SHORT TALE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2232, 10 December 1896, Page 42

SHORT TALE.

FALSE FOR LOVE.

The room had been still for a long time 5 only the even, monotonous splash of the outgoing tide and now and again a restless, unconscious movement of the dying woman in the bed disturbed the stillness of the night.

In the big armchair by the bedside, in the light of the lamp, sat a gaunt woman, angular and haggard. She had watched for many weary nights now beside that bed, but still her eyes were wide and watchful, and her attitude alert. She counted eaoh fluttering breath of the girlish form beneath the sheet, she noted each quiver of the unconscious eyelids.

The night wore on, and, with the coming of the grey dawn, a wind arose, moaning round the little house, and shaking the fastenings of the sick room window.

The dying woman stirred ; she moaned, then slowly opened her eyes— great sad, blue eyes, like a child in trouble. She fixed them upon the watcher in the chair with a pathetic look of entreaty.

11 Hepzibah 1 " The pale lips just formed the whiepered word.

The gaunt woman rose hastily, and bent over her.

" Hepzibah, you have been very good to me " A painful pause, breathing w&3 so difficult. " Am I dying now 1 "

Tbe woman bending over her made no response, but tears gathered in her hard eyes, her thin lips quivered. " No, you need not tell me ; I know I am. I can feel it. Hepzibah — you have been so good to me. There is something that— you mu3t do—for me— whan I am go&e " Hepzibah bent over her, waiting, watchful. The dying girl raised one feeble hand, pointing toward the old bureau in the corner of the room. " There— in the third drawer on the left — a packet — letters — will yon bring them to me?" Hepzibah brought over to her a little bundle, tied round with faded pink ribbon. The young woman fingered it lovingly, wistfully. , " They are Jack's, letters— my Jack, Hepzibah 1 When I am gone, I trust you to barn them tot' me. lorn must »ever know. Peor Tom — he has been a good fcutband to me;, but I loved Jack first— only he was so wild — I did not know that he cared for me. And — he went away in a temper — and I married Tom. Bat when Jack came back from sea last timer I—lI — I found out how muoh he cared. It was terrible — and I loved him ss 1 Then he was drowued — my poor Jaok " A weak sob choked her broken whispering. " Promise you will burn them, Hep zibah, for Tom's sake " " Dear, I promise." " You have been co good to me, so patient with me. When lam gone you will be good to poor Tom." A dull red flush overspread the elder woman's face. She turned her bead into tbe shadow. < "I will do what I can, Nellie," she responded in a smothered voice. " Call Tom now. I feel that I am 800n — going." Hepzibah hastily left the room. She was back in an instant, followed by a stout, ruddy-faced man of about 50. "Come, Nell, my lass, you must bear a brave heart. We'll have you better soon." Nellie looked at him with a faint smile ; Bbc raised the big red hand in which her own was imprisoned to her lips. Then, exhausted by her recant efforts, she closed her eyes, and sesmed to sleup. Presently she started violently; her eyes opaned in terror. "■ " The letters J You will burn them, Hepzibah " Tom turned to Hepzibah wonderingly. He thought the delirium had returned. " What letters does she mean 7 " Hepzibah was silent ; she averted her eyes. Then " She means her dead mother's letters," she replied in a Bteady voice. The dying woman looked her gratitude for the saving lie. There was a silence again and a solemn sense of waiting in the room. At last Nellie made a faint movement with her hand. The tide was nearly out. Beyond, the sun was rising in goldeu splendour, making a glittering pathway across the waves straight to the cottage window. Nellie's big, sad eyes took in all the beauty of the morning ; then they gently closed. " I am coming, Jack— dear," she sighed. So Nellie Thurgood, Tom Thurgood's young wife, died, and was buried in the little churchyard by the sea ; and the tide came in and the tide went out through the long summer days and nights, and peaceful order remained in the little cottage, for Hepzibah was a notable housekeeper ; and Tom was grateful to her la a dull impersonal way. His heart was buried in a newly-made grave on tbe cliff side, and nothing seemed real to him but that. Hepzibah watched him from under her white eyelashes, and kept silent; but his pipe was always ready for him when he came indoors, and his favourite food simmered on the hob. Hepzibih's hair grew brighter as the days went on; her cheeks had a comely flush; she began to take thought of her dress. She bought a blue gingham gown in the village, and a muslin handkerchief for her neck. Her voioe took a softer note ; she began to sing about her work. But Tom would sit In the churchyard through the long summer tv/ilights, and when he came in to his supper his feet dragged wearily and his eyes were dull with ;

" You should not grieve so, 1 ' said Hapfclbah softly one night after supper. She wa# knitting in the firelight, her head was bent over her work.

Tom woke as from a dream ; he looked at her with seeing eyes.

" Ab, it's well to say that to a man whose hear); is breaking I "

Hlo voice grew husky, he turned away his head to the fire.

" But you shouldn't grieve as one without hope. Time must soften things a bit— yon have your life before you."

Tom laughed a short, bitter laugh, not 1 good to hear. [ "She was all I had— my Nellie." The apple of my eye. What good's my life to me now 1 Such pretty ways she had too," he went on musingly, " such loving, tender ways " Hepzibah's needles flashed in the firelight. " There are other women in the world as fond an Nellie," she eaid softly, with her eyes on her knitting. There was a long silence in the room. The fire flickered ; a oinder fell on tbe hearth. Hepzibah conld hear her heart throb ; she slowly lifted her eyes to the man's face. . He was not looking at her at all, bnt at a china shepherdess upon the little table against the wall. Hepzibah slipped out of the door into the summer' darkness. _ , ' She rested her arms on the little gate and looked far out to sea. Her face shone white and ghostly in the dimness. She shivered in the warm air. " You dead woman — you Nellie," Bhe whispered tensely, " why will you not give him up to me 1 You have your Jack, you do not want him— and I— oh, my God 1 " A great tearless sob choked her ; the shimmering waves mocked her ; her face hardened. "Why should I not tell him 1 I shall do you no harm. Are yon anywhere hers to care at all 1 God, the life beyond — are these anything but words? How can one hart the dead? You are asleep in the churchyard ;' and I love Xim — I tell you I love him I " The , man was sitting smoking moodily, gazing into the glowing fire, when Hepzibah glided in and stood behind his chair. " Tom, I can't bear that you should grieve so. . She wasn't worthy of a lovs like yours." "Hepzibah!"" He turned his chair quickly and faced her. She shrank into the shadow.

" I have thought you ought to know," she faltered, " because I can't bear to see you spoilin' your life for love of her — her who did not love yon at all, but Jack."

Her voice was firmer now. She locked an-i unlocked her hands babind har.

" Woman, what do you mean I What lies are you telling me 1 "

He had sprung to his feet, and came toward her threateningly. She raised a trembling hand tc keep him off.

" It's trae. Dob/g you rcmerabsr her calling out about the • letters ' the night; aha -died 1 She gave me a packet— Jack's lefctere to her." "My God I Give them to me 1 " She fumbled in the breast of her blue gown.

"^You must not mind ao much, Tom. There's many a giddy girl b3en false to her good man before now, and a fond, steady woman has come along to make him happyafter all."

"The letters 1"

Hepzibah laid the packet on the table, and crept away up tbe staircase to her room. She fell on her knees by the bedside, clutching the coverlet tight over her mouth, that her deep-voiced prayer might be stifled. She shook as with an ague. The gates of heaven and bell were open.

The still hours passed by. Night waned, but Hepzibah, wide-eyed and numb, crouched by the bed, straining her ears for any sonnd from the room below. Anything, anything but this deadly silence 1 The hours seemed eternities. An hour before dawn came the sound of a chair scraping on the flagged floor ; he had risen. She held her breath to listen. Then drawers were opened and shut; his footsteps eohoed too and fro. Then silence and tbe scratching of a pan. If; grew unbearable. Dishevelled, waa, fearful, she crept down the stairs and peeped in.

Tom Thurgood «ai at the table, writing by tbe dim candle light. He had on his rough pilot's Coat. A bundle tied in a red handkerchief rested beside him. '

Hepeibah's broken cry aroused him. He rvse and came towards her.

" I'm going away — back to sea again," he said gravely. " You're welcome to the cottage and the bits of furniture. There's no home for me now : the place would kill me. I shall be out on the brine before you are up. Get back to bed, woman. Good-bye — there, go* 1 "

He turned back to his writing, and the room was quiet again. Presently he threw down his pen and passed his inky fingers through bis hair.

" The wind moans terrible to-night," he said.

It was Hepzibah above, crying for her lost Paradise.