OUR SERIAL STORY

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume I, Issue 104, 15 April 1911, Page 9

OUR SERIAL STORY

HER DEAREST WISH. ■ (Continued.) She slipped from her ehair and to her knees, trying to pray for strength to bear this awful soriow which was breaking over her heart; but GaunV C face rose before her, his voice rang : u her ears. Over an over ague she went through the scene, until it seemed to be repeating itself .n the very room, as if he were still present. She rose at last and began to undress, but still mechanicaUv. Even now and then she paused and looked at her hand, tie had held it; she could feel his hand gripping it still. As she parted her hair from her forehead, she could feel his hand upon her head, the caressing fingers, the lingering kiss. “Oh, God help hie, what shall 1 do?” she wailed. "1 love did he make me love him so?” Tlien she remembered his misery and anguish, and a hot wave of pity swept over her, and swept away, lot a tune, her own sorrow and bitterness. How lie, too, must be suffering! He had said that he loved lier a thousand times better than she loved him. It was not possible, of course; but how he must be suffering! She remembered the expression of his face, the agony ringing in his voice. . And she should never see him again! The thought struck heart like ice. Never see him again. All her life! And she was so young! Why, she might live to be an old woman! All those terrible years stretching before her in which she should go on loving and longing foi him, and with uo hope of seeing him again! Oh, why could she not die. it would be good to die now, this moment, with his dear voice tinging in her cars, his kisses still waim upon her lips! She had not been so very wicked; she had tried to lead the g<x>d life Aunt Pauline bad hold up for her. Would nut heaven be merciful aud let her die? il they could only both die together, he and she, hand in hand, looking into each other’s eyes, and passing away from this cruel world into that of peace and rest!

She laughed piteously. •‘No, I shall not die!” she said, aloud. “I am young and strong, and I shall go on living for years”— she shuddered—“for years , loving, loving, and longing for him!” Slio threw herself on the bed at I last, but she could not sleep. The scene she had gone through passed through her brain, before her eyes, again and again. It was like a scene in a play- Now’ and again it seemed to her that he was bending over her, and slie put out her hand as if to thrust him away, sobbing: “No, no! She is your wife. It is she whom you love, not me! , You I must not touch me, kiss we!” Towards morning she fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion; but the sleep was one long dream, in which Gaunt knelt before her, clutching at her arm, his voice rising and falling in the anguish of his entreaty. A little after eight d’clock the charwoman knocked at the door, anti I Deci in a awoke. She tried to rise, i but coukl not. It seemed as il nei ‘ limbs were weighted with lead, as if 1 there was a spot in her brain burn- * ing like hot coal. The woman i knocked again, and Decimu ended t<> i her to come in. Her voice sounded ' weak and strained, and the woman I hurried to the bed with a Migue : alarm which grew into definite dismay as >he looked at the white law ■ with the two spots of crimson glow- ■ ing under the glittering <y<s. I •‘Lor’, miss! ain’t you well?” she I said aghast. “Ton look— you look i as if you was in a fever, that you do! You must ’ave got a chill las’ night.” i Decima eyed her with profound in-

difference. "Yes; I think I am ill.” she said, as if she were speaking of some one els.', some one who did not. matter in the least, was of no possible importance. “I feel as if I coukl not move; and—and—my head is on fire.” The woman was alarmed.

j “I’ll-- I’ll go for a doctor.” she t said, half speaking to herself. “I i don’t like the looks <>f you at all. ; miss.” I Dr-cima smiled indifferently ; it was 1 a pit'*ous smile. ■ Do you think I am going to die?” 1 sho asked, calmly, almost hopefully. 'l’he woman forced a laugh. “Not yon, miss!” she said. “Lor , it's only a feverish cold as 'arc took 'olil of you!” Ihcima sighed and turned her head away, and the woman, after looking round helplessly for a moment. stole from the room and did the most sensible thing she could have done. There was a telegraph office within a few yards, and she wired t«» Lady Pauline, and then hurried to the nearest doctor. When .she came back, Deeima was staring at the ceiling with eyes which shone and glittered with fever, and her hands gripped on the satin coverlet as if they were holding <«n to consciousness by a .supreme effort of will. Wiven Lady Paulino arrived, she found the doctor bending over Deci ma. applying iced bandages to the burning head. He greeted Lady Pauline with a silent nod. and. in silence, for a moment she knelt beside the bed. Then she said in a tremulous whisper: “She is very ill 1 MTutt is it?” “Brain fever.” b<* slid. ,"•••* rely and aloud. There was no need U whisper, ivr Deuiua could rat iic.-r

“How did she come here? I know' nothing !” she said, as she took off her bomiet and cloak.

“She came hast, niight, about four o’clock, so the charwoman tells me. llien she went out—to her brother's —and returned about ten. She was quite well on her first arrival, so the woman says, but looked pale and tired when she came in later.”

“Brain fever,” said Lady Pauline, calm and on the alert by this time. “1 don t understand.” “‘Acute brain fever,” lie said. Absolute candour w*as always required, demanded, by Lady Panline, and lie knew it. “There is no other trouble. Something wias om, lier mind • sometihiiihg must have occurred 'between the interval of her first arrival and her return to this bouse.”

Lady Pauline stared at him. “Mhat could have happened?” she asked.

’That we have to discover,” he replied, quietly. “She must he kept quiet; but you know the treatment as well as I do, Lady Pauline.” Lady Pauliine had in her younger days for a time been a hospital nurse. “I’M come back in an hour or two. Keep tlie ice bandages going; and if she sliouJd recover consciousness before I return, keep her as tranquil as possible.’’

Lady Pauline stood beside the bed' with tightly compressed' lips and aching heart. What had they done to this girl wham she loved w’ith a mother’s love?

The charwoman stole in presently, and Lady Pauline questioned her. She oouild felll no more than the doctor had already told. Lady Pauline sent her with a wire to recall the sehvants, and resumed her place beside the unconscious girl. The doctor came in again within thia time.

“Something has happened to heir —some shock,” he said. “I can do nothing for her that you cannot do, Lady Pauline. Absolute quiet, tranquillity; that is all.”

The hours dragged through. Later Lady Pauline saw the white eyelids quiver, and presently Decima 'looked up at her.

“Aunt Pauliine?” she said, in the thin, strained voice of fever. “Yes, it is I, Deeie, dear!” The burning lips smiled woefully. “1 am glad' you have come, very gla d. Aunt Pa u 1 ine ?’ ’ “Yes, dear.” “Will you please tell Air Mershon that I cannot marry him?” Lady Pauline repressed a »L*aJ“t. Was the poor child delirious? But Decima smiled again, as if she read the question, the doubt.

“No; I aim quite sensible, dear,” she said. “I promised Mr Mershan. But, you see, I didn’t know then that I loved him.”

“Him? Who?” asked Lady Pauline.

Decima stared at her as if surprised that the question should be necessary. “Lord Gaunt,” she said, quietly. Lady Pauline could not repress the start now. “Lord Gaunt?” she echoed. Decima’s hands clutched at the coverlet with feverish violence, but her voice, thin and hollow though it was, was calm and free from delirium. “Yes,” she said. “Didn’t you know? I love him, and”—an exquisite smile lighted up her face, making its pale loveliness angelic by its intensity—“he loves me.” Lady Pauline permitted a groan to escape her. “He loves me,” continued Decima. -“We shall never see each other again. Never! But I cannot marry Alershon ; not even to save father and Bobby. Poor Bobby! lam sorry; but 1 cannot do it ■ 1 could have done it il —if 1 had not seen him—when was it ? I iorget. Was it long ago, years ago? But I know that he loves mo, and I love him. I shall never see him again ; but I cannot marry Air Alershon or any one else. It is a pity,, isn’t it? But 1 cannot! Will you write to him and tell him? He lives at Leafmore.” Her mind wandered for a moment, “Leaf more! How beautiful it is! If he would only stay ! The schools—the cottages —the church! How good he is! Ho does all we ask him! How good he is! And I love him—love him—love him! His wife! No, 1 can’t be his wife! There is another woman— Oh, why did he make me love him so!” She moved her head from side to side with feverish restlessness, then, as if with an effort, she came back to esnii-consciousness. “W rite to —to Air Alershon at once, Aunt Pauline. Tell him that I cannot—cannot. Ask him not to be angry. I know I am very wicked. Well, that-is all, isn’t it?—l love him — love him! Promise, Aunt Pauline. I am slipping away—tlie light—the fire, all is growing dim; I can’t see your face, though I know you arc there. Promise!”

Lady Pauline bent over her. “I promise. Be satisfied, dear!” she said : and Decima closed her eyes and drew a long sigh of relief.

CHAPTER XXXI. Gaunt found himself in the street outside the Mansions, very much in the condition in which Decima had been. His brain was in a Whirl. For him life had, so to speak, ended. He had lost Decima, the girl-love who had filled his heart, who had been the one star shining in his darkened life. Ho had lost her; and it was well. He shuddered as he thought of the risk she had run through his overwhelming temptation. If Laura, his wife—his wife!—had not appeared, what would have happened? Decima would have gone with him, and he. would have wrivked the life of the sweetest, the purest of God’s creatures. (To be Continued.)