Chapter IX.

Otago Witness, Issue 1189, 12 September 1874, Page 18

Chapter IX.

DRIFTING. May Constable can fume, fret, complain, threaten, without falling short, when compared with the most eloquent and most fractious of her sex. But she cannot mr.ke up her mind to do quickly a deed that is disagreeable to herself. Therefore, though she is dismally cross at home, and tearfully bifctsr whenever she meets the Forests—though she pours forth reproachful columns to Frank and declares every day with fresh fervour that she will " break it off," she clings to her engagement and to the hollow mockery of Frank's " loving her much, though he is so undemonstrative." His replies to her -columns of tediously affectionate reproach are terse, amusing, light-hearted, and anything but fond. He tells what views he has sketched, and what fish he has caught, and what a comfort he is to his aged and hitherto almost unknown uncle. But he refrains from all mention of Kate ; and he also refrains from noticing May's leading questions as to the exact nature of his regard for herself. Down at Dunster, meanwhile, in Kate's quiet Somersetshire home, the cousins are drifting hourly nearer and nearer to the edge of the precipice. Freed as he is now from all fear of family espionage, Frank Forest gives himself up to what he believes to be the genuine love of his life. The views are sketched, and the fish are caught, and the uncle is cultivated in Kate' 3 society invariably.' He takes her opinion at every step of his work ; he tolls her of all his imaginings, all his Schemes, all his professional ambitions, hopes, and fears. He kindles in response to her hearty sympathy, her cordial appreciation, her perfect comprehension of every intellectual struggle which he makes, and triumph which he achieves. In short, he loves her aa a woman, seeks her as a friend, clings to her as the brightest audience he has ever had. He contrasts her with May, until the memory of May becomes more wearisome than ever by the force of contrast. He is constantly telling himself what a brilliant Paradise life would be with the one girl, and what a dull Hades with the other. But he does not ask Kate to be his wife ; nor does he tell her father anything of the state of the case, nor in any way seek to engage Kate indissolubly to himself. In his presence, under the immediate pressure of his personal influence, Kate is porfectly satisfied that things should remain as they are. The past, the future, are as nothing to her, while, in the preBent, she has her lover's passionate regard. This feeling, or sentiment, on her part, undesignedly enough, puts May Constable at a farther disadvantage with Frank; for May has been in the habit of flaunting the fact of her engagement and talking in an exhaustive manner of tho domesticity of thoir united future, in a way that has been infinitely dreary to Frank. There is rest, zest, novelty, indescribable charm, therefore, to him in this unnamed bond which exists between Kate and himself. It is sufficiently ideal to be uncertain, sufficiently real to be exciting. What wonder that the position pleases him so well, that ho likes to remain in it; and makes his answers to May's plaints as terse, amusing, and unloving as he can ? But for all her clever acceptance of the . situation, for all her brilliant adornment of it, there are moments when Kate Mervyn has pangs, and acknowledges that unauthorised love is its own avenger. The morning post is her purgatory. She shivers when the unmistakable epistle is placed upon Frank's plate. It is true that Frank shows no anxiety to read it; but, still, he does read it eventually she knows, and she sees that it is long, and —well! Frank is too much her own for her to find it pleasant to know that another woman addresses him as her "darling," and -subscribes herself his "own loving May." " I would do one thing or another," Kate thinks every morning. " I'd put a stop to the receipt of that twaddle, or I'd go back to the writer of it, and make an end of this idyll." But though she thinks this, she says nothing, and does nothing that may possibly induce her cousin to act, as she declares she would act were she in his place. The life at Dunster is very warm, very sunny, very sweet. ' Lightened by love Franks finds it very bright. Were it unlightened by that same magic lantern ho would find it very slow. As it is, he delights in its unstrained picturesque effects, in the uneventful days, and the undisturbed repose. The Mervyn establishment is very small, very unpretending, and " very prettily managed," he thinks, as he watches Kate organising it for one brief hour after breakfast. His place during that hour, when she is perforce absent from him, is out xmder a huge sweeping sombre yew ti'ee on a little lawn. The fiercest rays can scarcely penetrate through the branches; the short elastic grass remains cool and green as if it were spring instead of midsummer. Frank, lying here at rest, with his books and papers about him, compares it with his London study in a way that is very uncomplimentary to the latter, and declares to himself that here, at length, is he surrounded by the conditions that are essential for the production on his part of worthy work. A vision of Kate .is the principal condition. Miss Mervyn has the management of a fanciful invalid father, and a

vants, on a narrow income, ' and to her credit be it told that apparently she manages these troublesome elements with graceful ease. The pretty little thatched house is always fresh, bright, well-ordered, quiet, and fit for the reception of the most fastidious visitors. The early dinner —early on account of Mr. Mervyn's digestion — is not a thing, even in these languid, fervid, summer days, from which one recoils. For Kate has it served in a carefully-shaded room, and decks the table and the sideboard and the mantelpiece, and every available space indeed, with waving fern fronds, and all kinds of delicately-tinted flowers. It is at this early dinner that the cultivation of his knowledge of Mr. Mervyn, which is avowedly Frank's sole business here, goes on. The querulous gentlemanly invalid, who is all that remains of one of the most gallant, desperate, chivalrous naval officers of a by-gone day, comes down regularly as the dinner bell rings, and for two hours talks to his nephew of that brave, bright, past life of his which has ended in this peaceful obscurity. _ The leader of a dozen cutting-out boat actions ; the hero of a hundred hair-breadth adventures that covered the flag he sailed under with glory ; the well-known winner of many a medal and bar of honour ; he has failed to be in the way when promotion was dealt out, so here he is, a lieutenant at the age of sixty-eight, poor, and profoundly dissatisfied. Nevertheless, dissatisfied as he is, the old glow of pride in the service is upon him still, as he relates, and Frank listens to the yarns he narrates, with the true spirit of a sailor. In all honesty it must be confessed that devoutly as Frank listens to these yarns, he is very glad when they are spun out, and the spinner of them retires with his newspaper and pipe and grog for his afternoon rest. For the real glory of the day commences for the cousins at this juncture. Kate is free from all household cares ; Frank lias done as much " copy " as " a fellow can decently permit himself to do if he wouldn't satiate the public," and the coming hours are all their own in which to— fish !

The banks of the sweet shady serpentine streams that flow in and around Dunster know the pair well, as they saunter along, or sit down and whip the water with the dainty want of skill that is attributable to the pre-occupation of their minds. The cattle on the hills, the sheep in the pastures, the birds in the trees over their heads, know her blue linen sailor's dress and his light grey costume so well that they scarcely move out of the path of the pair, who are absorbed invariably, not in silent contemplation , of the bliss of being together, but in some conversation that makes each dearer to the other ; for each sustains his or her respective part in it so brightly and so well. " Do you know how long I have been here ? " he asks her one day, as they rest on a stile that considerately intervenes between the meadow bhey are in and the meadow they want to get in. She sits on the top bar, resting her hand on his shoulder as he stands by her side, and still, in spite of the position, May is very much in the thoughts of both of them at this moment.

"A fortnight; just long enough for a shade to dim the original brightness of my sailor suit," she answers, quickly. Then she adds, looking at him with a loving, frank glance, in which there is not a particle of reproach, " Long enough for a shade to have dimmed my conscience too, Frank. lam very happy to have you here, but do you think that my being happy makes me blind 1 " "To what?"

"To the fact of your being most horribly puzzled, and a little bib nervous. Your letter this morning spoilt your breakfast ; do you think I was blind to that I Why don't you go back to the writer of those letters, since you let yourself receive them at all ( " she winds, up suddenly, pressing her hand tightly on his shoulder, and compelling him to look at her.

" You speak coolly enough of my going back to her. It seems as if it wouldn't hurt you very much if I were cad enough to do it now," he says, in a mortified tone. He is not in the least certain as to what he shall do eventually, circumstances may compel him to be bitterly false to the girl he loves best. But that she should show herself to be in any degree resigned to the falseness before-hand, is naturally annoying to him. " I only ask you why you don't do one of two things. You know well enough what it will be to me if you do the first," she answers with a quiver in her voice, and a rush of colour over her face ; " but I know what you are, Frank ; I know so well, though I love you so desperately. It's possible enough that you will do it ; why check me for facing the possibility 1 " "Her letters are enough to drive a fellow mad ? " he says, grumblingly . ' ' How I got into it I don't know ; and yet ! the poor little thing is fond of me in her own way," he adds, taking May's last letter out of his pocket as he speaks.

"For my own part, I have never doubted her fondness for you," Kate says, quietly. But the hand that she withdraws from hia shoulder now, trembles in a weak, womanly way, that makes its owner very angry with it. " She always wants me to be with her," Frank goes on pursuing his own train of thought, " and when I go, she's either silent, or talking to her mother, or saying something that I don't care to hear." Kate turns her head with a gesture that makes him pause in his list of grievances and says*— " Why don't you take her courageously,

she is, atter all, better suited to you than I am i "

" Because I should be telling myself a lie," he said, passionately. "I'm not sure of that, Frank ; she will never grow impatient with you when you're what you are so frequently, unstable and weak, and uncertain of yourself. She will never know now much stronger you could bo if you tried ; but I do know it ; and I shotild pet so impatient with you," she says, leaping off the stile abruptly, in a paroxysm of righteous wrathfulncss, as she looks at the good material gone to waste before her.

" It's you yourself who have made me uncertain about May, and unstable, as you call it, altogether," he says, reproachfully. "Morover I toll you, I'm not at all uncertain about poor little May, I'm only uncertain about the way to do it, and you must know that it's not altogether a pleasant thing to do ; but you'll reward me for all the ixnpleasantness, won't you, Kate ? "

He takes her hand, and there is passion in his pressure ; he looks down into her face, and there is passion in his glance. But a deadly pang of conviction that it is all evanescent — a mere flash in the pan — assails her. She knows in this moment that Frank's love has no power of lasting. She knows that if she goes on with it that she will barter her gold for dross. A portion of the scepticism she feels on the subject sets itself in legible type upon her eyes, as he strives to look into and read them ; and he reads aright, and knows that to this woman, though she loves him, he will never be either god or hero. She will see and love him as he is — a faulty, fascinating kind of fellow, on whom she will never rely ; but to whom she will be quite ready to render up her best, should he ever demand the sacrifice. While as for May ! May will always take him at his own valuation of himseif, as far as morals and "meaning well " go. As for the mental part of him, "she'll have nothing to do with that, even if we do marry," he tells himself, as he looks at Kate, and winces under, and loves her for, her power of stinging and stirring. She has not answered his last speech, as to his full belief in her ultimately rewarding him for every unpleasantness that can possibly come upon him through his rupture with May. He is not addicted to the utterance of definite statements as to his intentions concerning her ; but, he does like to draw out something definite from her as to her feelings regarding him. He repeats now, therefore — "You'll reward me for all the unpleasantness by-and-bye, won't you, Kate ? " ' " I shali probably be foolish enough to do whatever you ask me," she says, carelessly. There is nothing humiliating to Kate in giving expression to this feeling, which has taken possession of her. It may be blameworthy, it may be unjustifiable, it may be injurious, but, at any rate, it is genuine. She declares it, therefore, openly enough when he asks her to do it.

" I'm afraid you're getting a great deal too fond of me, Kate," he whispers, with sublime inconsistency ; "if any hitch comes, I shall not forgive myself in a hurry." " Won't you? I shall though, Frank. I risk all the evil chances of war when I enter into such an unrighteous fray as this is, and you'll find that I shall never cry out, or blame you, or regret anything, if I get worsted." " Don't talk recklessly, dear," he says, soothingly. He can bear to teaso her by putting a painful possibility before her ; but he cannot bear to hear her speak as if she had already contemplated the possibility, and macle up her mind as to how sho should demean herself should it ever come to pass. May, under similar circumstances, would have wept copiously upon his shoitldor, and the path of duty would have been clearly mapped out for him. He would only have had to dry her tears, and tell her that he "didn't mean it," to restore his affectionate incubus to her normal condition of smiling inanity. It must be confessed that, weary as he was of her melting moods, May was easier to deal with than Kate.

"I must make it my business to see that no hitch do«s come," he says, presently, patting her hand, and feeling that she is really well worth taking some trouble about; "rely on me, darling, and, trust me, it will all come right. "

" No, Frank, no !" she says, with a laugh that is as much at herself as at him. " I'll love you, and make a fool of myself about you, probably ; but I am not infatuated enough to rely upon you." " Do you care more for me than you've ever cared for any other fellow ?" lie asks her ; and, as she answers, "Yes," the sound of a footstep attracts their attention, and they look round, and see the " Cissy" of Barnes Common approaching them.