THE STORY.— Chapter I.

Otago Witness, Issue 1421, 15 February 1879, Page 22

THE STORY.— Chapter I.

Fifty years ago, before the unfinished Deserted House had been thought of, another Deane Court (for such I learned was the real name of both the old and the new mansion) had stood upon the site of the present buildings. A quaint very old-fashioned place it must have been, quite too small for modern requirements, but exceedingly comfortable and homelike notwithstanding, nestling under the the shade of its noble trees and surrounded by its beautiful pleasure grounds ; ever merry with the glad laughter of children, and gay with their light forms flitting in and out and carrying buoyant life with them to every corner of the wide domain.

They were a large family at Deane Court then, Mr and Mrs Lynedon Deane and their six young children, together with numerous servants.

But in all those youthful frames lay even then the seeds of pitiless disease, and to some in early childhood, to some in budding youth, to one on the very eve of her Jmarriage,the fatal fiat went forth ; the glad step languished. The bright glow of health faded, and after a few weeks, more or less, of lingering illness, the blinds were drawn down, the great black hatchment placed over the door, the long funeral procession passed through the gates, and after a few sad, solemn, beautiful words of temporary farewell had been spoken, the mourners returned home, leaving one more coffin in the large vault, and one additional name inscribed on the marble tablet in St Mary's Church, to find another seat empty by the hearth in winter, another voice silent amid the games in summer. So passed away from the old house its master and his five younger children ; one only of that once merry troop remained. Hubert, the oldest son, who all of all the family appeared to inheril the constitutor) of his mother.

Mrs Lyneton Deane had come of a noble old race, brave, strong, and steadfast ; men who had done great deeds, and won for themselves fame and honour among their fellows, men who counted life but a small thing, if their king, their country, or their honour demanded it. A race of soldiers, -whose valiant acts had been sung in song and told in story ; and the womon had been worthy of the men, brave, strong, and steadfast also ; willing to let their deareab go from them to battle

or to death, binding their wounds, tending their last moments ; never holding them back with passionate tears, and weak complaining, but suffering in silence ; waiting, hoping, agonising, throughout long years, in heart-sick patience and solitude, asking no help, making no confidents. Such were the ancestors of whom Mrs Lyneton Deane proved herself no unworthy descendant. Last of the noble race of Deane (which name her late husband had assumed on his marriage) the Court and the lands around were her own absolutely, to give or will as she pleased. Mr Lyneton had also been of good family, the possessor of large estates in a neighbouring county. Thus in birth and position the husband and wife had been well suited, though not as it would seem in any other respect. For Mr Lyneton Deane was a man without any backbone to his character, and after the first few years of married life, a confirmed invalid ; not ill enough to be nursed anddoctored, but yet exacting constant care, placing a perpetual restraint on the children's gay spirits, making the most of every ailment and fretting his high-spirited wife with querolous complaints, and a total absence of fortitude and self-control ; weak and yielding to a fault, but like all such natures, prone to fits of mule-like obstinacy quite beyond the power of argument and reason. From such hands the loosely held reins of government fell easily into the steady grasp of the descendant of the brave old Deans, and the shrewd villagers soon learned that Madam's was the ruling power at Court ; while over her own children her sway was absolute and their obedience instant and unbounded. Such were the master and mistress of Deane Court in the year 18 — before the hand of death had so painfully thinned their numbers. In that year their young- \ est child died, and 20 years later the mother and her eldest son were alone. The family vault had received many additions, and a splendid monument bearing many names, called for admiration and sympathy from chance visitors to St. Mary's. But Mrs Lyneton Deane sought not for the pity of others, nor did she pity herself over-much. She had loved her dead children very fondly, and wept many tears for them ; but they had never been to her what Hubert was, her first-born child, her eldest son, — he who had woke up in her heart the wonderful mother-instinct, which, so strong in all women, rises to passion infsome ; especially for that best, marvellous gift of heaven, a first-born child. The mother-love, like all other love, differs in kind and degree. A happy wife, however much she prizes her children, cannot spend upon them the whole strength of her heart with the craving passion of her who finds herself unhappy, unloved, or unloving. Mrs Deane's nature was strong and deep, but not expansive or widely flowing ; it could not rest itself on the weaker character of her husband, and she had never loved him enough to throw the flowers of her affection over the barren, unfertile soil of his nature, hidiug its business from every eye, even her own. His death had left a blank in her life, but none in her heart. It had taken away some occupation &nd interests. It had not touched the inner citadel of her soul, the Holiest of the Holy, into which no food but one may ever enter. This spot had been reserved for Hubert, her heart's darling, her first, and now her only child. Alas! unhappy mother. What suffering do all those prepare for themselves who, placing a human idol in the temple of their hearts, fall down and worship before it!

At this period, all my informants seemed to agree in the fact that Mrs Deane was a happy woman, in spite of her hopes and many troubles ; in spite of that heavy church monument which threw its shadow over her every Sunday as she knelt to pray. No shadow now lay over her life. Hubert Lyneton Deane was a most affectionate and dutiful son, and the habit of implicit obedience which his mother had so early instilled into all her children, still imparted great deference and submission to his manner towards her. A true Deane, face and figure. It remained to be seen whether under all his amiable suavity, he inherited their iron will, their strong sense of honour and indomitable pride; or whether he was like the Lynetons, gentle, yielding, weak. Hitherto he had not been tested in any way. The quiet home life, shooting, hunting, and other country sports, a little farming, an occasional raid against the poachers, a few magistrates' and other meetings. These had filled up his days, and apparently satisfied his heart and intellect. It was at this time that the declaration of war with Russia sent an electric thrill through the length and breath of our land, and awoke in the soul of their descendant, the soldier spirit of the old Deanes. Before this he had not cared to enter the army to spend a day now and then on parade, to show off his dashing regimentals at ball and party; now the smothered fire burst forth in a moment he would join the troops as a volunteer ; and go out to the Crimea. It is impossible but that this determination must have sent an aching pain to the heart of the lonely mother, but she said no word to stay his purpose, it chimed in too well with her own brave and active spirit. Had heaven given her a man's body as it had given her a man's heart she would have gone too, but being tjt woman she could only bind on his

armour, or, in plain English, provide his outfit and let him go.

So Hutert Deane left the Old Country. His mother was for the first time really alone.

At this date Hubert must have been nearer thirty than twenty years of age, and his mother over fifty, but she was a light active little woman and carried her years well. Her eyes were still bright, her complexion delicate, and the white threads in her abundant hair softened and shaded the whole. She was still pretty, prettier than many of her juniors, and she did not disdain to take great pains with her dress and appearance in order, as she once said, to make herself look as pleasing as possible in the eyes of her son, who, up to this time, had fully rewarded her efforts, always declaring that he had never seen any woman half so charming as <( his pretty little mother."

Of course Hubert must marry some day. The heir to so large a fortune, the descendant of two such noble and ancient families, must sacrifice his inclinations a littlesometimes, and after all, marriage was not such a dreadful trial, at least not for a man of means and position, and Mrs Dean would be able to guide his choice, indeed, she had almost made up her mind that a certain Mis 3 Ayton, the daughter of some old friends of hers, well-born, a beauty, an heiress, should be the future Mrs Hubert. The young lady's timid and clinging disposition being doubtless one of her charms in the eyes of the proud old lady who had been queen of Deane Court for so many years, and was by no means anxious to abdicate her throne. But still there was no hurry. Hubert was young ; he had but to pick and choose among the first families in the country. She did not wish to bias his choice, only of course the lady must be a lady, her son's equal in birth and position.

But when Mr Hubert Lyneton Deane sailed for the Crimea he was still free, and his mother reigned supreme in his heart and home.

None of my informants had attended theiryoung squire in his foreign campaign, and so I can give you no particulars about it. Doubtless the mother watched and waited through many an anxious hour, scarcely daring to rejoice in the great news of victory lest in the next day's list of killed and wounded that one name should appear, which would be such a costly price to pay for her country's triumph, but that list never contained the name she loved so well, and at last peace was proclaimed, and Mr Lyneton Deane was greeted home.

Great rejoicings were prepared in his honor, exceeding in their extent and splendour even those which had graced his own majority. A dinner, or rather a series of dinners for all classes, from the county magnates to the paupers in the workhouse, to be followed by a ball and a grand display of fireworks ; and as the court was too small for such festivities, a number of tasteful marquee 3 were erected on the large upper lawn. The preparations were regal — "too much for such a common place event," some said. Had it been for his marriage there could not have been more rejoicing. It may be doubted whether there would have been so much, at least, in one heart. But Mrs Deane would have it so, like the prodigal's father, but in another sense her heart cried, "kill the fatted calf and make merry, for this my son was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found." So the clay and hour of the soldier's return were accurately calculated, and banners, speeches, procession arranged for his reception. But he did not come. Whether such great preparations had alarmed his modesty, whether he knew nothing of them, and erred in ignorance, or whether he was indeed unavoidably detained, none but hia mother, and perhaps not even she, ever knew. But on that all important day he neither came nor sent. As might be expected, the festivities fell rather flat, speeches, banners, processions being, of course, useless, and though the dinners came off to the satisfaction of the poorer partakers, a considerable embarrassment was visible among the upper ten thousand. Not to be banished by all Mrs Deane's proud tranquillity and elaborate courtesy, the ball and fireworks were more successful, but it was with a deep sigh of relief that the mistress of Deane Court watched the last carriage drive from her doors, and felt herself free at last. The day long-desired and looked for had como and gone. It had found her proud, triumphant, happy; it left her proud as ever, but with a strange pain and fear gnawing at her heart. Where was Hubert, and what had induced him to put this slight upon herself, this insult on their friends. Nothing but an accident of life and death importance could account for and excuse it ; and perhaps for the first time in her life Mrs Lyneton Deane feared the coming day. (To be continued.)