CHAPTER XXVI At Akaroa Again.

Otago Witness, Issue 1861, 22 July 1887, Page 33

CHAPTER XXVI At Akaroa Again.

It is evening, and the stars are coming out one by one. A silver haze over the hill yonder tells where the moon will rise. Presently brighter and brighter it grows, and now the moon in all her calm majesty rides into the heavens, and the waters of the bay shimmer beneath her rays. Laura stands at the hotel window," looking out. Very still she stands— so still that she might have been a statue but that a longdrawn sigh tells there is a human heart under the bodice of the well-fitting dress, and a human heart in pain: The moonlight falls upon her face as she stands thoughtfully here. It is thinner than of old, and wears an expression of dignity and gravity it neyer used to wear. All the old childlike brightness is gone, and the one time smiling lips are drooping. The large ■ violet eyes' have a yearning, hungry look in them — sure sign of unrest within.

Sighing a second time, she slowly lifts up her white hand and gazes at a wedding ring encircling one of the tapered fingers. It is six months since her wedding day, but as many years might have passed and not wrought such a change iri her.

Leaving the sitting-room she enters a bedchamber adjoining, and crossing out to where a tiny white draped bed stands in a corner, looks down at the little sleeping occupant A shaded lamp stands on a table near, and by its light the hair of the little one waving over the snowy pillows looks a dead gold. The fair face is flushed, and the rosy lips are parted with a smile, and as Laura gazes her own face brightens, and kneeling down by the cot she takes one of the little arms and twines it round her neck.

The pretty sleeper murmurs " Poor dear mamma!" and, kissing her softly, Laura rests her soft check against the flushed one and whispers ;

" Darling Clarrie ! sometimes I fear the task I set myself is too hard for mo, but for your sake it was undertaken and for your sake it must be accomplished."

Yes, Laura had done what long ago Jack had foretold she would ; laid down her life a sacrifice. She had married this child's father for love of the child, with no more knowledge of the man than such information as he himself gave, and that acquired by three months' acquaintance, living under the same roof with him in the hotel at Sumner. She knew when she laid down her life a sacrifice that it was a sacrifice, but then all her dearest hopes of happiness had died when Jack failed her, but surely she reasoned with others, surely there was something else to live for besides happiness, and • ''was it nothing to spend her days for, doing a mother's part towards this motherless child, this little lonely, oftentimes neglected, girl, who had so entwined herself round her affections, and who had become so passionately fond of herself that if Laura did not take her to her bed she sobbed herself to sleep moaning : " Poor Clarrie got no one to love her ! " "If I can be a patient mother to that child, brighten and make glad her childhood, watch over her girlhood, and help her, to my best ability, to grow to noble womanhood, will that be nothing to live for 1 " she had asked herself, and answered the question when to the father's pleading she answered " Yes."

She had made a terrible mistake, as every woman has done before her, who allows any mistaken sense of duty, however high, to influence her, or any generous impulse of an inexperienced heart to prompt her to make a loveless marriage No real lasting good can come of it, and by a heap of dead ashes many a woman has mourned that the sacrifice of her life has been made in vain. One by one the bitter fruits will appear, and must be eaten. Little by little the incoming tide of regret, disappointment, misery, and oft times despair, creeps higher and higher over the sands of hope and effort, until no trace is left of the courage and resolve with which she first set out upon the perilous way.

Laura knew that she was marrying aanan whose life had been reckless and selfish ;, so much he told her, but he didn't tell her that he was a drunkard and a gambler — an idle, unprincipled scamp, who, beyond a low sensual passion, entertained no affection for his pure-minded young wife ; ' and that, becoming aware of the fact that, through Uncle John's bounty, she was in possession of some coveted hundreds of pounds, he thought it convenient to fall in love with her, and by talking about a reformed life/ with Her for a guide, and his little child made happy by her side, so work upon the self-sacrificing disposition of the girl that she consented to be his wife.

To Uncle John be represented he, was owner of a small run " down South,"' and an independent income, but Uncle John wept like a child on Laura's wedding-day, and Mrs Viney shook her head, . . They had been married six months, and living all the time at hotels, wandering about from place in a most comfortless manner. A few days ago, without consulting Laura, her husband had given it out as his intention to go for a week or so, to Akaroa, and here they were — Hugh Bishop in the bar, and his wife kneeling by the bedside of his child.

Once she had, in almost impatience, cried out to Jack that she had nothing in the world to do but to love and be beloved ; that she was anxious for trials of patience and tests of strength. She had them now in every hour of every day — yet to-night what would she not have given to be walking by the Avon, or leaning over the College bridge with Jack by her side. Once, in the pride of an untried strength, she had despised the weakness that made mem totter as they went ; yet to-night she had turned from the pathway she had chosen" in fear and dread, and her heart went out to every failing one that she knew. ; Once she had thought it impossible for actions prompted by unselfish and high motive to yield other than good fruit, yet to-night she began to wonder if, after all, it was so ; but, rising to her feet, suddenly her

native bravery of heart shone in her face as she exclaimed : ' ■ . •' ' . " I can't see the way a step before me, but I'll turn my face to the darkness and keep a light burning in my own heart! " Then, returning to the sitting room; ■ sat down to the piano and sang with touching pathos and sweetness the song Jack had listened to from -the verandah so long ago ; What's thie dull town to me ? ■ ' Robin's not near ! What came I for to ace, ■ What for to hear ? Where's all the joy and mirth, Made this town a heaven on earth ? Oh • 'tis all fled with thee, Robin Adair ! What made the ball so fine ? Robin Adair ! What mad,e the assembly shine ? I • Robin Adair ! j What when the play was o'er, ' ' What wast made my heart bo sore ? Oh, it was parting with ' ' ' Robin Adair ! • , "That's enough of thatl" said a voice gruffly, and Laura starting at the sudden interruption turned, to see her husband ,in 1 the -jom. ' F a flung himself into a chair, and stretching out his long legs before him thrust his hands into his pockets, and, looking darkly I at Laura, said :' " ! ■■ " Deuce take it, girl, what makes you jump !so every time I speak to you ? You start pretty nearly out of your skin ! " "Perhaps I am not accustomed to be spoken to so sharply, Hugh." 1 " Then the sooner you get accustomed to it the better." ' i I " Don't say that," replied Laura coming, over to him, and looking imploringly into the cold blue eyes, and laying her hand upon his shoulder. "Why need I? Am I so rebellious that you need oreak me to your will ? In what way have I disappointed you ? In what way am I different to whpn you loved me ? " f A short laugh was all the answer, but he didn't look displeased to have this girl, I whose nobility and purity of thought and action was a constant itritation and reproach to him, stand there so meekly sueing for his favour. "You did love me, did you not?" she continued, seeing that he did not reply ; " and if you were mistaken, Hugh, tell me how to gain your affection. I have meant 1 to ask you this some time, for I am tired of living like this. I know nothing of your plans or aims. Can't you take me into your confidence and let me share your trials, if you have any. We are to spend our lives together, and it is a terrible thing to live ! as strangers. I am afraid we have made a mistake, but let us rectify it to the best of our ability. I will do ray part if — if " "If what ? " he asked, as the gentle pleading tones faltered. • '< • "If you will do yours, dear ! " she conI tinned, putting the hair off his forehead with a light touch. " Give up that hateful drink and gambling, and take me to your home. You would be better away from these hotels. Let us go home, Hugh, and -I will show you what a capital housekeeper I can be," she added, with a pitiful attempt at' cheerfulness. i • "Time enough for that," he answered. " You -would get sick of country life before a month was over." , ' " Try me ! Anything is better than this unsettled way of living. Besides, it is so expensive " "By Jove ! yes. By the way, Laura, I want some money. How much have you got ? " ; Without speaking she unlocked a desk, and taking out four five-pound notes handed them to him. She was beginning to suspect the only " income " he could boast was from the gaming-table. " Did your first wife live with you on your farm ? " asked Laura suddenly. He looked somewhat taken aback at the abruptness of the question, but putting the notes in his pocket-book broke out into a loud laugh, In silent astonishment Laura waited for his reply. " My first wife is here," he said, putting his arm round Laura. " What do you mean ? " " Mean ? Why, that you are my first wife." ' ' " But Clarrie's mother ? " faltered the poor girl, turning white. " Isn't Clarrie your child 7 " 11 1 believe so ; but that doesn't of necessity make Clarrie's mother • my wife — does it? Good heavens, girl, don't stand there gaping like that ! Can't you understand plain English ? " She understood him now. Amazement, horror, loathing — one after the other — were reflected in her face. Her husband winced under the gaze of those flashing, truthful eyes, but tried to carry the matter off with a high hand. " I don't, see anything to make such a terrible fuss about. I never told you I had been married before ; you came to the conclusion without my assistance. What's done can'fc be undone. Here ! come and give me a kiss." With all her strength she pushed him from her. " Villain ! wretch ! " she almost shrieked. " How daied you trick me so ? How dared you have the presumption to ask any respectable girl to be your wife ? Where is the mother of Clarrie 1 " " Gone to -, for all I know ! " replied he savagely. " Can't you be reasonable ? ' Am I the first man that has made a fool of himself, that you must needs make such a scene ? " , "It isn't ymi I am thinking about," she answered scornfully ; "it is that sweet child's unhappy mother. Oh, poor girl 1 poor girl !" she added, wringing her hands, and in her, unselfishness forgetting her own misery in the deep sympathy for the unfortunate, mother of the child she loved, and for the child herself. "Oh, poor girl! poor girl 11, occupy the place that you should fill. And, oh, my darling Clarrie— you poor unfortunate baby! — to think^that in my endeavour to befriend you I have unwittingly' done your mother such a wrong,"

Hugh lopked on ,jn mute, astonishment. It was quite beyond his range of comprehension that his wife should w.eep for a wrong inflicted upon one he would, have imagined in the natural order of things for whom she should entertain' anything but, feelings of kindness, ' His narrow, selfish- nature could

not interpret the charity and generosity of hers.f • .v,;v / • , * , ■ " How could you do it ? " she cried. " You know what a hard, cruel world this is, and you could' rob a girl of all that shelters her from its cruelty,- and send her unprotected to face the pitiless rain of its jeers and scorn. You've got a good many sins at your door, I .believe, Hugh: Bishop, but you couldn't be answerable for a blacker crime than this 1 "

(To be continued.)