Chapter XXXIV.

Otago Witness, Issue 1893, 2 March 1888, Page 30

Chapter XXXIV.

A Broken Heart.

The next morning Lucy awoke with a strange sense of subtle joy pervading her whole being. What was it made her feel thus, she thought fora moment, between sleeping and waking, and then she remembered she was going to see Jack to-day ; she was going to see him everyday ; she was no longer alone. She rose smiling and bright, and went

other; that he knew nothing, in truth, of her past or present life. Then some words of her's flashed back to his memory — words of warning. She had told him it was not wise to walk on blindfolded to your fate, and Luke knew very well that he had been walking blindfold. And he knew, too, that blindfold or with eyes unbound he would still rush on. His strong masterful nature would let no obstacle stand in the way of his passionate love. Lucy should be his, he swore with clenched hands and knitted brows, even if she had a lover ; even if her past life had not been an unstained page. Yet the idea was agony to him, and he knew that he would hate her as well as love her, if the fair face had hidden a sullied heart.

Suddenly a thought struck him that relaxed his brow, and the hard fierce look died away from his lips. This man might be her brother? Why not her brother? He had caught a glimpse of Jack's smiling, pleasant face, and he now began hugging the idea that he had seen a likeness between them.

He gave a little laugh, and thought what a fool he had been to put himself in such a rage for nothing. Yes, her brother; to be sure, her brother. Some sailor brother, perhaps, and poor Lucy had been looking so pleased and glad to see him again. Luke made sure of this, and went down stairs to talk to his invalid mother, who had been listening anxiously to his heavy footsteps overhead since his return from Hampstead. But now he entered the room with a smile, and asked presently where Effie was. She was out, Mrs Smith said, with a certain ring of uneasiness in her voice, which Luke noted.

" Not alone, I hope, mother 1 " he asked, rising and going to the window. " She's not meeting that young Jfellow I saw her with once, any more, I hope ? " Mrs Smith's delicate face twitched; she did not like to tell Luke all she feared. Her womanly instinct somehow told her that Effie still met her lover; that all was not well with the child.

"I am gather anxious about her," she answered.' " Ido not think she is very strong just now, Luke ; she said she was going out for half an hour, but she has been away an hour or more."

She had been away at least three hours, but Mrs Smith felt afraid to tell Luke this.

" If I thought," said Luke, " that any man is trifling with her, I'd soon put a stop to it, I can tell you! Why don't you ask her, mother ? A young girl, and as pretty as she is, should not be allowed to run about the town alone."

"She very rarely goes out, Luke; and then, you see, she has no one to walk with." " I don't like her looks," continued Luke, doggedly; "she has an anxious expression she never had before ? "

" Perhaps — she cares for some one," said Mrs Smith, rather in a faltering voice.

" Perhaps she does," answered Luke, in his deep tones ; and then his mind wandered away from Effie's troubles to his own love. He grew jealous again presently, and that fierce gnawing pain once more took possession of his restless heart. This man might not be Lucy's brother— no, he might not, thought Luke, darkly— and yet still he might ! Then he resolved to go to Miranda road early in the morning and learn the truth.

Up and down the room he strode — up and down — his mother's soft eyes following his tall form almost tearfully. He seemed to have forgotten Effie altogether; but Mrs

Smith was anxiously thinking of her, growing oiore and more uneasy as the time went on and the young girl still was absent. Eight o'clock struck, and yet Luke, absorbed with the burning question in his own heart, took no heed. Then dusky shadows began stealing round the room, and it grew dark, and still Effie did not return. But Mrs Smith could now bear her anxiety no longer.

" I wish you would go to the garden gato, Luke, she said," "and see if there is anything to be seen of Effie— it's so late."

"Effie!" repeated Luke, at once rousing himself from his reverie ; "why, do you mean to say the child has not come in yet 1 " " I am sure I should have heard her if she had, as I've been listening ; do look out for her, Luke, please ?" He needed no second bidding. He put on his hat and went hastily down the garden walk in front of the house, and opened the gateway, and stood looking out on the road. It was almost dark, and yet nothing was to be seen of his young cousin. Then Luke went out and walked up and down, staring into the faces of the passers-by. There were lovers, and care-burdened women, who had lovers no more. " Each with some trouble or other," thought Luke, bitterly ; "ay it's the common lot."

Luke sighed impatiently, thinking of his own; but just at this moment the glimmer of the gaslight in front fell on the white face and tottering' form of a girl, who seemed almost unable to drag her failing limbs onward.

What made Luke walk quickly forward a^d meet this girl, and peer eagerly in her clammy face 1 It did not strike him at the moment that it was Effie D,orrer, whose lithe, light footsteps he knew so well. Yet he

went ; he approached the drooping figure , he looked at her, and with something between a moan and a cry, Effie herself fell forward into his arms.

" Luke 1 Luke ! take me home !" murmured the poor girl ; and Luke at once lifted her in his strong arms, and carried her into their own garden.

" What is it ? Child, what is it ?" he asked, with some sternness in his voice.

But Effie made no answer ; none when they laid her on her bed and bathed her cold hands, and forced restoratives between her pale lips. She shivered a little and moaned, and even after Luke left the room, with his heart full of great anger and suspicion, Effie would give no explanation of her pitiful condition to her gentle Aunt Theresa who was leaning over her in almost speechless pain.

"My darling, what is it ? Tell your more than mother!" at last urged Mrs Smith, kneeling down and tenderly kissing the poor girl's hand.

Then Effie looked in her aunt's face, and there was no hope in her beautiful dark eyes.

" Don't ask me, Aunt Theresa," she said, in a faltering voice ; " I— l can't tell you—butit has broken my heart."

(To be continued,)