Our Novelettes.

Bruce Herald, Volume XXI, Issue 2178, 27 June 1890, Page 6

Our Novelettes.

A COUSIN LOVER.

' Augu-fc 20tb.— Have burnt the old will, in spite of what I was saying to Collier yeeterday. The now one will be ready in a week, and I have been destrojing all useless papers — that among them.' These few words, or rather, the act which they record, deprive Linnet of Hazel Grove anrf five thousand a year. Stephen Wallace is tho heir-at-law, and she has nothing in tbe world but Pyecroft. Some people notice, when Mr. Colhor and the gentlemen who have been assisting in the search come into the room where tbe rest are astembled, and tell their tale, that Linnet's firsfc look is at her betrothed, standing, tall and dark, behind her chair, and that he immediately bends down to speak in her ear, with the tenderest of smiles brightening his dusky, irregular features. Everybody iooks darkly at him now ; everybody is quite certain that he will make an excuse about bis poverty, and give her up, excopt ju»t thoae who have caught that smile as he stooped to wh sper in ber ear. Linnet looks bb happy as if she had gained a fortune instead of losing one. She and Spenser have a long talk in the library afterwards, while fche others are discussing the unexpected turn of affairs, exclaiming, ej^^ulating--, protesting, Lady Torre and one or two otl-er ladies crying — all to no purpose — Mr Collier is writing to tho heir afc fche some moment — it must be done, and they have no right to keep him another day out of his inheritance. Theyre Hardy is the first to catch sight of Linnet after her interview with her lover; he meets her in the inner hall, and stops fco speak fco her. * Linnet, nobody can be more sorry than I am for the unpleasant surprise of to-day,' he begins ; but she breaks in eagerly — • Don't be sorry, Theyre — I almost think I am glad — though perhaps it is wrong of mo fco be glad to lose so much, and for it to go where I know dear uncle did not wish it to go — but it has been the means of proving Stan disinterested, as I knew he was. None of you can refuse to believe it now.'

' What has he said ? '

IHe will not bear of giving me ud. I offered him his freedom, of course ; I knew he had not much, and fchat without my money it must be a struggle for him for years yet, work as hard as he will; but he says he asked me for myself and not for my possessions, and that ifc ia now only the same as when he ca ne in the summer to find me out again, and see if there was any hope for him then. Though it is not the same, for dear uncle George always intended fco give me a portion, and now I shall have absolutely nothing. Now, Theyre, aren't you satisfied ? ' she musfc surely have forgotten what ho said to her not very long since, or she would never put such a question as that. He 1 oks long at her face, raised to his in eager defence of her lover, but she is too preoccupied to note bis expression. 'If that is so, Linnet, I shall not have another word to say against him — nor will anyone else, either, I should think. And I shall always be glad to hear of your happiness, dear, as long as I live.'

They have gone back to their old terms of friendliness — as any trouble or joy happening to either of them always did ssem to draw them closer together — but Theyre's manner is not quite the same aB ifc used to be, and Linnet, notices the difference, although she is so full of other thoughts.

'Thank you, dear Theyro,' she siya, looking up at him gratefully and affectionately, yet with a shadow of compunction in hor eyes. ' I knew ifc was only your true friendship for me thafc made you so — so — that made you suspect him of other motives. You are my best friend on earth, now, Theyre.'

' Good-bye,' he returns, standing in the hall wi'h a shaft of sunlight falling across his head from the paintod window above the door — the last time fchey ever stand together in that hall.

' Good-bye,' she says. ' I will come and see your mother soon/ Then he takes his hat and goes, and she, lingering a moment alone, wishes, as she has wished a thousand times, thafc he had not been so foolish as to fancy himself in love with her. Then a tall dark figure emerges from a doorway, and she is taken into the shelter of the arms of her betrothed, bo that she straightway forgets all about Theyre, making his solitary wuy back to Lud water, and lives only *]in the love-light of Stanislaus Spenser's black eyes. # # * # # ' Whoever is to tell her ? ' ' Can it be true ? ' I don'fc think she ought to hear until we i are quite sure it is true.' ' What a scoundrel ho musfc be if ifc is ! ' 1 Oh, if only we had never had him here ! I felt from the firsfc thafc something would I happen ; but tbat it Bhould be Linnet of all people — I ought to have acted better by her than fchat — and my husband her guardian ! ' Lady Torre presses her handkerchief to her j eyr s — she has often had fco weep for Linnet of late.

• I don'fc see that you need blame yourself, mother/ sayß Olive Torre. ' You could not possibly have foretold what would happen ; and, as to father's being her guardian, nobody ever dreamt that he would be called upon to act in tbat capacity — Mr. Wallace was twenty years younger than he.'

It ia at the Towers that this conversation is being carried on. Linnet bas been staying there since her removal from Hazel Grove, at Lady Torres urgent invitation— in fact, Bhe had no other home, and very few other places that she could go to stay afc, even if she would, for her friends b»ve dropped away like magic since her uncle's death has left her even poorer tban anyone ever expected she would be. Unknown to her, Lord Torre, afc his wife's instigation, had an interview with the new owner of Hazel Grove concerning that p irfcion of Linnet's whioh she lost by what looked like tie untucki^st accident fchat over befell anyone ; they thought that, considering the wealth of tho inheritance he had unexpectedly stepped into, not to mention the riches he had always enjoyed, ho would probably be willing fco carry out his cousin's intentions, and settle the sum upon Linnet, which, had the event which deprived George Wallaco of reason, and finally of life, been deferred another week, would have been hers unalieanably now. Stephen Wallaco refused to entertain the idea, saying that Linnet was no relative of hia, and must look to hor own friends for assistance. So Lord Torre spoke his mind very quietly, and oame homo and told his wife the result of his endeavours, and then, her indignation expanded, they agreed that Linmfc must novor know of what had taken place.

Linnet was very unwilling, in her girlish pride, to oome to the Towers, and wanted to get a situation as companion or something of thafc kind, only yielding on Ludy Torres repreeentp tions that suoh a proceeding would be detrimental fco her lover's interests, es ifc would quiokly bo spread abroad fchat his fiaticbe was a dependant in a stranger's house \ whioh could not fail to do him harm among the very people by whose estimation ho must ultimately stand or fall. So Bhe camo — for a little while, she said, uutil something could

be decided upon. It is February now, and still she is there, chafing sometimes in secret at her helplessness, while the Torres do all iv thei;" power to render her contented, and to make her forget how the time paeses, for they are very fond of her ; and Lady Torre, looking forward to the time when she musfc lose both her girls, would like to keep her in their place until sho too flies away for a nest of her own. Spenser spent Christmas at the Towers, and ovorybodv, including Theyre Hardy, on the rare occasions when he was present, was especially kind and cordial towards him, wishing to atone for the suspicions ' which ci-cumstances hud almost forced all of them to entertain. Linnet was quick to see this, and was grateful to them for it. She enjoyed her lover's society then as she had not been able to enjoy it since he was hers, on account of the sad events which had thrown a dark cloud over every joy. Spenser has not been down since. He haa been very busy — so he has told her in his letters — and she has been glad to hear it for his sake, and is content to wait patiently until he should again have a few spare days to give to her. * # # #

' We must ascertain whether it is true before we let her see this,' repeats Olive Torre, tapping the nowspaper. ' I don't see how ifc could got there if it were untrue,' demurs Graham.

' Oh, one hears of such things happening ! ' ' Here is Theyre Hardy — I wonder if he has heard anything ? ' Theyre's face, as he comes in and greets them ail round, is unusually dark and soberlooking. « Oh, Mr. Hardy, have you seen this in the paper ? ' thoy all begin almost simultaneously. ' I have not seen the paper at all to-day, but I have heard '

'That Stan Spenser is married to Miss Wodeleghe of Leghe ? ' 'Yes.' • She has eleven thousand a year in her own right ' ' And I hope he may enjoy it — until I get at him ! ' ' Why, what'do you mean ' ' They aro too far away now — my mother is so feeble that I cannot leave her to dance over Europe after him — but when he comes back - ■-' 1 Why.'what do you want to find him for ? ' ITo horßewhip him, of course i » returns Theyre, sitting up straight on hi s chair, with a deop colour in his cheeks and his teeth clenched. Chapteh VIII., and Last. Twelve months later. A young man and a girl aro walking along a deserted country road, about; tho middle of a chilly February day. The man is tall and powerfully built ; the girl is slender and pale, and clad in mourning.

' Tou have beon so good to me always,' she is saying gratefully. * But, now, this is the last thing I shall ever ask you to do for me.'

' Oh, don'fc say that ! ' he answers, with a great show of cheerfulness. 'There's no telling how many times we may drop across eachlother in the world yet.'

' Not unless you come over to New Zealand,' she replies, trying to smile ; ' and I do not think that is very likely.'

' There's no need for you to go afc all,' he begins, as though recommencing an oftenadvanced argument. 'You could come——'

' I know, Theyre,' she interposes, ' and ifc is very good of you to say so ; but I think differently. To stay here in any of tho capacities thafc you and dear Lady Torre have cudgelled your brains in trying to devise for me would be simply living upon charity — very kindly disguised, but still charity — and that I could not do.'

He interrupts her eagerly. ' How could it be charity for you to be my mother's companion, as you were Mrs. Penrhyu's companion until her death ? '

' Because lam not needed. Miss Th waits reads fco her and waits upon her, and understands her far better than a stranger could do.'

' You are no stranger to my mother. She has known you and loved you ever since you first came to see her — a little thing in a blai-k frock and white pinafore. I remember you quite well.'

' And I remember you in that Eton suit, Oh, what a great overgrown boy you were. Theyro ! ' she saya, laughing, beguiled from her sadness for the moment.

• You didn't think me a ' boy ' then. You thought me quite grown-up, and were afraid of me.'

'Ycb— until I found out what a baby you were in lots of things ! But it is of no use talking of the past ' — with a sudden cloud of sorrow upon her brow. 'It only makes the future look darker/

• There is not the slightest occasion for you to go thousands of miles away, even if you did not come to us.' he persists. Yes, there is. Uncle Neale is the only relation I have left, and it is very kind of him to offer me a home. 1 would not accept that if I did not know that I could be of use fco him, and if I had not the prico of Pyecroft to put into his business, which he frankly acknowledges will flourish all the better for a little more capital/ ' Well, if you will be so independent ' ' Yes, I will,' she says, smiling again, but suddenly growing wistful as she raises her head and catches sight of his calm face. * I don'fc want to be a companion all my life, Theyre ; I had quite enough of ifc with poor Mrs. Penrhyn, though I don't for a moment; thin'i thafc she meant to be disagreeable. Ifc — will be a relief for me to get out of England, for many things/

Theyre has nothing to Bay in answer to that, well understanding her meaning — or thinking thafc ho does so. 'Of course I shall feel leaving the few friends I have now/ she goes on, after a pause. 'It will be hard to aay good-bye to Lady Torre, aud Olive and Graham, who have been like mother and sisters to me, and I was more grieved than I can say to part with Pyecrof t ; but Ido not see how I could have done otherwise, for I wanted the money it was worth, and, even if I could have done without that, it would have been no use to keep the place when I shall probably never see it again/ Theyre assents to fchafc silently.

' And it does not affect poor dear Mrs. Kilduff, lying in the churchyard beside her husband,' she goes on. ' How many people have died lately, Theyre — my frienda, I mean ! Oh, it is a sad world — a lonely world ! '

'It is/ he agroeß gruffly, looking at the ground as ho walks along by her side. ' Somotimoß I cannot believe I am the same girl who laughed away so many happy, oareless hours with uncle and Belle and '

Sho Btops, checkod by her rising emotions. Ho looks down at, her, noting — though nofc for the first time during their walk from the station — tho alteration in her appenranee. She has grown thin and palo ; hor cheeks havo lost their rich dusky tint, her clear-out features look wasted, though the old spirit — somewhat chastened, however — Btiil shines in hor eyes.

When ahe heard the news about Stanislaus Spenser she did nofc fall ill, as they feared she would ; aho did not give way or allow her bitter disappointment to overpower her, as boforo ; but she took a situation as Mrs Penrhyn's companion in spite of all tbat hor friends oould cay to dissuade her ;. and, being then over fcwenty-ouo, Lord Torre oould nofc command hor aotions. She wont to work

with energy and resolution, and, if she fretted, it was while she read out of huge musty volumes to her mistress, or held an umbrella over the old Lady's head when she went out into the grounds for an airing in her bathchair. Whatever she felt or did not feel, while she went about her many irksome duties, the effect of the whole was to wear her almost fco a shadow, and fco leave lines upon hor forehead and about her mouth, and under the brave bright eyes dark shadows that ought to have been strangers to so youthful and mobile a countenance. Perhaps the long months of silent endurance have tried her health more than actual illness. At any rate, ns Theyre Hardy looks down at her, she seems, the mere ghost of the old happy, healthy, audacious Linnet, who used to vex him and please him in the same breath with one of her provoking speeches, as they played tennis in the old garden at Hazel Grove.

' After we have been to Pyecrof fc I am going on to the Towers to Bay good-bye to them,' she tells him presently. ' 1 promised Lady Torre that I would, and of course I shall not leave England in any case without seeing them again. I heard from her a fortnight ago, and she wanted rae to come down and spend fche rest of the time before sailing with her, but I did not feel as if I could, and I had money enough to stay in London ; so I wrote and told her that I would come and say good-bye, but I did not say when.'

*I will drive you,' he says quietly. 'I guessed you would hardly come so far without coming a little farther, and my mother wants to see you, too ; she has something to give you, I think, before you go, so I brought the dog-cart instead of ridiug, and left it at Pyecrof t while I came to fche station to meet you.'

' Oh, I — but I have taken my ticket on to the next station — to Rushforfch Bridge — which will bring me within two miles and a half of the Towers, you know ! I thougnt — I didn't think — ifc was very kind of you, but there was no necessity.'

'Nevermind about your ticket,' he interrupts calmly, ' when I can drive you up to the door. You dou't look fit for a walk of two and a half miles, and, if you were, there would be no occasion for you to do it.'

Linnet flushes a little at this, but hardly thanks him iv words. They reach their destination and Bfcand at the old gates where she played as a child, and look down into the deep valley and across at the opposite hill, all bare and drear now after the winter gales. There are care-takers living in the house now. The young people roam through the familiar rooms, though they are hardly so familiar now in their silence and emptiness as when well-known forms moved about them, and happy voices echoed round their walls.

' I cannot understand how it is that it has brought so much money,' she says, looking about her. 'I am suro uncle George did not think it worth so much.'

' Well, you see the purchaser took a fancy to ifc, and, being very well off himself, he thought little of money/ returns Theyre. It's worth that to anyone who particularly wants it.'

'Is ifc P I don'fc understand business, and ifc was very kind of you fco manage ifc all for me. lam sure I-—'

• I only happened to drop upon a private purchaser. Of course ifc was a good thing to save the bother of a public auction.'

• And the gentleman — did you mention his name, Theyre ? If so, I forget it.'

'.No, I did not,' he answers slowly. ' The fact is, he did not wish it mentioned for the present, nor for anyone here to know hr had bought the place — he has his reasons, no doubt, and we must respect them — but ifc will be all down plain enough in the documents — ifc's quite square.

' Oh, I never doubted ifc ! ' she assures him. ' And I don't care about knowing his namethough I suppose I musfc know it when it comes to signing.'

' Not necessarily, perhaps, if he still wishes ifc to be concealed. We shall hear what ho Bayß. You could put your name to a paper without reading it through first, if I told you you might safely do it, couldn't you P ' ' Oh, yes, of couvbo ! '

' You see, if he has such a strong desire for secrecy, the purchase might be worthless to him without that secrecy/

'I see' — trying hard fco emulate Thoyre's oracular air. ' But it seems odd., doesn't it ? I — l hope he has not done anything dreadful that obliges him to conceal his name and whereabouts from his friendß.'

' Or from the police/ supplements Theyre. ' Let us hope not, bat never mind about that — he has certainly got money, and that's the thing fchat chiefly concerns us.'

They can sco Mrs Kilduff's quiet grave in the churchyard from where they are standing, and Linnet, watching ifc, half wishes, sorrowfully and bitterly, that she were lying by the old lady's side, with ' life's fitful fever ' over and done with, for she is leaving all that sho loves in the world, and nobody cares but herself. Sho marvels at her past mad folly, which is now shutting her out from paradise, and wishes, sadly and passionately, that she might have the ordering of her life once again, to choose, and choose better than she did before.

Theyre does not seem to notice her abstraction. He walkß a few pace 3 away from her to eximine a broken pane of glass, and she, unseen by him, looks after him as, with leisurely strides, he goes from the window fco fche glass-door leading into fche garden, where he stands looking out and whistling to himself, seeming to be entirely oblivious of her.

Theyre always was proud. He was not the sort of man to keep on loving a girl hopelessly after she had refused him ; he would tear fche love from his heart, and But it was only a fancy of hi 3, he had never cared enough for her to have to struggle against his love, or he could not have met her as unconcernedly as he always has done since.

With these thoughts in her mind she joins him in a very sad and humble spirit, and they go back to the house, where Tboyre has mads the people get tea for her. The caretakers are very poor people and live in the kitchen, where their visitors are compelled to go, since tbere is no furniture in the otber rooms. Linnet likes fche kitchen best, though the strange surroundings and the unfamiliar voices spoil the picture of the past that forms itself in her mind, of the little curly-hairod ohild in a white pinafore who used to come there on just such dreary afternoons as this, and ' help gefc tea ' for her invalid mamma on fche couch iv the parlour.

' Master ! ' calls a man, just as they are entering. ' I'm coming I ' returns Theyre hastily, and, telling Linnet thet he will not be long, he leaves her to enter alone.

The girl sits down at the table and ohats to the woman while she waits for Theyre, she hears that ib was the woman's husband who called Mr. Hardy, and that she is his second wife, with sundry soraps of troublous family history. Presently heavy hob-nailed boots clatter along the stone passage without, and the care-taker leaves her guest to go and speak to fche new-oomer

'The master's come'— the words reach Linnet in the man's gruff tones as sbe sits at the kitchen-table before the tea-tray, containing slices of brown bread and butter on an earthenwaie plate — ' Widow Nutt just told me. Where's he gone ? Now'll be fche time to ask him to take me ou as help ! '

The woman checks him in words uttered co

low that Linnet cannot; cafcoh their import, but she has heard enough to enable her to guess fche rest. A light has burst in upon hor, and she wonders at her own s»pidity in > ot euppectifg som«'thing of the son without ihe man's word* to help her. Theyre is generous enough for anything. Just as the man is going, Theyre comes back; and Linnet watches their interview with very interested eyes. After a few minutes' discussion fche man goes, pulling his forelock with a suddedly cheerful expression, aud Theyre comes in and drinks the tea she has poured ont for bim and eats fche brown bread and butter as though he were unconscious of doing either. Not a word does he say concerning what the man wanted with him, and she does not speak ber mind to him then.

When they are in the dog-cart behind Gipsy, Linnet determines to ' have it out.' Gipsy is dashing along fche winding road leading to Ludwater village just aa she dashed along with the very same burden on tbat summer evening a year and a half since, when they beard on their arrival of the terrible news that changed all Linnet's after-lire. They do not speak of that now, however. It is very oold driving, and the short winter day is already beginning to close in. Theyre has muffle*! Lienet up to the eyes in rues and furs, and is himself enveloped in a huge ulster that makes bim look quite gigantic.

' Ara you cold ?' is his very ma f fcer of fact question as they bowl along.

' No, thank you, Theyre.' After a desperate pause — ' I want to speak to you.' ' Well ? ' — in the old laconic style that seems to bring ber heart to her lips with the rush of old memories.

' Theyre, you have the Hall, and you will always live there, of course I '

'What, then?' ' You don't want Pyeeroft as well/ ' What ! ' he ejaculates, turning to stare at her uncompromisingly.

' I cannot consent to let you pay such a price for the sake of helping me.' • What are you talking about ? '

' You know very well, Theyre ; you need not oretend any longer. I have found you out/

« How ? ' he demands, frowning

' Ob, quite by accident, not through anybody's fault ! And, Theyre ' — she almost says ' dear Theyre/ as she used to do in fche old times when anything made her feel specially affectionate or grateful towards him j but now tho word halts on her lips, and she dares not say it.

' Then, if you know/ he breaks in almoßfc roughly, ' say no more about it. We, who have known you so long and looked for a better future for you, could not Btand by and see you cheated of all fchat was rightly yours, and not try to do something, however little, to make ifc up to you. As to the money, don'fc think about it — I shall not know the difference — I have more money than I want, and yet fche one thing in the world that I desire ia beyond my reach/

'I wish I could help you to it then/ sbe returns, trying to speak heaitily, but thinking, with a swelling heart and quivering lips, of the news that reached her a short time -ago in her little London lodging, that Aden Kirke, always touchy, was ready t> shoot Theyre Hardy now, for the sake of Edith Penrose.

' * Words, wordß, words ! ' ' quotes Theyre with a rather bitter smile as he looks straight between Gipsy's ears.

' Why, what more can I do than wish you well, Theyre P What more is in my power ? If there were anything, you mußt know that I would do it/

You promised me once you would help me when my love-affair should come to pass.' ' I know ifc ; but ' ' But when ifc came you hindered [instead of helping me/ « Theyre 1 '

' You know you are tho one woman in the world for me. Cau't you ever forget that rascilly nigg-sr P If you had seen him grovel when I laid my whip across his shoulders, you would — well, I think you would have be<n aßhained of your love, be he Oberon or Bottom ! '

'Not my love/ she contradicts quickly; and Theyre begins to change fche reins to his right hand. 'It was an infatuation — a girl's folly — it could not have been true love, or I couid never scorn him as I do now/ * Who is your love, then, if I may make so bold ? ' I ' I think you must know, Theyre ' — inclining her head. ' I know ? How can that be P But I think you might tell me/ Seeing that he means to have it in bo many words, she yields, and whispers something in bis ear, the result of which is thafc his arm is placed round her waist, all muffled as she is, and his face goes down to hers, while Gipsy is left entirely to her own discretion until she calU Theyre to a sense of his responsibility by shying at a heap of stones by the side of [ the road.

' What a pity I got all those things for New Zealand ! ' says Linnet, straightening herself, and trying to assume a very matter-of-fact air, while both their faces aro beaming with joy.

' Not afc fl.ll/ responds Theyre promptly. ' You women always make such a fuss about getting a heap of clothes when you're going to be married, now there they are all ready, and there's no excuse for us not to get marrried tbis day week/

• But, Theyre, what about Edith Penrose ? ' ' What about your grandmother, you little goose ? '

THE END