Chapter IV. BLIND MAN'S BUFF.

Otago Witness, Issue 1148, 29 November 1873, Page 23

Chapter IV. BLIND MAN'S BUFF.

Sylvia speedily left her corner, tired of watching the little groups of people stop to shake hands and talk to one another for five minutes or so, as if the world held no greater affection than the love that bound them, and then soparate and stroll away, to exchange the same enthusiastic greetings with other groups. A birds-eye view of the Hedingham school bazaar conduced somewhat to the idea that there was something hollow in polite society. People smiled so incessantly, and seemed so inexpressibly glad to see one another ; yet Sylvia saw some of those very enthusiastic yawn rather drearily when the gaze of society was off them.

She went back to the middle of the orchard, where the children were playing blind man's buff. They entreated her to join this sport, nay besought her with such earnestness — the Vicar himself being, as it were, master of the ceremonies, and some of the elderly young ladies joining in the juvenile play with gushing vivacity — that she could hardly refuse. She' yielded reluctantly, but with a tolerable grace, and very soon afterwards was seized upon by a hulking boy, who put his imigh hands over her face and head, fastened his claws triumphantly upon her coronet of shining plaits, and bawled out that he had caught Miss Carew.

Upon this the handkerchief was bound over Sylvia's eyes, and after being asked same absurd question about her father's horses, she was twisted round three times by the Vicar's friendly hand, and told to catch whom she could. She did not enter into the game with much spirit, so the elderly ladies remarked to each other maliciously. Such simple sports had no attraction for Sylvia Carew, they said, since there were no young gentlemen to admire her.

Sylvia did indeed glide about somewhat listlessly among the gnarled trunks of the apple and cherry trees, more fearful of wounding her face against the crooked branches than eager to capture one of the revellers. She stretched out her arms now and then feebly, and tried to pierce the folds of the handkerchief, and even raised her head to look under it, but the Vicar had made his bandage secure. Justice herself was not blinder than Sylvia Carew.

Presently the boys and girls grew quieter. There was less screaming and bawling at every doubtful step she took among the trees. She fancied she heard strange voices — the voices of gentry talking at a little distance, one voice with a low languid tone that Avas new to her, and different from most of the Hedingham voices, lacking that fine hearty loudness which distinguished the natives of the land.

She groped on wearily, giving her head no more than one bump against the rugged branches, whose rough bark caught and dragged her hair, but reached nothing with her outspread arms except those interlacing boughs which seemed to encounter her everywhere, dense as the undergrowth of that dreadful forest where the torn trees rained blood. She was beginning to be very tired, and to long for the summons to prepare the tea tables ; — anything so that she were but released from this hateful game— when some one came plump into her arms.

She clasped the some one eagerly, and was immediately saluted by a great hurrah, in which the vicar's voice joined heartily, as if she had clone something wonderful in catching , this person. It was neither boy nor girl belonging to the parish school. No starched cotton frock, no corduroy jacket encountered her curious fingers, but the finest, smoothest broadcloth, the soft velvet collar of a gentleman's coat.

Was it Edmund Standen? Her first thought was of him ; her light fingers trembled upon the garment which they wandered over. No, it was some one who was neither so tall nor so big as Edmund. Her lifted hand touched his tincovered head.^ The soft silky hair was smooth and thin, not thick and wavy like Edmund's.

" I don't know who it is," she said helplessly, disappointed at discovering that it was not Edmund Standen, although after what he had said she had no reason to expect him. But love and reason do not always go hand in hand.

" Then you must pay forfeit," cried the shrill voice of a bold big boy ; the kind of boy whom nothing can abash. "And what is the forfeit?" asked the

voice of the prisoner — the same lowlanguid tones Sylvia had noticed & few minutes ago. " A kiss !" bawled the irrepressible boy. '* Then I venhire to claim my privilege," said the gentleman, and a moustachioed lip touched Sylvia's very lightly. It was the reverential salute of a corteous knight.

A gentle hand loosened the bandstge, and she found herself standing almost in the centre of the orchard, face to face •with an elderly gentleman ; the vicar, the boys and girla, and elderly young ladies all lookiag wi. The gentleman was a stranger, a man of between fifty and sixty, nearer perhaps to the later decade than to the earlier, a man with a certain elegance of bearing and appearance that was new to Sylvia, a man with a long oval face, and that regular caste of feature which seems to bear the stamp of high blood, a face not unlike the portrait of Charles the First, or rather tliat kind of face grown older, with smooth silver grey hair parted on the high narrow forehead, and a long drooping moustache shading the thin lips. The eyes were blue, and looked kindly at Sylvia, nay, more than kindly, admiringly. That admiring glance brought a vivid blush into the girl's fair face. She was not sorry that the little world of Hedingham. should see her admired by this stranger, who seemed a person of distinction. "Fairly caught, I think, Sir Aubrey," said the vicar, chuckling. Sylvia gave a little start, and looked up :"at the stranger with those splendid haze! eyes that had bewitched Edmund Standen — eyes which were lovely enough to subjugate even those colder critics who depreciated the schoolmaster's daughter. She looked up at the elderly gentleman ■with unconcealed surprise. This was Sir Aubrey Perriam, then, and it was his presence which had caused that flutter of excitement in the orchard, an alertness in the manner of the Vicar and his little band of spinsters, a respectful hush among the children who stood in a wide ring, staring their utmost and breathing harder than ever.

"Fairly caught," repeated the Vicar, pleased that the great landowner should join so pleasantly in these village sports. It would lead doubtless to a handsome subscription to the school fund. "Fairly caught, I admit," said Sir Aubrey's softer tones, as he bent down •with a chivalrous air and kissed the little hand that hung helplessly at Sylvia's side. This touch of old-world gallantry thrilled her with a new sense of triumph. She wished that Mrs. r l3tanden had been by to see Sir Aubrey's notice of her. " Come," said the Vicar briskly, " now for the tables, it's almost tea time."

It would not do to waste any more moments in the contemplation of that little group which formed the centre of the circle. Sylvia blushing and downcast, yet with a pleased look in the half -veiled hazel eyes and on the smiling lips ; Sir Axibrey Perriam looking at her with courtly, elderly gentlemanlike admiration ; the two making a graceful picture against that background of sunlit orchard. It was all proper and pleasant enough, a great coiintry gentleman admiring a beautiful villager, and so on ; but Mr. Vancourt, the Vicar, felt that any prolongation of the little scene might have been unclerical. He clapped his hands sharply, as if to dispel some subtle magic lurking in the air, called to his votaries, and set the teacups and saucers rattling in such a way as to awaken a deeper dreamer than Sir Aubrey Perriam. Sylvia went to her duties, much better pleased with life in general than she had been half -an -hour ago. Sir Aubrey Perriam had admired her, and her little world had seen his admiration. That must have been a stab to the hearts of those proud Christains who had cut her remorselessly a little while before. Mary Peter and Alice Cook had also witnessed her brief triumph, and though she considered those associates of her girlhood infinitely beneath her, she liked them to behold her success. She jingled the cups and saucers gaily as she ranged them along the narrow deal table, with its shining white cloth. She laboured cheerfully at her task of bread and butter cutting, though it promised to be endless. "You remind me of the heroine of a famous romance," said a voice very near her, and she looked up with a sudden blush. Sylvia's complexion was one to which blushes are natural, a word or look brought the quick bright roses to that delicately pale face.

It was Sir Aubrey, who was walking up and down the clear space between the tables, with Mr. Vancourt. He had made a brief round of the fancy fair, spent a few sovereigns at one of the stalls, and had come to the orchard to see the school children play ; just five minutes or so before he was caj>tured by Sylvia. haps he had put himself a little in the ■way of this capture when he saw the white-robed figure coming towards him with outstretched arms.

.Once in the orchard Sir Aubrey seemed to prefer its mstjc attractions to the

fascinations of the fair stall-keepers in the adjoining field.

"The glare of the sun yonder was more than I could endure," he said, as if to apologise for this preference. "Now here these fine old trees give a delightful shade, and the turf is softer. I should like to see those young people at tea."

The Ticar whispered to one of his faithful adherents, and five minutes afterwards, as if by magic, a comfortable garden arm-chair, the most luxurious thing in garden chairs, was placed near the head of the tables for Sir Aubrey Perriam's accommodation. It had been brought from the vicarage on the spur of the moment. Mr. Vancourt was resolved that if Sir Aubrey was well dis]3osed towards the schools, there should be nothing to damp his ardour.

Su Aubrey sank into the garden seat with a contented air, and looked about him benignly while those hungry children were fed. Sylvia and the other ladies went up and down with heaped -up plates, and administered to those devouring scholars. Piles of current cake, innumerable buns, mountains of bread and batter, vanished before those youthful consumers. Sylvia had hard work. Sometimes she was at the head of one table pouring out tea, ready milked and sugared — for individual tastes could hardly be considered among so many — from a huge white pitcher ; sometimes at the bottom of the other table cutting up a fresh cake. The supplies had been liberal, but the demand equalled them.

Sir Aubrey surveyed the whole proceedings with evident interest ; but those among the Vicar's lady friends who had time to watch him closely observed that his eye seemed to wander after Sylvia Carew wherever she went. If she vanished for a few minutes from his sight, his glance grew listless, and it seemed to brighten when she re-appeared. Whereupon the Hedingham ladies put him down as a wicked elderly gentleman. They had no opinion of anyone who admired Sylvia Carew. To be caught by that showy beauty was the mark of an inferior mind. Edmund Standen was supposed to be on the road to ruin directly he was seen walking with Sylvia Carew. And now, behold, Sir Aubrey Perriam — to whom all Hedingham paid homage, as in duty bound, for was not Hedingham, with the exception of a few odd acres here and there, as much Sir Aubrey's property as the cambric handkerchief with which he perfumed the summer air — sjeemed about to enter upon the same ruinous path.

More than once had Sylvia herself met the glance of those mild elderly eyes. It was a glance that set her thinking curiously of what might have happened had she not loved and been beloved by Edmund Standen.

(To be continued.)