FATE

Otago Witness, Issue 2572, 1 July 1903, Page 90

FATE

(For the Witness.)

By E. Gladys Habvet.

I feel a cad ; I always do "when I think of Madoline Hutton.

Our first meeting was commonplace enough in all conscience. I met her on the Caiiington platform one Oay when returning from London. She and I stood for iaJf a minute at tho bookstall, and I chanced to pick up a handkerchief she had dropped. That was enough. She was a tall, slight girl, with great idark eyes and a lot of fluffy hair. I know there was more expression than beauty in her face, but I can't remember what attracted me towards her. She was plainly, .very plainly, dressed in a sombre brown. She wore a cluster of violets, and ever since ihose-rimple, old-fashioned flowers are associated in my mind with my dead. love. ' Alter that first meeting I often came in contact with her. I overtook her returning from town once. I walked with her to the Princess gate another time. She was cold and reserved, but thawed somewhat when I explained that "H H." on my ■ketch-bag represented Harold Hartley. Bhe fingered a card, and I read her name — the sweetest in the world, I think. She told me with delightful frankness that she was earning her living by teaching musio. She called me Mr Hartley, and I could not bring myself to correct, her, and perhaps cause her momentary confusion. If she mistook me for a clerk or something useful, I could not help it, and her good opinion was too sweet a thing to be idly shattered/ So our chumship thrived and grew in leaps and bounds. I meant it to be nothing but friendship pure and simple, but she attracted me strangely. She was always in my thoughts, this slender little girl with the dainty grace. She grew confiding ; she told me how her occupation palled upon her, and how Mrs Gathome, whose children were her pupils, treated her with the society indifference that hurt her sensitive nature beyond bearing. I know that I should have spoken then — told her that Mrs Gathome was my cousin, and so obviated any further confusion, but — well, the proper moment for explanation slipped by, and a few minutes later I was punished for my procrastination, for a carriage swept towards ais, and in the smartly-dressed occupant I recognised my cousin. "Mrs Gathome," murmured Madoline, and she bowed as the horses were pulled up, but Gertie looked past her governess, and extended a cordial invitation to me to ; share her drive. :

I laughingly declined, and / her face blushed angrily as she drove off; but my companion had paled and reddened, and I knew how she felt. I chatted gaily to banish the awkwardness of the occasion, but when she came to one dividing ways she looked me in the face, and said : "Is she a friend of yours?" "I know her very well," I returned, "and think her conduct unpardonable." Even then I could not bring myself to own our relationship. I knew that" that would have enlightened her as to- my name and position A fortnight after that I was cycling down Lome terrace one afternoon. In a pretty, old-style garden two girls sat at afternoon tea. It was Madoline and her school-girl sister. I daresay you think me a fool, but I slit my tyre, and then wheeled it to their gate. Madoline saw me, and smiled an invitation. I went in, and, of course, tried to borpow her cycling tools, but she told me bhe did not cycle, and, as an offset, offered me tea. I was in a seventh heaven for a few minutes, but directly an anp that visited Cressleigh sometimes oounded over the garden wall, and, with a ihout to someone behind him, exclaimed: "Oh, here's Sir Harold! How are the puppies, Sir Harold?"

I should have liked to liave slain him on the spot, but thought I waa clever enough to blind the girls-. "The puppies are all right, Sir Reginald," [ returned, and the boy sniggered, while the youngtr girl cut cake for liim. Madoline's quick eyes were upon me. I was uncomfortable, though apparently unconcerned. I pent the youngster to inspect my bike, but Madoline touched him as he passed her. "Why do you call this gentleman Sir Harold?" she asked.

''Because that is his name," he answered. "Sir Harold Hartley, of Oies*leigh. What else could I call him?" the snapped, as he bounded away. "Is this true?"

I nodded

She rose, with the remark that she wanted to show me a sketch we had spoken of. Her mother came out, and we chatted for seme time, but I saw no more of the elder daughter. Fate played me some strange freaks irithin the next week or so.

One afternoon I was walking down Grosraior street with my sister Minnie and Mrs Gathorne, when we came face to face with Madoline. I suppose unconsciously I showed in my face some of the pleasure that surged within me, for again Gertie disdained to recognise her children's music teacher, and Minnie religiously kept her eyes upon the toes of her shoes. I smiled towards her, but the proud little face gave but the chilliest response. Henceforth my life became a torture. Mv mother laid down my duty to my name and position ; my sifters, not content with penetrating my secret, sneered at my plebeian choice : and mv haughty cousin looked ag'prieved. and spoke of the slight I was putting upon the house of Cre^leigh. And nil this, too. before I had spoken one word ♦o mv pale love. Good God ! how I suffered! they nearly drove me ■uild; vet, ■weakling that I was ; I dil not dare defy

them all- and do as my heart dictated. I decided upon a long-planned project. I had for long wished to trarel extensively in the East, and this was my time. Anything to get away from Cressleigh. I went over to say good-bye to Madoline, hoping all sorts of things as I walked down the street, but to my consternation I found the family had left, and no one knew whither they had gone. Before I reached Cairo I felt like a coward, and disdain for myself personally quenched much of the ardour that had at one time possessed me regarding things Oriental. But I heroically stu?k to my programme, and spent three years unearthing buried treasures ard making hauls of curios for my private museum. When I reached Liverpool I received a telegram calling me to the sick bedside of my favourite sister. She lived in Cornwall, and I hurried to her with all speed- She had taken a. turn the right way, and I found her out of danger; but I stayed on with poor old Jack, who, as you know, is my particular chum as well as brother-in-law. Cressleigh was hateful to me, so I tarried, enjoying the glorious days and hearty Cornish hospitality of Cornslie. One perfect day, when Constance was downstairs again, she and I paid a call on a friend of hers. A white-haired, sad-faced woman received us cordially. Lady Stanley, Connie called her, and her face seemed strangely familiar to me ; but I knew no one of that name. Then her daughter entered, and it"needed no introduction, to tell me that this was Madoline's sister — that other her mother. The girl received me with an icy little bow that was distinctly disheartening, and I grew uneasy. Connie called her Miss Stanley. The mystery grew unfathomable; but I was determined to come to the truth somehow. I asked her to come to the window, and she complied reluctantly — that much I could see. I asked after Madoline, and was amazed at the result of my query. She clenched her hands, and the blood swept from her face.

" Madoline ! Don't dare mention her name. You killed her! Yes, Sir Harold, you killed her! You taught her to love yon. You played with her while she interested you, and' then, at your aristocratic friends' instigation, you dropped her as beneath your notice. You won her love, and then cast it away like a withered buttonhole. Oh, how contemptible! Oh, how I hate you ! Because she bravely took up the burden of supporting my brother and myself, you considered she was not worthy of being classed as an ordinary acquaintance. You must needs masquarade in a spurious personality, lest knowing you as the heir of Cressleigh might lift her too high in her own estimation. She was not good enough for your haughty sisters to acknowledge! Perhaps had you known that some of the proudest blood in England flowed in her veins you would have treated her differently. Had you known that only Valentine Stanley's fragile life stood between her and Falthan you might have hesitated ere you heaped such slights upon her. Six months ago Aunt Laura followed her son to tho grave. Madoline took possession of her own ; and three months ago your noble, manly work was complete. My sister died ; the years of struggle, and wonderment, and waiting, were too much for her highly-strung nature, and 1 she died with your name upon her lips." The impetuous girl had delivered lier tirade without giving me a chance of interruption. She looked up. Something of the anguish I was feeling must have been depicted upon my face, for she paused, and then said in a kinder tone : " Perhaps I have said too much." " Oh, girl, how you have struck me. I did love your sister. I loved her as the love of my manhood." She convulsively caught my hand. " Oh, I am so son-}-. Forgive me if I have wounded you. But my heart is aching — aching for my loved one — and when I think of the desolate years ahead I am half maddened." I took her hand. "God pity you, d-ear, but my heart is too seared for words now. That she loved me I never imagined 1 ; how much I loved her I never realised until wide seas swept between us. And now it is too late — too late." Next day Connie and I went up to the cemetery in the hills, where Madoline had wished to be laid. Gwendoline was there showering violets over the green sward.

terruption

" Her flowers," she chokingly whispered, "She loved them so much."

We often met beside the quiet grave. Madoline's goodness had made her appear a saint in the eyes of the young sister, and her likes and diblikes were* all in all to her.

Years have elaspsed <=ince then. I often meet the beautiful Miss Stanley in the houses of my acquaintances. She still bears the sign of her deep sorrow upon her fair young face, and her dead sister's flowers are ever the. one spot of colour on the sombre garb. " It is a poor return for your great kindness to burden you with a disappointed man's trouble. But you and your wife. I know, are ever bringing me in contact with charming girls whom you think will drive the cloud from my life. I have opened my heart to you, so that you will know how futile all such thoughts are. CresMeigh will never have a chatelaine. I feel, though, that the sombre clouds are more soothing that perpetual sutuhine. ' 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than not have loved at all.' Now we will forget I have trodden upon sacred ground, and return to the circle indoors."

— Questions having been raided on the subjeot of the decision of tho French maritime- authorities to allow women to act as tailors in the Channel fishing smacks, the Minister of Marine has addressed a chcular to all the French port officials, in which he says: — "Womon cannot navigate as captains, but, according to the French law, they cinnot bo prevented from embarking ac members of the crews."