FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1200, 1 March 1895, Page 9

FICTION.

"A LOST WIFE,"

BY MRS LOVETT CAMERON, AUTHOR OF 'IN A GRASS COUNTRY/ ' A DEVOUT LOVER/ * DECEIVERS EVER/ ' THIS WICKED WORLD/ &C, &C. (Continued.) CHAPTER XV. FLIGHT. ' Have you forgot all sense of place and duty ?' —Shakespeare. I never quite knew how it came about, or why I did it, nor what were the immediate influences which drove me to commit the wildest, maddest, most indefensible action of my life. It was a week before my wedding day. I was sitting up very late at night alone in my little room. The window was uncurtained, the moonlight shone in and lay in a cold, pale stream across 1 the shabbily-carpeted floor. I leant my arms upon the windowsill, and my chin upon my hands, and looked out. : The apple trees in the orchard below were all in a dense, dark mass of shadow, save where the moonlight had here and there caught and silvered their topmost branches; the valley beyond was filled with a hazy light; the background of hills was shadowy and indistinct; on]y the great chalk pit shone out in tbe distance, white and gleaming against the grey hill in which it was imbedded I was thinking of nothing in particular. 1 felt only a weary sense of isolation and hopelessness, like one who, tired of struggling ao-ainst the strong tide of a stream, lets himself glide on in the eddying waters, careless of where they may carry him. ■ . There was an absolute silence in the air; not a breath of wind ruffled the trees ; not a living creature stirred upon the earth; not a stick or a leaf dropped to the ground in the dark garden below. Suddenly from afar, across the valley, came the long, faint sound of a railway whistle. I listened to it heedlessly, idly, as one listens who hears not, until it died away. And then all at once, like a flash of lightning before my eyes, like a. thunderclap into my heart, came a thought, a word— escape! Why should I not go while it was yet time ? What a fool I was to sit still and await my destruction, when flight, and liberty, and perhaps even happiness was still within my reach. _ . v • Where was Bella's letter ? What had she said about lending me her house ? With trembling hands I flew to my dressing table, and struck a match, and then ransacked tne draw of my little writing-table until I found

She had told me to go up to her house if I wanted to ; make use of it. Evidently hor servants were there. She had said how gladly she would have had me for her companion abroad, and I knew her well enough to feel sure that those were no idle words. Bella loved me dearly; she would give a good deal to save me from a marriage to which she had always,strongly objected. _ She was now no further off than Paris. Iwould go to her ; it would be easy for me to follow her there". I would go up to her house in Chester Square, telegraph to her from there, and start as soon as. possible. Only what 1 had to do must be done at once—at once. If I Waited till the morning my courage would fail,'and another day would be wasted ; besides the opportunity to escape would perhaps be wanting. ■■ In a few moments my plans were matured. I glanced at the clock, it was twenty minutes past twelve, and the express was due at Nar borough; at five minutes after two. K arbbrough was five miles off, but I was a good had been there on foot once before. It would, take me a good hour-and-a-half to get there'. I had no time to lose. I thrust a few necessaries hastily into my travelling bag, and a five pound note, a present from my aunt, into my purse, dressed myself hurriedly in a dark woollen dress and jacket, and'tied a black veil over my hat. And then I sat down to perform the hardest task of all. Drawing-my writing-case towards me, I wrote, with a trembling hand : , ' 'Dearest Father, —Do not be angry with me..' Tcannot marry Mr Curtis. I have gone up to London to Bella Thistleby's house for a day; and then I shall join her in Paris. You would not like me to be miserable, dear papa ; and I should be if I married Mr Curtis, for, good.as he is, Ido not love him. I will write to him from Paris. Ask him to forgive me. Dear papa, don't be anxious about me, I will come back in a few weeks.—Your unhappy child, Freda.' Then, like a guilty creature, I put out my candle and crept out into the darkened, silent house. How the stairs creaked under my descending footsteps ! I stopped and shivered; hardly daring to breathe, as I passed my aunt's door. Half-way down, oh a little square landing, was the door of my father's 1 room. Softly I turned the handle, and stepped into the room. I do not know what made me go in. I might have left the note in his study ; but a certain remorse for the sorrow I was about to bring upon him stung my heart. I must see the old man onoe more before I went.

The "moonlight shone in across the narrow, iron bedstead, my father lay still in deep, untroubled slumber. I stooped down over him, and fancied as I did so that he looked strangely grey and aged to-night. As I noted the worn lines round Lis mouth, the angular outline of his pale old face, the thin grey hairs Scattered over his pillow, my heart almost misgave me at leaving him so selfishly ; but as in a moment of doubt, I stooped down and kissed him softly, the clock below in the hall struck half-past twelve. ''■.! Five minutes more and I should lose the train —my opportunity would be lost, probably for ever. I steeled my heart, and turned swiftly from the room. The front door was locked and barred; but many a summer's night in the years of my childhood had I crept out of the study window on apple'depredations intent. I had not forgotten the way to softly unbar the shutter and to creep out through the French window. Five minutes later I was outside, flying across the silent garden and through the shadowy orchard, undiscovered and safe. I was in the open meadows; a rapid scramble across a wet ditchland a gap in the hedge and I was landed in the high road, speeding along as fast as my swift footsteps could bear me, alone in the silence of the night. .1 was very tired before I got to Narborough —very-tired and footsore. Once I nearly gave 'in and turned back, so appalling was the lone darkness of the way, and so muddy was the road along which my tired steps plodded endlessly. % It seemed as if I should never get there—as if it must be ten miles instead of ,five, and then if I were to miss the train, if I reached the station just too late, and had to come all the way back, if so, I knew I should never go through it all again! I should sit

down and accept my fate, and marry Mr Curtis decorously that day week, and be miserable ever after.

No ; if I did not fly to-night I should never fly at all. And the bare thought of having to trudge all that weary way back again made me hurry on breathlessly, till at last the madness of the deed I was doing was lost in the . sheer terror of b6ing too late for the train. j The station was nearly deserted when at last, panting and weary, I reached its friendly lights. There seemed to be no passengers on the platform, only one sleepy porter, who stared at me very hard as I went into the booking office to take my ticket. I 'London, Miss? Any luggage ?' he said, peering rather curiously at mo. I drew my veil;down lower over my face as I muttered an unintelligible reply. Presently the white lights of the engine gleamed out in the distance, and the train rushed into the station. I jumped into it unnoticed in tho confusion of its arrival, and in five minutes more the deed was done, and I was borne swiftly away into the darkness of the night. ' I shall never forget the misery of that journey. In order to economise my slender means, I had taken a third-class ticket. A | working man in a fustian jacket, and a woman ; with a crying baby and a big checked bundle were my fellow-traveilers. The man was unwashed and unkempt, and smelt of bad tobacco. Tho woman kept drinking every five minutes out of a black bottle which she carried in a basket, and which omitted a suspicious odour of gin. i Sickened and disgusted, I turned my face resolutely out of the open window, and tried to inhale the sweet night scents of the woodland country through which the train was rushing, till at last, wearied out with conflicting emotions, I sank back into my corner and slept. When I awoke it was five o'clock, and the train was steaming Into Euston Station. There was not a cab to be seen : so weary and footsore as I' was already, with n?y long walk into Narborough, I was, perforce, obliged to go forth on foot towards Bella's house in Chester Square. When I got there a fresh disappointment awaited me. I could not rouse any one in the house. In vain I rang and rang violently first at one bell and then at the other. I heard the loud clanging through the silence of the morning, but no one from within answered my summons. Then I recollected that as Bella was abroad, the house was in all probability left under the care of one servant, and that she most likely slept in the attics, and could not hear my frantic peals at the hall bell, more especially if her bedroom was at the back of the house.

As I stood thus, shivering and nearly worn out with fatigue, with hot tears of disappointment and misery welling up into my eyes, a policeman came up behind me, and asked me, somewhat suspiciously, what I was about. I hailed his appearance with positive rapture, and turned to him eagerly. ' Oh ! do help me!' I cried, piteously, clasping my hands together. ' How can I get into this house ? I can't wake anybody up.' The man eyed me narrowly. I think he was debating in his own mind whether a woman found alone at five o'clock in the morning, ringing at a house door, should not, by every known rule of his order, be described as "drunk and disorderly," and be dealt with accordingly. But I suppose something in my dress*and voice must have shown him that I was a lady, for, after a minute's hesitation, he answered me quite civiliy : ' You'll not be likely to find anybody awake, miss, for the next two hours. You had best go to .an hotel and wait.' ' But I don't know where to go. Can you tell me P'l said, despairingly. ' Well, miss, I do know a respectable little family hotel in the Strand, as is very likely to be open at this hour. Should I walk with you to a cab, miss, and give you the address ?' I jumped at the offer with alacrity, and presently we actually did find a cab, and I parted from the friendly policeman with exaggerated expressions of gratitude, which were not, however, a whit too strong for what I felt for him at that moment.

The ' little family hotel' turned out to be a small inn, of a very dingy description. A sleepy waiter admitted me, and showed me into a cheerless little sitting-room, where, however, I was thankful to throw myself upon the hard horse-hair sofa, upon which I soon fell into an uneasy slumber.

CHAPTER XVI. ' WHY ARE YOU NOT GLAD ?'. ' Could it bo so, my heart stood still, Yet he was by my side. I strove ;• but my despair was vain, "Vain, too, was love and pride.' —A. A. Procter. 1 was roused by the sunshine coming in through the uncurtained window, and by the entrance of the same waiter who had shown, me into the room, and who now came to ask me if I would take any breakfast. I ordered something to eat, and then mechanically opened my travelling bag and sought my purse. Imagine my horror when it was nowhere to be found ! I turned out all the contents of my bag- upon the floor, and emptied my pockets. All in vain ! My purse was gone! I had had a few shillings loose in a small inner pocket of my jacket, out of which I had paid the cabman; of this there remained to me four shillings and sixpence—not a farthing more. How I had lost my purse I could not imagine; although I remembered now having opened my bag whilst in the train, and possibly my travelling companions, tho dirty looking' man and the woman with the gin bottle, had abstracted it whilst I slept. What was to be done? I knew that four-and-six would probably not even pay for the wretched room I was in and for the simple breakfast I had ordered. I sank down upon tho sofa in perfect despair, and then all at once I thought of what I would do.

I would send for Captain Thistleby. Even as I made the resolve I blushed hotly at my own boldness. But, after all, what else could I do ? Had he not said that he would help me and be my friend always, and to whom else could I turn in my need ? I started up and rang the bell. ' Can you send out a telegram for me P' I asked of the man who answered my summons. ' Yes, ma'am, I will take it at once for you.' ' I am expecting a friend from Hounslow ; can I stay here, in this room, until he comes?' ' Certainly, ma'am.' The waiter got me a telegraph form, and I sat down and wrote : 'lam in great trouble and distress. Will you come to me at once ? Freda.' Having despatched the telegram, I felt that a weight was taken off my mind, and I sat down with some amount of appetite to eat my modest and not over tempting-looking breakfast.

I It was twelve o'clock before any answer came to my summons ! but when at last, sick with anxiety and suspense, I watched a hansom dash suddenly up to the door, my spirits rose at once, for my lover was inside it. ' Freda ! what is the matter? Good heavens! what brings you here in this wretched place ?' he cried, as he entered. He looked pale and agitated, as if my telegram had thoroughly frightened him, as, indeed, I believe it; had. For all answer, I dropped my head down upon the table in front of me, and burst into tears. Mark Thistleby stood by, looking the picture of misery and distress. He was very honourable was my handsome lover. He did not move a step nearer to me, or call me by any loving words, or attempt to comfort me in any way. I daresay he was longing, poor fellow, to take me in his strong arms, and to pillow my poor little sobbing frame against his breast. But he did not forget that, in less than a week, I was to be the wife of another man, and that it was too late for any demonstrative expressions of sympathy. He simply stood there, opposite me, with the j whole width of the table between us, and I looked indefinitely distressed and miserable. I * What can Ido for you ?' he said, pite- : ously ; ' for God's sake, tell mo what is the matter ?' And then I looked up through my tears, and smiled at him. ' lam very stupid, am I not, to cry like a baby ? It is only because lam tired and worn out, and because —oh! I am so glad to see you ! Nothing very dreadful has happened. I am only like the naughty boys in story books. I have run away from home, and I have lost my purse, and haven't got any money, and that is. why I have sent for you. Uather prosaic, isn't it?' ' You have run away from home !' he rei peated, looking at me with a sort of dismay. I ' And —and'your marriage P —Mr Curtis ?' 'I am not going to be married. I will never marry Mr Curtis !' I cry passionately. 'I am going to Paris to join Bella.' Oh ! why does he not look glad ? Why does he not cry ' Thank God !' and reach out his arms to me—the dear arms in which I long to take shelter ? With a mute dismay I look at him and see no joy, no gladness in his face ; only a pale, miserable face, and sad aching eyes, that look at me. with an ever-increasing despair. ' You have broken off your engagement, you mean ?' he says, with a sort of dull bewilderment in his voice. ' How foolish of you. What has induced you to do so ? Why have you done it ?' 'Why!' I cried passionately and angrily, for I could not understand his apathy and coldness —' Why! How can you ask me ? How could I marry the man ? You know I did not love him. Oh ! how cruel you are. You know, you must know, why I cannot marry him !'

I wrung my hands passionately together, and turned away from him to hide my crimson face. i

'ls it for me, Freda, that you have given him up ?' His voice was low and suppressed, and shook with emotion. 'Yes, for you!' I answered, wildly and •bitterly ; ' and you do not seem to care !' ' Not care! Oh, my God !' The words were wx'ung from him with a groan. I turned quickly towards him, and saw that he was deadly pale, and could hardly speak. I came close to him in wonder, and laid my hand upon his. ' Tell me why you are not glad P Am I not free now, and do you not love me ?' '.Oh, child—child !' he cried, bitterly, ' I did not know my selfishness had done you so cruel a wrong,,! I did not think that you loved me ;so much ! . I thought that I alone should have to suffer for my weakness and my wickedness. And now, how can I ever atone for the misery I have brought upon you ?' ' Misery ?' I echoed, trembling and terrified I hardly knew why. ' What do you mean P I have been miserable indeed, because I had not the courage to break off my engagement ; Jbecause I was base enough to think of the good things of this world, • and mean enough to shrink from giving them up for my love's sake. But since I have known that you lo\e me, sweetheart, since your own dear lips told me so, do you suppose that I have been happy day or night away from you P And your love has given me courage, Mark, for I am a sad coward. Had I not fled in the night like this from home, t don't think I should ever have been brave enough to break it all off; but now it is done. I have written to papa. I shall go to Bella and stay with her a few months, and when we meet again, Mark, you will know that I am a free woman.' My lover took my hands —the hands I had laid upon his—and pressed them passionately to his lips. ' Hush !' he said, in a hoarse, choked voice, 'do not torture me. Oh !my darling, how am Ito tell you ? Did you not guess it when we parted with such agony under ihe apple trees P Did you not see that I meant to say to you, "We must say farewell for ever; marry your rich roan who will be good to you; make yourself happy with him, and forget me?" Did you not see that it was eternal parting between us ? Do you suppose, love, that your engagement to a man you did not love was all that stood between us P Did you think that so frail a barrier would have kept me from you, bo slender a chain not have been easily snapped P Oh, my love, what does your being free or bound matter, since that which stands irrevocably between us—stands there still like the angel with the flaming sword to keep us from our paradise P Oh, Freda, my love, my darling, you may be freo ; but I am bound, helplessly and hopelessly.' Whilst he spoke, a terrible presentiment of untold evil came upon me. My knees trembled, my heart turned sick and cold within me. 'Tell me, for Heaven's sake, what you mean?' I faltered. ' I am married.' The dingy room, the windows, the horsehair chairs and sofa, the common-looking prints upon the walls, the dusty gas chandelier overhead, all swam and danced for one minute in wild confusion before my eyes, and then I sank down huddled up upon the floor with my head prone upon the faded carpet and remembered nothing more. (To be continued.)