CHAPTER XXXVI.

Otago Witness, Issue 1894, 9 March 1888, Page 30

CHAPTER XXXVI.

The First Latter. As the morning wore on Efflo did not improve, and the strain on Luke's patience grew too great for him to endure. In spite of his anxiety for his young cousin, there had again rushed over his heart the jealous doubt, the miserable uncertainty about Lucy. He must see her ; he would see her, he told himself, and hear from her own lips who this young man was lie had seen her with yesterday. Until he knew that, there could be no rest for him. By 11 o'clock he was on his road to Hampstead, and startled Lucy by walking into Mrs Marks' little parlour before 12. And he made scant, or indeed really no apology for his early arrival. " I saw you yesterday," ho said abruptly. "Yes," answered Lucy rather coldly. " I am going to ask you a question," continued Luke, beginning to stride up and down the narrow room with his heavy footsteps, as was his wont when he was disturbed. " You may think it a rude one, but I don't mean it rudely, as you know ; but who was was the person I saw you with yesterday 1 Any relation ? Lucy felt that she blushod, but she replied steadily enough. " No," she said, " not a relation, but a rery old friend." For a minute or two Luke did not speak. He bit his under lip, and his heart beat with dull, cold throbs. " Effie is very ill," he jerked out presently. "MissDorrerl I am so very sorry," said Lucy, kindly. " What is the matter V ' " That's just it ; we can't tell. The child arrived home last night in a fearful state, completely done. If I could find out," continued Luke, working himself into a passion partly as an outlet for his own excited feelings, " who has been trifling with the girl — for I am certain some fellow or other has been doing so— l would make him repent to to the last day of his life for having done it. She said to my mother her heart was broken, and she is too ill now for us to press her with any questions; but she has had some wrong, some injury, I am convinced of itl" "Oh 1 poor girl, I hope not." "She is one of the sensitive ones, you know, Miss King, and was almost sure to get some deadly hurt in this hardened, brazened world. I hare noticed how changed she has been of late — don't you remember I mentioned it to you. the other day ? Yes, some brute, calling himself a gentleman, no doubt, has struck the child some bitter blow; but he shall rue it — by heavens he shall rue itl"

"But you don't think her in any danger, surely '?" " How can I tell ? The doctor said something to my mother this morning of symptoms of brain fever, and she is always moaning, and putting her hand to her head, and her pulse is terribly low. Will you come and see her, Miss King ? She is fond of you. Seeing you might rouse her." " I should like very much to sec her ; shall I go to-day ?" "If you will, It is very good of you ; what time will you come— now ?"

"No, not now," answered Lucy, "some time in the afternoon ; lam busy now"; and Luke took the hint, and felt himself compelled to go away. And he had learned nothing ! Nothing, at least, that gave any ease to the dull, cold pain that racked his heart. This man was not Lucy's brother then, but a friend.; and a friend might mean so much I Luke tormented himself %vith thinking of this or that ; despising himself as a coward for not having courage to ask Lucy any further questions. But he would do vso when she came ; yes, then he would be satisfied. But when Lucy did come to Maida Vale he still found himself tongue-tied. It is not so easy to break through the wall of reserve in which each human soul can enclose itself at will. Lucy was of frank nature, but Luke felt she did not wish to be questioned about this " very old friend " of hers, whom he was burning to know the truth about. He watched for her coming, and waited until she leffc Effie Dorrcr's sick room, and then went out into the hall to meet her. "Well, -what do ycu think of her?" he asked. " I am afraid she is very ill," said Lucy, gravely. "I am sure she is. Did she notice you?" " Scarcely ; she seems in a terribly nervous state, and her face is so" deeply flushed. I wish I could do anything for her, poor girl." " Perhaps you will come again ?" " Oh. yes."" " Will you come in here for a moment ?' continued Luke, pushing open the dining room door. "Do come in," he added, as Lucy hesitated. "I want to know soinethink—l am a fool, perhaps— oh, yes, lam certainly a fool — but still, will you answer? That young man you were with yesterday— you said he was an old friend— does friend

mean lover ?"

"No, Mr Smith, in this case certainly not," answered Lucy, quickly, and with a sudden flush spreading over her f ace. " But you have no right to ask such a question." " I know that well enough. But when a man is mad on a certain point, you should

humour him you know, Miss King. I am a jealous idiot, I admit, but still " " Please do not talk thus, Mr Smith," interrupted Lucy "if you do I cannot possibly come here to see Miss Dorrer." " I shall say nothing more ; then— l only wanted to know. You will come again to see the poor sick child ?" With a half-promise to do so, Lucy went away, and Luke Smith stood watching her from the window with gloomy, passionate, dissatisfied eyes. He was getting no nearer winning her, he knew very well. Yet he would win her, he told himself, believing that a strong determined will can force fate.

Yet had he seen Lucy an hour later walking with Jack Munsters in one of the green shadowy lanes near Miranda road, would he have been so sure of his own purpose ? There was a glad light in her blue eyes as she wandered by the side of her old lover that had never shone for him. They were happy, these two, far away from kith and kin. They talked together and smiled in each other's faces ; and needed none else. " And there is no harm in it," Lucy told herself, softly ; " Jack Traa my friend always ; is my friend still." Perhaps Jaok was not quite so sure as Lucy that there was no harm it. He had certain misgivings sometimes, and thought of his old friend, the Eector, rather unoasily. But it was too sweet, too sweet to lose I The long quiet walks, the sunsets, the dewy eyes. " It's like the old days again, Lucy," he once said.

" When we were so happy, Jack," she answered.

" I hope we shall he happy again. Promise me, Lucy, that you will be my wife as soon as ever you are free ? "

" Even if lam an old woman ? " she asked, half gaily, half sadly. " Will your regard for me survive wrinkles and grey hairs ? "

" You will never be old in my eyes. My regard for you, as you call it, is not dependent on your complexion. You can get wrinkles as soon as you like, Lucy." And he laughed. " Suppose I get like Aunt Louisa ? " " You will never be like Aunt Louisa."

"Yet, I assure you, she tells me she was a great beauty, and that every man she came near was in love with her."

" I hope every man you come near is not in love with you then ! " " Oh ! dear no," answered Lucy rather demurely, and with a little shrug, and also with a momentary unpleasant remembrance of Mr Luke Smith. "It's stupid, people being in loTe with those who don't care for them, isn't it, Jack ! " " Very; but perhaps they can't help it." "Well, perhaps not," said Lucy contemplatively, and she gave a little sigh. She was sorry for Luke Smith, somehow, and all his wasted, passionate love. And this feeling made her very reticent regarding him, eren to Jack. She told him about her poor little pupil's illness, about her sweet girlish beauty, and wondered what ailed the child. But she said very little of the big cousin who sought her own love, and would not bo gainsaid. Perhaps she thought it would vex Jack to hear this ; men are very apt to believe a woman must have encouraged a man before he yields up his heart. But this is not always so ; certainly Lucy had never tried to attract Luke Smith. One of those violent passions, over-whelming as a stormcloud, had suddenly seized upon him, and for good or ill, Lucy had become his fate. He became miserably restless after her visit to Effie Dorrer's sick bed. There was something changed in her manner, he told himself , she was more reserved and colder, and she had told him plainly that he had no right to ask if this other young man were friend or lover ? But he had a right, Luke argued, in his strange self-commune. Love gave him a right ; this consuming passion that filled his life had surely claims.

If a man constantly lets his mind dwell on one object, he no doubt, gets a little mad upon it. Luke Smith was fast approaching this state. lie was so determined to call Lucy his wife that he lost his reason on the subject. This dogged, sensible, stubborn man in ordinary times, became anything but sensible when he thought of the beautiful woman he was determined to win. One characteristic, however, he did retain, his stubbornness, bvit it was all now fixed on one pivot. But on the second day of Effie Dorrer's illness, a new interest and angry excitement was added to his life.

This was caused by a letter which the early post brought to Luke Smith's house in Maida Vale, addressed to Miss Effie Dorrer.

It was in a man's handwriting, and the poor young girl was now so ill that both Mrs Smith and Luke considered themselves justified in opening it. And Luke read it with ever-increasing rage and fury depicted in his face. It would have angered most men, indeed, to find such words addressed to one who, in Luke's eyes, was still almost a child.

"My Dearest little Eflie " (he read with intense indignation),—" I hope you have forgiven mo by this time, and that you will not be angry with me any more. Dear Effie, it wbs better to tell you the truth, though it gave me great sorrow to give j-ou pain. But we cannot be married, and il would not make you happier if you were. My own people would never forgive me, I know, and would never receive you. And then, dear little Effie, I have no money, except what my father allows me, and my pay, which is really nothing. But I love you very dearly, and it is very hard to give you up. Will you meet me once more, at any rate, to tell me that you forgive me, and that you are sorry to part with me? I shall never forget^ the happy hours we have passed together, and it was very sweet to me to hear that you loved me. If I could make things different I should gladly do so, but then I cannot do this ; and please do not drag that cousin of yours into the business. I took a perfect horror of that man the first time I saw him, and I am sure I could not keep my temper if I ever spoke to him, so only mischief would come of it. But we can manage our own affairs without Mr Luke (Smith, and at all events I wisli very much to talk things over with you. Will you, then, meet me by the water Huar tiift bridge the first day you can got out quietly ? If you telegraph to the old address I shall be there any day and hour that suits you. I cannot bear to feel that

you are angry with me, and I do so long to look again on your sweet face ! Please be friends again, dearest little Effie, and believe still in the devoted love of F. H."

Every word of this letter filled Luke Smith's heart with absolute fury. He understood it all now— the child's shame and broken-bearfcedness. She had believed she had an honourable lover, and found she had a dishonourable one, and she had crept home, like some wounded creature to die. And curses, deep and loud, broke from Luke's lips. Who was he, this base wretch that had tried to bring the girl to shame ? Luke's rage frightened his gentle mother, who entreated him to compose himself. But the angry man would hear no reason. He would trace him out; he would hunt him down ; he would drag him to Effie's bedside to see his work !

But he had nothing to guide him. The handwriting was unknown to him, and what did the initials tell ? Effie was too ill to be disturbed, and was lying with throbbing pulses and wide-distended reddened eyes. It was a case of brain ferer, the doctors told thorn, and she must be kept perfectly quiet, and all her fancies humoured. She had to be soothed and not excited, or it might end in madness.

Thus Luke could ask her no questions. He knew nob, indeed, where to turn lest he should compromise his young cousin. At last he bethought himself of Louis Carter, and cairied the letter signed " F.H." to the ex- valet, who examined the handwriting with enrious, inquiring eyes, and asked to be allowed to show the envelope to an expert. " The handwriting is like a handwriting I know," he said, "yet it is not the same."

" I will give £500 to discover who wrote that shameful letter ! " cried Luke, with an oath.

" And make the good papa pay it, eh, my friend?" smiled Louis Carter.

But Luke would listen to no jests on the subject, and moodily returned to the house to find Effie was no better, and his mother in the deepest anxiety and distress about the child.

She asked him to go and bring her daughter, Mrs Gaskell, to assist her to nurse Efiio— Mrs Gaskell having been on a short visit to the seaside with her family, but was expected to return this very clay ; and Luke started off to Hampstead about i o'clock, but on arriving at his sister' 3 house found she had not yet returned. Suddenly it struck him that perhaps Mi.<s King would come to them for a few days in their trouble. Full of this idea, which somehow soothed his angry and excited heart, he retraced his steps, and proceeded to Miranda road, only to find, on inquiring for Lucy, that she was out walking. "Is she alone ?" asked Luke, with darkening brow. " Well, I can't say, Mr Smith," replied Mrs Marks, with discretion.

"Did anyone call for her?" said Luke abruptly. "Oh dear no ; but she may have met a friend, you know." Luke asked no more questions. He hurried away from Mrs Marks' door, and went straight and quickly through the streets and lanes until he came in sight of the big tree under which two days ago, he had found Lucy sitting with Jack Munsters. He turned off the roadway before he came directly to it. A pretty spot this, rurallooking still in spite of the new dwellings that had sprung up about it. But the tall trees, and the green hills, and the shadowy lanes still remained. And beneath the same tree where Luke had seen Lucy, his jealous eyes at once quickly perceived that two young people were now sitting. The fierce throb in his heart seemed to warn him who these were. He kept back, he watched them unseen, and presently the girl turned her head round and looked at her companion, but did not speak. And the sun glinted on the face, and Luke saw it only too plainly. And he saw the blue eyes smile as they had never smiled on him ; and then presently he saw Jack put out his hand and clasp Lucy's, and hold it there unrebuked on her lap, while he bent closer to her and whispered some tender word in her car.

It was a shock, a revelation, almost too dreadful to be borne by the miserable man. The blood rushed to his head, he staggered a step forward, and then drew back. They were lovers, then— these two— and a mad rage and jealousy fell on Luke's soul, through which no ray of light seemed to pierce.