THE WORLD BETWEEN THEM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XX, Issue 6823, 29 September 1883, Page 3

THE WORLD BETWEEN THEM.

B Y BKRTHA M. CLAY. CHAPTER ni. <~W I SH YOU WEBB SEYEB GOING AWAY. , j wish xu { tne gtory that LyTH, strangest part of net te with the proE l me Skc of poor relations. Of the four venial cLshke oi p b Ar • U T!udos none cared in the leSst Af oW. he was a poor reft? Captam , h however much they Ujion, an4 n tb e h b e r r Ot ma ttere, agreed in thisfcooreUtronwasablofon civilization, iXI bSavery haudsume and pro- ' Z\\' e voung man. one who m.ght, if he £°d cerSnly make a figure in the world j for him a commission, takSScare'hathe should go into a regiS that *as leaving England-they prehim with a small sum of ready money paK q«»rity o£ advice > theQ bade him ''fc'rfiy as a matter of course, he did the Uefv thing he should not havei done He I mioht with his line figure and handsome ! f.° iith his name, and his dist-.nt relation- !■ snip to'a noble family-he might have marf Tied a rch heiress, but he fell in love with a i beautiful, penniless girl, whose only dowry < : censisted of her lovely face and her excellent ii education. He straggled on bravely for i some time, then died, leaving his ' *X and child. His last words to d her to go to England, where ma family would be sure to help aud befriend her. She obeved him, merely to have her heart nearly ' broken. At first the aristocratic relations nretended to treat her as an imposter : then when her claims were discovered to be eenuine, the next thing was to get her out of the way. No one wanted a poor, penniless widow and a little child. ... ■, They would be quite out of place in the orand mansions belonging to Lord Estmere. I: was quite uncertain what the widow s fate wodd be, until one brother offered her an income of fifty pounds per annum, and Lord Estmere offered her a shelter in the old ruins of Ulsdale. She went there with her child Lynette, and spent nine years in dying; nine years without money, without friends or companions, longing to get back to her own beautiful land, were poor relations are not so entirely out of place. Sbe would sit for hours this hapless Mrs. Estmere, telling her daughter about the bright, far-off Canada where her father slept. Ending always with these words : "Howl wish we might go home. These JSstmeres do not want us." Words that burned themselves on the child's heart. '' No one wants us here, Lynette," she would say tears falling from her eyes as she remembered those who loved, her. For nine years she lived, spending her whole time in the education of her daughter. The rooms in the keep were spacious and lofty ; they were well famished; the housekeeper Mrs. Wytchley was an excellent cook; the young maid-servaut very attentive; they had the use of a large kitchen garden and a good orchard. Lady Estmere sent them at times old clothes and new books ; but with all that, it was a difficult thing for the beautiful Canadian to support herself. She was not sorry to die, and her death came so suddenly that she had no time to make auy appeal io regard to her daughter. She went out one autumn evening in the damp, and must have caught cold and neglected it; woke in the midas of the night, with a burning sense of suffocation, and died the next day. The Estineres did as rich people generally do; they buried the poor relation as quickly and as cheaply as possible. She was laid to rest in the church-yard at Black Tor, and finished with. Of course it was very tiresome that she should die just at that time, leaving a girl of that age as a burden to the family; but they agreed = nothing need be done with the girl just vet—she was about fourteen. The best thing would be for her to continue where she was, under the care of the old hou-ekeeper. She could have a governess from Black Tor, and in a year or two, when Lady Estraere had more time, she would think what it was best to do with her. No one cared, or even thought of the passionate grief oi the child, Of her het resentment, of her bitter anger, of her grief and pain. Lady Estmere sent her a black frock and a box of books, then forgot all about her. The generous member of the family reduced bis allowance to twenty-five pounds per annum, and that was paid to the housekeeper for the maintenance of the girl. Then for a time the family rested on their oare. Perhaps, had they known how beautiful she was, or how clever she was, things might have been different: but no one seemed ever to remember her existence. She had nj friends, for the housekeeper bad been particularly warned against low associates. She was not allowed to go to Black Tor. She had nothirig to fill ber life but the four hours' study each day, and her dreams. The wonder was that she did rot do worse. Few girls could have borne such a life. She told the exact troth when she said that she had hardly spoken to a stranger. No wonder that she was delighted and grateful to Heaven at the thought of making a friend. No wonder that she' counted the hours uutil six o'clock came, •when she would see him again. Since her mother's death she had barely heard the sound of a kindly voice ; sbe had had nothing to soften her ; no one had pitied her or been kind to ier when her mother died; no one had cared for her passionate grief, er realized that the whole world had changed for her ; no one knew of her bitter sorrow, and her bitter, girlieh, impatient wrath. She hated the Eatmere's ; the very name angered her. They had been avaricious, cold, proud, and cruel to her ; yet now Heaven had sent her a friend. As dew falla on a thirsty flower, so this thought fell on the girlish heart, which had been seared with

angry sorrow. I At six o'clock the sun was shining, the ! birds were singing, the hawthorn filled the air with rich perfume, and she went back to - the broken arch. She had dressed herself, poor child, to the tent advantage—a frock of plain white matexial, plainly made, but it showed her beautiful figure to perfection. She had no orna. Went except the June rOßes she wore in her h'ir and at her throat. So fair, so innoc%t, bo girlish, that his heart beat at thj sight of her. "' May Heaven deal with me as I deal with he> t " he s-iid, and a bad man never prays th?t prayer. £he might have been guarded with a legion of 'ngels, she was so sacred to him in her y° D ;h and her innocence. She came toward hini w ith a smile on her lovely face. "You have come," she said, and no words couh. have held a warmer welcome. " Vnd I have b'ought the books," he said, poin\ D g to a large paper parcel. "I hope " yon Mil like them." "lam quite sure I shall do that, she cried, ea g el iy. Shekneit; down among the meadow-sweet and !o,g graS3 t 0 unfasten the parcel. "I 4 me do it for you," be s&id, and in a few sennda before her delighted eyes lay a bundl« 0 f books. She took them 'up one by one. "Te-nyson, George Eliot, Mrs. Fleming, s he said, elowly. " How am Ito thank 5u j" • "% reading them and enjoying them;" heregliq_ "Get as much pleasure as you can out if them ; read them here, out in the sunshine,]!! this lovely spot. Every time I think of y u w ith. one in your hand it will be a real to me." "IdoJftknQW how to thank you," she said. ■ ; " I do l 0(; want any thanks, Miss Estmere," he re pij e d ; £.nd he wondered when - she drew from him with a shudder, all the deligh. rjjing from her lovely face. "Ipray ? Q ttr " she said, simply, "do not call me by hat name; 1 detest it. It seems to me like-brand." " But wit m ust I call you ?" he asked. "Lynnetji" she cried, eagerly. "From you, who hi, e been so kind and SO good to me, I canriobear the word." "Then I w ;n n o!i use it," he said. "I could not to pain you every time I spoke.- Iwido as you wish, and call you 'Lynette.'" • ■ : He sat tl<yn on a little grassy knoll, ■watching het] e ijght as ehe looked at the books. How\j r( fresh, and girlish she was ; trathowloneh ,jjis heart went out to her. ' Who could ha\ believed that the sight of a few new boob could have produced such happiness? ". < To the girl \xsttt it was like_ new life; the handsome, k l( jjy face, the kindly eyes, the gentle all bo tnaDy new and wonderfolf tlel'lts. Her very happiness made her aby w giient.

[ '' Shall I read to yon ?" he asked. She eaid "Yes," and he read the beautiful story of "Elaine." From afar off came the sounds that make evening so fair—the vesper songs of the birds, the lor/ing of the ca'tle, the ripple of the riyer between its green banks, the oooing of the rooks, the sweet, mysterious murmur of the wind as it whisperel to the trees ; bntabove all, to her was the music of his voice. He read while the sun dropped, and the birds one by one went to sleep—while the sweet evening air grew cooler aud sweeter. WheD at last the story was finished, looking up at her, he saw the teats raining down her face. " What have you done to me ?" she cried ; "it is as though my heart were leaving me. I have heard nothing like that in my whole life—nothing so beautiful! I can hardly realise or understand it." "you have read uo such poetry —you have heard no such love story ?" he said. "Love story," said the girl, with lovely, wondering eyes. " Oh, no, I never heard one." " You have heard the sweetest ever told, now," said Nisrel ; "of all the etories in the wide world none please me bo much as this I one of Elaine." "It was very sad," said Lynette. "Are they all as sad as this ?" "No ;--Bome end happily, bnt they are few and far between," replied Nigel. "It would be better to have no story at all than one which ends unhappily," she said, thoughtfully. "I no not know : one of oux beßt poets ' : says not: he sings : " 'Tis better to have lovad and lost, Than never to have loved at aIL" ! " I know no one," said Lynette, "whohas had a love story, so 1 cannot tell." Nigel smiled at the simple words. " I believe," he said, " that every person in the world has at some +ime or other alove story ; no one can escape ; and it is right, for love is the crown of life." He longed to add that a love story would come to her soon, as to all other young and beautiful girls, but he could not bring himself to utter the word, she looked so child-like, so young and fair. Sudlenly he found her lovely eyes looking right in his. " You told me yon were going to stay here a whole month," she said. " Yes, certainly a month; it may be longer, but not less.' , " Then I shell see you again and again ?" she asked. "I cannot tell you what a difference it makes -. to-day has been so bright, and tha honrs so short —everything seems different. I can hardly realize that I have some one to whom I can speak—some one who is kind to me. I—l wieh you were never going away." "I promise you one thing, Lynette," he said. " I will not go away and leave you as you are now. I will do something at least to help you before I go away." " Will you ? lam sure that Heaven sent you tome! How canyon help me.lwonfler ?" "I will find out the way," said Nigel Fielpen ; and he kept his word. j CHAPTER IV. I "TO ME YOU HAVE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FACE IM ALL THE WORLD." There never could have been a more beautiful June; no showers of rain fell to sadden the bright long bays; the de# refreshed the thirsty flowers and grass ; the flowers bloomed and the birds sang; no month was ever so fair and sweet. TJlsdale had never looked more beautil'nl or picturesque. Lynette Estmere was even more at liberty than usual, for Miss Blunt was still ill at Black Tor, and the i housekeeper had injured her foot, so could not leave her room, Throughout the whole of tho e long June days the girl had nothing to occupy her or interest her except her newly found friends. If uhe said in the early morning, " I will take my books out of doors, it ia too warm here," no one whispered, no one even replied, and no one expected t;> see her back until dinner time; and there was no one to ask where she had been, or what shebad done. If from any want of punctuality she was too late to dinner, then something was said, but in any other case, and though the freedom was in one sense delicious, yet ther-3 came with it a sense of loneliness no words can tell. Now all was different. There was something to which she could look forward, there was some one to see, to speak to, someone she thought the wisest and most noble of men. "May I come to-morrow and sit with you while you sketch ?" sheasked him one evening. " May you ? Why, of course you may; you could give me no greater pleasur?," Nigel replied. "Thank yon," she said, simply. "The days on which I spend a few houra with ycu pass quickly. " " Poor child !" he eaid, compassionately.

A great wave of love and pity swept over him ; he longed to take her in his arms and kiss the lonely wistful iace, but he contented himself by saying that she could not give him a greater pleasure. I am going to sketch the old atone cross in the valley to-morrow," he said, " the loneliest nook even in Ulsdale. That is where the shrine of St. Colnmba once stood. I shall take my lunch with me." " I will bring mine," she cried lightly, "if you are willing." " Again you use the wrong word, Lynette. lam not ' willing,' as you phrase it, but delighted." And when he bade her goo.leveniug, he said, " Pray that we may have a fine day to-morrow." "lam sure it will be fine," replied Lynette. " Neither nature nor Heaven would let the rain fall so as to spoil the day I am to spend with you." She was at the old stone cros3 in the valley quite early. It was a day they never forgot. There was not a cloud in the blue sky : the air was laden with perfume, the birds were wild with joy; a thousand flowers bloomed; every sweet summer scent and sound was there. The cross in the valley was a picturesque opot. Once upon a timethe grand old shrine of St. Columba stood there; it had falleu into ruins, and a stone cross had been placed in its stead. Whoever placed the cross there had chosen the loveliest spot in all Englaud for it—just in the midst of the valley, where flowed a beautilul rippHng brook. Great trees overshadowed the cross and the brook ; the long grass was studded with wild-flowers, and the hills that rose round it were crowned with oak trees. She sat down by the brook-side, watching the cool, dark water as it ran swiftly along. The banks were filled with blue forget-me-nots that grew like fringe. It was all so fair, this beautiful world! Even tbongh she was alone, friendless, with the burden of a great sorrow upon her, she felt how beautiful it was. There was no flaw in the golden sunlight, no flaw in the birds' sweet songs. Then she saw him coming rapidly down the hill that led to the valley. His presence completed the spells The sunshine grew more golden, ?;he grass a brighter green. Surely the Httln brook was singing to her of a love-story to be told in the time to come; the birds were busy with tho golden broom ; ! the butterflies hovered round the bluebells.

She did not raise her eyes as he drew nearer; she was afraid of the unutterable gladness that lay in them; she sat quite silent and motionless until he was by her side. " What a perfect day !" he said : " and we are to spend it together. This is just the place, for a picnic ; the water sings as it runs along. I wonder what it has been singing about all these years ?" "It will sing about us now," she said, bending her lovely face over the brook. •' What will it Bay of us ?"he asked. She smiled : but there was something just a little pitiful in her smile. "I cannot quite tell. You see it runs nearer to the old stone cross; in time, no doubt, it will wash some part of the foot away, and by then the waters will be singing of two people who came here once to spend a whole happy day. They -sill tell how the girl was young and lore'ly, and the man strong and kind." " And afterward ?" he said. " Afterwards ?'' she repeated. "I do not know." She gathered a handful of forget-me-nots, and then she flung them one by one into the brook. "Afterward," she added., "it will be the old story You will go to your place ia the world, I shall fine rnino, and we shall forget all a/.i;at the etons cross and the brook—at ieiit, yM told me yesterday that such was the way of tho world, Mr. Fielden." " Did I ? I shall teach you a different lesson to-day," ho replied. "We are to have a regular picnic. I fchAll work hard at my sketch—and a lovely picture it will make : you cm read while I work ; then we will take luncheon together. You do not know what treasures I have in the basket there." '• Nor can you guess what I have ia mine.! , she replied. She helped him with hi 3 pencils and papers so quietly, eo affectionately, that he was delighted. ' "Youwillletme.be near you?" she said "I will not speak, I will not disturb you." She was going to add : " I only wiab. to look at yen." fent she refrained.

! . He made a pretty seat for her among the grass and the meadow-sweet. She weut on with her reading; he was engrossed in hia work; the birds sang around them, and the brook rippled on. Once or twice there came from her beantiful lips a sigh of unutterable content; then slowly the book slipped from her hands, and her eyes sought bis face. How handsome, how brave *d& strong he looked. If she had been his poor relation he would not have left her in a desolate sulitude—he would have cared for her, watched over her. Ah, how different life would have been ior her if she had been his relative. Still she was grateful to Heaven that he was her friend : he looked so so trustworthy, there was unutteaable relief to her in the fact that he had promised to help her. It seemed that now that in some way her troubles rested on him. A deep sigh, that stirred the meadow-sweet in her hands and rer.chea Nigel. He looked up at her hastily. " What is the matter, Lynette ?" he asked. "Nothing—l do not know, I was just wishing something." " What were yon wishing? Better to tell me than to sigh over it in oecret. What is it?" '• I wish." she said, " that I could always be with you." He looked at her most earnestly, his face paling slightly ; but on here there was no flush ; her eyes did not fall before his—it was only the childish wish of an innocent girl. She went on quite calmly : "1 coaid do so much for you—keep your pencils, and papers, and drawings all right. I conld be very useful to you. "I am sure you could, and you would," he said, kindly. " You can be very useful now. Come and tell me what you think of this sketch." « She rose directly, shaking the meadowsweet from her dress, and went to him. "It is beautiful," she said ; " every line is perfect. "■ "Yes," he replied ; "I am sure Lord Estmere will be pleased with this." She drew back with a shudder. " Oh, why," ahe cried, " dg you spoil the sunshine of a day like this by the mention of that name ?" j "I know what I should like to do," said Nigel Fielden. " I should like to sketch you, just as you stand. The sun touches your white dress and your white throat, and turns your hair to gold ; your face is like a flower— like one of those pale-pink roses there. I should like to sketch you as I saw you sitting by the brook-side, your hands filled with forget-me-nots; and if I were an artist, instead of an architect, I would make such a picture of you as the world never saw." Shs was looking at him in amaze. i "Shonldl."she asked—"should I make such a picture as that ?" "You would, indeed," he replied. "My mother was beautiful," she savl, slowly ; " every one said so. Her face was fair, and her eyes so sweet; but no one ever told me I was like her." "I do not know whether you are like her or no<;," he replied ; "but, to me, you have the n-ost beautiful face in all the world !" "Have 1? I am glad. Then you will always remember me," she said, thoughtfully. "Always," he replied, briefly. "And now that my sketch is finished, we will hav<> luncheon. Nay," he said, as she began to make preparations, "I shall wait upon you, not you upon me," By the brook-6ide, on the lowest stone of the old cross, he laid out the pretty luncheon, just suited to the taste of a younn girl. As a crowning surprise, he produced a dish of strawberries. " They are the first I have seen this year ; I kneiV you would like them." It was a happy hour spent under the shade of the great trees, with the music of the running waters and the murmur of the winds. Then Nigel proposed that they should follow where the brook led, and see what became of it. So they walked through-miles of beautiful woodland, and they forgot all the outer | world—all its cares and troubles—everything except themselves and the marvellous beauty of the Junb day. The brook raa'into the river, and the river ran on to the sea ; but neither the brook nor river whispered to them of what their lives would widen into, or of the mysterious fate that hung over them. [To be continued.]