LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 90, 16 April 1892, Page 6

LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

o — BY-AMELIA E. BARM, t&uthor -of > Friend Olivia,' 'Beads 0* t Tasxaer,' * T::o Household oi McNeil ' etc. CHAPTER VII. — (Continued.) ALL night he kept bis lonely watch, and a-| alone he helplessly witnessed the last strug j glo oi tho departing soul. He was j ably wretched, tor ha had realised the j wrong dona only when it was too late in I any way to atone for it. Tho medicine I phials accused him; ho could not bear to touch thorn, ho could not bear to see them, j Ac awful --tillne-s was in the house, a still- j ne.-s peivaded by spiritual life. Lancelot fek it pre?- upon him on every side, and ho j resented fchfc intrusion. With his open Bible in his hands he stood by his lather's \ head and recited over and over the verses j of the twenty-third psalm. Hi-; low, clear j voice, solemn and tender, penetrated the beav, shadows of the room, and his mother, j stealing without her -hoes to the shut door, j heard him say : ' " I will fear no evil, for j Thou art with me." ' Perhaps also the comfortable words went i with the departing soul, for in those inelfable momenta just before the dawn, Lancelot, looking into his father's face, saw a flash of parting intelligence, swift, and vivid an lightning. ' Father! Farewell, father,' ho whispered close on the dying man's lips ; and inBtarn /, from some mysterious distance, in tones sweetly hollow like muliied music, j c line the answer : ' Lance- !—my dear lad !—Good-byo !' j Then Lancelot was holding a clay-cold j hand. He kis- > . i:, and laid it across tho j quiet heart. For a moment he stood regarding the empty soul-case, the massive chept, the length and strength of limb, the largo head—all tiia noblo similitude ol a •man pro.jtrated in tho summer of his life. ' Oi:, ha:mless death !' thought Lancelot v- ho softly left the dead mail's chamber— •Oh, harmless death! whom still the valiant bravo, The v.-iae expe-r-t, the sorrowful invito, Arii'i -.li 'die I'Of.d •'.li.t-c- w!io know the grave The-jhorl (k'rk passage to eternal light.' The words were uncalled ; they came as if ■scat, and saidi themselves with sweet insistence, as ho descended tho stair?. The house was still as a grave, tho dawn was only breaking ; he had a thought that his mother might be asleep in some upper room ; but; yot ho went on to tho parlour. She was sitting there, she was quite awake, she looked up ub Lancelot with the inquiry in her eyes. ' Yes ; he is dead ! He is dead ! Oh, father ! father ! : ' Be quiet. He heel to die. Do I make a moan about it'; Call Dinah to make thee a cup of coffee. 1 am going to thy father now.' If he had been able to reproach her at this minute, he would not have done so. She looked ah him with an air of defiance bo had no heart to gainsay. Ho sat down, and Martha Leigh'wont at once to her dead husband. Lancelot heard her moving abouo, heard her opening drawers, heard hcv fling wide the sashes, heard her unlock a door little used, and go up the narrow stairs to the garret; and then a quick, sick fear came into his heart. Would she end her remorse by death? Would she follow her husband through tho great sidereal spices, and defend herself to him 1 Ho was asking such questions as he sped •rapidly after her. At the foot of the garret stairs they were answered. She had locked tho door within, but ho hoard her imploring, justifying, speaking to the dead man and the living God in an agony ot entreaty and protestation. At length she began to weep, to sob, to cry put, tike a woman in strong, physical pain might cry. He stood still, with lips firmly set and face as white as death. If all had been ■silent, he would have broken open the lock and gone to her. Death he must prevent, but suffering— No ! Sho ought to suffer. Ib was her only chance for saltation, let he watched with her— watched until he heard her slowly coming down the abair. Then he went to his own room and put away some things ho valued, and packed a small trunk which he intended bo take with him. Among his music he found the song ho had written, ' To Francesca,' rare Bon Jonson's rare love song. He put ib to his lips with passionate longing and distress. Never again would he hold her dear hand and sing ib to her smiles and kisses. He was the son of a woman who had—lot her husband die. He could not say, he could nob endure to think, the ono awful word which yet lay in his deepesb consciousness, which ho passed by with shut eyes and forced oblivion. He ■was her son. How then could he be Francesca's lover ? How could he ever hope to bo har husband? The tenderness, the sweetness, the purity of tho one woman stood afar off from tho cruelty, tho hardness, tho earbhiness of bhe obher. Yet his mother was his mother. Her blood beat in his heart; she was parb and parcel of his personality. He could no moro escape from her than he could alter tho colour of his hair, or take an inch from his stature. Ho told himself that ho would not escape from her if he could, sho was still his mobhor. Ho 'found it already possible to begin looking for excuses for her ; physical reasons and extremities for her act; assuring himself, as a final and decisive cause, that his father still loved her. He had now supernatural insights, he would know tho spring of her deliberate cruelty, ho would have forgiven her ; ab least, he would wish him to protect her as far as ib was possible. How far that should be was the question Lancolob had now to answer. Bub his mind was in a tumult ; he could nob think. How thon could he decide? In an hourhismobher called him. * Thero is a bib of breakfasb ready,' she Eaid. • Thou lied better oat, if ta wants to act like a sonsiblo man.' Ho wondered how ho could boar to sib ab tho table and break bread with her. Perhap.3 sho had thought of bhis difiiculby ; bho table was only laid for him. 1 1 hoy hod all I want,' she said. Then ho had a momonb's rolonbing, and answered : * Lot mo giv you a cup of coflbe, mother.' ' I hey hod whab I want. Thou knows I never was one to oat and drink. What hes ta dressed thyscn for? Whore is ta going?' ' I am going into Leeds, Thore aro things to attend bo.' ' Yes, I know, and then ?' * I aai going away from England —when I havo soon bho end.' Ho ceased speakings ho was visibly in tho greatest sorrow. ' Dry thy eyes. If there ia-crying to do, I'll do it. And thou art not K oin K away. Thou hes Leigh now to look after. The varry garden would grow dazy and lonely •without a master to walk in it. Thy placo la hero, and here thou rnusb stop.' ' / am going to America—to Mexico. If, as you say, the dead como back here,father £hal! not find me filling liis oinpbiod place. I'll touch nothing that wan his. Ib would /vo taking stolen property—worse still.' 'Take care what thou nays to mo.' Martha Leigh was atall, imposing woman, gtiil handsomo ; and as alio warned Lancelot, and stood up to do so, she appeared unnaturally tall. Hei large face was colourless, her black eyes burnt with a sullen (iro, and Jior lace cap, with i' < wide, (luted borders, wave \m »<<■ oi a pythoness under ox-

citement. she looked her son steadily in the face, anijsaid with a glance of majestic defiance, 'Be sparine; of thy words to me. Whativer I hey done. I hcv done well. It is all right, and He knows it now.' ' How comd it be right to treat my father so cruelly ?' Thy father should have done his duty to them that h e d the tirsb claim on him. Why --a ! He wag on the point of selling his house to save his mill. Did ta iver hear tell of such wickedness ? Going to turn the dead and the living out, and put strangers—or worse still, the Newbys—into these rooms. Ii he was a Leigh he deserved to be sent where he would learn his duty better. If he was not a Leigh, but just some stray soul that had got away from his awn people, then he hed no business here; and the sooner he went to his awn, the better for him, and for us.' ' Mother, I can only hope and pray that you are not sane on thia subject.' ' I am as sane as thou art, and a good bit saner. I know what I hey done, and lam well pleased with mysen for doing it. Now then, do thy duty. I expect so much from thee. Sell that big ugly mill. Get rid of them hundreds of m*en and women who hey eaten up all our substance. Set thysen to take care of Lei_*h House and Farm, make it fairer and. bigger than iver it was before : and I'll welcome any wife thou chooses to bring here. And if ta must hey something to do, that is more money-making than .owing ami reaping, study and make thysen a doctor, or a lawyer. Now then, I hey hed my say. Speak for thysen.' ' I say that I will touch nothing thab was father's, ana still ought to be father's — neither mill nor house. I am going to Mexico.' ' And who is to be master of Leigh ? It h0.3 niver been without a master before, not in hundreds of years.' *Do as you will with it; I could not live under this roof. Oh, mother, mother ! You have ruined my life a3 well as—' ' Say tho words in thy heart, Lance —"as well as thy murdered father." I am not I afraid of any word, and I did not murder I him. I gave him his chance. There hey been hours lately when I have seen him talking to Joshua Newby that I could hey stabbed him with tho knife I was cutting lis broad and meat with. I did not do it ; for thy sake—for thy sake only. I thought it might hurt thee with that fine lass thou hes set thy foolish heart on—thought ib might mebbs be a red stain on ivory year jof thy life. So I waited, and I gave him his chance. He hed a tussle with Death, and I neither helped one nor the other. .Most folks think doctors aro as much on the side of death as life.' ' What does father think now, looking back upon life?' ' I hope to goodness he thinks different to what ho *lid. If ho doesn't he is only one against me, and there are hundreds and thousands ready to say: "Martha Leigh did light for" Leigh." The land :-tays ; tho man goes. Stand by the land then. Now don't theo go away, Lance.' Lancelot shook his head and rose from tho table. He could not continue a conversation so painful. Ho went back to his father's room, and looked again ab the still figure. His mother had washed and straightened him. A lino linen wind-ing-sheet smelling ot lavender was around him. His largo hands were clasped across his breast. His face was j full of peace ; his thick, brown hair had not I a strand of grey, and it curled thickly all over the graadly domed head. The wind that came out of the garden and from off the wolds stirred ib gently upon tho sunken temples. The room was as sweet and white as if it was a bride and not a death-cham-ber. Lancelot held a long session in it. There he faced the inevitable results of hia mother's crime. Whether she was morally responsible or not for it, the world would ] hardly tako time to inquire. Its verdict would be sharp and swift, and it was as likely as not -.hat, in some moment of irritation, she would dare its utmost. To | bring Francesca into relationship with such sorrow and jhame would be wicked and cruel; dishonourable to do it without the full knowledge and consent of the squire ; chimerical to hope that this consent would ever be given. Ho was also sure that he had no right to be his mother's accuser ; sure that his jood father, if ho was alive, would plead for her, excuse nor and deprecate her suffering. Ib seemed be3t then, on overy side, to go away and to leavo to omniscient love tnd wisdom the unravelling of a destiny so cruelly tangled. He then wrote to Francesca, and sent her the little love-song that was associated with the happiest hours of his life. He told her of his father's death, and his own sorrow in losing so sweet and strong a friend. He could not bear just yet to cut tho tie between them. When ha was ab sea, he would take time to consider ; or ab any rate, he would wait until ho was on the point of leaving England ; and he wrobe so truly, with all his heart: 'My belovei ■ Tho space between us is full of my lon-ring and heart-ache. It will bo so even when lam in Mexico. Oh, to kiss your footprints ! To touch the hem of your robe ! to feel the perfume of your presence ! the magic of your beauty! the glory of your smiles and glances! Francesca I Francesca ! Angel of my hopes and dreams ! Send me one loving thought each hour, for, if you do not, 1 shall perish miserably for want of ib. Adorable Francesca ! Live in happiness and sweetest psaco. Lancelot.' And the words were realities. Their greatest reality was in their extravagance ; their only untruthfulness in their poverty. Lovers will understand. Those who have never loved lack the special intelligence. Let them pray God for the divine interpreter.

(To le Continued. )