FICKLE JACK'; OR, FROM WEAKNESS TO STRENGTH.

Otago Witness, Issue 1862, 29 July 1887, Page 32

FICKLE JACK'; OR, FROM WEAKNESS TO STRENGTH.

By Alick. Author of " The Grandmother's Story," " Mother

and Daughter," " Chalk," &n.

Chapter XXVII. Changes.

The tide was coming in full quickly upon Laura, but she did not fly before it. She needed all her fortitude and courage, but, though her hope almost died, she stood to her post. As the husband is the wife, as thou art mated with

a clown, And the baseness of his nature shall have weight to

drag thee down, Tennyson told her, but she cried

" Never, never. Because he is coarse and vile, am 1 to become such ? Because he is cruel and selfish, must I forget to love and pity ? 0 God ! " she prayed, " keep my heart green." She battled bravely against the waves of sorrow and disappointment that surged in upon her, and kept her head above the tide, but the thirst and hunger for human love she could not still, so she set herself to win even his— a man whom every instinct of her nature prompted her to despise. " He is my husband," she would tell herself when she laid her hand upon his shoulder. "He is my husband," she would weep, when hour after hour the lonely evening would wear into the night, and half the night drag through before she gave up awaiting his coming in from the card tables. Time upon time he found her on his return sleeping with little Clarrie's golden head on her shoulder, and the little arms locked tightly round her neck. A woman must have something to love and cherish ; and, oh, how often the touch of baby fingers have had power to hold a woman to the post of duty when nothing else would. How many a breaking heart bends tenderly over those little, cots at night ; how many lonely despairing wives patiently rock their little ones co sleep. For Clarrie Laura had dared, and for Clarrie she would do ; and day by day the pretty child rejoiced in the sunshine of her love." They rambled about together, and played hide and seek behind the rocks, and in the twilight sat on the rug before the fire together, while Laura told bright stories; then, at night, they often fell asleep with their arms clasping one another close.

Bad as things were, and base' as Hugh Bishop had been, even yet if he had one atom of manliness or goodness in his nature, in time, Laura thought, he must soften and repent, and turning to her they might glean some golden ears from such a field of ruin ; so, seeking for a spot of good soil wherein to sow' the seed, she endured and was Sumb,

Without any warning, one day when the coach came rattling into Akaroa it brought Uncle John with it on the box. He, too, bad changed ; the benevolent countenance wore an anxious expression.- Hurrying towards the hotel and entering the garden, he caught sight of Laura playing at ball with Clarrie.

Turning to run after the ball she saw her uncle coming across the lawn, and with a glad cry she bounded to meet him, and, quite regardless of any appearances, flung her arms round his neck crying : " 0 my dear, my dear, I am so glad 1 how good of you to come 1 " When Uncle John let her go he held her off at arms' length and looked hard at her, and though Laura put on a bright smile to deceive him it wouldn't do; he shook his head, and, taking her tenderly by the hand, led her into the house. " I did wrong, very wrong," he said later, " to allow you to make such a terrible sacriflee. Your dying father left yon in my care, "and, if he coald see his daughter to-day, what would he say to me ? " '

" Oh, my dear, my friend ! " replied Laura, kneeling down before hixn, and taking his hands from before his bowed face, "what have you not been to me that father could be to child? Was there ever a moment since kind heaven sent you to me that your great heart has failed me T When others faltered, you were faithful still ; when I was wayward, you were tender still ; Avhen I was happy, you rejoiced ; when I was troubled, you were sad. Life could have sent me no rich blessing you would have thought too good for your unworthy Laura, and now it sends rue trial you are near to bless. My friend, it breaks my heart to rhink that I have bowed this reverenced head 1 "

And for the first time in weary weeks her fortitude gave way, and she wept as she wept but once before, when her pride and joy lay drunk before her.

That night Uncle John and Hugh were closeted together an hour. Whatever had passed in the interview ended by Uncle John handing his niece's husband some money. The elder man looked excited and stern, the younger frowning and sullen. " That is settled then," said Uncle John, " she comes "

" We come," interrupted Hugh.

" You come back to Christehnrch tomorrow with me, and you are my guests until you can see your way clear to provide my unfortunate niece with a permanent

home." ' " You're a soft old fool, too," soliloquised Hugh, looking after Uncle John's retreating figure — " I'm d dif you're not ; but if you like to ruin yourself — well, it's all the better for me ! I'm tired of hiding in this cursed hole. I shall be glad enough to get back to town and life again. I haven't clone so badly, after all. That wasn't a bad idea carting the youngster about and playing disconsolate widower ! "

Home— going home ! Laura packed up hours before there was need, and danced about with Clarrie till the child was out of breath; and Uncle John, hiding away his keen grief at Laura's lot, talked cheerfully of the future. Home, home, home ! The wheels of the coach seemed to say it in every revolution, and the horses' hoofs seemed to echo it on the stones. It was a cold, raw day, but Uncle John was by her bide to wrap her cloak about her, and see that she did not grow faint for want of refreshment b} T the way. Home, home, home ! Every

puff of the little steamer that took them across the bay seemed to assure them they were drawing nigh. Lyttelton reached, the train bore them swiftly through to Christchurch, then into a cab, and in a few minutes more Mrs Viney was hugging Laura and crying for joy. How snug, how bright the dear old parlour looked, where she had spent so many happy hours in days gone by ! Her own little low chair once more ! She never remembered the cushions so soft, she said ; and when was tea like this that Mrs Viney

carried to her in her own pretty cup ? Were

her canaries alive ? and how was pussy? and how was the gardening getting on ? She must go and see Tom to-morrow, and visit the hospital' once every week. She must go and see Sister Mary. What ! Sister Mary sent back to France? Never again then could she go to the Convent. She could not bear to see another in her place. 'Well, after all, it was perhaps better she did not see her before she went ; she hated to say

good-bye. Uncle John watched over her, and nursed h°r, and tried in every way to shield her from the daily humiliations she was called upon to bear. Night after night, sitting watching in his room, he heard the unsteady, heavy footsteps of his darling's husband, and listened till all was quiet, fearing in one of his drunken fits he might do Laura an injury. Morning after morning, with a merry word, he met the glance of the patient, sad eyes of the gambler's wife, who made no murmur, nor dreamed that her uncle knew half her woe. As the months wore on a child was born to Laura, and when they told her gently it was dead, though her tears fell on the still face, they heard her murmur "My God, I thank thee I " but her touch on Clarrie's head was even more tender than it was before, and Clarrie wondered why her pretty mamma strained her so closely td her when there was no one by, Oftener and of tener Uncle John was heard playing alone in his room, and the violin tola a sad, sad tale. Part of it they understood, and part they did not, for he kept the secret in his own kind heart that Hugh was bringingfthem nearer and nearer to ruin. Aga^ and again and again had he settled his b# and advanced him money, for if he refused Hugh always threatened to take Laura out of the country, and before that threat Uncle John gave way. At last he took a stand, w Laura's sake ; then, seeing him immovable, Hugh forged his name. When discovery w* made it was too late to repair the evil ; so, to save Laura still, Uncle John let the vill»» to whom she was tied escape the punishment he so richly deserved, and now the hontf must be broken up. And for once, ashameo and humiliated, Hugh craved for pardon ano promised amendment, and proposed tak^g Laura to " his place down South." . , Uncle John some yeaTS before, to Defrie^ a man, had purchased from him a little soo cottage and small piece of ground in an ou • of-the-way little village near the mount^ never dreaming at the time that one <®i' mined and broken-hearted, he should tw

to it as his only place of refuge ; but he was silting to-night, his head bowed on his violitC alone in his room, and Mrs Viney sat weeping by the kitchen fire over the sale to take i place'to-moi-row, when the carpets she had swept, and the sofas and silver she had polished so long, must pass into the hands of strangers. « por the last time ! " said Laura, in the parlour, opening the piano, and sitting down b°t'ore it. " For the last time 1 "