THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume 13, Issue 1110, 17 December 1869, Page 3

THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.

V v (From the 'FaioUy H6rai<£* Ocfc iv) . ' " : , v. j-i.-;.i'.- /'-aw itf:>.:-'-i ■w&i>x}-'-.-- ■ 11 The first. t l of September!;- •Pfofcridgeshooting commence?;' y 'said. l, quoting tna .almanack for the year, as Nejd-JDtfore, and another friend joined tae., in; a.cigai;, after dinner a&myjquartersin Dover Barracks, where they hadcotne by.invitatioii; i? i-£ I. nptiped. a ; peculiar smile, p.ass.\over Dacre's handsome face aij.Jmacie this remark, and'tur^ed^away frpm the. almanack I had pasted up .on the .wall, beside ,jthe chimney-piece. ■•'.: .V, .; , ; . ; ; - : "Tlie first of September!" he repeated, dragging the great easyrchair &c occupied towards the open windov^ "and gazing -out over the Channel, '^ith;still that", pectijfiar smile. "The first of Usi' September wjrs a day to be remembered in my life; 1 ' r " Why, , what, .of it, old ; boy ?'* I exclaimed : " snot a partridge P." , . , „ . "No," said he; "but I— l shot , my wife." ', ■.•'.-. .'.'/, ;' ": / " Shot your wife !" we cried in amazement, while Ned sat and laughed.pleasantly, as if shooting.a wife were the finest joke in the world. ' ... ' ; .- . 'Of course there must have been a joke in the background; and. on, questipning- . Ned about it, he came out with, the facts, while we puffed away, at our, cigars, and dreamily watched the faint, curl of smoke as it/floated away from us, and lost itself somewhere between us and the French coast, where the lighthouse on Point Grosnez every two minutes sent forth its, re- ' volvirig blaze across the six-and-twerity miles of water that lay between, it arid "the cliffs of Dover. It' was a delieicmsV balmy evening, and . Ned's story did^ riot, pome^ amiss in that o^diet,areaihy twilight,' WheaTi there was nothing to , do, and we' wanted just a little to think aboutv / "It was just a.ydarkgc^' yesterday \that I found myself travellings dpynhtf 'express from Waterloo 7 1 'tp'^elmington, in the heart of thfe' New%rest,"' begin Ne\d, while we composed ourselves for. something interesting. "I remeniber wh£t a fool I thought myself foif going therejat all ; but Jim Greville had asked me down for a week's; partridge-shddtingr— pressed me to go ; and I hadn't the, heart;pf the mind. to refuse him ; and it Was because I ; hadn't the mind tP refuse him'' that I felt -and called myself a fool ; for, after all, I knew it wasn't the partridges I Was going after; not but what they were tempting enough in their way ; for Jim and I had blazed away right merrily at. them; ' a year : before, when I stayed two months at Bfurs- . leigh House, and had bagged— l should be afraid to say how many brace.- Just' a year before, I had been stopping there with Jim, and a rare, fool I had made; of myself by falling headibver-ears in love with his sister, Ada Greville, and allowing myself to be refused— a fellow should never let himself be refused, by the 1 by; he should always be sharp enough to see when he is " not wanted." Ididn t, or wouldn't see it ; so I suffered for my pains. That - was her likeness I showed you before dinner." ■' -. • .:■>■■•". - •''■' ". , We called to mind the little gold^locket with a face painted on ivory, ; set in an oval frame,— a face of a young girl, with; rich, dark, waving brown l^ir,- a girl • delicately fair, withthe faintest blush-rdse bloom in her cheeks, a laughing light in a pair of very blue forget-me-not eyes; and a rarely sweet smile on her. curved coral lips. Ada Greville must have been beautiful ; no wonder soft-hearted Ned Dacre had made a fool of himself !■ " She was sorry for me,-^-she told me so," continued Ned, with a complacent groan. " There were, even tears 1 in her eyes when she saw my despair ; but it was of no avail, she refused me' as gently as 'the could, yet most decisively. "She " did not love me." But I would wait one year —three years— a dozen years, for her love. No, it was enough ; she could never be my wife, Did she love another? She turned away almost haughtily as I put the question. I had no right to askit, 1 1 know, but I suppose I was mad. All my | fears concerning Jim's hints about a; certain Lord Baconly Who Jived near them, and was a sincere admirer of Ada's, returned to me. He was a young earl and rich. I was but a poor captain in a marching regiment, with very little beyond my ■ pay, and no stately mansion or lordly title to offer this girl who had taken my whole heart by storm, and made -me love ker as l no man ever loved before. • "I had been there two months, but I' packed up that night, and next inornitig saw me whirling through the New Forest' on my way back to town again. I told Jim what had happened as we were walking to the station. . "'I am sorry old ; fellow,' he said, heartily. ' There is no one I would sooner give her to than you.' ! ■ , " ' Except my Lord Baconly/ I let slip, perhaps a little savagely, for I felt very sore just then, even towards honest, kindhearted Jim. " ' Without exception, Ned,' said Jim Greville, emphatically. 'Do you know, when I asked you down hero,. I had a- half hopo that you and Ada might get to care about each other ; but you see it has not exactly come to pass. -I- don't think, 1 however, that she cares for Baconly ' • " ' Of course she cares for him,' I said, bitterly. 'He adores her, you say, and he has a mansion and a title — : — ' • • " * Stop there, my good fellow,' exclaimed Jim, — almost fiercely for him— 'I know my sister well enough to say that if she does not marry you it is because she does not love you, and that if she does ma^rry Baconly, it will not be,- for his earldom or his lands. Believe me,Daero, Ada is as true as steel, and hejr. . heart is not" one to be bought, or sold to ' • the highest bidder.' '■ OF course I believedvhimV but I was too, down in the mouth to tell him so just •. then. At the station we parted ana as my train went off I heard him call out, 'Mind, this timo next year, old boy* I shall look for you again.' < -*■■] •' •'; • "I leant back in the carriage and laughed, a long, bitter, scornful laugh, but there was no one there to hear ifc,' or ■ the soliloquy I gave vent to afterwards; ' This time next year ■!'. Had -tho> fellow a heart at all? Catch me down in these parts, this time next year ! ' . ■ " And yet, when it came round, and Jim's invitation with it, would youbolieve it, I was fool enough to go? and once more the thirty-first of August found me tearing through the New Forest to Helmington. . ■ • "I don't know exactly how the year had passed, but I had knocked about -a ' great deal in Prance, and Germany, and Italy, (trying to forget Ada Greville, I suppose, and the partridges I had bagged last September, but I hadn't succeeded,) . and when Jim's letter came, saying they would bo glad to see me again at Hurst, leigh House, , I determined I would t go. . I would see her face once more,' even though it might be so much^, : the' worse" for me. She had riot marMd Eaf| BaW conly yet ;, perhaps .she wfti^^^evesof doing so ; nevertheless I wourd-rmitand go, and .if there were any sign of appr-ottch-ing marriage-, I could offinvmy congratulations, and show how little,;! caredl,\and how Well I had gp^i/pve'ri^allv:f•«'ifif^.^;■Viv?^_ ■ ' " The sun Was; setting -a^ 'along in his •^.dart:''fro^;^&^,tatioa;4ts. 'Hurslfeigh^ HouseVati^ long rM- arid gdlden lights shori&tindeiv J jh^ ■;■ the .tall grasses, ferns, and wiid flower^, i that grew iri'ricli ab'uridaricearith^falaalptta ; : k 'i- r- / ■■„ „.• , "];.: .u-:»{:.'wt;~ii vi,- Vil *-.';.■•

old forest ; it .' was a sight to make . a painter's and apoet's heart glad — the glorious great oak trees of ; that beautiful and ancient forest in which William Eufus '-m& killed by an arrow, shot hy Walter Tyrrel, and; which history has made celoforated ever since. But I was not a painter or a poet, and I turned my eyes in i[uite Another direction as the lawn of ifuraleigh came in sight; ' "The sunset light had got there before ' me, L it was. playing in the rich. brown hair and orei? the lovely face of Ada Greville as she stood upon the smooth cut grass before the house. She was dressed altogether in white, high to the throat, with just a dash of colour in a geranium ribbon that bound her pretty rippling hair. But &s if to mar the oeauty of the vision, sending a great lamp to my throat, and a bitter thought to my heart, I beheld at her side the tall gaunt proportions of the Earl of Baconly.^ It was a bitter pill, but I had to swallow it, and try hard to look as if I liked it. I doubt if I succeeded, but I got quickly out of the T-cart and went to meet her. The flush of the sunset stained her cheeks with a wonderful colour. I had never seen her look more lovely. I had never felt more hopelessly in love. Oi course she was engaged to him ! Well, and why notP Had not I come to offer my congratulations P ." The earl did not stay -to dinner— there was some comfort in that ; I had her to myself all the evening— but I heard him telling her and Jim he would go partridge shootang with us after breakfast the next mpraing. On my arrival he, had greeted iiae i . wfth a stare of haughty contempt, . scarcely acknowledging my simple recog..nitioii; and. up w, as ne departed, . there came another cold inclination of the head, and what I fancied was a barely repressed sneer— perhaps it was only fancy-rbut I felt that the m^n despised and hated me. „ Ada; dorsb, too when she ; became ijCjOiuitess oOaconly P It was not a plea- . sant thought, but it vanished entirely, as I sat beside her that evening, and she played and sang for me while Jim slept pieasaotiyon a sofa in. the window — Jim ; always fell asleep in this way of an evenWB' ■ •'■'■'",!: ■:.-:■■ :-. •:' -.' ' . .'presently, when the moonlight crept in through the lace curtains, and tried, ; though vainly, to vanquish the gaslight, Ada stole put through the open window on to/the lawn. Without heeding the conseqnehces I was at her side fin a moment, and we paced up and. down the velvet r , slope before the house for near an hour , before Jim ever thought of waking up and coming out to join us. How sweet and bright, she was ! — how kind and happy ! Ah,.well! she could afford to be so, with „ a rent-roll of twenty thousand a year befpra her, and the prospect of becoming one ' of vie fairest peeresses in England. ," I; struggled hard with that bitter memory. I strove to put it from mo for that one peaceful, moonlight evening, and . accept the sweetness and comfort of her presence. " When Jim came out with his. cigar to us, Ada bid us good night a,ud went ■ in. Jim was inclined to conversation — I to meditation; but I roused up to talk . with him I was not sorry when he " supposed we'd better turn in." - ";The sun rose gloriously on that first ,of September. I got up early, and sat in the open window of my room, looking out over part of the New Forest. Down below me was where Ada Greville and I had .been walking the night before. The dew was sparkling like tiny jewelled drops on „t he soft, grass over -which her feet • had trod so lightly. Stupid fellow that t was to ( sit there mooning'over her, instead of taking up : my gun and starting oft to bag the. first patndge. " My lord was in the breakfast-room when I went down, standing in one of the windows beside Ada. Jim was looking at the. guns in the hall. I went out and joined him, after shaking hands with his sister, and bowing coolly to his . lordship, and left. them there alone in the great breakfaßt-room. . "We started with our guns about ten, and Ada stood on the hall door-steps to see us off. She was dressed in black vel--eteen, and a small velvet hat with a V want's wing was on her head. Lord; phefc \ turned to say more last words ere Bacom, *ed; but I went off briskly with he depart : ?t use would it have been to Jim. Wha. linger there? <r day of it, that first of "We had a bn. T ew Forest ; but some- 1 September, in the JN. •• many birds how or other I did nov the most. As Baconly and Greville got .^ t •ht o£ we were nearing home I ccatu t t. f e u ow t what I fancied was the biggest rasses had ever seen, down amongst the j and ferns, some hundred yards off. could scarcely distinguish him for tlit bushes and ferns that came between us ; but I pointed my gun and fired. "On a sudden there rang a low cry of fear and pain through the forest ; a cry that caused my heart to stand still and my head ,to, reel, It was no partridge thai rose up and faced me, but Ada Greville, with blanched cheeks and terror-stricken eyes ; and then, ere I could reach her, she fell forward in the long soft grass, and her <jap with its pheasant's wing, which I had mistaken for a partridge, lay beside her. " What had I done P I scarcely knew what I was about ; but I remember kneeling down there, and taking her, in my arms, calling her every loving name under the sun,T-yes, crying great,, stupid, unmanly tears over her still white face. Was she dead P Was I mad P Oh Ada, Ada, my life, my love! But she never moved, though I fancied the colour was cutting back faintly to her pale cheeks ; but once I thought the lon» dark lashes stirred. Could she possibly hear my wild, imploring love words , as I clasped her to my heart, and cried over her like a baby P .".Presently, there came up the heavy, rough step of the earl, and looking into his hard, insolent faoe, I met an evil glare in his cold eye. t , . "'By Jove, sir," said he, 'this is a pretty revenge because she refused you — because she could not love you ! ' " I'd have struck him to the earth as he stood there, with that evil light upon his face, only I dared not leave my hold oi the precious burden I clasped in my arms ; but I ground my teeth in my fierce, savage agony, as I turned from the great, cold-blooded fellow to Ada. Her eyes were open now, and with a faint struggle she released herself, and Lord Baconiy knelt down on the ground beside her; but she rose up slowly and painfully, putting her hand to her left shoulder. Staggering to my feet, I blurted forth some unintelligible explanation of my blindness and my sorrow. Lord Baconly stopped mo with something very like an oath, as he got tip, and strove to place his arm round her, and asking where she was hurt. ..'■ ".' It has only just grazed my shoulder,' she said iCanjL for. the first time I noticed howithe Mfrhad passed. through the Upper Ba^Jppiife velvet sleeve), -' and it is Botrj^^^only I felt frightened, and faint* and stupid.' '-i O£Hfi^fasii:the colour was coming back 4nt9 herjovely/faco !— and how strange it , . was cthatshe turned from $ie earl, and put iiarfitl^ hfiid-through my. arm 1 But he ;.;,^»-.^i(jgoifig I tpi8 I l;_atidrlbhis-'; he strove, to :^s^omi-i^m\v^ rout . with! sa|iio:. guqat jqbwaidlyiiiWOEds^ about s njy ; haying shot '-'■■Ssitik^ j^if 'U;.< .:••:-'.>"• .: ;-".■• ; :,-•.; .• '" FiK^^ft>ionai?»}^tiss Seville,' saidhp; 'let jjie support you, Of course you are

faint and ..frightened, wjio wouldn't beP And you, sir, the best thing you can do is to gq off to the holise, and send some sort o£ conveyance here.' "His tones were, full .of contemptuous command, and he held out his arm to Ada, but- b()th her small hands were twined round, mine ;|fe3's ue l oaat a S a * n .st me for support. , ({ : ';] " ' No, — I will stay here with Captain Dacre,' she said ; ' and you, if you will be so kind, go on to the house, and tell Brown to come hero in the little ponycarriage for mo. But stay, Lord Baconly, one moment, before you go. I— l heard you say one word that was not true just now.' •. , '. "The colour flashed brightly over her face,, and her eyes looked like stars as we two men stood gazing at her. " ' You told Captain Dacre," she said, "he had shot mo on purpose, — because I could not love him. It was all false,— entirely false. Now go, sir." "Blinded with rage and pride, and with fiercely clenched hands, his' lordship stalked away without a word ; and, in a mad bewilderment of joy, I turned to Ada as she stood trembling beside me. "Is it true ? can you love : me ?" I exclaimed; and then I lot my arms fall round her, and my eager, passionate kisses press her cheeks and lips, feeling that it was all too true, too bright; too real. iff That night, when' Ada had retired, and her shoulder had been well doctored, (it was merely a faint graze ; Heaven knows it might have been worse — I shuddered to think of it,) I sat up in the smoking-room . with Jim., . ' . •'.:."' , • " • I knew it a year ago, my dear fellow,' he said. 'It seems she found out that she • had made a mistake, after you left us that time, but she wouldn't let me tell you of it, and when she found I had asked. you here the. other day she professed to ., be highly irate. However, I trusted to chance and my usual good Jucic, and it has all come right, you see l.""'" "Jim smiled benignly upon me and puffed away, at his weed, while I felt too happy to smoke, or talk, or do anything but think of Ada. "We were married about five months after ; and do you know I begin to think I never made a better shot in all ray life than I did on the first of last September." And so Ned Dacre wound up his story ; and after due congratulations to him, he asked us to dine next day with him and Mrs. Dacre at the Lord Warden Hotel, where they were stopping on their way to Paris. , r Christian Gbaham.