A HINT OF VALUE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10536, 10 August 1912, Page 3

A HINT OF VALUE.

Those who get on in the world are those who never fail to take a valuable hint when it comes their way. Here is a hint which may prove of great value to you. Mrs S. M. Ward, 374, Madras Street, Christchurch,' says:—"For some years I suffered with severe pains in my back. These pains seriously interfered with my work, as I could not get about freely, and to bend my back meant increased torture. My rest waa disturl)ed, and in the morning I was so stiff I could not get up without assistance. I was at one time confined to my bed for thre9 months; three doctors attended me, but did me little or no good- I thought I "would become an invalid, and this worried me greatly. All the medicine I used was powerless to give me relief. A friend advised me to use Doan's Backache Kidney Pills, and I sentf to Bonnington's Pharmacy for some. The first bottle gave me relief, and four bottles completely cured me. It is two years since I used Doan's Backache Kidney Pills, and as I have been free of Kidney Trouble all that time, can safely say lam permanently cured. Sufferers should lose no time about giving these wonderful pills a trial." Two years later Mrs Ward says:— " I have pleasure in bringing the above statement up to date by tellir.g you that I have been well ever since Doan's Backache Kidney Pills cured me four years ago, and I have never had the slightest return of my old complaint since. I might also "mention i. recommended Doan's Pills to a friend of mine, and they effected a perfect cure in this case also. Our two cures speak well for the merit of Doan's Backache Kidney Pills. " Have you backache, weak back, headache, gravel, giddiness, urinary disorder, or any other of the numerous symptoms of kidney trouble? If so, Doan's Backache Kidney Pills will euro yon just as they permanently cured Mrs Ward. For sale by all chemists and storekeepers at 3s per bottle (sis bottles 16s 6d), or will bo posted on receipt of price bv Fostor-M'Glellan Co., 76, Pitt Street, Sydney. But be sure you get DOAN'S. 23

toriness for holding my tongue a moment after I saw how things were going! And you, man" —to his companion, fiercely—" you spoke of your heart. Was it non-existent when you set yourself to work this deadly mischief?'' . Dearman held up his arm;; as if he would fain ward off the full effect of the wor«s. "Of course I am a blackguard iu your eyes. How should you, or any normal man, fathom the infernal intricacies of my dual personality? It would take a "j'ekyll to read my motives. This much only I will say m self-defence. I saw I was waking into life an undeveloped, side of her nature, and supplying her with new sources of interest. 1 knew my growing lore tor her was worthier and purer than any I had ever known, and, before heaven I till a week a&o 1 never deemed it possible that my flame had kindled an answering fire in her." • "1 must believe you are speaking the truth now." said the doctor, with a heavy sigh, ''though how a man like you could ho blind at such a'crisis why, wo men can't resist you, much less a romantic girl!" Little more -passed between them, but when Dr Swamson followed his guest into the hall, he said: "You'll keep your word, Dearman?" " I shall see her in the morning," was the curt reply, " and I shall relieve the town of my presence within a week." CHAPTER 11. Ivy Marehmont sat waiting for her lover's visit the next morning in a state of suspense and bewilderment difficult to bear. When she had opened the note from him at the breakfast table her aunt had cried out in consternation at the look on her face a3 she master.ed. its contents.

Her name was as her nature. Slenderly, delicately lovely. Ivy Marchmont had throughout her lifo clung to a stronger nature than her own. Losing her mother m infancy her father had been her very all till his death two* years previously, when she, too, had almost faded out of existence.

Then her capable Aunt Florence, her 6ole remaining relative, had come to the rescue, ana had taken the desolate girl under her protection. For a year she had tried the effects of foreign travel, and with some measure of success, for at twenty years of age change and novelty can work marvels, oven on a bruised and loving heart. Afterwards Aunt Florence had decided to take a comfortable house in the pleasant westerly town of "Wilton, being largely influenced in that decision by the fact that her favourite nephew, Dr Swainson, had a practice there. His newly made wife, she reflected, was a charming girl, and would help to draw Ivy out of herself—would, in. fact, prove an admirable companion for her." So she had. installed herself and her niece in their present abode, and for close upon a year the latter had reigned there as queen, its chief ornament and attraction.

Perhaps the very fact that Mas Dearman was nearly the same age as the father she had lost gave him an advantage of the girl's eyes over her other suitors. More probably the abounding vitality that distinguished him drew her passive nature as the magnate does the steel.

Irrevocably now her heart was in his keeping, and her eyes looked with fear and dislike at the written words from him whose meaning she refused to grasp. , The letter fell to the ground as she heard his step at the door, and she turned eagerly to greet him. Mas Dearman took her outstretched hands in his, and stooped to kiss her forehead. She felt, with chill apprehension, that it was the kiss of renunciation

She tried to speak, but her agitation, increased tenfold by his manner, was too great. She pointed to the fallen sheet of paper, searched his face piteously and her eyes, then drew his hands to her lips and kissed them deliberately, one after the other. Dearman forced her gently back into a.chair and knelt before her. " This is my true position," he began, heavily, "here at your feet, begging forgiveness. Heaven knows, I would grovel here if 1 could so undo what I have done." * "You are cruel to me, Mas—cruel! Why do you ask me one week for my love, and the next"—she touched the letter with her foot—" send it back to me and tell me wo are to be nothing to each other? Oh," she said with a proud little gesture, " if men are made bo it is perhaps as well I should learn it first as last.

" Men are not made eo, only I am thus accursed! lam glad scorn of me is born in you so quickly. It makes it easier for me to speaL Tell me, has no one warned you against me? Has no one dubbed me ' Will-o'-the-Wisp' in your hearing?" "No, never, never I Wo don't know a great many people, and those we do know are not encouraged to blacken the reputations of our friends! Ah, yes, I remember once or twice some acquaintance has begun to speak of you, but I think my manner froze them into silence. Cousin Herbert and his wife have talked to aunt, I know, but she has paid no heed to them. She likes to form her own judgments always. Max," she leant forward, pleadingly. " get up ! It kills me to see you there ,_ and with that look on your faoe—my king among men."

"When I get up_ it will bo to go away for ever! Listen, Ivy! I will not ask either your forgiveness or pity, but hear me you must. If Ido not speak, others will now, and at least you shall be told the truth by my own lips, and know why I am impelled to tell it. Look at me—closely—and see if my face belies my words when I say that in loving you I know the meaning of love for the first time in forty-four yeara, yet—Heaven forgive me—many another woman has drunk the cup of bitterness because of me!"

" What do you tell mo P" The girl's breath came gaspingly, and her face was blanched. "I cannot, will not_ believe such calumnies, though you utter them a thousand times."

"Not calumnies, but simple truth! Ivy, Ivy, Ivy, hear mo to the end, and —yea —pity mo! Since I was a child two spirits havo inhabited this ono body, and struggled there for mastery. One part of me, and, indeed, it has been the predominant part, has loved and honoured great and good things. When that side of mo is uppermost I possess a faculty for rousing my fellowmen to interest and enthusiasm in the best aGpocts of life; through my eyes they see their own powers and the work that they may do. That is why they call mo ' WilW-the-Wisp,' and never was a namo better earned. In my periods of insight I glow with an evanescent light, and wanderers on the way follow me, thinking I am true flame." "And they are right—they are right!" the girl broke in with wistful eagerness. " Oh, I, too, have been fired by your enthusiasm for lino thoughts and deeds! 1, too, have been set by you upon a high ground where life takes on n6w values and opens out to broader visions! How could I forgot it for a moment? I, who never can repay the debt I owe you ! I, whom you raised, from the darkness of the commonplace.to a seat among the elect whore the real meanings of things aro made apparent! It is, it is false to call you'' Will-o'-tlie-Wisp!' " " The name fits me, because there is no constancy, no fixed purpose, no solid reality in me. No, child." his voice took on an added tenderness, " don't interrupt me again—l will say it for you. Yes, there is one point _ of difference between me and the thing they call me. It leads men to nothingness or ruin. You would say, in your sweet generosity, that though my light may flicker out constantly, while it is there it is. in its degree, a guiding gleam. Child, in that knowledge lies my only conso'lai.ion. ""When my light burns, Ivy, I am a man, and worthy to mingle with my fellow-men. None but my own heart can ever gauge the depth, of woe and humiliation, to which I sink when I receive warning that the devil is at hand to put it out end take possession of mo..

Then I cease to bo a man, and become something between a brute and a fiend! 'J. lien no pleasure is too coarse, no act too low. for mo to delight in. Then I am a drunkard, a coward, and a reprobiito"! Then I slink away __ to places whpre I am not known, and debase myself and those who mix with me 1 I have fiinshedl"

There was no anger and there were no tears in the eyes that continued to look fixedly at him—only an infinite sadness and a great compassion. The little hand he had learnt to worship stolo gently towards him and rested on his own. The girlish voice that had grown to ho so acutely sweet for him asked softly: " But Max, have yon struggled at those times? You are so strong, so great—surely you could have conquer-ed-l" " Child,, it is a veritable' madness that comes upon mo, and I do not straggle, because I have lost all inclination to struggle.. My wholo nature undergoes a species of convulsion, and all .values are changed for mo. I have consulted doctors, hypnotists, even charlatans, but none can help mo. Once, since I knew you, I felt the preliminary warning, but when I saw you next it passed. Sometimes I have almost dared to hope that in you I have found the antidote to the poison that works in my veins."

" And you shall. Max—you must! I will help you !" All her soul was in her voice and eyes as she leant towards him.

Dearman's brow contracted eharply. Like the thrust of a lcnife came back to him Doctor Swainson's words, " She is too fragile a flower to be broken on the wheel of your tragedy." He had wronged her, perhaps beyond redress, in winning her love. At least ho > would refrain at this crisis from filling up the measure of his guilt. So-»he rose and drew her to her feet beside him.

"Forgive me!" he said. '"I know you do—you have said it in effect already, and in your dear eyes I have read that it is so. But say it to me in words, my lily, my saint, my love I" Passion pure and high was in his voice and look, and the girl's slender form swayed responsively towards him. "There is no talk of forgiveness between you and me," she said. "1 love you, Max! Oh, how I love you I and I cannot let you go." Even as she spoke she knew her poor words were thrown back to her from the cruel rock of inevitability. " I will not say I am unfit to touch you," Dearman cried—"l will even kiss you, so—and so—but promise to forget me soon."

Now that the moment was at hand when her love would vanish from sight and touch for ever into a cruel and unknown future Ivy Marchmont grew desperate, and clung to him with Frenzied appeal. " No, no," she said. " You owe something to me too, and it is I who demand a promise from you. Come hack to mo in a year,- Max, and come to tell me that your other self is dead. If love and will of mine can compass it, you shall! Promise me—oh, by the love you have taught me, promise me! Tell me you will! '-' "If I do not come," he said, very low 1 , '/you will know why. If I do—but of that I dare not think; it is too much! But till then r you must hold yourself free—absolutely and entirely fre9. I will not write to you, nor you to me. Hush! my 012H4, it is not cruelty-r-it is common fairness to you and those others who fain would teach you to forgot." He strained her to his breast, kissed her with solemn fervour, and went away to fight his battle alone. CHAPTER 111. # The weary year of trial and probation was over, and Iw ' Marchmont waited in daily expectation of a letter from her lover. In her heart, indeed, sho expected no letter, but his very self. . «

Absence from him had served only to strengthen the love that his baffling personality had aroused in her, and this despite the fact that during the year the five men who knew him best had not hesitated to speak to her of him with the utmost freedom. This had been his own expmss desire to them, and they had obeyed him in the hope that they might teach her to realise how great a risk she would run, even if he returned in triumph, in merging her life into his.

The girl's character had steadily strengthened and deepened under the stress of an inner conflict and the pressure of outward circumstance. She no longer shrank from the contemplation of that second ,self which fought for mastery in her lover's being. She must fain believe in its actuality, though utterly, and blessedly unknown to herself save_ by hearsay, and she strove to reconcile such a conception with her memory of the brilliant and lovable Max whose image abode in her heart.

So she waited, confidently hoping for the hour when he should say, "In your name and for your sake I am so far victor." She yearned for the moment when she would lay her hand in his and answer, " For the rest of the way I will walk by your side." Then one morning, when her lover was so far behind Ms-tryst that the fever of fear had begun to burn, Dr Swainson called, and, though this was by no means an infrequent occurrence, she trembled when she saw him, for she read in his pitiful and agitated countenance that there was news for her-, " Can you be brave?" - The doctor took her hands in his and spoke with the utmost gentleness. " No," in answer to a look, "it is not the worst; but Max Dearman has come home to die. lie is happy himself, poor fellow, so happy to know that his life-long struggle is nearly ended, and so unutterably glad that strength was left him to struggle back to you I" " Where is he?" she breathed, not in the least realising the full meaning of the words she heard. .Her lover had come and had need of her; that much she grasped, and that was enough; that one fact filled her consciousness, and mercifully blotted out all else.

" He is at our house, waiting, longing to see you, and Margaret has como with me to take you to him, only we thought it_best that I should break it to you. I had a telegram yesterday begging me to meet him at the station with a carnage. He was almost too weak for mo to get him to the house even so."

Ivy Marchmont had turned to prepare herself to accompany him, but her friend laid a detaining hand upon her. " No, my child, not yet. You must be prepared a little. Rapid consumption set. in four months ago, and he is the merest shadow of himself. Agitation or distress would be fatal to him."

The girl looked wonderingly at him. "Do you think I am likely to injure him? 1, who would dio for himP" The doctor's professional instincts were fully satisfied, as he noted the stillness of her face and the certainty of her movements, but the merely human in him scarce v.ould bear the thought of the instantly frozen founts of grief that woefully soon must have their way. In silence the three made their way to the doctor's residence, and when they reached the room where the dying man lay Ivy stood a moment on the threshold with strained hands and uplifted eyes, and the others averted their faces as from a sorrow too sacred for sympathy. Then she followed the doctor steadily to the bedside, and saw, without a quiver, the emaciated wreck that lay there, apparently sleeping. The closed eyes opened as sho bent over him, and the hunger in them died at sight of her, and was replaced by the peace of perfect satisfaction. Sho pressed softest kisses on his lips and brow, and smiled an angel's smile. The hand of the dying man sought hers, and he motioned to a. chair, while looking imploringly at the doctor. " Only a few minutes, old fellow." This was the answer to Iris mute appeal, " .Hut you shall have long enough to say what you feel to he necessary." .Max Dearman and Ivy Marchmont were very silent in those iirst tense moments of a meeting that was but the prelude to an eternal parting: then the voice of the dying man said, feebly: "It is best as it is, my darling, best

for me, and better a thousandfold for you. . . . For once Fate lias been kind to mo, and lias opened a way of escape from an impossible impasse. . . . Even the thought of you —a sharp spasm of pain and shame crossed his face—" could not prevail against my enemy. . . . Four months after our parting I went through hell, and for two whole weeks my better self was dead. . . . Do you wonder that

v'hen I first woke to tho knowledge ;hat death liad set hio'seal upon me I •ejoiced? Because of it, I dared to some back to you. I have been long in coming, for I was far away, and. I have had to take the journey by easy stages. ". .;- . Even the fellows are sorry for their exasperating ' Will-o'-the-Wisp,' and you will stay with me till the end?" He fell back exhausted, and for sole answer she stooped to kiss him. In the concentrated passion of that quiet kiss was the utter dedication of herself to him for as long as he should need her.

Sd she was allowed to sit with him day by day, no one having heart or will to oppose her. Words between them were necessarily few, but the long silences were sweet rest to him, and, in her tender ministrations to his weakness, Ivy found some outlet for the love and pity that consumed her. _ There came a day all too soon when his excessive weakness warned even her inexperience that the end was not far off. On that day he expressed a wish to see once more the men who had met a year previously to condemn him, and they came, one by one, into the room. Each in turn thanked the dying man for the good his better self 'had done them; each in turn acknowledged that his fight had been against incalculable odds.

."When the last had gone his ©yes turned again upon her. "Some day/' he whispered, "you will make one of them happy." Ivy smiled back at him and shook her head. The tears could wait their turn till the dread hour came when her smiles were powerless to win response from him. For the present, though it should require a miracle' of will, while a smile from her could yield him. an instant's pleasure she would find strength to summon it.

"They have made me tired," he murmured a train. "I am never' tired with you. Kiss mo."

Still clinging to the little hand he loved, Max Dearman fell asleep. It was the sleep from which he would awnke no more!

The flickering, uncertain light of " Will-o'-the-Wisp's " worsted soul was extinguished for ever. But in the undimmed memory of one constant soul that light shone on with the steady radiance of a star, a- star that for Ivy Marchmont would know no setting.