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Otago Witness, Issue 1764, 12 September 1885, Page 24

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lv is twenty years ago, Sissy. You know your auntie was an only daughter, and pa was very little at home, in her days. I was very proud. Not that I went about with mincing airs, or that I was particularly given to dress. My pride was too great for that ; but I never* crossed our threshold without 'feeling in tlje \n~ most corners of my heart' what a privilege-^ maiden I was to be the daughter of the Rev. Christopher Wayne, rector of Great Bielb'y parish. And truly in Great Bielby it was a fortune, for of the few who could claim the title of gentry by birth not one was possessed of such accomplishments as I. One or two families of the fox-hunting class cared little for these trifles, at they were pleased to term them, and simply engaged a governess &s a kind of staid duenna-like set-off to their brusque, masculine dash. Mrs Wynleve certainly did strive with her daughters, for she had not been without pretensions herself in her younger days. But with little success ; example was inauspicious, and her attention was often drawn away witli other engagements. As for the rest, being like the Misses Wynleve, without governess, and also without much hope of assistance from parents, their education progressed or stood still in languid, lack-a-day fashion. ■ But for me, my dear old pa was a whole college of tutors in himself, his library was mine ; what hours he would spend selecting and marking out the choicest passages for ouV mutual perusal on the morrow, how he gloried in my joy when I clapped my girlish, hands and sprang with a bound to the" window for very rapture ac some new gem he had unearthed ana] i bre)£su ! re'a most secretly till that inoriient wHen we. might enjoy its beauties together ; what delight he took in remarking our concurrence of tastes; f and how he chimed in upon my hilarious treble with his hearty and melodious bass. Oh ! what happy times those were, Sissy. I really do not know whether he was the happier or I — he, learning his German at fifty years that no pur--suit should divide us ; dear, dear pa, whom I all but worshipped, whose failings were my lasting charms, whose words and opinions were the law

of all the prophets,* and I the only girl in Christendom, although he never said it. My governess, an exceptionally gifted lady, Fraulein Levig, was the issue of months of deliberation and inquiry. From her I acquired the lighter arts of painting and music, together with some proficiency in modern languages. That piano you so much despise and look upon as though it were Queen Elizabeth's virginal, was a rarity in those days. I remember my Lady Bissington could not conceal her displeasure on her first visit after its arrival from London. In a loud whisper intended for my father's ears, she remarked to the other occupant of her carriage as she drove away, " Wayne must certainly intend his daughter to appear in public." And pa only turned back and tossed up his head in contemplation of something far remote — perchance some thought of Dante's or a nature-touch from Shakespeare. How I loved him for that verything, that he was never offended, for his power of absent-mindedness ; no annoyance could trouble the tranquility of his benign features long— a transient fire gleamed in his eye, and like the true philosopher he was, his mind had leapt to nobler things. Such of our neighbours as could venture to have opinions, considered him eccentric. And indeed they had reason, for his centre -was altogether without their compass. I don't think he took much pleasure iv music naturally, but he would frequently call me away from my book on the hearth to run over some of the reveries of the great masters. Nothing I undertook but he would make great effort to comprehend and enjoy, and whatever was a source of feeling for me, became to him a spring of deep interest and unfailing concern. I have told you all this in preface of my story, Sissy, that you might better ' understand me. Aunt Mary has never been married; she has never been quite like other young girls. People speak of her as they did of her dear pa ; she is eccentric, some say — a blue stocking. She has never been in love, except with that loving white head now gone to rest. I think now you will know why. Yet she has a story — a little romance — a recollection which has something sweet in it still — a souvenir by which you will learn that " maidenly aunts " are not altogether out of the circle of human nature. I only mentioned the upper class of our parishioners, among whom you may gather I did not find much congenial company. In addition there were several wealthy farmers and proprietors very little beneath us in worldly position. Father and I often made the parochial visits together, and indeed to one of these latter I frequently went alone. One of the daughters — unusually bright and intelligent — was'a special favourite of mine, and during her last illness I spent many hours endeavouring to relieve the long hours of pain in reading and other simple attentions. In that way I grew very much endeared to the family; the master would stealiuto the chamber while I read, and wipe away the quick tears with an evasive hand; the mother overwhelmed me with blessings, and the san was only too glad if the evening was late enough to countenance the necessity of escorting ma 'Twas with this son that auntie's episode occurred. Little by little I unbent myself to this afflicted household; unthinkingly, and gradually, I beoame free as a sister and as much at home as a daughter. When John took me home across tlie fields, walking aloof as though in the presance of some unapproachable — Andromeda, if ha had known such—^l chatted cheerily, imagining his diffidence, in part at least, to be occasioned by the burden of his sorrow, for they ware an affectionate family. By degrees he took heart, and addressed me with more ease, aid I was glad to see my efforts succeed, not always, I fear,,without a tinge of selfishness and that vanity which I suppose besets all women. For he was riot, you must remember, merely a country bumpkin; he had been well schooled, not in the highest tone, perhaps, but his parts excelled those of any youth, high or low, in Great Bielby., I was glad, Sissy, but I have sorrowed many a time since. For he interpreted me differently, and a great heart suffered, I believe, before it could forget. My freedom in conversation, my readiness in appreciating his standpoint — I fancy I am a little gifted in that direction — the clear expression of ideas — thanks to my thorough training— which he stammeringly belaboured; my, t must say, apparent affability towards him him led him to suppose that I would accept his affection. What a sad mistake.! I pray, Sissy, no such mishap may befall you. And yet I half love the memory of that manly soul. Some tune after the death of his sister, when my visits became of necessity fewer, he sought my father and laid his hopes before him. What an unexpected circumstance it was for him to think of Mary, his own doubly-plighted daughter's marriage. How could it be? However, he could not be harsh ; rapid as thought he excused me to himself, accused himself of being unreasonable, and bade young Bartram call on the morrow. "My daughter's welfare is my dearest concern, and if she has given her love to you, you are welcome from my heart as her choice." Those were the words I overheard from the hall ; and just as if a curtain had been rent before me, I saw and felt their meaning. Unconsciously I had won the devotion of a warmhearted and worthy young fellow — a gentleman of feeling, I may truly say, tender as a child and faithful, as I already well knew. It flashed before me vivid as lightning, and I fell on the couch suffused with hurrying tears. And so your grandpa found me, my face buried m the cushions. And his voice trembled as he told me not to grieve ; he was willing, ready to give anything for my happiness ; he had been stupid never to see that this would come ; but if I was happy he was happy, and there was really no room for sorrow. And all this while I could not speak. At last I raised my head and our glistening eyes met, and I threw my arms around him, Bobbing " It is not so." A sharp thrill went through him— r feel it vet -as he asked, « Truly ?» When I replied, a new trouble had seized him—" Poor Bartram ! and I have told him to come to-morrow." And we talked it over. I was perfectly happy at home, and could not hope to be so with him. I liked him, certainly ; but our tastes were so unlike, and we both agreed it were better not to be It was not without a great struggle, that he consented to my seeing Bartram next day He feared the trial would be too great for me. But I held out, knowing that Bartram would prize such an attention, and determined that the blow should fall upon" him in the kindliest and gentlest manner. Indeed, I had great hopes to win him over, and so explain matters that he would acknowledge my views to be the wiser. The morrow came, and I received him in the library— dear room within which have centred all my happiest moments. No soul knows what took place in that short hour. To you I breathe it for the first time, partly because I long to ahare my secret with a young, fresh heart, and ' partly because I would have you reverence to the full the value of an affectionate attachment such as is very plain Frank Fordyce has towards you. Your stiff, rigid Aunt Mary dreams that

once had "a heart as pliable as any : 'tis time and bereavement that have worked their will. But let us continue — ■

I broached the perplexing subject by telling him I knew from pa the object df his call. " I was sorry he had ever thought of me as other than a friend" and— modesty aud distance would have been but cruelty then — I laid my hand in his and begged him not to think hardly of me. I had never had a thought of the kind he had contemplated. He looked into my eyes with a dazed expression, aud slowly uttered —

" And I was sure. Do you really say it cannot be ?"

Over and over again I repeated my answer before he could comprehend that I was in earnest.

" You know, John," said I, "it might be ; but do you think it could be well when my books and scholarly companionship are my greatest enjoyment? I could not make you lastingly happy ; you so fond of activity, so full of outdoor predilections."

Yes, he knew he should be happy if that came about. I had miscalculated my strength ; my will was weak before his. I could not win him over.

" But," I continued, " how co"ld I he happy at the head of a stirring household ? lam not capable of making a creditable presence; I should disgrace you. Now, don't you think so yourself, John ? You don't wish me to do something that would make me wretched ?"

" No ; oh, no," he replied earnestly, " nothing against your mmd; but somehow I can't got it out of my head, and you could have some one to manage the house matters." " Oh, Mr Bartram, when you get away and think it over some cool moment, you will know it better otherwise. There are many clevererwomen than I ; lam only a parson's pet. How foolish you would be to throw yourself away on a helpless girl like me."

" That's not the question. I love you — clever or not clever has nothing to do with it — I don't care for clever women."

" But you would not have me say ' Yes,' when my heart is whispering ' No.' " "" No, nt>, no, dear Miss Wayne — if you will allow me for this day only — but it is, hard to believe."

"I am only a f oolish, wayward girl. I cannot love. If I could, I assure you that you would come next to my dear papa in my esteem."

Here he pressed my hand warmly, and drew me towards bun. At that moment I fancy I heard both our hearts beating, for mine was palpitating violently. " What must be must," he sighed. " You will forgive my obstinacy, I know, and let mo have one first and last embrace in place of what I hoped might have been."

Then he placed his arm round me, and my head fell consenting upon his massive shoulder. What thoughts flitted through me- 1 - a multitude — a weight of images insupportable ; to yield and be at rest, to linger thus and die, to hold so great a love for ever and for ever — to be in Paradise, and no more of partings. And ever upon the' rest lay the dull, heavy, leaden " No" that would not be gainsaid. Many and many a time our lips met and parted ; you cannot tell how passionately. I do not believe accepted lovers could realise its fervour. How reluctantly I drew away ; how unwilling he was to leave ; how he pressed me to him again and again ; thanked me again and again for what lie called my forbearance.* What it really was I dare not say. And how at length we parted, like lovers doomed never to see each other again.

Truly, those were happy moments. I felt as though he were the more refined, and I a senseless good-for-nothing girl. Undoubtedly his was the greater soul, and but for that fountain in unexpected places my life would have been, after .all, a parched and thirsty desert. Joyous hours upon hours, shaded with the merest dash of regret, have I spent in meditation on that inter* view, every little incident of which is stamped indelibly upon my mind. Verily I think I did really l.ove him ; but' the Fates are inexorable. " Time past will never return." It was not without a pang that, two years after, I heard of his wedding ; add now, although, no doubt, he has long siuce forgotten me, that one little episode flourishes as green as ever within the most sacred precincts of my memory. — F. A.