SPLENDID MISERY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XVI, Issue 5628, 29 November 1879, Page 3

SPLENDID MISERY.

a x ovr, l. By tlic Author m" ■• L-uly Auillej'a Secret," k:.

CHAPTER XV L " THE LOVE WHICH MAKETK AIL THINGS FOND AND FAIR." It is a hard thing to have those you love against you, and this was what Barbara had to bear after h' r interview with her father. She was obliged to tell her motheraad Flossie the gist of that conversation; and they knew that she had refusied the finest estate in Cornwall, and an independent income of sis hundred a year. It seamed hard and almost incoraprehsible to them that she ahould have so acted. Flossie and her mother held long conferences together on the subject. They were never tired of expatiating upon Barbara's folly. They loved her not .the less because she she was so foolisti; the mother's heart yearned toward her as of old. But mother and sister were alike convinced that she was flinging away a Hfo of happineßS for the sikn of indulging vsin regrets for a man who had, by his o.vn admission, proved unworthy of her love. She was sacrificing the real good of existence to an empty dream. " Six hundred a year !"exclaimed Fio3sie — "six hundred a year for pocket-money ! Twice the income we have to pay for everything, down to the chimney-sweep ; for even he is too selfish to sweep a chimnpy for nothing, though I believe the sotit is worth ever so much to him. Sis hundred a year! Just consider the gowns, the bonnets, the parasols, she might buy herself with half the moDey, and the good she might do with the other!" " She might help me a little vitk my rent and taxes, "said Mrs. Trsvornock. plaintively, "though Heaven knows I should never be influenced in such a matter by any consideration of my own advantage. But I should be so proud, eo happy, to see her well placed in life, to see her riding in her carriage." "And we could go and btay with her at Penruth Place, and %7ander about the moors. And you would get so strong, mother, in that fine air." "Yes, it would ba delightful," said Mrs. Trevornock, who had been pinned toCaraberwell for the last seven years. People who have only juat cnongh for bread and cheese can not afford such indulgences as change of air and scene. The August emigration of the middle classes does not effect them ; the iong vacation brings them no holiday. "It would ba very nice," sighed Mrs. Trevornock. " I have not been to the West since you were born. Your grandmother was kind enough to ask me more than onco before she died ; but I thought as I had been there with Mr. T.> people raight make remarks if 1 went thare without snm, And a'ter your grandmother's death thet old house was let to strangers, and yonr auafc Sophia bonght a place near Exetsr. "And 1 have never seen the house where my father was born," said Flossie. " That seems hard. BaVi was there when she was a little tbing in blue shoes. She has a hazy recollection of a garden full of roses and aland of fatness, where she sat upon people's laps, and ate clouted cream and apple pasty all day long." "Yes, it was a dear old house. I doubt if Penruth Piaco is as pretty." Penruth Place was incessantly present to tho minds of Mrs. Trevurnock and her daughter as the winter wore on. It was what is called an old-fashioned winter—a winter in which grim Death sharpened his sickle arid mowed down tender infancy and feeble ago; while sturdy youth and middle age slapped its chest and huctored about the fine seasonable weather and glorious frost which—with the small disadvantage of throwing the bulk of the population out of work—made the Serpentine a play-ground for the Mle. Coals went up to starvation price, and the little household in South Lane felt the pinch of poverty more keenly than they had done for the last few years. Was it that possible six hundred a year, that rejected offer of Vyvyau Penruth's, which made the petty trials and straits of poverty so hard for Mrs. Trevornock this winter? Sha saw herself with her means lessened, to the extent of those stray sovereigns which Flossie had contrived to extort from her father. He had esid he would give them nothing, and he wai the kind of a man to keep his word. There was a tax paper on the mantel-piece inviting immediate attention, and Mrs. Trevoraock knew not ' Wneuco — bl*~~-***<rsK*rj —fr~—~—*fc—Jihfu - J^miintl could come. She had contrived to keep out of debt, but to pay her way from day to day had been her utmost achievement. The balance between comfitt and destitution was so niaely adjusted that a feather would turn the scale. Barbara knew this, and there were times when the thought that she might have made the rest of her mother's life serene and free from care shot like an arrow through her

leart. " Darling," she cried once, throwing her irms round her mother's neck, "how good 'ou have been to me ! how you have worked ind striven to make me happy ! and when I iad it ia my power to help you, I refused, t was selfish ; it was horrible. I hate myelf for my ingratitude ; and yet—" " My pet, I would never ask you to do inything that was not for your own hap)iness. And if you felt that you could not be iappy with Mr. Penruth, you were quite •ight in saying no. Can you think I would vish you to sacrifice yourself for my sake ? r should like to see yon prosperous and well jlaced in life, and poor Flossie's future more secure ; but at my age it can matter very ittle what may happen to me. I have lived ny life. It has not been a fortimate Jife, >ut I have been blest in | my two dear laughters." " Iso, mother, don t say that. 1 have not seen a good daughter; I am made up of lelfishnesa ; I have thought only of myself. 3ut oh ! if yon knew how I loved him !" Mrs. Trevornock burst into tears. " My love, I could not have endured your Harrying a disgraced man. That would mve broken my heart." "Don't speak of him, mother ; it hurt 3me

too much." Very soon after this, the first confidence between Barbara and her mother eince Mr. Penruth's offer, Mr 3. Trevornock fell il!. She bad been slightly out of health all the winter, but had insirted on leading her usual active life, sweeping and dusting and scrubbing in holes and cornere in her endeavour to maintain that perfection of brightness and cleanlinesa which distinguished the little house in South-lane from all other houses. But now she broke down altogether, and for the first within Flossie's memoiy that expensive luxury, a doctor, appeared at 20 South-lane. He came daily in a smart tribury with a man in livery, and the two girls felt that the smartness of his equipage would make an appreciable difference in his bill. Hitherto their only medieial adviucr had been the chemist round the corner by Addington b'quare—a valuable man, who had a good old-established pharmacopasia at his fingers' ends, and never did one auy harm, even if he sometimes failed in doing good. The proprietor of the tilbury did not disguise the fact that Mr?. Trevornock waa seriously ill. She had neglected herself for a lonpc time ; she was weak and low to an alarming degree, and required very careful nursing. The two girls listened to mm with white,scared faces, hanging upon his words piteously, as if ho were the souxes of good and evil. " You may be sure wo shall be careful, for we love her so dearly," faltered Barbara. " Only tell us exactly what to do." "There is not much to tell," said Mr. Parker—doctor yar excellence —" quiet, freedem from worry, and a generous diet. That 13 all I can suggest at present. A little later when wo have brought the dear lady round, a change to mild sea air— "Vcntor or Bournemonth, for ini.tance—would be eminently dosirable—indeed, I may say absolutely necessary." " She mast havoit," sighed Barbara, her heart beating tumultuouoly. "And about diet." " Must bs light and nourishment," replied the doctor. "Clear soup, white-fish, the breast of a boiled chicken, sweet-bread plainly dressed, asparagus, or, if j;ou can't get that, a little scakale. The diet should be varied and dislieiito ; r.nd as for wine—" " Wine !" echoed. Flossie, hopeles-ly. Barbara gripped her Bister's hand with fingers cold as death. " What wine would bo tho best ;' ; she aslcesl the doctor. " Two or throe glisscs of old port would r.ot be too much, iu the course of the day ; but mind tho wiuo ia thoroughly good and Bound-not a heavily brandied iiort on anj account." "What i-? .n brandiel port?" wondered Flossie, stricktn. with a utter liulplesueas.

* Tho ri?ht of publishing- Splendid Misery" in the North Island of New Zealand hue been purchased by the proprietors of the Nkw Zbaland Hek ald. v«» 3

Their adviser encouraged them with a hopeful word or two, a'icl bade them a cheery gon-l-ilay. He went off si blithely in his tilbury that Flus.-ie hind him as ahe had nevtrr hate 1 mortal. "What are we.Ni ■ !<>?" ahe asked her s'ster, with pitiful appeal. "We must save our mother. Oh, my dearest, my fondest, I have never loved you half so well aa you onght to be loved 1" cried Barbara, in a voice half suffocated by sobs. "She must not see that you have been cryiDg." "No, she must not see," choking down her tears. " I must go to her at once. She must not know what the doctor says. Worry and care must he kept away iroin her— somehow." " We've had two summonses about that last tax," said Fios3ie. "It it isn't paid within—" "My father must pay it; he must aud shall give us money, t shall write to Aunt Sophia this afternoon. She has always been good to us in the hour of need." "Yes ; ahe lectures exceedingly, bat she does help us. Soup, fish, chicken, asparagus, port, and the tilbury man to be paid afterward," said Flossie. "We shall want a fortune." " Will yon go to Gray's Inn at once, Flossie, while I nuree mamma and write to Aunt Sophia ?" "I would rather walk over burning ploughshares ; but I'll go. And if Mr. T. talks about the window, he shall have a bit of my mind. To be married to sucb. a dear woman as my darliDg mother, and to treat her so ! He must have a heart of stone. What are you going to get for ma's dinner ? The generous diet ought to begin at once, oughtn't it ?" " Leave that to me, Flossie. You go off to Gray's Inn, and tell yoar father that his wife will die unless she has comforts which we cannot buy without his help."

Bab went up to the sick-room, while Flossie ran to prepare herself for a raid on Gray'n Inn. The girl sat by her mother's bed, and watched her as she slept the uneasy slumber of sickness. The face—so fresh and bright a few mouths ago —was pinched and pale. The markings of age showed as they had never done before in a countenance which had kept the bloom of youth long after youth was gone. Yee, lb was care which had mado those cruel Hues; a long struggle with adverse circumstance had hollowed those cheeks. The woman who had carried her troubles so bravely had broken down at last. Barbara waited till her mother woke from that brief slumber, and greeted her waking with loving words ;wd caresses. " Did the doctor say I was very ill ?" the invalid asked, anxiously. " No, dearest ; but he told us to be careful of you. As if ws would not be careful of our treasure ! lam going into the Uoarl to get two or three little things. Shall Amelia come and sit with you, mamma dear ?" " No, darling, I shall be quite comfortable alone. But don't be long : I like to know you are near me." "I will come on the wings of love," answered Bab, gaily ; and then, fnil of care, she ran to put on her bonnet and shawl for a momentous expedition in quest of generous diet. She looked iuto the well-worn purse, which Mrs. Trevornck had surrendered when she grew too ill to conduct the household affairs. It was quite empty. The money had been dribbling away daily and hourly ; for illness is a costly calamity. There was no money till after Lady-day, when the ;:ent would come in from a small farm, which formed the last remnant of Thomas Trjvornack's heritage, and had happily been settled on his wife. And it was now only the middle of February. For the next six weeks they would have to exist upon somebody's charity. "I never felt the sting of beggary before," thought Barbara, as she shut the empty purse. "Poor mother used to the whole weight of the burden. No wonder it has crushed her. Well, money must be got today somehow ; and there is only one way."

She looked at her one treasure, the only ornament she possessed which had any marketable value —the ring George Leland had given her tho day aftsr their engagement, a massive band of dull gold with a single diamond in the centre. She had not even thought of returning this token when their engigement came silently to an end. "I will keep it so long a3 I am true to him," she said to herself. "It is not I who break the bond that bound us. Let him claim it from me if he will, No act of mine shall part ua. If he were to come back to me to-morrow, repenting his falsehood, I could not refuse to forgive him. I should take him to my heart again." But now the time had, come when the ring while at any rate. She walked hurriedly to the Camberwell Road, where there was a silversmith's shop, before whose gliitering window she and Flossie had stood many a time, admiring the Gerjeva watches, the silver tea-pots, and debuting a3 to which they would buy if they were suddenly to come into a fortune. The shop stood at a corner, and there wa3 a mysterious door in the side street—a door over which there hung three golden balls. It was in this dingy doorway that Barbara entered to-day, for the first time in her life. The place within was and smelled of dirt, and she shuddered involuntarily at finding herself elbowed by a fat Irishwoman who was negotiating a loan upon divers articles of hardware, wrapped in a patchwork counterpane. The shopman turned impatiently ficm the Irishwoman to ask Barbara what he could do for her. Pretty faces were not rare in. that dimly-lighted den, but there was a frs.-'n yonng beauty in this face which startled the pawnbroker's clerk. "I want to know if you will lend me some money on a ring," said Barbara, trying to speak as coolly as if she were an old hand at this kind of businetib'.

" That depends on the value of the riDp, and the amount you want upon it, miss," the man answered, glibly. "I'm sure I'd strain a point to oblige you." Bab laid the ring upon the counter with a stifled sigh. The man took it up, and twisted it round between his dingy finger and thum, and scrutinized the diamond, breathed upon it, wetted it with his tongue, and polished it with a coloured handkerchief, and finally appeared to make up his mind that it was genuine. "Two pun ten," he said; "will that do

for you ?" "Yes," answered Barbara, delighted to get so much money. She held out her hand for the cash ; but the youth had to write a ticket, which operation he performed in a leisurely manner, ogling his customer between whiles. Then he brought the money out of a drawer, and dropped a couple of sovereigns into her hand, and then slowly doled out nine shillings and elevecpence-balf penny." She was going away without the duplicate ; but ho called her back to receive this, and ptsssed her hand tenderly as he gave it her, and wa3 not crashed by the magnificent frown which darkened her youug face as she snatched away the insulted hand, and left a place which seemed to her a den of iniquity, libe felt herself contaminated by the whole transaction. Her lover's sacred ring so bartered ! her own self-respect so outraged ! Bat the next minute she was thinking of tho dear invalid at home, and of the things she had to buy. She bought a plump young fowl ; she bought soup, meat, and lemons, and grapes; and, finally, with almost as much fear as she had entered the pawnbroker's shop, she crossed the threshold of a respectable wine-merchant's office. A gentlernauly man of middle age left his desk to attend to her. " I waut a bottle of port, if you please, if you don't mind selling so small a quantity," she. faltered. "It must be very good, 0,3 it is for an invalid. I suppose you have some very good port at about five shillings a bottle ?"

" We have iiorfc aa high as thirty shillings a bottle," aaid tho wine-merchant, who was a quick observer, and as well able to read tho expression of the fair young face as ho was to see the heavily-laden basket and the carcfully-uiimiled gloves; " but I can give you a bottle of good sound wine for five sUilliugs." "Thank you. Tho doctor eaid it must bo good wine. Would it be very much trouble for you to send it ?'' " No trouble at all." Barbara counted out the five shillings, and gave her address, after which tho winemerchant bowed her out as polits/ly as if the bad given him a splendid order. But he was assuredly a iuser by that five-shilling bottle of port, unless it were that tho consciousness of having done a kindly act were woith tho difference between tho valun of tho wine he sent and tho price Barbara paid him for it. Flossie camo homo from her quest with tive-aud-twenty shillings, extorted with dilliculty, and made bitter"by the assurance that they wore the last she would get from a righteously wrathful father. "Waj ho not sorry to hear of mainraa a illness '!" asked Bab, indignantly. " Ho said lie was Borry, but that whether we were well or ill r he could not coin money. If ho were ill himself, he would have to go

to the workhouse. Nobody woild find money for him. He was dre.'.dfclly bitter about you." "Because 1 lefite.i to mirry Mr. P, n-i-uth ?" " Y<=3." " He is vary unjust." " Mr. Penruth lias l:een in London again." observed Flossie, rolling up her gloves with elaborate care. "Oh!" "Indeed, I believe he is iu London now." Barbara answered nothiug. Tbe week that followed was full of anxiety. There were no signs of rallying in the invalid, though all that loving care could do to restoie health was faithfully done. The tnonsy, discreetly admiuistered by Barbara, held cut to the end of tho week, aud then came a welcome five-pound note from Aunt Sophia, who had been away from home when Barbara's appeal waa sent, and had. thus seemed slow to answer.

This remittance Barbara felt marke.l the limit of her resources. After this, there was liothiug she conld hope for till quarterday. A dreary vista of weeks stretched be--1 fore her, and depression seized her as she looked forward to'them, wondering how the wants of each day were to be supplied. And looking beyond this present necessity, she saw a dreary future. Her mother's health had so completely broken down within the last few nionths that it was .hardly to be hoped she could ever be again what she had been, ever again be able to take life lightly, and face poverty with a happy temper and an indomitable courage. No ; those days when they had enjoyed themselves on the brink of a precipice, the easy-going hand-to-mouth days, were over and done with. The dread spectre of sickness and death would henceforth be always lurking somewhere near, aDd happiness would be impossible. For the first time in her life Birbara realized tho helplessness of three women whose means, eked out by casual aids, were hardily enough to suffice for daily necessities, and left no margin for sickness or special neerle of auy kind. For the first time, too, she felt what it was to be friendless, or to have only half a dozen friends all as poor as, or even poorer than, herself. She knew too well that in those families with whom Mrs. Trevornock and her daughters were wont to exchange ooca sional teadriukings, although tho outward aspect of things seemed fair aod prosperous, thers was but a hah's-breadth between that prosperity and destitution. They were gonteel families, living in small houses, with one servant, upon incomes that, husbanded «»nd managed ever so skilfully, left hardly the balance of a shilling at the end of the year ; but more often a residum of debt, to be paid—Heaven know 3 how —in a year that wjuld bring no increase of means. " I never knew that poverty was hard before !" sighed Barbara, looking hopelessly round the pretty little room, with its black and white pictures, and gaily bound books, and stray bits of old china. "We have contrived to be so happy on so little."

It was the dreariest of February afternoons ; a drizzling rain had been coming down all day long, with the pertinacity of small things. The sky was dun-colour; the leafless trees, even the evergreens, looked dismal. All the grace and beauty had gone from South-lane. Barbara stood looking out of the window, sick at heart, yet rooted to the spot somehow, as if there was a fascination in that hopeless prospect. "It is like my life," she said to herself— "blank and grey, with not one star shining through it." Presently the white gate fell back with scrooping hinges, and a tall figure came stalking up the gravel-path. How well Barbara knewthe tall gaunt form, the rough overcoat, and shabby hat ! No one but a pauper or a millionaire would have dared to wear such a hat or such a coat. Her first impulse was to run out of tho room and tell the servant to say that no one was at home. Then came the thought of the sick mother, sleeping the sleep of weakness upstairs. He might be useful, perhaps, this rich man. He would send hot-house grapes and tine old wine, very likely, if he knew of Mrs. Trevornock's illnes?. " God help me, , ' thought Bab, desparingly. "Poverty is teaching me to bo odiously mean." She staid by the parlor window, and Amelia ushered in Mr Penruth, with as much style as can be expected of a maid-of-all-work at nine pounds a year. " I am sorry to hear of your mother's illness ," he said, as he took Barbara's cold hand in his, looking at her closely, as much as to say, "I wonder if you have changed your mind since you and I parted." " Yes, she is very ill," sighed BtA\ "My and waited for her visitor to talk. She had nothing to say to him. There wa3 no point upon which they could sympathize ; no love or liking which they had in common. " You have good medical advice, I hope ?" " We have the best doctor in the neighbourhood." " And does he consider the case serious ? ' "Very serious," answered Barbara, trying to keep back her tears. "Is there anything I can do?" asked Mr. Penruth. " I shall esteem it a privilege if I can be of any use."

"You are very good. No, there ia nothing," began Barbara. And then, love conquering pride, she faltered : " Yes, there is ono thing. Once, when I was ill, you were kind enough to send me some fruit and flowers. I you would send my mother a few grapes, I think she would like them. They ara difficult to get here." " I will send you eome of the best Covent Garden can produce every day. And flowers too : perhaps you would like some flowera for the sick-room ?" "A thousand thanks." Then came an awkward silence. •' Have you seen your father lately V asked Mr. Penruth. "No j I seldom see him. He does not crsxe about seeing us, and we only g» to him when we are obliged." " He is a—curious man," said Mr. Fenruth, slowly as if it were gradually dawning upon him that Mr. Tiovornock was not perfect in his domestic relations. •' Very curious." "I iear you must have had a hard life with such a father." " I never felt its hardness till my mother broke down under her burden. She and my sister and I have been happy together. The stiDg of poverty never touched us." "But now that your mother is ill, you begin to find out the hardebip of poverty. Why will you not exchange poverty for wealth and comfort ? You know that I am prepared to make a settlement that would enable you to provide comfortably for your mother"and sister for tho rest vi their lives." Barbara shuddered. " Yes, you. have made a generous offer, and I have refused it. That seems as if I cared very little about my mother and sister, does it not ? Yet it is a hard thing for a women to— No, I should hate myself : life would be a burden to me."

" Do you mean that you hate me ?" asked Vyvyan Penruth, looking at her intently from out of the deep-set eyes, shadowed by shaggy brows. "I do not love you, and I did once love some one elae very dearly. If I were to accept your offer, it would be for the sake of my motuer and sister; it would be for the sake of the settlement. Would you be willing to marry a woman on such terms ?" " 1 wouldinarry you ouany terms. Iwant you for my wife. I will leave all the rest to Fate." " You would marry me, knowing that I have given my heart to another man ?" " I'cs ; provided that all is over and done with between you and that other man. I don't know that I have a jealous nature, but I should not like a man you once loved to cross my path. I should hate him savagely." " Hois far away, and all is over between us. He gave me up of hia own accord. I suppose he met some oue he liked better than me."

"Barbara, will you marry me?" aaked Yyvyau Penruth, bending down and taking both her hands in lm. " Let that man lament his loss far away—in Jndi*. Your father told me all about him. Do not waste another thought on him. X shall not. Be my wife. 1 will trust ta time and Fate for tho rest." " If I were to marry you, it would be for my mother's sake," said Barbara, looking at him earnestly, aa if entreating him to decline go bad a bargain. " 1 do not caro for whose sake it may be, if you will only consent." "Ileiueinbor, I do not even pretend to care for you ; J never shall pretend. I will try to do my duty ; but it is not in mo to do more than that."' " Duty from you will be a rich reward for my lavo. You don't know what it is, Barbara, for a man of my age to fall in love. Never since 1 was livo-audtwenty did a woman's face touch my heart till I saw you. 1 had my boyiah fancy—calf-love—a flame that burned fiercely for a littlo while, and then went out £cr over. For more than twenty years I lived my jog-trot life,; and

thonght no more of women than if hail been none nearer than the moon. Then I saw yon, and ray heart woke from its long sleep. lam nit a poetical kiid of man ; 1 ana oofc clever at Sading the proper wor.is ti> describe my feeling; but I am as true .13 steel. Be truo to me, and I will b.- faithful and devoted to yon. Let the pist be dead and buried from this hour. 1 shall never speak of the man who jilted you. Is it a bargain. Barbara ?" "Yes," she sighed; and he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them. There was a solemnity in the action, as if it were the sealiDg of a bond. He saw she was depressed aud auxicu3, and did not stay much longer. "I shall stop in town till your mother is well," he said, as ha took leave, "aud then we can fix the day for our wedding." "So soon?" she cried. "Oh, no, no; not this year !" "Why not? We have nothing to wait for."

" Yes, we have ; we are almost strangers. Let us learn to know each other a little before —" " I can never know you better or love you better than I do already," he interrupted, passionately. " Why should we put off-our marriage ? It is only people who have to study ways and means who need wait. Good-night! God bless you !" He took her in his arms and kissed her, having the right to do no now, as he thought ; and she submitted as helplessly and as hopelessly as she would have done had she fallen into the sea and felt the arms of some hideous sea-monster winding round her and strangling her. She went back to the fireside when her visitor was gone, and sat by the dying fire, weeping silently over her own dreary fate. "I must be a selfish wretch," she said to herself, accusingly ; "for oven the thought that will make my mother's life happy can not reconcile me to what I have done." She had not the courage to go near her mother till late in the evening, but allowed Flossie to perform all her duties in the sickroom. Then at last, when Mrs. Trevornock had asked for her several times, she went quietly in and sat down by the bed. and took the wasted hand in hers silently. "My darling, what makes you so quiet ? You have not been grieving, I hope ? If it is God's will that I am to be taken, surely He will care for you and your sister. You are so friendless that doubtless God will raise up new friends for you. My dearest, I lie here and think of you both till my head swims—" " Don't think about us any more, motticr dear; there in no reason for your anxiety. Only get well—only get strongand well, dear love; that is all I ask of Providence. We are all going to be rich; and—and you shall walk in silk attire, and siller have to spare. lam going to be oue of the richest women in Cornwall, mamma. lam going to be Mrs. Penruth." "My ang«:l," exclaimed themother, feebly but rapturously, '' I always felt that you were born to ride in your carriage. Oh, my love, uiy darling, you have iaken away the fear of death. I shall not leave you behind to face frieudlessness and poverty ; I can die happy now." "No, no, mother, you must not die. It is or your sake—only for your sake !" sobbed Barbara, on her knees by the bedside, her fface buried in the coverlet. (To be continued.]