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A TRIPLE DIVORCE.

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1 (Ctysv.O A TRIPLE DIVORCE. BY CHARLES STALTON. Author of "Bound or Free?" "A Fugitive I St.iry," kc. :'Eave I a lover Who is noble and free ? I would he were nobler Than to love mR." Philip Darnt.on had been n.arried seven years, when he suddenly found himself wishing he had known his'wiie. When he met with Clara l^hurst there was no love at first sight, nor *ny emotio-i excitod which made him feel difTerentlv to her than towards any other girl he had ever "met.. She hud 1,0 special clinrr.i about her. She ^as neither beautiful, nor clever, nor fascinating. She was simply one of live daughters, and these by their numbers kept their heme life gay and animated. TlleY had I;D brothers to correct them, or curb their extravagant conceits. Their self- consciousnrsF thev took to be .1 knowing smart- ness, and it ^rew to a luxurious indulgence. A brother's ruder kns'.wiucge and rough frank- less would have beea" as useful there as a Pruning-knife in a visierv. If human culture could be followed as scient ifically and effectually as horticulture, many useless and foolish growths Would not trouble the ways of men and women. Mr. and Mrs. Millhurst were proud and fond of their daughters. 1;sey supposed their giris wpre as clever as they assumed to be. Having ed a simple life tuemseives, with a smooth and prosperous bu.-i they flattered them- selves that their daughters were introducing a superior life into their home. One night, while the girls and their friendg were merry in the drawing-room, the father and Mother were in the large house-kitchen, where t ley usually sat. It had an ample ■fireplace, with twiukling and flashing in their brightness. Under the long window there stood! dresser, with it-s white tijicl* top IOOKIT g iike an -altar of cleanliness and plenty. It now laden with cakes and fruits on,glass dishes and glaes etauds.with silver knives and iork;, and gleaming glasses, and decanters of wirfl, ready to be taken into tne dining-room tor iigiit; ce refreshment. The walls were gleaming too,with! superannuated fireirons and modern metal dish-j cover*, intermingled with old brass snuffer-tiays, j and two covers of warming-pans, representing! the light and warmth ot other days. The kitcheni had a warm, shining look of plenty and comfort, and Mr. and Mrs. Millhurst sat here, as was their wont, with si lining faces too. They were always pleased with their daughters' friends, and with the hospitality and amusement which followed their visit". They never joined the company of visitors, and always went to bed early. •• \vell, well," Mrs. Millhurst was saying on this particular night, "'things are difierent now- adays, Why, when thou corned a-seeing me, David, I were nearlv always at my loom, tha David, I were nearlv always at my loom, tha knows. Thou'd a looked rare an 'stonished if thou had seen things like these." pointing to the dainties, "on our dresser." i< Aye, Sarah, an" 1 should ha' stared even more if I had seen thee dressed like our girls, in silk an' satin. I should fleved ha' bin out 0' my its, I think. But tha "knows a peony in April, is a peony in June. on'y it has growed flowers, the old man replied. "Well, thank Heaven," Mrs. Millhurst said, i we'n grown flowers too. sn' our girls are as fine a sort as any ar.ywheer." "Aye, lass, they are, an' I hope we shall be able to keep 'em clean an' sweet, the old man answered, looking deeply into the fire. answered, looking deeply into the fire. able to keep 'em clean an' sweet, the old man answered, looking deeply into the fire. "Nivver fear, David lad," the wife answered., "Our girls know how to behave theirsels ? Lookj What money we'n spent 011 their eddication an manners If thee me could go reet, knowin as little as we did, sorely they mun go reet,: knowin' so much m<>ie!" "Well, lass, my mother used to say it wiir; better to be good 'I:r wise," the husband said, still looking thoughtfully in the fire. "Aye. but it's et.er to be both wise an good, David. Thy mother lived, tha knows, I When girls didna cot such eddication as OUT* »ave <fone, an' thev didn't know it wur possible to be made both good an' wise at same time.; But tha knows our girls are both, an cliner tool" • j v The last words were proudly emphasised by, the mother, as if they carried more in >jer opinion than either wisdom or goodness. The C)!d man still looked in the fire, and stroked his chin and murmured something which his wife, did not catch. The Millhursts lived at Danely, a village^ about a mile from the little town of Branton.l Mr. Millhurst haJ kept a horse and phaeton for his own use in business, but as his daughters grew up another liaise and a dog-cart had to be provided. They liked to dash about the country, and the horse 'knew the speed they liked. Parties were frequently held at Danely House, a large old-fashioned, homely place. In the -distance were some well-wooded hills, and picnics were frequently held there in the summer and autumn. It was < urious to noticej that the Millhurst girls rarely invited other girl3 to join th^u; in these picnics who had no, brothers. If a young fellow, 011 the other hand, had no sisters, he was soon surrounded with, attentions which, at be least, flattered him. His loneliness w: r eon at once, and because ofl this condition an active sympathy soon brought him into company. It thus came ai that Philip Darnton was invited to Danely I louse. He had lived a quiet life with his parents as an only child. When hej was twenty-four vw.rs of they went to, reside near Danelv They were soou called upon, by two of the Mil!hur.ts"on behalf of their father! and mother, Clara Millhurst being one of the two. Philip was a phenomenon in the village, and he was soon made to icel that lie was a more important individual thai) I.• iiad ever dreamt he was. He had been parsing socially, before' this time, through a chrysalis sort of life, taking little heed of what was" going on about him, or with dim wonder looking thereon. But he was suddenly subjected to the social! sunshine with which the Millhurst girls sur- rounded him. This wa" a new, and even in spite of bis natural shyness, a pleasing experi- ence. He was developing a new consciousness, as if he had wings somewhere about him, and would scon be able to fly. The flattering atten- tions he received increased his buoyancy, and ouickened the coming vitality, as the mystic breath of spring quickens all things in life. Clara Millhurst was an exceptionally strong ray t iara mi ;re which was evolving the m this social ^'n? philip Darnton. Her new consciousness m but they attentions were kti constancy became were constant, and ti.nr <j p*nprienr.« «, of Clara saw this, and set ners ^articular Yet, so far, rhilip had shewn no particul« leaning towards any one of the Mi Millhurst and in this inchoate condition Clara >■ ■determined to try tier forming hand. meeting Philip at the parties at Danely WOU she frequently met. him, quite accidentally, on his way from business. In their picnic parties he would be led by her into some quiet pathway which separated them from the rest of the enmpmy. In the dancing parties at Danely House, Clara, without saving a to her sisters, got most of the occasions to oauce with him. Her domi- nance among her sisters was quietly acknow- ledged; all felt lie;- and submitted. These frequent asRocixti's ictu<en Philip Darnton r ana herself began to en-te a sore of unasserted claim in Clara's favour r Philip. He felt, too, a growing obligatii.n for her attentions, but he had never thoue'H'. even within himself, that they formed anv .-j .vial tie between them. One evening, in U e closing hour of a picnic party, Clara and Philip found themselves alone ID a small valley aim ng the rolls. The SUll was setting right, opposite the place where they stood, filling the skv with a tender loveliness of colour, and clothing the hills with an entrancing charn. Philip was keenly suscep- tible to such rare uuveilings of Nature's beauty. Clara stood looking tt the sunset as Philip did, and simply in imitation, as she saw him absorbed and silent. This attitude stirred a deep, glad response in Philip's soul. for he thought she too was entranced by the living, unspeakable loveli- ness before their eyes. Quite on the impulse of the moment, aft if some expression mu-t be given to the emotion the scene created. he put his leit hand on Clara's shoulder as she stood a little in front of him, and with his right hand was pointing to one particular blue lake in the western ssies, with amber shores. As soon as he touched her, she looked in the direction to which he pointed, and then partly turned to look at him. As her face was now near to his, and illumined by the sunset rays, her face seemed transfigured in the borrowed loveliness of the moment, and with passionate throb Philip embraced her. crying out: "Clara, my love, my love!" Their lips met in warm kisses and Clara lay against Philip's breast in assentiug silence. The vision which they had seen soon passed, and the loveliness turned to a leaden prey before they overtook the cempany strolling ?»omcward. Clara and Philip were now apart, in a self- conscious shyness. Philip felt a reaction passing through him, which he attributed to the chiller tir and darkening skiet. On his way home, the heavens suddenlyl, darkened to an angry scowl. Great drops of rain fell, and the wind began to roar. The rain nowi fell rapidly, the lightning flashed, the thunder I broke in sharp cracks as if enraged, and then roared away among the distant hills like a voice of despair. roared away among the distant hills like a voice of despair. When Philip Darnton got home, his father murmured, as if talking to himself: "Somebody might have done something wrong to-night. I have rarely heard such a sudden and fierce storm." Philip heard these words, and they rang; through his brain harshly; and in the reaction of his feeling he lay tossing restlessly all night on his bed. In a few months Philip and Clara were married. With all his misgivings he felt he;, could not withdraw from his pledge. From the! night he avowed his love Clara had been stren- uous in giving and exacting attentions, though she had veiled these r.s much as possible by a well-affected tenderness. They were frequently at parties at Danely House, lor though Clara had got captured the other sisters remained to be taken as well. Philip's interest, however, 'n these things soon began to wane, and he was more and more reluctant to go to these parties. He had been organist, and choirmaster too, for some months in the village church, and as his interest lessened in what he now deemed the social frivolities of Danely House it deepened in his devotion to his organ. He would spend hours in the long summer evenings in the church, playing favourite pieces until too late to read his score. Then, when he had filled his soul with the strains of the great masters whom he loved, he would let his thoughts and feelings flow out in extemporisation until only a few grey gleams of western light stole into the church. Rare were these moments, and exalted the rapture which filled his heart. Fre- quently he asked his wife to go with him to hear him play, and with such yearning solici- tude, but she only laughed at him and said: "I don't want to sit in the ghostly shadows of painted windows, and then go home with the bats flying about my ears. I would rather have light and fun, Philip. You go, if you prefer, to the church, and I will go up and see the girls, and the young fellows there." "The parting of the ways" in life is so insensible we see not at first whither it tends. Clara had not much insight, or she might have seen in his pained face a shadow on her path at once. But she saw only for the -moment the light and gaiety and freedom at Danely House, while there lay before her a path leading down to the tragic darkness of something worse than death. That flippant expression about "young fellows" smote Philip with a keen agony. This came not of jealousy, but from the preference of his wife for the society of others. He felt that his way must now be a lonely one, that in all for which he most longed, and which com- manded his loftiest aspirations, he must walk in solitude. Sometimes Philip would come back, from his organ with an ecstatic glow upon his face, but it soon passed away before the mocking raillery of his wife. She would make exultant com- parisons between what she had been enjoying with the girls "and the young fellows ana his mawkish proceedings. This raillery at times struck Philip as verging upon an unaccountable silliness. It was a new element of sinister omen which he durst not name. Sometimes, when he got home, he would find she had not returned. He would then patiently go to seek her. He always found, when he did go, that she was among the gayest of her sisters' company, and then, after she left, her dullness first and then her petulance would strike him painfully. He noticed, too, that Clara's sisters began to regard her with concern, and even to discourage the frequency of her visits. After they had been married three years, a baby was born, and it seemed for a time as rf this new tie would bring husband and wife in closely together. The relation of father and mother seemed to give a sweeter fulness to the relation of husband and wife. Philip Darnton loved his baby-girl with an ever-deepening love, and even his organ was only visited when the child was safely asleep for the night. He found growing within himself a new tenderness for hit wife. Her motherhood distilled a sacred charm upon his soul, for he always saw her through her child now. But after awhile this beautiful mood in his soul was stricken like Jonah's gourd. soul was stricken like Jonah's gourd. To his dismay he found, as his interest in the child increased, that of the mother de- creased. It seemed difficult to say whether this was the result of jealousy or the growing irksomeness of having to stay at home so much. To the husband it had seemed a paradise, but now he began to feel the chill presence of some tempter. Now and then his wife would fretfully compare her bondage with her sisters' freedom. She failed to realise her compensation in the new joy -of her motherhood. Her com, plaints about the monotony of her life led her, husband to urge her, though with a smitten heart, to go to Danely House for a change. This was accepted with a fierce, reckless joy, and this joy was exhibited to the dismay of all her friends. Her excitement at parties was now an element of concern. Philip's alarm at this deepened as the months; went on. After she returned home from these; parties she would rarely take any notice of her! child during the whole night. Philip shrankj from giving this excitement a name, and yet,! like a dumb agony in his heart, it was strug- gling for utterance. But he felt his silence a growing culpability which was strangling him. One day he returned from his business earlier than usual. It was a sunny afternoon, and the doors and windows of his house were wide open. He sat down in the shade of a tree naar an open window, and soon heard voices which attracted and absorbed him. The first words he heard were from Mrs. Millhurst, speaking to his wife in remonstrance and then in entreaty. "You know, Clara, this habit is growing upon you, and as it gets stronger your child! and your husband are less cared for, Yourl father and I have seen—aye, and it has made! our hearts ache. Father blames himself. He; says we've been too indulgent, and ought to' have known there was danger in letting the girls have what they liked, to be like other folks. He'll have no more wine in the house, he says, and the girls say the same. I cannot tell how you have formed such a habit." "No, mother," the daughter replied, "you cannot, because you cannot know the loneliness of my life. It is not the habit, as you call it, which has led me astray. I am afraid I have made a mistake; Philip is too good for me. I thought I could make him live as I wished him to live. I have got a kind husband, but not-no, the words shall never pass my lips. I am lonely in a way you can never know, and I only wish I was dead." How these words affected her mother Philip Darnton never knew. He fled from the garden and wandered over the hillsides until the even- ing shadows began to fall. He saw the aun set again, and it made him shudder as he thought of his former rapture and rashness as he had seen its setting. As he wandered he kept murmuring the words of his wife till his own murmurings seemed like mocking voices from the hills and the skies. Every time he thought of the words, they struck him like a blow on the brain. "What could it mean ? he asked himself, and the question brought an echo from his heart which called him. He seemed to hear in that «cho the utterance of the true inwardness of the reiation between himself and his wife. He saw nnw a trulf which no law could ever bridge, and Zt over that gulf he saw buoyed up, on radiant illal nf love the form of his child. Once he !had thought that child would make ^relation between himself and his wife real and holy but it was an illusion, now dispelled by those baleful words. The thought smote him un al he reeled under its burden, that in everything b t n con- ventional form they were divorced. He returned home late that night looking haggard, and his wife asked him it he was ill, land why he was so late. But the question was asked in a half-intelligent, maudlin lnditier- ence, which convinced him that while his wife saw him she had no present interest in him. That night, weary and heartsore, he gathered his child in a warm embrace. Be heard its every breath, and it came like a gentle music to soothe his overwrought nerves. An unslumbering agony i rolled like fire within his soul, but still the pressure and the gentle breathing of the child led him to master it. From this time his wife seemed to resent his care for the child, and to regard him with a! furtive fear. This drove her to subtler ways and mora 'cunning methods of indulging "the habit." As! Dandy House was now virtually closed to her: her defiance, though dull, was persistent. All this widened the gulf between husband and wife: and mother and child. At last he resolved to appeal to his wife. He' expressed his deep sorrow that anything hadj ever come between them, and without naming! "the habit." he implored her to put away what-! ever had come between them. "Clara," he said, '"think of the child, think of the darling child, land how all her future depends so much on you.! Think what she must suffer in the future, if) lever she comes to know what you may become.) |(Ian a darker cur e fall upon her? A mother's (character is sacred, and when that character is turned from the light to darkness, how great is ithat darkness! I implore you, if not for my' sake. then for your child's sake, give yourself jup to better ways." His wife was silent for sometime, and then looked at him strangely and coldly, u she saicl- "Philip, you arc different from me; you always were different. I knew it and felt it, and yet I compelled you in my rashness to give what I knew you had rashly promised. I ""Q punisheu. but I punish others as well. When the chilf came, I thought we should grow to be one, but it is not in me. It is not the habit' which keeps us apart. That is only a symptom of something else. I loathe myself. I have even cursed myself, but I cannot master myself. But I will try again. Say no more now, I am oppressed; but I will try to be different." Philip welcomed these words, and tried to nurse the feeling they expressed into fuller de- velopment. But it was all in vain. Weary months passed by. with ever-deepening fears. The dumb horror which had lain in him now broke loose and tore and rent him, while no Divine Voice said: "Come out of him." One day he was asked by the firm by whom he was employed to go out to one of their foreign centres of business. One of their travellers had died, and it was important his place should he filled at once, as some critical business was pending. Philip Darnton had now to decide quickly what to do. To accept the position meant a great promotion for him at once, with larger prospects beyond. Was it the devil who suggested to him just then that, as he was realiy divorced from his wife by alienation, he might be effectually divorced by,distance ? Was it a vicious fascina- tion in the thought which made his heart leap? Whether this was so or not, the thought of his child filled him with sadness, and all the perils which seemed to stand around each one of them. She might sicken in his absence, and the climate might slay him. His wife urged him not to go, but her pleas were strongest when she was least fit to press them. His confidence in her was dead. Having received assurances as to the care of his child, he accepted the appoint- ment. The agony and perplexity of parting from his wife and child were now over. Philip ^as now standing on the deck of his ship, looking out upon the multitudinous waters of the wide ocean. He thought there was a curious analogy between those waters and his own thoughts, rolling through his mind in dim, far-reaching restlessness, and passing away to horizons mingling with impenetrable mists. He wrote frequently to his wife, giving accounts of his success in his business, and charming accounts of the strange country and people and customs he saw. He gave droll and exquisitely vivid pictures of what was about him, and strove thus to enkindle in his wife a new interest in himself and his doings. He received letters from her, at first with intense avowals of a warmer love. But, as the months passed on, the tone was more and more uncertain. The letters became languid, short and commonplace. He struggled against oppres- sive and fear-smiting thoughts, and still made his letters as loving and as vivid as poaaible. In less than two years his wife's letters came at still longer intervals, and having no element of interest in them. Then ominous hinta came from friends to whom he had written for infor- mation. No clear statements were made, but such hinte as went like storm-shadows acroaa his mind. In one tragic hour Philip resolved he would never see his wife again. "I am divorced by distance," he hoarsely whispered to himself. "I am free, if not by law or by death." Soon after this resolve was formed, he was surprised at himself. There was a sudden out- flow of his spirits, and he plunged into reckless pursuit of pleasure. But the fever of the country was really in his blood during this wild outburst. In a few days this fever was raging, and he was delirious. He was in a lonely part of the country, and far from the city which had been the centre of his oper ions. In such a remote district he could only have the barest attention. The doctor who visited him sdfcured him a superior sort of black girl for his nurse. The doctor, having to travel over a wide di^trictj had to leave him for long intervals in this girl's charge. She soon became devoted to her patient, and followed as closely as < she could the doctor's orders, combined with such aids as her own wit suggested. She shewed a dog-like fidelity, and never tired of watching him through his fiercest deliriums, and the prostrating re- actions which followed. In his slow recovery, Whien he had only power to watch, his eyes followed this black girl, and he could not help thinking what might have been if only another had shewn the same interest and fidelity. The contrast saddened him, and softened, him too, for it brought thoughts to his mind answering, to the best an4 purest yearnings of his past life. When hia health was retttored. there came news of his wife's death. It was a beneficent coincidence that this news came when he was quite strong again, and when the black girl's simple devo- tlon had jfirrn soul. His wife, he learnt, had fallen from one degree of indulgence to another, until her life became a burden and a shame. She had drowned all her self-respect, and her debasement became a horror, which death only could wipe out. After reading this letter, Philip rushed away into the silence and loneliness of a forest near by, regardless of the dangers lurking in it* glades. His first act was to kneel down and thank God his, child was so young, and had been saved from a life-afflicting memory. Then he leaped on his feet, and with a wild laugh he cried: Divorced "Divorced, now, by death as well as distance," be criad again. "Yes, I am free," and he made the forest ring with his voice. My bondage has passed. The heavens were angry when I entered upon that bondage. I remember my father said something wrong might have been done to rouse the anger of the storm. My God! have I not borne the penalty of that folly ?" and he looked up appealingly to the clear heavens above him. "I am free," he cried again. "My child is free. 0 great Death, how beneficent thy face looks now Free, divorced, and no law court to tongue it to the .world! The^lack girl, with her keen ears, now heard his wild exclamations, iidd ran to see if anything were wrong. When she saw him with a smile oiji his flushed face, aU the pleasure and tender- ness of her soul rose in a swift, strong rapture intd her own face. She became as one trans- figured in his sight, but he remembered hOw once he had been misled by a look. But he looked again, and saw how love could suffuse even a black skin. Then a sudden thought smote him and changed his countenance. That change jfell like a dark shadow on the black girl's face, and she went away with despair in her heart. The thought which smote Philip was one abAut his child., She came as in a vision, with her golden hair surrounding a pensive, reproachful face, and yet with a look of entreaty in her eyes. That look was decisive. The love it bore saved him from taking this black girl and making her the "mother of hia dusky race." LTifs EG.)

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