Chapter XIX. " THOU ART LEADING MB FROM WINTRY COLD."

Otago Witness, Issue 1155, 17 January 1874, Page 20

Chapter XIX. "LOVE, THOU ART LEADING MB FROM WINTRY COLD."

Sir Aubrey and his brother dined tete-a-tete on the evening of that day on which Mrs. Carford left the brief shelter of the school-house, to resume her place in life's endless procession. The dining-room at Perriam faced the north-west, and commanded a fine side view of the setting sun. One saw the glorious luminary sink to his rest without being inconvenienced by his expiring splendour.

It was eight o'clock and that western glory was fading, but Sir Aubry liked the twilight. It was at once soothing arid economical, and the baronet did not forget how large a cheque he annually wrote for the Monkhampton tallow-chandler. People talked of the cheapness and brilliancy of gas, but Queen Anne herself could not have been more averse from that garish light, had it been suddenly introduced to her notice, than was Sir Aubrey. Gas at Perriam ! Gas pipes to disfigure those old cystal chandeliers ■which took all the hues of a peacock's breast in the sunshine ! "August shade of my great grandfather?" exclaimed Sir Aubrey, " What Goth can counsel such desecration?"

Sir Aubrey and his brother sat in the gloaming, and talked, or at least Mordred talked and Sir Aubrey made believe to listen. The book-worm's harmless babble about his last bargain with a Bristol bookseller did not demand much strain upon the listener's attention. Sir Aubery gave a vaguely acquiescent murmur now and then, and that was enough.

Indeed, Sir Aubrey's mind had been wandering a little throughout the ceremony of dinner, and now ho sat in a thoughtful attitude with his glass o£ claret not diminished, looking down into the

shado ivy gulfs of the poJishod mahogany table, as if to road the visions ho bcli-.-ld there.

It was not of his brother's newly acquired twelve volume edition of Chixtterton that he thought ; but a fair young face he had seen last night in the garden of Hedingham school-house.

"Mordred," ho exclaimed suddenly, " Did you over wonder why I have not married ? "

"No," said Mr. Perriam, "I never wondered. But 1 should think the reason was clear enough to the meanest comprehension. Yoii have never forgotten poor Guinivere. " " Forgotten her ? no ; and never shall forget her. Yet if, at my sober age, it were possible for a man to feel a romantic love — the love of a poet rather than a man of the world — do you think he ought to trample upon the flower because it has blossomed late ?"

"Do you mean to say that you have fallen in love ?" asked Morh-ccl aghast.

" I have seen a face lovely enough to bewitch a saint or a hermit— to thaw the coldest heart that time ever froze. I don't admit that I'm in love. That would be too great a folly. But I feel within me a faculty which I deem I had long out-lived — the capacity to fall in love. " Mordred Perriam put his hands to his head and rubbed his Beauty grey hair distractedly. He thought his brother was going mad. " Poor Guinivere," he said feebly, as if the shade of that patrician lady were out-

>f raged by Sir Aubrey's folly. "If i .c could have lived to see this day. " ■c " If she had lived I might have b< d the happy father of many childrej s answered Sir Perriam; "as it is, the est r must go to Lancelot Perriam whene 1 -t you and I are laid beside our ancestor d " That seems hard," said Mr. Perria £ who was able to appreciate this comia c sense view of the question. "If y 11 could find anybody now to replace La 'f Guinivere — of the same rank — an alliai '. which you might be proud of." c Sir Aubrey sighed and was silent. I '■> chief piirpose in marriage ought to be " provide himself with an heir. How w * he to confront that heir in after life if 1 could not name his maternal grandfath 3 — if for all genealogical purposes the chi > were on the maternal side grandfatherles 3 He sighed again, and with increasi: *■ despondency. 3 "At my age, my dear Mordred, ami 1 can hardly hope to marry a duk< 1 daughter. I shall never meet a secoi ? Guinivere. Lord Bolingbroke's secoi wife was a Frenchwoman. He consult! his heart rather than his interest. " "Bolingbroke married the niece i ' Madame de Maintenon, and the widow t a marquis." , " True, but he married for love," sa: Sir Aubrey, impatiently. ' ' Late in life man should marry for love, if he is i marry at all. He has so short a span le him in which to be happy. At twenty man can afford to counsel his interest, an marry a woman he doesn't care for. . youth of domestic misery may be con pensated by a middle age of worldly su< cess. But at my age there is nothing le; a man to Avish for — except happiness." Mr. Perriam regarded his brother ii helpless wonderment. "Was this abstrac philosoj>hy — or the foolishness of a: elderly egotist ? " I should have thought you wcr happy in your present position," said hi; brother, mildly. " You have Perriam fo a country house, and your entresol in th< Faubourg St. Honore — snug, and no very expensive. When you are tired o Perriam you go to Paris. When you an tired of Paris, you return to Porriatn You have boots and slippers, and brushe; and combs, and a dress suit at both place; — no packing — no bustle — and your valei here is your cook and general servant there. What could be pleasanter, if one must move at all ?" "An empty life, at best," said Sii Aubrey, " and monotonous. The fact oJ the matter is," ho went on, in a businesslike tone, ' ' that for some years past I have felt it my duty to marry. If I have shrunk from that duty — preferring the repose and serenity of a bachelor's life — I have folt myself guilty of moral cowardice. It is hard that Perriam should descend to one who is all but a stranger." " Horace Perriam — a starched prig in the War Office," said Mordred. "There is not such another kitchen garden in the west of England ! " ho added with a sigh. "If you could find some one of suitable rank, I don't say a duke's daughter — but of suitable rank — some good old family — bearing arms which the Pcrriams need not blush to quarter with their own." This was harping on a string which Mordred had been accustomed to hear twanged by his older brother. lie was surprised to find the Baronet indifferent, or even contemptuous, about this question of rank. "As to the family," he said, "the Perri.-uns ought to bo like the Bourbons — groat enough to give rank to *hoir children "without aid from the mother. The sons of Louis Quatorzo were all princes. My son will be Sir Aubrey Perriam by and by, and he could have been no more than Sir Aubrey Perriam if poor Guinivere had been his mother."' Mordred made haste to agree with his ! brother. He rarely disputed a point with | any one, unless it were a purely literary question, such as the reason of Ovid's exile, or Tasso's madness, or the identity of the man with the iron mask, or the authorship of Junius's letters. "You have seen some one, perhaps, whom you admire — some young lady belonging to one of our coimty families," said Mordred. He could not suppose that his brother's eye had fallen to any lower depth than the county families. Sir Aubrey winced. He had been so bigoted a high priest in the temple of the family god, and the family god was Caste. How could he justify such sacrilege as would be involved in the admiration of a village schoolmaster's daughter ? "I have certainly seen some one I admire," ho said, with a curious shynoss, an almost juvenile shame in this late-born love. ' ' A young lady who is very pretty, very amiable, altogether worthy of admiration. A young lady whoso affections might make any man proud and happy. But she is not of a particularly good family ; or, if her father belongs to an old and respectable family, which is not impossible, since his name is a good one, he is reduced in circumstances and occupies a somewhat humble position." j

te "A curate, perhaps," suggested Mordred, vaguely." n " No, he is not in the Church." " " Good gracious," exclamed' Mordred, ;e with an awed look, you don't mean to say !r that he is in trade ?" " "No, he is not in trade." ? Mr Perriam breathed more freely. a "I am glad of that," he said. " I live i j so secluded from the world that it might y . seem unimportant to me, but I shouldn't c ! like to think that any stigma of that kind should attach to us in future. The actual g fact might be glossed over in Burkes j Landed Gentry ; but people would reg member it all the same." 3 ' ' Never mind details, my dear Mord- : red," returned Sir Aubrey, "after all i what I have been talking about is perhaps but an idle dream." I " You ought to marry," said Mordred, thinking of his kitchen garden. He bel grudged the heir the reversion of those j \ neat walks, by the box-bordered beds [ j where a narrow line of hardy flowers, ! stocks, sweetwilliam, mignionette, or nasturtium screened the brocoli and onions that grew within the boundary. The dear old garden, with its red earthen seakale • pots peeping out of the greenery, and that delicious herby odor which sweetens the atmosphere of country kitchen gardens. "Ah," said Sir Aubery, with a sigh, " I shall never marry unless it is for love. " ' I Mr Perriam smiled approvingly across the wide shining table ; but his soul was i full of wonder. All human love, except his mild affection for Aubrey, had withered in his heart thirty years ago. Indeed, there never had been warmth enough in that placid temperament to kindle the flame of love. Women he looked upon as a race apart, usef ul doiibtless after their lower kind, but to be kept at the farthest possible distance by the Sage. Marriage, Mr. Perriam regarded as a stern necessity for elder sons. The younger scions of a great race, more happy, could slip through life untried in the matrimonial furnace. That any one should cumber himself witli a wife, save when compelled to that burden by the exigencies of a fine estate, seemed to Mr. Perriam almost incredible. A wife would doubtless take odd volumes ! of his books from their shelves, to mislay I them, or meddle with his papers ! He [ thanked Providence for having made him j the cadet of the house. "For lovo," repeated Aubery to himself, " for love ! How Murdred and all | the woi'ld would laugh at my folly, if 1 dared indulge it. Love at iifty-seven of ago, and for a girl young enough to bo my granddaughter. It is too wild a folly. Yet if a true affection could be I possible to a man of my age, it ought to bo possible for me. 1 have not frittered I away my stock of feeling upon passing fancies. My life lias been free from the follies that waste the hearts of some men. Late as the day comes, I ought to bo able ' to love truly, and to win a true heart, if I I have but courage to seek for one. Shall ) I seek it whore this new fane draws mo I j Shall I trust the augury of eyes and lips that speaks but of innocence and trubh 1 '" The buller came to light the candles in the tall silver branches, of pseudo-classic design. " Toll Morgan to saddle Splinter," said Sir Aubrey, '" I'm going for a ride." "So late, Aubrey?" exclaimed Mordred, who liked a quiet evening with his brother. It was nice to be able to prose about his last acquisition to some listener of his own rank — and if Aubrey did not , listen, Mordred was too much engrossed by his own discourse to note the inattention. "I like a ride in this half light," answered the baronet. "I was out la&t night till ten." " Yes," said Mordred, with a sigh. " I shall be glad when the winter comes, and we return to our old ways — a big fire burning in the saloon, and you and I on opposite sides of the hearth on nice long evenings." "Rather dull," drawled Sir Aubrey, with a yawn. " Dull when we have each other's company?" " Yes, that's all very well. But don't you think that for two old fellows like us a fair young face would brighten the picture — an innocent, joyous-hearted girl, who would be a wife to me, and yet seem a daughter to both of us— a clear young voice that would fill this old house with music. Our lives are placid enough as it is : but don't you think such a change as I speak of might make them happy 1 Eh, Mordred ?" " Changes which disturb tranquility in the hope of realising happiness are apt to end in disappointment," replied Mr. [ Perriam, with the sententiousness of a Solon. It was not a pleasant speech, and Sir Aubrey felt angry with his brother — a rare sensation on his part, for he had a protecting kindness for this younger brother whoso eccentricities touched the border line of weakness. " Splinter is at the door, Sir Aubrey," |

said the butler, and, -without another "word to Mordred, Sir Aubrey departed. " Ah,"- moaned his brother, when he had ■watched horse and rider vanish in the shades of evening, " This comes of letting a woman mix herself up with his thoughts. He's changed to me already." Sir Aubrey took the shortest way to Hedingham. It was a foolish fancy, no doubt, which impelled him to take this evening ride — but the scent of the hedgerows was sweet, the air balmy, a faint breath of the distant sea blended, with the cool odors of newly shorn fields. There was, in short, no reason why a country gentleman should not enjoy the twilight landscape, instead of dozing in his favourite arm-chair by his barren hearth. But Sir Aubrey hardly looked at the landscape. His thoughts were swifter than Splinter, and flew on ahead of him, and lighted upou Sylvia Carew. He could think of no excuse for an evening visit to the school-house. All day long he had resisted the impulse that urged him to go there. And now in the evening, after that useless battle with inclination, he was weak enough to indulge his fancy. What excuse should he make for intruding upon the schoolmaster's privacy ? He, the all-powerful lord of the soil, was positively obliged to ask himself

Miss Carew was not a

that question.

picture hanging on a wall in a public gallery — a fair face which strangers might gaze upon at their pleasure. Lofty as was the height which raised him above these people, there were certain conventionalities to be obseved, even by him. He left his horse at the Inn, and walked on towards the school-house. A light was burning in the parlour, and the door was shut. He had hoped to find Mr. Carew smoking his pipe in the doorway, as he had found him yesterday.

It seemed a very serious thing to knock at the door — almost enough to commit him to some serious step in the future.

He looked about him doubtfully. Early as it was no creature was visible. Dim lights twinkled here and there in cottage windows. The children's voices were silent. The Hedingham day was over. Sir Aubrey began to feel that it was very late indeed.

He took out his watch. There was just enough light for him to see the fingers on its white face. A quarter to nine. Yes, decidedly too late for him to intrude upon

the schoolmaster, without any definite object. Well, he had gratified his f/mcy by this evening ride. There was nothing better for him to do than to go back again.

istny, what was that ? A glimpse of something white yonder among the dark trees in the churchyard — something which moved. A woman's dress — a girlish figure, tall and slim — robed in white. Twice h-id he seen Sylvia in a white gown. Was it she ?

He went round to the churchyard gate, and entered that domain of shadow, where the deep gloom of the foliage seemed to typify the deep sleep of those who lay bcneatli its shade. He walked slowly, looking about him, as if contemplative of the tombs, and in a few minutes found the object of his quest."

It was Sylvia, and no other. She had seated herself on a low tombstone when he found her, in a thoughtful attitude, her folded arms resting on a headstone that leaned lopsided against the tomb where she sat, her drooping head leaning on her arms.

" How perfect a statue of meditation," thought Sir Aubrey. " Yet what can she have to think about V

His approaching footsteps startled the thinker. Sylvia lifted her head and looked up to him, just able to recognise him in that shadowy parce.

" Good evening Miss Carew. I fear I disturbed pleasant meditations."

" No, Sir Aubrey my thoughts were sad. I am thankful to have them dispelled."

" What can one so young and fair have to do with sadness ?"

The girl was not prepared to answer that question jilainly.

" I suppose there is some caro in every life. Mine had to do with the trouble of others."

' ' I thought as much. Youth and innocenco can have few cares of its own. And pray remember, Miss Carew, if ever you hiivo need of a friend you may command my services. Ab Lord of the Manor I naturally tako a warm interest in all that concerns Hedingham," he added, lest his offer of friendship should seem particular. The qualification made the whole speech sound conventional.

" I wish he would give me some money to send to Mrs Carford," thought Sylvia, for the shadow of last night's visitor had haunted her all the day ; " but I could not stoop so low as to beg of him. And of course he means nothing but a more hollow civility. " "Your father is at home, I suppose V* inquired the baronet. "Yes, Sir Aubrey."

i

" Then I think I should like to look in upon him and say a word or two about this new school-house, if you are quite sure he is disengaged." "I am quite sure. He does nothing but read the paper of an evening. He will be proud to receive your visit."

(To be continued.)