THE END OF HER JOURNEY.

IN tfOtfß CHAPTERS.

From " Temple Bar."

CHAPTER 111.

The great case of Willoughby v. Con yers came on in January. Teddy Went off in good time on the morning of the trial. His wife remembered afterwards with a sort of dazed Wonder ing that when he reached the street door he hesitated, and turning back looked in at her, saying 'Good-bye, Millie. Keep up your courage.' Courage for what ? It was like the ringing of the prompter's bell to an actor about to play a part in an unknown play. She watched him out of sight, but he did not know, he never looked back; she knew that he forgot her as soon as the door that divided them closed behind him. It had never struck her before that when that door closed it left her a prisoner and made him a free man.

As Teddy vanished in the distance, she went back to the fire, and sat thinking over the one ceaseless subjeot of all her thoughts. What did it mean, her husband's absences, his ex cuses, his almost elaborate efforts to be kind . She no longer for a moment supposed that lie spent all his evenings at his chambers or his club, or went twice a week to see a bachelor friend at Richmond; There was some other woman. For a long time she did not dare to think it, but now she felt it and knew it^-some woman who had won him from her. And the odd thing was, that she.did not blame him much; it put a sick dread in her hoart, while all things grew dim before her eyes; it made her unspeakably ■ miserable," and yet hardly angry at all. Since that afternoon when she had looked hope lessly at her own face she had under stood all that Teddy felt, struggle against it as he would; it said some thing for her -courage that she dared thus fair to face the truth. Besides, she loved Teddy too well to be angry with bim—the great love was greater than all feelings of anger and pride, than all those that go to make up in dignation and self-assertion. It was a calamity, the greatest thiit could overtake her, that she dreaded might come—there might be pain too great to bear, and yet she was able to do no thing but bow her head. Other women who loved less might rage and storm with all the fury of jealousy and the burden of insult; it was not in her to do that—not yet,at any rate—asshe sat there staring the idea of what might come blankly in tbe face. Before the reality all her. feelings might change she did not know, she could not tell. She only did know that if she mighft but haive Teddy's deep true love, such as other men gave-other women, for just one hour—just one hour to see his face and hear his voice all full of tender love for her—of lover's love, and not mere dutiful affection—if she might but feel his dear arms round her and rest her head on his shoulder for even one single moment, while he stooped whispering foolish love-words to her, and then she had to die, no matter how terrible and lonely a death, she could yet bless fate for its goudness and bountifulness to her. It was odd how the misery of the last few months had brought the unsuspected passion in her nature to the surface — passion she held down and hid. but could not kill. A little while since she had been an even-humoured, humdrum woman; but all the time hidden some where there had been in her heart a little spark of fire that lately had been fanned and fanned by cold and bitter winds until it had leaaped into flame— flame that withal was subdued by the gentleness 'of her nature. She was stupid with going over and over and over the same thing again and again; she could think, even of it, actively ho more, but sat by the fire, blankly staring at it, the everlasting subject on which she for ever specu lated. She tried to rouse herself, and went to the window. The postman was in the street, she went back to her seat by the fire and listened to his knocks. They made her realise that tshe was very lonely; the • simple fcomely sound seemed to come into an empty room, and to find just one Woman sitting by the fire. She heard his footsteps faintly on the pavement, and followed dim in thought from house to house. Then he stopped before the gate; she knew when he pushed it open; she heard him come up the steps and drop something into the letter-box. The servant would bring it in a moment —more than one letter, she thought, judging from the sound. She shivered and drew nearer to the fire j there is nothing so chilly

as misery. ' A note and two printed things— circulars, from the look_ of the wrappers—were brought in. She put them down on her lap and looked round the room again, as if to take farewell of the familiar objects before the play she had been waiting for ceased to be a play and turned into a living reality. Then she turned the note. It was a dinner invitation from the Paton-Greenes'. She wondered listlessly if Teddy would go, and began to think again. Presently she took up the circu lars. One was about the Kensington Bazaar, She had been asked to assist in it. She would get Amy to make some things : perhaps Amy would like to come up for it and stay a bit. But no, she did not think just now that she could bear to have anyone staying with her. She wanted to be alone, to think over the great problem that was for ever perplexing her. She opened tie other circular; it was about cottua* k«a«s for destitute children,

an. appeal for subscriptions, a list of patrons and donors. She put it down and began to think once more. The Dresden clock struck ten. Teddy was in his wig and gown, looking bright and handsome. Ho would be a judge some day, of course. Already he talked of applying for silk, and would probably do so in a couple of years. It was so certain that his career would be a triumph ; how odd it was that she did not care! But she cared for nothing save that one thing that she felt was for ever denied her.

The fire wa3 burning hollow. She stirred it, and made a blaze; and mechanically taking up the circular about cottage homes, began reading down the list of donors of small sums. Suddenly she started to her feet, t her heart stood still, ahd quick as light ning it flashed through her that every thing was about to be made plain. There, half-way down the page, was—

' Mrs Edioard Archerson, 3, Sisterton Road, Clapliam. £8 3sZ

Her own name, and at Clapham ! It was in the Sisterton Road that the man had found the cardcase; she remem bered it perfectly. There were not two Mrs Edward Archersons, there could not be; there were no Archersons iii London except themselves. Teddy had often said so in the first years of their marriage. Then suddenly it seemed as if a storm had overtaken the lonely Woman Standing there helpless and alone. * Oh, what shall 1 do !' she cried— 'what shall I do! It will break my heart.' She Walked about the room in a frenzy of misery, wringing her hands and wishing that she could die. She was mad, or blind, or foolish. It was a nightmare, an evil dream. She stopped quickly and snatched up the paper and looked at it again, half ex pecting to see that it had vanished. But no, it was clear enough, aud she was wide awake. Of, if Ted dy would only come back—if she could out tele graph to him or devise some way of getting at him, to beg him to clear up this mystery! She could not wait till evening time. Then, as if a wind had swept over her, the vehemence died away, the old quiet nature asserted itself, and she sat down calm and still, perhaps half-stunned, to think over and decide what she would do. She folded her hands and looked blankly towards the window, as She had before the postman; she thought of him for a moment,and the difference his coming had made. She realised that she had regained the senses that had seemed to be going a few minutes since; but the calmness that was overtaking her was the calm ness of despair. For before that story was told she knew what it was, and what the end must be. Once more she looked at the name and address. Yes, it was spelt properly—it was the same, the very same; there was no "mistake at all. She put it, together ;with one about the Kensington Bazaar,* into lier pocket. In every corner of the room the face of .the unknown, Woman at Clapham seemed to be shap ing itself in a blurred mocking manner. She could not see what it Was like, only that there was a look upon it that would drive her out of the world. The clock struck half-past ten. Teddy was in Court, full of his case; and she—-for a moment she put her hands over her face and shuddered.

- It is no good waiting or flinching,' she thought. * I will know what it all means. I will see her. I must and and will.'

She rang the bell, and waited ner vously for it to be answered. It was the beginning of what she was going to do. She was curious to hear her own voice, to judge how she would play her part. 'I am going out,' she said to the servant. ' Tell Rice that I shall want the carriage in half-an-hour.' She went upstairs and dressed, feeling as if she were a person in a dream pretending to be some one who was awake. She pushed her hair back from her forehead, and put on a veil that tied with two ends under her chin. When she Was ready she sat down for a moment and considered. It was a desperate thing that she was about to do, but she Was determined to see the woman who bore her name. As if she had decided on some plan of action, she got up after a few minutes and rang the bell again; ' Marks,' she said, -1 shall not want the carriage. lam going to walk.'

She was very calm. No one would have suspected that she was playing a part in a tragedy. Her face was merely the face of a woman setting about the commonplace routine of her daily life. She went slowly down stairs and out of the house. As she left it she turned to look back, and recognised with a quick throb how much she had loved her home. She had perhaps never wholly realised this before, it had merely been a part of her life; but now she felt that it was about to be wrenched away, to become a separate thing, a memory that would for ever be an ache and pain, a bit of the past that had nothing to do with the present. She went on towards the Addison road Station. She had never been to Clapham ; she had thought of it as a junction at which everyone took fresh trains and no one knew whither the old ones went. Oh, yes! there was Clapham Common. Admirable Somers had once lived there. She remembered how, when he used to dine with her father, he always left at ten o'clock, always remarking in precisely the same tone that he had a long way to drive. How strange it was to think of him now. while she was walking perhaps to the end of the world—to the end of all it held for her. There was a cold wintry wind; she shuddered as it swept past her, it seemed as if it held her, it seemed as if it would bear off all the life left in her. Oh, if it could I

if it would! If she had only died yesterday—last night, in that dream that kept coming back, all confused and broken, as if it were struggling to make itself clear, to show her that it had had some bearing on all this!

She tried to rouse herself a little, wondering if it were after all but an evil dream. Surely no waking woman could feel as she did—so strange and dazed that she could not do and was doing she hardly knew what, but waited half-curiously to see. Afterwards, when the calm came in which she sat and thought all tilings over, it seemed to her that she had suffered more during that morning of uncertainty and dread than in all the after hours. It was pain so great that it stupefied all other senses, and drove her onwards without consideration of any sort. There was a train ready to start from Addison Eoad; she found^ an empty carriage, and, incapable of think ing moie, turned and looked aimlessly out of window. There were the squalid dreary backs of hoUses-^-she wondered if the people who lived within were ever happy I— the ugly unkept gardens, with the clothes hanging out to dry, or the crooked dirty lines, where they had been hung, left forgotten. The gardens were worse than the houses, and she looked up at the windows again. She could see into some of the rooms, corners of beds, backs of toilet-glasses, now and then a cheap ornament, and she recoiled a little. It was all so tawdry-^the tawdriness of the lower middle-class, that knows not how to make the best of poverty as even the poorest poor of other countries do, and that never for a moment has dreamt of making itself picturesque. A patch of green Came, a bank of gravel, an open space,a fewdistant trees ; she looked at them all.glad of the lull that had come into her heart, and speculating idly how long it would last. A few minutes more and she was at Olapham Junction. It was quite odd to go outside the station and not down among the passages. She inquired of a porter for Sisterton Road. It was a long way off, he said ; he didn't quite know how far. So she took a cab and told the man to drive her to it; and when at last he stopped at tho end of the road, she felt more than ever as if everything was a dream and the waking far away somewhere beyond the world. She walked slowly down the road— No. 3 was at the other end. For a moment she almost stopped her dreamy state to wonder what to do next. But she was too intent on her object to trouble about details. Besides, she had the Bazaar circular; that would serve as an excuse. She was quite accustomed to going on charity missions, and was not likely to betray herself. There were some shops to pass; she saw her self reflected in one of the plate-glass windows. Her prim bonnet with the veil tied under her chin, the comfort able fur-trimmed cloak, the quiet self possessed air—all helped to make her appear quite a model charitable lady out on a subscription-hunt. She stopped before the house at last. There were some dark evergreens in boxes at the windows, a little shining brass knocker to the olive-green door. It looked like a cosy, well-kept house, j and her heart sank as she beheld it. Even from the outside she fancied that it had an air of Teddy. A young maid-servant answered Mildred's knock, and stared at her in blank surprise, as though she were wholly unused to visitors. Yes, Mrs Archerson was at home.

! Will you ask if I can see her. I will not keep her long. It is on busi ness,' she added hurriedly; for the servant hesitated.

'Well, I'll see.' And half-unwill ingly, she showed the way into a little drawing-room on the ground-floor—a pretty room, all curtains and flowers, brass ornaments, and Japanese screens with storks on them. And there, on a table facing the doorway, in a crimson plush frame, was a portrait of Teddy. All hope died out of Mildred's life as she beheld it. It was true, then, true —true. On the mantel-shelf was another portrait—a little smiling one, like that she had at home. She under stood now of what he had been think ing when the happy look came over his face, and for a moment she was indig nant. She would denounce him to the shameless woman for whose sake he had been so false, and leave the house she felt that it was unfit for her feet to stand in, and—but, while she was still defiant, the door opened, and there appeared a woman with a slight round figure, and a face on which there was nothing shameless, nor any conscious ness of wrong.

She was five or six-and-twenfcy, per haps, the woman who entered, but she looked so young that Mildred, remem bering her own two or three additional years, feltas if old agehad suddenly fast eneduponher. Agirl, in fact, whom one only called a woman because there was about her a certain sedateness as of one who had domestic responsibilities, and a distinct and defined place in the world. She had blue eyes—tender eyes, with a dreamy look in them, as though they remembered much; and golden brown hair, twisted in soft coils round her head, different enough from poor Mildred's dull plaits.

1 You wanted to see me ?' Bhe asked. Mildred's lip quivered, but made no sound. For a moment it seemed as if she were tottering, though the calm face betrayed nothing, -May I ask why you wish to see me ?' There was some surprise in the voice, perhaps a little nervousness. Mildred, pulling the circular concerning the Bazaar from her pocket, tried to remember her part.

' I ought to apologise, but I believe you take an interest in things that help women and children j there is to be a Bazaar—' An air of relief spread over the other's face, a happy smile came to her lips, as she inter runted, almost gaily •

'Oh, yes, indeed I do, a great deal of interest; but I never go to Bazaars or take stalls, or do anything of. the sort, if that is what you wish to ask.' ■No,' Mildred answered, 'Ido not want that. I--—' She stopped almost with a gasp; but the girl, suspecting nothing, took the circular, and holding it between her two dimpled hands, glanced, quickly down it. On the third finger of her left hand there was a pile of rings; the bottom one was a wedding-ring. It fascinated Mildred like a snake.

•But this is for Kensington. Why should you come to us at Clapham ?'_ 'It does not matter where they live if ' She tried to think of the words to say, but they were like a lesson long forgotten, and impossible to repeat correctly. ' How did you get my address ?' the girl asked, puzzled. ' And how did you know that I was interested in charities? I never did anything in public in my life, and I don't want to do anything. t)o tell me how you got my name.' 'I found it in a list of donors to cottage homes for children/ Mildred said, looking at the face before her as though she would remember it through all eternity. It was such a happy face; it looked as if there could never have been a cloud on it, never a single tear in those soft eyes. 'Oh, yes, I know. I gave the money, but did not mean my name to appear; and I was so Vexed when ——' She stopped, and followed the eyes that, with a sad, almost wild look in thetn, had turned from her faco to Teddy's portrait on the table. 'Is that yoUr husband?' Mildred asked slowly, in a low voice, with bated breath. The answer came quickly and fii-mly. • Yes, that is my husband.' * Mr Edward Archerson ?'

♦Yes.' The speaker looked up, and then her lips closed as if she were pre pared to resent any more questions. For a moment they looked at each other in silence; then, with a faltering voice, Mildred spoke—

'I did—l did not know his wife lived here. I thought she lived else where. Please forgive me,' she added hurriedly; for she saw the colour rising on the girl's face, and the idea was taking possession of her that Teddy might havo been deceiving two women '—that two women would have to suffer. 'Please forgive me,' she re peated, 'I know him well. I have known him for years,' she added. The girl rose, and stood looking Mildred straight in the face.

' What do you mean 1 Did you come on purpose 1 What business have you to intrude here asking questions ? Did you come on purpose?' she re peated, almost breathlessly. 'Yes, I came on ltjiTOse,'Mildred said, in the same low voice in which sho had previously spoken; it seemed as if she had no strength to raise it. ' May I ask why ?' The words were meant to be defiant, but there was a hote of coming fear in the voice.

'Because there is one woman to whom this is a matter of life and death,' Mildred answered, so calmly that she might well be taken for a person outside the desperate scene that seemed to be going on somewhere else rather than in the room in which they stood—two women, each with a part that meant her life's whole history. They stood looking at each other for a moment gravely and silently. The girl's face had lost its flush, and slowly turned ashy white. But otherwise she tiok no notice of Mildred's answer.

(To be Continued Tomorrow.)

THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR, THTJR£PAY r AUfIUST 18, 188?,

6



Conveyances. TIMETABLE DAVIESBROS. BUSSES DEVONPOUT TO TAKAPUNA, HURST MERE, LAKE BEACH, AND SOHOULUOUSE. Telephone: Devonport Bureau. Leaves Victoria "Wharf, Devonport.— 8.20 a.m., 10.20 a.m., 2 p.m., 4 p.m. Sundays— 10 a.m., 2.25 p.iu. Fares, Is. Leaves Takapona. — 9,5 a.iv., U. 15 a.m.. 3 p.m., 5 p.m. Sundays—ll a,m., 4.30 p.m. Special Trips can be arranßed at Post-Omce, Devonport • , _ Ladies' and Gent's SADDLE HOR iSo BUGGIES, BREAKS. and conveyances of every description at' shortest notice. Expresses meet every boat to receive and tot ward luggage of all descriptions. P~ AT BR SON A~N D COT GRAIN MERCHANTS. LTVERY AND BAIT STABLES. Omnibuses, Brakes, Cabs, and Saddle Horses for Hire at lowest rates. Special arrangements made with Evening and Picnic Parties. Stores and Stables :--Lorne-s_reet, Mt, Roskill. and Avondale, Auckland, N.Z. Tailoring. _ EXTRA PAIR OF TROUSERS N MEASURE. M H g 50s. 555. 60s. § g W g 655. 70s. 76 8 . J H | 8 80s. 85s. 90s. .g | te H. ROBINSON, Tailor, Jt § £ CORNER OB< S@X' 0> a 005 * 6rev Sts. >#^ S \<^ I GREY BTRKETS, \%X EXTRA PAIR OF TROUSERS" |7j D W A R D r( A S Hi WELueeiaEy Street West, SUITS! COATS COATS VESTS VES3T3 TROUSERS TROUSERS SUITS -dtp dm SUITS COATS BEST COATS VESTS VESTS SUITS "VAT TT"fi* SUITS TROUSERS v -3-L- V m TROUSERS , COATS IN COATS surra -TOWN SUITS i VESTS __, -^vVVIN. VESTS TROUSERS TROUSERS SUITS BUITS COATS COATS VESTS ■ VESTS SUITS! NO TROUSERS GIVEN AWAY! FOR the best style, go to J. H. Dalton, Tailor, Victoria-street East.



1^ r ' i ' "I- 11 im vn"i ti i mttw!______wm7_t^^^^^r^^^ii7^^^*?T mm?m^^ SMITH & CAUGHEY'S STOCK-TAKING Clearance Sale &rior to &rHv&l ot £feu> Spring which toM J%ndm ty §ireet $tetmm ; md ' ' *P(?|' i!'f' : ! T'A '_'■>■. ,:,,.. 0i %tt6 ift gytttcMand &t early 3&t»6s ; is fttitd wrceeecliny. ffiMiftri --rrvw fiifi —»—Bj aM«—aaHat— numm. rut" iriMrnrrr-i <_?# $$Mt : & deWPMM cf> fall Surplus timd Winter Msfy tor the m&t fortnight further tmol Special oUsuetims will ie Wattle in, tvsry ®epWtm&)>it trom their Low Cash Prices* j at liiiin rm innin-ir-Tir mw-ifi r ___.' -■ i ■■-_■'■ ii __£j__\ Storekeepers cwicl the S'mcle yeneraZly tre&tecl lUeraZly. • T i -'in I*" "■• "' -■'■ *'- l-fa- m -r i SMITH & CAUGHEY WHOLESALE AND Jc ___^ l\_J I Li jl JLJJrGi-*T^,i T^ Pi rrdgSj '«*-__» QUEEN STREET. NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC. '"' THE Partnership hitherto existing between Messrs. Neil and Cliflbld, Herbalists, of Wellesley Street, Auckland, having been dissolved by mutual consent on the Ist of June, Dr. Neil has how become the sole proprietor and will continue .to carry on the business in future, which-will bo known as DR. NEIL'S BOTANIC DISPENSARY, Under the management of MR. H. H. KING, who is a thoroughly competent man of long experience and practice in the Botanic System of Medicine, and who will do his best to relieve and cure all who may think proper to place themselves under his treatment. We desire to (ha&k our old customer a for past favours, and trust by attention to their Wants to merit their patronage in the future. We also desire to intimate that we have removed to mor c Convenient premises, to the shop exactly opposite the Old gtand. The Business has been thoroughly renovated and improved with the object of meeting more fully the wants of our customers, and we have now, in addition to a very large Block of Herbs, Roots, Bares, and pur various Herbal Medicines and Compounds, a large assortment of PATEKT AND PROPRIETAKY MEDIOIHES Druggists' Sundries, PebfumerY, &C, &c. The establishment in fact ia replete, with everything in the way of Medicine. ADVICE FREE. MEDICINE FOB ALL COMPLAINTS SENT TO ALL PARTS SECUP.ELV PACKED. • NOTE THE ADDRESS: DR> NEIL'S BOTANIC DISPENSARY, WELLESLEY STREET EAST. 11. H. KING, MaNaqeb. Auckland. ■■•■ ■-———— \\ SPECIAL BARGAINS _Z c<o »^ <£ «JSS S Cash Drapery **&? <*%>* °™°"™c-',"si. m lm X>. 108, QUEEN ST. <%, \ j,,, in i __^____________. — ___________.,..._. , | -nr-fTi ■in 1' I WE ARE THE CHEAPEST IAMNGIHAPE ROAD CORNER OF EAST-ST.



Manufacturing f^^ __^(OP'M,IBN6WI4b^«^ Lead-head Nails, L*l_ , J V*^^ AuSfe^ ttthe lowest baaitmer_U?e WIoS 7 JtatmfacWriiig Plumber, ana m,^ w He* Library), and Brown and _*>«£? Tiiamos, . - it Lowest Price for Cash. l&Sffl Removed, and Goods delivered tail kS the city and sublirbs, at LowesTMeK^1 the Address: C. PiPklt, Sffi fe P TA!nacornef6t/e^^ gINGER sewing machd^ Sales in 1884...a..606,292 Machine Sales in 1881 5(52,036 Mmshibfe iarritßEE out? of ever?'twit '__> CHINES SOLD IN MB WORLD ABE •'. SINGERS, , UP WARDS OF THREE HCPRED FIRST PRIZES! AJfaUT CHRISfCHURCfI EXffIBIa'ION, TWO GOLD & TWO SILVER MBDA-. TO BE OBTAINED AT 2s 6d PER'WEEK 2s fid PEU WEEK BEWARE OF GERMAN ANDOM IMITATIONS. \ SINGER SBwX MACHfKES. ADDRESS: QtSN-STHEET. OPPOSITE MESSRS GARLICK M ...... CRANWELtI ;■■::;.__ • fiDSON'S OLD SHOP (Next Savings Bank), Jfow BeKo PotLfiD JtotfV, WINDOWS SHOP FRONTS IRON SHED VERANDAHS, eta WILL BE SOLD CHKAft W. -^ G-. W 1®* £ LED HI l*; 8 VICiTORU^TIISET EAST (Late SUaelanb's). * w w heelbbA lA__._K«»-**