CHAPTER XXXII.

Clutha Leader, Volume XII, Issue 596, 18 December 1885, Page 7

CHAPTER XXXII.

A WEARING STRUGGLE,

God belp me in my grievous need, God help ir,e in my inward pain ; "Which cannot ask for pity's meeds, Which has no license to complaio. — Currer Bell.

Never did woman devote herself more thoroughly to her husband than did Blanche Yereker to hers. Every little wish was law to her ; every little whim it was her study to gratify. To the veriest trifles did she discharge this self-imposed duty. Never was Fane, like other husbands, kept waiting for the joint ride, drive, or walk. Never did she dissent from his views on any one point ; never did the slightest murmur, or the least expression of impatience escape her lips. Surely, no one will say this was hypocrisy. It was purely out of her honesty and tenderness of heart that she thus acted. | She had promised — certainly without thinking, but still she had promised — to cherish, honor, and obey- him, and if she could not act up to the spirit of -the vow, she could, and, what was more, would do so to ihe very letter.

£here was no limit to her earnestness of purpose. She was not satisfied with rendering all this homage and obedience, but she even felt it her duty to try and be cheerful at times when he. seemed annoyed and vexed. Still Fane Vereker, notwithstanding all this devotion, care, and solicitude, felt that she did not love him, and there remained the same unsatisfied yearning in his heart.

Although she could thus control and shape every action of her life to Fane's wishes, it was impossible that she could hold the same sway over her thoughts. She could not shut out from herself that Tom's absence at Gibraltar did not, as she had fondly, hoped it would, make her task of strangling this unhappy love any easier. When she had first learned that he was going, she had said to herself that it would be all for the best, and she had derived much, comfort from the thought that when he should be away she would be able, if not to forget all about him, still to arrive at that happier and better frame of mind when she. should be capable of thinking of him with no other feeling than one of kindly friendship. She had said to herself that it would be impossible, that it would be against human nature, and more particularly woman nature, that she should go on caring for anyone so utterly indifferent to her — in a lover's sense—^as she knew Tom to be. Absence alone ought to effect a cure ; but absence and indifference together ought to cool down the most ardent passion that ever glowed in human bosom.

This was what she had thought; this was what she had hoped ; but this was what never came to pass. She found out that she had been bitterly mistaken, and was forced to the selfconfession that she found it now harder than ever to drive this love away. It seemed almost useless to try and shut him out. Everything conspired against her. Everything spoke to her of him. The regiment on the march with pennons fluttering, plumes waving, appointments glittering, and filling the air with martial sounds, the strains of the bands, the tramp of horses' feet, and the jingling of accoutrements, all brought to her mind, with painful distinctness, that face and form which had always seemed so in keeping with these sights and sounds. Then the regimental steeplechase meeting came round again, stirring up the recollections of that day when she had met her old boy friend again after the lapse of so long a time. It was only a year back, and yet that year seemed to comprise the whole of her past existence. As she beheld the course with all its characteristic accessories, fond memory took her back to that exciting race, in which the Dromedary had been so well and honestly ridden. The shouts and cheers which greeted the winners of this year carried her imagination back to those louder shouts and heartier cheers which had rent the sky as that tall figure and that manly set face had swept past the winning-post, in that memorable finish between the Dromedary and Frailty. And, as if just to impress that superior and finished piece of riding still more strongly on her mind, and on the minds of those who remembered it, the Dromedary appeared, in one of the events on this occasion, ridden by his owner, young Molter, who had been tempted to this perilous feat by the glories of silk and kerseymere, and performed it in three acts as follows : Act i., scene — the first fence. Mr Molter occupies a seat, apparently on the Dromedary's tail. Act ii., seene — the second fence. Mr Molter balances himself between the Dromedary's ears. Act iii., scene — the third fence. Mr Molter, like Longfellow's arrow, is 'shot into the air,' and 'falls to earth / know not where ' (although it is to be presumed that he did to a nicety), and all this was owing, not so much to Mr Molter's bad horsemanship as to the Dromedary being as hard to sit over his fence as the mechanical horse.

No matter whether amidst the turmoil of such scenes as these or in the quiet of her own room, it was all the same } these whisperings were never silent. As she sat at home she could hear, on still days and in the quiet evenings, the trumpet-calls up in the barracks, and whether they sounded ' to boot and saddle,' or called the men to water their horses, or the officers to mess, to every one of them the same everlasting chorus of 'Tom Bullkley ' seemed to set itself. Then Merton, the pretty maid, was constantly fanning the flame by her allusions, during the hair - dressing operations, to the lamentations that still were heard in his troop, and which were retailed to her by the love - stricken Sergeant Whitefield, whose own repinirigs on this score not even the delights of courtship could dissipate. The officers, too, Fane just as much as any of them, were perpetually saving how much they missed him. It was always, 'If Tom were only here now ;' or, ' The mess is iike a Quakers' meeting now, compared to what it was when Tom Bullkley was with us ;' or, 'By Jove ! now that Tom's gone there's no getting up anything in the regiment.' All this. made, it doubly hard for poor i Blanche, but she fought it on bravely. Every one remarked the change in Mrs Yereker, arid there was something in it which touched even Gwyn, though he wouldn't have admitted such a thing even to himself/ That astute indi-

vidual, simply as a matter of duty to his commanding officer, periodically attended Fane Yereker's dinner-par-ties, and from one of these he seems to have returned one night with some new-born conviction, .which, in the solitude of his own. quarter, he proceeded to 'put into his pipe and smoke ' until the early dawn ; and as he knocked out the ashes he rapped out in a series of spasmodic sentences with a savage grunt between each, ' Just like them ! never contented with what they've got. When Fane Yereker wasn't married, all the women were chucking themselves at his head, and going down on their marrow-bones to him. Now one of them has got hold of him, she must go hankering after another fellow — and I'll eat my hat if that fellow isn't Tom Bullkley ! Hang it ! I can read a woman, I believe, like a spelling-book story in o;ie syllable! There is something about her, though, tells me — pshaw !' Here Gwyn broke off abruptly with an extra savage grunt, and shut his pipe up in its case with a vicious snap. He was going on to say, ' .tells me that, notwithstanding this, she is still, and will always be, noble, virtuous, and true.' But' he found himself utterly unable to think so much good of a woman all at once, and felt very much* annoyed and disgusted with himself for having been, even for a moment, subject to such a fit of weakness. The winter had passed, and ' them stinking violets' were raising their tiny heads, and protesting with their sweet fragrance, all along the hedgerows and banks,, against poor Reynard's persecution being carried on much longer for that year. In other words, the hunting season was drawing to a close, when, late one afternoon, Fane Vereker having gone up to town on business, Blanche sat alone by the drawing-room window engaged upon a water-color sketch of Fane in uniform. She had commmenced it soon after his departure, and had been working hard at it nearly ever since, so as to be able to give him, when he came home, a tangible proof that she had been thinking of him in his absence. * I know it will please him so,' she said to herself, as she plied her brush and thought of the gleam of pleasure that the sketch would light up in the stern but loving face. To call up such an expression was always a satisfaction to her, and a consoling assurance that she was doing her duty. She was just giving a few finishing touches, when the sound of wheels made her look up in time to see a railway fly, with a portmanteau and a servant outside, turn into the drive.

The first idea that flashed across her mind was that it was Tom Bullkley unexpectedly returned from Gibraltar. Why or therefore he should thus make his appearance with his luggage, and uninvited, did not occur to her. But love is,, not logical, and the idea held possession of her for a few distressing moments, until her recognition of the man outside as her brother's servant let her into the secret of the visiter's identity.

In a few moments Lord Mountnessing burst into the room. He looked very pale, as pale almost as his sister ; his smooth beardless cheeks were pinched by recent pain and suffering, and his left arm was in a leather rest. His accents, however, were cheery, and partially dispelled the misgivings raised by his sudden and sickly appearance. ' Well, Blanche, taken you by surprise, eh?' ' Good gracious, Harry, how ill you look !' she said, as soon as the greeting, which was as ,warm and affectionate as a one-armed man and a brother could make it, was over. ' Well, that's a pair of us, anyhow. I never saw a girl so changed. What's the matter, Blanche ?' * Oh, nonsense, Harry, dear ! You must first answer my question about yourself. What's the matter with your arm ? and why have you come, so suddenly upon us ?' ' Well, now, that's what I call hospitality. Where's Fane? I hope he'll give me a heartier welcome than to ask me what I've come for.' 'Gone up to town on business,' she said ; ' but he'll be back to dinner. Don't say anything to him, Harry, about my looking ill. It makes him so unhappy, and does no good.' ' What is it, Bianchie V said the young man, sitting down by her, and taking her hand. , 'Oh ! nothing, nothing, I assure you, really. But what have you been doing with yourself, Harry ?. Oh, how wretchedly ill you do look -».'• 'Well, you see, Blanche, I have been rather seedy lately, and not been taking much care of myself, and how I'm off to the Mediterranean to get a little sunshine into my bones, and I've just run dow.ii to wish you "good-bye" before I start' : 'Rut what is it, Harry, darling ?' asked Blanche, her eyes filling with tears.. . ' ' '--" ''Well, you see, it, all commenced in an ugly fall I had about a month ago, at a devil of a place as big as a house.' ' What on earth makes you ride at such places, Harry V . * Why, it's a place I've always had a sort of fancy for. In the very last run the Quorn had -last year, it pounded the whole field, huntsman, whips, every blessed one of them, except Tom Bullkley, who was the only man who took it j and while he

was having twenty minutes alone with the hounds, not another soul near them, all the field were galloping about looking for a gap or a practicable place, and it's now always called up there " Tom Bullkley's last negotiation." Ah, Blanche, you're a regular out an' out Arlington ; I never saw a girl take

such an interest in sport. Well,- I always had my mind made up, that if ever I came across that place, and hounds were running, that I'd have it, if it was only just to write out to Gibraltar and tell Tom about it. Well, sure enough one fine day, there it was in front of me with the hounds a field or so on the other side. My horse was a bit pumped, and I rode him at it too hard — it was the morning after the Harboro' ball, and my head wasn't as cool, perhaps, as it might have been, and I came to almighty grief.'

* Were you much hurt, Harry, dear V

' No, only collar bone broken ; and I should have been as right as a trivet a fortnight afterwards, only I wouldn't lay up for it — went out before it was healed^ — never gave it a chance o£ setting, and a false joint formed.'

« What's that, Harry f

' Why, this sort of thing,' and ! the speaker, with that unaccountable pride which the possessor of a pain or an. ailment often feels it showing it, off, pressed his collar bone, and caused tho two unknit portions to give a sharp click, like the spring of a watch.

•Oh, how awful!' said Blanche, with a shudder.

' Then I got . wet through several tunes, and took cold in it,- and rheumatism and all sorts of pleasant things set in; and, like a duffer, I went on knocking about until I've played the deuce with myself; and now the pills — — '

1 What are those, Harry V

' Oh, the doctors, of course — say that a dry, warm climate is the only thing that will pull me round, so I'm off to the Mediterranean for a two or three months' cruise.'

' And how is it you never wrote and told me a word of all this V 'No of course not What was the good]'

• Why, I could have gone up and nursed you, and prevented you from going on in such a reckless way.'

' Talking about nursing, Blanche, how's the kid 1'

'If you mean, Harry, Miss Blanche Louisa Agnes Beatrice Vereker,' said Blanche, with just a shadow of her old buoyant manner, ' she's in the enjoyment of perfect health. The poor little darling is asleep now, but she has been in here with me nearly the whole day while I've been painting.'

'Painting, eh? Oh, yes, I see! Hulloa! what's this '!'

4 A sketch of Fane I've been trying to do. Do you think it's like him ?'

' Why, it's more like Tom Bullkley, a great, deal, than Fane. The features, taken separately, are certainly Fane's, but, altogether, the picture is much more like — r— '

' Oh, give it to me, Harry !' and Blanche snatched the drawing out of his hands, tore it into pieces, and threw them into the fire, while tears of vexation filled her eyes. It cut her to the heart to think that, during all these hours of fancied mastery over her insidious enemy, the subtle poison must have been working in her mind, even to uifluence' her very pencil. 'It was very, vwy hard,' she thought. ' Why, Blanche, what's all this about ?' said the young man, softly and affectionately, as he marked the quivering lip and the tears trembling on the long lashes. ' Why did you tear that up in that way ?' 'What was the use of keeping it, Harry ? What's meant for one person, and turns out to be like another, is useless as a portrait, isn't it ? I know I'm very foolish/ she added", ' but it disappointed me, just at the moment, to find out that all; the hours T had worked so hard had been thrown away,' At this the tears trickled down the pale cheeks. " J ' Look here, I tell you what it is ! I know what all this means. It means that your system has gone 'all' into little bits, and you want setting up again. Now the only thing will be for you to come with me to the Mediterranean, and we'll soon pull round all right together. It strikes ;tne there must be more blood than bone in us Arlingtons ; ' we both seem to have broken up so precious easily. Now promise me, Blanche.' ' Oh, no, Harry ! Ife always makes me worse when people go on noticing me. Do let us drop the subject. Will you come with hie to the station to meet Fane ?' 'Of course I will. What time were you going?' ** ' Well, I wasnH going, because Fane doesn't like my "vfaiting about the station by myself, but if I'm, with you, f know it .will please him.'

(Tob'a continued)