THE LOVE OF WOMAN.

Golden Bay Argus, Volume VI, Issue 61, 29 July 1897, Page 2

THE LOVE OF WOMAN.

" There is something the matter with the lift, miss," the man said, " you will have to walk up." I was not surprised. There was always something the matter with the lift in this building ; 1 generally had to walk up ; so I mounted the stairs, five long flights, uncomplainingly, and arrived at last, panting and out of breath, at Katherine's door.

A faint " Come in," answered my knock. The voice sounded as if it came from a closet I opened the door and entered the room. It was half dark, and, in front of the grate fire a teakettle simmered noisily. There was a clash of brass rings as Kacherine drew back the heavy curtains of her little alcove bedroom and came forward into the lirelight.

"Is that you, Josephine P" she asked. " I am glad you came. I was so lonely this even ing that I put the kettle on so tbat its singing might keep me company."

'' Why didn't you send for me, dear ?" I asked as she unfastened my wraps. " You know I am always ready to come to you."'

" I will not darken your life with mine," she said, kissing me and placing two chairs before the tire, which she always kept burning until late in the spring. The trees were budding now outside, but Katherine was the coldest of mortals. She shivered as she drew close to the fender. We sat together in silence, for wc had long been friends, and there was no need of the idle chat of mere acquaintance. As we watched the flames they cast strange shadows over the little room accentuating the brilliant lights of certain old pieces of mahogany, and concealing the carefully-darned places in the rare lace of the curtains, filmy as cobwebs. A few flowers in a window box filled the air of the flat, so exquisitely neat in its poverty. " Josephine," said my companion, at last, fot it pleased us to call each other by our full names, sweet and old-fashioned, suiting well our style of dress, and the high combs of our grandmothers, that we were wearing " there are times when I feel that Cod, if there is a God, has forsaken me. This is one of them." " Dear friend," I said, " there is a God. Do not doubt it."

" Ah, my child, you are young ; you have not yet fought tbe battle of life. Come to me ten years hence, and tell me that you still believe there is a merciful God who watches over His children, aud I will believe. Not until then." Her hands worked nervously. It seemed to me that she made an effort to refrain from wringing them. " To-night," she resumed, her voice trembling, " my past life came up before me like a giant nightmare Its memories are about to throttle me. I gasp for breath, and I can only utter inarticulate sounds."

1 took her nervous fingers in my own and held them here.

" You have heard my history from others," she said. " I am a landmark in this town. People say of me, ' There goes Katherine Weaverton. Her husband divorced her for a good reason, it is said. How sad she looks ! How thin ! How miserable !' " A spasm of pain conti anted her features as she spoke.

It was true. I had heard those very words. " Child "—she grasped my hand until I felt the rings almost cut into the fltsh—" pray God, the God you believe in so firmly, you may never know the agony of feeling that the heurt you wish to hold and keep for your own is turning from you, of seeing the inattentive look, of speaking to ears th:>* hear not, knowing that your husband, who is the light of your eyes, is tiring of you, as he would tire of a too faithful dog. Fray God that he may spare you this, for it is the bitterness of death. Sometimes," she went on after a short pause, " I bluuie myself for haviiifj loved too well. But at first he seemed to return my affection. And what was my fault ? Simply this ; I had dared to grow old. I had lost my youth."

" How old are you, Katherine ? " 1 asked. "I am forty—five years older than he That is old for a woman Men never grow old. At sixty they are in the prime of life A woman at the same age should bo in her grave. Her life is finished when the wrinkles begin to come It is especially so here Woman is queen so long as she possesses youth aud beauty ; after, there is nothing left to her.'' " Katheriue, dear," I interrupted, •• your troubles have warped your judgment. At forty an active, healthy woman is almost at her best. You have everything left to live for except the fickle love of a heartless mau. Suraly he is not worth a serious regret." " He was all earth held for me," she said. " 1 tried to keep him by every heart and wile of which woman is capable ; but I was mortal, and therefore could not boast of perennial youth. Gray hairs began to show, little wrinkles gathered at the corners of my eyes. My life, so far as my husband was concerned, was over. The application for divorce came upon me like a blow. 1 was stunned, as if I had fallen from a great height ; and I watched the events that followed like one in a dream. I did not deny the story he trumped up against me, for, of course, he was obliged to give some cause for the separation. It was enough thsit he wished to be rid of me ; I would uot stand in his way. His lawyers combined to swindle me out of my wealth ; 1 vvaa rich in property left me by my father. The house he and his wife now live in is mine, the carriage and horses are mine ; but I had no one to help me. My father was dead. They took everything. You know how I live on a mere pittance since bequeathed me by my aunt."

The kettle boiled over. Katherine rose and set it aside, then she resumed her seat, her face half in shadow.

" The girl he married," she said, after a pause, " I had watched grow up. She lived near us just across the street. How should I know that ho, too, was watching her as she budded into womanhood, fair as a wayside flower, and comparing her face with mine, which was beginning to fade ?" " You are beautiful, Katherine," I said, and indeed, her sad face looked rare and fine as a bit of Dresden china in the flicker of the firelight, though her great eyes were like wells o( sorrow, and the droop of her mouth was pitiful to see.

" It was uot wholly that," she moaned, covering her face with her hands. "It was not that, but"—her shoulders shook with a sudden storm of sobs,aud the tears trickled through her slender fingers. "I was childless, and he wished for children. He has a child now, a little girl, aud she is not mine." I clasped her waist and held her close to me until the paroxysm was over ; then 1 said to her—

"Go away with me, Katheriue, a little while. Let us take a trip to the mouutaius. You have never seen those mountains. Then you cannot know how they lift you out of yourself and dwarf your troubles Looking on their heights, our petty lives seem so small that they are not worth a tear. Will you go ?"' She turned her face, resting on my shoulder, bo that I could not see it. " You do not understand," she said. Then Hbe pushed me from her, facing me with fierce eyes. " 1 will not leava him !'' she cried aloud. * I will stay here in this town, where I can at least look upon his face now aud then. I love him, if you must know. I love him still." " Is the lift running to-day ?" I asked the man a week later. . •• Yes, miss," he said. 1 stepped inside and he shut the door. " Have you heard about Mrs. Weaverton ?" he asked. -No."

" She's hurt—bad. She stopped some horses that was runum' away—Mr. Weaverton horses they was, an' Mr. Weavertoii's little girl inside, holdiu' to the seat, seared nearly to death. There never was uothiu' like Mrs. Weavcton's j pluck, they said that saw it. She held them horses' bits till she stopped them, but she was hurt so bad herself that they're sayiu' she can't get well." The lift crept upward. The man's gestures, multiplied by the mirrors that lined its wails, seemed impish to my excited eyes—like a mockery of the tragic ending of this sad life. He told his story glibly, as if after much practice. To how many gaping curious people had he not told it in the course of the d;iy—strangers to my poor Katherine, people who, hiingry for tragedies, care nothing for the sufferings of the actors therein. At last we stopped at the hall of Katheriue's flat. I passed the doctor, who was talking to the nurse in a whisper, and entered the room. The curta ; ns were drawn aside and Katherine lay stretched upon the bed swathed in bandages and white as death. By her side stood a little girl, whose golden hair glowered in the darkened room like the yellow flame of a caudle. I knelt by the bed, and Katherine turned her eyes upou me, breathing heavily iu an agony of pain. The horses had trampled upon her breast, crushing her until her lungs bled inwardly. "Do not grieve, dear one,'' she. said, as my tears fell on the coverlet, " it is all for the bvst." She g»zed lovingly out of her great painladen eyes at the child. "Is she not beautiful, Josephine ! She is his child." And looking at her she fell asleep under the. influence of strong opiates. I watched ivith her far into the night, while the little girl slept at her feet, her curls nunbled and her cheeks rosy with slumber Her father had bidden her stay until the last. Katherine roused towards midnight, and asked for the child. I laid her, sleeping still, in her arms, the bright head upou her breast. Then I knelt by the bed and called her name, for she was again sinking into unconsciousness. " Katherine," 1 said tremblingly, " how is it with you ? You are ueaiing the other world ; are you ready to go ?'' After a silence that shook my frame with sobs, so full was it of the pain of death, she murmured, her voice falling until it died away in a movement of the lips—- " Ah, yes ! God is merciful ; He will forgive. I believe in Him now ; He has given rne rest. I feel no pain,only the happiness of holding this little child of my beloved husband." And with his name on her lips she fell into her last sleep. The child slept, on, smiling in her dreams, her round cheek pressed close to Kathenne's, which was fast becoming cool and waxen in the pallor of death.