The Absent Heart.

Clutha Leader, Volume XX, Issue 1025, 16 March 1894, Page 7

The Absent Heart.

By George G. Farquhar.

Tom Osmond had been rejected ; not, indeed, by the girl herself, but, what was likely to come to much the same thing, by the girl's father. Tom had inherited a good name, and little else, from his forebears. Add to this a good education, a smiling face, a taste, not culinary, for horse-flesb, a few odd debts in various quarters, a liberal hand — when infrequent circumstance did not slay its bounty — and there you have Tom Osmond in his means, propensities, and conditions. Mr Pentreath had put pro and contra into the scale before he issued judgment, with the result that pro kicked the beam viciously.

« Look here, Tom,' he had said. « I'll speak plainly to you. Though it's her father that says it, no man breathing could wish for a prettier wife than Eva — yes, I see you admit that; and I can answer for it ' — here the old man slapped his trousers pocket significantly — « that she'll be a fit mate in other respects. What's more, her own ambition — no, I won't call it ambition, because there's no real ambition where there's no hill climbing in front — but her own inclination works that way.' • She has never given me to understand that,' interposed Tom.

'Perhaps not,' Mr Pentreath went od. *Bit I've studied the child, and I see her true character developing day by day. It's as I have said, Tom. As I've her happiness and welfare to look to, I've thought over these matters beforehand.'

' You are considerate, Mr Pentreath,' Tom said, a shade of bitterness in his tones *My hopes, as I now see, have been too sanguine. Although Eva and I have known each other from childhood, there has never been anything approaching love-passages between us. Yet I fancied — delusively, you say — that she did care for me. You have forced this confession from me, for of my own accord I should not — at any rate, just yet — have ventured ou the subject.'

' 1 only wanted to warn you in time, both for your sake and for hers. I think I know you sufficiently well, Tom, to feel sure thafc you would not wish her to act on immature impulses. You perceive I grade you higher than I would a mere adventurer.'

' And your decision is final T asked Tom, a slight flush overcasting his face-

' Circumstances being as they are, 1 am afraid I must say "Yes" to that.'

' And if circumstances altered ? For instance, if I were rich instead of poor, should I then be considered worthy of her V

'Well, then— urn !' Mr Pentreath hesitated, eyeing his companion askance. ' But we'd better not consider a hypothetical case. I like you, Tom — I always did — but I've responsibilities and duties that must come before predilection What ! — are you off? I'm sorry I had to be so outspo*kon ; hut you must see it was wisest — for the best — Good-night Tom.'

Thus was Tom Osmond repudiated hy the father before he had dared to lay bare his mind to the daughter. The summer fast fleeted by ; already the waning season had blotched tree and hedgerow with deeper tints. On the undulating downs above Combe Travis, frequent tussocks of long coarse grass flecked with brown patches the short, springy turf ; the sweet scent of heath and wild thyme travelled on the breeze ; the brake waved cool and green as ever. Gray turrets of weatherstained granite — gaunt defences — edged the downs ; in their niches grew wax-like bunches of bleached and parched sea-thrift. To seaward, the lazy waters slept unruffled. The ships making for the entrance to the Sound lay becalmed, their 'spread sails flapping idly. Only the swift-moving steamers, trailing lengthening clouds of thick reek across the horizon, disturbed with incongruous energy the quiet and repose of the day.

Over the hillock, close under the pinnacled cliffs, stood Eva Pentreath and Tom Osmond. It was not a clandestine meeting, as Tom had not heen forbidden Eva's society. Mr Pentreath's prudence and insight into human nature would not permit him to go to that extreme. No ; they met as a matter of course ; it was part of their existence, part of the routine of life with them. The downs had been their rendezvous in childhood ; and after Tom left college, the companionship had been renewed, naturally and mutually, as though it had never been intermitted.

Neither had spoken for some time. Eva's ringing laugh and sunny glances were held in abeyance. She stood there — a slight, girlish figure — her head downbent, so that the broadbrimmed hat hid the pretty face beneath it. Presently, she looked up. For a moment, her eyes wandered from the little town, snuggled down by the cove, to the distant Tor, and finally rested upon the chalk-white road that wound in the coast curve towards Plymouth.

I can scarcely bring myself to believe It,' she said at length. 'Have you •really made up your mind to go V

'Yes,' replied Tom. 'I have engaged a besth on the " Mercia," which sails for Melbourne on Friday. I

only regret I didn't accept my uncle's offen when it was held out to me years ago. You see, I've done no good here ; and I might have settled . down to work, and have been of some use out there.'

' I'm sorry, Tom,' Eva said, in low tones. • How we shall miss you I'

♦ Will you miss me V asked Tom, taken aback at his own boldness.

•Of course 1 shall. No more walks together ; no more delightful scampering 3 over the moor ; no more Why, I shall be dreadfully dull without you.'

' Yes, at first, perhaps ; it will be quieter — for — you,' replied the young fellow, the light; dying from his eyes. 'But you will come back?'- -Eva put in quickly, 'You are not going away for ever V

' I hope not,' Tom said sadly. ' I may be away two years, five years, 10 years ; I don't know how long. But I shall come back, Eva — if there's anything to come back for.' He looked at her keenly.

She dropped her head again, fumbling with the sprig of heather in her hands ; but she did not reply. ' You will have changed greatly by that time,' Tom hazzarded, after the pause.

' Certainly, I shall. I shall be older, perhaps stouter, and most assuredly uglier,' Eva answered, the old smile coming into her face once more. — 4 Don't contradict ! You know how I detest a flatterer. — And now, I must go back home, Tom. You will call on father to-night % Then both he and I will -wish you good Tuck and a speedy return.'

Before the weak was ended, Tom Osmond had left England. From time to time Mr Pentreath had tidings from him. Eva was always allowed to read the letters, the more readily as they contained nothing that her father cared to suppress. They dealt exclusively with Tom's goings and comings, his life and vicissitudes. We rummage through the details to pick out the material points. The new life, was laborious and trying ; but Tom made light of hardships ; his constitution was sound and vigorous, his thews of steel. On reaching the up-country c station ' of his relative, he had successively been herder, stockman, and shearer, taking the rough with the smooth — and precious little smooth there was too — till, some 18 months after his arrival in the colony, he had been promoted to the overseership. In this capacity he hacl practically sole control and management of tho extensive ' run ' his uncle being now too old to take an active share in the concern ; while his cousin — a young fellow of about Tom's own age — was physically unfitted for the more arduous duties of supervision. J'om's later letters dwelt upon the varying health of his uncle and hinted — hinted vaguely only — at the possibility of the ranch being handed over to the two younger men in partnership. It may as well be known in this place that Tom never became a partner.

In the mean time one or two events which it is necessary to chronicle had come to pass in Combe Travis. In the first place, Sir Everard Malton, having taken a lease Combe Park, had moved into residence there ; in the next place he and Mr Pentreath became, close cronies; and in the third place, Sir Everard's son, Harold, bade fair to fill np the hiatus in Eva's content caused by Tom Osmond's departure. Before Harold Malton came, Eva was just about sick of Combe Travis — sick and bored. But now her megrims fled ; her vivacity and spirits returned with something to their old abandon. The mad races over the downs, the moorland walks, the fishing and shooting excursions, were again to the fore, Harold as trusty escort.

Mr Pentreath was content to let things slide; no need to spur a willinw horse. Noting with approval, he remained passive. But observant as he was, one little incident never came within his ken It occurred after one of the aforesaid gallops. For the last half-hour Eva had felt that the avowal was in the air ; with diplomatic adroitness she had so far staved it off. While riding along tho narrow, highbanked lane that led homeward, however, Harold leaned over his saddle and spoke. In a jumble of words he blurted it all out.

•Harold,' Eva replied softly, 'you must have understood that 1 did not want you to say that'

1 But you will give me an answer V he rejoined anxiously. 'Is there any reason why I should not have '

' There is a reason,' Eva interrupted. ' I will tell it you when the horses are stabled. Please, do not say anything more now.'

They rode the rest of the way in strained silence.

' Now,' Eva said, when the horses were given into the groom's charge, ' will you come with me V

She went into the house and up the stairs. Harold followed, wondering. Stopping at one of the doors, she opened it and passed in.

* This is my sanctum — my boudoir, museum, ahd library, all in one. — Yes,' as Harold hesitated on the threshold — ' yes, you may come in.'

The room was attractively furnished and decorated. In one corner stood an open bookcase, crammed with daintily bound volumes ; and on the opposite side of the window a buhl table was

Covered with knick-knacks and curios that had been picked up abroadRaised above these gewgaws, in. the middle of the table, a frame of silver filigree-work held a small photograph. Harold waited for Eva to speak again. At length she turned round, her slight figure iv its well-fitting riding habit showing darkly against' the window. He could not see her face distinctly.

' I did not know how else to tell you,' she said quickly. 'itis a confidence thafc I cannot — I dare not — put into words. But I can trust it to your keeping.' Pointing to the photograph, she added : « That, is Tom— Mr Osmond.'

Harold walked over and inspected the likeness. ' I understand now,' he said. ' I feared this. Once or twice I have heard Mr Osmond's name coupled with yours ; but your father assured me that the rumour was without foundation. Now I understand that even Mr Pentreath does not know the truth.'

' And you do not think rae unfeeling — heartless V

' Not wittingly. I myself am solely to blame. 1 have been mistaken ; ancl I will respect your secret. It is safe with me as long as it pleases you to make a secret of it.' 'We can still be good friends, Harold V ' I hope we always shall be,' Harold rejoined. ' I beg your pardon, Eva, for what I have said, and I pledged myself not to repeat an offence that pains and grieves you.'

1 Thank you, Harold. You did not know.'

To outward seeming, their intimacy continued as heretofore ; but essentially there was a difference. Neither of them cOuld well have said in what the difference consisted. Maybe a shadow fallen between them — impalpable, yet ever-present — seemed to necessitate a cold, studied courtesy — on Harold's part ; and on Eva's, a wary restraint, which her father constrtel in his own way. Maybe it was a shadow • maybe 'twasn't.

Sir Everard and his son were dining at Mr -Pentreath's one evening, when the two elder men became engaged in a discussion which monopolised the whole of their attention. Harold contented himself with listening ; Eva, sitting opposite him, had been strangely silent all through the dinner. Happening to glance towards her, Harold saw that her eyes were fixed upon him. She dropped her gaze, a vivid flush burning her cheeks, and tried to cover her confusion by asking some trivial question. He replied "in a niatter-of.fact way that belied the tremulous beating of his heart.

In the drawing-room the debate waxed hotter, and to settle a disputed point it became necessary to refer to a book in the library. Harold volunteered to fetch the volume. On his way down-stairs he passed Eva's boudoir, the door of which -tfas half open. There was a light inside. Stealthily, as if he were in the act of committing a heinous crime — as indeed he was — Harold peered in. He started violently. Then, marching boldly forward, he strode up to the buhl table. Tom Osmond's portrait was gone. In its stead, that of Harold himself stared out from the frame of Indian metal-

work,

'My promise !' he ejaculated. ' Never to speak of that again so long as it annoys or pains her. So long ! Does she not now absolve me ? Would it pain her now V

Nearly three years had gone since Tom Osmond left England, and three more months passed before his last letter reached Mr Pentieath. That gentleman read the missive from end to end in his usual thorough and methodical fashion. This done, he leaned back and ruminated

' Uncle and cousin both dead ! Tom heir to his relative's wealth and property — a quarter of a million, I've been told. A tidy sum — a tidy sum. Tom's a lucky fellow. I'm glad for the lad's sake ; 1 always did like Tom. — But how's this he finishes his letter !

—"I have almost completed the arrangement of my uncle's affairs, and I have already engaged a passage for Plymouth by the 'Vulcan.' Again I will ask you a certain question. What will be your answer ?" Umph — umph ! Perhaps I'd better not let Eva read this." Ah, well, well.'

Eva never did read that letter, for there and then her father tore it up and flung the shreds upon the fire.

The ' Vulcan ' steamed slowly up the Sound, past the breakwater. Her passengers, thronging the deck, hungered to get ashore and greet their friends. Apart from the rest stood Tom Osmond, bronze- visaged, the lines around his mouth deeper, and perhaps harsher, but otherwise little altered from the Tom Osmond of bygone days.

' I wonder if they'll be here to meet me 1' he thought. — ' No ; that's expecting rather too much. Still, they might ; I hope she will. How she would have teased if she could but have seen me in my beard. Ha, ha ! However, that's gone, and I flatter myself I look something like a civilised, being again. — Why, there she is at- the end of the quay ! I'll swear that's her blue dress, and Pshaw 1 What am I thinking a.bout ? She'll have cast that aside years ago, — No ; that's not Eva,'

Neither that nor any. other. Tom landed amid a crowd of hustling strangers. Not a friend to meet him. He knew nofc one,- nor- Was he known by any. Stay; there was one who recognised him ; ifc waa old Bilstow, Mr Pentreath's gardener.

•If you hain't Mr Tom, I'm grievous mistook,' he said.

1 Why, Bilstow,' cried Tom, ' how are you, and how are they all at Combe Travis f

' Oh, main gay an' spruce,. Mr Tom. I've just come fro' the weddin'. — a fine un too — up at St. Andiew's.' ' The wedding ?

c Ay ; Sir Everard's son, Harold, an' Miss Eva. They've just gone to" the station. They're a-goin' to spend the honeymoon in Wales som'eres. — Hear that whistle? That's "their train, I'll be boon. A bonnie couple they looked an' all. — Ay, but everybody'll be glad to see you again, Mr Tom.'

Tom felfc a choking sensation at his throat ; his heart sank. And this was his welcome home.