A SOUL'S DEVOTION

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 213, 6 September 1907, Page 6

A SOUL'S DEVOTION

By CHARLES GARVICE Author of " I/Orrie, or Hollow Gold," " The Marquis," " Elaine," etc.

CHAKTEB. XL FROM HA.TE TO LOVE. "It's rather dark," says Mr. Dalton, doubtfully. He has made Bis way down the broad steps of the Wold well, but as they pass outside the light thrown by the lamps, he begins to stumble and draw a long face. It is not three years ago that he used to tramp through city streets and Highbury lanes, in dark and foggy weather, uncomplainingly; but now —now he feels aggrieved at having to walk from the stately Wbld to his own gorgeous residence, and misses the carriage! May, who has seized his arm and clings to it, leaving Sir Heron to Carrie, is not much assistance, for she seems rapt in a dream, and utterly indifferent as to the road. "It's rather dark," he grumbles, and this time his plaint reaches Sir Heron. "Wait!" sounds the grave voice behind him; but May, as if she had been commanded to hurry, pulls at Mr. Dalton's fat arm. "If you'll wait a moment, I'll go first," says Sir Heron. "Certainly—certainly! Thank you, Sir Heron. Bless my soul, May! why are you in such a hurry?" "It is rather dark," says Sir Heron, coming up with them. "Suppose you take my arm, Miss Dalton, and let us lead the way ?" May hesitates; but Mr. Dalton, who "is fat and scant of breath," like Falstaff, is only too glad to exchange May's ; break-neck pace for Carrie's slower one, | and gives her a gentle push. ! She just puts her finger-tips on Sir Heron's arm, but he takes them and gently draws them further; and, thus i reorganised, they start off afresh. ! All the night is dark and still, hushed I in the embrace of soft clouds that move, not threateningly, but with majestic i peacefulness, over the heavenly vault.' Silence intense reigns in earth and sky, I so intense that May is filled with a fear i that the wild beating of her heart can I be heard, and, nerved by that fear, she J forces herself to speak. j "How still it is?" she says. J She feels that he has turned to her. I feels that his eyes are seeking hers, and j that they are filled with the passionate j tenderness which has wrought so strange j a change in them. "Yes," he says, and his. voice is so low that it does not reach the two plodding j on behind. "Are you in pain now?" j "No," she says; "it does not pain mc unless I move it. It is quite a mere nothing; I have forgotten it." "Forgotten?" he says. "You will not forget all that has passed—all that has been said to-night?" Sac does not speak, but he feels the little hand tremble on his arm. "You will not do that?" he says. Then she speaks. "You —you promised to say no more to-night," she says, almost inaudibly. "Did I—promise?" he says, "then you must let mc retract. Why should I not speak to you? Are you angry with mc?" "N—o," faintly. "I was rough and -unmannerly," he goes on. contritely, "but I had some excuse. I was so glad to see you come back to life —you do not know how deathlike you looked!" and he represses a shudder. "So glad, so wildly glad to hear that I had made a stupid mistake " "Mistake!" she echoes, in a low voice. "A mistake that has made mc wretched icr days—so wretched that I might have known that I loved you " "Oh, stop!" she says. "I —I ought not to listen to you. Please stop." "Why—why?" he says, with passionate eagerness; and she feels his eyes searching herself impatiently. "Why should I not tell you that I love you? Is it so unnatural?" and he smiles significantly. "It is unwise," she says. "You should not say it." He stops for a moment, then goes on at a quicker pace, which instantly carries them out of sight of Mr. Dalton. "Unwise —unwise!" he repeats. " It is only unwise—and not then even unwise—if you tell mc that I love you in vain. Is that what you are going to tell mc? For Heaven's sake, do not!" He cannot see how the beautiful face flushes and pales, or how hard it is to keep the soft lips firm enough to answer him '•' What does it matter what I — I think?" she says, trying to speak calmly—" it cannot matter in the least. You ought not to have said what you have said to mc, and I ought not to have listened." He does not speak tor a moment, and she feels instinctively that he, too is trying for calm. At last he looks down at ier. " May—let mc call you May—are you going to send mc away for a whim—a fancy, or some miserable idea? I love you with all my heart and soul—will you make mc happy, and be_ my wife V She looks up at him, and her hand tightens convulsively. " No," she says. " I should not make you happy, I should make you miserable —and all your friends " He stops her, with a fierce sudden gesture. " Ah! " lie says, " it is an idea! " " Not an idea," she Eays. " Do you think it possible for mc not to feel that it is not to May Dalton that you—Sir Heron —should say what you have said? If I had been blind, utterly blind before, to-night would have opened my eyes to the distance that divides sol us alone, but ours ? " "I deserve it!" he says. "Yes, of course, I know what you mean. But because of the cold looks of two women, " One is your mother," she breathes, "One is my mother, with all a mother's weakness, and with the usual mother's pride. Because of this you will sacrifice mc; you see how calm I an—l feel that I am pleading for my life's happiness." " Or misery," she says, with a little catch in her voice. "Suppose —" then she stops. , "Go on," he murmurs. "Suppose, then," she says, and the hot blood suffuses her face —"suppose I —l were to say —yes —" "Say it," ho says, and he seizes her hand and holds it tightly clasped in his. " How would they receive you when you went back with the news? I think I can see them! " and for the first time a smile, bitter and scornful —yes, scornful —arises to her lips. He bites his moustache. " If I were to walk in and tell my mother that a princess had promised to bestow her hand on mc, she would sigh and say that it was a pity it was not an empress." '" Ah, and I am not a princess. I am a common-place school-teacher, whose father happens to have made his fortune

"Well," lie says eagerly, "grant all you say—a lady cannot be more than a lady—and you " He stops with'a curt, impatient laugh. " A mere idea," he say's. " You will not, you cannot wreck mc on that. But " then he stops, with a sudden suspicious pause— " but you have not answered my question yet. Perhaps you could make, all further argument unnecessary. May, you have not said that you loved mc; that is what I want; I care for nothing else. What are all these objections? Nothing to mc. Pay that you love mc, and I will show how I value the stupid prejudice of my people. By Heaven, if all the world said nay, while you said yes, I would have you in spite of yourself. May, I love you—l love you !" and, utterly regardles of father and sister, he stops and draws her nearer to him. There is something in the wild force of his passion, in the assertion of his proud, wilful manhood, that breaks down all May's prudent arguments. Trembling and silent she stands striving for words—stands unable to speak or move, though she sees the two dusky figures that have hitherto- followed them tramp up and innocently pass by. "Let mc go!" she pleads, almost piteously, for the weakness that seems to possess, her every limb, that makes her head feel heavy and long to hide upon his breast, she knows that her heart is betraying her, that her soul is slipping from her, and that in a minute he will hold it within the palm of his hand. "Let mc go! Oh. Sir Heron, let mc go! " and who shall recognise in the soft, tremulous tones the wonted high-spirited voice of Slay. " No! " he says, almost fiercely, and nis arm holds her in a vice. '" There shall be no more of this. We two stand together to-night alone with all the world outside! I have given you my love; you will give mc yours in your hand? When I plead for bread, will you throw mc coldly a stony pride? May —May, do not make my name a curse to mc! Heaven! Cannot you see that I love you as I ne\er —never can lovo again? After all, what can you give mo that shall weigh a feather-weight in the balance against such love as mine? But —give mc what you can —say here, now, with no thought of others —' I love you,' or " —and his voice grows hoarse —"let mc go, once and for all?" May trembles. Shall she save him in spite of himself? She has only to say coldly: "I do not love you! " and how much trouble will be saved him. yhe struggles for courage —the words falter on her lips. " i—do ." then with a sudden sob she drops upon hi 3 breast, and her "1 do" finishes with: "I love you!". He does not speak, but he feels his heart heave as his arms close around her. With both hands he raises her fact and looks into it tranquilly; then there falls a rain of passionate kissess on hei lips, her eyes, her hair. Panting, breath less, she trembles like some wild fawn caught in a snare. At last she gasps: " Oh, you hurt mc! " With a sudden cry of remorse ht loosens his grasp, but only to hold hei arm gently and tenderly. " Forgive mc, darling," he pleads. "II was your fault! " "Mine!" she says, -with a flickerinr shy smile. " Yours," he says resolutely. " I was mad just now, but you had driven m< mad, for I thought I was going to los< you. Do you remember how you cou quered mc on the river? I have nol forgotten, and I feareo , that your younj pride would get the better of my love May. if I had lost you, I should hav< gone straight to the " "Hush!" sEe murmurs, reprovingly holding up her hand, which he inst-antn makes prisoner and presses to his lips. "Yes," he says, "I thought you wen going to punish mc for the sins of mj people. You are right, May, they be hayed abominably. But don't you se< they know that I loved you- —■" "And wanted to save you!" she says. "Stop!" he says, with a loving stern ness; "no more of that. Let there be peace between us, unless you want m< to hate my kiml! And what folly it is: You are a princess; they call Mr. Dal ton a merchant prince, at any rate." May smiles and sighs with a sharj suddenness. "Ah, you do not know all," she says as she thinks of the vagabond brothei whtse very existence is ignored. "My capacity is not very large, darl ing," he says, with his short laugh— and how full of a strong man's joy anc satisfaction it sounds in the girl's ears "One stupendous piece of joy is as muc! as I can master in one night. 1 hay just learned that you love mc! Yo; love mc! That is enough!" May looks up wistfully, and tries t<: do her duty, to tell him he has not see;; tho worst yet, that, in addition to the purse-proud, self-made father, there is the vagabond brother, but her heart fails her. Offer a cup running ovei with water to the desert wanderer lying dying of thirst on the burning sands; is it likely he will thrust it aside? May holds her cup from her, eyeing it thirs tify, then, with a sudden collapse oi courage, she presses it to her lip 3. She can tell him to-morrow. Poor Sydney —poor black sheep! let him rest for tc-night. And yet her heart beats witli a sudden, quickness at his rjext words. They are walking on by this time, very slowly, with his arm around her, hei head resting on his breast. It is well that he is familiar with every inch of the road, for in their present mode ol progression a false step would inevitably bring them to grief. "Give mc yout hand, darling," he whispers. "You've got it," says May, naively. "Hold it up, I mean. Yes, I thought there was a ring on it. 1 want that ring, May; see! I will give you mine." And he draws off slowly, and with a touch that is a caress in itself, the simple little ring which she wears on her second finger, and tries to slip his ring— a plain, heavy gold band, quite free from the slightest attempt at ornament—in place of hers. "Too large!" he says, laughing. "You will have to wear it on your thumb!" May looks at it in the darkness, and flushes. "Why," she says, involuntarily, "it is like a wedding-ring!" "Is it?" he replies—"all the better; we are as good as married, then! Now put my ring on for mc!" And he holds out his hand. May, blushing and quivering, takes the strong hand, white and shapely as a Letchford's shonld be, and tries the ring on one finger after another until she reaches the last. "That's the only one it will fit," she says. "Poor little ring!" he says; "it is hard lines for it, but I'll love it ictter than you ever did."

'""You san,easily xlo that," she answers; "it is terribly "ugly." "I like ugly things," he aays; and his face goes down to hers. But May hears Carrie's voice, and then starts away. ~ "— " .t'May-rr-Mayl where a| c you ?" "AlT'figlin """shouts Sir Heron; and his voice rings through, the Greshamavenue with a timbre of triumph. "We were lost, like the babes in the woocl." quick," laughs Carrie, "it is beginning" to rain , ;" — "- It is not only rjeginning, it" has begun; and the two *ook up at the sky with mutual surprise. • "Do not come any further," says May. The light- from Gresham hall was streaming in front of them, throwing Carrie's figure,; as "She stands in the doorway, in bold relief. "May-1 not?" he says, reluctantly. "Will you- riot \ei nic come in—for a few minutes only?" But- she shakes"her head. "No," she murmurs. She does not want to see him grouped with gorgeous footmen and Mr. Dalton —does not want to carry the remembrance of her last words spoken to-night confused with her fatlTer's loud voice. "No," she says, "do not. Good-night." and she holds out her hand timidly. He looks at it with feigned politeness, then smiles and "draws her into the shadow of the trees. "Good-night!" he exclaims, watching her lovingly. K You would send mc away with-a-couple of cold words like that, and a mere shake of the hands! Why were you made so cruelly? Is all your heart in that sweet little face, and those dear, soft eyes? 'Good night!' Is that all?" he says, reproachfully. She looks up shyly, and her eyes sink under the passionate earnestness which meets and overwhelms her. "I want something more than that," he says. "Do you want to send mc away miserable after making mc the happiest man in all the wide world? Yes, the happiest! An<F yesterday—to-day —this evening, even—l was the most wretched being to'be found from Land's Knd to John o' Gxoat's, possessed with , the demon of jealousy. May!" he stops I suddenly, "by the way, haven't told mc j whose portrait thiat is -which made mc I suffer such agonies." I She starts andMoolcs down. J "No!" he says, eagerly, for during that ! pause the demon had not exactly enteried into him, but had clapped his wings from afar, as it were. "No! You are : quite sure?" ■ ; "Quito," she says. "If you would j like to know "'she falters. ; "Stop!' , he says, with the old ring in his voice. "No, I. do not want to know. ■ I am quite satisfied," he goes on, huri rierlly. as if he feared to hear that ' though there was no cause for jealousy now, there might, have been in the past. ;"I am quite satisfied. You shall not tell imc—you shall not! If th-re is some past history—well, it is pa.st! My life begins from to-night—from to-night!" Oh, love, art thou! BeI fore thee, conscience, moral courage, duty I itself fall vanquished! May is silent, save ; : for the speechless throli of gratitude and . devotion which acknowledges his noble- ■ I noss. : "Yes," he says,.."my life dates from to- • night. Heaven, when 1 think how blank - it has been Without you! How could I l have lived, May." and his voic-e grows almost fierce. "I have lived without you, but I cannot do so from to-night. You ; hold mc in the pairn of this little hand, 1 ' • an,d ;he opens ttisC soft, white fingers and kisses' them. "And- now wish mc f*oodt night Shall I teach you how?" She looks ug_ with a smile. ; "Yes-?- first™ then, say, after me— 'Heron, I -.love, .you!' " 3 May shrinks with a maidenly shyness j that adds to his eagerness, j "Say. it-— conjej." With bent head she murmurs: t "H.2ron—l love you!" 1 His face lights up with intense joy. !. "Heaven bless you, my darling!" he 2 says, and as'-he-enfolds her he bends to kiss her; but before he can reach her 1 red iips, she throws her arms around f him, and with a white, rapt face, presses her lips to his and kisses him; then, as nu 2 stands dazed for a moment with the paa--7 sionate caress" r -she breaks from him, r.nd - he loses her. 2 Ca'rri.?, sTOL wailing for her in the hall, stares at the flying ligur.3 as it dashes up the steps, and utters an exclamation ai - alarm c c P

CIo be continued daily.)

. Wheh.FMix Tajiner undertook to fast for 40 days in Wanganui, and successfully carried out his self-imposed task, many people discredited his ability to do so arid suggested that, unknown to, or in collusion with those who were supposed .to._keep-guard over him he was occasionally given food. There are (says the "VVanganui Herald") still to be found those who think it impossible for human beings to abstain from food for so long a period, and these especially will be to know that a wellknown lady-resident of Wanganui is at present-undertaking a 40 days' fast, in the confident hope and belief that her health, which has been impaired for some time, will be restored. It is 27 days since she first abstained from food, and during the whole of that period she has eaten nothing, her sole support being lemon drink, She carries out her household duties,, and was digging in the garden when a friend called to see her. Her health, she says, is better than it has been for many months, and she is confident she will complete the 40 days' fast. She has already beaten by one day the fast undertaken by another wellknown local resident, who in the early part of the year went for 26 days without food, with wonderfully beneficial results to his health. The age of miracles is not yet passed.