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New Zealand Mail, Issue 1208, 26 April 1895, Page 7

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"A LOST WIFE," BT MRS LOVETT CAMERON, AUTHOR OP 'IN A dBtAS'S COVXt'tißT,' ' A DEVOUT LOVER,' * DECeWe"R'S E"VEr/ ' THIS WICKED WORLD/ &6.j && (Concluded.) CHAPTER XXXI. REWARDING EVIL WITH GOOD. ' Then gently scan ydUr' brother man, g till gentler'., sister woßtfan * . \ Thoi' they may gang a Rennin wrang% J To step aside is human ! : ' —fitJRNS. I was back again in square', at Aunt Selina's. Uncle Carr sat behind usual,grumbling over some defect in his last night's dinner and ejaculating at intervals the names df some of his favourite dishes. Aunt Selina bustled about the room in her rustling silk dress, with her gauze cap-ribbons fluttering i behind her. I stood at m$ old place by the window and looked out across the Square garden. Save for the fact that its stililted trees and shrubs were r.o longer bare, but were now thickly covered with dusty foliage, it might well be that the past eight months had never been, and that I was still the sad, friendless girl who ha.l wearily paced the dirty London streets day after day, only last November, seeking hopelessly for that hard j and difficult thing to discover—employment for a poor gentlewoman. Indeed, it was sometimes difficult to itnagine that the past was not all a dream ; that the whole of my life at Kaneton Scars, with all iti numberless terrors —poor Ellinor's sad life and sadder death, the return of Mark Thistleby into my existence, and the final clearing away of all that had divided us from each other-*—that all this had roally taken place, and was not a delusive dream of my own imagination. I looked down Instinctively at my left hand, and there was the glittering hoop of diamonds which my lover had placed Upon my finger as we parted, and I saw in it the glad confirmation all my happiness ; for Mark had gone abroad to bring Bella home. It was better, for all reasons, that we should be parted for a little whilo. Bella would come home with him, and I should go to her either in London or at Seacliff; and meanwhile I am at Aunt Selina's.

'Am I to understand, Freda/ says that lady to me, stopping short in her task of moving all the chairs in the room into their stereotyped corners—' am I really to understand thab you are actually engaged to be married ?' ' Yes, aunt; I think there is no doubt about the fact,' I answered, smiling. 'Well, my dear, of course I am delighted to hear it, although you might have consulted me a little sooner, I think—l, who have been like a second mother to you, my love. Of course, I feel a little hurt that you should not have told me anything about this—this Captain Thistleton, I think you said?' ' Thistleby is his name, aunt/ I answered, passing over the ' second motherhood' of the good lady with a smile. I knew my dear aunt so well! As better days and good fortune began to beam upon me once more, so also did Mrs Carr. She was already kind and sympathising ; she waited only to hear the details of my future husband's means and expectations to wax affectionate, and perhaps even rapturously loving, to me, according to what the figure of those means might chance to be.

• I could not tell about it -before, aunt; it is only just settled —and eveu now we do not wish it talked about.'

'Very well, my love ; but tell me all about it now. Come and sit. down.' She drew me down on to a sofa by her side and took hold of my hand, patting it affectionately as she did so. ' Tell me when the wedding is to be, my dear. How glad I am that I have kept that peach-coloured silk till now ! it will come in again so nicely not a bit oldfashioned yet, you know. I was to have worn it at your wedding last October. Ah ! well, I won't say anything about that now.' ' I am afraid, aunt, that if that dress is to be worn at my wedding, you will have to keep it for another year, for I shall not be married sooner than that.'

'Another year!' exclaimed my aunt, in horror. ' What on earth is that for, I should like to know ? What in the world are you going to wait a year for ? I hate your long engagements,' she added, viciously dropping my hand; ' they always mean beggarly incomes and inadequate settlements.' ' Captain Thistleby is certainly not a rich man, aunt,' 1 said, smiling with irritating good temper afc her. ' And you met him at Miss Fairbank's ?' 'Yes, I met him at Kaneton Scars,' I answered. _ Here Uncle Carr, behind us, was overheard muttering affectionate things to himself concerning 'oyster fritters.'

' Oysters ? Rubbish-!' cried my aunt, looking round angrily at him. ' How c xn you have oysters in July ? You must know they are out of season; and pray, Freda,' turning round to me again with ill-concealed bad temper—'pray what do you propose doing with yourself until this wretched match comes off ? Do you mean to honour me with your company for the next year ?' ' Oh, dear, no, aunt! Captain Thistleby's sister-in-law, who is a great friend of mine, will be coming home from abroad in about a fortnight or three weeks. I am going to live with her, but I thought perhaps you would not mind my staying with' you until she returns, as you know you are, as you said just now, a second mother to me,' I said, laughing somewhat maliciously. 4 Hum ! ha ! yes —delighted, I am sure, my dear,' said my aunt, looking slightly disconcerted ; ' but as to that peach-coloured silk — it will'be of no earthly use to keep it for another year; it will look as if it had come out of the Ark by that time. There is Mary Carr's baby going to be baptized next month; she has written to invite me to the christening, so I shall wear it then. What is the good of keeping it any longer ?' ' Well, I think you are quite right, aunt, and it would be too grand a dress for my wedding, for I mean to walk into church in my bonnet and travelling-dress.' My aunt held up her hands in horror. ' It is downright wickedness, Freda, that is what it is, to treat holy matrimony the way you do and to throw discredit on the marriage service. I always hoped you were a good churchwoman, and knew the importance of that holy ceremony; but you talk of walking into church in that airy way in a bonnet, just as if it was of no more consequence than a pastrycook's shop ! But what can pected of a girl who threw over the best match in the kingdom to marry a miserable army captain so poor you've got to wait a

y eSir' before he can scrape up money enough to' take f uVmsbed lodgings with ! I wash my hands of yon, Freda—l do, indeed !■' 1-Jaaigh'ed.- ' Mark ss not quite so-poor as all that, aunt ; don't be too Unhappy over my because we are poor that we ar© going to wait. There are othef family reasons which I need not enter upon. We 1 shall not Btarve, #fc all events. Mrs Thistleby will take cara of that, for she is very rich.' c Oh, indeed f' with an appearance of reviewed interest; 'rich, is she? Well, my dear" sirl, I was just going to say that I should da myself the honour of tailing upon Mrs Thistletty' when she comes back from abroad; and, of Coiirse, love, I hope you will stay here until you can go on to her house.' So it was settled ; and Aunt Selina ended by kissing me affectionately. Making friends With Mammon was a Scripture precept which. Mrs Carr never failed to act up to. All this timel had .been longiug to hear tidings of Mr Curtis, but had been too proud to ask my aunt what she had heard about him'. She would have interpreted such enquiries into a wish on my part to renew my engagement with him, and would have been quite capable of iifriting straight off to make overtures to him upon the strength of it. I had not forgotten that she had told mo that he looked ill and aged. < I wondered whether it was my conduct to him which had. altered him. I should have been very sorry to think so, and I could hardly believe it, for I did not think, he* .had ever cared for me int any but a fatherly manner. But, for my father's sake, and because he had been so uniformly' kind' to me, I felt I should like to hear something of him. , One day during my visit to Mrs Cart",. I baa gon© oiit shopping, by myself. I was in Bond street, corning out. of Redmayne's shop, wnent a hansom.cab, which was passing by, suddenly drew up with a jerk in front of it, and a lady wearing a very thick veil beckoned violently and imperiously to me. I drew near wonderingly,'and then saw to my surprise that it was Mrs Featherstone. ' Freda! Miss Clifford I Is it possible that it is you?' . ■ I drew back instinctively; my aversion to the woman who. had traduced and reviled me in the day of adversity was as great as ever. ' Oh, please don't turn away! she said in an entreating voicey strangely unlike th© proud and haughty Clara Featherstone of old. ' I have been longing so to meet you, and I did not know how to find you or where you were. Please get into my cab. I am just going back to,my lodgings, and Ido so want you to come with; me, for I have so much to say to you.' ■'_■''■• ,•'-.'" >■■ .'• 'To me!' I said, in surprise. ' Wha can you have to say to me? lam no friend of yours—you have plenty without me —there is Mrs Leith.'" ' Mrs Leith f '■. Do; you suppose she would speak to me now--now all the world has turned against me I Don't keep me talking here, somebody might recognise me— do come with me!' .' " V ■'•■■• ' • ■' , Something in the woman's face and voice told me that she was in trouble, and that for once she was genuinely in earnest. 1 I hesitated no longer, but got into the cab with her, and we drove on. • .-,.,, . When I came close to her, I perceived that she was terribly altered. Her dress, no longer radiant with bright colours, was shabby and worn, and her face looked old and haggard ; there were deep lines scored upon it —lines of care, and almost, as it seemed to be, of want and poverty. !• looked at her with amazement. . 'Why has allthe world turned against you, Mrs Featherstone? and why do you speak of being in a lodging ? Why are you not m your own house in Eaton square? What has happened to you? Tell me, for I cannot understand.' .. ■ ' Do you not know ?' she exclaimed, seeming to be much surprised in her turn. 'ls it possible you have not heard?' 'No; I have heard'nothing,' I answered, bewildered. ' I have been living for months in a most remote, out-of-the-world place in Yorkshire. All my friends, and my old associations, have been dead and buried to me —I have heard nothing.' 4 Then you do not know what happened to me last December ? I thought everybody knew it.' . '" H--' ■ '•■'<-;

Just then the cab drew up at a door in a miserable, dingy little back street—we had arrived at her lodgings. She let herself in by a latch-key, and we:went, upstairs into what is called • the drawing-rooms.' Two wretched rooms, iow< dark; and dirty, opening out of each other by the usual folding-doors. There was the round table in the middle of the room ; the tarnished console, with its marble top, opposite the fire-place ; the horse-hair sofa between the window's. ' On the mantel-piece a case of dusty stuffed birds, flanked by cheap china figures of shepherdesses, under glass sh ides, and a dingy gas chandelier hung from the smoky ceiling. I glanced into the back r iom, through the half-open door ; it looked if possible even more desolate and comfortless. "•'.'• " v - \ ■ . ' It is rather a change from Fddington, isn t it ?' said my companion, with a piteous smile, as she flu'ig off her bonnet and sat down wearily in front of the table. All my heart went suddenly out in pity towards my old enemy. 'Dear Mrs Featherstone!' I exclaimed, ' what dreadful thing has happened to you P I am sorry, indeed, to. see you in such a place. Tell me'what, calamity has brought you to this? ' "'" ■ • , „. • ' I don't know why you, should be sorry for mo, Freda Clifford,' she said, looking at me with a strange mixture of defiance and deprecation. 'I dare say you will be glad when you hear—l know I .should have been glad and triumphed if I had bo^n'you—if you had been the one that had been humbled; and, God knows, you have reason to hate me ! So you never heard that .1 left my husband last December ?' ' Left him?' . >■'■■■■ ' Yes ; with another man. Do you understand? I ran away from him. Don't look shocked, child • it's no uncommon case, after all!' and she laughed a harsh, bitter laugh. 'Oh! Mrs Featherstone, how sorry I am! And—and—the man ?'.••..- ' The man has now left me. Yoa. will say it serves me right, I suppose;.'., ' He will, not marry you ?' 'Oh ! dear no, he would not dream of it; he is years younger than, I. am. I was a fool, I imppose, to expect it. And now lam waiting my divorce, or rather Mr Featherstone is. It won't make much difference to me ; I have nothing but starvation to look forward to now.' ' ''■'■■ , ( . . ' :

' But your husband—will he not be merciful? If you are sorry, will he not take you back?' ' ' Mr Featherstone ? Gracious, no ! He is only too glad to be rid of me !'. And again she laughed hardly and unmif thfully. I wa3 silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say to her. I suppose if I had had

» bad heart, or trven a jußtly I should hare felt that this wOihan, who had feuMy slandered .'tftes was only now reaping the due reward <©f her evil deeds and ill-natured words. £ suppose no one could Biave blamed me much had I said to her t ' You Ihave made your bed, and now you must lie in, at. Can you expect pity or help from me, to whomjou showed neither in my dfcy of need?'' I j»ut I must be a soft-hearted person-, a*d be •destitute of a feeling of proper prid%, for no such speech came to my lips—l made her no I speech at all, in f act j ' E only did what was essentially feminine and foolish, I sank down on my knees before her, and threw both Arms around her neck. * Oh! poor—poor Clara !' I cried, and tears' •of oompassion rushed up into toy eyesv Clara Featherstone gave a sort of sob, and, ■turning away from me, hid her face in her Jhands. ' . r " I

'Ohl Freda,Vshe aaidj c I knew you would be good to me, heaven knows I don't deserve goodness at your hands, for I did all I could to injure you'; and now it is as it not, that you should be the only person in the world who can help me ? You will not refuse to help me, will youy Freda?' y : 1 Of course I will help'you if I can,' 1 an- i aweeed; ' but how i/What good can I do?I Why not go to your brother ?\ 'That is just it, Freda. v My brother can help me, certainly, but he will hot because of yu.' ■.-'■!■':: ■■'■■■ >'v . 'Ofme?* .'--•■■■'.'•'•'••/.

' Yes.. I wrote to him and told him I waß mearly starving, and so I am. I have had to aell everything I possess—one thing after another, literally to.Jceep inyself in food. So J wrote to George, ahd;£sked him Out of his to make small fixed allowance—only a year.? with that I could ifcake a small cottage in .the country, and do «ome embroidery for a- ladies' needlework society that I used to subscribe to, and which would now, I think, give me employment. I could live, at all.events. 1 thought George could not refuse me such a. small request; but look at this.' , She drew a note out of lifer pocket, and put it in. my hands. I opened it and read: — 'DearClara,-- •.:,'/'"'.f •'. 'I do not know how you can expect; mercy yoarself when you know not how to! show mercy to) others. VYou have sinned grievously, but , that I' ; cbuld have forgiven j •jrou. ■ What I can never forgive you is you* conduct to my poor lost daaifhter of my dearest friend. You blackened her character to me, and prevented me from marrying her. I havefsince ifound out that your stories against her. were but a tissue of lies, with a faint Colouring of truth. But meanwhile, my poor Freda has been driven out into the world alone; and is friendless and penniless. If, she had come to me I would not have married her against her will, but t would havo been is a fatherto her. It is to you, my Bister, that I owe the utter-loss and perhaps the ruinof my old friend*s child. I will never forgive you for it, nor will I help you in any way. . : ,ri

'. : .-.;.'■,■■/ ;-/?.••': .■' ■G- CURTIS.' T ¥??* h Whlding teais I finished reading this letter, and then put it in mf pocket. ' Let me keep, this better, Clara, and I will answer it for (you; arid; when I hear frbm Mr Curtis I will opme and see you again.' I rose, and kissing her again,"! left her.

CHAPTER XXXII.;. . !.. JLT, SEACLIFF AGAIN. /■ * But happy they, the happiest of their kind, Whom gentle stars'unite, and,in one fate Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings iO'Ttuerid.' • \-' : ' : 'f '/'.■; '-,' i ---Thomson. I wrote to George Curtis. Ido not remember quite what I said to him, but I know that I told him that he was the best and dearest of men, and that gratitude arid affection would always fill my heart! towards him. That letter so harsh to his sister and so tenderly loving in its tone tptnie, had strangely touched my heart. It was not; as a lover, but as a friend,, that he had mourned for me, as my father's child, ahd:/the: ghrl/to Whom he would sooner be i ' ; '"as a father' than lose altogether. ''.■.How little I had 1 appreciated that noble heart! Whilst! had thought myself scorned, and spurned, and dropped put*of his life for ever, he had been grieving over my disappearance, andlonging £•£> help niel arid to befriend .me. For a short spaco Mrs. Featherstone had fioisoned his mind 'against'me, but he had ested her accusations and had found out their falseness, arid had justly hated her for her perfidy to me. ■y-'-:J : ;(-/--pf-- • If I had gone to ;,him bravely at the first, I felt now cortain that he would not have turned away froth me.' had wronged hinj, and I had lacked the. courage- tof ace him. So now I wrote to my pjd lover a long letter, telling him of all my past and all my future prospects, and praying himto rewara my injustice and my warit of faith in hiitt -by the good gift of his friendship for the rost of my life. And then I interceded for Clara. I told him how I had found her—poor, miserable, humbled, arid repentant, arid for my sake and the sake of the past, I begged him to save her from destitution by giving her the peoiiniary help she had asked him for. "

In due time came His answer. It was everything that \ could wish for. A.nd I took it in my hand, and went with it joyfully to see Clara. '.'-"'^V

As I opened the door of her room she ran to meet me with outstretched arm. 3. 'Oh 1 Freda, I haye had a .letter from George ; and so have you, I can see. Such a kind letter! and he will give me .£3OO a year: he is going to settle it on me for my life; and he says it is all your doing, and because you have asked himivldoh't know how I can ever thank and bless you; enough!' . She looked happier and brighter already, more like the Clara Featherstone of old, with whom I had. so often quarrelled and fought, only softer, more womanly, and with all the: old spitefujness and malice gone out of herface." ''''■■ : <-'r ■■'■ii. '.

I sat down and entered gladly into all her future plans.,-She had, decided to remain where she was till the divorce was settled, and then she,meant to cfiange her name, and take a small cottage in a neighbourhood where she was not known,- and begin life afresh. , ,'**! '•"''■ '

' And will you sometimes come and see me, FredaP' she asked* doubtingly. 'I know, perhaps, I ought not to ask it; but you have been so good to me Ido not think you will drop me altogether; will you ?' • No, indeed I will not, Clara !' I answered, kissing her; and then I told her that I was soon going to marry Mark Thistleby. 'Keally?—are you really going to marry Pet? I never thought it was more than a flirtation. Well, lam very glad of it. And I am sure you deserve to be very happy, and I hope you may be r Freda dear.'

- So it was that my old enemy became my friend.

A day or two later a telegram from . Bella announced her arrival at Seaeliff, .arid summoned me to join her there Mthout ueiay. It may be imagined wiiA waat ;jby I was once more folded V>,#>y dear little friend's warm heart. How delightful it was, after all j the. sorr6w> and misery, and anxiety of the past y6ar, to be with her once more—to talk 'ovfer all the past, and to make happy daydreams for the bright future ! I was never tired of dancing up and dp#n the house —of running out irijfco the little square garden, and down the steps where I had sat sketehlftg the day that Mark and I had spent together, and where he had found mf*, arid made his compact of peace and friendship with me. It seemed wonderful to think that it was only a year ago since that never«to>-be-f3r-gotten day, and that now he was my very 6wn, | and nothing oould ever divide, us again. How Bella and I ehufctesred arid talked over it all, anybody' acquainted with 'the manners arid customs of two women who , are ' b6som I friends' iriay nhagitfe f6r thetnselVek 'And tP think,' Sella, for the twentieth tittfe, as sat together, fancywork in ha'icL w&eri Pur excitement had somewhat subsided, —'and to think that that wretch Mark was married all the time, and I never | knew it, and was laying plans for marrying you to him! Why it's horrible lo think of the danger I was in'. 1 might have been taken up for bigamy, as an accessory before the fact J* »

* Well, I hope it will be a lesson to you, and ffcach you never to do any match-making again !' I said, laughing. 4 On the contrary, my dear, my match-mak-ing, as you call it, has turned out so retftarkrably successfully that it will beau ehcduragement to me to persevere in the accomplishment for the rest of my tiie !' Think of the mischief you might have dorid *_ I said, reprovingly. Think of the good I have done!' cried Bella, getting up and kissing me rapturously. ' Can anything, I ask you, have turned out better ? Here are you and Mark, devotedly in love with each other* and engaged te be married. The other poOr thing, whom he fortunately lost early In life has died off conveaiently in the vefy nick of time, and you two have ri'othing to do but to marry each othe* arid be happy I' "* How flippant you are, Bella ! If you had known my poor Ellinor ' 'And how falsely sentimental you are, Freda !' interrupted my friend. 'lt is quite absurd your pretending to be sorry for the ! Eoor thing, when her death is to make your appiness! By-the-way,, I see you had a letter from old Miss Fairfax this morning. What does *h& Say about your marriage to Mark?'

She is very good about it,' I answered, taking Miss Barbara's letter from my pocket and referring to it. 'I am glad I told her ; it was much better to be open with her. She congratulates me very kindly, and says that, of course, under the circumstances, she hopes we will not put off our wedding too long, merely on account of her feelings. It is kind of her to say so ; but I think Mark and % are both agreed that we had better wait another year. She tells me, too, that she has let Kanetori Scars very advantageously on a long lease, and she is goingto live with her widower brother, td take care of his babies for him. It will be an aotive and useful life for her, and lam very glad to hear it. She writes so affectionately to me, I am sure she is very fond of me.'

'So she ought to be,' answered Bella, nodding her head with decision. * You have behaved very well to her; and she was a silly old woman to hide her sister away from Mark for years, as if he was a common blackguard ! She did a great deal of mischief to everybody; and if you had run away with her Ellinor's husband, married or unmarried, she would have only had herself to thank for it!'

'Don't be immoral, Bella!' I said, sternly and reprovingly. ' 4 And don't you be a prude, Freda!' laughed back Bella, who, as of old, always loved to haver the last word.

It may be easily imagined that Captain Thi stleby did not keep very long away from our little feminine household. He very soon m ado an opportunity of running down for a few days to see us, and we found that 1 running, down ' process was constantly repeating itself. I need not say that we were very happy together; and though our number was that fatal one of three, which is supposed to be so inimical to love or to friendship, I cannot say that we ever found Bella much in the way of our enjoyment. ;

One t day we all three made an expedition to that little bay where Mark and I had gone on that eventful occasion when he had loft me, like Andromeda, clinging to the cliff alone. No such fatal incident happened on this" occasion ; all went well; and Mark, stimulated by past recollections, became very sentimental and somewhat indecorously affectionate on the way back. But although he openly accused Bella of being de trop, cannot say that either her presence or that of the boatman who rowed us back appeared to cause him any undue amount of shyness or reticence.

And sothe happy weeks and months sped by, and, in the pleasant daily society of my friend, brightened by my lover's frequent visits, the year of waiting, which we had set before us as the proper thing to submit to, passed quickly away. Summer faded into winter, and winter at length brightened once more. into summer; and when the anniversary of poor Ellinor's death had come and gone, Mark and I settled our wedding day, and were married quietly, and without any festivities, at the little church at Seacliff.

By hid own special desire, George Curtis came down on purpose to give me away; and Miss Barbara Fairfax, in slight mourning, would not consent to be absent on the occasion.

I had no bridesmaids, and no white satin or Brussels lace. There was neither weddingbreakfast nor wedding-cake; nor werej there any other guests save those two elderly people and Bella; neither was Aunt Selina and her peach-coloured silk gown invited to assist at the ceremony. But there was that at our wedding which is lacking to many where all the above adjuncts are present in profusion : for there were two people who loved each other with all their hearts, and who, whatever the sorrows of this troublesome world may bring to them, will still know how to be happy so long as it pleases God to spare them to each other. THE END.