BY THE LIGHT OF LOVE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIV, Issue 13396, 26 January 1907, Page 3 (Supplement)

BY THE LIGHT OF LOVE.

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

BY ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT, Author of " Hv Richt of Sword," " For Love or Crown." "In the Name of a Woman," " The Greatest Gift," etc. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] CHAPTER IX. in maynk's court. "Yours is a, truly noble work, Nurse Eleanor," said the signor, as they went down the stairs. " I can conceive none nobler for a sympathetic heart than binding up the wounded spirits of the sorrowing and easing the burdens of the poor. Ah ! the poor—the everlasting problem of all nations." An everlasting problem, truly," said Eleanor.

"How that dear child. Paolo, loves you, too. It is a. sad case for my good friend Angelo that his wife should be—" "Should be what?" asked Eleanor, as he paused and finished the sentence with a sad smile and a wave of the hand. " You have not noticed it? But you must, your heart is so sympathetic. A fine man, Angelo; a magnificent workman —such huge strength, such a gentle heart. But poor Angelo, all the same.' " I don't understand you." " There speaks your sweetness, your heart. But to me you may speak freely. Angelo is my friend, "and from me his wife's illusions are no secret, alas! It is most sad. You know poor Angelo's fears for he;-. He never enters his house without the secret cankering dread that corrodes his life.'' " I have seen and know nothing of what you hint- at." " Has tie never spoken to you that he fears she will take her lit'--, and p. rhaps that of the child? You know him for the strong

giant of a fellow that he is. But I know his heart to the core; and the thought that in her madness she may say and do all manner of desperate tilings is like to kill him at times. For delusions to the insane ate what the realities of life are to us. And the poor soul is never free from them. Never, never! Ah, the pathos of it!" "She does not wish me to visit her again." i said Eleanor. I ••Respect her wish, dear lady, respect her wish. if she feels a rising prejudice of antipat against you it might be most dangerous for you to disregard it. Ah! here is I'laneescii. May the blessings of the (Sod of all of us in common list upon your noble mission, good nurse—arid remember the poor Batista's wish." What could it all mean'' The question pressed itself insistently upon Eleanor while she was in (he one dirty, evil-smelling room i where the old crone, Francesca. sat with her sick 'grandchild. A repulsive old wo- | man, servile, grasping, and half-drunken. j who hid ill-used and beaten the boy. and j starved him until his health hud broken down, so that lit? could no longer go out Willi his accordion and earn the money which .-he declared alone kept the wretched hove! of a home toget her. i Sir- hail long been on Eleanor's list of j hopeless irreclainiubles, and the intention I now was to take advantage of the poor boy's illness and get him away from the , blighting influence of the disreputable old i crone. Eleanor would give her no money, and old Francesca hated her in consequence, al- j though smirking and fawning upon her. i •' He's the last of my blood in the world." she moaned dismally," as Eleanor bent over the boy. " Has he bad tiie milk regularly?" asked Eleanor. " Every drop of it. nurse, every drop of it. j I gave ii him nivself with mv own poor old I hands. The blessed darling'!" ! '•When did lie have the last?" " Not many minutes before you came in, nurse." • 'Where i.- the rest of the milk?" " He's had it all - -every drop." " How did you feed him? Out of what'.'" j " You ask a lot of questions, nurse,"' an- 1 sv.iiad the crone, restlessly. "Do you think Ed stint the last of my own blood, when { I'd sell tile very rags (ill mv hack to help i him? Out of this glass, mid this was the.jug . it was sent in, and this is the hand that i gave it—the hand von seem to suspect." I "This glass has had gin in it. Francesca." "'flint isn't possible,' she cried, with at- ' feded horror. "Possible or not. it is true. You are very wicked. Francesca. Not only have you money which you spend in drink, but you actually rob this poor child of the nourishment sent for him which may mean the difference between his living and dying." Francesca burst into loud sobbing wails. and declared her innocence, over and over again with crescendo vehemence, and, feeding her anger, began to utter vague threats. In the midst of it they were interrupted by the arrival of a clergyman. It wa.s Mr. Mordaunt, arid . to him "the old crone instantly appealed with loud complaints against Eleanor's injustice and suspicion. "The child must be removed or he will die," said Eleanor. "It is a case where there must Ik proper nursing," and they discussed it in low tones. Francesca waited for an indication that they would do something for her if she let the 'child go. and getting j no such promise stopped her teats and took j another hue. " T shall go to Father Bennett." she said. " I'll turn Catholic again, and he'll see that | you Protestants don't take mv charcter | away in order to come stealing the sou! of j the pour child." ' " 1 will find the means to deal with her. Raid Mr. Mordaunt. '"We can do no good be staving here. I'll see to it at once." '"The child must have food. If you will wait I will uo and get some milk and will stay here while you arrange for him to be | taken to the infirmary. Mr. Raines, the re- ; lieving officer, will order his removal if you i see. him at once." And she went to fetch ; (he milk, and on returning found Mr. Mor- | daunt alone with the boy. "Francesca has gone out. Do you think you had better stay alone?" ] •' Oh, yes. You will not be very long in I anv ease." And with that he left" She lifted the child tenderly and skilfully, and fed him with some of the milk, smooth- I ed his hard, dirtv pillow, and sat down by ; the bedside, looking with pain upon the , white, wan little face. Presently Frances- ■ ca, her flushed face wearing a look of ; triumph, came in with a Catholic priest. > " There, is a dying Catholic child here, I understand," he said, in a hard, unsympa- , thetic voice, instinct with hostility. " I j have been called to see him." " There is a child very ill here, and we are ; going to have him . removed." answered ; Eleanor, rising and standing by the bed. | " He is a. child of the true faith, one of my Hock; i will see to him." 1

"' The first care is to cure the illness." '' The first care is for the soul, madam. j The body is nothing in comparison. I must ask you to leave him to me." "He is a good Catholic, holy father," ! said Francesca. "You hear this?" said the priest, blunt- ; ly, to Eleanor. "Francesca herself is a Protestant, and the child Orpheo has, I believe, been baptised in the English Church. He would die if left here. We are going to remove him." " I shall not allow that," returned the priest, with growing warmth. "He is a child of the Holy Church. lam going to administer the last rites, and I must once more request you to leave." " I cannot go. When the child is well 'he question of the Church to which he belongs can be settled. My concern is for his life." " You would risk his immortal soul in your wrongful zeal to make a proselyte. It is a- scandal and a shame. 1 have heard too much of your efforts in this direction. Suborning those of the true faith by bribes and alms and promises of help. It is infamous." She's always doing it," put in Frani cesca unctuously. ! "I will not let this child's innocent soul bo sacrificed to your proselytising zeal. 1 claim this soul in the name, of the Holy i Church." | "The boy is going to the infirmary, Father Bennett," answered Eleanor. "He shall not be removed,' declared tho ■ priest angrily. " Leave the room at once. : You have already insulted the poor woman i v.hos-e humble home it is. She has the i right, to eject you." ' i "Yes, yes, nodded Francesca. "I ; order you out. You're a wicked, evil i liar!" and she made a clutch at Eleanor's cloak to drag her away'from the bed. "She has a right to turn you out," said tho priest. As he spoke Mr. Mordaunt and the relieving- officer arrived. "What is the meaning of this?" exclaimed Mr. Mordaunt. " The child is here, Mr. Baines," said Eleanor. "Is he very ill, nurse?" " Yery ill indeed. He will dip if he remains here.' and she described very brieflv what bad happened about the food. " Dr. Ferguson will be here in it moment," he said. "It is clearly a case for ' instant removal." "The child cannot be removed, Mr. Bines," said Father Bennett, interposing. j "He belongs to my Hock, I will (see that . proper care is given. I will send the I sister here." I " Orpheo is not a Catholic." declared I Mr. Mordaunt ; and a heated altercation i followed. "He will die if he remains here, Catho- , lie or Protestant.'' said Eleanor. "Surely we should thmk first- of his life."

But tho relieving officer was looking undecided. "I scarcely know—ah! here ■is the doctor," he said, as Dr. Ferguson came hurrying in. "This is (he child, doctor. It appears there is some question as to his religion. Father Bennett —" " Let us see what his body's like first; these gentlemen can quarrel about his sou] afterwards," he broke in, brusquely, adding, .as if by way of apology for his bluntness, " I have a very heavy day's work yet to do." They all stood in silence while the examination was made, and at tbd close of it the doctor said, very firmly : " Nurse Eleanor is perfectly right. The hoy must go to the infirmary, and at once." " I will not, have him removed." said Father Bennett. The doctor turned from the bedside. fixed his keen grey eyes upon him, and in a dry tone with a very pronounced Scotch accent answered : Did I ask you to tell me my duty,

i *' lv ' : " i i " He is of my faith, and I forbid it," answered the. priest. '• And shall I let the child die to please, your creed? Mr. Baines, make the arrangements at once.'' "I shall appeal to the guardians, Dr. Ferguson." j "So long as the child's life is saved you j can appeal to the Pone for aught 1 care. And, now. please, the room must be cleared. Perhaps you can stay, Nurse Eleanor, and help me.'' Father Beimel made a final protest and | then left, taking Francesca with him. and Mr. Mordaunt. and Mr. Raines hurried oil on a hint from the doctor that a fuss might be saved if the child could he removed before Father Bennett returned. " Isn't, it amazing, nurse, that any sane j man could stand there wrangling and jangling about his faith and his Church I while the child lav dving for lack of I what's waiting to be given him?" "Father Bennett was almost violent botore vou came, doctor.'' and Eleanor described whit had passed. "Umph!" ejaculated the doctor, with a. toss of the head, as he got the child ' ready for removal. " Faith, creed, doej trine, dogma; this is right, that's wrong. ! Profess to worship the same Cod and tear each other's even o.it to settle the precise i form of worship. What a man does, say I f, not what ho thinks, or how manv times i he goes on his knees, or whether he crosses himself with or without holy water— You wear well, nurse," he | broke off, with a smile. "I hear of you in most places I .1:0 into." " I like the work, doctor." ; "It isn't generally the work that kills, j I it's the disappointments. I think. I've j I been fifteen years in this parish, and I i haven't spared myself; but I've killed my j I illusions. Nothing can. ever do any good. j ! We never get forward. It's like the sand j of the sea, or the beach on the foreshore, j j or emptying a. spring, or sitting by a ( j river like the countryman waiting for it ! I to dry up. or like anything thai suggests I futile effort and empty hope." ■ "But the children, doctor, we can help j j them to better thing.-." | "Can we? Do we? What's the future. I of this poor kiddy? We've just had two I parsons of 'em excellent fellows in I j their way. mind von. and With bigots I ; for what 'they call their faith—that little. | j many-angled," point-bristling faith—both j I trying to do good in their grooves; well. j ! hero they stood, leadv to split hairs about- | i (hat part of the kiddy of which neither: they nor anyone knows any blessed thing. to prevent, you and m« doing what can j be done for that pari of him Ave do under- I stand." "It is their duty to think of the soul, doctor," said Eleanor, gently. "Of course it is. as it is mine to look I after the body, and I'm only a grumbling pessimist out of joint with the times, and a curmudgeon, to talk to you iu this way. You can still dream and I can't, and that's all the difference. I want- to see the bodies well nourished, the homes bright and cheerful and healthy, the food plentiful, fresh air abundant, work certain and continuous, and the actualities of life such as breed content, peace, ease of mind. Let tho body and the life be healthy, the mind will soon take its proper tone, and j then the soul can be left to look after I itself." j "The soul look after itself!" exclaimed | Eleanor. j "I oughtn't to have said that. You're j a. good woman, nurse. I know that by I what you do, and I've no right to j ' moifher' you, as the;- say in the North. J ! But. you and 1. much as we may agree in I many thincs, are probably wide apart in j | that one thing. You think you can seo ! I quite clearly by the eyes of your faith; I and I know tTutt I can't see at all. I'm j content to wait, just doing my duty as j i best I can. And now I've preached , . enough, and wish Baines would come, for | I've a very full round of calls. People do I contrive to tret ill at times in most in- j • convenient numbers and without the least j I thought that my time is limited." ! I Eleanor was silent for a minute, and j I then said, nervnuslv: "You spoke of the . eye,-, of faith, and ti"t vou could not see, j j doctor; did you mean—" i I "I meant, my dear Nurse Eleanor, that j '■ the older I tret—and a man grows old very i , quickly in these surroundings—the more j ; firmly do I believe that, no" faith. Chris- . tiau, Anglican, Catholic. Buddhist, j ] Mohammedan, Theosophist. Agnostic—for, ' in a way, tliev are all faiths since nobody i knows the certaintv—can be the least use : I without, works. Here they arc at last," ! he broke oft", as Mr. Baines and Mr. Mor- I ; daunt returned for the sick boy. The doctor busied himself at once in the task, and carried Omhen downstairs. Eleanor took the child on her lap in the cab, j saying she would gu to the infirmary with i

him, and then the doctor, having (.'ivcn her his directions-, lingered for a moment at the cab window and adder! in a low voice :

"Nurse, I've said more to you about myself than I've ever said to anyone before. Don't repeat it. It'll do no good to the folk about, here to know that I don't believe in all the parsons tell us. And it doesn't come in my work, after all. We'll shako hands on that," and giving her hid hand he turned away.

CHAPTER X

k.utkkii's win:. When Eleanor left the infirmary, having seen the boy comfortably installed, she walked home in a very thoughtful mood. Five years, had passed since she left Collingwood, ami they had been live busy, eventful years for her. Mrs. Freshtield had kept her promise to take care of her, and had contrived to do if in a way that caused the least, disturbance in her own life. At Mr. Mordaunt's instance Eleanor had gone to work in his parish in Solio, and Mrs. Freshtield, having vainly attempted to keep her new charge at lvyholme, and being unwilling to live in London altogether, had taken a fiat in Bioomsbury. Very soon alter they went there, however, 'Eleanor resolved to qualify herself tor a nurse, and for this went into one of tlie great hospitals for two years, Mrs. Freshtieid going occasionally to the btoonisbury flat to be near her. At the end of the time the flat became Eleanor's home, and her aunt had dropped into the habit of going there lor a lew weeks at a time whenever she felt dull at lvyhoime. She piided herselt on having made some sacrifice to her duty in the matter; but : in her moments ui complete self-frankness , she recognised that the arrangement was a distinctly pleasing one. Eleanor was lather trying to her. Not that anything was ever said or done to annoy her, for the girl was patient, grateful, and full of affection and caie; but tnere was a restraint. They looked at lite so differently ; their perceptions and recognition of moral duty were so wide asunder ! that complete harmony was impracticable. Mrs. I'lesnfield's leading thought was to ! get the best out of life for herself, and leave the rest for other people ; and Eleanor would always think of others before herself. Unconsciously, the aunt felt herself refraining from doing things when with Eleanor in which she took keen pleasure when they were apart. She was intensely conscious of Eleanor's purity of motive, and admired her staunchness, but she did not adopt her way of life.

"The child finds happiness in things that bore mo to death,'' she thought ; and gradually she became reluctant to do certain things and not to do others from a desire not, to hurt Eleanor's feelings. "So the best tiling is for us not to be together too much," and she appeased the slightlydisturbed voice, of her conscience by giving Eleanor plenty of money to help her work. Eleanor quite understood the position and acquiesced in it. The breaking of her engagement with Sir Ughtred Gorham had for the first time made her conscious of her own strength. It had been a searching ordeal ; and the sacrifice of happiness had left her in a measure proud of her selfstrength. She had, in fact, been led to place rather too much store upon it ; and the great cross of her life had tended to develop a too ready belief in the Tightness of self-denial for mere self-denial's sake. And the first few months after leaving Alderbury had been a period of a too rigidly strenuous and ascetic manner of life.

This had carried her through the later phases of the straggle which Sir Ughtred had made to induce her to change her decision. For a year he had persisted ; and all about her, .Sirs. Fairfield included, had joined in the attempt to persuade her. She had refused steadfastly, however, and at the end of the year Sir Ughtred had accepted the refusal as filial, and had gone abroad.

The next news of him came two years later, when she had been a year in active work in London. He had returned, and, to the surprise of everyone, had brought home a wife. His marriage had in some way confirmed Eleanor in the opinion that she had done right, and had eased the one aim that had lingered. "If he could forget so soon and marry the blow cannot have been very hard for him.'' was her first thought, killing the lingering doubt that, she had ruined Ids life.

But the old regret slipped back for a time into its place of predominating sorrow. And. by a coincidence, tin occasion arose to reveal tie- strength of the old feelings.

Soon after Sir hired's marriage Mr. Mordaunt asked her again to marry him. She refused, gently, of course, for she had to inflict pain : but when she was alone she surprised herself by finding that the vehemence' of her feeling was due to the thought that it. would he treachery to the old love-pledge to Sir Uglified. And this in the end brought about quite a revulsion of feeling. If it was wrong 10 marry'Ughlred it was wrong to continue to love him ; more than wrong, it was wicked, because he had now a wife. It was. moreover, weakness—the quality winch of ::!! others she despised— and strength, honour, and duty all agreed to urge her to put all thoughts of him out of her life and heart.

A curious sense began to shape itself iu her mindthai, after all, she was not intended to remain unmarried. Mr. Mordaunt had pleaded his cause mote on the ground of the good work they could do together as man and wife than on that of his affection for her; and. having sown the s>eed. he very skilfully let her see from time to time in her work th.it this was true. Thus, by imperceptible degrees, the idea of marriage came within the range of possibilities.

While this change was making its slow. laborious progress many things occurred to interfere with if and to affect her. She was to be constantly reminded of Sir Ughtred. and always with some disquieting; results to herself. His marriage proved a very unhappy one. His wife was a vain, feeble, excitable, neurotic woman, who gave herself airs, ami offended everyone at Aldei'burv. until she was left almost alone.

"She's a. most detestable voting woman, Eleanor, slid Mrs. Frcshlield once. " How a man like Sir Uglified can ever have married her passes my understanding. She's vain: .-lie's vulgar; she doesn't, understand I lie common decencies of behaviour; she has no resources, no conversation, and absolutely no tact. She passes her life chiefly lolling on a. sofa, reading the most, trashy novels and novelettes ; and when she isn't reading trash she's painting her face or trying on a new frock. And she has the most execrable taste in dress you ever saw."

The picture remained in Eleanor's memory, and the thought that Ughtred should have to pass through life with such a. companion loomed in her thoughts like a tragedy. Whiffs of ''-he iinhappiness tit Gorham Towers constantly came with Mrs. Freshfield from Alderbury in the story of some fresh enormity, some additional offence, some half-disreputable act, on the part of Sir Ughtred's wife, until the truth began to be known, and Mrs. Freshtield came up full of it.

Lady Uorham drank—had been seen half intoxicated bv some callers.

Eleanor's heart bled at the news, and in telling her Mr-. Freshfield had unintentionally fired a train of very disturbing thoughts. " It was a pity you couldn't marry him, Eleanor, to have saved biro from this," she said, thinking of Eleanor's part in the matter; but the words, lightly spoken, went right home at once. They were true. She would have saved him from this. She was thus, indirectly, the cause of all the misery.

This had happened only a month or two before the scene by little Orpheo's bedside, and the scalding thought was often in Eleanor's mind. It was there as she walked home, interwoven with the other thoughts upon the day's events—the painful some at Batista's, with its suggestion of danger and all that might lie beneath the. surface there ;' the vague threat of that strange Italan, Breschia ; the. unwelcome and jarring quarrel by the sick child's bed : the conversation with Dr. Ferguson, himself an unbeliever and yet doing such noble, self-sacrificing work." in the face of an apparently full belief in its hopelessness Was it all as hopeless as he said? She had been three years at work in flic parish : he had been, as he said, fifteen. He admitted failure. Could she claim to have succeeded? She had made what to her had seemed a supreme sacrifice, and, for one thing, had plunged Ughtred into audi

an abyss of misery. While for herself— and she sighed as she thought of how little real good she appeared to have done. Individual effort was surely insignificant. It was like a man plunging out his hands to stay the oncoming of a cloud of steam ; the only result seemed to be that he scalded his arms for his trouble.

"I think I must be tired or run down, for I certainly am in a most gloomy mood of depression," she said to herself as she mounted the stairs to her Hat.

'*>o one been, I suppose, Martha':" she asked her maid. " I'm hopelessly late lor dinner, but I was kept, and 1 think I'm very hungrv."

"You look very tired and worried, sure- ! ly, miss." was the reply. Martha had | changed considerably since that day at Al- i derbury when Eleanor had rescued her child from under the horses' feet. Both husband I and child were dead, and she had become an invaluable and faithful servant. "I wish you'd have something to cat at once. There's a lady waiting to see you. She's been twice: but have something before you see her. You look quite taint.' "What is her name'.' Do you know her?" " No, miss, and hhe didn't give a name." Wondering who the visitor could be, Eleanor made great haste with her dinner, eating by no means enough to satisfy Martha, whose vigilant eyes watched her closely. She loved Eleanor with a deep love born of a gratitude that could never die. " It you don't eat more, miss, you'H never keep up," she said. "I have done very well, Martha, but I tind I'm not so hungry as I thought. I have had rather a tiring morning." "You've gone without food too long, miss,'' said the woman, practically. "But you won't be going out again? You're not strong enough to work double shifts." j "I'm v.v- '.veil. Mart- a. ■-ah Kli-anor, | smiling. "Very well, and so "I ought to be with you to look alter me a- you do. But I I must hurry now. My visitor may be im- '< patient. Some talc of trouble waiting to be told." "It couldn't be told to a kinder heart, miss,' said Martha, uuickly aid earnestly. "But the lady didn't look like that." " \\ ell, I'll go and see ; and if I ring you'll know it will be for some tea." As she entered the drawing-room her visitor turned quickly, with a look of somewhat eager expectation on her face, which changed and faded almost instantly. A rapid glance enabled Eleanor to form one of Iter prompt and almost intuitive judgments. Rich. Ele.mor could tell that by her dress; care.ess, by her manner of wearing her clothes; restless and impatient, by the twisted tassel* of the sunshade; bad taste and loud, by the crude and ill-assorted colourings: delicate, ill, indeed, by the drawn face, unduly bright eyes, and blue-shadow-ed eye-sockets; fretful, by the down curl of the lips; vain, by the rouge and powder on the face ; worldly, by the parade of too much jewt..ery; shallow and weak, the face said this plainly, and the whole bearing confirmed it. Yet she had come on her own affairs, for the glance of eager expectation spoke of personal interest.

" You wish to see me?" " No. I wish to see Miss Temple—Eleanor Temple." "I am Eleanor Temple." "You!" 'there was no mistaking the sincerity of the surprise. "1 thought you—" "This is my uniform," said Eleanor, when the other stopped, glancing at the costume. "I am a nurse, you know."

" That's just what 1 didn't know." The answer was given with a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. " But I do wish to see you. Do (you know me— I am, I mean?"

" No, I have never seen you before."

"And probably won't care about it when you do know." The tone was flippant, fretful, wilful, ami, a.* Eleanor thought, antagonistic. "Can I be of any service to you?" " 1 wanted to see you, that's all," and a shade of deliance was in the glance with which she, eyed Eleanor from head to foot. "No, that's a lie, it isn't all. 1 want to know if it's true that you were once engaged to Sir Ughtred Oorham, of Alderbury, and if he loved you." Eleanor started at the unexpected question, and her hands clenched suddenly, but .vhe answered quite calmly : "Really, 1 was. not expecting this. I thought you might be someone desiring to see me in connection with my work here. Excuse me, if 1 decline to discuss any matters of such a personal character with a stranger."

l, Just a.-* you like." Her visitor rose and laughed again, still regarding Eleanor contemptuously. There was a moment of silence and then a sudden change came in her manner. She grew vehement and excited. " No. it. is not as you like. You shall answer me. I will know it. I have a right. lam Lady Gorham. Now answer." •" l*g red's wife!" exclaimed Eleanor, tin own off her guard by surprise ami dismay. "Yes, Ughlred's wife." repeated Lady Gorham, copying the phrase and mimicking the manner, but emphasising the name. " Now perhaps you'll answer." and .she threw her head back and stared at Eleanor with unmistakable hostility and defiance.

•To he continued on Wednesday next.)