A THING OF NAUGHT.

Northern Advocate, 20 September 1910, Page 3

A THING OF NAUGHT.

Vestine Mannering stood by the open window through which the scent-laden breeze crept quietly in to kiss her pretty face and revel among the tresses of her lovely hair. Vestine was eighteen and very beautiful, two facts of which she wis perfectly aware and for which she was not unduly thankful. Next to her mother she loved Richard Ellertoa with all the ardour of her youthful heart and soul. They had first met at a grand reception not more than four months before. Both were young and not poor; both were attractive; both loved.

Richard had promised to call on her on his way to the Martian Club, he was to meet his father, Sir Robert Ellerton, who was on the eve of departure with the troops for South Africa. Vestine was going to the theatre. Her mother and her cousin, Camille Dsmaye. accompanied her, and Richard would join the party later on. Presently she moved as she heard her mother's stop. 'Vessie, dear, shut the window; it will do you no good.' 'But, Mamma, what harm will it do me?' "You must think of your mother, child,' said the strong voice, 'Draughts are very conveniently obtained, mother's are not,' she added, and Vestine came in and fastened the window. 'You are looking for Richard ' 'Yes, Ma; he said he would give us a call. I want him to come early because I have such a heap to tell him.' 'Such a "heap," Vessie? Are you aware, dear, that the word of which you have just made use is a frightful vulgarism? In plain language it is slang.' 'It is very expressive, Ma!' she pouted. 'I have heard Camille make use of it, and Richard, too,' she said defiantly. 'Men possess certain privileges over we mere women, Vessie. Men may beat their wives and use slang and bad language to perfection, and yet not forfeit one tittle of the open-eyed world's esteem. The worse a man speaks and the more he swears —there is a distinction between speaking and swearing, as you will hereafter learn, If a woman utters ought but the strictly regular—farewell to her influence and a great slice of her reputation.'

Although she had heard the same remarks over and over again, Vessie always paid her mother the compliment of her rapt and silent attention. She made no comment when her mother ceased, but turned again to tlie window. 'Richard has just turned the corner, Ma,' she said a little later, turning gladly to where she had expected to see her mother; but Mrs Laura Mannering had gone, and Vessie ay.is alone. Five minutes later her solitude was again broken by the entrance of Mr Richard Ellerton. He bowed very low as he entered, and Vessie returned the act with mock dignity. 'Have I the honour,' he began, standing quite still on the threshold; ' have I the extreme honour of addressing Miss Vaseline Mannering?' he asked. 'You have not, sir,' she returned, entering into the fun with hearty z j st. 'My name is Vestine Mannering—at your service. Will you please be seated?"

The visitor gravely walked to a seat and sat down. The instant he did so ncr arms were around his neck, anu he was kissing the happy blushes from her face and throat. Then they laughed, this boy and girl, and presently got up and strolled to the window and talked, and watched the great sun go down and the light grey shadows come creeping up. As they stood watching the passing of the light their conversation took a serious turn. 'Night is coming, Vessie,' he sa<-d low-voiced, clasping her tightly.to his side. 'The flowers are • closing their eyes in sleep. Look! there is a star, the first of evening. Angel-eyes of the firmamei.t! They rival yours, my darling. They are eternal, while yours and mi<:e, dear, will have an end. Vessie, love,' he whispered, bending over her. for she had hidden her face on his shoulder. She looked up at him, her eyes shining in the deepening twilight. 'Do you love me, Vessie?' She said no word but simply raised her head and kissed him on the lips, and then nestled back again. 'Will you always love me?' 'Always,' she whispered. 'But suppose, Vessie, suppose things were different with us—that I was poor, or ill, or—or —blind?'

'Blind!' she echoed, looking at him full. 'Blind!' For a moment they stood gazing at each other at arm's length. 'You will always be the same to me Richard,' Vessie said quietly, and he stooped and kissed her serious little lips. 'If you were only going to discuss topics as gloomy as they are unlikely of occurrence,' she said with some severity; 'if you are going to imagine that my love is shallaw, a thing of

naught, then I shall be glad when I make the acquaintance of one who will not be depressing.' 'Then am I depressing, Vessie? Well, I feel morbid to-night. I cannot help it. Forgive my dulness for once, darling. 1 shall be all right presently.' His pleading was not in vain. Shortly afterwards they parted with a promise to meet again in her box at the play. The comedy, half-earnest, half-jest, dealt with the love of men and women —with Woman's treachery and heroism, and man's misfortune and devotion. Vestine was deeply interested in the story; it fascinated her, she knew n6t why. The curtain had finally fallen on the third act and the thunderous applause had died away, the orchestra were playing the Anvil chorus from II Trovatorej and Vestine and her mother were sitting alone anticipating the denouement when the door was flung open and Camille Demaye appeared, breathless and white-faced. Both women half-rose at the sight of him. They had not expected bis return so soon. 'Richard Ellerton,' he said chokingly; 'accidental —cab collision—just outside, poor fellow! —glass in his eyes—no hope—blind!'

Three months had passed since that fatal ni;sht when the sunlight fadyd from the life of Richard Ellerton. His eyes were completely destroyed and his face hideously scarred. At one time his life had been despaired of fever having supervened, but he had pulled through, aided by an iron constitution. His first question on recovering his mental balance was for Vessie—had she been to see him?

She had been once—when he was unconscious. Now he was quite recovered, he sent a message to Vessie, and she came. Then Richard Ellerton knew that something else had vanished with the sunlight The interview w r as short, and after she had gone from him he sat in the darkness with bowed head. 'Vessie Vessie,' he whispered; 'you are only a woman, arn't you? I can't expect you to love me after that, dear, could I? I'm not disappointed at all, I'm quite happy. Never mind, sweet. it will make no difference to me, and yet ' Then his voice broke and he remained still while the flickering light, of the fire :»layed on the sightle&s sockets and the great tears that were flowing clown his marred cheeks. Light and love were gone, and only life remained. Life! —vvhat was it? Nothing out a great blackness, now. He had hoped—fool!—that only the light was gone and that love and life remained. Madman he was not to have known that love could not endure the blackness.

Ah! If love could not exist, cojkl life It was hard for him to bear his blindness. He could end it if he ehos?! It was easily done and quickly! There was nothing to prevent him! He was of no more use—only a burden.

He- half-rose with a bitter smile upon his frtce, but the sound of voices cheeked him. He could not help hearing the words. It was his mother's voice, and as he listened to the loved tones the bitterness died out of his heart and he sat down again. She would miss him, it would grieve her. He would wait.

Another voice was speaking. This also he recognised as Camille Demaye's.

'Vestine has promised to be my wife!'

For one instant the blood rusted hack to his heart and he sat transfixed. Then he stood up to his full height and groped about him wildly. A great gasping sob of agony came from his stricken heart, and he stumbled and fell heavily across the floor.

The Light had come to him again (The End.)