Ladies' Column.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5256, 11 May 1895, Page 3

Ladies' Column.

AUTUMN LOVE STORY.

(Quiver,)

The rector of Orleefcono sat in hie study gazing into the fire. He was alone; he was always alone, for though he loved hie sheep, and tended them, they were nob companionable. He had lived alone now theße many years— how many he sighed to remember. Once upon a time — oh! but before the flood— he had been young and strong ancl hopeful, and had loved a woman passionately; eo passionately that honour and hia plighted word bad become aa nothing to him, and he had broken faith with a gentle gfrl he waa engaged to marry. And then he had found out that hia passion's queen had not the least intention of marrying him. As he looked in the fire thia Ootober evening he remembered so well how she had told him that on which she had staked hia whole life's treaaure could never be. « I must marry a rich man," she bad eaid, "for my poor father's sake ;" with tears and many kiaaeß she had said it, and he, with kisses and the teara the heart bleeds in solitude, had believed her.

It was many yeara now since be had left behind him the world that held her, and had accepted the rectory of Orleatone, with itß miserable £150 a yoar. And Btill o' nights, when the curtains were drawn, and the wind outaide was wild in the laurels and cypresses, when the bare thorny rose sprays tapped at the window like bony fingers, ho sat by hia fire and thougbt of tbe woman he had loved and loved still. He had her portrait in the secret drawer of his shabby old writing desk— the one that had been his father's. And sometimes he wonld take out the portrait — the bright girlish face— and look at ib, sigh, and yet with a half gladneas that the knife was still sharp in the old wound. Celia Eingwood, the woman who loved him, whom he should have married, had told hira that time would dull the pain. But time had not dulled it, and he was glad. He had given up ambition arid friends and dreama, the old life and the old life's b.opes to shut himself up alone with the plain daily duty— and his love memory. Arid if the memory had failed him, had grown dim, what would have been left of him? Celia Bingwood, in ber little lonely house in the market town, thought there might be much. He came to see her once a week and talked about the pariah. Onoe he had been uaed to talk of the other woman : he did not mean to be cruel ; she had taken his confession of hia unfaithf ulnea ao calmly, and so gently begged to be hia friend, that he at once believed she had never cared for him. But such talk was over now. Ho had not apoken of her now for years. Celia began to think even, almoat to hope. Then she looked in the glaaa at her faded face, her pale hair,? rom whioh all youth's colours had gone ; and she sighed a aigh that was half a Bhudder, put on her demure bonnet and cloak and went out through the rain to aeo a ohild who was ill, beoauee that was the only ease for her heartache. Miaa Celia Bingwood was washing np the breakfaat things— not, as all genteel people in storieß seem to do, in the parlour, but in a workmanlike manner in the back kitchen. She had just -hung up the tea cloth to dry, when her heart stood still, and then began to beat violently. At thirty-eight one's heart can beat juab as quickly aB it can at eighteen, and much j more plainly, if one hears a certain foot- J Bbep on the threshold or a certain hand on the door knocker.

"Good morning, James," she aaid sedately. " Thia ia an unuaual and pleasant surprise." Some of tho light still lingered on her face, but the reotor did notobaerve it; bia own thin face waa slightly flushed, and hia gray eyea were shining*. "May I come in," he said, talk to you." She led him into the little parlour— Spotlessly neat. Miss Celia inßtiuctively 'turned the blind so that the sunshine should not fade the carpet, and said :

*' I want to

"WellP"

"You have alwaya been such a true friend to me," he said nervously. '• I've always told you everything." "Yea," she said, and her heart knew his errand even before he spoke. "Celia, her hußband is dead and she has taken the Hall at Orleatone."

Celia Bingwood held out her hand to him. The light went ont suddenly in her face, but it left the kindly mouth and eyes aa ahe had always seen them, and one who had loved her would have noticed the change. "Only laat night,' 'he said, "it seemed to me there waa nothing left in life but duty and the blessed faith in the life to come. Bnt now— oh, Celia !— l feel young again." " Shall yon ask ber again to marry you ?" There waa a harah note in her voice which sho herself noted with dismay. But he did not perceive it. "Yes, of course," he said simply. Miss Eingwood bit her lip. "Yon are very poor," she said, "and Lady Mountdew iB very rich* People will say— Bhe might think—" "You don't know Eva Mountdew," he said proudly. Celia waa ashamed of her worda before he had answered them.

She left his thin hand a moment between her soft palms and looked at him wistfully. "Whatever happens," she said, "I know you will not forget old friends." Her voice trembled a little as she said it.

"Dear Celia," he anawered— and some faint subconscious stirring of remorse made hia voice very gentle and tender— "Dear Celia, lam very selfish. You have been too patient with me; yon have spoiled me." She laughed a little and took her hands away. "An old maid must have something to spoil," she eaid. "If it had not been you it would have been a cat or a canary bird. When shall you see her ? " " This afternoon. She BBked me to come np to tea. She has let the Aahford people furnish a few roomß and she is camping ont, aa she calls it till, the rest of her furniture comes from London."

There waa a pause. Then he got up suddenly, and began to walk up and down the narrow space between the door and the window, with knitted brows and hands clasped behind him. " Well ? " said Miss Ringwood.

"It isn't that I doubt her conatanoy," he Baid, "but I don't know whether it's fair. I'm old, you aee, and I have grown dull. It ia rather like offering her the dry husk of— of " "Of what Bhe threw away fifteen years

ago" " You are unjust," he said. | " No, no ; I didn't mean it, James. Now you must go. I am very busy; and be aura you come in and tell me about it. Good-bye ; you need nob be afraid because your hair ib gray. If she loved you— weU, good-bye." He went off down the street with a new hopefulneflß in his step. When he was gone Misa Eingwood wont up to her room j ahe leaned her elbowa onthe little white dressing table, among the prim wool mats and the little daily text booka, and looked again at bewelf in the glass. Her eyeß were very' sad, though no teara staod in them. Presently a smile stirred the corners of her mouth, where a dimple still lingered. ,'..,. " After all," she said to herself, " she is fifteen years older, too." Then she blushed at the two feminine thoughts, and the new colour in her cheeks became her so that she tamed away from the glass in confusion. " But he is juat the sort of man not to care how old any one was if he loved them." Then tbe pretty colour faded quite away, and Mies Bingwood went slowly downstairs to cut out petticoats for the Dorcas meeting that afternoon. For four days Misa Bingwood looked hourly for the rector. He had brought his sorrows to her alwaye; surely he would bring hia joy, too. Next morning thero was a letter, lt waß not from him; shu taw that while yet it was in the postman's hand", for she had been watching at tbo

window, and had to run to the door when she saw the postman cross the road. It waa from his housekeeper. " Please forgive tho liberty," xt said after decent heading of address, date and "Honoured Madam'? — "but master ia very bad, and he says 'no doctors.' He has been ailing these three dayß. If you waa to think fit to come over you might perauade him for his good. Yours obedient to command. Emma Wellings." "I'm going ont," she cried to her little maid, ** at once." The ahorteat way to the rectory lay through the fielda, and Misa Eingwood took it. Sho hurried on through tho keen, sweet air, devoured by a burning anxiety that consumed all self-conaciousness, all personal doubts and dreama. When ahe saw the blue emoke curling from the red chimneys of the rectory above the laurels and cypresses, ehe quickened her pace, stumbling a little now and then on the rough pasture. The housekeeper opened the door. "How is he?" Celia had to clear her throat twice before the words would come.

" But poorly," the woman answered. "He was out up at the hall Tuesday ; and all day Wednesday walking the wet woods, as I well know by the state his boots was in. And then be coughs all night, he does, and bhe next morning he sends ont his breakfast, and ao its gone on ; and he won't let me send for the doctor — and—well, yes ; p'raps it 'ud be better for you to see him at once." Celia, clenched her hands as she went in. He did not hear her open the door. He was Bitting gazing into the fire, with his head on hia hand and his elbow on hie study table. His head was bowed, and Celia realized for the Arat time that he was no longer young. He looked, indeed, an old man.

She laid her hand on his arm, and ho started and looked at her with a look of sudden joy and tendernesa she had never hoped to aee. But ib faded at once. "He did not know who it waa ; he thought it was — some one else," she said to herself but not bitterly. "You are ill, and you never sent for me. And you never cfaae as you promised," ehe Baid, with only the gentlest reproach.

" I could not," he spoke hoarsely, and then a fit of coughing took him and he sank back in his chair.

"But you are ill," ehe said- " I must send for a docbor at once."

" But he could do me no good. What nonsense it is!" he went on irritably, "whotoldyoul waa ill? I'm all right, only very tired." "I've brought you some beef tea and things." Hiß browß contracted. " Now, Celia, I will not have it. There ia nothing the matter with mo." The grieved look in her eyes stopped him. "You always trusted me before." " I did— l do— l will ! Celia, I went to see her. It is all over* I have wasted all my life on a shadow. " She never did care, I think. She did not even know me at first. She only wanted to. see the paraon about her pew, and sent for him as shesendß for anything else she wants ! She did not know me at first, and— when she did.

"Ihave thrown away life, and youth, and hope, and love, everything, everything* for the sake of a woman who never was at all, except in my dreams and my fancy. And there is nothing left in life."

" Poor James," she eaid. She had taken off her prim bonnet and seated herself near him. " But all our poor people j you still have them to live for."

" That's what I keep saying to myself, hut all the sunshine is gone and it looks such a long way to the end." "But it is better to know the truth," she said, rather lamely. "I don't know; I didn't realise before and that is why I couldn't come to yon. Oh, Celia, you don't know — I didn't know till juab now — all that you've been to me all these years, and but for my own folly and madness you might have been with me, close at my side all these long, long years, for you did love me once, didn't you Celia?"

She was silent.

" At least," he went on hesitatingly, "if you had been my wife you would have learned to love me."

" Learned to love you ! Oh, my dear ! " Her tone thrilled him to the soul. Her head waa down on the arm of his chair, and his hand very gently and uncertainly touched her smooth, faded hair.'

"You didn't mean— why, Celia, my dear, my dear!" For her arms were around his neck, and her face against his, and for that one good minute the long lonely years of Borrow seemed not too heavy a prioe. " And now," said Miss Eingwood, lifting from his shoulder a face that had grown young and pretty again—" and now perhaps you will take the beef tea!"