[COPYRIGHT STORY]. IN CONSULTATION

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 6, 10 February 1906, Page 10

[COPYRIGHT STORY]. IN CONSULTATION

By

L. G. Moberly

Author of “ A Great Patience,” Etc

1 SHOULD like to have a second opinion if your friend would not object, Miss Lambert I'* “You think so gravely of her, then I” “1 do consider that Mrs Rainsley is very ill; and, with your permission, I should like to bring a colleague on whose opinion 1 place great reliance. It will ba better that 1 should arrange this with you. There is no occasion to make Mrs Rainsley anxious about herself.” The kindly old doctor remained for a few more minutes in the draw.ng-room of the Hat; gave some explicit directions to Miss Lambert, and left her, saying that he should look in again that same afternoon, bringing with him another medical man in consultation. Joi a second or two after he had gone, Helen Lambert stood looking in.o the lire, her face full of anxiety. Her friend, Muriel Rainsley, who lay ill in the next room, was a very great deal to this quiet woman; perhaps it was not too much to say that Mrs Rainsley had been the romance of the other’s life, since the day, nearly six years ago, when they had first met in a small Swiss village. They had lived together almost ever since, and now, Muriel was very ill, and as Helen Lambert moved towards the dcor she shivered, remembering the gravity of Doctor Shuttleworth’s face', as he had expressed a wish for a second opinion. Before she re-entered the sick room she had composed her face again, and it bore its usual quiet expression as she went to the bedside and looked down upon the worn face on the pillow. The sick woman stirred uneasily. “Is it you, Paul ?” she said. “I thought I heard your voice.” and she smiled, then she opened her eyes and looked up into the plain, kindly face above her. The smile faded, but she put out her hand to her friend. “I was dreaming,” she whispered. M thought . . . how strange . . . I thought you were . . . Paul.” Her fjes travelled uneasily about the room. Miss I-ambert sat down beside htr, and stroked her hand gently. “Sever mind, dear, ” she said, “it was only a dream.”

The sick woman moved almost impatiently. “1 know ... oh! I know . . . I wish I had been awake. If Paul” she broke olf suddenly and looked at her companion. “You do not know all about me, Helen ... 1 never told you before -about Paul.” "Who is Paul?’’ the other asked, and though her voice was quiet, her heart beat heavily. It had never dawned upon her that she did not know the whole of her friend's history. The weak voice pf the woman iu the bed began once more. “Six years ago . . . Helen . . . is it really six years since I first saw your dear face? 1 remember it quite well. 1 was so tired that night—l hated going to table d'hote—l dragged myself down with difficulty. Everybody thought . . . that I was a widow, but . . • I was not a widow . . . though . . • I had lost my husband.’’ Helen started and looked narrowly at her friend. She thought for a moment that Muriel was wandering, but the eyes that met hers were quite clear and sane; it was evident that the siek woman knew well what she was saying. •1 could not bear to tell you the truth, Helen,” she went on, “you loved me . . . I thought if you knew you would . . • love me less. 1 could not tell you . , . then. Now ... 1 want you to know it all . . . before . . . Igo away.” The hand that held hers closed upon it convulsively. Muriel Rains’ey smiled again. "I believe you love me so well now, that nothing would change your love,” she said. "Nothing would change it,” Helen answered gravely, "nothing.” “I was very young when I married.” Muriel said. It was as if she had not heard the other’s words. “I loved Paul —mv husband —as I did not think it was in me to love anybody. I never even told you his name befoie, did I, Helen?’ Helen shook her head. "Rainslcy is not 'his other name,” she said slowly; “it was my mother's maiden name. 1 could not bear Paul s name after 1 had broken his heart —I loved him so. 1 told you that I loved him. We lived in a" little village under great brooding hill, and Paul had made my home as beautiful and sweet as he could, before he brought me to it. If I shut my eyes I ean see the garden where a blackbird sang all that spring time after we were married. There were clumps of lilac bushes in the beds, and a white hawthorn by the gate. Sometimes I feel as if I could smell their sweetness still. A pear trie climbed up the house. Its blossoms were close under my bedroom window, and the first sound I could heal in the morning was the humming of the bees amongst them. And Paul and I were happy—so happy that it was like Heaven. For a whole year I was drunk with sheer happiness; and then, when the spring time came again, and,the blackbird began to whistle his love songs, the serpent crept into Eden ” She was silent for a long, long time, when she spoke again her vo’ee was broken and changed. “A new tenant came into the cottage next ao ours. She was a widow—many years my senior—and —a very beautiful women. Paul asked me to call upon her, and in a very short time she was constantly in our house. And then . . » I began to know that most awful curse of love —jealousy. I thought that Paul was attracted by this woman. I lay awake at night brooding over every word

I had heard him say to her; every glance of admiration 1 had noticed in his eyes as he looked at her. When she was with us I watched her all the time—l think I knew then what it meant to be in hellonly it was a hell of my own making. At last there came a day when I reproached Paul with his evident admiration of the beautiful widow. Helen, I can't forget—l never shall forget the look in his eyes when he answered me. It was so full of pain, astonishment, and hurt wonder, but I would not understand it. ‘Why, my little wife,’ he said, ‘may I not even admire another woman? She is no more to me than a beautiful picture. You are my wife, and the heart of my whole life.’ “He tried to draw me into his arms, and I—pushed him away, and laughed. And outside the blackbird was whistling his love song—and I thought I should go mad. "Oh! I cannot tell you how many scenes we had after that first one. I think now, as I look back, that I must have been mad. I gave Paul no peace. First I asked him to give up the acquaintance of our neighbour—for my sake. He refused —quietly and firmly. He said that some day I should be wiser,

and sorry for my mistake. Then I implored him to leave the place, and begin work elsewhere, and he said that it was absurd to suggest such a thing. And at last one day the end came. The woman next door had been to tea with us. My jealous eyes fancied they saw secret signals passing between my husband and our guest, and the moment she had gone the storm burst. I think I almost raved at him. When I lie awake in the night sometimes 1 ean see his face as he listened to my ravings. He was very grave, and his eyes were full of burning indignation. When I had finished my torrent of accusation he said, very quietly: “You are not yourself, Muriel; 1 think the only thing for us both would be that we should be apart for a little while, that you may think things over quietly and reasonably.” , “What a splendid idea,” I sneered, “that you and that hateful woman may see more of each other whilst I am away, I suppose ” His face grew very white when I said the words, his eyes blazed. He caught my hands in his, and gripped them till he hurt me. “'How dare you say that?’ he said; ‘you know it is not true.’ “I believe I did know it, but I listened to nothing but the demon of jealousy. I laughed—l actually laughed, Helen. “ ‘I will save you the trouble of sending me away,’ 1 said scornfully, ‘I shall go.’ “He dropped my hands and turned away. I think he never dreamed I should carry out my threat. He thought that if he left me to myself for a time I should sec reason. He went out on his rounds, and when he was gone I packed my tilings in feverish haste. I told the servants I had been unexpectedly summoned away, and long before Paul could get back I was gone—gone in the express to London.

•I h*d no relations, you know, Helen; t think if I had had a mother 1 should W>t have ruined life as I did. I nad plenty of money of my ow n, and Paul had Insisted on its all remaining in my hands. 1 stayed for weeks in London, nursing my anger and jealousy. Once I saw a p.essage for me from Paul in the Agony column of the ‘Times,’ but I would not heed it. J think I was mad —mad —mad I ‘•And all the time I loved him till my heart was at breaking point. After a .while I grew tired of London, and went abroad for a time; and then—reason and sense came baek to me. I realised slowly that it was not Paul who had broken my heart and wrecked my life, as I had been fond of saying to myself, but that I myself had made havoc of my happirepented, oh! I repented in sackcloth and ashes—and—l wrote to Paul. My own letter came baek to me, the words ‘Gone away’ written on the envelops. I was in an agony of terror and misery. Had my repentance then come too late? I travelled back to Engian I post haste, and to the villas* where Paul and I had been so happy. The cottage was empty and shut up; a sign-boai d stood in the garden with the words to let unfurnished’ painted upon it. I was too much numbed with pain and angu sh to think of what people might have said or thought of me; and I scarcely no.iced the curious glances cast at me as 1 walked down the village to make inquiries at the post office. I learnt, that. Paul had gone away—gone to Australia, the postmistress thought. f “ ‘He left more than six mouths ago, ■he said, ‘when you had been gone nigh upon half a year, ma’am,’ she added. “‘And the house is to be let?’ I faltered. “‘I do hear it is let,’ she answered, to the widow lady as lived next door. She Is to marry the curate, here, and they say she has taken your old house, ma’am.' My eup was full. I had repent’d—but too late.” ■ There was silence again, and Helen’s band held the trembling one closely in hers. “Since that day,” Muriel said at last, "I have never heard of Paul I—have tried to forget —it was useless. I have tried to drown remembrance in every way, but it is impossible. I have travelled ; I have done good -work; I have plunged into gaiety, but it was all useless, Through everything my heart his been slowly, slowly breaking in all the weary years. If —I might see Paul just once again, and hear his voice, and’ know that he forgives me, I think I could g t well again. If I might even know where he is, and what lie is doing, it would ba better than this silenc?—this long, long silence.” She closed her eyes; her voice sounded utterly’ exhausted, and Helen hastily poured out a little brandy and held it to her lips. “You have talked tco long, dear,” she ■aid tenderly ;--‘*ytiu are'tired out.”. < “I wanted to tell you,” the sick woman whispered, “I wanted you to know all about me, in case —-this should be the end.” The two doctors awaited Helen Lambert in the drawing-room. As she came in she looked keenly* and anxiously at the

consultant. It seemed to her, poor soul, that so much lay in his hands. If only he were able to save the life of the woman she loved, would any reward be sufficient for him. “This is Doctor Thurston. Miss Lambert,” Doctor Shuttleworth said; and. looking into the stranger’s face, Helen’s anxious heart was satisfied. This man instantly inspired her with confidence. His grev eyes were full of a grave kindline*<, and though there was a certain sternness in the strong lines of his jaw and chin, his smile was full of charm. There was in his personality » strength which instantly made itself felt. After a few words to Helen,-the two doctors followed her to the sick room. She entered first. “Doctor Shuttleworth has brought, she began, then sprang to her friends side with a startled exclamation. Muriel was sitting up in bed, her eyes were straining towards the door, there was a flush on her cheeks, her hands were twitching nervously. “Paul 1 ” she said, “it was Pauls voice, it is Paul’s step. Paul . . ah! Paid.” , - , The two men had paused on the threshold, but at the first sound of that i trained, passionate voice the stranger stepped into the room, and to the bedside. His face was white: Helen could set that his hands too were trembling as were the hands that went out towards him with a pitiful gesture that ■wrung the watchers heart. “Paul.’’ the sick woman whispered, “is it you? or is it a dream again? Must I wake? Ahl must I wake this time? ’ The anguished voice broke and died away. The man beside the bed stooped over her and laid her gently back upon her pillow, then his hand closed over hers. His eyes were full of tenderness, but he spoke very quietly as to a little child, though it was evident that he also was labouring under strong excitement. “My dear,” he said, “have I found you at last . . after all these weary years? My’ poor little Muriel.” And then, as if they had forgotten the man and woman who were spectators of this! strange scene, he stooped and kissed her. Helen and Doctor Shuttleworth stole softly from the room, but their going was not noticed by those two who had eves only f-cr each other. “What a strange story,” Doctor Shuttleworth said thoughtfully, when Helen had given him the brief outlines of her friend’s tragic history, “I have known Paul Thurston for years. He came to London some time ago, and made his mark at once. I remember hearing rumours of some tragedy in his life, but I had never known the particulars. I do know that- he has travelled immensely, perhaps in search of Mrs Thurston; it is only within the last few years that he has definitely settled -tin town. No doubt he had at last given up in despair any. hope of ever finding his wife.” . - . - It was a long time before Doctor Thurston came out of the sick room; when he did appear his face was alight with happiness. lie took Helen’s hands in his and wrung them warmly. “My wife has told me what you have

been to her," he said, “1 shall never let you leave her now, if you will consent to stay . . with us.” “And what is your opinion of my patient?” Doctor Shuttleworth said, as the two men also clasped hands, “you came here professionally, let me remind you.” And the old doctor laughed kindly. “I think that there is every ehanee of your patient recovering,” Doctor Thurston answered with a smile, “but the only prescriplion I am going to suggest for her, is the simple one of . . happiness.” Helen and Doctor Thurston returned to the sick room together, and Muriel stretched out her hands to her friend with a loving look. “Oh!” she said, “I am so happy. Did I not tell you 1 should get well if 1 could only see Paul? God has been very good to me. But 1 should not have been alive now,” she added, turning to her husband, “except for Helen’s love and care. She has done everything to help me.” “She will always stay with us, I hope,” Doctor Thurston said, and though Helen shook her head, their thought of her was very sweet to the lonely woman. “It is all very wonderful,” Doctor Thurston said slowly, “that we should have been brought together like this is almost past belief. How little I thought that I should find my wife here to-day when I came with .Shuttleworth to see n case in consultation.”