AT WHAT A COST. BY THE LATE HUGH CONWAY,

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 128, 14 November 1885, Page 6

AT WHAT A COST. BY THE LATE HUGH CONWAY,

Author of "Called Back," "Dark DayB."&c.

It was late at night. The fire had' gradually settled down until it became a steady glowing mass of red, giving plenty ■of heat but little flame. The shaded lamp from the edge of the table threw a circle of light, widening until it reached the floor, • where it lay, a luminous disc, and left all outside in sombre gloom. The room was evidently a library, as tall cases of books loomed from each wall and the massive table in the centre was strewn with pamphlets and writing materials. On a low chair, near the fire, partly in light and partly in darkness, sat a woman. She might have been about forty-five years of age, and was still beautiful. Her hands, with the fingers interlaced, rested upon her lap, and her head leant, wearily, against the side of the mantelpiece. Her attitude, erea without the traces of recent tears upon her face betokened extreme grief. Well indeed might she grieve, for in the room above her lay a dead man— her hus band. She had bade her household leave her and retire to rest, and hour after hour sounded as she sat Ly the tire and mourned in solitude. True, the man who had died that day had not her first love; not the one she had once hoped was destined to link his lot with hers. She had married him for esteem, friendship, respect, and many other admirable reasons ; but her heart was with one who had died many years ago. Yet they had been man and wife for twenty years, and his unwavering love, his kindness, the homage he had ever paid her, had earned, as with women they ever must, their reward ; and as with sorrowful eyes she gazed into the fire, and lived again those twenty placid years, shefelfc that Death had that day decreed a void in her life which would never again be filled. And yet the dead man had not been the most cheerful companion to a woman in ' the prime of health and beauty. He was ever sad, at times gloomy ; but no harah words to her had ever crossed his lips even in his most dreary moods. He had lived a fair and noble life, doing in a quiet, secret way much good in the place where his life was spent ; good the extent of which she, •perhaps, only knew. And as she thought of these things and of the poor, white face upstairs, another flood of tears came to her relief. She would see it once more tonight ; and by the side of that motionless form kneel down and say, "If I have not loved you a3 your heart wished, I have done all that I could— all that I promised." With this intention she rose from her seat, and rising, an object on the mantelpiece attracted her attention. It was a small key ; and that morning, even a3 he died, her husband, with feeble fingers, had placed it in her hand, whispering, with a yearning look on his wan face, "Head and forgive." In the agitation of that terrible hour she had taken little notice of those mysterious words— the last, indeed, he spoke— but now she remembered them and felt there was something he wished her to know. The key, she was aware, gave access to a secretaire in which her husband kept his private papers. She raised the shade from the lamp, and its light, hitherto concentrated, spread over and illuminated the room, in one corner of which stood a black walnut bureau with antique brass handles. She opened it, and after a few moments' search found what she knew intuitively was the document designed for her perusal. It was a bulky packet, sealed, and addressed " For my wife. Private." Wondering, even in her grief, what its contents could possibly be, and why the instructions to read it were coupled witli that piteous appeal for forgiveness, she returned to her former seat, and after adjusting the light broke open the seal and commenced the perusal of the manuscript. Womanlike, she turned over several pages rapidy as if to catch some idea of the general tenour of the revelation, and, as in the cursory glance she took she saw one name, a well-known name, written frequently, a feeling of fear thrilled her, and with a low cry of pain and horror she set her lips firmly and with eager eyes devoured the closely- written lines. The message from the man who lay dead ran thus: — My Wife,— When you read this I shall be dead, and you will, I have little doubt, be still in the prime of womanhood. Whether the love I have ever borne you ; whether the remembrance of those years spent, at least happily, under this roof together, will enable you after reading thi3 to think of me without cursing my name, i know not. Yet I dare not die and make no sign. I dare not let the grave cover the secret which is fretting my life out— which has twined for years around my heart like a snake, and which wiil at last still its beating—a secret that even you in your wildest dreams never suspected. As you read these pages you will weep, but not for me. You will call for one who can never return, but the name you utter will not be mine. Widowed though you be, it is not your hueband you will mourn Yet when this is written my mind will be more at ease, although I know the confession which may lighten my remorse a little lays a heavy burden on you. At least forgive me thie. How shall I begin ? As I sit here tonight, a prematurely aged man, I look back through the long years — so long, so weary to me— and see myself in this same room, a young man of twenty-five, with all that could make life pleasant at my command. Riches and friends —youth and health -and, as I fondly hoped at that time, love, that sooner or later, would be mine. Here I sat, I remember, one winter's evening, with my favourite companions even then, my books Was I reading, or was I dreaming of what might be? I know not. My servant entered and handed me a card— " Mr Gerald Gordon" "—I shall feel, even in my grave, your heart throb as you read that name— Gerald Gordon had been one of my earliest and dearest friends ; and, if lost sight of for some years, never forgotten. I was delighted to find him under my roof, and hasted to greet him. He had prospered in the world, having both made and inherited money, and had recently returned to England after some years' profitable work abroad. Affairs had called him to my neighbourhood, and upon his return journey he had come a little out of his way to pay me a visit for the sake of old times. We were unfeignedly glad to meet, and, as our hands clasped, many recollections of happy, boyish dayß rose between us, and the pressing invitation I gave him to stay some time with me was accepted as freely and heartily as it was given. For you, Gertrude, least of all need I paint his portrait j but well I remember, as he sat with me that night looking at his handsome face with those straight, clearcut features, bronzed by the southern sun ; hie crisp brown hair, and stalwart manly frame, and thinking one of the greatest' gifts, after all, was personal appearance.

Our conversation after so long a separation naturally consisted of questions and answers of a personal nature, and 1 soon isked him ~ " Have you met your fate yet, Gerald ?" "Been in love, I suppose you mean," he replied, laughing. " Well, you see, I have i just come from parts where a fellow must ' make love, or pretend to, to get along at all ; but I cannot plead guilty to any grand passion as yet," "But how about you?" he continued. •'Have any bright rustic eyes come between you and your books ?" Fool that I was not to open my heart to him then and there! Not to tell him I , thought of one woman only ! Yet I waß shy and proud. I could not even say that my love was viewed favourably. A withered flower, given half in jest —do you remember it? A little preference, it might be, over my rivals, ana that bestowed for the sake of friendship, not love— this was all I j had to show in return for the love I had j given and which I knew must ever give through life. So I laughed as he questioned me and answered as in jest. "lain heartwhole as yoa, Gerald, and certainly invulnerable against the attacks of rustic maidens hereabouts." " I hoped and expected to be introduced J to your future wife in the person of the only daughter of some neighbouring squire : and would have done you a good turn by aounding your praises whilst I admired his fat oxen." " Well, I will present you to all the eligible daughters hereabout, and you can praise their papas' oxen on your own account." "Thank you— although, seriously, I am tired of living alone and want a wife and a homo ; so I am quite ready to meet my fate when and wherever she appears." I do not hesitate, my wife, to record these trivial words, for I know they will seem to you as sweet echoes of a longstilled voice. Gordon and I sat talking nearly all that night, and parted at last, each happy to find the other's friendship the same as of old The next day, with little regret I tossed my books aside, and did all in my power to make my guest's visit a pleasant one to him. We shot, drove and rode together, and the short wintry days seemed even shorter with my light-hearted friend at my side. I took him to visit all my friends, save one ; I need scarcely say the season for that omission. Too well I knew that, had I been a girl, Gerald Gordon was the man who might have won my heart had he chosen. Too well I knew that if the eyes of love enchanced, they did not imagine your charms, end that his interest, at least, could scarcely fail to be aroused. So I dreaded to bring about a meeting between him and you. It came at last. I would have shunned that gathering could I have found a decent pretext, but the whole countryside were bidden to that ball, and my absence from it would have been remarked. Besides, Gerald Gordon would have gone anyway. He was very merry as we drove over, at the expense of the imaginary persons we should meet; but I said nothing. The moment we entered the room I saw his eyes fall upon you. I saw his look of surprise.of admiration as he comprehended your regal beauty at on© glance, and before the evening was over I felt that what I dreaded was afoot, and that my friend would probably be my rival. If his j attentions to you that evening were no more than man might properly pay to the most attractive woman in the assemblage, they were sufficient to make me fear the worßt. Even as I write this I can see hia tall figure bending over you, and hear his whispering words which, spoken with the easy self-confident manners of a man of the world, I knew intuitively must have been sweet to any young girl's ears At last that night, gay and enjoyable to all save me, ended. You had departed, and after that it needed little persuasion on my part to draw Gerald from the scene. We started on our drive home, with the stars shining pure and clear through the frosty skies I fras sullen and unhappy ; my companion brimful of curiosity to learn all I could tell him concerning his late partner. " la Miss Howard a friend of yours ?" was his first question. " I have known her some years. Do you admire her ? Although I need scarcely ask," I added bitterly. "Admire her ! I should think so. 1 have seen some of the most beautiful women in theworld.butneveroneladmiredmore. She was not very well dressed, of course, but that is only a milliner's businesa." So he talked on and on as we drove that six miles of road, and my heart sank within me, and I cursed the friendship which had led him to visit me and induced me to press him to prolong his stay. He spoke of nothing but "you, ringing your praises in various keys, until I relapsed into a sort of moody silence, or only answered his eulogistic remarks by monosyllables. Probably he noticed my changed manner, as on reaching home he said :—: — " You are awfully tired, I can see, Philip ; so I will be merciful to-night and not keep you up for another cigar. Good night." Whether he kept me up or not it mattered nothing. Weary as I truly was, there was little sleep for me that night. When we met the next morning it was the shame again ; your image clearly was before his eyes. Although he spoke jestingly of the havoc you had wrought, I knew that more than je3t lay under that laughing exterior ; that the impression you had made was no transient one. I tried to hide my feelings, and to answer his playful remarks in the like vein, but my efforts wore of little use. I felt that his keen eye detected something amiss with me. He looked inquisitive, but said nothing for a while. After breakfast, as we were discussing our plans for the day, he asked :—: — " Would it not be politeness to ride over and inquire how Miss Howard is after last night's dissipation ?" I started, and answered, "If you wish it particularly we will do so ;" and, as 1 forced the words, my voice sounded strange and I felt that the colour had left my cheek. The manner of my assent must, I suppose, have strengthened any suspicion he already felt as to the true state of the case with me, for be crossed the room, placed his hands on my shoulders, and with his bright, searching eyes looked deep into mine. "Tell me truly, Philip — truly, mind— is there anything like love between you two ?" Even then I might have told him, but I was too proud to say I loved without love in return. Too proud to throw myself on his mercy, as it seemed to me such a confession must ; solmethis eyes without quailing, and answered firmly : — "There is no love between us." " But you do love her ? " persisted Gerald, " I admire her for her great beauty j that is all." And even as I told the lie, 1 saw that he believed what he wished to believe, and J, knew that my fate was sealed. "Then let us go," he said, quietly, as he moved his hands from my shoulders. We rode over to your home ; we saw you, and my jealous eyes detected a faint blush and look of pleasure on your face as you greeted us— a blush and a look such as >my coming alone had never yet called forth. Gertrude, it is for you, not for me, to picture the events of the next few days,

Sick at heart, I pleaded indisposition and returned to my books } daorinoing politeness, I left Gordon free to follow his own devices. Well did I know whither his steps turned everyday, and clearly could I read in the brightened expression of his ever bright face how well the Buit he was urging prospered. So much so, that it was with a feeling of dull despair, not surprise, I listened when one night he told me you had consented to be his wife. Loverlike he eat, hour after hour dilating upon the perfections of the prize he had won, and revelling in his visions of future happiness. And I, who loved you as I believe no man ever yet loved woman, suffered torture on the rack of his raptures. I had to listen to your praises from the lips of one whom I had now almost brought myself to believe had robbed me of all I longed for in the world. And there was to be no delay —no respite forme. 3e was wealthy, so what was there to wait for? Within three months' time you were to be married. " How I bless the day I came to see you, old fellow I" he cried once, in the effusion of his joy. " Now you shall complete your kindness by letting me stay with you until the happy time. Of course I must go away for a bit to see about a house and that sort of thing, but I mean to be here as much as lean." i If I had follovred my true impulse as he spoke, I should have cursed him and bade him begone ; but I was forced to restrain myself and tell him how welcome he was to make my house his home as long as it pleased him. Yet I felt I dare not stay myself and witness his happiness. That night, as I lay in bed, casting about for an excuse plausible enough to enable me to leave my guest alone for the next month or two, I knew that in the depths of my heart I hated Gerald Gordon — I hated him as the one who had stolen my life's hope from me— l hated him for his animal spirits, his good looks, his power of pleasing and winning the affection of man, woman, or child ; so different from me —I even hated him because I knew you would be happy with him, for he had all the qualities to mako a homo happy—l hated him as Uain hated Abel, and * for the same reason ; had not his offering been accepted and mine rejected ? And several days passed by j each day the tortures I endured seomod greater ; each day my hatred grew more intense. In a feverish sort of way I forced myself to laugh and jest, and Gordon, with a lover's selfishness, never noticed now how unnatural my manner was, or guessed how, by this time, I detested the sound of his voice, the clear ring of his laugh, or even his very presence. " One thing pleases me more than I can say," he placidly remarked one evening. "It is that what I onced believed to be a fact was only a croation of my own brain. I was afraid I might be the rival of my old friend ; but Gertrude herself assures mo the only feeling that ever existed between you two was one of pure friendship. So I am happier, knowing you will dance at my wedding with alight heart." Dance at his wedding ! I would rather dance on my mother's grave • Gertrude, my wife, there is one day in every year which is solemn and sad to both of us. A day when the choicest flowers are laid on a tomb, now grcming grey with time. A day, many hours of which you spond alone, holding a lock of hair and gazing on a miniature. And yet, if the love you bore another man is strong in your heart, upon that day you have ever seemed to draw closer to me than at other times. As your eyes, sad with unforgotten sorrow, meet mine, you think, " Our grief is from j the same source — mine for love and his for friendship." And with one memory between us I know for the moment your heart grows nearer to mine, and I realise what life might have been could your love have crowned it. Read now the truth and hate me. That day was the first for a long time I had spent alone with Gerald Gordon. You were away on a visit to some friends at a distance. The weather was fine, though wintry, and as 1 felt I could not endure the long hours indoors, in the society ot the man I hated, I suggested taking our guns and walking down to the coast in the hope of shooting some ducks. Gordon leapt at the idea. " I shall be glad to do a bit of hard walking/ he said, " for three weeks 1 have only been lovomaking, and that isn't much exercise. I fancy my muscles must be growing soft from want of using." As he epoke he held out an arm like an iron bar for me to feel. An hour's walk brought us to the coast ; you know it well. For the distance of perhaps two miles runs a turf-covered, almost perpendicular cliff ; then it shelves away gradually, and one can easily get down to the water's edge. Here was our destination. We intended to walk along the edge of the sea, shooting anything worth powder and shot. The tide, when high, lashes the foot of the coast cliff ; when low, it leaves a strip of sand uncovered. The rock of which the cliff is com posed is of crumbling, vi stable chalk, and has the habit of getting hollowed out under the surface, leaving green cushions, firm enough in appearance, but apt to break away as the unwary foot presses them. A dangerous cliff it is, from the edge of which one shrinks instinctively. We walked briskly along the green sward ; I was some paces in front of Gordon, not being much in the humour to listen to his inevitable rhapsodies on the one theme. As he followed I could hear him singing a love song. It was Mexican, I believe, and picked up somewhere on his travels. Though the language was strange to me, the words sounded soft and musical, and the repetition of the passionate refrain almost maddened me, so well did I know to whom it was directed. Suddenly, the melody of the song changed to a sharp cry of despair— a cry that went through me like a knife — and as I turned hastily round, the rent at the edge of the treacherous green sward told its tale, even before 1 heard the horrible, hopeless, dull thud on the sand below. Believe me, when I say, at that moment all thought of hatred and envy left me. Horror-stricken, I threw myself at full length on the grass and crept to the edge of the cliff, looking for what I dreaded to see— his mangled body. The cliff at this spot overhung even more than usual, and it was with a feeling of hope I saw that Gordon had fallen clear of the rock and lay upon the sand. He was lying almost in a heap, and must have sustained fearful injuries ; but dead he was not, for I saw him, after making a few piteous struggles, succeed in turning his face towards me. •' Gerald," I cried, " are you much hurt ? For God's sake try and answer me." A faint voice— the ghost of his .usual voice — replied. "I have broken one arm and, 1 think, my thigh. Can you come down to me ?" " I cannot," I said, " without going along the coast for a mile or more. lam going now to get ropes and help. Try and bear up till I return." And then, leaving my gun to mark the spot where he fell, I turned and, swiftly as I could, commenced running across country. 1 knew the part well. The nearest house was atleast two miles away, so the poor fellow must lie in agony for some time before I could bringhimtheindispensableaid. With the remembrance of that helpless form

lying on the sand before me, my thoughts were only how to resoue hi»n with as little [oka of time as possible, and for the first five minutes I raa at the top of my speed. Sheer exhaustion then oompelled me to pause and draw breath, and as I moderated my pace the awful thought for the first time came to me. The tide ! the tide ! I remembered it was rising—that it was about three quarters flood— that Gordon was lying very near to the edge of the water, and I knew if 1 could not bear him aid before the sea covered that narrow strip of sand, he was a dead man. And then the temptation began. Let no man say there is no devil, for I tell you in that moment the devil was with me. He brought your form with all its beauty before me ; yes, and with love for me shining in your eyes. He shaped the thought in my mind, "It is for her, who might love you, you are saving him. Is she not worth the sin ?" And as the tempter prompted me, I said to myself, " One half -hour's delay ; a rest by the way : a fancied inability to proceed farther; a mistake —so easy to make—in the road, and you were free once more and might yet be mine, The price was crime— loss of honour, of self-respect, and all peace of mind ; but, you might be mine, and what price was too heavy to pay for that!" And as thought after thought, each like a devil from hell, came to mo, I leant against a gate, knowing as 1 did so that overy moment I lingered risked a man's life, The sudden temptation, the commencement of the crime, the consequences to follow, the shame I felt, even then bewildered me, ; and for a time I was beside myself. I seemed in a dream ; all round me was unreal j the air seemed full of horrible forms and sounds. How long I waited motionless I cannot tell— would that I knew!— it might have been moments, minutes, or hours. At last it seemed as though I awoke, and as I turned and ran like one pursued by wolves, I fancied I heard the words, "Too late ! too late!" shrieked after me in fiendish glee. As I ran 1 believe I even ceased to think, and fell utterly exhausted at the door of the farmhouse to which I mechanically directed my steps. In brokon sentences I told my tale — I begged the men to hurry down with the ropes — I offered large rewards should they reach tho coast in time to avert what I nowshuddered to think might happen. They started witli all possible despatch, and as soon as my strength returned to me I followed. Gertrude, how can I pen the rest ? I reached the fatal spot just as the men from the farm lowered one of their party over the edge ot the cliff, and, as sick and I leant over, I saw beneath me the cruol waves dashing a dark form against the crueller rocks, and as one of tho men turned to me and said, "Poor chap! If wo had been a quarter o f an hour before we might have saved him," I knew that in the eye of God I was as much a murderer as the ruffian who drives his knife through the heart of his victim. Littlo wonder was i", as they bore his nerveless form to the top of the cliff ; as I saw that pale face, stained here and there with blood ; tho blue eyes yet open, and as I almost fancied seeking my own, that I fell as one dead upon the grass, and was borne away unconscious as the man I had foully slain. What more remains to be said ? You know the rest— how the illness that followed was attributed to the shock I had undergone and the exertions I had used to save my friend. How people praised my presence of mind in at once starting for assistance. How you — oven you— wrote kind words to me— words that cut my heart like knives. Yet no one knew that with me night and day was the face of the dead, as I saw it ere I fell senseless on the cliff ; that ever in my dreams I was running, it seemed to be, from an image of you, and that fearful things were striving to stop me. No one knew how often I went to the spot where Gordon fell, and timed, as nearly as I could, the rising waters, to ascertain if it were possible for a man to have compassed the distance and brought aid in time to save him. Alas ! I only learnt I was a murderer in act as well as thought. I gained tho prize that tempted | mo— but, at what a cost! When, after j some years, you gave mo your hand I knew your heart could never be mine, but lay in Gerald's grave ; I knew that the thing which at last induced you to accede to my repeated request was more the love you fancied I bore him than the love you felt for me. And so, at the price of a life's remorse, I won a woman whose love in life could never be mine, and who, after death, must hate my memory. Ah ! Gerald Gordon, slain by the waves at the bidding of your friend, just as the supreme joy of life was yours ; your lot, after all, was happier than mine ! As she read the last words Gertrude Blake dropped the manuscript, and burying her face in her hands cried, ' c Oh, why did he tell me ? Why did he tell me ? This is the worst of all to bear. Thank God, I have no children in whoso faces I may see murder written." Then, with bitter grief and hatred in her heart, she sat on and on through the weary night. And ever before her was the imago of Gerald Gordon, with the hungry waters creeping round him, his poor maimed limbs battling in vain struggles to keep his life until the delayed help arrived. And her face was stern and cold as she pictured it. If her husband's hopes of heaven rested on her forgiveness, she felt she could not bring her lips to frame the words. She could scarcely credit the tale she had read ; at times she fancied it must have been in a great part imagination. But his face, ever sad, even when others were gayest, came again and again to her mind, and she felt that, strange sadness stamped the confession with truth. Yet in all else he had been so noble, both in thought and in deed. He had loved her co ; and now with his dreary secret bared before her, even through the bitterness of her mind passed the knowledge that he had been leading not only a life of remorse, but also of atonement, and as she grew more calm she fell at last into a troubled sleep with wet tears upon her lashes. And, as she slept she dreamed. They stood before her, she thought: h6r first and only love, Gerald, and her husband, the latter, not the careworn, prematurely old man of the past years, but young, gay, and handsome as when he rode with Gerald to see her that morning in the winter. There was no sadness in his eyes now, and Gerald's arm was round his neck :— "Sweet love," she heard him whisper, "see, I have forgiven — cannot you likewise ? and then, striving to speak, she awoke. With the dream yet lingering in her memory she rose, and, tearing the manuscript to shreds, threw it upon the Bmouldering fire. When every vestige of paper was consumed she sought her room, but, as she passed the chamber of death, entered, and, bending over the pale cold, placid face, kissed it, whispering: "I forgive, as I hope tobe forgiven." The end,

Doing His Best. — Seene — Sohoolroom— Teacher (who has been out, has suddenly returned and discovered a small boy dancing on a form) — You young rascal, what are you doing there? Small Boy (Bcratohinghispate) —If ye pleaße, mum, I wis learning Johnnie M'Phee a step or twa in the Hielan* fling,— The Bailie.