflowers came in through tho open window. The great change was in his mother's face. It had always been a grave lace; ib was now almost a hopeless one. Lance had never conceived of a human countenance so full oi eomotiung that was superhuman—yet not pleasnislty so. 'What i'.o you think of youv father?' nho asked, wit!-., her eyes fixed upon tho

' I think he is vc;r sick. What doctor bos he?' 1 Doctor Thorpe. Ho raa good aa any.' ' 1 would e<*«l to Lee-if for the beab in the I will go wyeel? fco-night!.'

' Nay, you won't. Your father is going to die. No one can help him.'

' How can you talk so calmly of such a calamity, mother?'

'It will mebbe be the varry beab thing that could happen. The Bible says that no man lives or dies to or for himself; he hes to live for bhoso behind him and those thab come after him. .

' What do you mean, mother ?'

1 If he would keep his fingers off Leigh House, them that live in its rooms unseen would keep their hands off him. Did he toll thoe h6 was going to mortgage house and land to Joshua Newby ?' Her face had become scarlet, hor eyes blazed ; she was the incarnation of indignant wrong. •If he will worry them that are stronger than ho is, he must sup the cup they mix for him. I hey told him—l hey warned him warned him, and better warned him.'

' Mother, you let your affection for your family and your house run away with your best part. My father's life is worth all the old houses in the world.'

' For God's sake, don'b thee talk in that way. Whativer will Ido 2 Whativer will I do?'

' Do the best possible to save father's life. 1 am going for another doctor. .

' Thorpe knows. ■ Thorpe hes known him all his life.'

'Still, I will have another doctor.'

•As ta like 3.'

She \va3 now sullen and silenb, and appeared to fall into a condition of hopeless indifference. Lance could not cab; he drank a cup of tea, and then rode into Leeds for advico. The physician he brought spoke of fever and of the man's gigantic strength, and the struggle there might; be between life and death. Indeed, the patient was already delirious, and difficult to manage. For many days and nigh .3 Lancelot never loft his father. In the land of the shadow of death, he kept clo.se by hie side. .Sometimes the sick man called him frantically in cries full of suffering, and sometimes in the fearsome whiapers of agonised terror.

' I am here, father ! Close by your side, I will not leave you !'

In such assurances over and over, with exhausting monotonous repetitions, Lancelot passed many days of anguish and nights of anxious fear. For he had a highly sensitivo nature, responsive to all unseen influences, and he could not oscape either the one or tho other.

At midnight, when his mother wandered restlessly from room to room, muttering indistinguishable words, falling upon her knees in speechless anguish, and the dying man whispered awfully from far, far off, tho weight of untold years was upon Lancelot—indistinct memories—no thought embodied, but weighb and power—and an ob--■curo sense of the soul looking backward and forward, through ondloss vistas. Thon i.ho atmosphere of the ancient rooms was heavy with lifo that breathed not; with powers that touched him to tho quick, in moods which he had no senses to explain ; with flashes of illumination from the inner sido of lifo ; vague terrors of nameless things ; vague conceptions of times before this life began, and he scorned to miss his foothold in it and to fall into droama whoso unutterable desolation cast a shadow over him, even in tho summer sunshine.

Steadily the strong man marched to death. There was some wontior at tho ineilicacy of all remedies, and Dr. Thorpe questioned Lancelot sharply about tho administration of them.

' Whether your father bo conscious or unconscious, thoy must ;be given him rogularly,' ho eaid. 'They cannot bo neg-. loefced.'

' They are nob neglected, sir. My mother watches the clock, and brings them at the very moment with her own hand. .

' Your mother brings them ?'

' Yes. This room ia too dark to moasuro them with safety and absolute correctness. Wo were fearful they would be given in wrong quantities. Mother took them to the parlour. No medicines could be .more carefully attended to.'

The doctor ?aid no more; he sat down and waitedi In a short time Martha Leigh entered, with aglasa in her hand. He took it from her, and put it to his lips.

'Martha, this is plain water. Have you forgotten the drops ? They are most important ; they are life or death !' He gave her the cup back, and she left the room without a word.

' i,ook after the medicine yourself, 1 he said to Lancelot. Your mother is troubled and weary; you ought not to rely on her.'

The words appeared to be kind and considorato words, but they were negatived by the tone in « hich thoy were uttered. A fear he durst nob think of came into Lancelot's heart. Ho waa struck for a moment dumb and motionless. The doctor had left the room ; ho was standing ab the top of the stairs, looking with a sorrowful uncertainty back into it, when Lancelot approached him. Then he began to descend the steps, but the miserable young man arrested him.

* Doctor,' he Baid,' you havo known me all my life. What do you want to say ?' ' Nothing but what I have said. Your mother is not fit to trust with the medicines. Drop the tinctures with your own hand. Do not ask me any questions, Lance. I have nothing to say to you.'

'My father?' 'Is very ill. Ho will probably die before sunrise. I was going to toll your mother. I will leave the office to you. .

' la there no hope, sir ?' ' Its is too late to hope now. How could you be so careless ? Had I known ! Had I suspected ! Yet) I !did wonder. How wae it you never told me ?' He asked the question suspiciously, with a certain fierceness of manner, and then, shaking hie hand free from Lancelot's, went from the house.

For a moment Lancelot stood where he left him. Hi 3 face was scarlet. Hβ tremblod with anguish. If a stranger had hoard him accused of a crime, they would certainly have said : ' The man is guilty.' Recovering himself, he went back to the Bick-room, shielded the candle again, looked tendorly at the prostrate figure lying with face upturned to heaven, white as clay, without sight, thought or fooling, only not dead, and- then, with passionate haste, he wenb to the parlour. His mother sat in a chair by the hearth. Her hands were dropped. She was grey and cold, and unresponsive to her son's entrance. He.had hitherto respected this attitude. He thought it to bo his mother's way of bearing sorrow. But, oh ! If it should be remorse, and not Sorrow. Hβ stood before her, and she looked up and then down. 'Mother, do you know that father is dying ? He will not live another day. Oh, mother ! Mother!'

' I told thee he would die. He hed to die. It is his awn fault.'

' You want me to think that) his fore fathers killed him?'

'To be sure, they did.'

'Then I hate them all—every one of them, man, woman, or child, that hurt him ! Tho dearest father, the noblest soul thafe ever lived ! Oh, father, my lather ! Lance would have died for you, as you would for him 1'

' Will thou bo quiet ? Ib ie a shame of thee. Hating thy awn, and daring to say it, too. Don't thee speak to me. I won't listen to theo.'

' I tell you father is dying. The doctor pays ho ia afraid he hae not—had his medieiiios. Oh, God ! Oh, mother ! Mother 1' She had risen in her passion, but she sat down at his appeal and laughed in a low, miserable way, muttering to herself as she did so.

' Whab aro you Saying, mother ?' ' I will tell theo, if ta wants to know. I am saying thab old Joshua Nowby may como now with his paper*. Thy father's hand will never sign Leigh away tc him. Ho hoe been here ivery day for two woeka to get thy father's name, Thank God Almighty ao will niver (jeb it) now. Betccr a clay

hand than a false hand !'

' Give me my father's medicines.' Ay, thou can take bhem now.' ' Oh, you cruel wife !'

• Cruel! Little thou knows. Hes thou a fare in thy heart and thy brain burning thee up bib by bit while thou art quick and living? Hes thou seen whab I hey seen, or heard whab I hey heard? Hes bhou sab with the dead, and been sent to do their bidding and their will for them. Go thy ways, and don'b thee dare to speak to me again till ta knows what thou art talking abcut.'

' Do you know that Doctor Thome suspects you of letting my father die ?' She did nob answer him a word. Her eyes were fixed upon his father's empty chair. A sudden breeze blew the white shade sharply against the window and brought into the room the scent of wallflowers. The little blow startled and hurt Lancelot; he never more could endure tho woody perfume. He lifted the medicine phials and wenb upscairs. There are moments when all men weep. They may do it in secrot, but, none the less, they cover their faces, and their palms are web with the bitter rain. And when Lancelot sat down again in the gloom of his father's deathbed and saw the white, helpless figure, and thought of the ' peradventuro' thab might have been, he broke utterly down. Low sob 3 shock him from head to foeb ; he buried his face in his hands and knelb down by bhe dear father who would know him no more in this world.

(To be Continued.)