Set in a Silver Sea.

Otago Witness, Issue 1500, 14 August 1880, Page 24

Set in a Silver Sea.

By B. L. FARJEON.

Chapter XXI. The Writing in the Bible (Continued). N the sermon to which we had listened parallels had been drawn between the rich and poor, to the advantage of those who lived in humble dwellings and worked for their daily bread, It was upon this point thafr^ Harold and his friend conversed with the pastor, and drew from him his belief that not only was there greater happinesa among the poor, but also higher virtues. It appeared to me as if Harold and his friend were amusing themselves in a light way at the pastor's expense, but the kind old man showed no irritation or impatience ; he listened attentively, and replied with dignity and gentleness. Until the discussion was at an end he did not address me ; he allowed Harold to have the last word, and then turned his benevolent eyes upon my face. "Young lady," he said, and there was pity in his voice, "it pleased me to see you enter our simple church, dome often ; you will find comfort in prayer ; and if it should happen that you want a friend — one who will counsel you as a father would an erring child— seek me in my home. Any of the villagers will conduct you to it." As he spoke to me, he laid his hand upon my shoulder with fatherly kindness, and while we were in this position a young girl very nearly of my own age approached him and stood by his side, calling him " grandfather." With a hasty motion he drew her from me, and with a bow walked away leaning upon the young girl's arm. We looked after him till he was out of sight ; he did not turn to look at us again. " ' There was something in his action with respect to his granddaughter which pained me exceedingly. It was as though he imagined contact with us would do the young girl harm. And why should he have used the words to me, "who will counsel you ad a father would an erring child"? I have done no wrong. " ' Harold said he was one of a class of agitators who take pleasure in believing that the rich are systematically corrupt and incapable of goodness. "But give these agitators money," said Harold, "raise their position, and they change their note. Then it is the poor who are vicious, idle, ungrateful. As they are. They Berve us and rob us, and we pay them for service and robbery; the balance of virtue is on our side." Harold's friend laughed, and declared that no such balance could exist, because virtue was a myth. " What is right in one man is wrong in another," said this friend ; "it really matters very little ; it is all one in the end. When fruit lies within reach, where is the hand that will not pluck it ?" I neither understood nor liked the conversation, and I was glad when the Bubject was changed. " 'At times everything seems unreal to me. I had to play the hostess, which both gentlemen declared I did very prettily ; I could scarcely believe ifc was I, Clarice, who occupied such a position ! It has come about so strangely. It is as if I were in a boat without oars or rudder, drifting along a beautiful stream. For it is beautiful — very beautiful ! " ' In the evening we walked in the woods, and Harold's friend disappeared. Harold and I were alone, and he spolat to me in tones so tender that I could' scarcely find strength to reply. Ah, Marguerite ! why do you not come, and take from my heart the weight that oppresses it ? Why are you not here that I might whisper in your ear words I dare not write ? " ' Still no news of Marguerite. Harold has given me money for the paßtor to distribute among his poor. "Do not tell him," said Harold, "that it oomes from me ; he might think it would bring ill-luck with it." "Why?" I asked. " Why ? " repeated Harold ; " because, dear child, I believe that in his judgment I am somewhat of a Mephistopheles." The pastor thanked me when I gave him the money, and regarded me with pitying glances. It troubles me to see that look in his eyes ; it is always there when we meet. I have tried to make friends with his grandchild, but he haß prevented it. He has a kind nature. Why should he be so cruel to me ? * * * * " ' How delicious these summer nights are ! Life is very sweet. But one thing is needed to render it perfect— the companionship of my dear sister. " One day —one day," says Harold ; " it will come in time, Your sister jives, you tell me.

I do not ask you how you know that she lives. It is enough that you say it ; I ' believe it, as I believe everything that comes from your lips. So, one day, when you and Marguerite are together again, you will not have to tell her that you have been entirely unhappy." Harold is wise, and tender, and true. He has not taken your place in my heart, dear Marguerite; no one could do that. But 1 should miss him sadly if he were to keep away from me now. I have no one else in the world to depend on— to trust in. I trust in him. " ' How long is it since I wrote last ? Monthij%ears— a lifetime ! But time has passed quickly ; the summer is gone, and it is now autumn. What has happened in these few months ? So much, dear Marguerite, that I could not write it down if I tried. I am wrong ; it is told in a. few words. lam a happy woman— and Harold's wife ! * * * * " ' Marguerite, let me whisper a secret in your ear. Not to another, no, not to another soul in the world. It is yours and mine— and Harold's. I shall soon """become a mother. " ' I am filled with wonder, and fear, and sweet delight. This cottage, in which I have passed so many happy months, is for ever sacred to me. My child will be born here. "' Now— now is the time that you should come to me, Marguerite ! To share my joy, to take Harold's hand in yours, and to say to him, "Thank you, brother, for your loving care of my dear Clarice!" To press my child in your anna how I tremble when I write the words," " My child ! " My soul is shaken with a tempest of happiness. My child ! My baby ! What will she be like ? I write " she," for I know it will be a girl. What will she be like ? I see her lying in your lap, Marguerite, with laughing eyes looking into yours. And all your troubles are over, as mine have been, except as regards, you, dear. Such pretty little hands— the little fingers are on my heart-strings now ! "'Dear Lord of this sweet earth, make me grateful for the blessings you have showered on my life, and let my little baby be like Marguerite ! Grant that I may be spared to show my love to both theße dear ones, and to Harold, who has behaved so nobly to me ! " 'Ah r Marguerite, that he should love me, a poor girl— he so high, so faithful, and wise, and I so low, so ignorant, and inexperienced — is it not wonderful ? "* He will not be here to-night ; he is absent on some great business. So presently, Marguerite, I shall turn down the lights and bring you before me. I have often done so, and yearned to clasp you to my heart. I shall see you standing at a little distance from me, and I shall creep to your side, and place my shadow-baby in your arms. Shadows to-night, but soon to be real, thank God — soon to be real 1 ? Ah, Clarice I there lives not on earth a happier woman than you. "' My baby is born. She is a week old, and I am strong enough to sit on the sofa and write a few words slowly, to place with other confessions of mine in my old bible. What is there written is a heart record, and is for Marguerite when Bhe and I are together again. " ' Being alone for a little while I have read over what I have written, and I am glad I had the resolution to continue my confessions— for so I will call them— from time to time. I should have forgotten bo many things that Marguerite will like to read. " ' My baby is asleep, her winsome face turned to mine. She is now my life — dearer to me than my own, more precious to me than all else in the world. You will not be jealous, Marguerite. When you have a child of your own — which I pray you may have one day, dear sister— you will feel as I do, that life contains no joy so Bacred, so beautiful. " * From this moment summer is in my heart. I look at my baby in silent wonder and worship. How sweet is the air beautiful the world ! « 'Harold is not with me so constantly as he used to be. Affairs of importance keep him from me. When I chide him for hia absence he says, "The world, child, the world ! There are other duties besides love." He loves me. Is not that enough 1 " ' And yet I torture myself. Baby is now six months old, and Harold should notice her more. "I prefer to notice you," he says to me ; and then he kisses me and talks to me of the world. Ia that a reason why men do not love children as vt omen do? 1 asked Harold that question, and he answered carelessly, "It may be bo. Clarice, be satisfied with things as they are. Do not make troubles ; they come without invitation." " Trouble will never come to me," I said, looking fondly into his face, " while you are with me." He said nothing to this for quite a minute ; he seemed to be thinking of the words. "While lam with you, child I" he then said ; " is that to be for ever ?" " Of course," I said, "forever." He smiled and said, "Well, well, child, enjoy the sun while it shines." "'My heart is not entirely at rest. But I must not make troubles, as Harold says. Perhaps it is because I expect too much. Marguerite has spoiled me. There never lived a human being so faithful and devoted as my dear sister. " 'Aoloud hangs over me, and I cannot ihake it off, Have I brought it on my

self ? What sin, what crime have I committed that my life should be thus darkened. "'Last Sunday I went to the village church accompanied by baby and my maid. On the way my maid told me that the pastor's granddaughter was to be married during the week, and a desire to be present at the wedding took possession of me. For a long time the pastor and I had not spoken. It is painful to intrude when one feels one is not welcome, and as the pastor always appeared to receive me with constraint I ceased to speak to him, contenting myself with bowing when I met him on my way to or from the church. He invariably returned my salutation with gentleness, and I sometimes looked attentively at him to see if he were angry with me ; but there was no anger in his eyes — only pity. But why should he pity me ? And why should he be so careful that his grandchild and I should not be friends ? "I waited at the church door till he came out ; he would have passed me had I not moved towards him, almost entreatingly. At some distance from us stood his grandchild and her lover, who, seeing the pastor stop to speak to me, would have come to us had he not, by a motion of his hand, restrained them. _ Slight as the action was, 1 understood it, and the tears rose in my eyes. "See," I said, very humbly, " I have a great favour to ask of you, but you give me no encouragement. If you knew what pain you cause me, you would be kinder to me." He answered: "I have no harsh thoughts for you, young lady. Ask what you wish ; if it is in my power I will grant it." "Your grandchild is to be married this week,'' I said. "Yes," he replied, "on Wednesday of this week." " I hope," I said, " that she will be very, very happy ! The favour I ask is that you will let me be present at the wedding feast," He shook his head Badly, and said: "It cannot be; it cannot, cannot be. We cannot receive you." He did not move away ; seeing that I was deeply agitated by his refusal, he remained at my side till I spoke again. "It seems so hard to me," I said, scarcely able to speak for my tears, " that you refuse my friendship. I have done you no wrong ; I am without father or brother or sister. We were like yourselves, poor people, working for a livelihood, and were not despised— indeed, we were not ! By all but one person we were treated kindly, and were everywhere welcomed. My father is dead ; my sister has been torn from me by treachery. lam young, sir, but I have been visited by great misfortune and suffering. That is not a crime ; I should not beblamed for it. I have much to be grateful for, but there is something wanting in my life which should not be withheld from me when I beg for it." " There is something wanting in every 'person's life," replied the pastor, who appeared to be moved by my words ; "no life is perfect. It would have been better for you had you remained always poor. I grieve for your misfortunes ; you are young to have seen so much, to have suffered so much ; but there is a path in which we must steadfastly walk if the esteem of mankind is to be deservedly gained. That path is virtue. Better battle day and night with poverty, better endure the pangs of hunger, better die, than wander out of that path which leads direct to Heaven and happiness hereafter !" I could not at the time grasp the meaning of his speech, it ao dazed and bewildered me. "At least, sir," I said, " let me wish your grandchild joy, and press her hand onee — but once, in friendship." Again he shook hia head. "Even this small thing," he said, "I, whose heart is overflowing with compassion for you, cannot permit to be done. It is my duty to protect those who have no knowledge of the world's sinful ways." With that he moved away, J and I walked sorrowfully home. " ' ln what way have I sinned ? "It would have been .better for me had I remained always poor !" Does my sin lie at Harold's door because he is rich ? I remember what Harold said of this pastor and of the animosity of his class to those who were higher in wordly station than themselves. Can it be that 1 No, there is a hidden meaning in the pastor's behaviour to me — a hidden terrible meaning which no one can explain but Harold. I dare not think — I must^wait till Harold cornea. " ' Oh, baby, baby ! A little while ago we were so happy ! And now — * * * * " ' After three weeks' absence Harold came to-day. He remained with me but a few hours. lam in despair. Let me endeavour to write what passed between us. " ' I related to him what passed between me and the pastor. He listened in silence, never once interrupting me, nor assisting me when I hesitated. His manner was cold and ungracious ; I was frightened ; I saw that he was angry, j When I had finished I asked him if I had done wrong. " Very wrong," he replied ; " why do you seek the friendship I of such a man or of people in his sta- j tion ? " " There is no other church near," I said timidly ; " in God's house all are equal." "Is that one of the ' pastor's platitudes ?" asked Harold. "I have heard my father say so," I answered, "and it came into my mind." " There is no such thing as equality," said Harold, " inside or outside church i or any other walls. Some are born to rule, some to obey, and all must fill their stations becomingly. Let the worthy pastor keep to his j I keep to mine, For you, Clarice, you must

choose between us, it seems. Well, that is your affair." " ' Marguerite, at that moment I was animated by your spirit ; a strange courage possessed me. " Harold," I said, " do you no longer love me 1 " What a question!" he cried; "of course I love you. But I will not be crossed. Clarice, nothing vexes me more than unnecessary annoyance — unless it is being asked for explanations. . Life is too short for explanations. When a lady in whom I am interested sets me up against another person, or sets up another person against me, I must confess to feeling wearied. Life was made for enjoyment." "You would not wish," I said, "that I should be despised." " Why put yourself in the way of being despised ? " he said. My courage did not desert me. "Harold," I said, "you must yield to me in this. The pastor's words to me implied that I was not worthy of the friendship of his grandchild, for a reason which I should blush to explain." " I shall not know the reason unless you do < explain it, Clarice," he said, biting his lip. "He thinks me unworthy," I said, j in a tone of shame, '■' of the friendship of a pure and innocent girl. It is a humiliation, Harold. The pastor is a good man ; give me the means of setting myself r.ght in his eyes." " How can I do that?" asked Harold. "I have no record of our marriage," I said, and was about to proceed when I was stopped by an expression in Harold's face I had never seen there before. " Sou are aware, Clarice," he said, without any display of anger, although I felt he was exercising control over his feelings, " that there were obstacles in the way of our being married in church." "Yes, Harold," I said, "you told me so." "It was sufficient for you then," he continued ; " it should be sufficient for you now. Ours was a civil marriage, privately contracted. Were it in my power —which it is not— to place in your hands what you require, I should decline to do so. I will not have my private affairs exposed to the gaze of strangers. You should be satisfied that I have behaved towards you like a gentleman. If from some cause outside myself or my actions you choose to doubt me, I cannot help it ; nor shall I take any steps to disabuse your mind of suspicion. Your course is before you, Clarice ; be wise, and chooße the right one. You are young and beautiful ; you have both sense and discretion ; continue to trust me and all will be well. Nothing is to be gained, dear child, I assure you, if you act in opposition to my wishes. You can see how you have annoyed me; I am ashamed to present myself to you in any but an entirely agreeable guise. Pardon me, I beg. Never renew this subject ; it will be unkind and injudicious. I will see you again soon, when this little cloud has j passed away." " 'He left me, and the cloud remains. It will never pass away ! It will hang over my life until 1 draw my last breath ! * * * * " ' Confirmation of my fears has come j too soon — too soon ! I am not fit to touch the hand of a pure and innocent girl. " •In a lane near to the cottage in [ which I live I saw a beggar-woman. She held out her hand ; I had no money to give ;my purse was empty. She raised her face to mine. It was the face of the woman who was given to me as a companion on the day I lost Marguerite, and whom Harold discharged because I disliked her. The moment she recognised me she placed herself before me defiantly. "Oh, my lady," said the woman, " this is where you live ! A pretty hiding place ! It has lasted longer than I expected ; you must have managed the great man cunningly. How did you manage it 1 Tell me. Though I'm too old and ugly to profit by the lesson. And are you together still, or have you replaced him by another ? " I attempted to pass her, but she would not allow me. " You were the cause of my losing a good service," she cried ; " I don't love you for that. You have been the cause of my wanting food ; I don't love you for that. Had it not been for you, I should never have hungered for bread." "I am sorry," I said, and knew not what more to say. The woman's grudge against me was justified, if what she said was true ; and it seemed to be so, for want was in her face. "It is convenient to be sorry when it is too late," she said. " But it is too late for you, as well as for me. Your master " I interrupted her, and demanded to know of whom she was speaking. "Of your master," she repeated. "He would have paid me well but for you ; he would have rewarded me finely, for he is rich, and generous when he has his way. To please you he sent me packing with the barest pittance, and since then not a morsel of good luck has fallen to my share. All your fault, my lady. Take credit for it ; I set it down to your account. Have you found him out yet, as others have done before you?" "If you are speaking of my husband," I said, " he will punish you for your wicked words." She laughed loudly. " Husband !" she cried ; " only one lady has ever had the right to call him by that name, and that lady ia not you, my pretty one ! You had better have kept me with you ; I could have shown you of what sort of stuff such gentlemen's . hearts are made of ! " I stopped to hear no more. Strong as she was, she could not prevent me from escaping, and I flew back to my room, with the horrible words she had uttered burning before me in the air. "'They are true j I feel they are

true ! Harold's manner towards me in our last interview proves their truth. And this very morning I received a letter from him — in the fewest words — telling me he was afraid he would not be able to come and see me for many weeks. That means he will not come again. " ' The pastor was right. It was his duty, he said, to protect those who have no knowledge of the world's sinful ways. I had such knowledge. Oh, yes ! I, the guilty Clarice, had such knowledge, and to associate with me was to be defiled!

" ' Oh, Thou all-powerful Lord before whom I shall appear on the Judgment Day, teach me and direct my faltering steps ! Whither shall I fly ? To whom j shall I turn ? Marguerite ! Marguerite ! come to me, and let me hide my shame upon your faithful bosom ! " ' Fly I I dare not. I must live and face the world. Harold shall do me justice. For the sake of my child, my pretty, innocent child, he shall do me justice. I will go to him, with my child in my arms | " ' Come, my dear one. We will start to-night, this very night. You smile at me now ; one day you will be ashamed to look into my face. When you know the truth you will shrink from the unhappy girl why presses her lips to yours, who kisses your pretty fingers, whose tears stain your sweet face ! " ' lf at this moment we both could die ! Oh, Marguerite, Marguerite, pity : and forgive me!'" (To be continued— Commenced in No. 1479 )