A TERRIBLE MISTAKE

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1611, 14 January 1903, Page 9

A TERRIBLE MISTAKE

(By E. C. Ivenynon.)

I determined to lie low, like Brer Babbit, when I first came. into my fortune, for I had received with it a solemn and somewhat gruesome warning. "I give and bequeath to my only surviving relative, my grand-nephew, John Edmondson, the whole of my landed property and personal estate,” so ran the Avoids of my . grand-uncle's will, "and I leave him therewith this charge, that, if he values his life's happiness, lie must see to it that no one marries him for his money, because, as is well known, there is a curse upon our house, inasmuch as everv man of it >vho weds finds out sooner or later, to his undoing, that his bride has only married him for what he possesses, and not for Avhat he is.” This coming .to me Arith -£300,000 and a big estate in the country was rather overwhelming, and altogether I shrank a ltttle from the responsibilities of Avealth, with its dangers as well as its pleasures, and Avas in no hurry to leave, the obscurity of my London life to go and take up my ne'vT position in the country. Besides, I said to myself that by remaining to all appearances a comparatively poor man until 1 married — I fully intended to marry—l should most certainly avoid the family curse. So I let the money accumulate, and allowed, my old hall in the country to be tenanted by some parvenus —talloAT or leather people—A7hile 1 quietly pursued my usual calling, which Avas that of a play-writer, with more of the play about it than the ayriter, for I never produced much, though making it my business to attend the theatres assiduously. Of old I had been haunted by misgivings lest I should reach the limits of the scanty capital left me by mv father before I achieved distinction enough to supply me with more, but uoav the fear was happily laid to rest, and I enjoyed my evenings in my own way, without any qualms.

I don't know how long this would have gone on if it had not been for Beatrice White. I was passing a stage-manager's door one evening wffen she came out, weeping bitterly, and so absorbed in her distress that she would have been run over by a passing hansom had I not lifted her aside with one arm, whilst with the other I held back the horse. There was a murmur of admiration and , congratulation from the little crowd which gathered round in q. minute—as croAvds do in London—yet I heeded nothing but -the trembling girl, who clung still to my arm, though I had set her down on her feet. It >vas absolutely necessary to take her somewhere out of that staring, gaping throng, therefore I hailed a passing hansom and put her into it. I was just about to ask where she would like to go Avlien her look said as plainly as any words: "Come too; for I am still so shaken and frightened.” I therefore got in, and bade the cabman drive to the embankment, and along it to London Bridge. That, I thought, would give her time to recover herself. At first she did not say anything, so 1 looked at her appraisingly. She was a little slip of a girl, who would have been pretty if she had possessed more colour, and of an elegant figure if she had been a little taller. Her features were good, and - her golden-brown hair was Avavy and abundant. But I think it was her eyes that appealed to me most, they Avere so intensely blue that I found myself thinking of the baby lines: "Where did yon get your eyes of blue ? Out of the sky as I came through.” With a start, the girl seemed suddenly to realise what she was about.

f ,Oh! Stop!” she said. "Please step the driver. I must get out. I didn't know, I was so upset—one blow came after another—” She put her hands to her head. "Oh! what shall I do? she sobbed. "I have failed all round!” find she burst into tears, and cried as if her heart Avould break. Words wouldn't comfort her. I doubt if she could have heard them, and I sternly repressed the inciinantion to try other means. She was a lady, and alone under my protection, and I Avas not a cad to take advantage. But it wasn’t very nice, and I looked rather sulkily out of the window, waiting until rim should recover herself.

Presently slie did so. “I am -"very sorry, ' she said. “I am not very cid—only nineteen, and there’s only m■> 10 work for poor mother and ihe children, and —and I've failed! all rouni. ’ “Is yonr father deadp 'l asked. f Tes," she answered, sort ywfully. “lie was a doctor. He died in the sprint? Quite suddenly, of pneumonia. Mother is ill still of the shock, and we have almost come to the end of our money—" her voipa pli nlrof] “That's bad," ©aid I. "Hare yen mo friends?" "We thought we had, till—tiii we came to this. But mother says it is always go, and that people, like rats, flee from a falling house; and I think it's like the parable in the Bible, ‘They all with one consent began to make excuse.’ They did when we appealed to them for help." “It's a hard world for those who are poor," said I, sententiously. “You've been kinder to me than any of them," said the girl. “I? Oh! no." “Yes. you have. You saved my life. An* .you. are so kind." “Not a bit. Anyone would have done the same. But may I ask how was it that you so nearly got run over? Do yon usually cross streets with your eyes shut ?"

‘‘No! no! I was in such trouble. I had been told that a certain stage manager would give me work—just a minor part to work on the stage with some other girls, quite easy—and the pay would have een so welcome. But he refused to do so—there are so many girls waiting for that sort of thing, and he said he had

engaged plantly—and—l Avasn't quite tall .enough/' The blue eye's were again suffused Avitli tears. Well, Are couldn't talk there all day, so I took Beatrice home—she said her name was Beatrice White—and I found that she lived in a small, dingy house m a'nalTOw street off the strand. I saw her mother, a sAA r eet-iooking little woman, undoubtedly a lady, and four young children —three girls still in short, or. at least not long' frocks, and one small ' boy. The girls Avero rather like Beatrice, but not so pretty, and they all spoke in the same tone of \ r oice. Avhich seemed to me uncommonly nice.

I was seized Avitli a great desire to hep tills poor family, but could net see my way to do it'until the Avidow hapened tc re in ark that she Avas going to sail all her late husband's medical books, Avhich Avould. she hoped,-bring .in »r least <&H>. I said 1 that I should like to look it them as I Avas collecting a library, and it ended AA r ith my arranging to come over the next day for the purpose. Tliis was the beginning of many visits, and I bought the books for £6l0 —I should like to have given more, but feared to betray my Avealth—and the volumes were transferred to my rooms, Avhere they formed a gloomy heap in one corner, until. one day, Avhen a happy thought caused me to invite all the young Whites over to arrange them on some sheh r es I had bought. Beatrice came, too, to look after the kids and aid them Avith her superior judgment, if not superior strength y and it Avas a pretty sight to see her in my rooms, and made me lose my head a little, for before they left I sent out for supper, which astonished them.

CHAPTER II

neatrico had tried many Avays of earning- a living, but until I asked h-r to marry me it (lid not seem to have cceui red to her that marriage might soi\m the difficult problem. "It Avould b 9 nice to have someone to work for me,” she said, with a sig.i of content, when I proposed, "but yhat Avould become of my mother and the children? I could not burden you Avith them, and neither could I deprive them of my assistance. No, though i love you” she said it quite frankly, Avithout any coy, maidenly reserve—“l cannot marry you.”

“You can, and you shall," said I, authoritatively. And then, in the emergency, I blurted out. “1 have more money than you think, and, indeed, more than I can well do with. I will settle three or four hundred pounds a year on your mother. My dear child, that is noth’ug to me. Why, I have—" I stopped slioit, confounded at my stupidity n revealing so much before receiving her promise to marry me. “You are rich!" she exclaimed. “And I never even suspected it. You haven’t the air of a rich man, and your dress is nothing particular," and she looked at it disparagingly. • “Oh. well, I'm not vain," I began. “Vain?" she interrupted. “I don't call it vain to dres well when you have the means. It is one of the greatest of my many worries that I have to wear such wretched, unsightly clothes." I had never suspected it. To me she looked pretty in' anything. Indeed, I never thought of her dress. But now I remembered that girls think a lot of such things. In my desire to give her pleasure 1 hastened to assure her that when we were married she should have fs many beautiful clothes as she desired, regardless of cost, and jeAvels, %oo . There was such a light in her eyes, and a lovely colour came into her face. I had never seen her look so beautiful, { nd I lost my bead completely and babbled of my wealth like a fool. Dram that day all went smoothly. Beatrice never checked my advances, or seemed in the least degree averse to many me. Indeed, she seemed wishful for our wedding day to come, as I was myself, which is saying a great deal. I was very happy, and busied myself with arrangements for our future. It was impossible to turn my tenants out of my ball in the country; I therefore took a beautiful furnished house in the Thames Valley, with the idea of living there through the summer, and then perhaps wintering abroad. As for my prospective mother-in-law, I bought her an annuity of <£soo a year, for which she was overwhelmed with gratitude and joy. My wealth never seemed more enjoyable. I will not deny that I had my times of misgiving, when thoughts of the family curse, of which my great-uncle had warned me. reared their ghastly heads and mocked at my happiness, often in the silent hours of the night, when fears and apprehensions are wont to assume exaggerated proportions. But whenever I asked Beatrice if she would have loved me as much if I were only a poor man, she exclaimed, “Why, certainly. I loved you the first day I met you, dearest. You saved m.y life, and

stole my heart, at one and the same time.”

.1 could not doubt her then, Avhen she said that Avith the light I loved in her dear, beautiful blue eyes. So the ghosts were laid, and the Avedding prepartions went on gaily.

CHAPTER 111.

It was a year later Avhen the bIoAV fell Avlucli Avreciced my happiness and added years to my young life. Alter a year of unclouded bliss Ave Avere back again in the pretty house by the river, intending to stay there until late on in the autumn, and then to go Avith our little baby boy to my old hall in the country, which, having been vacated by the tenants, Avas uoav in the hands of the builders and decorators. My Avife's sister, Ivy, the eldest of the three younger girls, Avas staying with us, and I Avas a little jealous for the first time in my life of the way in which she and my Avife Avere constantly closeted together in long and earnest confabulations, Avhich were evidently of a secret nature, because I Avas never permitted to know what they were about. That some man Avas concerned in them I more than suspected, for I caught a glimpse, now and again, of a manly figure in their boat on the river, or out cycling, or walking Avith them, which did not appear to belong to any of our acquaintances.

Evasions Avere always made Avhen I questioned either of the sisters about this, and my Avife Arent so far as to hint that I AA r as becoming of a suspicions, distrustful nature. I thought that it might be so, and laughed the matter off for the trine being. Just then, it happened that I was A'ery much absorbed in the production, at my OAvn expense, of my play, "Fired by Love,” which Avas" on for the first time in one of London's smaller theatres. What Avith rehearsals —many of Avhich I attended Avith tremendous anxiety that my scenes might be represented aright—and one thing and another, I Avas not much at home in those days. As often- as not I lunched and dined in toAvn and even on occasion slept there. . That she was left so much alone Avitli her babv had been niy Avife's reason for Avanting Ivy to stay Avith her. The eventful first night came, and oh, the pain of it! My play fell flat and was an utter failure. There Avere cries of "Author! Author!” at the end, and Avhen I appeared, bowing to the very slender public which patronised my efforts, hisses and groans assailed me from all parts.

It Avas monstfous! They might Have let the thing die, if die it must... in the sanctity of silence. Outraged, I sought the manager, Avho had well protected himself against all loss, and upbraided him Avith encouraging the production of Avhat he must have seen would prove to be a failure. He did not deny the imputation, but only observed. “You are rich. You could pay for everything. I saAV no reason why you should not be humoured.” Then, seeing my anger and chagrin, he added meditatively, “There have been worst plays.” I Avas scarcely myself when I reached home and paused for a moment with my hand on the drawing-room door, that I might compose myself lest my agitation should alarm my Avife. I need not have taken the precaution. The dulcet tones I loved so well came out to meet me. albeit they Avere addressed to someone else.

"I never loved him,” they said. "Never I Never! I alAvays hated and loathed ffis caresses. It Avas hig money—his money that tempted mei—as his wife I could do so much for th© others—and, I liked so to have pretty things—” "So you thought it right to sell yourself for money ?” asked a masculine voice, reproachfully.

"I did,” was the tremulous reply. "But—but you are the man I love.”

CHAPTER IV.

In the Bush in Australia, as I worked hard for my living—l left in England all the hateful money, which had wrought me so much harm, when I fled for my sanity and for my soul's life to the other side of the world—l thought over and over again, till my brain reeled, of what happened on that last night of my home life.

First there was the failure of my ~play and the fact that I was publicly scorned and humiliated before my friends and acquaintances Then, when I sought in my home for the consolation which the love of my nearest and dearest could give, there was the disclosure of treachery and. the working of the family curse. After that came the mad resolve on my part never again to look upon the face of my false wife, which was followed—because I still clung to the desire to do the right—by my hurried journey to town to her mother's house, where I besought the latter to- go at once to Beatrice and remain with her and take care of her, especiallv

; from evil male influence, until ''such time las I returned. My mother-in-law v;as ; dreadfully alarmed, she besought me | earnestly to tell her everything, and then, | implored me to see a doctor, evidently imagining my Avits Avere all astray. I did neither one thing or the other, but took the night express to Southampton, and as readily as possible put space betAveen me and all that had hitherto made my life Avorth living. ] In Australia, after roughing it for & | time, I found Avork in the bush, and the Avild free life suited me as Avell as anyi thing could. People said I was a remark- ; ably silent and surly man, but I kept | my oavu counsel and told no one hoiv it i was that I had become so. i Two years of such a life passed slowly by, and then, one evening, on returning to the loav bungaloAv in Avhich I and my partner lived, I found to my astonishment that visitors had arrived and moreover that they Avere visitors from. : England. ! My partner came out hurriedly to tell ; me before I set foot Avithin the house. "You've been such a reserved old chap,” he said, "that I do not knoAV why you hide yourself here in the bush, but these people who have come out let fall a hint that they had learn of your Avhereabouts by means of a detective agency, so if you have any reason for evading the IaAY perhaps you had better mount your j horse again apd ride off.” I dreAV myself up and looked straight into his face. "I have done.no Avrong,” : I said and Avalked into the house. j Judge of my astonishment when I saw Ivy, and Avith her a man whose figure seemed faimiliar, though not nearly so much as his voice Avhen he greeted me j with cordiality. j I drew back, looking at him angrily, j hoAV dare he present himself before me, j he ,the destroyer of my home? | "John! Dear John!” exclaimed Ivy. j coming hastily forward and trying to j take my hand, Avhich I held back, "Why ! do you look so strangly .at my husband? I What is the matter? What has he done? Why did you leave home? Why, oh, Avhy I have you done your utmost to break ioor Beatrice's heart?” I began to tremble. What was she saying? I break Beatrice's heart! The man before me Ivy's husband! Words would not come. I only looked the questions I could not ask. Then Ivy made me sit doAvn beside lier on the settle, and began to tell me that after my disappearance Beatrice fell ill, and during her illness our baby died, and Ivy and her mother and the doctors and the trained nurses had much ado to prevent her following him. "Through God's inercy she recoveiied at last,” said my sister-in-laAv, "and ever since she has been employing detectives all over the country to try and find your whereabouts. At last they discovered Avhere you Avere, so we all came over.” "All ?” I asked, getting out the word Aritli a tremendous effort. "All,” said a voice just like Ivy's, yet not hers. And then, suddenly, I saw no one except my wife, Avho was crying and laughing together. * « * * ® * *1 Afterwards everything Avas explained. It seemed that, although she Avas so young, Ivy had tAvo lovers at the same time when she came to stay with us in the Thames Valley. - She loved one of them, Avho was poor,, and yet had become secretely engaged to the other because he was rich. But my Avife, to whom in confidence she related these love'affairs, told her that she Avould never be happy with, a rich husband whom she did not love, and encouraged the other man to come was disastrous for poor Beatrice, because I unfortunately overheard the true lovers making it up. and deceived by the similarity of the sisters' voices, and influenced by my knoAvledge of the traditional curse supposed to come with my fortune, jumped to the conclusion that the lady Avas my wife.