Taken at the flood.

Otago Witness, Issue 1161, 28 February 1874, Page 19

Taken at the flood.

A NEW NOVEL.

j[BY THE AUTHOR OP "LADY AUDLEY'S SECBET."]

Chaptek XXX. A BITTER BIOW.

Edmund Staxden had been nearly three weeks in Demerara, and had transacted the greater part of the business that was re--quired to be done in the settlement of the late Mr. Sargent's affairs, when the English mail brought him Sylvia's letter— the letter of renunciation. He sat for some minutes after he had finished reading it, stupified, powerless even to wonder. It seemed like a bad dream. That she, Sylvia Carew, who had laid her head upon his breast in that fond farewell, and vowed eternal fidelity, that she could thus deliberately renoimce him, seemed a thing impossible to believe. He read the letter slowly, thoughtfully, his senses coming back to him by degrees. No, it was not a jest, not a sportive girl's playful trifling with her lover. It had been written in sober earnest. It was a thoughtful, deliberate letter— logical oven— and demonstrating the reasons for the writer's •decision. , " She has grown very wise, he said to himself, bitterly, and then read the letter -for a third time. . _ Love had such a potent dominion over liim that he could not long feel bitterly towards the writer of that miserable letter. The third perusal let in a new light upon the lines. This foolish epistle, which had «iven him so keen a pang, was but a proof of his darlings unselfishness — it showed him the noble mind of her he loved. For his own sake, out of concern for his welfare, she renounced him. She preferred to remain in her obscure position, to endure her joyless life, rather than to accept the chances of his future ; simply because she would not have him forfeit fortune for her sake. The letter breathed regretful love; her heart overflowed with tenderness for the man whoso aTection she renounced. "Foolish child," murtnuredEdmund, with a fond smile " more than foolish to think I would sacrifice her love for anything fortune can bestow. How could she have wavered so soon, after our mutual vows of fidelity, when she knew that there was nothing but hopef ulne&s in my mind \ Can my mother have influenced her to write this letter i It looks rather like it. But, no, that's not possible. My mother could not be <niilty of a dishonorable action. She promised to be kind to my darling while 1 was away. She would never take advantage of my absence to persuade Sylvia to renounce me." Whatever influence might have caused the writing of that letter, Mr. Standen had but one thought after receiving it, and that was an eager desire to get back to England as soon as it was practicable for him to return there. Ho hurrie dly completed the remainder of the business in hand, doing it well, though hastily. Ho persuaded Mrs. Sargent that for her own health and her children's an immediate departure was advisable, and prevailed upon the stricken -widow to make herself and belongings ready to start by the next intercolonial •steamer to St. Thomas. Poor Mrs. Sargent obeyed her brother willingly enough. Had he not came to her as a protecting angel in the hour of her bitterest need 'I She was glad to leave tho scenes where all her happiness was associated with the dead. The little black-frocked children were rejoiced to go to England in the big steamer, and -talked rapturously of seeing grandmamma, whom the eldest could just remember, isdmund dilated on the delights of the Dean House gardens, and the English fruits and flowers, which were so different from the guava, tamarinds, plantains, and pine apples familiar to those small colonists. The duty of consoling his sister and amusing her children kept Edmund Standen too° constantly engaged for much indulgence in morbid thoughts. The widowe d voyager was ill and broken spirited, and her brother had hard work to cheer her were it ever so little. The small nephew and nieces wereexacting, Edmund had actually no time for gloomy forebodings, which are generally the growth of leisure. He grew to think of the letter quite lightly. ' ' Dear foolish Sylvia, how could she suppose I would give her up ! " he said to himself. Although duty kept him closely employed it could not altogether stifle impatience, and tho voyage seemed longer than it would have appeared to a contented mind. He so longed to see his darling again, to gaze once more into the darkly luminous eyes and read there the tender denial of that foolish letter. When at last the steam •wheels turned gaily in English waters, and I the pretty Wight, glorious in autumnal verdure, stole up out of the blue, his heart beat loud with joy. Southampton, commonplace enough to the common traveller, to the lover seemed a fairy city, whoso pavements were golden. Mr. Rjtandon allowed the widow and orphans but one night's rest at the Dolphin, ere he whisked them off toMonkhauiptou by

the South- Western Railway. It waa a long day's journey, with some changing of trains, and much delay at the junctions where they changed, and again uncle Edmund was fully employed by the clams of the widow and the small children. He was tired when they arrived at Monkhampton, where his mother's roomy landau and a cart for the luggage were in attendance. Edmund felt somewhat suprised that neither Mrs. Standen nor Esther had come to meet the travellers.

It was late in October, and even in this genial climate, autumn's decaying touch had made havoc. The woods were lovely with that glowing splendour which is the forerunner of death. The bare fields and busy plough spoke of seed time and winter. The carriage wheels went silently over fallen leaves that lay deep in the unfrequented roads. How welcome was that simple beauty of English landscape to Edmund after the more lavish nature of South America.

Heuteered that favourite exclamation of Englishmen. " After all, there is no place like dear old ■England. " And England held Sylvia, that one lodestar of his soul. Mrs. Sargent signed plaintively. " How happy I should bo to return if I were coming back with George," she murmured.

The children wore gay enough, craning their young necks in all directions, struggling out of their nurse's arms, pointing to every dwelling they beheld, near or distant, and asking if that was grandmamma's house. Finding by degrees that a great many houses did not belong to grandmamma, they began to have a diminished idea of that lady's possessions.

But they came to Dean House at last : the staid, sober, old mansion, fronting the high road so boldly, and not pretending to°be anything better than it was. The 'c was tho familiar iron gate, there the green tubs of scarlet geraniums, still flourishing with luxuriant'bloom. Edmund gave a little impatient sigh as he thought how many maternal questions, fond and anxious, he would have to ans ver, before iie could hurry off to Hedingham and clasp Sylvia tc his breast. It would be night ere he crossed the old churchyard and,, opened tho little gate into the schoolhouse garden, and saw tho lighted windows of Sylvia's parlor. He could fancy the glad look of surprise when she opened the door in answer tr> his summons and saw him standing before her in the moonlight. Come back from the other side of the world, as it were ; come back to claim her in spite of her letter.

The neat parlor-maid opened the glass door. The gardener and his underling came out to assist with the luggage ; and while Edmund was lifting the children out of tho carriage his mother appeared on the threshold with Esther Rochdale at her side.

The first glance told Edmund that their faces were not cheerful. It was in honour of George Sargent, of course, that they put on those sombre looks.

' ' It's a 1 >ity they should look so doleful, " thought Edmund. "I've had sadness enough from Ellen all the way frouiDemerera, and now they remind her of her misfortunes instead of trying to make her forget them." He kissod his mother, who received him with deepest tenderness. ' ' My own brave son," she said. "Thank God for having brought you back to me. " ""How is Sylvia?" he asked eagerly. They were a little way apart from the widow, nurse, and children. The little ones were being kissed and welcomed by Esther Rochdale. She was delighted with these new claimants for her affection. The happy, loving nature overflo wed in fond caresses, and pretty girlish talk. " [t does soem sweet to come to you," said poor Ellen, and then melted to tears at the thought that she mine without that other half of her own being, the fondly loved husband.

Edmund repcatedhis impatient question. His mother was so slow to answer, but hung upon him with half-despairing fondness, as if he were going to be led off to execution in a minute or two.

"I don't know," faltered Mrs. Standen. • 4 ' She is very well, I believe. I have not seen her lately. Como to your room, Edmnud ; you must bo so tired. Change your dusty clothes, and come down to dinner. It has been ready for the last half -hour."

"You haven't seen her lately," repeated Edmund, ignoring Mrs. Standcn's maternal solicitude. " You promised you would be kind to her, mother." "Edmund," said Mrs. Standen, with that steady, resolute look which her son knew so well. * ' I will not say a word about Sylvia Carew till you have dined and rested a'little."

"Then I shall go to Hedingham this moment," cried Edmund, snatching his hat from the slab where ho had just put it dowrj. " What, run away from your mother m tho first hour of youv return to her 1 lam sorry you have no better idea of a son's duty." Edmund pat hi» hat down again.

' ' You are too hard upon me, mother, " he said, melted but yet reproachful. ' ' You don't consider how my heart yearns for her. I have had but one letter from her during my absence, and that a letter calculated to make me uncomfortable. lam dying to see her. But if yoii wish it I'll dine first. Only you might gratify me by speaking of her. Tell me that she is well and happy. That will last till I have dined, and can get to the dear old school-house." "I have every reason to believe that she is well and — prosperous. " ' ' Meaning happy. That will do, mother. I see Sylvia will be always a sore subject with you and a bone of contention between us. But I must make tho best of it. My affection for you shall not be diminished by your prejudice, nor my love for Sylvia lessened because you refuse to love her." He went upstairs to his room, the fresh bright English room, with its English comforts. There was a fire burning in his dressing room to welcome the voyager from a warmer climate. But this material luxury could not restore Edmund Standen's good temper. He flung himself into the arm chair before thefire, and satthero in gloomy meditation instead of hastening to make his toilet for dinner.

"Domestic dissension ! " he muttered, "how hard it is. Will my mother never, reconcile herself to my choice? Will this sort of thing continue for the rest of our lives ? It tempts me to think that my mother's influence was at the bottom of that wretched letter."

He went downstairs a quarter of anhour later, refreshed as to his external appearance, but by no moans comfortable in his mind. The three ladies were already assembled in the dining-room, and Mrs. Sargent was looking almost bright, now that she was once more under the mother'swing.

But Mrs. Standen and Esther both had a cloudy look. Except for their first greeting Edmund and Esther hadhardly spoken to each other once since his return. Miss Rochdale looked very small, and slight, and insignificant in her black dress, and seemed anxious to avoid Edmund's notice.

The dinner progressed in the usual stately manner — that respectable stateliness and slowness which makes even a moderate dinner such a lengthy buisne^s. It would have been pleasant enough if there had been plenty of talk to fill the pauses in the service, but this was rather a silent party. Ellen and her mother talked a little, in confidential tones, chiefly about the lamented deceased, and the details of his fatal illness. Edmund, whom inclination would have kept silent, felt that for civility's s-ake he must talk to Esther. ' ' A nything stirring at Hedingham while [ was away ?" he asked, " Havo you any news to tell me, Esther 1 You ought to have quite a budget after three months." Miss Rochdale blushed, and looked down at her plate. "I don't think there's much to tell," she said, "Hedingham is always quiet, you know, Edmund." ' ' Yes, it's a dreadfully dead and alive place, no doubt, still in three months there must have been some remarkable events — cricket matches ; football — "

" I really don't know anything about cricket or football."

"Dinner parties, births, deaths, marriages V At this last word Esther's blush deepened to such crimson that Edmund could but remark it.

" Come, there has been a wedding," lie exclaimed, "and one that you are rather interested in, I should think by the way you blush. What docs it moan, Esther ? Have you been getting married yourself, and kept the news to surprise me on my return V

"No, Edmund. lam never going to marry. I've been making a solemn vow to that effeeb to tho little ones upstnii-3. I'm going to be Aunt Esther all my life, and a nice old maiden Aunt by and-bye."

"Nice you must always be; but wo shan't allow you to be always a spinster. My mother must have some of tho propensities of her sex, superior-minded as she is. Now, you know, all women are matchmakers. When they've clone with matiimonial schemes on their own account they begin to pint for some one else. I've no doubt my mother has her views about you."

Esther was silent, and looked oven a little embarrassed by his mild badinage,

"Then there is positively no news in Hsdingham ?" said Edmund.

"None that you would care to hoar." Dinner was over at last, and the produce of the Dean House grapory duly praised — the largest bunches sent upstairs to the, children by the fond grandmother. Edmund left tho room with his mother, put his arm through hers, and led her towards the study, a snug little room where there were always candlea ready to be lighted "when anyone wanted to write a letter or find a book. "Come in here, mother," said the young man, ' ' I want to have a long talk. T suppose it's too late for me to go to the schoolhouße to-night, thongh I had set my heart upon seeing Sylvia before I wont to

bed. Our dinner is always such a long; business. " He struck a match, lighted the tall candles in the massive old silver candlesticks, wheeled a comfortable chair forward for his mother, and then seated himself opposite her." "Now, mother," he said, "I've dined and rested, in obedience to your behest, and now tell me all about Sylvia."

"Edmund," faltered Mrs. Standen, looking at him with unspeakable tenderness, "I have something to tell you which, will, I fear, make you very unhappy, yet it ought not to do so, if you can only be wise, and see the matter as I see it. You. have had a most happy escape." " What do you mean ?" cried Edmund, with quickened breathing. " I don't understand a word you say." " Sylvia Carew is married." "Married !" he cried, looking at her in sheer amazement, and then he broke out into a- laugh, singularly harsh of sound as compared with that genial laughter which. was natural to him. " Come, mother, this is a joke, of course. Or you're trying me — you want to find out how 1 should take the loss of her, were it possible for me to lose her. But it isn't possible, except by death." Then, with an awful look he cried out, ' ' She's not dead, is she ? You said just now that she was well, but you may have been paltering with me in a double sense. The dead are well. ' ' For God s sake, speak," he cried violently, " is Sylvia dead 1" " No, she is well enough, as I told you. when you asked about her ; and she is what the world calls wonderfully fortuuate. She is married to Sir Aubrey Perriam."

"Mother, do you want to drive me mad ? Whose invention, whose lie, is this'? Married to Sir Aubrey? Why, she had never seen the man's face. I heard her say so the day before the school feast."

" True, but he saw her at the school feast, saw her and fell in love with her. They were married about five weeks after you left. A very quiet marriage. No one, except the Vicar and the people concerned, knew anything about it till it was over. It was a nine days' wonder. They came back to the place a fortnight ago. I have seen Lady Perriam driving about ill her carriage. " " Lady Perriam," cried Edmund, witha still hardher laugh. "How well it sounds, doesn't it ? I suppose it was for that she married a man who must be nearly old enough to be her grandfather. Lady Porriam ! No, it was her father forced her to many him. I'll not believe that she was base. I know that she loved me. I felt the beating of her heart against my own in tlie moment of our parting — the heart that beat so strongly, and seemed all truth. I know that she loved me !"

" She may have loved you in her own selfish way ; but you see she loved rank and wealth much better. "

" It was no act of her own free will. She was goaded to it, forced to do it." "She renounced you of her own free will, in less than a week after you left," answered Mrs. Standen ; and then she told thu story of her first and only visit to Sylvia Carew. "Esther was present all the time; Esther heard all," she said in conclusion.

" Oh, I am not going to question the truth of your statements," returned Edmund, wearily. " She has married- that ia enough. It matters very little by what degrees she arrived at that baseness. Enough to know that she lied to me ; that when she looked up in my face with tearful eyes — those lovely eyes — and swore to bo true to the very last, she was caj)able of deceiving mo ; a fine house, a carriage, a high-sounding name, could tempt her away from me. Say even that her father persuaded her, threatened, tormented her, had she been loyal she would have borne the uttermost torment, she would havo died under the torture, rather than broken her faith with me. The struggle would not havo been for very long. She knew that I was coming back. A little courage, a little constancy ,_ and I should have been at her side to claim and hold her for my own against all the world. " Tho strong man was vanquished by tho force of that stronger passion — and for the first time since his father's death Edmund Standen wept bitter tears. Tho mother flow to his side, knelt down by his chair, hung upon him fondly, trying to comfort him with overflowing love.

" Edmund," she sobbed, "it is not my fault — you will not hate mo because o£ this sorrow that has fallen upon you_ Believe me, I did nothing to influence that false, wicked girl. I went to her, propared to take her to my heart — I promised to be gonorous to you by-and-bye, if she proved a good wife — I tried to conciliate her, but she was false to you in her heart at that very moment. She seized upon the shallowest pretext for jilting you. She is a baso designing creature, not worth a thought." "Hush, mother," aaid the young man. with an almost solemn quietude. He had dashed aside those unmanly tears, and. bore tho sharp pains of this new sorrow

like a martyr. " Hush, mother— not one word against her. Let her name be dead between us. Let it be more utterly dead than the names of those we loved and lost We speak of them sometimes. We will never speak of her." His mother, wise even in her love, kissed his cold brow— damp with the anguish of this mental struggle— and left him alone with his sorrow. Whatever form his passion took, were it despair or anger, it was best that he should fight his tattle alone.