LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 92, 19 April 1892, Page 6

LOVE FOR AN HOUR IS LOVE FOR EVER.

BY AMELIA E. UABS, Author of 'Friend Olivia ,' Beads of Tanner, , ' The Household of McNeil,'etc.

CHAPTER VllL—(Continued). 1,01 da's heart fell a- soon as she left Al" It grew heavier with every lonely mile. She had spent her stock of hope so lavishly, ?he had nono now left for her own necessity, Her thoughts wandered

ai'ar, and yet brought nothing back, but that truly English word ' Why V Why had Die!; done so wrong? 7F*«ydfd lie not come? Why did he not write? Tiie little plaintive questioning word, almost poetical in itself, giew tragic in its persistent iteraIt, was after sunset when she reached Atherton, and that twilight dejection which even animals feel had intensified the melancholy of her mood, She had ceased even to expect the ' improbable better 'of tho future. But 0 ! how soon all shadows fled before tho light in Franee?ca'<3 face, and the hearty welcome in tho pqniro'a greeting. How many good things were yet left her ! How much love ! What a happy home! Her coming to it made an air of rejoicing through tho house. Tea had been delayed that they might take it with her. She throw off her souse of trouble and disappointment by a conscious effort, as she threw oifhor cloak and bonnet, and then turned with smiles to her brother and niece. Something , strange and unlooked-for had happened : she saw a shadow of it about the squire. She perceived it in the face and manner of Francesca. But they talked for a little while on the most commonplace and indifferent of thinga—the weather, tho crops in thab part of the country through which Loida had passed, the poor horse Ilodmond h-id given her, the catching of a fox in Atherton hen-coops, finally the condition of At ierton village.

•It is bad enough,' said the squire. 'lam very sorry for poor Lance. When trouble come?, it comes every way fit once, I think. Francesca telis me Lance's father is dead, i am very sorry !'

'It i-i triio,' said Francesca, answering hor aunt's look of sorrowful amazement. ' Lancelot's last letter said his father was

very ill : bub his death must have been unexpected, I think. Lance writes like a man distracted. , ' lie was particularly fond of his father,' «aid Loida. 'I never saw a father and son i-o much one.' 'I liko that,' answered tho squire, warmly. 'I liked the way in which Lance stood by his father's advice and word. And I am sureSfcophen Leigh was a fineman, lam sorry I quarrelled with him. It hurts me to think J was speaking badly of him yesterday, and him not on earth to answer me bank. My word !Itis a dangerous thing to talk badly of the absent , - You never know whether they may not be closer to God than you are.' They talked all evening of this subject, bub no one named it as it mainly appealed to Franceeca. Her first reflection had been: ' Now Lance cannot go away from England. Tliero will be Garsby Mill and Lei(.'h Farm and his mother to look after.' But she gave nn utterance to her thought, for it seemed selfish and unfeeling. Neither did the squire speak of any change in Lance's prospects; perhaps he, also, considered ib would be unfeeling; or, perhaps, he did not speak of such a result because he did nob speak of such a result because he did nob wish ib. At any rate, i& was not alluded to ; but Fmncesca kept the possibility as £ now bopo in her heart. Yet she felt hurt and offended that no one had foreseen such a change, anrl given her tho comfort of discus-ing it. Under the circumstances, silence seemed almost active ill-will against her lover. Tho next morning the squire announced his intention of going to Stephen Leigh's funeral. ' I can stay with my friend, Thomas Idle,' ho said. 'No doubt, he will be going to Leigh, anrl I think it is only right J should go'too - i'or Lancelot's sake. Kay. then, I'll not put Lancelot's cloak over my doings. I'll go because I think well of Stephen Leigh. Jb was only as the mill-owner and spinner I didn't like him. He was as hono'b and straightforward a gentleman as ever lived.' Thus it is thafc death opens i he eye of the living, and permits excellencies to bo seen nob acknowledged before its revealing touch. So that day Squire Atberton went toldlaholmc, from which place he sent a message of sympathy to Lancelot. Hub he did not go to Leigh Farm until the day of the funeral—a sole, misty, warm day, full of a still melancholy. There was a great company present, and the little graveyard on the windy wold was crowded with middleaged gentlemen, squires, and spinners, who had been Stephen Leigh's friends and acquaintances —tall, handsome men mostly, full of a splendid vitality, subdued and solemnised by tho shadow of death and the thrilling words of the white-surpliced priest at the open grave.

Tiio service over, tho crowd dispersed very silently. Tho majority wero on their own hunters, and they rode through the green lanes bordered with ripe wheat in a Bilenfc, thoughtful mood. They had to pass Leigh Farm, and Squire Atherton stopped there. lie really fclb as if he ought to give Lancelot some personal sympathy, and alno find out how 80 unlooked-for a calamity would atfect his future movements.

The place appeared to bo deserted. No one came to take his hor.-e, and he led it to tho nearest stable. Then he entered tho ho;i?o by an open door. 110 could hear footBtcps in tin; room above, hub there was not a sound in the lower pan of tho houso except the humming of the bumblc-boea Hying in and put of tiie open window-'. Ho saw tho dead man's empty chair on the hearthstone. His pipe wan across tho rack in the chimney-corner, his tobacco - jar and almanac lay on a little shelf beside it. The senseless objects had an uncomfortable and pathetic eloquence. lie disliked a aolitude so full of voices, and ho touched a handbcil upon tho sideboard very fharply. The resonant call was answered by a heavy footstep upon tho stairs. It came toward him with a slow, fateful Bound—a sound fu'l of unhappy presontiment. He had rv moment's irresolution about remaining to answer liis own call, but as ho hesitated Martha Loigh opened tho door and

carao into the room. Ho was shocked by her grey, stony face and dark glowing eyes. Her stare of inquiry frightened him. But he understood ab once that) it was tho widow, and he respected a grief so evident and so awful.

'Mrs Leigh,' he said, gently, 'I am Squire Atherton. I called to see Lancelot ' Ho hasn't come from the funeral yet.' ' Hβ will be hero soon, I suppose?' ' I can't tell thee. Hβ was feeling- badly, and spoke of going to see Doctor Thorpe.' ' 1 am very sorry for your affliction, madam. , ' 1 am sure I don't know why thou should bo.' ' 1 supposed you were aware that your cor, Lancelot—' Thsn the squire stopped ; he had a sucldon dislike to naming his daughter. '1 know that Lance hes thought hissen in lov'j .v tii Miss Atherton, but as for wed(linpr with her—' 'Madam, the days of death and burial

are nob for the discussion of love and mar riage. • Thab subject can wait its season.'

1 1 was going to say a few words that will suit all seasons—going to say that there is now a reason why my son can never marry Mies Atherton. He knows ! Hβ knows '. Find another husband for thy lass, squire. She can never wed my Lance. If ta knew all Lance knows thou would pufc her in her winding-pheet before thou would see her don wedding-cloches to be his wife. .

She stood with one hand upon the large centre - table looking- straight! into the squire's face, and she spoke with a still passion that was terrible. A suspicion that she was 'not herself was forced upon the squire. He answered her accordingly with some indifferent) words, which he meant to be soothing and conciliating. She listened to them with scornful temper, and answered promptly :

' Thou needn't think I am out of my senses. I niver hed better hold oi them all. I know right well that thou niver wanted Lance in thy family. I don't blame thee. 1 don't want) thy fine daughter among tho Leighs. Well, then, thou can go thy ways home with a light heart. Thou hated Stephen Leigh, and thou lies hed the pleasure of seeing him put under clay : and thou hated the thought of Lance Leigh coming courting Miss Francesco.. Now I toll thee ho niver can do so any more.' ' You ought to give mo some reason for your assertions, Mrs Leigh.'

,; Ask me no questions. I s'all mebbe tell tlice lies if ta does. Lance .knows " why." But Lance will niver tell thee, Niver ! (iefc thee home now. What does ta como hero for, any way ? If I wao unly thy match in size and strength, I'd know " why." What does ta como here for ?'

She asked tho question with such hatred and passion the squiro was really terrified. He was sure now t bat the woman was insane, and his anger turned to pity. He regarded the tall, comely widow, stricken with so sad and lonely a visitation, as something sacred. She had felt the finger of God, and had not been able to mentally survive that mighty touch. Instead of answering her question, he bowed slightly, anil made as if he would leave tho room.

She watched his movements with satisfaction. She went before him to the door and held it open.

' Don'b thco como hero any more,' .she said. ' [ want nothing to do with thee, nor with anyone belonging to Mice. I hevseen thy daughter. She is none of our kind. Anrl I'll dare Lance to talk of wedding her. Mako thysen easy on that score. llo'il niver do it now. Niver !'

' Madame, your misfortune ensures my sympathy and respect, (iood afternoon.'

' \Vhen I ai<k theo for sympathy or respect, then thou can give them to me. And my misfortune, an ta calls it, is mine, and lean bear it without, thy help, do thy ways, and a "good afternoon" to thee, if ta calls thia one.'

Never in all his life had Squiro Athorton been treated with such painful freedom. Anger and pity strove together in his heart, 'but anger was, doubtless, the most lasting of the two feelings. He was muttering his annoyance and offence all the time ho unfastened his hoi't'e, and he rode away from Leigh Farm full of wrath and indignant protest. 'Just vvhab I deserve! .Just what I deserve ! Why did I trouble myself about Stephen Leigh ? I have always had annoy, ance, and nothing but annoyance, with him and with his. It is enough to make .1 man vow never to do a kind thing again. 1 came with a pitiful heart, and that madwoman told me I camo for the pleasure of seeing Stephen Leigh put under clay. My word !It is haid to do right. Dal it ! I have let my soft heart load me on a fool's errand. Bub thanks bo ! I'm nob bound to go that road again. And as for my little lass—God love her ! I will see her in her windingsheeb ere I'll leb her tako a husband out of such a railing nc?t.'

Burning with chagrin and a sense of injury he pursued his way. On the moor tie met Lancelot. lie was cjuito alone and riding very slowly, with his head bent "and reins dropped loosely down. Ho looked completely worn out, and exceedingly sorrowful. As the squire drew near, Lancelot recognised him, aud he stopped his horse altogether. But in spite of a certain pity for the youth, the squire was intensely angry. Hβ made no attempt to stop, but touching his hat in passing, went rapidly omvard ; apparently indifferent to the lonely figure gazing after him, with eyes dilating with wonder and wounded feeling.

Lancelot had a letter from Franceses over his heart which he had just received. It was full of tender love and sympathy. Ib spoke of her father's sorrow and of the genuine respect which had moved him to attend the funeral. What then did that formal recognition moan ? It was such a greeting as might have been given to the most indifferent stranger. Lancelot felt bne etin£ and humiliation of this worry, even in the deep sorrow and the awful doubts that gathered like thick clouds across his hopes and his love. Ilia mothor met him with a strange timidity. She was not aware of it, indeed she wan nursing purposes in her heart which weie at total varianco with tho feelinc. But when Lancelot entered the pal-lour she looked stealthily at him. His miserable face and his pilenb, restrained manner troubled and yet irritated her. For his sake, and his interests, she had robbed herself of love and love's companionship, and bespoke life-long sorrow and remorse. Right or wrong, she felt bhab her self-denial ought to be recognised and appreciated. For she reasoned only from her own standpoint, and quite forgot that Lancelot, both by nature and education, was not only incapable of reasoning with her, but was h'rtnly convinced on views taken from an entirely different standpoint..

She motioned to his father's chair and drew it toward tho table, on which a frugal meal was laid. Lancelot shrank with visible pain from the empty seat. With gentle hands ho lifted tho chair back to its nlaeo. Tears dropped upon tho cushion," and, oh ! what bittur-sweot memories crowded around bhab old empty chair. Martha Leigh watched him with gather-

ing anger. ' Take tho chair,' &ho said in a shrill voice, full of stilled feeling —' take thy father's chair ; ib is surely good enough for theo to (ill. 't ia thine now.'

' It is not mine.'

'All that was his is thine. I hey said that boforo.' 'Nothing that was his is mine. I will not touch a penny's worth. I have told you that bofore.'

' Hos ta lost fchy senses ?'

' 1 havo at least tho fullest senso of my duty to my father. Father went away—or waß sent away—before his time. Whatever was his ia still his ; not mine.'

' It is thine' ' I swear boforo Qod its is not mine ! Nor will J. touch a Farthing of ifc, nor pub myself in his placo for one moment. My dear good father, who nover wronped mo by ono thought! Hhall I wrons; him in all that pertained bo him—honour, place, land, house and money '! May God slay mo first! I should well deserve ifc.' ' Thou art an ungrateful son ; a miserable Leigh. If ta lias any manhood in t hoc, speak plainly to me, and not in shafliing words and riddle?.'

'Very well, i will ask you some plain questions —answer mo as plainly : Did you purposely keep buck the proper medicine." from father ?'

' Ay, I did. I was sorry I had to do so, but it bed to bo done.'

'And he died in consequence?' 'He may, and ho may not. I left it all in God's hands. Surely to heaven your father was as well there as in old Doctor Thorpe's hands.' ' I can only hopo that you wore and aro

insane, mother.'

' Nay, my lad, 1 hey all my senses. I ntn a3 sane, and a good bit saner, than cither thy father was or thou art. My word ! Any Leigh must hey been stark crazy who was standing, pen in hand, as one may cay, to sign away house and land. And that is what thy father would hey done, hed not the fever put a stop to such wickedness, i hey always bsen told that sickness comes from the hand of God. Well, than, I left thy father to the will of Him that senb the fevsr, I didn't interfere one way or t'other. God hed his awn will. Does ta think o'cl Thorpe's medicines were stronger than His will V

' Mother, such reasoning is wicked. ou know you did wrong.' ' 1 did quite right ! I'll stand to that alive or dead '. I saved house and land for thee. Ay, and for all that follow thee.' 1 1 will have neither house nor laud. lam going away from England. How could I bear to stop here ?'

• Thou wilt stop here. It ta goes away, whatever is to become of the property V 'Do as you wish with it. If the dead Leighs aro more to you than your living husband and son, give them tho house. I will not share it with them.' 'Thou art not worthy to do it.' 'And if I stayed hero, I should stay to carry out father., ,, desire. 1 would mortgage —1 would soil Leigh House and land and keep tho mill going ; for that would keep a thousand families in bread. 'My word ! Thou art a reprobate ! Out of my sight! Out of my hearing ! I'll niver awn thee again ! I know what thou is after. Thou wants to bo lord and muster at Atherton Court, And tho Leighs' place may fall int.o anybody's or nobody's hands. Thou art a wicked one. and no mistake'

'I shall never now ask Miss Atherton to come into our family. How could .1 '!'

' Thou had better not. 1 told her father, an hour ago, she niver could marry thee. i gavo tho proud old fellow a sot-down he won't forget in a hurry. .

' Oh, mother ! mother ! How could you shame me so ': You have broken my heart twice over ! How could you shatno me so ?'

'If ta can do nothing but cry, go to thy room. 1 hey my awn sorrow, and it is as much as 1 can bear. Does ta Slunk I hoy no Toolings"' Duos ta think that doing my duty pays mo for all 1 hey lied to givo up? I tell thee there is a worm at my heart and a lire in my brnin, and they will worry and burn mo into my grave before they'll stop a moment!'

She swept tho table clear with passionate haste as she spoke, locked the doors, aud taking tho candle oil' the table, wont upstairs. Lancelot; remained in tho large, dark sitting-room, lie wondered where his mother would go. She went straight to tho room in which hor husband had died. Shu had occupied ie all her married life ; she was evidently not going to resign her right to it because Death had taken hor place there fora little while. Lancelot heard her close the windows ; he heard her heavy footfalls, her movomontsubout the awmries and drawers, just as the gquiro iiad heard thorn a few hours before Sho had been preparing tho chamber for her use then ; sho was now preparing herself to lie down in it, and sleep such sleep as was possible to

Lancelot sat still thinking. However hopeless a man may be, ho mu«t still think and otill plan ; for life somehow must be got over, and a prove fairly and honestly earned. At this hour all else had vanished; hopn for better days seemed hopoles?. He could not bear to contemplate taking one penny from his father's estate. He eoiiid not think of tho estate as belonging in any shape to him. His father's unnatural death, whether it was known to others or not, was known to him. He would have felt base beyond contemplation to have profited himself in any way from it. Bub this was only tho beginning of sorrows. He knew that Francesca musb be given up. He compelled himself to face this terrible fact. His mother was insane, or she was in full intent a— Ho could no , , say the word : he tried not to bj conscious of the letters that spoiled it, bub they would come before hia cyea as if they were written in fire. How could ho tell Squiro Atherton tho real facts 1 And yot how shameful it would bo to continue his engagement with his daughter, hiding thorn ! How could he tell them to Francesca? Ifi would be impossible. Then what should ho pay t>. account for the silonco and desertion that musb now cancel all their sweet hopes? Every explanation ho thought of only made things worse ; for at nhe last ifc camo to these questions ■; ' Can I'accuse my mother to Frnncc-ca ? Can I accuse her to Francesca'fi father ? Would they bo willing to risk tho awful dread of inheritable insanity ? Would they be willing to ignore the suspicion of a crime still more terrible 1 In any case, was it his duty to betray either the misfortnno or the crime of hh mother ? iio could nob feel in himself any particle of that Brutus-conscience which took the public into conlidonee or consideration. His mother was .still his mother. Ho could find excuses for her no stranger would allow. H , : know that her punishment had already begun. His desertion of her was a part of it. Yes, in spite of his own overwhelming , sorrow, even with tho thought of sweet Francesca breaking his tender heart, he sobbed out wibli an almost divine compassion :

'My poor, wretched mother! God bo pitiful to her !'

('To be Continued.)