The Storyteller.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 426, 10 April 1880, Page 5

The Storyteller.

THAT LASS O' LOWRIE'S.

(By F. H. Burnett.) CHAPTER XIIT.- -(Continued.) JOAN AND THE PICTURE.

After this, Miss Barholm was rarely absent from her place at the school. The two evenings always found her at work among her young women, and she made very steady progress among them. By degrees the enterprise was patronised more freely. New pupils dropped in, and were usually so well satisfied, that they did not drop out again. Grace gave all the credit to Anice, but Anice knew better than to accept it. She had been his " novelty," she said ; time only would prove whether her usefulness was equal to her power of attraction. She had been teaching in the school about three weeks, when a servant came to her one night as she sat reading, with the information that a young woman wanted to see her. " A fine-looking young woman, Miss," added the girl. " I put her into your room, as you gave orders." The room was a quiet place, away from the Bounds of the house, which had gradually come to be regarded as Miss Barholm's. It was not a large room, but it was a pretty one. with wide windows and a good view, and as Anice liked it, her possessions drifted into it until they filled it, —her books and pictures,— and as she spent a good deal of hev time there, it was invariably spoken of as her room, and she had given orders to the servants that her village visitors should be taken' to it when they came.

Carrying her book in her hand she went upstairs. She had been very much interested in what she was reading, and' had hardly time to change the channel of her thoughts. But when she opened the door, she was brought back to earth at once.

Against the end wall was suspended a picture of Christ in the last agony, and beneath it was written, "It is finished." Before it, as Anice opened the door, stood Joan Lowrie, with Liz's sleeping child on her bosom. She had come upon the picture suddenly, and it had seized on some deep reluctant emotion. She had heard some vague history of the Man ; but it was different to find herself in this silent room, confronting the upturned face, the crown, the cross, the anguish and the mystery. She turned toward Anice, forgetting all else but her emotion. She even looked at her foi a few seconds in questioning silence, as if waiting for an answer to words she had not spoken.

When she found her voice, it was of the picture she spoke, not of the real object of her visit.

"Tha knows," she said, "I dunnot, though I've heerd on it afore. What is it as is finished ? I dunnot quite see. What is it ? "It means," -aaid Anice, " that God's Son has finished His work."

Joan did not speak. " I have no words of my own to explain," continued Anice. " I can tell you better in the word 3 of the men who loved Him and saw Him die." Joan turned to her.

'■ Saw Him dee .'" she repeated. " There were men who saw Him when He died, you know," said Anice. "The New Testament tells us how. It is as real as the picture, I think. Did you never read it ?" The girl's face took an expression of distrust and sullenness.

"Th' Bible has na been i' my loine," she answered; "I've left that to th'parsons an' th' loike ; but th' pictur' tuk' my eye. It seemt different."

"Let us sit down," said Anice, "you will be tired of standing." When they sat down, Anice began to talk about the child, who was sleeping, lowering her voice for fear of disturbing it. Joan regarded the little thing with a look of halfsubdued pride.

" I browt it because I knowed it ud be easier wi' me than wi' Liz," she said. "It worrits Liz an' it neer worrits me. I'm so strong, yo' see, I can carry it, an' scarce feel its weight, but it wears Liz out, an' it seems to me a 3 it knows it too, for th' minute she begins to fret it frets too." There was a certain shamefacedness in her manner, when at last she began to explain the object of her errand. Anice cnuld not help fancying that she was impelled on her course by some motive whose influence she reluctantly submitted to. She had come to speak about the night school.

" Theer wur a neet skoo here once afore as I went to,", she said ; " I larnt to read theer an' write a bit, but—but theer's other things I'd loike to know. Tha canst understand," Bhe added a little abruptly, " I need na tell you. Little Jud Bates said as yo' had a class o' yore own, an' it comn into my moind as I would ax yo' about it. If Igo to th' skoo 1— I'd loike to be wi' you." " You can come to me," said Anice. " And do you know, I think you can help me." This thought had occurred to her suddenly. "I am sure you can help me," she repeated. When Joan at last started to go away, she paused before the picture, hesitating for a moment, and then she turned to Anice again. " Yo' say as th' book makes it seem real as th' pictur' ?" she said.

" It seems so to me," Anice answered. " Will yo' lend me th' book ?" she asked abruptly.

Anice's own Bible lay upon a side-table. She took it up and handed it to the girl, saying simply—

" I will give you this one if you will take it. It was mine."

And Joan carried the book away with her.

CHAPTER XIV. THE OPEN " DAVY."

" Mester Derik,

" Th' rooJs is been broak agen on th' quiet bi them as broak em afore i naim no naimes an wudnt say nowt but our loifes is in danger And more than one, i Only ax yo' tu Wach out. I am Respekfully.

" A HONEST MAN Wi' A FAMLY TU FEDE."

The engineer found this letter near his plate one morning on coming down to breakfast. His landlady explained that her daughter had picked it up inside the garden gate, where it had been thrown upon the gravel-walk, evidently from the road. Derrick read it twice or three times before putting it in his pocket. Upon the whole, he was not unprepared for the intelligence. He knew enough of human nature—such human nature as Lowrie represented—to feel sure that the calm could not continue. If for the present the man did not defy him openly, he would disobey him in secret, while biding his time for other means of retaliation. Derrick had been on the look out for some effort at revenge ; but so far since the night Joan had met him upon the road, Lowrie outwardly had been perfectly quiet and submissive.

After reading the letter, Derrick made up his mind to prompt and decisive measures, and set about considering what these measures should be. There was only one certain means of redress and safety—Lowrie must be got rid of at once. It would not be a difficult matter either. There was to be a meeting of the owners that very week, and Derrick had reports to make, and the mere mention of the violation of the rules would be enough. " Bah ! " he said aloud. "It is not pleasant ; but it must be done."

The affair had several aspects, rendering it unpleasant; but Derrick shut his eye 3 to them resolutely. It seemed, too, that it was not destined that he should have reason to remain undecided. That very day he was confronted with positive proof that the writer of the anonymous warning was an honest man, with an honest motive.

During the morning, necessity called him away from his men to a side gallery, and entering this gallery, he found himself behind a man who stood at one side close to the wall, his Davy lamp open, his pipe applied to the flame. It was Dan Lowrie, and his stealthy glance over his shoulder revealing to him that he was discovered, he turned with an oath. " Shut that lamp," said Derrick, " and give me your false key." Lowrie hesitated, " Give me that key," Derrick repeated, " or I will call the gang in the next gallery and see what they have to say about the matter." " Dem yore eyes ! does tha think as my toime 'll nivver coom ? "

But he gave up the key. . " When it comes," he said, " I hope I shall be ready to help myself. Now I've got only one thing to do. I gave you fair warning, and asked you to act the man toward your fellows. You have played the scoundrel instead, and I have clone with you. I shall report you. That's the end of it."

He went on his way, and left the man uttering curses under his breath. If there had not been workers near at hand, Derrick might not have got away so easily. Among the men in the next gallery there were some who were no friends to Lowrie, and who would have give him rough handling if they had caught him just at that moment, and the fellow knew it. Toward the end of the week, the owners came, and Derrick made his report. The result was just what he had known it would be. Explosions had been caused before by transgressions of the rules, and explosions were expensive and disastrous affairs. Lowrie received his discharge, and his fellow-workmen a severe warning, to the secret consternation of some among them. That the engineer of the new mines was a zealous and really amiable young man, if rather prone to innovations, became evident to his employers. But his innovations were not encouraged. So, notwithstanding his arguments, the blast-furnace 3 held their own, and " for the present," as the easy-natured manager put it, other matters even more important were set aside.

" There is much to be done, Derrick," he said ; " really so much that requires time and money, that we must wait a little. ' Rome, &c.'"

"Ah, 'Rome'" returned Derrick. "lam sometimes of the opinion that Rome had better never been built at all. You will not discharge your imperfect apparatus for the same reason that you will discharge a collier—which is hardly fair to the collier. Your blast-furnaces expose the miners to as great danger as Lowrie's pipe. The presence of either may bring about an explosion when it is least expected." "Well, well," was the good-natured response; "we have not exploded yet; and we have done away with Lowrie's pipe." Derrick carried the history of his ill success to Anice, somewhat dejectedly. " All this is discouraging to a man," said Derrick, and then he added meditatively, "As to the rest, I wonder what Joan Lowrie will think of it."

A faint sense of discomfort fell upon Anice not exactly easy to understand. The color fluttered to her cheek and her smile died away. But she did not speak—merely waited to hear what Derrick had to say. He had nothing more to say about Joan Lowrie. When he recovered himself, as he did almost immediately, he went back to the discussion of his pet plans, and was very eloquent on the subject. Going home one evening, Derrick found himself at a turn of the road only a few paces behind Joan. He had thought much of her of late, and wondered whether she was able to take an utterly unselfish view of his action. She had a basket upon her arm and looked tired. He strode up to her side and Bpoke to her without ceremony.

"Let me carry that," he said. "It is too heavy for you." The sun was setting redly, so perhaps it was the sunset that flung its color upon her face as dhe turned to look at him.

" Thank yo'," she answered. " I'm used to carryin' such-loike loads." ■' But he took her burden from her, and even if she had wished to be left to herself she had no redress, and accordingly submitted. Influences long at work upon her had rendered her less defiant than she had been in the past. There was an element of quiet in her expression, such as Derrick had not seen when her beauty first caught his attention. They walked together silently for awhile. " I should like to hear you say that you do not blame me," said Derrick, at last, abruptly. She knew what he meant, it was evident. " I conna blame yo' fur doin' what were reet," she answered. *

" Right—you thought it right ?" " Why should na I ? Yo' couldna ha' done no other."

" Thank you for saying that," he returned. " I have thought once or twice that you might have blamed me."

" I did na know," was her answer. " I did na know as I had done owt to mak' yo' think so ill of me.

He did not find further comment easy. He felt, as he had felt before, that Joan had placed him at a disadvantage. He bo often made irritating mistakes in his efforts to read her, and in the end he seldom found that he had made any advance. Anice Barholm, with her problems and her moods, was far less difficult to comprehend than Joan Lowrie. Liz was at the cottage door when they parted, and Liz's eyes had curiosity and wonder in them when she met her friend.

"Joan," she said, peering over the door-sill at Derrick's retreating figure, "is na that one o' th' mesters ? la na it the Lunnon engineer, Joan ?"

" Yes," Joan answered briefly. The pretty silly creature's eyes grew larger, with a shade of awe.

"Is na it th' one as yore feyther's so bitter agen 1" " Yes."

" An' is na he a gentleman ? He dnnnot look loike a workin' mon. His cloas dunnot fit him like common foak's. He mun be a gentleman." " I've heerd foak ca' him one ; an' if his cloas fit him reet, he mun be one, I suppose." Liz looked after him again. " Aye," she sighed, " he's a gentleman sure enow. I've seed gentlemen enow to know th' look on 'em. Did " hesitating fearfully, but letting her curiosity get the better of her discretion nevertheless —" did he court thee, Joan ?"

The next moment she was frightened into wishing she had not asked the question. Joan turned round and faced her suddenly, pale and wrathful.

" Nay, he did na," she said. "lam na a lady, an' he is what tha ca's him—a gentleman."

CHAPTER XV. A DISCOVERY.

The first time that Joan appeared at the night school, the men and girls looked up from their tasks to stare at her, and whisper among themselves ; but she was, to all appearances, oblivious of their scrutiny, and the flurry of curiosity and excitement soon died out, After the firsf visit her place was never vacant. On the nights appointed for the classes to meet, she came, did the work allotted to her, and went her way again, pretty much as she did at the mines. * When in due time Anice began to work out her plan of co-operation with her, she was not disappointed in the fulfilment of her hopes. Gradually it became a natural thing for a slow and timid girl to turn to Joan Lowrie for help. As for Joan's own progress, it -was not long before Miss Barholm began to regard the girl with a new wonder. She was absolutely amazed to find out how much she was learning, and how much she learned, working on silently and by herself. She applied herself to her tasks with a determination which seemed at times almost feverish. " I mun learn," she said to Anice once. " I will," and she closed her hand with a sudden nervous strength. Then again there were times when her courage seemed to fail her, though she never slackened her efforts.

" Dost tha think," she said, " dost tha think as I could ivver learn as much as tha knows thycen ? Does tha think a workin' lass ivver did learn as much as a lady ? " " I think," said Anice, " that you can do anything you try to do." By very slow degrees she had arrived at a discovery which a less close observer might have missed altogether, or at least only arrived at much later in the day of experience. Anice's thoughts were moved in this direction the night that Derrick Blipped into that half soliloquy about Joan. She might well be startled. This man and woman could scarcely have been placed at a greater distance from each other, and yet those half dozen words of Fergus Derrick's had suggested to his hearer that each, through some undefined attraction, was veering toward the other. Neither might be aware of this ; but it was surely true. Little as social creeds influenced Anice, she could not close her eyes to the incongruous—the unpleasant features of this strange situation. And, besides, there was a more intimate and personal consideration. Her own feeling toward Fergus Derrick was friendship at first, and then she had suddenly awakened and found it something more. That had startled her, too, but it had not alarmed her till her eyes were opened by that accidental speech of Derrick's. After that, she saw what both Derrick and Joan were themselves blind to. Setting her own pain aside, she stood apart, and pitied both. As for herself, she was glad that she had made the discovery before it was too late. She knew that there might have been a time when it would have been too late. As

it was, she drew back, —with a pang, to be sure ; but still she could draw back. " I have made a mistake," she said to herself in secret ; but it did not occur to her to visit the consequences of the mistake upon any other than.herself. The bond of sympathy between herself and Joan Lowrie only seemed to increase in strength. Meeting oftener, they were knit more closely, and drawn into deeper faith and friendship. With Joan, emotion was invariably an undercurrent. She had trained herself to a stubborn stoicism so long, and with such determination, that the habit of complete self-con-trol had become a second nature, and led her to hold the world aloof. It was with something of secret wonder' that she awoke to the consciousness of the fact that she was not holding Anice Barholm aloof, and that there was no necessity for doing so. She even found that she was being attracted toward her, and was submitting to her influence as to a spell. She did not understand at first, and wondered if it would last ; but the nearer she was drawn to the girl, the less doubting and reluctant she became. There was no occasion for doubt, and her proud suspiciousness melted like a cloud in the spring sunshine. Having armed herself against patronage and curiosity, she encountered earnest friendship and good faith. She was not patronised, she was not asked questions, she was left to reveal as much of herself as she chose, and allowed to retain her own secrets as if they were her own property. So she went and came to and from the Rectory ; and from spending a few minutes in Anice's room, at last fell into the habit of spending hours there. In this little room the books, and pictures, and other refinements appealed to senses unmoved before. She drew in some fresh experience with almost every breath.

One evening, after a specially discouraging day, it occurred to Grace that he would go and see Joan ; and dropping in upon her on his way back to town, after a visit to a parishioner who lived upon the high-road, he found the girl sitting alone—sitting as she often did, with the child asleep upon her knee ; but this time with a book lying close to its hand and her own. It was Anice's Bible.

" Will yo' set down ? " she said, in a voice whose sound was new to him. "Theer's a chair as yo' con tak'. I conna' move fur fear o' wakenin' th' choild. I'm fain to see yo' tonoet."

He took the chair and thanked her, and waited for her next words. Only a few moments she was silent, and then she looked up at him.

" I ha' been readin' th' Bible," she said, as in desperation. " I dunnot know why, unless happen some un stronger nor me set me at it. Happen it coom out o' settin here wi' th' choild. An'—well, queer enow, I coom reet on summat about childer, —that little un as he took and set i' th' midst o" them, an' then that theer when he said ' Suffer th' little childer to coom unto me.' Do yo' say aw that's true ? I nivver thowt on it afore, —but somehow I should na loike to think it war na. Nay, I should na !" Then, after a moment's pause—" I nivver troubled mysen wi' readin' th' Bible afore," she went on, "I ha' na lived wi' th' Bible soart ; but now—well that theer has stirred me up. If he said that —if he said it hissen— Ah ! mester," —and the words breaking from her were an actual cry,—" Aye, mester, look at th' little un here ! I munnot go wrong—l munnot, if he said it hissen ! " He felt his heart beat quick, and his pulses throb. Here was the birth of a soul ; here in his hands perhaps lay the rescue of two immortal beings. God help him !he cried inwardly. God help him to deal rightly with this woman. He found words to utter, and uttered them with courage and with faith. What words it matters not, —but he did not fail. Joan listened wondering, and in a passion of fear and belief.

She clasped her arms about the child almost as if seeking help from it, and wept. " I munnot go wrong," she said over and over again. " How could I hold th' little un back, if he said hissen as she mun coom ? If it's true as he said that, I'll believe aw th' rest an' listen to yo'. * Forbid them not ' Nay, but I wunnot—l could na' ha' th' heart."

(To "be continued.)

We hear from Taupo, says the Daily Telegraph, that Tongariro is in a state of volcanic eruption, emitting vast volumes of smoke, and showing a lurid glare at night. It is now nearly eleven years since Tongariro was in a state of extreme eruption. The Auckland correspondent of the Otago Daily Times writing of the local Volunteers says :—" Half the corps have been raised by vainglorious swash-bucklers who have desired to have a commission, and having obtained their ambition, paid no further heed to the welfare of their respective corps. Men who cannot control themselves can scarcely be expected to command others." Adelina Patti, on her recent arrival in Dresden, was met at the railway station by a party of her admirers. Their spokesman, a general, handed her a beautiful bouquet, and was about to deliver an address, when the impressario of the prima donna approached him and said : " Your Excellency, please postpone the agreeable task of addressing madam, for in the draught she may easily catch a dreadful cold in the head, and every such accident costs me 16,000 marks." Referring to the recent disorderly conduct of certain Volunteers at Christchurch, the Globe says :—" A suspicion is gaining ground that the discipline of our Volunteer force is not of the best. Such occurrences as have of late taken place at Ashburton and Napier ought not to be allowed to pass unheeded, as a shock is thereby given to the whole system. If demonstrations and reviews are looked upon merely in the light of a ' spree' the sooner they are put a stop to the better. The Legislature has not voted money to enable Volunteers to air their uniforms and to visit the various towns on pleasure bent."