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Home My WebLink AboutThe Huron Signal, 1881-04-29, Page 2THE HURON SIGNAL, FRIDAY, APRIL 29. 1881. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. ST suss ¥Gott (711APTEfi X.111kV III. 4111 . nae 01O11Y. t uu soil: undestaud all 1 mean by "our own." 1 sat often very sad for you, Max; but weer afraid of you, never nddoubt about yen, not for au instant There is negating even in my saddest thought, coneernisg you. I trust you; I .{eel certain that whatever you do you will do right --that tall you have to en- due will be borne nobly and bravely. Thus I;may grieve c ver your griefs, but never over you. BIy leve of you, like my faith in you, is above all grieving. .Forgive this long aligresuiou; to -day is Sunday, the best dory in the week, and asyc:day for rhinking.snost of you. No return. Peeek pe and I were both merry sae started Ly the very earliest again in the soh May morning, we had so much business to get through. You •can't understant, of course, so I omit it, ashy confiding to you our last crowning achievement -the dress. It is white ,Hart antique. Dr. Urquhart has not the slightest idea what that is, but no matter; and it has latte flounces half a yard deep, and it u altogether a most epletrtfid affair. Buz the governor's lady -I beg my own Pardon -the •gov- •eruorea wife must be magnificent, you know. It was the unantua-maker, a great Weet.end personage, employed by the grand•family to whom, by Francis's ad- viee, .Lydia Cartwright was sent some yearaago (by -the -by, I met Mrs. Cart- wright to -day, who asked after you, and sent Icor duty, and wished you would know that she had heard.' rom Lydia) - this .maatua-maker it we.; who recom- mendedehe lady's maid, l;arah Enfield, who had once been a workevou'an of her Cwn. We saw the person, who seemed a young woman, but delicate -looking; said bet health was injured with the long hours of .millinery -work, and that she ahould hate died, she thought, if a friend of hers, a kind young woman, had not taken hernia and helped her She was lodging with this friend now. On the a ole, Sarah Entiele sufficient- ly pleased tee to make my Birder decide on engaging her, if only Francis could see her first. We sent a message to his lodgings, turd were considerably surprised to have the answer that he was not at home, and•had not been for three weeks; indeed, he hardly ever was at home. After some annoyance, Penelope re- solved to make her decision arithout him. Hardly.ever,at home ! What a lively life Francis meet lead ! I wonder he dues nut grow weary of it. lance ke half owned he was, but added, "that he mast float with the stream -it was toe, late now- he could not stop himself." Pen- elope will, though. As we drove -through the Park to the addreee Sarah Enfield had given es -- somewhere about Kensington -Penelope wishing to see the girl once again and engage her --my sister observed, in answer to my remark, that Francis most have many invitations. "Of Bourse he has. It Showa how much he is liked and respected. It will be the same abroad. We shall gather round us the very beat society in the island. Still he will find it a great change from London." I wonder is she at all afraid of it, or suspects that he once was i that he shrank from being thrown altogether upon his wife's society, like the French- man who declined marrying a lady he had long visited because ••where ,should he spend his evenings ? ('h, mewhat a heart -breaking thing to feel that ones husband needed sumewhere to spend his evenings. We drove past Holland Park: what a bonnie place it ia 'as you would say:" how full the trees were e.f green leaves and birds. i don't know where we went next --I hardly know anything of Lon- don, thank goodness !--but it was a pretty, quiet neighborhood, where we had the greatest difficulty in finding the house we wanted, and, at last,, had re- course to the Poet -office. The postmistress --who was rather grim -"knew the place, that is the name of the party as lived there. which wee all she cared to know. She called hevself Mn. Chaytor, or Chatter, or something like it," which we decided must be Sarah Enfield's charitable friend and accordingly drove thither. Itavas a small house, a mere cottage, set int pleasant little garden, through the palings of which I saw walking about a young woman with a child in her anus. tine had on a straw hat with a deep lace fall that hid her face, but her figure was very graceful, and she was ex- t emly well dressed. Nevertheless, she looked not exactly “the lady." Alec. hearing the gate bell, she called out, "Anter," in so lady's voice. Penelope glanced at her and then a'rarply at me "I wonder "- she began, lot s''rped told me to remain in the carnage whose she went in, and she would fetch me if she• wanted me. Rut she did not. Indeed. she hardly staid two minutes. T saw the young woman ran hastily in -doors, leaving her child snob s pre141 lav ' streaming after his "mammy" -and Penelope earn back, her face the color et scarlet, "What ? 1s it a mistake 1 ' brad. "No -yes," and she gave the saint to dove en. Again I inquired if enythiag were the mater, and was answa!•ed, "Nothing - nothing that 1 Mrd understand." After wkieh she eat O hew veil down, otgi- tati t, till all M a Sodden she sprang up se if some oat had given her a stab ret her heart I was quits terrified, but she again told me it was nothing,. and bade me ''let her dune;" which as you know is tine only thing one can do with my sister Penelope. But at the railway station we met w ine people we knew, and she was forced to talk; so that by the time we reached Rockinount she seemed to have gent over her annoyance, whatever it was concerning Sarah Enfield, and was her- self again. That is, herself in one of those'uaods when, whether her ailment be amental or physical, the sole chance of its passing away ia, as one nays, "to leave her alone." I do not say this is trying -doubly so new, when, just as she was leaving, I seem -to understand my sister better and andiove her more than everl did in my life. But I have learned at last not to break my heart over the peculiarities of thuss1 care for, but to try to bear with them es they must with mine, of which I have no lack, goodness knows ! I saw a letter to Francis in the post - beg this morning, so I hope she has re- lieved her mind by giving him the ex- planation which she refused to me. It must have been some deception practised on her by this Sarah Enfield, and Peas - lope never forgives the smallest deceit. She was either too much tired or too much annoyed to appear again yesterday so papa and I spent the afternoon and evening alone. But she went to church with us as usual to -day, looking pale and tired, the ill mood -"the little black dog on her shoulder," as we used to' call jt -not having quite vanished. Also, I noticed an absent expression in her eyes, and her voice in the respons- es was less regular than usual. Perhaps she was thinking this would almost be her last Sunday of sitting in the old ,pew and looking up to papa's white hair, and her heart being fuller, her lips were more silent than usual. You will not mind my writing so much about my sister Penelope ? You like ate to talk to you of what is about me and uppermost in my thoughts, which is her- self at present. She has been very good to me, and Max loves every one whom I love, and every one who loves me. I shall have your letter to-morrew morning. Good -night ! THIODORA. CHAPTER XXIX. 11I5 STORY. My Dear Theodora -This is a line ex- tra, written on receipt of yours, which was most welcome. I feared something had gone wrong with my little methodi- cal girL Do not keep strictly to your ,Domini - cal letter just now; write any day that you can. Tell me everything thatishap- pening to you -you must, and ought. Nothing must occur to you or yours that I do not know. You are mine. Your last letter I do not not answer in detail till the next shall come; nut exactly from press of business -I would make time if I had it not -but from var- ious other reasons, which you shell have by-and-by. Give me, if you remember it, the ad- dress of the person with whom Saraht Eneld is lodging I suspect she is a wo tan of whom, by the desire of her nearest relative, I have been in search of for some time.; But, should ynu have forgotten, do not trouble your sister about this. I will find all I wish to learn some other way. Never apologize or hesitate -at writinK to me about your family -all that is yours is mine. Keep your heart up about your sister Penelope; she is a goad woman, and all that befalls her will be for her good. Love her, and be patient with her continually. All your love for her and the rest takes nothing from what is mine, but adds thereto. Let me hear soe,n what is passing at Rockmount. I cannot come to you and help your would I could! My love! my love! Max URQ,4UBART, CHAPTER XXX. RIR STOAT. J1y Dcar Mas --i write this in the middle of the night; there has been no chance forme during the day, nor. in-' deed, at all --until now. Tonight, for the first time, Penelope has fallen asleep' I have taken the opportunity of stealing into the next room, to comfort and you. My dear Mas: Oh, if you knew' if T could but come to you for one minutes, rest, one minute's rest, one urinate, 11 love' There i will not cry any mare. It is much to be abl• to wnte to you. s•,d I blessed, infinitely bleed to know you aro---what you a». Max, 1 have been weak, wicked of late; sfisid of absence, wh,^h tries mese, because 1 am not strong. and cannot stand up by myself eel used to do: afraid of death, which might tear you from me, or me from you, leaving the other to ye neotrrning spun earth forever. Now Id feel that absence is nothing, death itself nothing, compared to one loss -that' which has befallen my sister Pane - lope. lope You may haveNi rd of it, evesinthese few days -ill ears sods fast 'Sell me what you hear; for we wish to wave any stater as aueh as we earn. To our friends getionaity, 1 have merely written that, "from lmfo,ssn " the marriage w beoken of MA Charteris may give whet reasons he likes at Tre- berne Court. We will not try to injure him with his uncle. I have just crept is to look st• Pene- lope; she is asleep still, and has never -stirred She looks se old -like a woman .ef fifty almost. No wonder. Think - ten yeses -all her youth to be cru.hed out at once. I wonder. will it kill her? It would me. I wanted to mak you -do you think, medically, there is any present danger in her state? She lies quiet enough; taking little notice of me or anybody - with her eyes shut during the daytime, and open, wide staring, all night long. What ought Ito do with her? There is only me, you know. If you fear any- thing, send me is telegram at once. Do not wait to write. Bat, that you may the better judge her state, I ought just to gine you full particulars, beginning where my last let- ter ended. That "little black dog on herehoulder,' which 3 spoke of -so lightly! God for- give me! also for leaving her the whole of that Sunday afternoon with ker door locked, and the room as still as death; yet never once knocking -to ask, "Pene- lope, how are you?" On Sunday night, the curate came to supper, sad papa sent me to summon her; she came down stairs, took her plaoe at the table, and conversed, I did not notice her much, except that she moved about in a stupid stunned -like faahicn, which caused papa to remark more than once, "Penelope, I think you are ha'; asleep." She never answered. Another night, and the half of another day, she must have spent in the same mariner. And I let her do it without inquiry. Shall I ever forgive myself In the afternoon of Monday, I was sitting at work, busy finishing her em- broidered marriage handkerchief, alone in the sunshiny parlor, thinking of my letter, which you would have received at last; also thinking it was rather wicked of my happy sister to sulk for two whole days, because of a etosall disappointment about a servant -if such it were. I had almost determined to shake her out of her ridiculous reserve by asking boldly what was the matter, and giving her a thorough scolding if I dared; when the door opened, and in walked Francis Charteris. Heartily glad to see him, in the hope his coming might set Penelope right again, I jumped up and shook hands, cordially. Not till afterward did I re- member how much thio' seemed to sur- prise and relieve him. "Oh, then, all is right'" said he. "I feared, from Penelope's letter, that she was a little annoyed with me. Nothing new that you know 1" "Something did annoy her I suspect," and I was about ee blurt out as much as I knew or guessed Af the foolish mystery about Sarah Enfield, but some instinct stopped me. "You and Penelope had better settle your own affairs," said I laughing. "I'll go and fetch her." "Thank you." He threw himself clown on the velvet arm -chair -his favor- ite lounge in our house for the last ten years. His handsome profile turned up against the light, his fingers lazily 'tapping the arta of the chair, a trick he had from his boyhood -this is my last impression of Francis -anti our Francis Charteris. I had to call outside Pcnelope's door three times, "Francis is here." "Fran- cis is waiting." "Francis wants to speak to you," before she answered or appeared; and then, without taking the slightest notice of me, she walked slowly down stairs, holding by the wall as she went. So, 1 thought, it is Francis who has vexed her after all, and determined to leave them to fight it out and make it up again -this, which would:be the last of their many lovers' quarrels. Ah ! it was. Half an hour afterward, }raps sent for MO to the study, and there I saw Francis Charter's standing, exactly where you once stood --you see, I ani not afraid of remembering it myself, or of reminding you. No, my Max : Our griefs are nothing, nothing ' Penelope, was also present. standing by my father, who said, looking round at us with • troubled, bewildered air: "Dora, what is all thio 1 Your sister comes here and tells me she will not marry Francs. Francis rushee in after her, and says, T hardly can make out what Children, why do you vex me so 1 Why cannot you leave an old man in peace r Penelope answered, "Father, you ahs be left an peace, if yon will only confirm what T have end bo that that gentle- man. and send him out eif my sight Francs laughed-_ "To be called batik awn presently Yon know eon -;11 1. It, M Mon as you have cote to your right senses, Penelope. You will never disgrace us in the eyes of the world - set everybody gossiping about our affairs, fur such a trifle" My sister made him no answer. There was less even of anger than con- tempt- utter, saessureless contempt- in the Way she just lifted up her eyes and looked at him -looked him over from head to bkl, and turned again to her father. "Papa, make him understand -1 can- not -that I wish all this ended; I wish Bever to see his face again." "Why !" said papa, in great] perplex - "He knows why." Papa and I both turned to Francis, whose areleas manner changed a little; he grew red id uncomfortable. "She may tell if she chooses; I lay no embargo of silence upon her. I have made all the explanations possible, and if she will not receive theta, I cannot help it. The thing is done, and cannot be undone. I hie begged her pardon -and trade all aorta of promises for the future -no man can de more." He said this sullenly, and yet as if he wished to make friends with her, but Penelope seemed scarcely to hear. "Paps," she repeated, still in the same stony voice, "I wish you would end this scene; it is killing me. Tell him, will you, that I have burned all his letters, every oast Insist en his returning mine. His presents are all tied up in a parcel in my mom, excep this; will you give it back to him ?' • She took off her ring, a small common turquoise which Francis had given her when he was young and poor, and laid it on the table. Francis snatched it up, handled it a minute, and than threw it violentlylinto the fire. "Bear witness, Mr. Johnston, and you too, Dora, that it is Penelope, not', who breaks our engagement. I would have fulfilled it honorably -I would have married her." "Would you 1" cried Penelope, with flashing eyes, "no -not that last degrad- ation -no !" I would have married her," Francis continued, "and made her a good hus- band, too. Her reason for refusing me is puerile - perfectly puerile. No wo- man of sense, who knows anything of the world, would urge it for a moment. No man either, unless he was your favor- ite -who I believe is at the bottom of this, who, for all you know, may be doing exactly as 1 have done -Dr. Urqu- clMtering down the road --I heard it plainly-- Penelope started up with a cry of "Franco- Fraucis!" l Oh the anguiah lief it! I can hear it now. t it was not this Fraucia sloe called for 1 was sure of that --I saw it in bet Gym. It was the Francis,often years ago- the Francis she had loved -nue ss utterly dead and buried at if she had sass the gone laid over him, and his body left to sleep in the grave. Dead and buried -dead and buried. Do you know, I sutttetimes wish it were se; drat she had been left, peacefully widowed-- knowing his s.,ul was safe with God. 1 thought, when papa and -paps, who that night kissed me, for the first time since one night you know - sat by Penelope's bed, watching her - "If Francis had only died!" After she was quiet, and I had persu- aded yaps to go to rest, he sent for me and desired rte to read a psalm, as I used to du when he was ill -you remem- ber? When it was ended, he asked me, had I any idea what Francis had dune that Penelope ceuld not pardon? I told him, difficult as it was to du it, allI suspected --indeed, felt sure of. For was it not the truth, the only ans- wer I could give. For the same reason I write of these things to you without any false delicacy -they are the truth, and they must be told. Paps lay for some time, thinking deeply. At last he said: "My dear, you are no longer a ;hild, and I may speak to you plainly. I am an old man, and your mother is dead. I wish she were with us now -she might help u.; for she was a good woven, Dora. Do you think -take time to con- sider the question -that your sister is acting right 1" I said, "Quite right.- •' Yes, ight."Yes, I thought you held the doctrine, 'the greater the sinner the greater the saint; and believed every crime a man can commit may be repented, atoned, pardoned?'' "Yes, father; hut Francis has never either repented or atoned." No; and therefore I feel certain my sister is right. Ay, even putting aside the other fact, that the discovery of his long years of deceptie-n roust have vo withered up his love -and scorched it at the root, as with a stroke of lightning -that even if she pitied him, she must also despise. Fancy despising one's husband. Besides, she is not the only one wrong- ed. Sometimes, even sitting by my sis- ter's bedside, I see the vision of that pretty yeeung creature -she was so pretty and innocent when she first carne to live at Roclnount-with her bey in her arms; and my heart feels like to burst with indignation and shame, and a kind of shuddering horror at the wickedness of the world -yet with a strsnge feeling of unutterable pity lying at -the depth u all. Max, tell me what you think -you who are sun much the wiser of us two; but I think that, even if she wished it still, my sister ought net to marry Fran- cis Charteris. Ah me: papa said truly I was no long- er a child. I feel hardly even a girl, but quite an old woman -familiar with all sorts of sad and wicked things, as if the freshness and innocence had gone out of life, and were nowhere to be found. Except when I turn to you, and lean my duces sick heart against you, rte I do now. Max comfort me' You will, I know, write immediately you receive this. if you could have conte - but that is impusaible. Augustus you will probably see, if you have not done an already -for he al- ready looks upon you as the friend of the family, though in no other light as yet; which is best. Papa wrote to Sir William, I believe; he said he consider- ed some explanation a duty, on his daughter's account; further than this, he e iahes the matter kept quiet. Not to disgrace Francis, I thought; but papa told me -ont-half the world would hard - c insider it any disgrace at all. Can this he sot Is it indeed such a wicked, wick- ed world? -Here my letter was stopped by hearing a sort of cry in Penelope's room. I tan in,and found her sitting up in her led, ber eyes staring, and every limb convulsed. Seeing me, she cried out: "Bring a light; I was dreaming. But it's not true. Where is Francis?", I made no reply, and she slowly sank down in her heel again. Recollection had come. Papa stan:ed and said hastily, "Con- fine yourself to the subject on hand, Francis. Of what is this that my daugh- ter accuses you ? Tell me, and let me judge." Francis hesitated, and then said, "Send away these girls, and you shall hear." Suddenly it flashed;upon me what it was. How the intuition came, how little things, before unnoticed, seemed to rise and put themselves together, including Saturday's story -and the shudder that ran through Penelope from head to f..ot, when on Sunday morning old Mrs. Cart- wrightcourtesied to her at the churchd,e -all this I cannot account for, but seemed to know as well as if I had been told everything. I need not explain. fur evidently you know it also, and it is so dreadful, so unspeakably dreadful. Oh, Max, fur the first minute or so, I felt as if the whole world were crumb- ling from under my feet- as I could t rust nobody -believe in nobody --until I re- membered you. My dear Max, my own dear Max ! Ah ! wretched Penelope. I took her hand as she stood, I,ut she twisted it out of mine again. I listened mechanically to Francis, as he again be- gan rapidly and eagerly to elo•ullate himself to my father. "She may tell you all, if she likes. I have done no worse than hundreds do in my position, and under my unfortunate circumstances, and the world forgives them, and women too. How could i help it? I was too poor to marry. And before I married I meant to do every one justice -I mevtnt—" Penelope covered her ears. Her face was so ghastly that paps himself said, "I think, Francis, explanations are idle. You had better defer them and go." "1 will take you at your word," he re- plied haughtily. "If you or she think better of it, or of me, 1 shall be at any time ready to fill my engagement-hon- orebly, as is gentleman should. Good - by; will you shake hands with me, Pe- nelope?" He walked up to her, trying apparent- ly to carry things ofi with a high air, but he was not strong enough, or hardened enough. At sight of my sister sitting there for she had sunk down at last, with a face like a corpse, only it had not the peace of the dead, Francis trem- bled. "Forgive me if T have done you any berm it was all the result of circum- donces. Perhaps, if you had been . a hale lees rigid - had scolded me leas and studied me more --- Rut yon could not help your nature, nor i mine Good - by, Penelope.- She enelope.-She sat. impassive: even when, with a sort "1 invcolnntery tenderness, he stilted and kissed her hand; but the in- stant he was gotta --fairly gone --with ohs d,,... ,h,.• . .,,tee Inc, •nA iii. ', .... long time, nut saying that is net wit!, ter weakness is our 1 ee soh oily ruling back to us many a sure, u+, portably, iagls word "I should not have gone Weep. Why did you let me? Or why cannot you put me to sleep forever, and ever, and ever, and ever?' repeating the wool m„ty times. "Dora," and my sister fixed her piteous eves on my face. "I should be so glad to die. Why won't you kill mel" T burst into tears. Max, you will understand the total helnlessnesa one feels in the pretence of an irremediable grief like this; how con - sedition seems cruel, and reasoning vain. "Miserable enmfe.rters are ye all," said .lob to hie thrc' friend., and a miserable comforter i felt to this my sister, who m it had pleased the Almghty to smite so awe, until T remembered that He who smite, can heal. 1 lav down oetaMe the ere me sins b, and who, is give o double uses ' triples* teary. t mine did Penelope more gond than tlo, wisest of word/. She lay watchful, use aayias,; se than mato: jjj "I did nut know you cared so mu.., ttor um, Dora ' - 1i It then ceiue into my mind; that a, wrecked people cling to the .minuet spar, if, instead of her a'nviclion that in hosing Francis she had hot her all, 1 omit( by any means in eke Penelope foe' that there were others tel cling to, others who Loved her dearly, and whoa, she ought to try said live fur still ,t might save her. So, acting on the tut pulse, I told sty sister how guest I thought her, and how wicked I myself had been for not long since discovering her goodness. How, when at last I learned to apprecu►te her, and to under- stand nderstand what a surely -tried life hers had been, there carte not only respect. but love. Thoroughly sisterly love, such as people do not necessarily feel even fur their own fish and blood, but nev- er, I doubt, exuupt t„ then,. (Save that, in some inexplicable way, fondly reflected, I have somethsng of the same sort of love for your brother Dallas.) Afterward, she lying still and listen- ing, I tried to make my sister under- stand what I had inyaelf felt when she came to my ledaide and comforted me that morning, months ago, when I was wretched; how no wretchedness of few can be altogether unendurable, so long as it does out strike at the household peace, but leaves the sufferer a love to rest upon at home. And at length 1 persuaded her to promise that, since it made Foth pale and me is very miserable to see her thus -and papa was an old man, too; we might not have hitt with us many Years -she would, for 'our sakes, try to rouse herself, and see if lite were not tol- lerable fur a little lunger. "Yes" she answered, closing her heavy eyes, and folded her hands in a pitiful kind eef patience, very strange in our quick, irritable Penelope. "Yes - just a little longer. Still, I think I shall soon die. I believe it will kill me." I did nut contradict her, but I walled to mind your words, that, Penelope be- ing a good woman, all would happen to her for gesso. Also, it is usually not the goad people who are killed by grief; while others take it as God's vengence, or as the work of blind chance, they re- ceive it humbly as God's chastisement, live un, and endure. I do not think my sister will die -whatever she may think or desire just now. Besides, we have- only to deal with the present, for how can we look forward a single day! How little we exi•ected all this only a week ago ' It seems strange that Francis could have deceived us fur so long; years, it must have been; but we have lived so 'retired, and were such a sit:tple family for many things. How far Penelope thinks we know -papa and 1--I cannot guess; she is tetaJ1y silent on the sub- ject of Francis. Except in that one outcry, when she was stili only half awake, she has never mentioned his name. There was one tiring lucre I wanted to tell you, Max; you know I tell you everything. Just as I was leaving any sister, she noticing that I wits not undressed, ask- ed me if I hal ' nsitting up all night, and reproached nee for doing so. 1 said "I was not weary -that I had sen quietly occupying myself in the next room?' "Reading "No." ("What were you doing r wi l sharp suspicion. 1 answered, without disguise; "I was writing to Max." "Max who 1 Oh, I had forgotten his name.' She turned from me, and lay with b face to the wall -- then and. "Do you believe in him "Yes, I du." "You had better not. You will live to repent it. Child, mark my words. There may be good women -one or two, perhaps -hut there is not a single good man in the whole world." My heart rose too my lips, but deeds speak louder than worts. I did not at- tempt to defend you. Besides, no won der she should think thus. Again she said "Dora, tell Dr. Urqu- hart he was innocent comparatively, and that i say so. He only killed Harry's belly, but those who deceive us are the death of one's soul. Nay," and by her expression I felt sure it 915 not herself amt her own wrongs my sister was thinking "of -"there are those who de- stroy both body and soul." (m se eroattwren. Burdock Blood Bitters cures Scrofula and all humors ,ef the Mood. Liver, Kid vers and the Rowels at the same time, while it allays nervous irritation andd and tones op the debilitated system. It cures all humors from a pimple to the worst farm of Scrofula F- •el• by all • • ovular,