Out Novelettes.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1517, 29 January 1886, Page 4

Out Novelettes.

"ONCE MINK"

(Continued.)

Major Montray came up presently, and no doubt taw the whole situation at a glance. But he uttered no word—he only resumed hit place beside me for the short remainder of our walk.

A merry narty we were at Kerton that Christmas Kve. The married sons and daughters of the house—those who could at least—had come |to spend the happy ; vigil under the old roof, bringing their wives' and husbands and little children with them. There were gay Toices and burs's of laughter, mrrry games in the old corridors, 'huge fires in the old-fashioned rooms, holly and ivy round the dark old pictures, and there was mistletoe cunningly placed, dear old uncle John and aunt Lois smiling benignly on us all. It was a happy time.

I was the merriest of all that night, though my cousin's wild dark eyes followed me wherever I went. I danced " Sir Roger de Coverley" with Major Montray, and with him I lighted the Christmas-tree; once he cane 1 1 me under the mistletoe and made me pay the forfeit. Shall I ever forget Vandeleur's face at that moment ? He leant with folded arms against tho doorway, too much of a boy to hide the jealous tortures he endured. That made me only dislike and despise him the more. Once little Sibyl had tried to draw him into the noiry Christmas games, but he repulsed her with a rough word which brought tears into the child's eyes. " Pollie," she whispered solemnly to me, pulling me down to her own level that no one else might hear, "what ia the matter with cousin Van P"

" I suppose he is tired," I said, without looking at him.

" I don't think that is it. Won't you com® and speak to him, Poilie? Please do—he looks bo queer." " No. You are standing on my dress Sib ; do run away." • • • • •

Christmas week passaed away as merrily as Christmas Eve bad done. Mitjor Mont ray had horses at livery in the village, and every day he brought one for me to ride, a splendid creature such as the Kerton stables could not boast. I know Vandeleur thought the horse unsafe for me to ride, but he never sought or found a opportunity of addressing me again on any subject. I should not have heeded his warning had he given it. The horse was not too fresh for me, and many a merry gallop we had together. But I rode Lady Jane once too often. One bright morning they carried me back insensible to the house 1 had left but ten minutes before so full of hope and strength and happiness. I had been thrown just outside ,our own gans.

I had a weary illness. My mind wandered for many months, and when at last consciousness returnedjto me it was late in the autumn. 1 had lost a spring and a summer out of my life. When I could be moved, they took me to spend the winter jat Cannes. There I recovered some my of shattered energies, but was never again to be what I had been. Major Montray married Miss Stepney of Gore two months after my accident; she was au heiress like myself, but double my age. I had never really carei for him, but his marriage gave me pain. It showed how little he had ever cared for me.

I spent the two following years with friends at Home ; and it was the news of aunt Lois's death which at la»t determined my rtturn home. They wanted me at the Rectory, uncle John wrote; so, rather unwillingly, I went.

I was wretchedly changed. I taw it in uncle John's grave face aDd in the burst of tears with which Sibyl greeted me. But they were glad to hare me back again. Sibyl was my unwearied minister as o£ old, the willing ■lave of my every caprice. She brought me tie first primroses in the spring, the first dewy purple violets in winter, the oomfort of her loving tendance always. And the old Rectory was so sweet, so calm, so peaceful, 1 grew glad to be at home. I lay on my couch in the window in summer, by the the fire in winter and wrapped my eiJer-do*n robe more closely ruund me when Sibyl came in with a gust 01 fresh icy air clirging to her cloak. Happy Sib —how I envied her the bright cold cheeks the touch of which sent a chill to my bones!

Vandeleur Arnold had gone out as a missionary to British Columbia, they told me. •' A hard life, poor lad !" uncle John said, wiih a changed very much. Perhaps, after all, it was best for him to rough it."

Christmas Eve again—ten years since that Christmas Eve when I had trodden a heart under my foot in the snow ! Ten long years ! I was sitting over my dressing-room fire shivering if a door was opened a hundred yards away.

As the twilight deepened and the firelight brightened, my fancy with a strange persistency wandered back to that other time. Perhaps the unusual seventy of the weather made me think of the frigid wilds where the boy whose heart I was so near breaking was carrying on his noble work. My heart filled with » yearning pity for him at last—a pity such m I had never felt when he had pleaded for it with such stammering, passionate words.

The daylight had quite faded when Sibyl came quickly into the room bringing with her an icy breath which made my teeth chatter. " Have you been lonely, follie ? I hurried back to you as quickly as I could. Papa and I have been over the whole Parish since luncheon, and on our way home we looked into the church to see How the decorations were getting on. We gave the teaaud blankets to all the old women—and, oh, Pauline, they were so pleased and so grateful to you I" " They need not be grateful to me, dear— I gave you the money to spend as you pleased. How warm your hands are 1 I expected you home half frosen."

" Ob, no! And I took the little coat to Bobbie White. You should have teen his face when he put his small thin hards into the poskets and pulled out all the toys—it was worth anything!" " Well, dear," I said, a little wearily, " I am glad you found a use for my present which gives you so much pleasure. 1 would hare bought you a pink silk, but you pre* ferred spending the money in your own way. And now tell me, have the Eyres come P" "Just come," replied Sibyl. "Marjory will he with you in a moment, she bade me tell you. And who do jou think it with them, Pauline P You would never guess!" I saw she was afraid of agitating me by telling me at onoe. She was kneeling by me on the rug | and now she put both arms round my neck, in her petting way. "I cannot guess. Don't Sibyl—it tires me."

" Somebody you fcave not Men for ten yean,"

I knew then who it wm. Had some strange half-prophetic instinct fiilled my mind with thoughts of him ? An odd half-sweet, halfbitter pain thrilled my heart.

" Aren't you glad ?" cried Sibyl, joyously ? "There's Papa calling—l must run away. But I'll come back to take you down stairs to dinner ? Good-bye till then." And with a warm kiss from her bright lips Sibyl disappeared. Vandeleur Arnold under the very roof! Why did my hand shake when I stretched it out to ring for my maid ? Why d'd I listen so intently to catch the tones of one voice among |so many voices down stairs P Why was I so nervously anxious to look my best that night.

I think Powell found me more peevish even than usual, though I submitted to a more than usually elaborate toilet. Yet, when all wa* done, with a very bitter sigh I surveyed my reflection in the cheval-glass. Discontent and selfis sorrow had lined my face, which ill-health had robbed of its once bright colour; I was getting gray—though Powell's skilful arrangement of my hair could still conceal that fact—and my figure stooped wretchedly. I turned from the glass with a frown just as Sibyl came into the room. " Oh, Pauline, what a pretty dress! How nice you look I Are you ready to come down ?"

How willingly I would have exchanged my costly moire for the simple white gremdine the laced edges of which fell away from Sibyl's throat and round white arms, could I have with it exchanged my faded self for her bright youth! With a strange new feeling of jealousy I looked at Sibyl. She was not a besuty now any more than she had been as a child, but she was till, fair, good, a swept frank girl, with honest eyes under faint childlike brows, flaxen hair partly hanging down as of old, p;nk rounded cheeks with merry dimples in them when she laughed, and a gentle merry She had fastened a sprig of holly thick with scarlets berries among tier fair plaits ; but, when she wanted to decorate me in like manner, I Jshook my head, warming my chilled fingers at the fire.

I remember noting, as I went down stairs leaning on Sibyl's arm, how prettily the old hall was decorated, how dignified the old Newfoundland house dog looked in his holly necklace, and how the logs crackled on the wide old-heartb. There was a merry buzz of voices in the drawing-room, but my heart failed me when Sibyl put out her hand to open the door. Vandeleur did not look shocked or s'irprised at the change in my appearance. He ju.-t came forward and took my hand with a warm steady clasp which made me ashamed of my own trembling fingers. Then he pushed an easy-chair in front of the fire for me, and resumed the conversation with uncle John which our entrance had From my sheltered position behind the bannerscreen I looked at the boy lover whom I hid treated so badly long before He too was changed, sunburnt and bearded ; but the eyes were Vandeleur's eyes—the same hazel eyes, *r !i t ieir long lashes, which had followed me once wherever I went with faithful, loving gaze.

The Rectory drawing-room presented a pleasant picture on that evening. Nearly all the old guests were there again that had been there ten years before, when I had looked at them wit>i—ah, what different eyes! There were some new ones—little white-frocked or velvet-kniekerboekered guests, who had not been present at very many Christmas gatherings anywhere yet —among them two pretty children of Marjiry Eyre's. And one or two voices were missing from the circle—faces of those who had gone to a better country, far away. Vandeleur Arnold was the centre of attraction to both old and young. The elders listened with interest to the acc junta of bis work among the IndUns; the younger to his wonderful stories of bears ana sleighs and teams of dogs. Even the Christmas tree could not secure undivided attention. He looked very calm and quiet. I had seen him look more trar.soendently happy loag before, at times wh n I had been capriciously kind to him; but its present expre.-sion of steadfast repose and power became it well.

I wondered what he felfc when he recalled the past. There seemed to be bo veil od his eyes when he looked at me. Pity wa< in their quiet depths —friendship perhaps—nothing beyond. And Ido not think he was unfaithful to his first love in fueling thus. The Pauline of his boyhood was as completely dead, gone, vanished from sight, as if she had been buried ten years before in Kerton churchyard. That week was a memorable one—to the children at least—at Kt-rton. Ciusin Van made a sleigh—a real *leigh, like the Indian ones—and many were the joyous rides|taken in it over the snow. The weather was still and bright, though very cold, and the young people spent most of the day out-of-doors, i'o Vandeleur, I suppose the heat was quite tropical. He was very kind to me, of'en coming in to sit by my invalid chair, and telling me sto ies that he thought would interest me about his life and his work ; but to the past —the past which was always the present with me—he alluded not at all. it seemed so strange to remember how those very eye* had once looked at me, that voice addressed me, and to find them now eo calm, so iudifferent, so changed. It gave me a bitter, aching pain in my neart. Vandeleur did not leave Kerton with the Eyres £we were glad to have him stay longer j he reminded us of the dear old times, and uncle John hud always b» en as fond of bim as of his own children. We spent very happy hours in the long winter twilights—he and Sibyl and I—l in my easy-chair beside the fire, Vandeleur in his favourite position leaning against the mantel-piece, Sibyl on a low seat near me, her eloow on my knee, and the ruddy glow of the fire-light, illumining her sweet, candid face, and lair, soft hair. It was very quiet and peaceful at Kerton now. I sometimes wondered why Vandeleur cared to remain so long with us, when he might have spent his time so much more stirringly elsewhere. And sometimes my heart would beat with a vague hope—a hope which flushed my thin cheeks and made uiy voice tremble nervously whenever my cousin came into the room. But he never perceiv/d it; I would have died sooner than that.

One day—a bright fro.-ty day somewhere about the middle of January—l hetrd the sleigh coming round to the hall-door. Vandeleur had trained Sibyl's old pony Bob to draw it. The little belle jinglei merrily on his harness; and I went into my window —the bay-window over the porch—to look at the conveyance. The air even ihere made mo shiver and wrap my shawls more closely round ma. Sibyl had already taken her seat in the sleigh. I thought how pretty ■he looked, the old bre.ze bringing a sweet fresh colour into her cheeks and blowing her bright hair about her shoulders. Vandeleur was etaoding on the far side of the sleigh, fastening the rug more securely. Sibyl was speaking to him; and just as I looked he raised hi* head aud answered her. What made me draw back and put my hand to my heart P Sibyl! The ogly little child whom we had scarcely tolerated as "daiiy-picker" long before! Little Sib! It

was even bo. There was no possibility of mistaking the look in his eyes—l knew it too well. And the rush of colour to Mbyl's cheeks confirmed my suspicion. Ah, how old, how hopeless, how lonely I felt as I returned to my seat by the fire, ar.d the merry tinkle of the sleigh bells died away upon the air ! Alison.