CHARACTERISTIC OF KENNEDY

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1626, 29 April 1903, Page 11

CHARACTERISTIC OF KENNEDY

(By Nora C. Usher.)

Of course, no one but a fool would have acted in such a way; but it was by no means the first time that Kennedy’s iui-pulsivenes-s had amounted to folly. It was, in the first instance, utter folly to fall in love with a girl of whom he knew nothing at all; but it was little short of madness, on his return to Lugland after four years’ absence, to go to Eastbourne, look up heir address in the visitors’ book at the hotel where he had first seen her, and. without further preliminaries, to write and propose marriage. Perhaps it was no less madness on tho part of the girl to accept tho offer at once. Possibly the fact that Kennedy had recently figured before the public, in connection with a large estate which he had just inherited, had something to do with if. Be that as it may, one lovely day in June, Kennedy made his way to Norbiton by the invitation of Miss Sydney anc! the aunt with whom she resided —for Miss Sydney was an orphan, so she told Kennedy in her answer to- his letter. He found the house without difficulty; it was picturesque and secluded, a fit abode for his divinity. As he entered the drawing-room, a slender, graceful girl with a rather pretty face, camo forward in some confusion to meet him. Thei face was entirely unknown to Kennedy. He bowed over her outstretched l hand. “I have called to see Miss Sydney,” he observed, questioniugly. The colour in the girl’s face deepened to crimson. “I am Nellie Sydney,” she said, with embarrassment For a moment Kennedy’s heart stood still, then hope revived. This was his adored o-ne’s sister, no dcubt. “I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Ellen, but it is your sister, Miss Sydney, whom I wish to see,” was his reply. She looked at him with wide-open startled eyes; her hand, which lay in his turned cold and trembled. “I—l have no sistex*, Mr Kennedy,” she faltered. “Good heavens!” ejaculated the bewildered man. “Then, who was it answered my letter and told me that she had loved me ever since she first saw me four years ago at Eastbourne^” The colour had fled fi'om Miss Sydney’s face; she was white and drooping like a broken liy. used to follow us about”—the words left her lips with difficulty. “Y r ou always looked at us. You were everywhere we went. I found your name in the visitors? book, and immediately you wrote I knew that I had loved“you all the time, as yoix had loved me ” Then despair made Kennedy brutal. “I have never loved you,” he said, with vehemence. “I have never, to any knowledge, seen your face before.” But even as he said tho words he felt he was mistaken; a glimmer of light shone in upon him. He had seen her before, but where ? “Tell me,” he cried, impetuously, “were you alone when I followed you about as you say, or was someone with you ? If so. who was your friend, and what was her name?” “I was not alone.” she answered; “my

friend Mary Chantry was always with me. She noticed, how you were interested in us. and thought you—loved—me.” Kennedy’s disappointment was too keen for him to notice the emotion in the girl’s face—pain mingled with shame. He pursued liis investigation remorselessly. “And bliss Chantry’s name was not written in the visitors' book?” he inquired. “No, only mine, underneath, that of my aunt, Mrs Sydney.’’ He saw it all now. The other girl was the girl he loved, and this one — “Miss Sydney,” he said, in a tone of deep contrition, “I curse myself for my rashness and indiscretion; I have mistaken your name for that of Miss Chantry. I do not even dare to a«k your forgiveness.” Her bosom l-ose and fell tumultuously; her lace was turned away. “What must you chink of me?” she said, in a broken voice. “I was so l'eady to answer you—but—but we never thought it could be Mary you admired. Mary never dreamed of .such a tiling; she was engaged to be married; she has been Mrs Stapleton now for three years.” Kennedy's heart became a stone within him. He leant one hand, on the table and caught his breath sharply. At one blow his castle in the air was shattered. There was silence in the room, a silence lasting so long that Miss Sydney raised her eyes, with the tear-drops still trembling in them, to look at him. Just at that moment lie glanced towards! her. “Are you so very sorry?” she murmured compassionately. “I am heart-broken,” he answered with his usual impetuosity. A flicker of a smile crossed her lips, and at that identical instant the tear left its resting-place and fell on fb the tablecloth. “No,” she said dubiously, “a man li» never heart-broken.” “And a woman?” he questioned. “Loves o-nce and for ever,” she replied. “And you?” he continued l musingly, scarcely thinking where the words were leading him. “Have done so—and still do—and always shall.” Another tear had taken the place of the one that had fallen; in spite of the intrusion of a vision of the ex-Miss Chantry, Kennedy felt an insane desire to kiss it away. “No xnan is worth crying for,” he remarked sententious iy“But women will cry as long as the world lasts nevertheless,” was her reply. “Will it comfort you to know that your kindness has softened the blow that has fallen upon me?” he asked with a gentle voice. Again she glanced at him from under her wet lashes; her hand stole along tue table a-nd touched his as it lay there. “Yes—if I could only be sure that you will never think of me contemptuously—that you will not think I was bold and unwomanly .” His lingers closed over hers, and she did not draw them away. “I never, never will,” he protested earnestly. She drew a little closer to his side, and looked into his eyes with pathetic gratitude. Then, without exactly knowing why, he took her in his arms and kissed her. So Die end of the affair as well as its beginning - , was characteristic of Kennedy. «■ * * “We will go to Eastbourne for our honeymoon, my sweetest,” said Kennedy two months later, and to Eastbourne they went accordingly. Tho bridegroom was not troubled by painful memories of his former love, but. concluding that she was by that time quite an old married woman, he devoted himself to his bride with an ardour that might not have been expected by thos-e who had heard him rave about his deposed enslaver. It was ay hen the newly-married couple had been at Eastbourne more than two weeks, one sunny noontide, Avhen Kennedy was lounging by his A\ r ife?s side in the gardens, that his eye lighted on a familiar figure not very far away. “Ellie,” he exclaimed sharply “there is your friend Mrs Stapleton. Had you any idea that she would be here?” Ellie turned her head to look in the direction indicated. “Nonsense.” she replied, Avith a sudden access of colour. “Mary is aAvay in the AAdlds of Scotland with, her husband.” But Kennedy was positive. “I tell yon Ellie,” he repeated, “your friend, Mrs Stapleton, is there. She ia coming toAA'ards us- at this moment, dressed in blue. Good heavens!” unconscious of the tragedy in his voice, “why, I should knoAV her among a thousand!” A tall, fair girl in blue Avas undoubtedly bearing do\A'n upon them, bent upon greeting Mi's Kennedy, Avho seemed anything but eager for the meeting. “Oh, is that who you mean ?” she observed’, Avitli manifest embarrassment; ‘‘that is Kate Alen.” Kennedy’s face paled as his eyes rested on the features he had so vainly worshipped. “I don’t care Avho it is,” he muttered huskily; “that is the girl I loved —the girl that, perhaps, I might have married, but for .” The girl’s advance prevented the conclusion of the sentence. “Oh, my dear Ellie! I have never seen you once since Ave met four years ago at this place-—you and I and Mary Chantry —do you remember?” Then she noticed Kennedy’s rigid face, and her eyes dropped suddenly before his gaze. * * * An hour later Kennedy was standing in the AvindoAv of their sitting-room at the hotel,' looking out over the restless, sparkling Avaters. He had stood' so ever since he had come in, AA'hiie Ellie was half-sitting, half-reclining on the sofa at the other side of the room, silent and miserable. At length a loav gasping sob escaped her, and he turned at the sound. He had not addressed a syllable to her. nor anSAvered any of her questions, since they had left the gardens and Kate Alen. As he turned towards her. she looked up at

him beseechingly, but there was no pityin his face. "You knew what you wpr© doing, ” he said sternly. “Yon only spoke to me of one friend, the one who was married ; you suppressed all mention of the other purposely, in order to secure me for yourself/' She came over and stood beside him, not lifting her eyes to his. but looking away over the sea as he had done. "Yes,” she replied, in a kind of passive despair, "but I thought that perhaps you did not love her really, and that you would soon love me instead. Gilbert—l thought, until to-day, that you did love me already.” Kennedy turned upon her in a white heat of passion. £< T never loved you,” he cried. " I thought, since I could not marry the girl I loved, it did not matter much what became of me. You have gained your end; you have tied me to you for life, but I do not love you and 1 never shall.” She neither moved nor spoke. Her quivering lips strove to frame a sentence, but they could not. At length one imploring word broke from them—“Gilbert—Gilbert!” His anger as uncontrolled as his love. Kennedy heeded her not. "I was a blind fool 1” he foamed. "I took all you said on trust; but from this day I will never live with you again—never—never 1” She remained still as if carved in stone, and so Kennedy left her, standing by the window, when he went upstairs to put his things together and to form his plans for the future. He had been pacing the floor, lost in passionate reflection, for about a quarter of an hour, when, glancing towards the window, he wafc surprised to see his wife crossing the road towards the sea. She still wore her outdoor garments as she had worn them in the morning, but something in her gait, the determined, set expression of Her face struck him with a sudden terror. Flinging on his hat, he rushed down the stairs, out on to the Front, and sped along, cursing the crowds of pleasureseekers who- impeded his progress. Now he has Jost sight of the girlish, wliiteolad figure—now he has sighted Her again. Gracious Heaven ! how fast she is walking, and how the blundering people get in his way—she is turning on to the pier—he had guessed she would —will he be in time ? ° It is high tide, there is a strong breeze blowing, and the sea is not smooth, still on—on he- speeds. He sees her clearly now at the end of the pier, a slim, swaying figure sharp I v outlined against the wide, blue expanse of sea and sky. /‘Hold her!” he shouts hoarsely. “For pity’s sake hold her.” There is agony in his voice. The loungers on the pier gaze at him, but before they realise his meaning the spot where she had stood is empty, and the cruel waters are gurgling over something that is lost to sight in their depths. Almost, but not quite, too late, thank a merciful Providence—for her husband brings her to the surface, white and still, but living—saved from the very jaws of death! «• * * In the bedroom at the hotel the moonlight lies in a bar of silver across the floor. Ellie is sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion. By the bedside Kennedy is kneeling, his face buried in hisi arms. At length she stirs slightly; her wakening glance rests upon her husband's bowed head. Softly stretching out one small, weak hand, she touches his> hair tenderly. Ho lifts liis head and looks at her. lie cannot trust himself to speak, but a sudden content dawns- in her eyes &s he kisses the hand he has imprisoned. "Why did you bring me back?” she whispers. "If I had died you might have married ——” He touches her lips to silence her -words, and the rest of the sentence remains unspoken. ‘‘'Beloved/' he murmurs brokenly, “when I saw the waters close over your lear head this afternoon I knew ” "Yes?” she says softly, for emotion has choked his utterance. "What did you know ?” "That I had never loved anyone but you,” he answers. And th's climax is essentially characteristic of Kennedy.