DOROTHY ARNOLD'S ESCAPE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXI, Issue 7002, 26 April 1884, Page 3 (Supplement)

DOROTHY ARNOLD'S ESCAPE.

BY MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON. Author of "The Fcrs&ken Brido," "Brownie's Triumph," &c

CHAPTER XIII. WORSE THAN DEATH. As soon as Gilbert Fontaine was gone, as soon as she heard the door shut after him, and knew that, for the preiient at least, she would have nothing more to fear from him, Dot sank helplessly upon the floor behind the draperies of the window, and abandoned herself to the wretchedness and grief which overwhelmed her. She had a twofold sorrow now—a double burden to bear in the loss of her love and the discovery of his utter unworthiness. She had set him upon a pedestal—had looked up to him, honoured and revered him, imagining him to ba far above her in intellectual endowments and Judgment, and her equal, at least, in lofty principles and nobility of purpose. She had thought of him as being grand, manly, and generous, and found now that she had been worshipping a creature of her own imagination, instead of the actual man, who, by his tricks and fascinations, had wormed himself into her affections, and tricked her into plighting her troth to him. She thought she had suffered enough before, but this was worse than all else—to find him so base—to realize the shame of having loved one ao unworthy, one who would dare to propose such a step as he had suggested to her, urging her to sin and dishonour, to violate the sacred vows which she had taken upon herself as a wife, together with every high moral virtue and her own self-respect. She felt as if some strange spell must have been cast upon her, as upon fair Titania of old, and she had been tricked into loving a villainand a brute, while now that her eyes were opened she could almost exclaim with that fairy queen : " How came these things to pass ? Oh, how mino eyes do loath his visago now !" And yet it was not an easy thing to uproot all the tendrils of her love, which had been twining themselves so closely about her heart. It was true, as she told him, that she would not j; ifiarry him now had she beon unfettered by a single bond, notwithstanding Bhe had grieved herself ill over those very bonds on his account, for her confidence was He had ahown her the "cloven foot," and she could never trast him again. It was humiliating in the oxtreme to realize how she had idealized him, how she had surrendered herself to him, while the noble, true-hearted man, who was her husband, was vainly craving the love which she had bestowed on one so utterly unworthy.

She had told him that she felt her marrials'' a r -fortunate escape, and yet she waß wretched. She was bowed down with' a sense of guilt'as if she was occupying a false position as Boy's wife, and wronging him every moment of her life. " Help me to bear it," she prayed, with a piteous moan, as, prone upon the floor, she wrestled with her rebellious heart. "Help me give me strength to do my duty and make others happy if I can never be happy myself." A slight noise near her made her look tip, and she started wildly to her feet as she saw Roy standing olose beside her. His face was ghastly, and he shook as with a chill. "RoyJ" she exclaimed, in a frightened tone. "I think yon will have to help me upstairs again, Dorrie. I find I am not so atrODg as I thought I was," he said, weakly. She sprane toward him and put her arms aronnd him, fearing he would fall, he looked so deathly ; and, leaning on her shoulder, lie Blowly and feebly made his way back to his chamber, while the young wife's heart sank lower and lower at every step. What bad brought him down to the parlour? How long had he been there? • How much had he heard, and what must he think of her, his wife ? were the terrifying questions which nearly drove her. frantic. "What made you go. down, Roy?" she aaked, when she had him <-nce more seated in his chair, and feared from his pallor and trembling, whioh still continued, that he had done himself lasting injury by over-taxing his strength. He looked at her, and his eyes reminded her of those of a fatally wounded deer. " I amagined that your visitor was Cora Estabrooke," he said, in a hollow voice. "I have been shut up for so long that I yearned to see sor V one. I like Cora, you know, and so—l followed you down, hoping to have a pleasant chat with you both." Dot shivered. - There was a hopelessness in his tone that sent dismay to her heart. "Roy," she began, in a questioning, beseeching voice. "Yes, .Dorrie," he answered, suppressing a groan, " I know who your caller was. I had just reached the door when I heard him tell you that you belonged to him by every law divine, and —you know the rest. I do I not heed to tell you that it was a shock to

me—l stood spell-bound, unable to move hand or foot, until I heard you send him away ; then I stole into the music room and waited until he was gone. My darling ! oh, my darling ! what a sacrifice you have made for me, and how utterly miserable, we shall be all our lives !" He bowed his face upon his hands, and sat as if his spirit was crushed within him. Dot threw herself upon her knees beside bim, and leaned her head upon the arm of his chair. '* Oh ! Roy, how sorry I am to make you suffer so. I did not mean that you, or any one, should ever know. I meant to fight it out all by myself, to be just as true to you as I could be ; and hoped that by and by we might be quite happy together," abe moaned despairingly. Roy shuddered. Every word she uttered >only hurt him more and more, for it told him how cruelly he had deceived ■ himself by beginning to hope that she was learning to love him. Dot saw it, and cried passionately : "I wish I had never, never seen him ; if I had only known—if some one had only told me what kind of a man he was, he never could have deseived me so." "Dorrie," Roy said, with an effort, "I have feared, at least until very lately, that you were giving mo outward service merely ; you have been very kind and gentle—l have no right to complain ot any lack of attention, but it nearly kills me to think that you have •been making a martyr of yourself for my sake." "No indeed, Roy, I have not been a martyr to you. I have been glad to wait upon you; I have been glad to do what I could to make the time pass pleasantly for you," she interposed. " Yes, bntyou have not been glad to be my wife, "Roy returned, with a sorrowful look at her. K » . She was too truthful to contradict this, though deep in her heart there was a feeling of thankfulness that Roy, by begrigg her to marry him, had saved her from a fate, and that she had escaped the wretchedness of discovering all too late—in case she had become Gilbert Fontaine's wife—that she was bound for life to a heartless villain. "I feared," Roy went on, with a long, shuddering sigh, " before X was taken aick, that you were beginning to care for Mr. Fontaine, but I never dreamed that things had gone so far. I see now why you were so distant and unlike yourself during that last week or two. "Why did you not tell me 5 why could you not trust me ? If I had only known, I never would have sued for your love, my poor Dorrie—l nover would have wounded you with a word." "Don't, Roy; I cannot bear that you should talk to me so, as if you were in any way to blame," Dot sobbed, her heart almost breaking, seeing how unhappy < f he was. " Believe me," she went on, " £ did not want to see him at all. I would not have gone down this afternoon if I had known he was there. Can you forgive, Roy, what you have heard to-day, and let me begin over again 1 I will try to bo all that you wish," she concluded, humbly. He ? did not reply for a, minute. Her humility touched him deeply, but his face was contracted with pain, his eyes filled with dumb despair. " Can you toll me how all this came about, Dot ?" he askedat length. " Mind,"he added, " 1 do not wish to force your confidence, I do not ask it as my right; you are to do just as you like about it, but if you can trust me, I want you to tell me just how matters stood the'day you became my wife." And Dorothy made a clean breast of it; she told him everything from the beginning of her acquaintance with Gilbert Fontaine on the night of Mrs. Eastabrooke's party, to the morning when she had sent for him to decide what to do about granting his own request, and her heart was relieved when her confession was ended. Roy sat throogh it all with corrugated brow, compressed lips, and a face that was almost frightful in its pallor. It was not an easy matter to sit there, and hear how his rival had wound his net about the woman who was his wife —for he taw a 1 once how Dorrie had been drawn into a sorl of tacit engagement—trapped into commit' ting herself, as it were, almost before she knew it, and against her better judgment, She might have believed for the time, while under the spell of his fascinating power, that she loved him—perhaps she really did ; but, at all events,- she had not been won ir an open, manly fashion, as he would. hav< wished to win the girl whom he loved; h< never would have forced his society upon be] in the absence of her parents,' and upon sc slight an acquaintance previously, and ther confessed his love for her, as he had no right to do without first having obtained he) father's consent to his addresses.

It was not pleasant either, to hear how she had consulted him upon the subject of granting his own request; to hear how Gilbert had said he would yield her for the few hours that he would be likely to live,, just to give him the comfort of oalling her "wife," and bequeathing his money to one who would bear his name. Ho never could have consented, under any circumstances, to allow his betrothed to sacrifice herself in any such way ; he would have gone directly to her father, confessed the whole thing to him, and objected, kindly though firmly, let the result be what it would. ■ Reading the man as he did, he intuitively believed—though he would not have breathed the suspicion to any one—that he had consented, simply for the sake of the pecuniary advantage he hopod to reap through her. "It.is all over now, Roy," Dot said, when she had finished her confession; " after what he said to me to-day I could never respect him again—l could never forgive him—l could never be anything to him if I was unfettered by a single tie; I am not quite so insensible to what is right and honourable that I could listen to his vile proposals with anything like patience or toleration." She said this looking up frankly and fearlessly into his eyes, though her face was scarlet as she thus referred to the shameful proposition which her lower had made. "I know, dear," Roy answered, gently; "I heard all that you said, and you were very. noble to answer him as you did; indeed, no one could Snd any fault with you throughout the interview; but," and his eyes flashed with indignation and scorn, "he is a dastardly coward to pollute your ears with anything so vile ; he never could have loved you with a pure, true affection,

if he could entertain for a moment the thought of subjecting you to such degradation." Dot shivered at his words. Much as she despised the course which Gilbert Fontaine had pursued that day; much as he had fallen in her esteem, her regard for him was a thing of too recent a, date for her to hear him spoken of in this way by another unmoved. She might blame and denounce him herself with extreme bitterness, but human nature is weak, and she disliked to hear him called a "dastardly coward" by another, however much he might deserve the appellation. There was a long silence after this between the young husband and wife — a silence during which eaoh suffered intenaely, feeling all the while as if a cruel barrier were rising between them, driving them farther apart than they had ever been before. Dot could not bear it; she had meant to be such a good wife to Roy—to do everything te please him and make him happy— and now to have all her good resolutions fall to the ground fruitless, to have her striving and self-denial amount to nothing, was more than she could endure patiently. She gently touched with her lips his hand as it lay on the arm of his ohair. "You have not told me yet, Roy, that you will forgive)" she said, in a low, wistful tone. He drew away his hand as if the kiss had burned him. " I have no one but myself to forgive, and that I shall find it very hard to do; I have no reproaches for you, dear." He spoke gently, but his face was stem and rigid. Dot's heart began to fail her. The barrier was rising higher every moment. " Will you let me begin over again ?—will you let me try to make you comfortable— content ?—will you try to forget ?" she pleaded, as if she bad been guilty of some great wrong. Ah! what a hard, what an impossible thing she asked of him. He could never forget—the remembrance of what he had heard that day would be a thorn that would torture his soul as long as he should live. ' Nothing could ever make him "content," excepting the love of her whole heart, and that he could never expect to have after the confession she had just made. ' "Dorrie," he said, gravely, after a few moments of thoughtful silence, "we have both made a great mistake—l in again asking you to become my wife when you had

orjce told me that yon did not wish to marry me j yoa in consenting to our maniage. We cannot undo the deed,- we cannot annul the tie, though Heaven knows I wotild release yon from your, bonds if I could ; Tout I will So the best I can for you. I will require nothing from you; you shall return to your own home, and be juat as free as you were before, all but in name—that I suppose you must retain. I will not .force myself upon you—l will not even aak to see you, if such is your wish; I will spare you every unpleasant thing that I can." ■..'.- Dot felt as if everything were slipping from her grasp. , The room grew dark, her brain dizzy ; her very breath seemed to stop at his suggestion. '• Oh, Roy, please—please do not talk sol" she cried, in a tremulous voice; "do not send me away from you—l want to stay. I should be miserable to go home; my place is here—my duty iB here—" " Your duty," repeated Roy, bitterly ._ "Yes, and my pleasure, too, if you will," she said, earnestly. "I am afraid this is another of yonr efforts to ' comfort' me," Roy remarked, sceptically. "No, indeed it is not; and, Roy, think— our good name would suffer if I should do as you propose." His lips curled slightly at this, but the pain in his heart was like a knife at her | words. For the sake of the speech of people she I was willing to sacrifice herself to him; Bhe was willing to " keep the letter of the law," even though the spirit might be lacking, lest scandal should touch them with her venomous tongue. "Very well," h.9 answered, coldly, "I shall not oppose your inclination in any way; yon shall be free to do exaotly as you wish. I suppose, as you say, people would talk and wonder what it meant if you should go back to your father and mother. But Ido not wish you to allow your sense of 'duty', to make a martyr of you for my sake. I shall do very well under any circumstances." "Oh, Roy 1" Dot said,.looking up at him with a grieved expression, while the teare rained over her cheeks, "am I going to lose you entirely ? Is your heart utterly turning against me because of what I could not help? ' The young man groaned aloud, and half put out his arms as if to olasp her to him, but he suddenly checked the impulse, and replied brokenly: "No, Dot, no; God knows that I love you only too well. It is myself whom lam turning against—whom I cannot forgive for what I have done. I would not add one pang tc what you now suffer. But we will drop it just here, since there is no help for us, and I cannot bear anything more just now. Sou shall stay with üb, since you wish it, and I will try to regard and treat you as if you were my own sister; I will not annoy you with words of love, nor by ever speaking oi this again to yon." Dot could say nothing to this, but she leaned forward to touch his hand again. He avoided her, however; he thought she did it out of gratitude for his promise to her, and he could not endure such an expression from her. His act hurt Dot deeply; and his coldness was torture to her, while his matter-of-fact way of settliog their future" relations made horfeel almost like an intruder in his home. She arose from her kneeling posture, looking pale and sad. Somshow she felt she would have been greatly comforted if he had drawn her into his arms as he used to do, and petted her as of old; but be seemed to be annoyed by her presence; he could not bear the touch of her lips on his hand even ; her deal old Roy was gone for ever, she thought, and it almost seemed as if a stranger were occupying his place. Poor Dorrie was miserable indeed, but she saw no way to remedy matters, and so felt obliged to submit to them. " You will not speak of this to any one, Roy, please ?" she said, appealingly ; "papa and mamma do not even suspect—" " You may be very sure that I shall not speak of it, Dorrie," he answered, bitterly, adding, with a weary sigh : " Now run away, dear, for I am very tired, and would like tc rest."

It was the first time that he had sent her away since she had taken np her post by his side, and nnder the present ciroumstances it out her to the heart. Hitherto he had been able to rest if she remained in the room ; . she had been' in the habit of taking her book or her work, and retiringtothewindow, and sit quietly thereuntil he needed her again, while it had seemed to be a pleasure to him to have her near him. Now he was beginning the new role by sending her away; he was not going to "require" anything of her; he was going to show her that he oould "do very well without her; that he would not accept duty service from her; and she would sadly miss the pleasure of ministering to him, as well as the solace of forgetfulness attendant upon employment. She longed to stay and soothe him to sleep now, and under the old regime she would have defied him, in her pretty way, and remained in spite of his command to go. But now, with a meekness that was wholly foreign to her, she obediently stole away and left him alone. Not alone either, from a grim, mocking spectre stood beside him, deriding and torturing him regarding his folly and selfishness, his blindness and weakness, until he was driven frantic with despair. He loved Dorrie, if possible, with a stronger, deeper love than before, for the events of that day had served to show him the stuff of which she was made—her honour, truth, and fidelity. Underneath the thoughtless, fun-loving disposition which had hitherto characterised her all her life, he saw there lay a strength and nobility of character for which he had never given her credit. Words could not express thfe admiration that he felt for her, even in the midst of his suffering, for so grandly defending her position as his wife, so nobly maintaining her allegiance to him, even proudly holding him up as a pattern and example for the man whom she had professed to love, while she denounced him for the insult which he had offered her. His heart thrilled as he recalled the almoat triumphant ring of her tones as she had said, "Do you suppose that he wonld ever have talked to.the woman whom he professed to love as you have talked to me to-day? No; had she been twice lost to him, he would never have offended her delicacy or her sense of honour by a word or a look even. Ho would have comforted her gently, kindly, and borne his own sorrow in silence and with patience, like the noble man that he' is." And again—" I hope my husband will live to be an old, old man, and that I may live to grow old with him, so that I can prove to him, and you, how true, how faithful his wife can be to him." This was a loyality which was almost sublime, and for a moment, as he recalled her words, he was half tempted to believe that it foretold the dawn of a real, true love in her heart for him. Then the hope as quickly died when he thought of her humble confession of how she had given herself to Gilbert Fontaine. She might feel scorn and contempt for him, now that she bad discovered his true charaoter —her affection for him might even die ; but a new love could not possibly have sprung so soon from the ashes of the old. He could not, however, fail to have a feeling of satisfaction that Dot had been saved from the fate of becoming the dupe and slave of an unprincipled man at almost any cost. He felt that he was cruel and tyrannical, and that to be bound to him would be a blight upon the life of any woman—to Dorrie he felt that it wonld have been worse than death. Had he been strong and well, or even less shocked when he stood a listener to the man's vile proposals to her, he would have strode in upon him and called him to account for his villainy.

CHAPTER XIV. ooboiey's pictoee, Roy's improvement seemed suddenly to have received a check. The day following the events related in the last ohapter, he was not able to rise at all, though no one mistrusted the cause save Dot, who hovered over him with a white, anxious face, conscienee-smitten and wretched, since she blamed herself as being the- cause of it all. As the days passed, however, he rallied so as to be able to sit up again ; but Dr. Southwick began to look grave, as, morning after morning, his visits to the sick-room convinced him that his patient was gaining no real strength. A constant, wearing pain -between his shoulders was a new feature which had re-, cently presented itself among other' troubles! " Rheumatism," the doctor said at Srst, when Roy told him about it, while he began to stoop and find it difficult to hold his head in an upright position. By and by, however, a swelling appeared low on the back of the neck, and steadily increasing, poor Roy's hitherto fine form

:■ adually. lost its .symmetry,, and .he be g«x : 1 most to present the appearance of a hump*back. "It is a tumour, the result of that terrible fever, I fear," Dr. South wick said-to Mrs„ Davenport one day,when she was consulting!; him in private about it, and nearly ill herself, with anxiety over it. " But it will disappear in time, as he grows stronger, will it not ?" she asked. ■." Perhaps. Sometimes such things : removed by absorption ; but, I fear, this oas> not be disposed of in any such way. I ak9 afraid that—" "WhatJ" cried Mrs. Davenport ex* citedly "I am afraid this, cannot be got rid of without an operation," he replied gravely. Mrs. Davenport was alarmed indeed now, "An operation 1" Bhe ejaculated, with a shudder. "Oh! that would be terrible. What shall we do ?" "We can do nothing just at present; we: can only await the developments of time. We most do all that we can to recuperate his strength, and, as the weather becomes milder, he must go out every day. He must have no care, and every effort must be made to keep him cheerful. Is there anything especial troubling him just now?" * Dr. Southwick asked this question abruptly, and with a keen glance at ins com* panion. "Wot that I know of," she replied. "He has not appeared at all like himself since his sickness, and I have attributed the change to that. He has, perhaps, been rather more depressed a than usual of late, but I have supposed it was owing to anxiety on account of this new trouble." , " You are sure he has nothing on his mind —aside from this, I mean »" he persisted. "Quite sure," Mrs. Davenport asserted,' confidently. '' What could he have to trouble him!"

" I don't know," the physician answered, thoughtfully, and yet he was satisfied that something -was wrong aside from this new development. Mrs. Davenport had not a, suspicion of how matters stood between Dot and her son, although she had felt that they were very quiet and matter-of-fact—that they did not manifest quite as mnch pleasure in the change of their relations as she had anticipated that they would ; but perhaps this was owing to - the fact of their having been brought up together, and the change was not so great as if they had been married under different cir- ' camstances. Poor Boy! he was indeed in a critical condition, and fast becoming a cripple—he who heretofore had been so well, so straight, and so finely proportioned. A huge tumour or protuberance of some kind was growing between his shoulders. He gained neither flesh nor strength, was bloodless and haggard, and entirely changed from the bright, handsome young man whom we first knew. He was gloomy and depressed all the tirnej; his brow overcaßt, his eyes sad and lustreless, , the lines about his mouth tense and full of pain. He spoke very little to any one. He did not appear to like to have any one talk to him, but sat thinking and brooding all day long. In vain Dot tried to amuse him and win his mind from himself. Nothing seemed to arouse him. He was always gentle and courteous to her when she was with him, and patient as the day was long, never uttering a, murmur or complaint. Yet he was careful not to task: her in any way, never to encroach upon her time or attention if he could help it, and whenever she would anticipate a wish or. need, as she was watchful to do, he would thank her with as much punctilious polite* " ness as if she had been a stranger. It was very trying when she would have • so gladly devoted herself to hirn, and she exerted herself to be like the old, bright Dot whom he used to enjoy so much. Sheschooled herielf never to come " into his presence without a smile or soma cheering word. She treasured np every little anecdote or story which she read or heard, every little bit of gossip whioh Bhe thought would : interest him, hoping thus to brighten the" weary hours to him. She coaxed him to play chess with her, a • game which he had always loved, hoping to , steal the time from him in this way; but after a few moves he would grow distrait, forgetting to move when it was his turn, and often moving her men instead his own, until she was forced to give np the game in despair. When asked if she should read.to him, his reply would invariably be: " If you' like, Dorrie." " What would you enjoy, Boy ?" " Whatever will interest yon, dear." - And poor Dot, with a heavy heart and tears in her eyes, would find something which she thought might be entertaining, and put forth all her elocutionary talent to interest him. But it was very seldom that she felt he really knew what she was reading about; for his eyes would be fixed absently, on the floor, the trees, or sky, while his face would be full of pain and wistfulness.

Yet if she closed her book he never forgot to say, with the utmost politeness : yon, Dome. I hope I have not quite tired you out." Sometimes she was tempted to tell him that he had, and to fly at him as she used to do when he was in a provoking mood ; bnt sh'a could not have the heart to do that, remembering all the pain she had caused him, and she always controlled the impulse. "Roy, what shall I dp for you'" she asked one day when he appeared more sad and absent-minded than usual. He turned a surprised look upon her. " I am sure you are doing all the time. - I wish you wouldn't do so much,", he said, quietly. Dot flushed hotly, and the tears sprang to her eyes. "Do I annoy you, Eoy? Would yon rather I did not stay with you so much ?" " No, you do not annoy me, Dorrie; but I do not like to make you so much trouble." " Oh, please do not talk about * trouble,'. when you have Buffered, and are suffering so much all the time. I feel as if I cannot do enough for you," she returned, tremulously, but he made no reply, and she could aay no more. Onoe or twice her patience became exhausted. She felt injured and angry at his indifference, and left him alone for several hours, hoping he would miss her and remark upon it. But he never betrayed that he missed her, or 'was lonely. He took her presence as a matter of course, and her absence in the same way, and was so patient and uncomplaining every way, that she was filled' with remorse for getting out of temper with him, and redoubled her efforts for his comfort. And all this time a change was going on within her. Her heart began to hunger for the old-time loving words and caresses. She began to prise them now that they were denied her. Eoy, the invalid and cripple, was daily growing far dearer to her than ever he had been when he was well and strong, and had worshipped at her shrine. Her grief for Gilbert Fontaine was shortlived ; for the more she thought of the way he had won her, and that last interview with him, the more she despised him. He seemed so little of sonl, so ignoble beside the noble characteristics which were always shining forth in Eoy. ' » - Roy would never have lured her into an engagement without her parents' knowledge; Roy never would have made love to another man's wife, no matter in what relation she might have stood to him previous to her marriage; he would have sacrificed every personal feeling rather than have been guilty of an act so dishonourable. Day after day, as the subject was revolving itself in her mind, she would repeat these assurances to herself, and her old lover, surely gained nothing by such comparisons. Her respect gone, her love, having nothing to subsist upon, gradually diedj while' a> sweeter, holier, deeper affection began to spring up in its place, for—speak it softly; for she had not yet acknowledged it to herself even—Dot was growing to love her husband* tTo be continued.]