FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1202, 15 March 1895, Page 9

FICTION.

“A LOST WIFE,” 1 //.■■■: //■ BY I s MRS LOVETT CAMERON, AUTHOR OF ‘IN A GRASS COUNTRY/ ‘A DEVOUT LOVER/ ‘ DECEIVERS EVER/ ‘ THIS WICKED WORLD/ &C., &C. , (Continued.) ; CHAPTER XIX. AN ATTACK FROM THE ENEMY. ‘ For mafice will with joy the lie receive, Report, and what it wishes true, believe.’ ••(■/: ... . - ■ —Jalden. My father was dead. He had died an hour before I caine home, leaving me for ever unblest and unforgiven ! It was as I had feared ; he had risen in the morning, and had found my : note upon his dressing-table. Aunt Selina, whose room was next to his, had been frightened by hearing a sudden, heavy sound, as of someone falling. She had rushed in and found liim lying senseless upon the floor, and. mv note open upon the table. It was' in vain for the doctor to assure me that there/had .been a strong tendency to a seizure of the kind for many months past; H and that he had known for long that such an attack must; in all jmobability, carry him off. I took these assurances as well-meant offorts on his part to console and comfort me in my despair. They did not console me in the very least. ■ In, my own. eyes I was guilty of my father’s death, and I felt that to my dying day I should never be able to hold myself blameless of being the cause of his sudden and fatal'attack. /■// And now it was a week ago, and the first agony of iny grief and remorse had somewhat abated. It was the day after the funeral, and everybody knew that my father had sunk all his slender capital in an annuity, and that, probably, because he believed me to be fully and abundantly provided for by my marriage with Mr Curtis ; there was absolutely nothing, beyond the old books and the shabby furniture of the cottage, left for my support. I was penniless, -*■ Aunt Selina and I, in our new crape, were sitting somewhat disconsolately together in the diiiing-room after breakfast. • ‘lt is'.singular that Mr Curtis has not yet been to: see .you, Freda/ observed my aunt. 4 I should think he is sure to come to-day.’ I. thought it was singular, too, for I knew he had attended my father’s funeral, and I was sure that he could not have known of my letter and of my intention of breaking ' off my engagement. ‘ Yes'//! answered, ‘ I wish he would come. I think I will send up Daniel to Eddington with a note.’ ‘ Yes; do, my dear.’ • I’wrote the note, merely-requesting him to ;come and spoak tome to-day, rang the bell and sent it off. /. 4 I want to toll him about breaking off my . engagement, aunt/ I said, when the servant hadfleft the room. Aunt 'Selina turned upon me with consternation. . ‘ Freda, it is impossible that you can be such a fool!’ she exclaimed, in dismay.

■ ‘ How so, aunt ?’ : 4 You' are never going to do such a mad . thing as to break off your engagement now—- \ now thftt you are left utterly unprovided .• for?'. ; . ; ‘lsit likely, aurit/that I should have gone away to London and written as I did to poor papa, if I.had not meant to do it? And you cannot' supposo tbat I should be so base as to ignore all that has happened, and go, back to him/just because I am very poor?’ I added, indignantly.'- -A* '"A ; 4 But;- ho knows nothing about it—absolutely nothing !-’ cried my aunt, throwing ,up V her hands.in despair. ‘I took possession of your foolish note instantly and burnt it. No one had Seen it but your poor dear father and one knows what made you rush off in that insane way. One can easily make up some plausible reason to tell the servants. Let us say that it was business, that some friend V* l3 taken ill —anything will: do to put off questions and surmises. Mr Curtis need never knoyr anything about it. For heaven’s sake/ Freda’, don’t bo such an idiot as to tell him !/ . if you are not romantically in lovei with him/he will give you a wealthy home—and you have nothing but starvation or hard work to look to elsewhere. Do not fly in the face of Providence, my dear. lam sure it. is bad enough that the wedding will have to: bo put off six months at least; it wouldn’t be decent before, but you can stay with'me till then, though I am sure this sad death is a sore trial for me,’ and the good lady began whimperingly to wipe her eyes; 4 and all the breakfast from G-unter’s that was to haVe come down had to be counter-ordered and all.: Oh, dear —oh, dear!’ and Aunt Selina dissolved into downright sobs —less

over her brother-in-law’s death, I fear, than over the collapse of the wedding 1 festivities and the breakfast from Gunter’s, in which she had-taken so lively an interest. ‘I must do what I think right,’ was my only answer, with, I fear, a hardening of the heart towards my relative's outburst of grief. ‘ You are an ungrateful, undutiful, headstrongs girl;!’ gasped Aunt Selina, between her sobs ; ; and then she fled from the room, slampiing th% door behind her with some show of temper. I was left alone, gazing disconsolately out of the window. I was too filled with my own many Very' serious sorrows and anxieties .to have'ihuch sympathy with my aunt’s fictitious and imaginary grievances. ’ ‘ By-and-by the messenger returned from . Eddington.: He brought no note in answer , to mine, only a message. Mr Curtis had left Eddington last night; bulsMrs Feather stone would do herself the honour of calling upon me during the course of the afternoon. ' Mrs Feather stone! what had she to do with ' it I wondered ?. Suddenly I recollected how Captain Thistleby had seen her pass by in her victoria as -we were coming out of the hotel in the Strand! Of course she had seen us; and equally,, of course, she had seized upon ,Vhe ihciilent, eagerly, to do me an evil turn with her. brother. - might have saved herself the trouble of slandering me, had she known how deter- ' mined I was to break off my engagement with him..- But she.did not know it, and she was probably now gloating over the chance that had placed mo thus at her mercy. I augured no good from her proposed visit to me, and I confees.tlfat I looked forward to it with a good deal of trepidation. About three o’clock the Eddington carriage drove up to.the door, and my unwelcome guest alighted from it. Mrs Featherstone sailed in, attired, as usual,- in .brilliant raiment. The*-e was a prevalence of blue and scarlet in her dress, which reminded me forcibly of the colouring of a cockatoo,. She made me a cold bow, and

sat down at some distance from me. I saw at once by her bent brows and pinched lips that it was to be war to the death between us. I accepted the position at once, and took the initiative.

; 4 To what am I indebted for the honour of this most unexpected visit, Mrs Featherstone ? I had wished to see your brother.’ 4 Mr Curtis has gone to town.’ ‘And in his absence I do not see that anyone else can fill his place/ I answered. 4 In his absence, Miss Clifford, I bring you a message from him. I have n© doubt that my visit is unwelcome, and I assure you it is a most painful one to myself but I have never yet been known to shrink from a duty, however unpleasant ’ “Pray deliver your message, Mrs Featherstone,’ I interrupted, impatiently, 4 and spare me a description of your own sensations.’ MrsFeatherstone bowed. ‘My message,’ she said, with a scarcelyconcealed triumph of manner, 1 is that under the circumstances of your extraordinary visit to London, it will bo quite impossible for my brother to fulfil t he matrimonial engagerrient which existed previously between yourself and him.’ ' Under what circumstances, pray ?’. I cried, flushing up hotly and angrily—a display of weakness of which my adversary was not slow to take advantage. 4 Pray calm yourself, Miss Clifford. Temper and angry denials are alike misplaced and useless in this case. The facts, unfortunately, are but too certain, and tell too strongly against you.’ ‘I am at a loss to understand you,’l said, falteringly, and feeling suddenly sick at heart; for I remembered how Mark had said that Clara Featherstone had a venomous tongue, and would do me an injury if she could. ‘I will explain myself, then,’ she said, glibly, and with a growing' satisfaction an voice and manner —‘ I will explain my meaning beyond a possibility of your mistaking it. I saw you, Miss Clifford, coming out of a lowlooking inn near the Strand, at an eaidy hour in the morning, in the company df : Captain Thistleby, a man of profligate and dissipated reputation.’ v- A ‘lndeed? I imagined him to be a great friend of your own, Mrs Featherstone/ I interrupted, quickly; for, like a watchful adversary, I was not slow to take advantage of the weak points of my enemy’s method of attack//

Mrs Featherstone waved off my remark with disdain. • There are many -men. Miss Clifford, with whom a lady may claim. acquaintance in society, but with whom, nevertheless, she would be very sorry to be seen walking About the streets' of London alone ? But that has nothing to $o with the point. Suffice it to say that/ you were along with Captain •Thistleby'; that I saw j r ou get into a cab, and drive off—l should be sorry to say where—and that I then turned back and made inquiries at the wretched-looking inn out of which you had come. I found that, as I had but too much reason to suspect,' you had been closeted with a gentleman for some hours in a private sitting-room. I need not tell you how shocked and horrified my whole moral nature was at such a fearful revelation of wickedness ! My duty, however painful ’it . might be to perform, was now plain to me. I took the evening train to Narborough, and laid the whole case before my unhappy brother. lam thankful to say that, under Heaven, I have been the instrument of saving him from cherishing a viper in his bosopi. When, at my entreaties, he consented to make inquiries, and found that you had been missing from home the night before the morning I had seen you in town, he was forced to acknowledge, with me, that nothing was wanting in the complete chain of evidence which proved yotfr utter condemnation/ He has only stayed to follow your poor fatherAp the grave, as a mark of respect for his long friendship and esteem for him, and he left Eddington last night, and does not mean to return to it’for a long time. I think I have said quite enough upon this subject, Miss Clifford.’ ,

‘ Quite enough—too much, indeed, Mm Featherstone,’ I answered. ‘ I have heard you to the end without interruption,, and I may say that, although my conduct,/can be perfectly well accounted for, I disdain to make any explanation of it to you. I should, however, wish you to know that I have had no intention of marrying your brother for some time, back,; that on going up to London somewhat suddenly, I left a letter for my poor father telling him of my intention—that I went to join Mrs Thistleby in Paris, and should have been under her protection now, had not my father’s sad death recalled me ; and finally, that I sent for Mr Gurtis tc.-day in order to tell him that I wished to break off my engagement with him.’ ‘ That is easily said,’ said my enemy, scoffingly. * As if anyone would believe all that when you are left without a penny !’,. ‘ You need not add insult to injury, Mrs Featherstone.’ ‘ I shall wish you good morning, Miss Clifford,’ she answered, rising, to my no small relief. ‘And I may also add another wish for your benefit: that you may be given the grace of repentance !’ And then my temper forsook me utterly. I turned upon her white and trembling, and absolutely furious. ‘ Who are you,’ I exclaimed, ‘ who dare to talk to me of repentance? Go home, woman, and ask God, upon your knees, to foi’give you. For if malice, and hatred, and evil-speaking, and slandering, and traducing your neighbour be sins, then do you most assuredly stand in need of repentance and forgiveness! You that are rejoicing to yourself, because you think that you have encompassed the ruin of an unfortunate girl, whose only crime is that hitherto she has been successful and happy ; go home and pray that you may never, in your turn, find yourself at the mercy of a hardhearted and pitiless fellow-creature !’ And then Mrs Featherstone passed out of the room, and answered me never a word as she went. CHAPTER XX. CHARLEY FLOWER TO THE RESCUE. ‘ Nothing of farewell I uttered, Save in broken words to pray That God would ever guard and bless her — Then in silence passed away.’ —A. A. Procier. It was the day before my final departure from Slopperton. My aunt had already gone home, and the following morning I was to go up to her house in London, where she and Mr Carr had offered me a shelter until I could find something to do. ' ' ! 1 Something to do ’ meant in my case going out as a governess, or as a companion; or as a pupil teacher in a school —earning < my living, in short, by any of the dismal and uninviting methods in which alone it has been decreed J that a lady may do so and retain'her claim to i the name. I had secretly determined to go 1

out as a housemaid,- or as a charwoman, sooner than live for long upon the bread of charity. Mr and Mrs Carr were rich and childless, but it had not occurred to the worthy couple to offer me a permanent home. Aunt Selina was a fair-weather friend : as long as fortune smiled upon her relatives she was filled with gushing and affectionate interest in them ; but no sooner did the world turn its back upon them, and adversity and poverty come to them, than she drew in the strings of her heart and of her purse simultaneously, and wasted no more either of her substance or her feelings upon them. She had made a great favour of offering me a ten? por ary home, even ; and had I had anywhere, else to go, I would not have accepted her offer: But- to go to Bella was now forbidden to me. If I were to be with Bella, then Mark would know where I was, and, so knowing, might find me out; and my one hope in life now was that I might never see nor hear of him again. I was determined to become lost for ever to him. Our only safety was in absolute separation from each other. So, with many a pang, I tore up my dear Bella’s loving and kind letters, and left them all unanswered. ' Once I left Slopperton I knew that she would never be able to find me, for she knew neither my aunt’s name nor address.

Well, the last day at Slopperton had come ; there had been a sale of the furniture, and the proceeds had paid off all our little bills, and defrayed the expenses of my mourning, and left me a few pounds to begin my new life with. The house was bare and dismantled ; there were bills up in the windows ; and my solitary box stood ready packed and strapped in the hall. Old Sarah went about weeping, for she too was to depart on the morrow, and begin life afresh. I had dragged a kitchen chair into The dining-room, and was sitting there miserably enough by the dying embers of the fire, pondering over the gloomy prospects of my future life, when a sharp knock at the door aroused me, and, to my amazement, young Charley Flower walked suddenly into the room.

‘Mr Flower!’ I exclaimed, standing up in utter bewilderment at the sight of so unexpected a visitor, ‘what on earth brings you here P >

4 Oh! pray forgive me, Miss Clifford, I couldn’t help coming. I have only just heard of your loss, and that you are turned out of your home and all; and oh!’ —looking suddenly away from me round the bare carpetless, furnitureless room— ‘‘ok! I am so sorry for you.! ’

:« ‘And you came to tell me this?’ I cried, .placing both my hands heartily into his ; 4 just to. tell me you are sorry for me ? How good of yotiy Mr- .. Flower ! Do you know yours is the first’disinterested sympathy in my troubles anybody has' given me yet?’ and the tears so long driven back into my heart welled up suddenly into my eyes. ‘Well, I mustn’t let you think I am quite disinterested, either, Miss Clifford,’ said my visitor, somewhat hesitatingly. 4 The fact is, that—that, Miss Clifford —oh, Freda !’ —suddenly lifting his eyes in honest earnestness to my face—“ surely you must know that 1 love you!’ 4 Oh, I am so sorry !’ I murmured. ‘Why should you be sorry?’ lie cried, eagerly—having once broken the ice, Charley apparently found no difficulty in proceeding — 1 Why are you sorry, if I can make you happy P I have heard that your engagement with Mr Curtis is at- jah end —and no wonder, for you never loved him, I know—and now you arc free, and you are also in trouble, and /have no one belonging to you, and I am pretty well off, Freda, and can afford to give you a comfortable home. I would leave the army; and I know I could make you happy, rif you will let me try ’ '‘‘Stop., stop ! not so fast!’ I cried, interrupting the category of his hopes and intentions ; ‘wait one minute, Mr Flower. If you know that my engagement with Mr Curtis is broken off, you do not perhaps know that there is a dreadful slander about me that—— ’ ■ ‘,Oh! yes, I do,’ he interrupted, quickly; ‘ don’t say anything more about that. I have had a letter from Mrs Featherstone, telling me the whole stofy at great length ’ ‘ bhe wrote to you?’ I exclaimed, in horrorstruck tones. ‘Yes—the she-fiend!’ and Charley Flower ground his teeth vand his fists together as though he would like to murder her. ‘And in the face of her letter you are here asking me to marry you, Mr Flower ?’ ‘Do you suppose I believe one word of what that woman says ? It’s all a tissue of lies from beginning to end. You don’t suppose a Woman like that could make me believe any harm of ! you , do you? And it is just because of her spiteful letter that I come to you now, so soon, without waiting, any longer after your poor father’s death; just because I see how lonely and friendless you must be, darling, to be at,the mercy of that woman’s evil tongue, and how much you need someone to silence all such calumny against you, and to fight your battles for you.’ “ Oh ! Charley, how good you are ! How I wish I could love you as you deserve !’ And then I burst into a flood of tears. In a minute the young fellow was kneeling by my side,' stroking my hands and my hair, and soothing me by every fond and loving word. But I pushed him back firmly but gently. ‘ No, no, Charley,’ I said, through my tears, ‘ I must not let you waste any more love upon me, my poor boy. I don’t know how I can ever thank you and b ess you enough for all your goodness and your love to me. If I had not loved anyone else I must have loved you—-out of sheer gratitude. But alas! lean give you back nothing but tears and blessings —for I have no love to give you—it has all been given away long ago.’ He rose from his kneeling position at my side, and walked two or three times the length of-the room and back before he answered me, and then he stopped suddenly in front of me with a very white face. ‘ Will you tell me the truth about this, Freda ?’ he asked, gently. I nodded. 4 It is Mark Thistleby—the man who was at Eddington the night of the ball —whom you love, is it not P’ ‘ Yes,’ I answered softly under my breath ; whilst a hot blush covered my downcast face, at the thought of how much shame and how little pride there could be for me now in the avowal of my love. There was a little pause, and then Charley spoke again ; this time coldly and sternly : 4 Tell me the truth, then —has he behaved badly, to you ?* Has he treated you like a blackguard ? for by heaven if he has —’ 4 Oh, no, no ! —a thousand times, no ?’ I cried, looking up at him suddenly, as he stood before me, an angry picture of avenging young love. ‘ What can make you think such a thing? He has been everything that is good, to rpe always. He is the noblest of

men; but—but, alas ! we can never be happy. He is in no way to blame ; but ’ And my voice faltered. ‘ Hush, my darling" j say no more. Ho you suppose I want to cross-question you, or to wring your secrets from you ? It is enough that f know that no one has behaved badly to my darling.’ And then he suddenly bent over. me, ana took me in his arms. ‘ I will not bother you any longer,’ he said, somewhat brokenly, f though I love you very dearly, I will never trouble' J&u again; only give me one kiss, before I go, from your sweet lips !’ Hear, noble-hearted Charley Flower ! I think that even Mark would have forgiven me that I granted him his last request; that I put up my arms suddenly round his' neck, and gazed into the honest blue eyes that were dimmed with tears, and put up my face for his parting kiss. ‘ Good-bye,’ he said, huskily, turning away suddenly to the door. ‘lf ever you want a iriend, Freda, do not forget that you have one in me —and God bless you.’ Before I could answer he was gone, and with him seemed to go at once all the sunshine and the light which his unexpected entrance had brought into my lonely and desolate life.

And yet 1 was happier for that visit — happier to think that one more honest heart in this desolate world loved me, and was true to me, that I had known of. Poor Charley Flower ! It was not so very long afterwards that he was drowned in a dreadful collision between two ships in the Channel —bravely devoting his own life to saving those of the perishing women and children about him. When I read of his noble death' in the papers —a hero in his last hours —I wept tears of heartfelt sorrow over his sad yet glorious end, and felt proud to think that such a man had once loved Freda Clifford. (To be continued.)