LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 88, 13 April 1892, Page 7

LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

BY AMELIA E. BARS, Author oi 'Friend Olivia, , ' Beade o* i aiiuier," ' The Household of McNeil,'etc.

SYNOPSIS OF FOREGOING INSTALMENTS.

[The heroine of this story, Francesca Atherton, the only child of Squire Rashleigh Atherton, is in love with and is loved by Lancelot Leigh, tho son of a wealthy cotton spinner. Squire Atherton, a Tory landlord of the West Riding of Yorkshiro, hates the Leighs, whom he looks on as upstarts, and refuses to sanction the love affair of Lancelot and Francesca. FranCosca's aunt, Loida Vyner, a lady of thirty, sympathises with the lovers, but Jilra Leigh, Lancelot's mother, opposes the match. For the purpose of getting rid of Lancelot's attentions the squire has Francasca and her aunt visit Idleholme, the home of the Idles, to attend the marriage of Jane Idle, it is furthermore hoped that Francesca will become interested in Almund Idle, Jane's brother. Tho Idles and the Leighe are neighbours, a fact which was unknown to Squire Atherton, and Lancelot and Francesca have opporbunitea of meeting. In the meantime, the squire becomes additionally embittered against the Leighs, a3 Mr Leigh buys land adjoining Atherton Dingle, un;l builds on it a mammoth cotton factory. Francesca and her aunt return to Atherton Court in January, and tho squire discovers that his daughter lias a low opinion of young Idle. He learns also that Lancelot has been put in charge of the new factory. Lancelot calls, desiring to see the gquiro apart from the family, but being unable to attain this, requests of him hia daughter's hand. He is at first indignantly repelled, but finally is told thab he will be pub on probation for two years. For a time every day is golden, and neither of the couple 'saw, in tho blue hoaven of their hopes, the little cloud above them— the little cloud no bigger than a man's band.']

CHAPTER VL • IT HAS TO BE BOBNE. , As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went. The abeue and was spent. Longfellow.

*Che cloud came from the west—from th c far aouthwoeb. It was the shadow of war. and what had war to do with the love of Lancelot and Francesca ? Though the tumour and tho fear of it had been in tho hearts of thoughtful men for months, hitherto Lancelob had nob been much troubled. His father had borne tho burden of anxiety for both mills. Cotton had always been forthcoming for the looms ac Atherton; Lancelot had not imagined a time when ho would want ' material, , and toot receive it.

Bub the time was near at hand, for the totton land was in rebellion, and its ports blockaded. There had been a great deal of talk about such a terrible calamity, but Lance had never believed it possible. The *?ant of cotton, the consequent want of "work, the certain famine and distress, had Beemed to him like the lightning in heaven, Jar off.

He went to consult with his father. He found him in great anxiety and distress, but he also found that he had risen to the noblest point of tho situation.

'Are you going to close your mill, lather? , Lancelot asked, even as the two men met and shook hands.

' Not I. I shall keep it running, as long Aβ I hey a shilling to buy cotton with. .

* Hargraves has shub his mill.' ' Hargmves is a big fab bear. He can live on himself rarely, and niver feel thab he is a selfish brute for doing so. lam none pf his kind.'

f But your cotton will not last long, and then you will have to shut your gates.'

'I won' shut them as long as I can buy Cotton afc any figure. I have begun to run half-time—for a half-loaf is better than no loaf at all—and I shall try to keep up to tkab mark till peace comes ; or till we get Indian staple in sufficient quantities to bring down prices.'

• What shall I do at Atherton V

' What does ta think thou ought to do? J gave thee Atherton mil, wlion ta won Bqnire Athorfcon's daughter ; now then, do whativer thou thinks is right. I don't keep thy conscience, my lad ! My awn is iiboub all I can manage.'

' It is none of our quarrel, father. .

•Ay, but ib is our quarrel, Lance. It is Ivery good man's and ivery good woman's quarrel. I haven't heard a word contrary from any of tho poor souls that will have to go hungry for ib. lam going to sell my Horses, and stop wastry of whativer kind ; find thou had better do the same. Thy mother sent off all tho house servants but Dne. ,

'Is that fair ? Servants must live, also.'

'Aservanc can be a servanb anywhere ; they can go to Bradford and get work, A cotton-spinner is fit for nothing elee." 'Do you think the war will continue for any length of timo ?' • Well, I should say it would. The North has been preaching to fche South a long while, and the South has been calling the North ivery ill name it can think of— and, from what I can understand, they can think of a good many aggravating ones— and words hey come to blows at last; and Tin afraid they won't find out in a hurry Which of them can hit the hardest.' ' Well, then ?' ' Well, then ? What does ta ask me questions for? Thou knows thy duty. Thou knows Yorkshire men and women won't beg under any circumstances. If thou art wicked enough to let them starve, they will starve without a word. Thou hes tnade a bit of money, and thou bes a good bit more thy grandfather left tbee. I don'b think ab this time thou can save thy money, and save thy honour and thy manhood also. Thou ought to know which thou values at the highest figure. I cannot help thee, my lad. When thou took tho Jnill as a gift from me, thou took it with all it might bring thee —loss or gain. No dan could then foresee what has come to pass. .

' And you cannot holp me?' 'I cannot help mysen. I'll hey more to do with my awn mill than I can manftffe, for I shall keep it going half time if I Bell the watch out of my pocket to do so. I'll nob shub the hands out to gtarve till I cannot raise anobher shilling. Thou can do ac seems right to thee.' ' I was making money fnst, father.' .'To be sure. And thou can save all tnau hes made if thou chooses to shut thy mill till the war is over. I hey no donbt, when that takes place, two Bullion bales of cotton—mebbe more—will be poured into Manchester market. Then them as hey saved their money can buy, andean run things about as they fancy to fun them. I shall nob be among bhafc Crowd, I can tell thoe. And if thou art toy son, I shall not find thee among them.' Lancelot smiled pleasantly. , '^ ou w iN find me wherever you are, lather. I ma y, perhaps, run the Atherton to »I a year on half time if I use all the taoney I have. W ill the war be over in a year ?'

'Nobody knows that, Lance. Wo can ont do ivery day's duty as it comes, and nope for the best. I hey twice ns many {".anas as thou hes, and my money is badly wed up, but a lot will hey to happen before * shut my mill-gates.' iL.

It was a pathetic country through which Lancelot rode back to Athorton. Many of the great mills he passed had been closed toot Saturday night, and the silent, empty places, the smokeless chimneys and the idle inhabitants standing in groups, talking of their calamity, filled him with sorrowful apprehensions. He had begun to take great pride m hie mill-begun to look upon it as a mend. He had also felb much interest in his- hands; he had considered then- comfort and pleasure, and Atherton was almost a model mill village But to have people on half-time, halffed perhaps sick was not a comfortable outlook. And ie did cost him a pang to payout pound after pound of the money left him by his grandfafcher-to my it out on a • peradventure, , not even to feel sure thab his generosity would at last avail The squire gave him but a cold approval! Between a man saving mon ey and buying land and a man spending his capital there is a fundamental difference. The man himself is diflerent; and the act, though really a far grander one than those the trumpet was blowing from west to east, was done without even a decided selfapproval. \irtue may be her own reward, but Lancelot desired not only the approval of his own conscience—he wished this selfsatisfaction endorsed by the good opinion of the man whoso respect he greatly valued. J But Squire Atherton was in the position of one who sees the evil thing prophesied come to pass. Never before, in his village, had there been suffering beyond his power to alleviate. In times of agricultural distress he and his tenants and labourers bore the curtailment together, and were drawn closer by their mutual misfortune. They were, too, his own people—son 3of tins soil —who had lived from it and on it, in their generations, as long as the Athertons had lived at Atherton Court. But these whitefaced, half-famished 'hands, , sitting on the steps of their emptied houses, or standing in mournful, hopeless groups at the street corners, were strangers from Manchester, Salford, Oldham, etc. They looked at him —he fancied—with sulleu ill-will, and ho resented this intrusion of commercial poverty and discontent into his hitherto satisfied community. He declined to talk about affairs with Lancelot. He led him see that ha felt- injured and offended ; that he rogrotted his late toleration of the mill, and withdraw any approval he had given. And his sympathies—if he expressed any—wore on the side of the Southern land-owners. Ho pub slavery, as an idea, out of the question. He thought only of the proprietors of the land having it invaded, and their homes wasted that their labourers might bo benefited. Perhaps he took this view becauso it nogatived any special virtue in Lancelot spending his substance for thin idea. Ho could not bring himself to give it any cucouragement or enthusiasm. On the contrary, Francssca and Miss Loida wero on the side of tho weak and suflering, and the squire did not prevent them showing it. He privately thought his barns and hay-ricks might bo safer if he let the Jadies of his house go with the popular current. And in his really kind heart ho was glad to see Miss Loida giving out soup, and sparing tho whole houaehold of milk and watching every slice of bread thnt as much as possible might co to the hungry little children. Ho was glad to see Loida and Francesca busy all day making garments for them ; glad to know they wore going from house to house, helping the weak and the suffering. Quietly lie gave a great deal himnelf; for if sickness and hunger were visible things, ho could not bear to pass them without imparting succour. But yet thero was a deap resentment in his hearb at tho introduction of ; such contingencies into his special neigh-1

bourbood. Lancelot felt this want of sympathy vory keenly. Ho knew that the squire's regulated and acknowledged charity might have been a great help in his hopeless struggle with war and famine. And he did suffer, also, in the gradual wasting away of his own substance. Every pound spent put his marriage with Franceaca further off, and lie was quite sum the squire would tell him thab if he preferred to give his all for an idea, he must bo content with the satisfaction the gratified idea gave him. Francesca could not marry a poor man, and Lancelob could not expect— could not, indeed, wish —the squire to make him a rich man by his gifo or favour. So the months passed drearily enough away. Ho knew from hie mother's letters that his father was fighting an equally hopeless battle: 'He is simply selling; all he has to keep the mill proing.' ' Cotton is rising:, and father is desperate, but net to be moved.'

*I am terrified your father will mortgage— perhaps sell—Leigh Farm. 1 am only able to think of this one thins , .'

Such like sentences in her letters indicate the condition of Garsby, and they only varied as the hopes of a spoady peace rose or fell again.

At the cloae of the second year all the manufacturing portions of Englaad dependent upon cotton wore in a desperate and deplorable condition ; hunger, nakedness and pestilence liad taken possession of them. By this time, al?o, Lancelot had gpent all he had ; yeb the peace so ardently hoped and prayed for seemed aa far off as ever. Then the day came he had feared— the day when he would be compelled to close his mill. It was a dull, wet morning in tho middle of summer ; a timo when rain and clouds seem most of all mournful and unnatural.

His lasb pound was gone, and he knew that a few hours' work would clear out the last tufb of cotton. He walked through tho mill vvibh an aching heart. Some of the looms had already stopped. There was no more cotton to feed them. Ab others the 'hands' were watching the loada upon tho looms, minute by minute, getting smaller and smaller. In a short time there was nob a shred left. Thon men and women stood looking ab Lancelob. There was something fearful and unnatural in the idleness and stillness of that busy, noisy place. The very looms seemed conscious of calamity. With tears in his eyes, Lancelob raised his hand, and gave t>lie order to stop the machinery. Thon he turned to his people, and said, almost sharply : 'Men and women, I have done my best and my uttermost.' There was an indescribable movement of assent and pity, and after a moment's pause, the overlooker said : ' Thou hes, master. We are none likely to forget it.' They left the mill very quietly, without a murmur facing the inevitable; and Lancelot, standing alono amidst bin silent looms, heard the slow, heavy steps of tho nine hundred go out of his gates. In the inidsb of his own dsepondency he recognised their heroism, for, in their way, these half-starved men and women had shown a gelf-rospecb equal to their master's. Tho wage 3 he had been able to give thorn was nearly two shillings a'week less than the charity which the relief fund would have allowed them ; but nob one soul had preferred ib. All had worked manfully and womanfully as long as any pittance of wage wis possible rather than t»ko the charity of the nation until they were compelled to do so. . Ho felb a sentiment of respect—almost of hope—as he considered this pathetic perseverance in honourable independence, unrecognised and unrewarded. Surely what these men and women could do and bear he also could do and bear. What if the squire failed to appreciate his self-de-nial ? What if he had the world to begin over again ? Thousands of good men were in like case ; nothing more than was common to humanity hod happened to him. And he had Francesca's unvarying sympathy. Perhaps she held privately some of her father's opinionß, bub she never allowed

Lancelot to know that she did so. In her presence it was almost impossible tor the squire to be less friendly to her lover than he had been. She drew them together by all those sweet, affectionate arts which good women know and never have to learn. Loida was also true as steel, for Loida had very old-fashioned ideas about love. She believed a lover in trouble ought to be twice as dear; she scorned the idea of deserting him for any financial cause ; she told Francesca plainly that her troth-plight was as sacred as a wedding-plight, and that so long as Lancelot was personally worthy of her love she would be base and cruel to take back her gift. Yes, indeed, with some misgivings, the dear lady thought ■ it might be the duty and privilege of some women to love on, even if their love seemed to be unwisely given. , Francesea listened to such advices with cordial approval. They agreed with her own ideas ; for though Lancelot, handsome, rich, joyful, successful, was very dear to her heart, Lancelot, handsome, poor, unhappy, the victim of unavoidable and unmerited misfortune, was a thousand times dearer. In the early days of their love Lancelot had been the lord and giver of happiness ; but now she was the lady of all consolations ; and even in love it is more noble and blessed to give than to receive. Never had Lancelot been to Francesca so endearing as when he came to her in trouble to ba comforted. It was at this time the squire began to learn how little real power a man has, even in his own house, if there be a majority of women holding opinions different to his own. Ho was not, indeed, prevented from expressing his views, but it required a great amount of courage to do so; for Franccsca answered him silently in looks of amazement and indignant reproach, or cisc . u ho obviously gathered up her sewing and left the room in s-uch marked distress that ho folb as if lie had wounded a singingbird or done somo other despicable and inexcusable act of cowardice. Then Miss Vyner would say, calmly: ' Squiro, I am astonished at you !' or ' Whatever has changed you ao much, brother '!' Or, if his ollence wa3 vary bad, she appeared too much hurt to question him at all, and tho miserable gentleman was made to feol, at the same moment, that he was brutally cruel and yet shamefully misunderstood. Mournful enough was tho farewell Lancelot took of his love before ho left Athorton. Ib was impossible to say how long it might be ore he could return iti circumstances which would warrant (ho renewal of Ins oiler of marriage. Ho was almo.st penniless. He feared his father was in a similar condition. Tho o:ily plan ho had for retrieving his fortune implied an expatriation from England. Ho thought it possible to buy cotton in Mexico. Thousands of bales wore said to be passed through Texas, across the Rio Grande to the Mexican territory. From some Mexican port, it might be possible to ship it to Liverpool. The squiro thought it a highly foarfiblo spoculation. Uo knew that there wore a great

many spinners who had money lying idlo ;

he supposed they would be glad to .send out a young man full of enterprise and spirit, and, as to blockade-running, evoryono was aware that fabulous fortunes wero mado vory quickly by it.

Lancelot talked hig plan over with Francesca, and such discussions brought them very close together. Love, and love only, is cloying sweet ; but wonder and fear, the .sen.-o of dictance and strangeness, the assurances and despondencies, tho possiblo glory of r. glad return, all these things were strong pungent flavours, tincturing the nentiment with emotions that blended together % tho romance of love and the delightful confidences and reliances of a still closer and dearer tio !

' I will never forget you! Never cease one moment to lovu you ! Sly own ! My

pwoet Francosca !' said Lancelot, ono night in July, as they stood together in tiio cloinatis arbour.

Ho had como to Fay, 'Good-bye. , Ho knew not for how 10n'.; , . It might be for a year, or for many year.-.. It might bo for ever. But in any c;tv.o, ho vowed, with all the passionate tenderness of lirst love, with toars, with fond embraces, with sweet, long, sorrowful kisses, uover ! never • never ! to bo faithless to Francesca.

Francesca echoed eveiy vow. Her lovely face, pr.le as tho pnlo (lowers around l.hem, was transfigured with her love. The soul nhono through the flesh, and made it luminous. Her eyes were star-like. She made a kind ot glory v/hcro she stood. For t!io.«o few last moments, she throw a-iole the usual sweet reserve of her manner. Sho put her lips to his lips. Sho kissed her promises on them. The tears that fell from her eyes were on his cheeks.

• Forever and ever I am yours, and youra only !' she said.

'Forever and forever I am yours, my love,' he answered ; and the strong, eweetly solemn words fell slowly, one by one, into her heart, each sealed with tho sorrowful kiss of a long farewell.

lie loft her in the arbour, and she watched him going down the torrace stops in the moonlight as she had watched him at their first msoting, coming up them in the sunptiino. Ho wont ."lowly, step by srep, out of her eight, and she stood like one entranced till ho had gone beyond her vision —till the very echo of his last footfalls was inaudible.

Ivliss Loida had permitted and cruardod this lonely parting. When it was over sho went to her niece and let her weop in her arms.

' Tears will wash away the bitterness of frriof,' she said. ' But he will comeback, Francesca, He will come back, my doar, 1 know he will. , 'No; he will not come back, Aunt) Loida. There is the weight of death on my heart. I shall never, never sco him again.' 'Do not bespeak snch ill fortune for him and for yourself. Oh, Francesco 1 Good comes to the call of hope, aud nob to the cry of despair. Go to your room, my clear girl, and tell all your fear and sorrow to the good God. Like a father, ho pities his children ; like a father who has both the power and the will to make his children happy. He will lake care of Lancelot.'

'Bub you do not know what I sufl'or, Aunb Loida. lam broken -hearted. .

•Good hearts, brave hearts, faithful hearts do not break, Francesca. They go on loving and hoping. And I know ! I know ! I have suffered, I once thought I should die of sufl'oring. But, Francesca, the rose-tree stripped of every rose does not wither aw.iy and die down to ite very roots. It boars its Io?s, and when the spring comes again, ib buds and blossom?, and is fairo? and sweeter than ever. Can yon nob be as strong and brave, and as true to yourself and to all who look to you for joy and comfort ?'

But in reality Loida know that for heartgrief there is no known consolation. Jl has fo be home. Comfort cannot bo given. It must spring from the very root of sorrow. When she loft her niece, Francesea wes kneeling at her bedyide, sobbing with all the pitiful surrender to tho inexorable that, youth feels. For the heart is long in learning that tears are useless. Perhaps at three-score we may accept with dry eyes the blow we rantiot escape.

In some respects Lancelot was moro to be pitied than was Franoesca, for the sorrow poverty mingles is hardoft of all to boar. Ib might be good for him to have to mako a struggle for daily bread, bub ho did not realise the good. He was altogether averse to overcoming the world, in the sense of breaking into its storehouses and getting at its gold and silver. They say in Yorkshire that any fool can make money if he throws his soul into it and lose 3 his soul for ib. Lancelob wanted to mako money, bub ho did nor want to lose his soul or his honour or his self-respect in order to mako ib. Whatever, then, his prospects were, with this weak spob in his heart, thore was

more to fear than to hope. Ho felb also a strange despondency, one nob to be referred to his parting with Francesca. His senses were dull their edges rebated ; he was sure some ill, not apprehended, was approaching. And the feeling was liko a lazy frost to his mind ; ib locked up all the vigour to attempt enterprise, by barely crying : ' It-is impossible !'

He reached home sorrowful and despondent. His mother was standing at the door as he rode up to it.

'I saw thee coming,' she said. 'It is time thou came. Thy father is very ill. I heard the "death-pad " last night. It walked from midnight till dawn above his head.'

Lancelot looked intently at his mother, and his hearb trembled. She was grey as ashes. Her eyes wandered. He said : ' Mother, you are ill; , but she answered, sharply : ' Not I! I tell thee thy father is ill. He has been asking for thee, all day long. Go thy ways to him."

(To be Continued, J