THE LOST LETTER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXV, Issue 10832, 16 August 1898, Page 3

THE LOST LETTER.

BY PHCEBE HART. Author of "Quite Mad," "a Silly Creature," etc.

[COPYRIGHT.]

(Concluded.) Cahfhiton took the letter Elfrida held odt to him. He opened it and read it. " Darling Frida,—Not hearing from°you could not bear to face the crash. I hope father will save my name. I have written to him and mother by this mail. It is no good trying to find me. I have come out hero and am "not certain where I shall go next; but lam determined not to return till I can prove myself worthy ol being a man and a Vereker—l was . going to say till I had proved myself worthy of you, but I suppose I must give up all claim to you now. lam pleased for your sake our engagement was not made public. Why didn't you answer my letter? I went down to Tallivern nearly a month ago. I hung about hoping to seo you, but I didn't see vou. I raw Edmund Camperton. I sent you 'by him the letter I had written in case I shouldn't see you Being so far from you here, calling to mind your dear, kind nature, I sometimes think that perhaps you never received my letter, that perhaps Camperton lost it, that if you had had it you would have answered it one way or the other. In it I told you that if you could pardrtn all I had done, if you told me to stay in England and face everything with you by my side I would do so, but if 1 did not hear Irom you i should consider that you refused me your pardon, and that our engagement was over, and I should go to the other end of the world If you didn't get the letter perhaps it was tho most fortunate thing for you. I leave Edmund master of the field. Frida darling, darling Frida, if you never see me again—and you may never see me again—if you never hear from me again—and you may never hear from mo again—remember you will always be my one ideal of womanhood. Don't think worse of 1110 than you can help; don't in your thoughts call mo a miserable scamp; don't banish my name from your prayers; Ixdievo me, 1 have sufficient punishment for my conduct in the life-long regret that I have forfeited all claim to you and your love. Let me, darling, sign myself for this last, last time, your own " Hal." Edmund Camperlon folded the sheet and gave it back to her. His face was very white. " Uncle has saved Hal's name, it will cripple him for a very long while. 1 wanted him to take my money, but it would have been no use, and he says I only have enough to keep ine as a lady— wouldn't hear of it. He and Aunt haven't read this, people don't ask to read love letters, and so I have simply told them that Hal did write before leaving to say lie Would stay if I wanted him, but I never had tho letter, it must have been lost. 1 haven't mentioned your name. Oh! why didn't you give me that letter, Mr. Camperlon J" "Hal never gave me any letter, he only bogged me not to say I had seen him. He for-1 got to give me the letter: he'll find it tome! day in his coat-pocket. You don't mean to j say you actually think I lost it and never mentioned it to you?" "You said here, 011 this spot, not two months ago, that ho and I should be miserable together, that you hoped something would prevent the marriage." " You don't mean to say" —he snatched her wrist and held it tightly—" you don't mean to say you actually lielieve I had the letter and didn't give it to you?" " Let go my hand." And she tore her wist from his grasp. But he caught it again and held it tighter. "It would havo been a villainous act," he said between his teeth; "and, besides, you know I was always Hal's friend." "Yes, out——you did say you hoped something would prevent the marriage. He | must have known if he gave you the letter or | not—l never had it, and there's that poor, poor i boy, away from everybody, at the other end of j the world, because lie never had a word from mo to tell him to stay." He loosened his hold on her wrist; and her hand, numbed and nerveless, fell to her side. The dusky shades cjppt closer around them, I the wind moaned among the hollow caves, the high white-crested billows had rolled much nearer. Edmund Camperton, in his sorrow and anger and indignation, looked a part of tile hour and the place. " Miss Vereker," he said, and his voice rang above the 'sound of the echoing winds and the seething waters, " a day will come when you Shall tell me that this act which you accuse mo of is one that I could never have been capable of performing. You shall come to me with no poor excuses for yourself, with no asking for me to make allowances for the excitement you are in, and tho grief you are feeling. You shall tell me that you know—you know that I am incapable of such an act. I have avoided you of late, I will avoid you no longer. I will give you every opportunity of knowing me as I am." And he left her. He walked back to Clematis Cottage and went into the library. Bab was still there. "What was the matter with Frida?" sho said. He didn't answer. Bab lay back in the chair and began to cry. "Tears, Bab!" he said sadly, stroking her curls. "I've broken Daisy's doll, I've broken it," she said between her sobs. " Child, child," lie said, " don't cry about such trifles. There is so much trouble in the world." chapter 111. Tallivem-on-Sea resumed its usual habits. It had leaked out that Hal Verekcr had got into a hole and that old Yereker had pulled niin out of it; beyond that nothing was known. The Verekcrs weren't the people to open their cupboard doors and make, an exhibition of their skeletons. But it didn't matter. There had been 110 house parties for the shooting, 110 grand Christmas ball, no season in London at tin residence in Curzon-street, no merry jaunt to Homburg; and a farm had been sold, and : tho new stables that were to have been built had not been built. These outward signs told many talcs of the 7 erekers' fortunes .being touched. As tho portals of the Abbey had ] never been allowed to swing open to anybody and everybody, the general opinion in Talli-vern-011-Sea and the adjoining places was that • this kind of tiling was good for the Verc- ; kers; it would take their pride down a bit. From time immemorial it has been agreed that anything which sets our pride 011 the lie- | tcending scale has a salutary effect on us. Hal's relatives still had hopes of him, ihough ' ho kept silent; if a Vereker said he would 1 piovo himself worthy of his name, he would do so. His engagement to his cousin was con- i sidered at an end. Tho Abbey was always open to the Campertons, Edmund and Bab were continually there. < Bab would romp in the nursery with tho elm- ' dren, and Edmund was carrying out his mien- I tion of giving Elfrida Vereker ovcry opportu- 1 liity of knowing him as he really was. With the publication of the first part of Ins new work, his reputation had grown rapidly; Tallivern-on-Sea was proud of him, and HI- ! frida was proud of him. In learning to know • him she had learnt to love him; and she let • this be no secret to him, though she did not j tell it in words. And often, when they ware alone together, he could see she wished to own that he was a true prophet, and that she knew he was incapable of the dastardly _ deed of which in a way she had accused him. Jut ■ lie would not let her speak yet, he treasured too much her continual graceful acts of atone- . ment for her hastiness and injustice. He - would not lot her speak till the summer came, when he again would ask her .tho question ho had asked her the,year beforehand to which she had answered "Impossible!" The summer was nearly there, the time nad j nearly come, <uid when it should come! ; '■ Seizo the day, seisfc tho day! said li 0 ] writer 011 the Latin poets. "If it wcren t for ( Ball I should -be the most contented man <n earth." , Bab grieved him. The • winter had been j severe and tried her, but she ought to have got well with the warm weather. She ought not to have those black circles round her eyes, nor bo so listless and so . easily tired, and it pained him that she reminded him so much of the delicate young mother who died when lie was a youth and j Bab an infant. He'd take her to London, he'd had enough of Tallivern doctors. " It's no use," she said wearily. She put grey and white streamers 011 the birds cage s - "I don't care for colours any more. _ Loo.v. ( tho birds are in half-mourning now. And ■ she laughed, and the birds caught up her j laugh and turned it into a song.

lights; die sairl d? a ri j ~S " e would have no in upon them ° d th ° moon to ftrC!^ heftatL 0 \E ngwhite^'>ehad E een f iJ ' tOUCh!^ it " xou 3icl J- looked a woman in

' toseh, eb , ered 7 d , she looked a w ° mai had altered? ' ° woman. How Hal I haven t worn it since. I thouglit TV any longeJ" Ut ' tS °° g00(1 keoin ' mdnf2* 1 Ve £ r to the piano ' 11111 «* dow. ' then & at first Softl >' and slowly-bui r tarihl™ SU u a ■ rusl of 6to ™y. mourn startedm ' , ma ,, enu, e Passion, that hi teemed fn h n ! d •" m, r frighted. Shi r teemed to ho journeying far, far away fron 1 truth nt hL m wa ?-, hur ing 60D16 liorribli I a nnnr , ?' - ™ ' lke tlle agonised wail o! t a land of'perdit'wnT wandorlnK perf ° !l f tl,f <^ lU " d held his breaUl 11 was finished IJiiKK."' '"»»"> mo 9,', 1 / don ' t ,-r oo^ . at mo " alle moaned. "Lei me ell you like tins, with my face hidden Don t cast mo off, Edmund, I have only yo,™ ■ Cast her off What did she mean? a coukl not speak. r •mW.W, 6,16 said ' haltin g painfully, that letter Hal sent Frida wasn't lost. 1 > had it—l have it now." ■ I'or the moment lie could not grasp the meaning of her words, they numbed his senses; ' out at last the meaning came to lip. : lou, Bab, you!" He carried her in a second to the window—what light t'-ero was must shine on her. He looked at her white ' ace lying against his breast, and ho remenv bored what she had saidthat she only had ™- He m " st 1,6 gentle with her. . ell me, little one, tell mo'all about it," he ; said, caressingly. : '' Yes," she said, shuddering, " it must be ■ told. I made up my mind to tell you to- ' IV V „ I nearly told you that evening I broke t ie doll, when Frida was so strange, when 1 ■ thought it would all come out. I called you, 1 but you didn't hear me." ' She went on, falteringly, "Last year, when ' Hal came to lallivern that day, I saw liim. lie was on his way to the station. I was leanin? on the gato waiting for you to seo this tlress. He stopped—and— talked. He said ,ie had just left you. 110 asked me r.ot to tell anybody I had seen him; nobody but you knew- lie was in Tallivern. Then ho told mo lie was in great trouble, that he had spent a lot of money, a '"' ' 10 '°' mo ' 10 was engaged to rnda. Bab stopped. Courage!' said Edmund. "Edmund, I loved him! I had loved him for months. I dared not tell you, I dared not tell anybody. But I used to say it to the birds; every, every day I said it. When he told me he was engaged to Freda my heart seemed to die within me. I think ho guessed my secret then. We still stood talking— ho said ho would go by the next train. 1 hen ho began to talk to mo. Ho had never seen me look so pretty, so grown up; he envied the lucky fellow who would get j mc. And then—then—! I don't know, lie said a lot more. I suppose he didn't 1 mean anything, but I thought he did. And j lie tool; out a letter addressed to Frida; ho j said if she didn't answer it their engagement } would cease. Ho said he was going away. | Then we talked of ourselves, only ourselves, I and tho happy times we had had together. Ami ho said something about if lie hud been free, hilt—oh! I don't know—he wasn't free. And lie gave me the letter and told mo to put it on your table in tho library, not to say anything about it; that you would think he hail run in and left it without anybody seeing him, and you would give it to Frida. Then he said he must and—and he took one of my pink roses, and lie wanted to kiss me. But 1 said ' No, no. When you come back.' I thought he's not free yet, And he went, and I put the letter on tlio library table." She halted again. "Edmund, you have never been tempted —I looked at that letter for an hour. ' Miss j Elfrida Vereker, Tlio Abbey, Talliveru-on-J Sea.' And I thought, 'If sire doesn't an- : swer it he will bo free.' At last I took it ; upstairs to my room and locked it away." He started. "Don't bo hard with me," she said. "I have only you; and i have had my punishment." He would not bo hard with her though she had lulled that which ho had hold so precious— faith in her! Ho kissed her. "Edmund, I was sorry after I had done it; and when he didn't come back I was going to tell you— I never could; I am a weak creature. But how I have suffered ! That letter used to call me to look at itj I couldn't eat; I couldn't sleep, and one night 1 opened it. I thought it might tell mo where ho had gone. 1 would have sent it him and told him everything. But there were only a few words; if Frida said ho was to stay, ho would stay; if he did not hear from her the engagement was broken off and he should go away. I was even more miserable after that, and I always carried tho letter about with me against my heart— and it bums, burns, burns! Remorse burns! Edmund, it burns!" iSlie stopped again, and hid her face from him. " I had thought ho would soon come back, and I had piit this dress away, meaning to keep it till lie did; he should see me as ho had last seen me. But I shall never see him again—! never. He will come back some day, but I shall never see him. I am dying as my mother died I know it." Sho waited. " Frida never loved him, but sho loves you. She must have the letter; I could not die in peace unless she had it." "You will give it her yourself, Bab." "No, you give it to her. Say you found it, toll nobody about —let them all lovo me to the end, it will soon come." " She would always love you." "No, no, you mustn't tell her. I could never face her. Let everybody love 1110 to the end." " I will not tell her," he said, holding her protectingly to him again. " Give me the letter." She drew it from her bodice and ho took it. "Ah! I am easier now!" Sho smiled a cold sad smile. " How kind you are, Edmund; no reproaches, no anger "'Sister mino, sister mine!" was his only reply. She clung to him, and lie carried her upstairs in his strong arms and laid her on Iho bed. " You ,must get well, Bab," ho said, " for if you have only me, you know, I have only you." Yes, this was what her misdeed had done for him. He could not ask Elfrida to he his wife now. Ho must give her the letter. How could ho baldly say he had found it when the seal was already broken? He must let her think what she would of him. He would shield Bab, as ho had promised, at any cost. Bab had 110 idea what this meant to him, what conclusion on his conduct must bo drawn by tho woman he loved. We can never tell how far tlio workings of our deeds, good or had, spread, and how much they affect the lives of others than ourselves. Elfrida should have the letter at once. The moon looked down on no sadder mail than Edmund Camperton that night. Bab's confession had chilled his very heart's blood. He would have staked his lifo 011 her truth and integrity, but she had been tempted and she had fallen. He would not fall. Sho twitted him with not knowing what temptation was— till we have resisted temptation to the conquering of it, we know not what it is. ■ What was his temptation now, at this minute? Ho would have given all his fame to tell Elfrida how the letter had como to him. She would have forgiven Bab as ho had forgiven her. and would guard the secret as he would guard it. But his word to Bab held him hack; ho could not betray her oven by a quibble. When lie reached the Abbey he asked for Miss Vereker, and was shown into tho boudoir. She was alono, reading. She started to her feet as she saw his pale, hopeless face. No greetings passed between them. " Hero is the letter," he said, " which Hal wrote you and which you never received. I know the contents. I can give you no explanation." She took tho opened envelope, and mechanically drew forth the letter and read it, and replaced it. Her face was as pale as his; sho pushed her heavy hair back from her forehead; her whole frame quivered and thook. " You wish me to understand that you have lived a lie all these months?" " I can give you 110 explanation, he said, wearily. "Wo are going away soon from Tallivern." His glance travelled round the room where he had spent so many , happy hours, and then his eyes rested on her and could not leavo her. She came towards him with a movement of exquisite womanly softness. , "I don't believe it," she said, "not even in the face of this" pointing to the letter. "I don't believe it. I know, I know you are incapable of such an act." : . . His hopelessness and pallor left him, 1113 being thrilled'with a glow of triumph. _ SIIO lore up the letter and held it to tua flame of a caudle: . ';•>; 1 " Poor Hal! i I never loved him. „ Sho came nearer. ' "Edmund, you musnt leave Tallivern. Here is my hand. •. If you consider yourself unworthy to take it, don't take it-refuse it for no other reason; if you do, you will be , disloyal to, the love you bear me, toihe love' I - bear you, aud you will ruin-both , our lives." • " '

Elfrida, I can never, river give you an explanation." I She smiled. "I love you; I trust jou," was her an- | swer. , She still held out her hard— he took it. Elfrida bad no explanation from her husband, but she had one from Bab— lay a-dying. ''When Hal comes b«ck tell him everyJJ 1 ' 11 ?'' said Bab, in tones that faded away. Say how sorry I am. Ask him to forgive me. He will, I know, Tell him I loved him, and tell him—somehow— thought that day lie meant he loved me—and tell him I fiend him my love— I him—goodbye. ' The sad small face turned to the wall, the voice was hushed she spoke no more. And Frida drew Edini'nd from the chamber of death into the garcfen, where Bab's birds were singing in the siushine. Would his reason have him? • Would he succumb to the stonimss of his despair? "Husband," she sad, the tears streaming down her cheeks, "husband, remember though there is death in the world there is sunshine, and singing, too." His rigid features relaxed, he looked 'at her; he put his arms round her. "Thank God!" he said, and wept. Before two years had passed Hal came back, his light-heartcduess left behind in the tussle ho had had wi:h the world. And Edmund and Frida gave him Bab's last message. He walked away from them; he leaned on the gate where Bab had leaned that day a few summers before Ho saw it all again. He saw a woman's eyes looking up at him from out of the childish face, ho saw himself bending to look intc those eyes and to talk in answer to what Ik read in them. He forgave her; yes, yes, lie forgave her. He wished ho could forgive himself as readily for those idle words of his that had set her young soul straying. Then he sighed headly as ho thought of the story of the lost letter. Ah! idle words, idle words! What seeds of misery are they likely to scatter! [THE END.] ON THURSDAY NEXT, "DELIA'S HONEYMOON."