SEALED LIPS.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXII, Issue 16, 19 January 1901, Page 5 (Supplement)

SEALED LIPS.

CHAPTER XXVJ. "HE HAS NEVER LOVED ME."

Ten months later, that is, at the encl of the autumn, the apartment in Hue ck "Vienne had resumed its ordinary aspect, with the exception that the piano was always closed and the widow in deep mourning- never sang now. Paris hardly remembers the name of the composer Godefroid, or of a singer named Jenny Sauval, and God knows'that Martscha is not desirous of'recalling these two souvenirs.

Patrice left the cemetery after Ihe sexton had finished filling his friends grave, and w rent to the depot after a simple shaking of hands with the ■widow. He never saw her a moment without witnesses outside of the death chamber. It was a strange thing, but in spite of the Koumanian's strong nerves she was remarked during the ceremony by her extreme grief. One ■would have-said that she was afraid to approach the coffin, as if from its. icy depths a ' terrible voice might question her. She wished to leave Pomeyras as Boon as the legal formalities were over with; this was only an affair of a dayY and if the maledictions of the living /could trouble the repose of the dead, Godefroid would have speiit a very bad night in his tomb. Jenny seemed to have lost all will and all interest in life whatsoever, and allowed "herself to be taken -to Paris without the slightest resistance.

Once installed in her apartments, separated by two hundred leagues from her son-in-law's remains, the Roumanian recovered her superb calmness, and seemed relieved of some nightmare. She was not wanting in amusements. She had taken in hand the administration of her daughter's fortune. It was a medley, composed of documents printed in all colours and written in every tongue. Martscha was only to be seen before the bank windows and other large companies, for she acted as collecting clerk, herself, and she said that nobody, /should stick a nose in Jenny's business.

There was no music, according io ler ideas, to compare with the clink of the gold upon the marble of the cashier's desk. The silky rustle of the bank-notes counted one by one by the clerks magnetised her, and no voluptuous love tremor had ever been to her like the delicious thrill that she experienced as she held her hand tightly grasped around her pockets to defend herself against pickpockets.

Sometimes, it is true, the thought of the "relatives" poisoned her enjoyment. The detestable creatures! One day their avaricious hands would detach- Yhes'e' cbtfponsand handle these dividends. But then Jenny would be a princess.

"Princess!" ... repeated Martscha, ■closing1 her eyes.

' "Unless —truly it is a good thing to ijhaye twp strings to one's bow."

; Meanwhile Kemeneff, in spite of (several attempts,, had not been received by the young, woman, but his name an default .of his person had often reached. Jenny's; ears. Madame Sau:T^l met-him two or three times every ■w^ek, ,aaid as her widowhood had become an old story to her, there was prevent her "holding a conVersatioti'with his. excellency. On her 'return, she would acquaint her daugh■ta; Ayith. the fortunate accidental !mstings.. ..

J_. "Poor man!" said: she, "I cannot get it out of my head that he lies in wait expressly to meet me. He asks me n'hundred questions about yoxi^. and is ''dying, to' see you. But he respects your desirefor solitude. I asked him "when h e was going to install himself at Biarritzzv Would you like to know "what Tie said?" "

"Df-.-is useless. I will not hear or see.any body," said the young widow, softly shaking her head. "Why will they not permit me to wear my •moufning in peace ?" If she had let anybody" know Tier Teal thoughts she would have said ■that she-wore mourning for two persons—one who was lying in the cemetery at Pomeyras, the other buried and. giving no signs of life in his forest at Telagh. She would have said that she had a sincere attachment for each of them, different in. their nature, hut mixed with an unavowed bitterness almost equal. Godefroid she felt angry at, for his last provision, not iox the material results to her detriment, but for this jealousy that seem«fl, to impose fidelity to the dead, at the risk of forfeit. The other irritated'her by his indifference which was confirmed more and more as the weeks rolled by. ! In order to hear from Patrice, Jenny obliged to write the first letter. Since then the young man's letters had grown further and further part. One would almost suppose that he wished to let the correspondence drop entirely. When he spoke of Godefroid it /was with a constraint easily seen between the lines. One day, struck by this.coldness, she asked herself; "Can it be possible that he was not satisfied with the souvenirs of little "Value left him by his friend? Is he his disappointment upon me?" This supposition seemed to her like an ■injury, and she refused to believe it. ■A£ least one thing was evident. ."He has never loved me!" sighed she. " And I have obstinately believ«4 in; this idea of a generous falsehood. '•What is there to prevent hi 3 speaking Bow?" '

She suffered the double humiliation [°* a love that it was impossible to I stifle, ridiculous after having been al- | 'guilty, and the consciousness of I fret great error. I 'The. twelfth month of her widowI «Opd" Avas passing away. Jenny felt i that it was time to make an effort to E *«alee off her painful languor and I iPOk'tJie future in the face, as a prii sofief released from confinement asks { njttself what route his limbs, tired I ?J>jn so long a rest, should take. I "She: was nearly- twelty-seven years JW»,%nd certainly there were very I *%'"Wbmen who were gifted to such J degree. . But of what use were all | "^'graces? What use was her youthI her unrequited heart, her

[Translated from the French of Leon de Tinseau.]

music disdained like a jewel that is out of fashion, and so far as her beauty was concerned, she never thought of it now. It had been so Jong- since she Juki seen anviiotr v) tell her that she was beautiful! Her fortune was distasteful to her, a3 money earned too quickly, and that she must return some day should her heart venture to speak. She did not love her mother now, for sometimes the .Roumanian had not succeeded in deceiving her, she who secretly flattered herself that she deceived all the world.

This model of mothers-in-law remarked to her daughter that they must not fail to be at Pomeyras on the anniversary of Godefroid's death.

" Assuredly," said the young widow, astonished at this pious respect for i.i. ucau. "• i is udi uucy to uawisi at the service."'

They left the next day, and Jenny found herself once more in the house where she was born; this time she had no feeling of joy. Tiie memories that she tried to throw oil' tool, the place of those that had filled her heart from childhood.

"Alas!" thought she, "is then: a place in the world that will not recall remembrances that are mixed with sorrow?"

The villagers thronged at the religious ceremony, although the greater part of them had never seen three times the one who had been for so short a time '"the master of Pomeyras.'' As they left the church Kemeneff waited for the young woman to pay his respects and touch the tips of her fingers. After this ceremonious formality, all the parish gathered to see him mount the seat of his phaeton, and start off on a trot for Biarritz, to the great disappointment of certain prophets.

This proceeding of the prince sincerely touched the heart of Godefroid's widow. She had considered him for a long time as a true friend, and he was the one in whom she had confided when she wished to recall Patrice to the dying bed.

The next clay, when he made a visit to Pomeyras, this loyal gentleman laid his heart and his fortune at The young- woman's feet; she seemed to feel only a slight surprise at this, £>nd said, without accepting1 or refusing him, that she was very much touched ct his offer. Then she reflected a moment, leaning- her head on her beautiful hand, as she often did now since her widowhood.

"My dear prince," said she at laft, "I esteem you too much not to open my heart to you. It does not depend upon me to make you 'the happiest of men,' to speak in your own language. I swear to you that I loyally did all in my power to give my husband happiness, otherwise it would be a trouble to me the rest of my life to think that he died from sorrow. Xot a shadow of a guilty thought has made me blush before him. A souvenir onlj-, the shadow of a regret that haunted my heart, separated us. That seems a little thing-, does it not? Well, then, sooner than to impose upon another, it may be to myself also another yeaf of torture, I will pass the rest of my life watching flocks on the poorest farm in this village." Kemeneff approached the young woman, and kneeling before her he said, as he kissed her hand:

"You are the woman that I thought you were, and now more than ever I love you. Speak to me withoxit disguise, for a long time I have known your secret. Do you think still thai Patrice O'Farrell thinks of you?"

■ "What does it matter, since I think of him? What will you do to take away this thought? Ah! If you only could!" ' * :

"What I will do is this," said Kemeneff, beaming with hope. "I will give you all that Godefroid could nor. give you. Love we will not talk of, for I know that he loved you passionately, i:nv>ysely perhaps. But you shall have what a woman of your age, beauty, ana mind should have—recreat'pii and society. At Biarritz the people had only to see you to be at your feet. You will see how at the court of raj* own country a Frenchwoman of your accomplishments will be received. You will see how a woman like you—"

"A woman like me would be unhappy on a throne," interrupted she, "unless with time she can overcome disastrous illusions. Prince, here is my response—will you wait one year?"

"And in a year you will give yourself to me if you are assured that the absent one does not love you?" said he, with a smile and a trace of bitterness.

"Yes," said she, gravely, "if I am certain that you still love me. One word more—you know what provisions have been made on my account? I come to you with empty hands."

"Good!" said Kemeneff, shrugging his shoulders. "Do you class' me with those heroes of romance who think that they give a supreme proof of their love in dividing their fortunes with a poor wife? Empty or loaded with treasures, your hands are to me the most beautiful in the world. My only merit will be to wait one year. But I shall wait. Will you allow me to see you sometimes?" "Sometimes," emphasised she; "that is to fay very little. If you wish to please me you will pass the greater part of the time in Eussia. My confidences must have made you see that with me you will not gain anything by being near, neither lose anything by being away." That same evening Jenny sent off a long letter to O'Farrell, which ended with these words:

"This is what Prince Kemeneff has said to me, -without omitting one phrase. As to my reply, it is sufficient to know that I have taken one year to reflect in ,and also —I do not conceal it from you that he has suspected—to have your advice. Ido not know how to do without it in this case, in spite of the slight interest that you have shown as to my future; I remember the very active part that you once took in my decision in a case of the same kind. "What'shall I say? You can nudge with perfect competence. You know the Prince; you know me also. I have not changed in any way; I am exactly the same. All that I once said to you I say now, although I admit it the great hope of my heart is far from being justified by the pretension of

disinterestedness that you have shown me.

"Now, then, if you tell me to marry Kemenefr' 1 will follow your counsel, for it will be given without restraint, this time. I do not suppose that the Prince has any all-powerful rights over your friendship. ' You owe him nothing that I know, and I can guarantee that he will not kill himself if I refuse to marry him. Thus you have no reason to sacrifice me over again imless the role of preparing sacrifices is particularly to your taste.

"Answer me when you have maturely reflected; we have time. You hold in your hands for the. second time a poor woman's happiness and her future. It, is a very little thing, but little as it may be, in whatever mould your heart may have been cast, this woman should be the first, unless the Algerian air has killed all remembrances in you."'

CHAPTEK XXVII

"WHAT SHOULD HE RESPOND?" Telagh has changed very much since the young manager for the Societe de Forests has taken possession of his post. It is not that the place has become less solitary or wild, nor that, one is less deprived of the comforts of civilised life. Patrice bad not the ideas of our great colonizers of today.

"In m::)t|ters of civilization,'' said he. when he talked with a person capable of understanding him, "the welfare of the conqueror plays a less efficient role than the comfort of the conquered population."

All the furniture that he had in his room yet was a deal table and two arm chairs covered with sacking made by the carpenter belonging to the military detachment that occupied the bordj in the beginning. His narrow bed had not been enriched by a mattress, and the varied menus of Madame Lafon continued to make all the change at his table. One single cipher had increased into the billions the Telagh undertaking. Hie business was known in Paris as a choice investment. The shares wrve constantly rising; Patrice did more for the others than he did for himself. In a few months the bordj had a scTiool for the children, a chapel officiated in every week by a priest and often visited by Pere Chrysostome, an embryo hospital and an apothecary. Roads were laid out. through the woods, villages of wood cutters were organised, and a saw mill had just been completed. 'M'siou Patriz," as the Arabs called him, was by turns engineer, doctor, general nurse, and primary inspector. He passed his days on horseback, and his nights, often very .short, were very wakeful. Hopeless and nameless love always held the same place in his heart, but it was not the chief wheel in the mechanism of his life. He never ceased for one second to love, but he could, thanks to work, pass entire* hours without suffering.

Work is the great liberator of the human soul conquered by sorrow- It not only opens the prison doors — often voluntary—which the remembrance of an unhappy moment has kept closed, but often with its rude hand it pushes us over the gloomy threshold. In spite of us at. first we drag our heavy, weary steps, without ceasing to be reminded of the fatal souvenir by the bruising of the chains and the sight of the afflicted in distress which seems to fasten to us. But soon, like captives recompensed for their courageous efforts, we feel the iron weight diminish; and we assume the agile vig-our of a free man; we become wrestlers after having been conquered. Grief remains riveted 'to our heart forever, but in place of languishing, we proudly carry the dear and noble burden concealed from all.

Sometimes fate, that cruel master, opens by a trick our half-closed wounds/ It was thus with Patrice. In, two minutes Jenny's letter made, him retrograde in his cure two years. All the madness of love, all his regrets for the past, took possession of hist heart, and at the same time a dear v;oice breathed in his ear once more a. cry of unrequited love. What should he respond? During the whole night he felt that his love was renewed with a new force. He was waiting- for daylight to write these lines which would finish all this struggle between two bruised hearts: "The one whom you should marry is not Kemeneff. It is I—l who you love and who have loved you since the first moment that I saw you."

Who could prevent him? One single obstacle existed at this hour between him and the widow Godefroid—the religion of a v;ow. But death had given liberty to the husband. Had it not at the same "blow released the friend from his crazy promise? Could the being lying in his tomb own anything? Could he yet watch over his rights as to the wishes of the living? Is it anything but a thought, a name vibrating in a cold echo? What clo human actions signify to one who has nothing to gain, lose, or suffer? In the midst of feverish slumber Patrice invoked his friend's spirit.

"Do you hear ( me?" said he, "you who have cost me so dear. Are you there? If your soul is happy in its new home and knows nothing of events here below what matters it to you if she wears a new nuptial ring? What matters a few words of love or caresses to you? If yiou see us, show by some sign that your spirit is near us. . Perform one of those miracles so many tell of. Godefroid, lam call* ing you! I suffer. We both suffer, and you loved us both s.» much! Godefroid, have pity upon us!" In the darkness of the night the young man listened, bathed in perspiration? lying in wait for the slightest sound—the cracking of furniture, a blow upon the wall, or a sigh like the rustling of a bird's wing. But in vain his nerves, strained to the highest pitch. The night never was co still, ioutside as well as within. The forest even, so rarely quiet, did not make a moan. Life and death seemed to be in league to refuse the sign. A little be. fore daylight, vanquished by fatigue, he closed his eyes not to opeu them until the sun was shining in f" splendour. Suddenly the chapel bell rang in a certain way that he understood. • i ~ "Pere Chrysostome has arrived,' exclaimed he, hastening- to dress himself. . . , , The indefatigable missionary had lust entered Telagh, having travelled all ni«-ht to reach there at his usual hour. When Patrice joined him mass was over, and they turned their steps toward the school. "Come," said the young man, hurrying along the astonished priest, "To-day you have something else more difficult to clo than to teach the catechism to children. You must decide the repose of the living and the dead, too, perhaps." . (To be continued.)