THE HAZARD OF THE STORM.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2095, 22 January 1908, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE HAZARD OF THE STORM.

Maxwell Denison glanced across tho room at Lis wife. Sho had boon writing, but now tho pen was placed asido and sho was gazing away from tho paper, her eyes resting upon something far distant —some picture of tho past, perhaps, recalled in an idle moment. Maxwell shut tho book which ho had been reading, and gavo a low sigh, which tho woman hoard for • all that it was so quickly impressed, so hastily checked. He got up irom his chair and walked across tho length of tho hotel sitting-room—a tall man powerfully built, with a face that had something noble Jn it. The gravo expression which rested upon it now softened at onco into tenderness when ho reachod her side. “Roso, won’t you tell me what is in that letter?” Ho spoke in low tones, his eyes bent upon her face, with rather a sad light in their depths—a- light that was difficult to read. Her faco had changed, its dolicato pink deepening into a nervous flush. “What letter do you mean?” Tho question was put iu rather a shaky voice; those eyes which Maxwell had worshipped for their steadiness and truth were wavering- now, and surely they had lost their look of candour, of childlike innocence. “The letter you were reading when I came into tho room, that letter which came by hand. I mot a waiter with it and sent him on to you. Hose, your oyes were wot when I entered this room—you were wooping. What sorrow have you, oh, my dearest—what sorrow that is secret from me?” Her face had molted for a moment —a touch of exquisite feeling rested upon it like a bloom. But now it slowly passed away, and with it that warm emotional color, which spoke of ■a heart stirred. She looked cold again, a- woman of snow. “There was nothing in it that I wish to tell anyone.” She spoke in low tones, but there was a quiver on her lips which the man did not observe —a quiver of pain. Maxwell said nothing for a moment, but a quick flame of light came into his eyes,- and his faco altered to, hardening' as hers had dono. She picked up the pen at her sido and began to examine it with min'ute care,-her mind apparently absorb- . cd in the task, when suddenly sho felt her hands caught in in a. close grip, and her husband stood over her. “Hose, you do not lovo me!” Tliero was a challenge as well as sad conviction in the words. “Love you?” She spoke with that same strange voice. “There was no question of lovo in tho bargain between us.” She drew her hands away from his and let them drop to her side. “Rose I” He gazed at her with a- strangely stern expression. “I do not understand you,” he went on, slowly. “Bargain? Bargain between you and me? What bargain do you mean, what bargain should there be, except one of love, if that is a bargain ” She looked at him with eyes that were searching his face, eyes that had amazement in them. “Did you not make a bargain with my uncle for my marriage with you?” Was I not bought, as a slave is iu an Eastern market, for a sum of money—money that helped my uncle to tide over threatened ru in—ruin that would have disgraced him ?” She spo'ke iu reproachful tones. It was cruel of him to force nor to speak words that were so self-humi-liating. --“Rose.” He uttered her name iu a stranged voice. His face had lost all color. His eyes stared at her blankly, blind pain darkening them. His strong hands were clenched, as if closing upon some viper that had started up before him, some noisome reptile striking at his life. Beyond that one word he stood silent, • torn by emotions that left him incapable of speech for some moments. “Rose, what did your uncle tell you ? Let me know please.” Sho glanced at him oddly, tapping her fingers nervously upon the table before' her. “What use? You must know so well.” “Still, I should like to hear.” Sho hesitated a little, then turned to him' with something of her old frank gaze. *Jly> uncle said that ho owed you -'—--.money—money, you had lent him on condition ’ that he obtained my consent to become your wife. To do his bidding was nothing but a duty that was owing to him, a life-long debt which had to be paid. He had given mo everything I had in tho world— ( food, raiment, home. Sho got up from her chair, but her gaze had wandered from her husband, and sho was staring out of the window, loking afar at the changing sea. She could discern a tiny white sail in the distance, crawling like a speck along tho horizon. “So that is what he told you?” Maxwell’s voice broke the silence at last. “You do not deny it, I suppose ” sho said, a little eagerly. “Deny it? If you believe it why should Ido that? But, tell me, Rose, could you have cared for me if it had not been for this?” Sho made a weary gesture. “Why speculate on such a thing?” said, her faco coloring. “Besides, /* ' there was another man whom I loved.” Piercing pain, like a knifothrust, passed through Maxwell’s \s&3rt. “Oh, he was weak, I realize a man of straw,” she went on, / ),ivsfjisonat('l.v ; “or he would have earrid mo off, claimed niv life, swept aside all opposition. But as it was lie went away, left me alone, put distance between us. During his absence 1 married you.” Deliiso.ii walked over to her side once more and held her wrists again. “Rose, you ore my wife”—ho spoke huskily—‘•remember that. You must forget this man—it is your duty.” She bowed her head meekly—that fair head with its shining gold. “I shall not forgot.” Sho spoke the words iu soft tones; fhen gently drew her hands away and passed out of the room. Ho made no movement to stay her, but watched her go, with senses dulled. He felt like a man upon whose soul some sudden light had fallen—liis eyes fixed downward upon the carpet,'but noting nothing -of the brilliant hues, seeing nothing; of its pat-

Had been no such bargain as Rose had mentioned between himself and her uncle, Micliaol Ford. Tho latter had lied to idiom both. And ho hnd never suspected; ho hnd boon utterly deceived. Michael Ford’s motivo? All, it was so plain that ho wondored at his own folly in not seoing through it before. It was true that he had lent Ford largo sums of money—amounting in tho aggregate to £5,000 —but bad lout- thorn from slioer good nature, without any condition. The older mnu realised that Denison would hardly onforco repayment of the money from his wife’s undo, would most likely enneel tho dobt, which was what Denison had dono. And so, with this possibility in view, ho had forced his niece into acceptance of the rich man, using arguments which lie knew would bo most likely to prevail with her. Denison had recognised that Roso was*a little cold, holding herself aloof; but bis heart had beaten with wonderful hope, and he had told himself, with a boy’s fond belief, that ho. must win her lovo ono day—bo could not fail. But recently ho had begun to doubt that ho would over succoed in this desire of his heart; and now had come this revelation, destroying all that remained of hope, scattering tho last fragments of his dream. His gaze wandering across tho room detectod a piece of paper—that letter which his wife must have dropped. He picked it up with a sudden jealous temptation to read what was written there—instinct told him it came from ho man she had cared for—and one or two words caught his eyo; words that breathed undying lovo.' Then, conquering the temptation, he placed the letter in an envelope and sealed it. So this man was here. He must have come home from -abroad, discovered her marriage, and followed her, not earing that it was her honeymoon.

Ho shook with jealous rage, and leaving their small sitting-room In that tiny seaside hotel sought to find Rose. But an inquiry elicited that she had gono out, and the blood began to warm in Maxwell’s veins, as if from fever. Tlmt letter had made an appointment, of course. But ho fought down his bitter, jealous mood—remembering his wife’s last words to him. She was not the wonnin to forget her marriage vows, lie had no fear of that. A woman who married a man for no other reason than to save her uncle’s honor was not the woman to forget her own. own.

He returned to tho sitting-room, which commanded from its bay window a wide prospect right and left, and in tho distance he could discern two figures, the only two persons to be seen along that deserted front, now that the season was over, if such an unpretentious little seaside village could ever boast a season. He picked up some powerful fieldglasses and focussed them. Ono of those figures, as he had suspected, was his wife, and the other, a tall, dark man, slim, and picturesque in his appearance, the very man to win a woman’s love, so Maxwell gloomily reflected, appeared to be talking to Rose very urgently, forcing upon her some proposition which sho was reluctant to hear. She shook her head with a decisive movement; then slie held out her hand, which the man lifted to his lips; and after that the two parted, Rose making her slow way back to the hotel, and the man remaining there for a time ; hut when Maxwell looked back at him he saw that- he had entered a small rowing-boat, which ho had apparently used to row himself to that point of the coast, and was putting' out in it to sea. Denison got up and left tho hotel before his wife came back. He did not want to met her just then.

A sudden storm —a white squall. As far as the vision could stretch, the sea was one white churning mass of hissing and boiling waters. , Dai’kness, sudden engulfing darkness, was over all tilings upon land, a black veil that was rent by jagged Lines of lightning, crape severed by a flaming sword; but where the sea was light shone still. Maxwell strodo up and down the sea-front-, watching tlio storm with sombre eyes. There was wild tempest within his own heart, and this dark mood of Nature’s—this hour when the Storm King, was riding his way in terrible majesty upon the sea-hor-ses, with thunder in his right hand and all the winds of Heaven in his left, and with lightning for liis sceptre—seemed in tunc with his own thoughts. He knew the sea, and loved her in all her moods—loved her in her sportive moments, when she was beautiful beyond all the majestic and lovely tilings in a world of delights’, with the sun flashing on her subdued waters, shining in a thousand lines, glittering and darkening, in light and shadow, and when, as now, sho menaced and threatened, throwing aside her smiling, treacherous mask, and standing revealed as a huge, shifting gravo, thirsting to engulf men beneath her waves, dragging them down into her own green halls. Suddenly he started and strained his eyes through the blinding rain. Something far off had caught his gaze—a small boat rocking upon the leaping waves—and he remembered with a sudden thrill of terrible joy the man lie had seen enter tho boat not half an hour ago—that man who held liis wife’s love. Exultation and triumph stirred his heart. The man was lost. Yet there was a hope for himself now. Rose would mourn for a little time, and he would be very patient with her, gentle to her in her grief, until one day she would discover that the world still held consolation, and his reward would come. His lovo would never tire; and such lovo as his—lasting, unchanging, always at her service—must win a woman’s liou"t, however obdurate, when the one whom she had once cared for was ilead.

She would live through hours of pain and sorrow that would be vain and useless. Yes; she would grieve for lie realised how loyal she could be—realised with a sense of yearning pain. And perhaps—tho doubt came to dash liis moment’s joy—she might never forget. And again, if ever she knew that he stood inactive, like a coward, watching the man she loved die before his eyes, would she ever forgive? Ho would have his own excuse, it was true, for surely it would bo madness for any man to attempt a rescue, but liis natural courage would keep him silent before her

tor one whom tho women thoy had loved flashed through his brain. 110 had known that his courago was something that had never so far failed him, but ho had not imagined that ho was tho stuff out of which lioroos arc fashioned, and ho smiled rathor grimly ns lie mado his way to wlioro a group of fishermen wore busy on a granite jotty which sorvod as a quay, and auouucod to thorn Ins intontiou of going out in ono of their boats.

“There’s a man out in tho storm iu danger. I’m going to attempt a rescue.” Ho spoke in quiet, steady tones, his face calm, his eyes unflinching. Ono and all thoy attempted to dissuade him, but ho shut lus oars to their homely eloquonco, and prevailed upon thorn at last to lot him have tho most suitable boat for his purpose. One of them would have volunteered to go with him, but tho young follow had a mother dependent upon him, and Maxwell shook his head.

With gloomy faces, yet with pride in his bravery, they watched him put off. Front the first moment when ho bent to the oars tho struggle of man’s might- nginst the tempest’s began. But Denison had enormous strength and dogged determination, and, besides, was very capable in tho management of a boat, so that length by length ho kept her heading towards the distant object, fighting through every inch of tho watery way.

Tho soa- boiled in savage fury around the boat like hissing serpents; but though lie rested one oar two of three times to balo out the water he had shipped, Maxwell kept unswervingly on liis course, seeming to defy the waves that strove to submerge him and the boat together. Slowly, very slowly, the space botweon him and his goal lessened. Ho quite realised that it might bo impossible ho should over reach it—or, having succeeded in that, fail to return home in safety; but the knowledge of it left him undaunted. The salt- foam stung him in the face, blinding liis eyes, as the fury of the squall increased, and he know that death was near to him, but ho had no fear. Lifo had lost its savor. With every sinew strained, and now helped on a little by tlio rushing waves, now pushed back, at last lie reached that tiny boat—which still had resisted tlio storm, waterlogged though it was. A man with a haggard faco and wild eyes was baling water out of her with a small tin—performing tho action ceaselessly, mechanically; but suddenly lie dropped the can and gave a loud cry—a cry of madness. Denison, watching him, felt his firstmoment- of dismay, for lie could see that the man had lost his reason—for the time being, at any rate. Ho cowered down in tlio boat, half -submerged by tho water which almost filled it. Tho oars which he had relinquished were lying at the side. But,now, as Denison spoke to him in reassuring tones, he seemed to regain his nerve sufficiently to perforin the difficult task of stepping out of one boat into tho other. This effected, ho sat down quietly, watching Denison, however, with aii odd light in his eyes, and the latter felt his heart lighten with relief as he turned back and made for the shore. It was easier work now the tide was with him, and bending to the oars he scarcely noticed the man ho had rescued; but suddenly glancing up at the sound of chattering-—ape-like chatttering—lie saw that he was crouched in an odd, grotesque attitude, like one ready to spring, and ere ho could make any movement of defence, or indeed realise what the other meant, tho other flung himself upon him, and in a moment the two were struggling in a death' grapple, for Denison realised that • lie was fighting with a madman—fighting for liis life. The boat rocked from one sido to the other, then, as the men swayed this way and,that, suddenly capsized, and both were precipitated into tho hungry, waiting waters. Kept down by that madman’s grip. Denison was powerless to strike out an arm, splendid swimmer though ho was, and lie felt tho waves closing over his head—a dreadful pressure upon his brain, a suffocation that made agony of death, and ho realised with tho last- moment of consciousness, that this was tho end. ******

It was not, however, death, through lie had pentrated far into that unknown bourne as ever man may who returns to tell the tale. That young fisherman who had volunteered to go with him had not been at ease in his mind -at getting left, and had induced a mate to accompany him in a second' boat—which, though near to him,'Denison had not observed. It had been tho occupants of which had rescued him when at last lie -liad come up—alone —released from that human octopus, whoso body never roso again whilst lifo was in it. Maxwell’s first conscious impression was of a woman hovering near his bedside, a woman whose eyes were tender and pitiful—the eyes of Roso. 'ls he. living—this man you love?” He whispered the words, but sho caught- them and shook her head. “Ho-is dead,” she said; “but, Maxwell, liis death will not break my heart, though I grieve for it. You see, dear there is someone else whom I care for now.” Her voice had deepened strangely, her eyes glowed. That- heart of his which was beating but feebly seemed to stop for one long moment, and everything was blotted out again, in passing unconsciousness. But lie looked up at her at last, patient regret in his eyes. “Who is it?” Ho spoke the words in low, almost toneless accents. She turned away from him, but ho could see the color slowly sweep up, until her face was warmly flushed. “I did not know myself till yesterday.” She spoke with a marvellous tenderness. “It was when lie was in danger—when I thought I should lose him ; and mv pride was killed, and lovo arose from its ashes. Oh, husband !”—she moved round and looked at him with radiant eyes—“can you not guess It is you I lovo; yes, you 1”