HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XL, Issue 12281, 27 May 1903, Page 1 (Supplement)

HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

BY CHARLES GARVICE, Author of " Nell of Shorne Mills," "A Coronet of Shame." " The Story of a Passion," etc., etc.

CHAPTER VI. With relief Muriel accepted Mr. Heatherbridge's absence and welcomed Air. Leigh's acquaintance with a corresponding amount of pleasure. It was an acquaintance that grew rapidly, for after that meeting in the meadowthey ran across one another frequently. The spring grew into summer, with all that delicious splendour of progress which Nature alone enjoys and art pants for in vain. The fields had clothed themselves with a fine warp and woof of green, waving wheat and bar.ey, the meadows were ankle-deep in sweet-scented grass and purple clover. Down by the brook at the back of the HoTme the meads had taken unto themselves garments of gold, and the buttercups were nodding and laughing in the open glades OH Hopwood. Ail the Solomons or all the silk looms of Lyons, in all their glory, could not rival the beauty of the modest wild flowers that Muriel crushed beneath her light, graceful feet at every step, and high in the heavens the lark and the blackbird, the starling and the thrush laughed the sweetest of human minstrels to scorn, and trolled out defiance mingled with pity, as if saying: "Sing on, ye children of the earth, ye pigmies. We sing at the gates of heaven !" in all this beauty the bright English girl and the hard-working, open-hearted, solitary man met often. There were pauses in the daily toil for a little rest, a little pleasure, and their rest and pleasure they took often by the brook. Habit is second nature, and as the afternoon wore round Wvnter Leigh grew unconsciously to think and long for a seat on the fallen elm by the babbling stream, and wending thither was almost sure to find Muriel there, seated, perhaps, book in hand, or standing by the stream and listening to its murmurs. Thus meeting, they talked and grew confidential. Wvnter Leigh, with the candour of a simple, truthful nature, gradually found a nameless delight in opening his mind to the eager ears of the beautiful, sympatheticeyed girl. * He talked of his old home, of his dead people; she listened eagerly and shed tears unseen; she suffered with him. He talked of his favourite dogs, of some ludicrous scene in the Northern kitchen; she laughed with him. He talked again of his hopes, of the luck lie- had found in his cattle; she rejoiced with him. The stream was only one resting-place, and through all its windings and meandering, though it seems tc have forgotten its' far-away home, it is ever tearing down to the ocean. Such intercourse as this, stray and wander from the straight course as it might, had only one bourne, and that was love. One morning Wynter Leigh woke with the truth flashed into his soul.

He loved Muriel Holt. She was the earth's gladness, and without her life had lost its salt. To such a man, earnest, single-purposed, such a consciousness was momentous.

He carried the secret with him for three days, looked at his sheep, trampled across his fields, plucked ears of growing corn, with it echoing in his mind and thrilling in his ears with each note of the birds. On the fourth day he met Muriel, and his heart seemed to leap forth and claim her as its own. "Well," he said, as they shook hands, "I thought yon had neglected the old haunt —had grown tired of —" " And me," he inmost added, but stopped short. " No," she said; " I shall never do that, but I have been busy. I am father's housekeeper, as well as his daughter." He nodded. "I know." Muriel seated herself on the fallen elm; Wynter Leigh threw himself down almost at her feet; the crushed buttercups clung to him reproachfully but unheeded. ' Two or three days after Farmer Holt, standing at the entrance of the avenue, was stricken with astonishment at the appearance of a large drove of cattle making, apparently, straight for him. He cleared out of the way slowly and like one in a dream. "Whose beasts are these, my man.' lie shouted. "For the Holme Farm," replied the driver, and the farmer was about to assure him that there was a mistake when the apparition of old William's stolid face at the tail of the procession satisfied him that his neighbour, Mr. Leigh, was "going heavily into milk." With a groan, for he could not but think of the daily transit, of four hundred hoofs through his dearly-loved avenue, he trudged off, pulling up, however, before he had got far away in response to a, panting voice calling him by name. The summons proved to proceed from the aristocratic lungs of Mr. Vandike, who, very much, out of breath and otherwise discomposed, came up, wiping his face with an immaculate handkerchief. "By Jove, Mr. Holt, how you walk! I saw you at the end of the lane, and thought I should catch you up easily, but your stride put me to shame. Awful Sot, isn't it?" "It is uncommon healthy hot," retorted the fanner, who was not in the humour lo relish fashionable adjectives. " It's ripening the corn, if that be awful." "Ah, just so; excuse me, I'm not up to fanning; andandby the way, can vou give me a minute?" "What am I doing now?" asked the farmer, not rudely, but with simple astonishment.

"Eh—eh? I meant in private, but this is private enough," looking round and seeing no one but a ploughman halt' a mile off. "I'm going to ask a. favour of you —the greatest favour you could grant, Mr. Holt—and, in short, I've put it off for some time becausewell —I'm not a good hand at this sort of tiling: in fact, I've never done it before. Mr. Holt, you know my position pretty well; I'm an enthusiast at my art, and I think I may say that I stand a fair chance of turning out successful. You know they've hung me at the Academy this year" Farmer Holt stopped in his trudge and stared at the artistic features, as if he feared their owner had token leave of his senses, though not his life. " Bless the man!" he exclaimed, shaking his head, as if the puzzle were too much for him. "Hung you at the Academy! What 011 earth do you mean?* " I mean my picture, of course," explained Mr. Vandike, more confused and embarrassed tlian ever. " I mean my picture, of course—and that's a great honour for a young rtist, sir. The critics, too, speak "well of it, and I have made a step forward in my career. I'm not a poor man, either, as times go, Mr. Holt, and, in short, I am come to ask you to give me your daughter, Miss Muriel."

Farmer Holt stopped as if he had been shot, in the back, pulled round and confronted the artist as if he were some monster in a- show.

"Give —you —myMuriel he repeated, slowly. Then tramping on again as he spoke: "Young sir, you're as mad as a March hare."

Mr. Vandike, too astounded at the reception of the proposal to speak for a moment or two, almost ran at his side, silent. " Well," said Farmer Holt, turning to him, " haven't you gone yet? Give you my daughter Muriel? Not if there weren't- another man in the country. Mi'. Vandike, I don't mean any offence, but whan my girl marries she'll many a farmer. That's a sort of man 1 understand ; he grows corn and trees, and owns fields and farms. I'll never consent to hex marrying a man who only liaints 'em." Mr. Vandike opened his month and shut it again. " Are you serious, Mr. Holt? he said, fumbling for his glasses,, as another man

would have fumbled for his stick or his sword. " That I am, and no doubt of it," said the farmer. "But look you here," he added, thoughtfully, " don't take any offence, for, on my honour, I don't mean any, and you know it. Simply, I don't-understand artists and artist's ways. My girl's a simple country —true of heart, mind you, and as good as a parson— she don't understand them, either, and I know she wouldn't be happy with them, so think no more about it, because I tell you I won't give my consent, and I know her too well to fear shell marry without it." " But," urged the enamoured artist, " surely you will let me try my fortune with Miss Holt, sir—if I have*had the good fortune to gain her heart you will at least give me time? I'll turn farmer if you like anythingbut let me hear from her own lips that there is no hope for me." The farmer thought iur a moment. " Well, so you shall," he said, quietly; " on one condition, and that is if Muriel says no you pack up and make studies of cows and trees in another county. Come, it is not a very hard bargain, young man, for you're not very hot on the lot, you know." And he looked the artist full in the face.

Mr. Vandike coloured—truth always tells but would not admit that he was lukewarm, and without a word tinned off to the farm.

He found Muriel sitting at the window working—or, rather, resting from work, for her sweet face was leaning upon her hand and her eyes fixed on the table thoughtlessly. Mr. Vandike fancied that he saw tears in them, but Muriel looked up so merrily and smiled so happily that he was sure he had been mistaken, and put the fancy down to his embarrassment.

" Miss Holt. I've just seen your father," he said, fumbling for his eyeglass, which, from the first moment of his proposal, had slipped over his shoulder and added to his confusion. "He sent me to you—" "Yes," said Muriel. "Has he left anything behind? What is it?" "No, no!" said Mr. Vandike. "I asked him a question, and at first he said no, but afterwards he agreed if you would say yes lie would change it to yes, too." "Well," said Muriel, taking up her work, all unconscious. "And, pray; what was it? Do you want to take my new colt?" "No," said Mr. Vandike, fumbling for his eyeglass and taking out his crested handkerchief nervously. ' "No; I want to take you, my dear Miss Holt." " Me!" said Muriel, - '""i can't spare the time, you know, for a full-length picture, Mr. Vandike."

" Not for a picture, but for my wife, dear Muriel," said Mi". Vandike, leaning on the table. • '

Muriel dropped her work and looked up, pale, troubled and sad. " Oil, Mr. Vandike," she said, in her low, grave voice. " I am so sorry! Oh, say you are nob in. earnest; it is only one of your horrid jokes! Ddn't look so serious! You cannot, tell how grieved I shall be if you are unhappy! But you are not serious, are you?" " Oh, yes, I am," said Mr. Vandike, shaking his head, with a sigh. " Don't you say no; please don't. I'm such an unlucky fellow always. The thing never will come right when I want it, and I never can get the shadows in ; there's always something comes and spoils my picture. Now I've got hung at the Academy you won't spoil my pleasure by saving no, Miss Muriel, surely!'" Muriel, with the instinct of her womanhood, knew that the wound was only skin deep, and that his love for her was of that kind which, in artistic jargon, he would have called " half tint," so she acted on the impulse of the moment and wisely. " Sir. Vandike," she said, " I'm a. simple country girl, a farmer's daughter; you are the nephew of a lord, a gentleman and an artist. Look me in the face and tell me as a gentleman and an artist if you think in, your heart of hearts I am a fit wife for you. There is nothing in common between lis. You would tire of me— what you fancy iii me—before a month had passed, and Would sigh for a proper companion in one of the great London ladies, who understand your life and its purposes. Am I speaking too wisely for such an ignorant I can only say what I feel. Dear Sir. Vandike, _ we have been so happy together, but if I thought you really loved me I should be miserable for every merry hour we have so enjoyed. You don't love me — no, ,110 — you know you don't! And- I know you don't. And" you von't make me unhappy by pretending to be very much hurt when I say what dear father has said already." Mr. Vandike blew his nose very heartily and looked out of the window. Muriel laid her hand gently on his. " You have forgiven me for speaking so forward]}'," she said, " and we shall part friends?" " That we shall, Miss Holt," said the voting gentleman, suddenly removing his gaze to her face and grasping her hand. " And— I shouldn't be acting honourably if I didn't say that I think you've right, after all. Not that you lire not worthy to be the wife of a king", butbut that I don't love vou half so well as you deserve, though if I stayed hove within sight of you another dav," lie added, earnestly, "by Jove! I should love you all that and a trifle over. So I'll go, -<nd I wish you a better man. Miss Holt, good-bye." "Good-bye," said Muriel, and she struggled against her tears, for she knew the worth of the heart that beat beneath the veneer of fashion and London manners —" good-bye. We shall meet again, I feel sure, and then be better friends than ever. You will be a great man, whom your wife will be proud of, and I shall cry over every success you make— there! I m almost crying now. Good-bye." "Good-bve," said Mr. Vandike, shaking her hand again, and away lie went, stopping, however, at the corner to look back and mutter : " I'm half afraid I do love her now, by jingo! I wish 1 had a study of her in sepia to i:i'v over." Muriel, though she had no sepia sketch of Mr. Vandike, had a good cry, not over her departed lover but for him who was near at. riand and for herself, who was so unhappy as to have so many proposing suitors when the favoured one was compelled to holu his peace. iti came the farmer and found her, not m tears, but scarcely recovered from them. Well, lass," lie said, eyeing her earnestly, "that artist fellow is packing up his traps and is off to London. Has lie been to say good-bye?" "Yes, father." said Muriel, and her tears threatened again. " Hem !" said the. farmer, chuckling, bee what it is to have a pretty face, , lass. Fveiy idiot on the highway fancies himself in love with it. Hut dry your eyes, my dear, there's good corn among the weeds, heaven be praised, and a fair sample is coming this way. Alfred comes back to-night."

Muriel started. Another and harder trouble was approaching her. " Mr. Heatherbridge coming from London to-night?" she said, in that absent way one uses when speaking because .speech is expected of us. "Yes, Mr. Heatherbridge," repeated the farmer, coining behind her, and laying his hand gently on her head. "But why so cold and stately, lass? A little while ago it was '• Alfred,' sweet and kind like, now it's Mr. Heatherbridge, prim as a parish clerk. Oh, I see,' The maiden coy slipped down the vale.' What's that old song your poor mother used to sing, something about the milking-pail? Here, by-tbe-bye, that sets me off again. What'lF you think, lass, of our neighbour, young Leigh?" Muriel's heart leaped, and her head drooped lower over the needle.

What has he done, father?" she said, in a low voice.

" Took a drove of stock, a hundred cows if there was one, tramping down the avenue like the beasts of Noah's Ark. Oh, why didn't I buy that farm and so be rid of it?" And lie- groaned. "Why didn't you, father?" asked Muriel, afraid to remain silent, yet knowing not what to sav.

"Why, eh? Because I iidn't," said the farmer. " Perhaps I had something else to do with the money, lass," and he stroked the beautiful jead. " Perhaps I'm a fond old idiot —indeed, as Alfred 'ud say, most like I am. But there, you love your old father, lassie, dear, don't you?" Muriel turned and threw her arms round his neck without a word. She cpuld not trust herself to speak. (To be continued on Saturday next.)