A SLIP OF THE PEN.

Lyttelton Times, Volume XCIII, Issue 10653, 14 May 1895, Page 6

A SLIP OF THE PEN .

[by krs m. L. BAVNE.] (Detroit Free Press.) Margaret Emmett sat in her own room, rather disturbed and perplexed in mind, when a letter was handed to her. It came by snecial messenger, and the envelope was addressed to her, and she knew, or thought she knew, the eubstance of the letter without opening it, for it gave the details of an important step, she and her lorer, Edgar Bolling ‘woto about to talco# having decided, after a spirited interview, that it was the best way out of a dilemma. Margaret did not at once open tne letter. She knew that it arranged for an elopement and secret marriage that very nio-ht, as the only way, to bring her parents to*reason, and settle a vexed question between themselves. “ Who is sho ? ” asked tne eastern prince when he heard that', one of his courtiers had become involved in trouble. Ho felt sure-wise man that he was—that a woman had something to do with it. And it was a woman in this case, a young, beautiful and Margaret would have said, a totally unprincipled woman—her own cousin, too, Adelaide Emmet, , ~ "I will not have a divided kingdom, Margaret had declared when resenting Edgar's transient devotion to her beautiful cousin, “ you must choose between us, for you cannot manjy me and love her. If I give all, it is only fair that I have all in return.” , ~ , , , „ ~ “ You asked me to bs kind toner, said Edgar in defence; “youthrew us together, although you know that she was frivolous and a flirt, and now you blame me for offering her the ordinary civilities of everyday intercourse. I cannot help it if she is a beautiful and attractive woman. I certainly do admire her, but I love you, Margaret, and no other woman on earth. Is not that enough ? What can I do to convince you ? Marry me to-night and go with me to South America. Your father and mother will never bo willing to give you to me; I do not blame them. We do not want a big wedding, and lots ofpeople to stare at us. Meet l me at St Judes tonight, and go with me next week to South America.” . - , , And Margaret had consented, for she loved Edgar, weak and vacillating as she knew him to be, and she was tortured with jealousy. She knew her parents would object to her marriage until her lover was more prosperous in his business speculations—until he was rich beyond paradyenture. They even hoped that she might change her rnindjn his.absence, and engage herself to one more fitted to introduce her into a brilliant social life. They longed to see her make a fortunate marriage, and take the position for which both her education and her inclinations fitted her, so they put off the evil day of her union with Edgar Bolling as far as possible. Margaret had once told her parents that they did not enter at ail into her scheme of a happy marriage. “ If I make a mistake I must suffer for it, but a girl cannot marry a man picked out for her by the judgment of her father or mother. . • ** You married to please yourself, and I must do the same. I .will not have any interference with the question of my happiness—or misery—for life. She was sixteen then, and her indulgent parents simply laughed at her, and did not shut her up on bread and water, or send her away to boarding school. She was older now, and, she believed, wiser, and with a strong will and emotions of her own, it had pleased her to accept Edgar Bolling as her future husband, possibly because his plastic disposition seemed to offer good material for modelling. Then it was that her cousin Adelaide came upon the scene, sighing for more worlds to conquer, reckless as to methods, cold-hearted as a prude. But indeed a beautiful women, and a dazzling contrast to Margaret, both in appearance and disposition. She thought her cousin stupid in her placid state of goodness, and Edgar Bolling weak. She herself was brilliant, intellectual, and heartless—almost an adventuress. She tried her powers of fascination on Edgar, and succeeded in dazzling him with the desire of the moth for the star. Then Margaret showed her teeth. The peaceful atmosphere became tempestuous. Edgar’s vanity was pleased, but his heart was not tempted in the least. First and last, he loved Margaret, even though he dreamed of Adelaide. A man may do all that, and not once be false to his ideal, but only a great woman can believe it. The proposition which Edgar made to Margaret was such a one as only a weak man would make. However, there is an element of romance in the character of nearly every woman, and it pleased her with its importance and secrecy, and the thought that she was outwitting her enemy— for her cousin had assumed this threatening proportion on the horizon of her life. It was all arranged and sho saw stretching before her a long, felicitous life in the company of the husband of her choice. She opened her letter, and es her eyes fell on the first line, she gave a cry of anger and incredulity. Then, coupled with terms of familiar endearment, she read the name of her rival—the letter directed to Margaret, was expressed to Adelaide. She read no further, but sat looking at his name appended to the missive, and her eyes were wild and her lips compressed. This was the crowning indignity of his conduct. That it could have been an accident, a mere slip of the pen, did not occur to her then. She saw a way to punish her lover for his lapse of fealty, and she took advantage of it. Good women can be very cruel at times. There was a hard, set look in her face when she went to her cousin's room and handed her the letter. Adelaida Emmet was a girl with a red pomegranate mouth and silky blue-black hair. She wore floating draperies of black and silver, /with dashes of red, and resembled one of those gorgeous dragon flies that soar over summer streams. “Pardon me,” said Margaret coldly ; “I have opened a letter addressed to me, but which is intended for you,” and she handed her cousin the sheet of notepaper with a hand that had no tremor in its movements. “I haven’t any secrets from you, coz,” said the girl good-humouredly. Life was a blissful tangle of pleasurable emotions to her, and she ■''was sorry for those bisque people who feel neither pain nor joy. That she experienced a new set of emotions when she read that letter, knowing it had never been intended for her, I have not a doubt. For a moment she was confounded; then it eesmed to open a door out of so many difficulties that if was like setting wide the gates into the garden of Eden. “A secret marriage—St Jtide's—and a

trip to South America,” she said under her breath, then aloud to her cousin; “ You have read it ?”

“ Yes *” “ And you advise me—” " To marry him.” Adelaida was quick-witted. _ She half wondered which was the mistake, the address on the envelope or her name in the letter-—and with the thought came the determination to act on this suggestion of fate. “We are the same height—ho will not know until it is too late,” she said to herself. Then, addressing Margaret, she asked : “ Will you go with me ?” “ I will be there,” she said, much as Caesar might have spoken to Brutus. # # % # # St Jude’s was dimly lighted and half-a-dozen people stood near the chancel, when a vailed figure walked alone up the aisle and joined the little company there assembled, and Edgar Bolling, stepping forward, took bis place with his intended bride before the chancel. A marriage with bell, book and candle is always an interesting event, but it cannot be compared for romantic attraction to the mysterious stolen ceremony in an almost empty church, where a half-reluctant clergyman reads the service hurriedly, and the mediaeval saints look fantastic in the shifting lights. When the clergyman came to that part of the ceremony where he says: “If any of ye know just cause or impediment why ye may not bo lawfully joined together,” a woman sitting alone in a pew near them rose hastily, then sat down again, and the ceremony was concluded. Then Edgar turned to his bride, and, brushing aside the flowered white veil which covered her face, started back in consternation, for he. saw—not the placid face of the girl he loved, but the wicked beauty of Adelaide, the girl with the pomegranate mouth, whoso name he had substituted for Margaret’s by a mere slip of the pen. But all the eternities could not erase that writing now. , Margaret had made if indelible.