CHAPTER XXV.

Otago Witness, Issue 1449, 30 August 1879, Page 22

CHAPTER XXV.

Isabel's story.

The doctor paused for a moment, and contemplated tho scone before him. On the bed lay Isabel — tho white sheei scarcely whiter than her face — which was so thin that the formation of the skull was plainly visible. Her dark hair — no longer ether thick or glossy — streamed over the pillow. Her eyes were closed, she seemed to be in a slight doze. Curled up on the bed sat a lovely little child, with wavy, golden brow» hair, large innocent

blue eyes, and a mouth just made to be kissed. By her side stood a little fellow, evidently her brother, but wry much darker. Dr Gordon took it all in at a glance ; and at that moment Isabel awoke, with a terrible fit of coughing. Ho came forward, raised her, and applied such remedies as were at hand. The £L fc over, Isabel sank back exhausted — almost fainting. As soon as the power of speech returned, she whispered : "You are Dr Gordon, are you not ?" , " Yen, and your friend." "1 need one, ah, how sorely. Will you send the children away for a while ? I must speak with yon." " You are too niuch exhausted. Had you not better wait till to-morrow 1" " Don't put me off," she pleaded. " I shall know no peace until I have said what I must say.". Seeing her earnestness, the doctor made no further demur. When they were alone, seating himself by the bedside, he said, " Before you begin, Mra Euston, let me tell you that almost tho last word I spoke to your sister was a promise that if ever I met with you, and you needed help, I would give it as if you were my sister." ''Dear Esther ! then she thought of me ? I was not quite forgotten !" "No indeed. Mr Ross went to New Zealand chiefly because he believed you were there, with your husband." The pale faco flushed as Isabel answered ; " No, 1 did not go ; my husband left me ; I drove him away ; it was all my fault." The rapidity with which she spoke brought on another severe fit of coughing. 1 ' You must not excite yourself so, Mrs Euston," remonstrated the doctor ; "if, you do, I must go, for I shall do more harm than good." " I will be quite calm if you will only let me toll my story," she whispered, And then, with many pauses for broath, she poured her tale into Dr Gordon's sympathising ear. It was the old story ■ of passion and romance, quenched by prosaic poverty. For a few months all went well. Capt. Euaton had taken lodgings at Bayswater, for his bride ; and while the novelty lasted was assiduous in his attentions. But he had been in debt to no alight extent when he married. His income remained the same, while his expenditure was' doubled. Bills began to pour in, and not having courage to face the situation manfully, the Captain sought refuge in his . old haunts of dissipation, neglected during the first months of marriage. Then came the tears and reproaches of his neglected wife ; met at first with soothing and apologies, hut soon with indifference. Hitherto Isabel's high spirit had received no check ; Esther being too gentle, and Mr Eoss too much occupied with his busi-, ness, to interfere with her. As for Mrs Ross, she had not only " let them alone," as regards all good, but her example of self-indulgent selfishness had done infinite harm, to Isabel, at leaßt. Bitter reproaches and recrimination were now almost constant between the unhappy couple. At last, after a more than ordinarily violent quarrel, the Captain exchanged into a regiment bound for New Zealand, and went off without a word of j farewell, leaving his wife perfectly dcs- < iitute. That was when little Elsie was a ; year old, and Regie three. For two years poor Jsabel managed to keep herself and ! nor children from starvation, by giving j music lessons, and taking in sewing. But in the spring she had caught a severe cold, which being neglected, settled on her lungs, and threatened to prove fatal. " Then, and then only, "continued Isabel, "did f determine to return home, and j seek that help for my children which I j would have been too proud to seek for myself, after all my letters remaining unanswered. But my poor babies would i have gone to the workhouse had I died in ! London." And she shuddered. ! " But," said the doctor, "you speak of your letters remaining unanswered. Your j father never received more than two, though both he and your sister wrote repeatedly. " " Only two ! Then did not Esther get tho one telling her I had left Bayswater, and enclosing my new address ?" "She did not ; your silence distressed them all greatly." " Not more than theirs did me. I only received one letter from papa, and that was bo stern, that when I did not hear again, I supposed he was angry still ; and so never thought of inquiring for letters at my old lodgings. But I wonder how mine missed?" She would, had she known they were never sent ; thelodginghouseser- j vant to whom they were entrusted, regu- I larly destroyed them, and spent the ! postage money on drink ! Then Isabel ! went on to tell how she had sold all she possessed, and obtained just enough to I bring her to Glasgow ; how she had gone '( first to the Scotts that she might hear of v those at home, and had found the house jin the possession of strangers, who told ;her the minister's family had gone to ' Now Zealand loug ago. But the idea that [ her father had left Glasgow, never en- \ tered Mrs Huston's head for a moment, I and the shock was fearful when ahe heard ( of the emigration. " There was T, dying ; ' without, as I supposed, a single friend in j Glasgow ; not a penny left, and two little • children to care for. But God had not . forsaken me, though I was sorely tempted . to think Bo had. First, He sent that ; good Mrs Craig, and then you. And i ,now, doctor, : cannot talk anymore, '.'» ill you promise to send the children to their i grandfather, when 1 am gono 1 He will 1 receive them, I know, and. repay you." i j "I promise," said i)r Gordon. " You j may be quite easy on their account ; I , I will be responsible for them." i The doctor only wished that he could

have held out any hope of Isabel's recovery ; but his experienced' eye saw too plainly that her days were numbered. After afew questions regarding her health, he left her — with a great load of anxiety which had been pressing on her removed by his kindness. He found Regie, Elsie, ' and Maggie at their supper, while Mrs Craig sat by with little Alick fast asleep in her lap. Giving some directions about his patient, and promising to settle, tomorrow, the fate of the two little waifs, Dr Gordon set out on hi* homeward way. The cold had increased with the darkness ; drawing his plaid closer around him, he \ walked rapidly on ; for it was late, and | he knew that his " mother was waiting for him. She was lying as usual on her couch in the "study." The room looked exactly as it had done on that night, now. more than four years ago, when she had told her son of the twins' first visit. The only change was in Mrs Gordon herself. Last June she had had a second stroke ; slight, compared with the first, but it had rendered her left hand and arm^useless. She, and everyone about her, knew that her time now could not be long. Everyone, except her son ; he, doctor though he was, refused to believe it ; persuading himself that with skill and oare, he could keep her with him many years yet. He found her waiting tea for him, aa usual. " I hae been wearying for ye, laddie," she said, as he entered. " Ye're unco' late the neicht." ' " True mother ; I had a new patient to visit." "Did ye call at Mrs Craig's? Sandy wa3 here, speerin' after ye." " Yes," replied her son, aa he made the tea ; " it was there I was kept." ' " Wha was it ?" suddenly inquired Mrs Gordon, noticing his unusual gravity. " You must have your tea first,' mother, and then I'll tell you. Jane should serve you when I am late ; it is not fit for you to wait so long." "The waiting disna hurt me," answered his mother ; ," an' I canna relish my tea, unless you pour it out." The meal over, Hugh drew his chair to her side, and recounted Isabel's sad story. ■ "Puir lassie, puir lassie !" she exclaimed, when it was finished. "Eh ! but- she brewed a bitter bro 'a st to hie^seV when she married yon soger chiel. What are ye goin' to do about it, Hugh ?" "I must write to her father by this mail. For herself I can do nothing, except make her last hours as easy as possible — there will not be many of them, poor thing. And then I must look out a suitable escort for the children to New Zealand." " Yell maybe be able tae take them yourael," remarked Mrs Gordon, quietly. "Mother!" r " Short as that puir lassie's time is,, my ain'a maybe shorter,,",. continued she ; " and weel do I ken, gin ye were free, ye wadna bide lang i',. Scotland. Nay, let me speak, Hugh, this once,", she entreated, as he would have interrupted her. " You never spoke to me o' -Esther, because you thocht I'd maybe feel' as if I stood in,the way o' your happiness -but I kenfc fine, for a' that. She wouldna stop, because it was her duty to go ; ,and< ye wouldna go, as ye would weel'ha' lik'it to do, because o' me." ' . . " ' ' " Why do you speak of - this now, mother?" said Hugh, in a. pained tone. "Free ! God knows, 1 have never' felt the care of you as a duty ; it has been- -is — a proud joy. . Do' I not owe my present position entirely to you who have done for me what not one mother in a thousand would have done 1 I have never (except for your own sake) regretted' your dependence upon me ; never — not even when I said farewell to Esther. And it is my constant, earnest prayer that you may be spared to me many yeara yet." " God bless you for those words, ; Hugh," said his mother, with glistening eyes. "And ye may mind, the day, you marry Esther, that I bless you both. I'll' be with you then, gin I'm let ; though you'll no sco me ; New Zealand's as near Heaven as Glasgow, I'm thinking." "Are you feeling worse than usual?" inquired her son, anxiously, for she had | never spoken so before. " No," was the reply, " I feel better than I hae done for lang, but it seemed [ borne in upon me to speak to you so, this night. (To be continued.— Commenced in No. 1441.)