SHADDECK LIGHT.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 16, 20 January 1892, Page 6

SHADDECK LIGHT.

BY MRS MA V A GNJES FLEMING, Author of 'Wedded, Yet No Wife,' 'Lost for a Woman,' ' A Little Queen,' ' A Wonderful Woman,' ' Norine's Revenge,' Etc.

PART ONE. 'She is too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, ,and too little for a great praise; only this commendation I can afford her—that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome;'—Much Ado About Isothino.

CHAPTER I. SHADDECK LIGHT. It is very hot, even for a July aftemoon 5 and he ha 3 walked—if his lazy, graceful B aunter can be called walking—fully two miles; so, coming upon a green spot, he throws himself down in the warm, seascented grass, pulls his hat over his eyes and prepares to think it out. It is a good place for introspection ; nob a living thing anywhere, except now and then a whirring Beagull. At his feeb a, long sbretch of silver-grey shore and sand drives ; beyond, until lost in the sky line, blue, limpid, lovely, sunlit, treacherous, the sea.

' She won't like it, thab is a cerbainby bo begin wibh,' so run his musings. ' And if her mother finds ib out she will raise tho devil. Sbo is a personal friend of his infernal majesty, and raising him is tho principal amusement of her life. I suppose it is in accordance with the eternal tibness of things that the more charming a girl is the more utterly detestable her mother must be.'

He raises himself to shy a pebble at a Band martin hopping near. Ho is a slender, well-dressed, well-looking young fellow, blonde as to hair and complexion, and wearing, quite honestly and naturally, the listless look of a man bored habitually by this wicked world, and the people in it.

' Let us see what she says.' H.o pulls out a letter, after some search—a lady's letter, long, crossed, and in tho usual angular hand.

'" We leave on Tuesday next for the North,'' yes, yes. •' Mother is delighted ;" of course she is, mercenary old screw. "Mr Charlton speaks of his son, step-son rather," hang Mr Charlton's step-son. *' You must on on account follow mo here." Oh, but; that's procious nonsense, you know, and after eight months' separation, and St. Ann's not three hours' ride from New York, and as good a place as any other to kill ' a great yawn cuts short the soliloquy, and exhausted by so much mental effort, the thinker closes his eyes, and, lulled by the warmth and the wash of the tide, lapses into gentle slumber. He sleeps about half an hour; then he opens his eyes and looks about him. Presently hia drowsy glance changes to a stare; he sits suddenly erect, struck by a peculiarity in the view. During hia brief 'forty winks' a little island about half a mile off has changed as if by magic into a peninsula. No magic has been at work, however ; the tide is on the ebb, and has dropped away from the rocky bar that connects it with the shore. On the small island stands a small house, and how the house comes to be there would surprise him a little if he were not too warm to wonder about anything. He half rises, with the momentary inrsnbion of testing the solidity of this new path which has risen like Aphrodite out of tho ocean. But it is still sultry, and the sea-weed will probably wet hia feet, and ib is not worth while ; so he yawns again, and settles back on the grass. Come to think of it, how few things are worth while in this world. Even this trip of his down from the mountains, although the mountains in themselves are a delusion and a weariness—ia it not a mistake ? It will be pleasant to see his fair correspondent, doubly pleasant to outwit her mother, trebly pleasant to do something clandestine and wrong ; but, after all

The door of tho small house on the island opens, and a figure comes slipping and shambling over tho rocks. He breaks off his train of thought to watch with the same listless glance his handsome blue eyes cast upon everything, this ungainly newcomer. He draws nearer and stands disclosed —a long, lank, tow-headed, illfavoured, half-witted hobbledehoy. He star 63 stolidly for a moment out of' boiled eyes' at the gracefully indolent figure on tho grass, then is shuffling on his way, when he finds himself accosted.

1 1 say ! stop a moment. What do you call that?' He nods lazily toward tho solitary cottage on the rocks, without moving. 'It has a name, I suppose, and a use: What may they be?'

'That air,' the lean youth responds, in a nasal drawl, ' that air is Shaddeck Light.' 'What?'

•Shaddeck Light. Can't ye hear, mister ?'

'Do you mean ib is a lighthouse—that you live there and keep it ?' Uo has no particular object in putting these quostions beyond tho one object of his life, to kill his great enemy, time.' ' Mostly, boss ; me an' the cap'n, when he's to hum.'

' Who is the captain ?'

A ligbb comes into the dull eyes, a flash of intelligence into the stolid face.

' Reckon you're a stranger reound here, mister, or you wouldn't ask that. Captain Dick. I guess there ain'b many folks reound Shaddeck Bay don'b know Cap'n Dick Ffrench.'

Up to this point the questions have been asked with languid indifference. But as this name is uttered the young man sits erect, and his blue eyes kindle into swift, eager interest.

' Ffrench ?' he repeats, sharply. ' Captain Ffrench ?—son and heir of Mr Robert Charlton ?'

* Wal, I reckon, mister, that's abeout it.'

The interrogator pushes up his wideawake, and takes a long stare at his companion. ' And you—you're Mr Richard Ffrench, otherwise Captain Dick's factotum, I supposo ? Like master, like man. Is Captain Dick there now, and at home to callers ?'

He does not wait for an answer, but rises to his feet, flings some loose change to the laok lad, and starts at once for the bar.

' Durned if ho ain't goin',' the youth remarks. ' Won't ho spoil them swell boots, though ? City chap with store clothes. I sco him yes'day loafin' reound tbe hotel.' He picks up the pennies—the backsheesh is by no means princely—and plods along towards tho town.

Tho shiny boots havo reached the bar, and pick their way lightly and carefully ovor sand, and sea-weed, and slippery rock. It requires some care to avoid stumbles and wet feet; but ho does both ; and stands, ab the end of iifteen minutes, on the grassy elope of tho little islet, upon which the small grey house perches solitary and windbeaten, a mark for blistering summer suns, and beating winter rains. It possesses two windows, like port-holes, and a door ; all threo hospitalities open to th 9 cool and fresh sea-breezo. On the threshold ho pauses. He sees a small room, the board floor scrubbed tc spotless white, the walls glittering with whitewash, two or three easy chairs, a comfortable-lookin_ lounge, a tablo littered with books, maps, manuscripts, newspapers, pens, pencils, and Bristol board, and sitting amoug the literary chaos, his bacic to the door, reading and smoking, a man. 1 If thab is yon, Daddy,' he says, without turning round, * I will break ycur neck if you como in.' •lb isn't Dad: _',' answers a qu'i9t voice. 9 % suspect I waylaid Daddy about twonty

minutes ago, and wrung from him the information that the master of this hermitage was at home- Idleness—the parent of all, evil—suggested I should come. I havo the pleasure, I think, of apologising to Captain Dick.'

He takes off his hat, and, still with his afternoon languor upon him, leans against bhe doorposb. The sbrong salt sea-wind stirs his fair hair, which he wears rather long, a strong contrast in that respect to the gentleman he addresses, who is cropped within an inch of his well-shaped head. Indeed, they are a contrast in other respects, for ' Captain Dick' turning squarely round in surprise, rises, takes out his pipe, and stands a tall, broad-shouldered, sun-burned yoUng man, with a pair of fine grey eyes under black, resolute brows, mind and muscle, brain and body, evidently equally well developed —quite unlike the slender, elegant city stamped individual he confronts.

' Perhaps I ought to have sent my card by Daddy with a request for permission, as one does when ono visitß a show place abroad/ suggests the stranger, plaintively. * I really fear I intrude. You were reading, 1 perceive. I am Ernest Dane, trying to kill the dog days down here by the sad sea waves, and finding it consumedly slow. Most things are consumedly slow, if you observe. Don't let me interrupt; ib isn'b worth while. Being an inveterately lazy dog myself, I have the profoundesi admiration for industry in others. We will moot again, I dare say. I stop at the St. Ann's. Until then '!'

He replaces his panama and is turning to go, but Captain Dick interferes. 'No, no,' ho says, laughing. 'Visitors are rare birds in my rock-bound retreat, and to be treated as such. There is no hurry as far as the tide is concerned, and. like the tido, my industry is on the ebb. May I offer you a cigar ?' ' Thanks, no ; I don'b smoke. Curious little den this ot yours, but a capital place for hard study, I should say. You have rather the look of a hard thinker, by the byo. Never think myself if I can help it — one of my fixed principles. Wears a man out, I find, and there's nothing in life worth wearing oub about. Do you moan to say you live here?' 'Not exactly, but most of my days, of? and on, I spend in this shanty when I am down in these parts.'

'Ah ! nob your nights,'then. That must be a relief to your anxibus relatives.' ' My nights as often as' nob I spend drifting about the bay with my friends, the fisher-folk,' responds tho captain, goodhuiriourodly. ' 1 am an amphibious animal, I suppose ; I thrive besb in salt water.'

Mr Ernest Dane regards him with languid interest. ' Your days in study—Spanish, I perceive—and your nights' in fishing. You never sleep if you can help it, I presume. But don't you find the everlasting swishswash of the sea down' there in the rocks rather maddening? " What are the wild waves saying ?" and soon, something of a drawback- to close application V

'I never hear it,' answers Captain Ffrench. 'With my pipe and my traps here, and my solitude, you behold in me, Mr Dane, that rara avis, a perfectly happy man.'

He stoops to gather up a quantity of papers and memoranda that havo fallen, and replaces them with care. Order enters largely into the phrenological development of tho student of Spanish, as may bo noted by the perfect neatness of everything in the bare little room. As he assorts his papers, his visitor rises, and crosses suddenly to the chimney-piece, over which hangs tho only picture" on the walls. It isunframed; a head in coloured chalks—a woman's head, of course ; a low-browed, fair-faced, sereneeyed, smiling-mouthed woman ; and underneath, in pencil, ' Mademoiselle , New Orleans, May , 18C1.'

Mr Dane produces an eye-glass—his handsome blue eyes are short-sighted—and looks,ab bhis picture.. Then ho turns and looks'at Captain Dick, a look so keen, so suspicious, so swift, so full of fire, thab for one second it alters his whole expression. For one second only—when the other glances up from his manuscripts, the habitually negligent and indifferent air returns.

' A pretty face,' he says, lightly- 'You add artistic tendencies to your other virtues, I perceive. I don't know, of course, but ib strikes me I have seen a faco very like that somewhere.'

' Very likely. I have ap" "' c oiio about in some corner, if you care tor •■ sort of thing. Do you sketch ? There s some rather good views here and there in the vicinity of St. Ann's and Shaddeck Bay.'

' My dear fellow, I do nothing—nothing — absolutely and utterly nothing. lam ashamed of myself. I can recollect no time in which I was not ashamed of myself. I havo suffered from chronic romorse for my laziness ever since I had a conscience. But all the same, I never reform. I don't suppose I ever shall. I don't sketch, I don't read, I don'b smoke ; I have no aims, no mission, no sphere. Tho world goes round, and Igo with it. I drift with the tide, and am bound to no port. And, apropos of tides, the tide of our affairs will soon bo the flood again, and our peninsula once more an island. So I think I'il make off. I see you have no boat here, so I conclude it is nothing unusual for you to be ocean-bound.'

'A boat is one of the necessities of my existence,' Captain Dick says. ' If you are going, I believe I will go also. lam due at the houso before six.' t »

• Meaning by the house tho residence of the Honorable Robert Charlton ?'

'Ah! you know. Yes, Mr Charlton is my step-father ; and, by the way, as ho is the soul of hospitality, L think I may tender you an invitation in his name. You must rind time hang rather heavily, I should say, at St. Ann's.'

Yes, Mr Dane admits, with a gentle sigh. To find time hang heavily is, ho rogrota to say, one of the fixed conditions of his existence. It is the penalty, he supposes, life exacts from perfectly idle men. Very many thanks for Captain Dick's friendly offer, • Hiich at some future dny ho hopes to avail himself of. Then he lifts his hat and turns toward St. Ann's, while Captain Dick, whistling as ho goes, get 3 over the ground with long strides, in a directly opposite courso.

The sun is setting. The 6ea lies smooth and sparkling below, tho sky spreads yellow, fleecy, rose - flushed above, tho fields swell green and golden far away, the beach stretches white and glistening near.

Mr Ernest Dane turns and watehos his late companion out of sight, a stalwart, strong figure, clearly outlined against the western red light, with something unmistakably military in the square shoulders and upright poise of the head, something bright and breezy in tbe air, and eye, and frankly ringing voice, something resolute and decided in tho very echo of the firm, quick footsteps. Mr Dane's face darkens as ho watches, and his handsome, bored, blonde countenance settles for a moment into a3 darkly earnest an expression as though he were a man with a purpose in life which that other man had crossed. Ib i 3 bub for a moment. He turns away with a slight, contemptuous shrug, just 33 the tall captain wheels round a bend in the white road, and disappears. ;

CHAPTER 11. CHARLTON PLACE,

She is a handsome girl, and yet at first sight there are people who do not think so. Ib is the sort of face that ovvos nothing to bright colouring ot hair or complexion, little to dress, and less to ornament. The hair is pale brown, absolutely without a tinge of warmer tint, either gold or russet; the complexion,, clear and healthful, is colourless; tho eyes like a fawn's, soft, thoughtful, peculiarly gentle; the mouth aboncc firm and sweet, the profile nearly

perfect. Above middle height, with a figure well rounded and flexible, hands long, tapering, beautiful; dressed in black silk by no means new, bub well-fitbing, a touch'of fine lace, and a coral pin at the throab—that is Eleanor Charlton.

She stands at the open window and looks oub; a wonderful light of pleased admiration in the hazel eyes. Honeysuckle and sweet-smelling roses cluster all about the casement, and fill the sweet summer warmth with perfume. A sea of fluttering green leaves and brilliant flowers spreads out jusb beneabh, and far beyond, with the hot, yellow blaze of tho July sun upon it, another eea, all a-sparkle. as if sown with stars.

' How pretty ! how pretty !' she says, a smile of pleasure dawning oh her lips ; ' how pretty ib all is ! How happy one might be—could be—in such a home as this.'

The smile dies away, and a fainb sigh comes instead. For all the home Miss Charlton knows, has known for the past eight years, is the hopeless home of a city boarding house. A breezo comes up from Shaddock Bay and flutters the honeysuckle bells, and swings the pink clusters of the roses. A bee staggers heavily by, drunk with sweets, booming drowsily. Little whitesailed boats glide about over the shining water, a door shuts somewhere in tho sleepy afternoon stillness of the house. Then there is a tap, and before Miss Charlton ha 3 time to say ' Come in,' tho tapper come 3 in, and proves to be Miss Charlton's mamma, a lady of bhe fat and fifty order, with a hooked nose, a double chin, a thin, compressed mouth, a hard, cold eye, a false front, false teeth, a good deal of gold jewellery on hands and bosom —the well-preserved remains of a * fine woman.'

'Eleanor,'she says, abruptly, and turn ing the key in tbe door.

' Yes, mother.,'

Miss Charlton's voice is as gentle as her eyes, as sweet as her smile. Mrs Charlton's, on the contrary, ia of a rasping and astringent quality, that leaves an impression as of bitters in the mouth.

'I wish to speak with you seriously, my dear, v-e-r-y seriously,' says Mrs Charlton, taking a chair.foldirig her hands, and Fixing her glimmering eyes on hor daughter's face. ' I have just been talking to Mr Charlton, and he says Sit down.'

She pushes a chair up, and Eleanor obeys. A look of weariness comes over her fair face, as if the ordeal of being ' v-e-r-y seriously ' spoken to was no new one and no pleasant ono.

' As I inferred from the first, my dear,' begins Mrs Charlton, With unction, *Mr Charlton had a motive in sending for us to visit him other than ho sob forth. People may remember their deceased cousin's widow and orphan, and blood may bo thicker than water ; but, as a general thing, they don't send several hundred miles for these relatives to visit them, without some other motive than pure bonovelenco being.on the card. That something elso'l have discovered,and its name is ' Mrs Charlton paused in triumphant expectation, and Misa Charlton smiled.

' Yes, mother, I know your perspicacity. Its name is '

4 Richard Caryl Ffrench.' Miss Charlton lifts her pretty eyebrows, but she is not surprised.

' Captain Ffrench—his step-son ? Well, that is very natural, mother, only I don'b perceive the connection. What havo we to do, what has our coming to do with this modern Sir Philip Sidney V

IMy dear, everything, everything !' Mrs Charlton looks about her, glances out of tho window, lowers her voice to a gunpowderplot whisper. ' Mark my words, Eleanor, Robert Charlton has sent for you with ono purpose—only one—to marry you to Richard Ffrench.' ' Mother !' 'It is perfectly true. Ho did nob say so in so many words, of course. How could ho ? All the same, that is the hidden meaning of our invitation here. And, Eleanor, mind what I am saying, ib is the best chance you ever had, ever will have. I look to you not to thwart Mr Charlton.' 'But, mother ' ' You can raise no obstacle—none at all. When you dismissed Mr Goro a year ago you said he was notoriously dissipated, and I accepted that reason, although I failed to perceive then, and do still, what a little wi!dne3s in a man with a million can signify. But here it is diflerent. Captain Ffrench, from what I can hear, is all the most exacting could desire ; handsome, young, brave, clever—everything. I look to yon, Eleanor, to do all you can to please Captain Ffrench.'

'Oh ! mother, mothor.hush !' Her colour has flushed, then faded ; a look of pain, of shame, contracts her brows: her hands lock and unlock nervously. 'You are always dreaming, always talking, always hoping for this. Why should Mr Charlton havo meant so absurd a thing ? Captain Ffrench has no need to have a wife chosen for him, and thrown ab his head. If he is all you say, is lis likely to lot anyone choose for him ? And besides—'

'Well, Eleanor, and besides?' says Mrs Charlton, austerely; but Eleanor rises, biting her lip, and flushing guiltily. She goes back to the window, where the roses hang and tho woodbine clambers, just a3 sweetly as half an hour ago, but tiie soft eyes are only full of impatient, impotent pain now.

' Thero can be no " besides;" ' says her mother, still more austerely. ' And I have made no mistake in Mr Chariton's meaning. It ie not my habit to make mistakes. It is Mr Charlton's wish thab you should marry his stepson, who is a little, just a little, hair brained about exploring and soldiering, and liable to run away at a moment's notice.'

' And so "is to have a wife tied to him as a sort of drag-anchor, whether he will or no. Well, mother, I decline being that draganchor.'

' You will do exactly as you please, of course,' retorts her mother; 'as you always do. But, remember this, if you are perverse ; if you take to riding any of your extremely high horses here, if you refuse the heir of this noble estate -'

'Mother, listen to me,' Eleanor Charlton says, and puts her hand with a tired gesture to her head; 'do nob let ua quarrel—ah !do not this very first day. What you hope for cannot be, there must be a mistake. You know— his letter of invitation eaid so—thab he has also invited those two youug ladies in New York, his distant relatives as well as we '

'That but confirms my suspicion, my certainty,' interrupts her mother, calmly. ' Richard Ffrench is to have his choice-ail in the family. Very naturally this great fortune is to be kept with the Charlton blood if possible, and in your veins and in theirs alone does it run. Richard Ffrench is to choose between you. But you are first in the field, and to an impressionable young man fresh from wild Northern regions—' ' Mother, hush ! I cannot bear it,' Eleanor cries out. ' Oh ! how many times havo I listened to this ; how many times have you not tried bo sell me bo the, highest bidder ? How many times have I not been shamed, shamed to tho heart, by the looks men gave me after talking to you. Let me alone, mother. I will work for you. I will give you all I earn, I will never complain ; but for the sake of our common womanhood do. not make me blush again before the master and son of this house. And hear mo once for all—l will work until I drop dead from work, I will lie down and die of starvation, before I marry any man for his money, and his money alone.'

'Hush!' says Mrs Charlton, 'hush, for Heaven's sake ! There has been a rap ab the door, now there is another.' She smooths her angry face, risos, opens ib, and sees a trim and smiling houesafaid.

•Master's compliments, ma'am, and any time you and Miss Charlton is ready he is waiting" to show you through the grounds.' 'Thank you,' Mrs Charlton responds, suavely. 'Tell Mr Charlton we will be down in one moment. Eleanor, my love, if you are quite ready we will not keep our kind host-waiting.'

The rose light of the sunseb has faded out into opal and grey, the cool of evening has fallen upon the world, ab white heat all day, when Richard Ffrench turns • into the ponderous iron gateway, between its couchant lions, and goes up the long, leafy, tree-shaded drive. The old elms and hemlocks meet overhead, and make groen gloom even at noonday. It is deepest twilight beneath their arching vault now. He emerges in front of the. house, a large quaint, red brick structure, set in a greab slope of velvety burf and lawn* with wide halls, and bay windows, and open doors. Brilliant beds of gladioli, geranium, verbena, heliotrope, and pansy crop up everywhere, and off yonder among a very thicket of roses, he catches the sound of ladios' voices, the flutter of ladies' skirts. ' Humph !' says Captain Dick, and stops in his whistling.-, 'so they have come. I thought they would. I hope the governor, dear old woman-lovor that he is—is happy at last.' An amused look is in the young man's grey eyes as he stands and reconnoitres. The brio examine the floral beauties unconscious of the mischievous gaze' upOft them. 'As if I didn't see through the transparent ruse—bles3 his innocent old soul — and as if they won't see through it, too, before they are an hour in bhe house; I only hope the yoUng lady has some sense of humour. And three of them, by George ! I should think bhe Sultan of all the Turkeys must feel something as I will when the last lot arrives.'

Captain Dick throws back his head and lauahs all by himself; a mellow, ringing, thoroughly joyous laugh. Then he turns to escape into the house, for it will not do, he thinks, to shock these delicate creatures, with a rough jackefand a slouch hat, when Fate wills it othorwise. The trio turn suddenly, advance, see him, and retreat is cub off. He accepts defeat with calmness, and stands and awaits. And as he awaits his eyes widen, dilate, with surprise, for the face of bhe younger lady ia bhe face in coloured chalks over the mantel at Shaddeck Light.

To be continued next Wednesday.)