Storyteller. SNATCHED FROM THE GRAVE.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume XXXII, Issue 10628, 5 June 1897, Page 5

Storyteller. SNATCHED FROM THE GRAVE.

BY ANNA SEIEILDS.

I have novor told this story before, but, knowing I have not mauy days left of tliia osrth'w noary pil^rimago, I writo out tlio expL'vioHuo thitt has mndo uto « poop rani) and a louoly ono, though, I humbly trust, uot a uaoless ono. Nearly twenty-lire yours ago I Bottled in G-resham, a village then, and taking its namo from the founder, who wan also my uncle, Peter Groshara. 110 had written to mo, when I graduated from the medical college, where he had paid all my expenses bb a student, that he would give mo a cottage in the village and five hundred dollars in money, but after that I must make my own way. The offer was a generous continuance of kindness shown to me from boyhood, when I was left «n orphan and penniless. I gladly accepted it, and went at once to Grenham, where niy only rival wai « praotitionor nearly eighty years eld, Dr Farnell, who oocupied n cotta^o direotly opposite to mine. Boiug in easy olroumstanoes and very feeble, Dr Farnell was mora than willing to send me patients, until, gradually, J .found ho had transferred the whole praotioa of the village to my care. He took from the firafc a friendly lotereßt in my welfaro, and gave me much useful advice and information, his long experience rendered all he imparted oF groat value to a young physician. Scarcely an evening passed but found me at his cottage to discuss the oaHes of the day, In eaoh and all of which he took a keen professional Interest. But, before I hnd been a year in Greaham, I found my professional talks formed but a Reoondary interest In my visits to Df Farnell's cottage. When ttioso were over, and the aged doctor dozed in his chair, or nodded over a book, Laonie Farnell, his granddaughter and housekeeper, would touch the pfoo.o keys toaocompanyhSf-SWeef/olear voice I in ay favourite songs, or would talk to me in her womanly way of the patients, who were all friends of her own, many of them hor pensioners. Let me try, looking through the olouds that rolled soon between us, to piotnre Laonie Farnell as she was in that first year of my love for her. My love, I say, for it sprang into my heart strong and undying the first tlmo her aoft, brown eyea met mine in ehy greeting. She was pretty but no wonder of beauty, her great oharm lying in her grace of movements, her low, sweet voice, and a gentle, refined modesty. She had been carefully educated, but had no brilliant aeoomplishments, unless a gift of making home an altogether charming place may rank In that oategory. Orphaned in infanoy, she had been the darling of her grandfather's heart, but, dearly aa he loved her, he wao never averse to my suit. He read my heart's feoret even before I guessed its depth, and in his quiet way favored the friendship between Loonie and myself A year, the one bright year In my solitary life, passed away, and I prepared to speak to Leonie of my love. I had waited until I felt seoure of my position at Gresham, and I hoped to waken some warmer token of love on Leonie's part. For, even thon I guessed dimly, what I know, and soon knew certainly, that I had won only a oftlm, sisterly affection in return for the absorbing devotion of my heart. I have said nothing yet of my intercourse with my uncle Gresham, the grandee of the little village, whoselarge, handsome house was the oentre of attraction to all strangers, and whose income wos supposed to be something of almost fabulous extent, ana really was that of a very wealthy man. During that first bright year of my life in the village he had started, my intercourse with my unole was as pleasant aa nil other parts of my life, and I waa a froqtwnt and welcome visitor at his house. But in one brief sentonoe I may record the event that wrought a ohange In all— my love, my friendships, my welcome at Greßham Plaoe. My cousin Sidney, Unole Gresham's only child, oame home from Europe, where he had been trarelling for five years. From the moment when he crossed the threshold of his father's house, and found me waiting beside that father to give him welcome, Sidney Gresham hated me. I osnnot tell what demon of jealousy and [district whispered in his heart, but I read in his chilly greeting that I was an unwelcome third, though I had oome only on my uncle's urgent request, and J took my departure early. From that time I marked a change in my reception at the houno, where I bad been assured of moat oordlal welcome, and my visits soon became those exaoted by my gratitude only. It hurt me cruelly to see that my unole's affection was ib a ing won from me, but there was a far more bitter oup soon to be plaoed at my reluctant lips. Sidney came to j)t Farnell' b as a guest sure of a welcome, to renew a friendship only interrupted since boyhood by his travels. And the first time I saw him with Leonie I knew why my love had failed to meet its return. A childish friendship had grown by that long separation into a life love. The eyes that had ever met mine with the frankpess of friendship drooped shyly beneath Sidney's gaze, while the cheek that had nover changed color for me, flushed at his coming, even before he spoke. Yet I would not quite despair until meeting them together, on a hsny June I evening) walking slowly, as lovers walk. I heard a «?»- flißbing voice whisper ; ' I here always loved you, Sidney ! In their happiness they never £s«»sea my presence, and I shrank back behind a friendly tree till they p'asetd me by, and were lost to my alght. Then I threw myself into my professional duties, studying diligently, and giving ovary case in my oare ardent interest. Dr Farnell guessed all my misery, and, when I came more and more seldom to his cottage, he orossed the road frequently to visit me. Once only he spoke : 'I an sorry Leonie loves Sidney,' he said, after telling me of their engagement, ' for he Is a man I never liked nor trusted. But a woman's heart is wayward, and must follow its own will. There is no Tpason— not one — to set against her love, so i must bear my disappointment as beßt I may.' And I know my kind old friend meant that he had hoped my love would win Leonie's heart. While August was burning up the vegetation with a long drought, we had several oases of malignant fever In the vilicjfl, and ono morning I was shocked at receiving $ note from my unole, sajing Sidney had the symptoms. I hurried to the house, *nd ray uaele led mo direotly to the sick room. ' Bat as J approached the bed Sidney cried, 1 What b?ipgß yon here 1 Where is Dr Farnell?' ' 'Dr Farnell does not pya.iitiea/ Jreplied, 'He will come to me ! He must ! I will not trust my life In the hands of my heir and my rivel in love ! ' I started' back as if he bad struck me a blow. Before Heaven, I could oweßr that my possible helrship had never itOßsed my mind, and I had never thoua I^' & **? *° wia LBOnie i oncel knew her lo? "*{ W? ? ] T" U ™' }. could not speak, > fc I BMt 0r #ap»W to my ooualn. In one short week the village ohu?oh bell tolled fo« Peter Gresham's son. Two hours before the time set for the funeral I went to my unole, and, though ho bad clung to me in those bitter days of mourning, I asked for the first time to see my cousin. I have often questioned the fatality that led me to make the request, but I oan only write here what I have often told my own heart, I bad to see him Already he was In his coßtly coffin, with flowers about the bed, npon which it rested, I entered the room alone, and stood |intently looking down upon the still, oold face of my rival. Dead ! His words came baok to me as I looked at him. I was my unole'a heir. I might yot hope in the futnro to win Leonie. Suddenly the blood rushed to my heart, nearly anffocating me ; my hands grew oold, my legs shook under me. My eyes, fixed upon Sydney Grejhatn's face, grew dim, and I should hats fallen had I not grasped the bed for snpport. For, with my profeaaional instiDcts over on the alert, I saw that my cousin was not dead. It was a case of sub. -pended animation, calling for instant care, in a little time— probably before the lid was fastened over the cold farm, it would be too late to save the faint spark of life. I had only to hold baok my hand, only to ignore the one faint sign before me, and Gresham Place, ray uncle's wealth— posßibly Leonie's love,

would all bo mine, while no ono living would over guess I was a murderer. One moment the memory of the dying man's hatred and suspicion tugged at my heart : one moment a fierce temptation seemed tearing roe in two, and then, Heaven be thanked, I was mysolf again. Gently I lifted my conain from his ghastly resting plsoe, and replaced his shroud by his night dross. I would not risk tho shook of his waking to a consciousness of luh surroundings, but though I utnggerod under hrn weight, I took him to my uuclo'n room, next the oi) e where lie hail lain. Then I opened a vein m big Mm. Sluggishly, drop by drop, the life blood ■ followed my lancet, [and I knew I had not boon deceived. Alone, unaided, I applied suro roraodieß, till pulsation returned to the numbed hosrt, color to the pallid lips, breath to tho paralyzed lungs. Then, when tho wondering eyes opened, I gave a powerful opiate, watched till it took effect, and, leaving my patient in a profound slumber, went down stalra. I found my uncle in the pathetic apathy grief had made habitual in those threo dreadful days, and I said, gently : : ' Undo, you have doubtod my love and my gratitude in these last few months. You have thought the man who owed you every good of his life for yearß had counted on yonc death to inherit your wealth. ' But I will not donbt yon again,' he said, piteously, 'If you will come back to me. I Ijave wronged you, but you will not desert me now ! ' ' You have wronged me.' I answered, • and I have come to prove you my love and gratitude. I have come to restore to you—' The aged father waa lifted quickly, while a pallor like death, a breathless eagerness warnod me to Bpeak quiokly. ' Come,' I said. And I led him gently, yet quickly, to the bed where his son lay, sleeping. I checked tho cry upon his lips by whispering : 'Do not w.\ken him ! This sleep j.5 his very life ! ' 'Not dead'?' ho whispered, shaking lilce one in an ague fit— 'not doad Sidney, my son ! ' 'Not dead, 1 I answered, 'nor djing. Ho will recover, unole ! ' 'And you have given him his life. You, whom he nlmost accused of wiohing to murder him ! ' ' Be was mistaken,' I said, quietly ' Now, will you watch him while I send Dr. FarnellhereP* • Yes — yea ! And you will haye — those things taken away ? ' and he pointed to the room where the coffin lay. •I will do all!' I was glad to have employment. I seat away the funeral guests, carefully keeping the life -restoring quiet. I had all funeral preparations removed, and I — ah, me, I told Leonie ! ' It was bitter, and yet sweet, to meet her tears of gratitude and deep happiness. It was my reward, and yet my sore pain, to sac the despairing grief leave her deac face, and a quiet rest replace its anguish. Nobody quite understood but the old doctor. He did, and gave me one hand-grasp that seems ever to linger in my palm when I think of that day of excitement. Sidney Greaham had the grace to drop his active animosity towards me— to let my uncle keep his afieotion for mo, and, when he died, remember me in his will. But he never cordUlly liked mo. When Dr. Parnell died I became physioian at Gresham Plaoe, and my life of sorrowful loneliness took the added pang of knowing Leonie 's precious gift of love never met full return. She has never complained, bearing patiently tho Borrows of a negleoted wife, the hours of loneliness even her ohlldren cannot 611, whoa her husband is seeking pleasure for weeks together ia the oity. But she is pale and sad now, the woman 1 loved, and would have guarded from sorrow with my heart's blood. We have been good friends, and I think when the incurable enemy % have carried in seoret for years wrings out my life In a little time now, that Iconic will drop a tear upon my dead face, though no love, no duty, can snatoh me baok from the grave to which I am hastening,