A CONSPIRACY OF FATE

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1680, 11 May 1904, Page 10

A CONSPIRACY OF FATE

(By J. Leclrie Herhertsom.)

Twilight was falling. The window lay open, and tihe little music-mistress sat on the piano stool strumming with her fingers oin the bo-ard. She was small, so small that in the half-darkness she might have been mistaken for a child. She wore- a, close-fitting, navy-blue gown,' a pair of white cuffs and a high collar, and a very heavy pair of walkingshoes which clamped as she moved. Her: face, was small and haggard and ellftn, the eyes bright, and the mouth hard. She wore ner hair in a curious little knot at the hack of her head,-and brushed straight off her forehead in front.. There was nothing very romantic in the appearance of the littlle mnsi e-mis-tress, and yet she had found, or thought she had found, the glimmerings of an element of romance creeping into the dark cranny of her life.

She sat looking very steadfastly at the howl of drooping poppies which she had placed on the top of the piano to please the sticky-fingered pupil who bad brought them as a peace-offering for neglected practising. “Who is lie,” she said, “and where does he come from, and what are his prospects? Now, he need not ask me to marry him if it is only to share bread and water together.” She rose and went to the window, and peeped out behind the curtains. “Yes, he is there, as usual, and looking over here. He seems to be better to-night; he’s standing up. I wonder what is the matter with him; not anything very bad, I’m quite sure.” v She scrutinised him long and' earnestly. “He is an Englishman. Well, why no? I must marry; every woman must marry—and Francois has forgotten. I cannot blame him ; it is now fifteen years since I saw him. Wei. Francois, goodbye; I have a lover !” She pressed closer to the -window, secure in the darkness of the room behind heir. Someone had entered that into which she gazed, and had begun to trim the lamp. The newcomer struck a match, and- the. flare -disclosed a nurse’s' cap and a somewhat harsh face. “Will she draw the blinds?” said the little music-mistress, and waited, her heart beating foolishly, as the busy figure moved to and fro, setting the invalid in his chair. “I wonder if his Sundays are as lonely os mine? Bah! bub they are -horrible. I shall spend mine in bed.” She looked vengefullly at the blinds; they had been drawn. “What does it matter,” she said, with an accent of bitterness, “no one cares.” She lit the candles, and sat down, and played “The Shepherd’s Plaint.” The light was had. and so was her temper, after a long day’s work. She made several mistakes, which she corrected loudly. After a time someone came up to ask her if she would please stop, as the young gentleman in the room bellow had a headache. Sihe shut down the lid'with a bang, and went to bed. A few weeks later she- Caught a chill in one of her loing tramps between the homes, of her pupils. It happened most opportunely, in the summer holidays. She felt fagged and iilt and sick of the 1 world and all things i!n it. She lay on her bed all day, counting butterflies on the wallpaper. There were thirteen within her range of vision, and this worried her; for the number was unlucky. She was too weak to turn her head without an effort that tired her, and it didn’t seem worth while to make one: 'She lay fuming, idle, and unhappy; she had nothing to read and nothing to do. The doctor’s visits excited her. She carried on a mild flirtation with him, shook her fist in his direction when he was gene, and longed for the' divertion of his next coming almost ere his footsteps had. died away on 't-fee stair. She told herself she wished she were dead, and then..in a sudden access of fire, cried to the silent walls of her prison—“No, no; not yet.” One day, it was a week after she had been taken ill, though it seemed to her like a year, the post brought her a parcel and a letter. . ■' _ She lay looking at it for several minutes, with lips pursed in a questioning line. “Shall I open it, miss?” asked the .maid, who stood by, expectant and curious ; it was long since the little musicmistress had had a parcel. “You may,” she said graciously. Clumsy hands cut the string, and! lifted the lid. “Thanks,” said the dry little voice, “the rest I can do myself.” She opened the letter carefully, while the maid, lingered to the door. It was only a cheque from the parent of a pupil, who had been somewhat remiss in her settlements; she fingered it with something, like relief on her face. “It will. help for the doctor,” she said, sighing.;; • . The parcel, was a different matter, and she sat looking at it curiously, tasting the sweets ’of <mticipi^tion« Deop, down in her mind, so far .down that she could not acknowledge its existence,, even, to herself was a half-defined and quite unreasoning hope that it might be from, her neighbour over the way. “For in the presence of death whatt are the conventionalities?” said- the little musicmistress to herself fiercely. Sihe was very low, indeed, that day, and had already sketched for her own satisfac-

tiota graphic details of her decease,, etch- j ing in regrets on the part of several relations and friends who had been forgetful of her, with merciless precision. A scent of flowers stole from the open box towards her. She sat up and pushed the paper and fernfrends aside feverishly. “Flowers!” she said, poking than little fingers in among the petals. “Now, where is the card?”

She was not particularly fond of flowers. She would rather have had sweets or fruit, she said aloud, querulously, as she- tossed them out upon the coverlet, searching for a clue to the sender.

When finally she realised there was no oord, nothing to guide her, she was filled with impotent anger. She rang the bell in >a fit, of rage: “Take them away,” she cited, to the astonished maid. “I don’t want them, the scent sickens, me.” After this she felt better.

She lay for -the remainder of the day thinking out the matter for • herself; ’ putting two and two together in her own ■ fashion,, and the result proved eminently satisfactory to herself. In. the evening, as a consequence of. these cogitations, She searir the maid’. to cash the cheque'and buy some fruit. “Fruit m the correct thing, to send an invalid, she said to herself firmly. “FLowera in « sick-room i”

She sat up for more than an hour packing, it away in an old work-basket, oui of which she had torn the lining. “Let him think whiat ho will,” she said; “I da not care. It must be from him,” examining the label; “the writing ig that of a sick pea-son. He need never know who s°nt it, Eliza will he discreet; and if he does, what matter.”

“Eliza, ;; she said to the maid calmly. “Here is something for yourself. Taka this parcel over to. the house opposite, and leave it for the sick gentleman.” Eliza’s eyes widened. “D’ you know* ’im, miss?” she asked in. an awed whisper ; “’e ha mortal bad.”

■ “Mortal had !” said the little musicmistress, who bad been too often “mortal bad” herself to he appalled by the information. “Nonsense, Eliza., you don’t know anything about it. You need not say who sent it, there is-no need.” She added the last few words in a dignified tone; “Yea, miss,” said: Eliza obediently, and went away.

“Eancy her bein’ that, ’cute,” She said to herself in on awed tone. “Knowin’ »im all along, ’n never diroppin 5 a whisper. Blest if. they aint sweet’earts,. the pair on ’em, sweet’earts as /as; quarrelled most like.” 1 ' She,departed, Idtchenwands to. show, the parcel to the cook, and discuss- the. matter- in aHI its, hearings with that' worthy*

“Mortal "bad, indeed,” said tlie little music-mistress. “Just like a man—his little fingea* aches, and ihe thinks he’s going to die.” She Mil hack among her pi!s!owa angrily.. • Next day she felt better. She decided to me; the sun was sinning into her parlour in the front of the house; it seldom penetrated to the back. She ,eat behind the curtain very stiff ry, with "a hook. She regretted the fruit, and the conventionalities .were very assertive in accusing her; she felt she hated the man over the way, he deserved to .be ill. 'Ho did not sit behind the curtains, he lay 'on a sofa drawn close to the window, and watched the sky. Now and then he stole a surreptitious gsanoo at the vague outlines of her gown and head, and smiled. - The little miusncmis tress was long-sigliod, and she watched -him keenly. Oihco she thought lie even waved his hand; but that coaiul not be!

Yet she was impelled to rise and go away. “Those English She said, indulgently, smiling to herself in the dari-:-liess of the passage. In the evening came mere flowers, mid with them a message. She could not believe that it oouf.d be a card at- first: when she forced herself to take it in her hand, at length, it shook so that she* could not read the words written upon it. It was not from the invalid, however, but from his nurse, who had been taken into the confidence of Eliza. It was' sueli a pretty romance, she had said to herself—those two, who had obviously drifted apart in the past, coining together now. How they do'uf.d comfort each other; who knew that it might not be the ttaming point in the life- of her patient, might infuse into him some of that resisting power that he lacked ? How fond the poor fellow was of her, too; how many long days had he lain upon his couch, just watching -her window, with such a look upon his ' face; they only needed someone to break the ice for them. Perhaps the quaint lithe Frenchwoman would come over and talk to him in the evenings, when he was inclined to be querulous, as mil invalids af9 at night, and she heirself would he able to slip .away for a rest, and, perhaps, even a stroll. It commended itself, to. her this role of peace-maker. It wa,s easy to see how eager he was : .as for her, she was a woman. She scribbled a few words, on a card, which she insinuated carefully among the flowers. . The little music-mistress could not believe her senses. “Oomo and see him,” she read; “it would do him so much good.” She spent ‘ the whole morning, and most of the afternoon, pacing up and down her parlour, wondering if these were English customs. “She seems restless to-day, nurse,” he said towards evening. “I daresay she has much, to think about,” said she, smiling enigmatically. ‘‘Poor little woman, she’s too small to stand up to the world alone,” he muttered: In the evening she came. . She clamped upstairs in her' heavy shoes, behind the light-footed nurse, her heart beating painfully, her sallow cheeks aglow. S-he had brushed her soft hair back very uncompromisingly from her brows; she looked absolutely plain, save for her eyes, which' were long-lash-ed and had a wistful, spirited look in them. , T haven’t .prepared (him,” said the nurse, wondering where was the proverbial coquetry of the Frenchwoman; “just told him that he might expect a visitor.” N ' The little music-mistress nodded, absorbed in her own thoughts. “I have no mother to arrange,” she said wistfully. . “Love arranges itself,” said the nurse sententious!] y. -She nodded again in a sprightly way. The sentiment seemed to fit in with her own ideas exactly; yet she sighed for a mother to arrange settlements. The nurse opened the door for her to enter, closed it softly and went away. V “Why,” he said, and held out his hands like a hoy, a warm flush on His jface, “you !” ; They had been neighbours so long, he had seen her come and go so often, and / .he had spent so much of his time thinking of her, that it seemed the most natural! thing in the world that slhe should be here, and he speaking to her. 'She went forward, holding out both of her thin little hands. He clasped them warmly, looking into h her strange eyes, and it seemed to the little music-mistress in that moment the gates of an enchanted woiild sprang suddenly open, and she passed through /•• them, treading on air. ... “How strange life is,” said he einilling. •c* “Yes,” said the little music-mistress, ‘Like a dream.” . hV “A happy dream,” said he. “A happy dream,” repeated the litbl? music-mistress, as if seeking to assure lierseilf of the truth of his words, “but it is not always a happy dream.” ; “Ah! you -don’t kno-w (life,” lie cried looking at her oddi'ly. “It can be very ; / beautiful.” 1 •- She shivered.' . “Believe me or not.” he said. “I shouild like to believe yiou/’sho said, with wistful eyes, thinking of the long, dull, lonely days behind and before her.

“If you would let me —show you,” he said eagerly, “in my mirror.” ‘Life is so lonely,” she said, aslrCScusing herself to herself. ‘Then .we are (friends,” he said “for a little while.”

'She gave him a swiff look, and his heart leapt. She remembered Eliza’s words, she had said he was “mortal! had,” surely, surely he might be her friend now. He might never he her lover, he was Death’s; how could he stiiiil call life beautiful.

He lay for a long time, after she was gone, thinking. The nurse came and went, discreetly refraining from speech. Ho called her to him. “Is it true, nurse, that r am to die?” ho- asked. For a moment she did nor, answer, then she said quietly. ‘The doctor does not think you will live, he has toild you so.”

“Bub you, you?” he cried, eagerly. She sat down, holding his hand, and looking at him with intentness. “Sometimes—l have known people who have wanted to live,” she said slowly, “were determined to 'live, did live.”

T am determined to live,” he said not raising his voice.

- ‘Then you will live,” she said, en-oou-i a,gangly. “I shall ilive,” he said, looking across ab the window opposite. “■She was crying,” said tho nurse, who thought she understood. He turned his head aside to hide the look in lus eyes from her. ‘‘Brave little woman,” he murmured, and fell asleep, wondering that ho did not know her name.