THE STORY-TELLER. The Girl at the Gate.

Evening Post, Volume LIX, Issue 11, 13 January 1900, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE STORY-TELLER. The Girl at the Gate.

The millionaire was returning to his native place through a country of golden cornfields, reddened with poppies, and flecked by bright darts of Sunshine. Here and there the silver ribbon of some feleepy river showed for a moment amidst the trees. Now and again the delicate spire of some quaint old village church gleamed against the blue sky, and then the train rushed on, by the grassy mead and meadow-slope, by giant oaks and elms and daintily - flowering wild clematis, to the haven where its passengers would be. And the man in the hot carriage, with its pictures of the prettiest of home spots in the old country, looking out from time to time, told himself that it was all very fair aad beautiful, and that he had been quite right to cerme back to it — in search of a wifel Yet not exactly in search of such a being — he 'hati a memory in his heart that laad remained there through all the long years of wealth-amassing and hard v. ork, a sound of a tender voice, like the vippling of a little laughing burn, that sometimes floated to his ears. A smile like a ray of wistful sunlight, and — well, he had much, \ery much, to offer her now, and, of course, all iJie rest would be easy. But, nevertheless, there was iai episode over which the millionaire's thoughts hurried eagerly— a scene in that Interlude, played so long ago, that was not all laughter and tender smiles and gentle words — a picture in which the sunlight had faded, and the saddened eventide crept on with tearful clouds above the purple hills, and the gathering of the long shadows above the peaceful homestead. It was so long ago — so long ago — and he was so full of ambitions. " I gave up everything for my work," he was fond of saying to young aspirants to his favour who came out to the colonies, and, of course, came to him with their letters of introduction, and their hopes and plans for the future. He had helped many a one. He was rather proud of some of them who had turned out well, and they spoke gratefully of him in their turn, and accepted his kindly patronage for the sake of old times. And now — now that he had climbed almost as far as possible on the steep ladder that leads to fame and fortune, and the estimation of all men — he had determined to come home again for a visit, longer than the mere flying journeys of business, to return to the old village where as a boy he had played in the daisied meadows and fished in the little stream, to see the sweatheart of yore, and to offer her a share in the honourable and grand career that still lay before him. And as the train sped on northwards, he thought of the words that he should use, and the ' answer that she would make. He had heard of her through some friend 3 since his return, and he knew that she still lived in the old horne — almost alone now. He wondered what she would be doing when he neared tho spot, and if she would receive him coldly at first. Women were not often cold to him , he thought, with a little smile — he wa3 too great a man not to win success everywhere, and money commands all hearts. So he pictured her eager joy, her tremulous voice, as she answered the kind yet dignified speech that he had prepared, and then the journey into the great world again together. And he wondered what it would be like to have a wife, to see a graceful presence at his magnificent table, with diamonds in her pretty hair and on her white neck — a wife who might entertain royalty again and again, bat who was equal to doing it wfell, he felt sure, as the lovely face of long ago swept across liis memory as in a vision blest. l- I might have married a title — asy amount of them,* he mused, thinking of the fair girls who had smiled at himat balls and dinners. " But" I knew her Best, and I have been true to her ever since." Yet again that little stab of pain came under all the eager planning, and his thoughts moved hastily to something else. What did he see that caused the one pang of uneasiness thaf ever troubled his calculations and marred his selfcomplacency ? Only the sunset falling across the Yorkshire dale, with the everlasting Kills beyond, and the quiet village, serene aad still on the green slopes of the fellside. And the curlew calls from far on the moor, and the golden plover pipes to his mate amid the heather and the purple bilberries in the long, dim grass, and somewhere in the distance the church clock chimes the hour, and the shadows fall ever tenderly and low. But there is a quaint garden by the killsicte, where the yew trees are cut into curious patterns, and where the roses' are all in fragrant bloom, and a girl stands at the gate to say farewell. He whom she loves stands with her, the light of hope on his eager young face, the fire of ambition in his flashing eyes, and his words are full of the great world into t\hich he. fares forth, and of the s«cces9 that he feels sure waits for him there. And she listens with all her tender love in the pure pale face, with wistful sympathy in her gentle eyes, with a patheftc quiver- of the sweet lips that tells of the pain she would fain hide from him, who apparently feels. little pain at parting, so great are his hopes of what is to come. But he bends in the shadow of the sweetbrier by the gate and kisses her trembling lips, and her arms are wreathed about his neck, and he can feel the beating of her heart as she clings to him for the last time. And for a moment — for the one gr«at moment of his life— he love 3 her more than everything, and beyond all— and then the last golden shaft of sunlight shows to him the tears in her blue eyes, and he laughs to make her smile again. But it is hard to smile when good night and good-bye are to be whispered, rod the sundown comes so soon. They do not know him at the little station, and he feels oddly conscious that amidst the hills one shuts out many of the pomps and vanities of the great, zreat world. And he walks along the quist road, tvhere a few children are playing—pretty little bairns, with pink and white pinafores, that make a dainty spot of colour against the grass. It is a long walk, but the air is sweet and cool, and the harvest is being carried home, and ever and anon comes the cheerful sound of the reapers as they

lead the laden waggons into the big farm gates. And then he nears the quaint home on the hill, with the garden unchanged through all the long ye^rs, and' again the sunset shadows fall long across the far moors, where the heather is purple and tho bilberries are ripe. There is someone at tho gate — a tall, fair form, in soft Avhite garments, and his matter-of-fact heart beats a little faster. After all, he has not outlived all his sentiment, though he has often said so to himself and others. And he advances quickly, and the beautiful face is turned towards him a little questioningly. She does not know him, then? He speaks, and a flash of memory comes to her ; but she does not pale nor tremble, and her lovely voice is calm and cool as a silver bell as she bids him welcome. He realises, as he follows her up the mossy garden path, how queenly is the grace of that perfect form, how noble her beauty, and he is glad of it. She will be a peerless wife, and worthy of her station. Yet something about her gives him a vague feeling that kind as her manner is, and interested as are her looks, the old order gives place to the new. And with a sudden wild impulse for success in this as in everything else, he talks his best,, his very best and least self-full, and she listens, and encourages, and smiles. * * # ♦ ♦ * ♦ They are standing together again, as in days of yore, and he has made his request, though not in the speech that he had prepared, but there is ao eager, answering joy in her face. " You speak of old times," she says at last very gently and sadly. "And I loved you then — I "loved you then." The haunting sadness of the beautiful faces comes through the shadows, and the sweet voice vibrates with bitter pain for the sufferings of the bygone. " And you went," she resumes presently, for he is silent still. " You went, and you conquered fortune, and my heart rejoiced. And then you wrote and said that you must sacrifice all — even our love — to your work and^ your ambitions — and — my love died titen." Her voice sank lower and lower, and trailed away into a littie wistful sob at the last word. By-and-by he lifts his head— his plans are strangely upset, and he is more moved than ever he has been in all his prosperous life; his voice, when he speaks, is broken and husky. "Couldn't you forget that?" he asks simply, all the best side of him in evidence at this supreme moment. "Couldn't you forget that, and forgive me?" If anyone had said to him yesterday that he would be asking a woman in a little Old World Tillage to forgive him, he would "have smiled at them for their folly. She shook her head, and the gleam of her golden hair came like a saint's aureole around her sweet face. " I could not love you again," she said softly. 'My friend you are, if you Avill — my lover, never again'!" And the sundown fell over the quiet hills, and the golden plover slept in the bracken and called nt> more, for the night was dark. Next day the millionaire hurried up the steps of his London hotel, while men pointed him out one to another as the most successful man of the century. He caught one such whisper, and his lips curled. " They little know !" he said.— By Augusta Hancock, in The Lady.