Chapter V.

Otago Witness, Issue 2260, 24 June 1897, Page 41

Chapter V.

A Wounded Heatt. T Under woood Dorothy Vance bad been very happy. She had accepted the sunßhine which had fallen across her path I without giving the iuture a • thought, or even troubling herself about the oftentimes troublesome question of ways and means. In her Indian home «he had been accustomed to every comfort — ! her father, perhaps unwisely, had never permitted a shadow of his own care to reat upon his only child ; had never hinted even that the day might come when she would be obliged to think out the question of mere livelihood for herself. He had left her in absolute faith fto his friend, Roger Marcham, but it was now through Roger Marcbam the trouble ' was to come on the child. She was a child in some things, though in others a proud, sensitive, high-souled woman. She was a child certainly in her knowledge of the world, evidenced by her entire belief in what was uttered by Fred Wellesley in a moment of passion. She was so absolutely truthful herself in word, act, and thought j that the idea of wilful untruthfulness in others did not readily present itself to her mind. As she sped on towards the house that night one thought was uppermost in her mind, that she was a harden on her guardian, a burden so keenly felt that he had complained of it to others. It was a cruel thought. Her cheeks tingled, her eyeß filled with bitter, rebellious tears ; it was so hard to think that she bad remained so long trespassing on an unwilling kindness, only because ahe was in ignorance of the real state of the case. It was not kind, she said to herself, that Roger Marcham should have extended a half-hearted welcome, should have allowed her to humiliate herself as sbe had done, accepting his charity as if it were her absolute right. If Bhe had ever given the matter a thought, she had fancied that her father had left ample means, that her residence at Underwood was simply a matter of duty and inclination. She had been left Roger Marcham's ward, and had supposed it the light thing to reside under her guardian's roof. In the first misery and humiliation of her pain, Dorothy Vance was i cot just to Roger Marcham. It was a carious thing how switt she was to forget all his ! goodness, his unnumbered acts of courtesy and generous consideration ; or, if they were remembered, they were so distorted as to appear like injuries which stabbed her to the heart. Every word or act 'whiSh by any possibility could be construed into proof of Fred's assertion roee up before the girl's tortured imagination with painful vividness. Before she had reached the house she had convinced herself that she was an intruder, endured rather than -welcomed under her guardian's roof. Her sensitive soul writhed under the sting of the obligation which seemed to weigh her down. For nine months she had eaten the bread of charity as if it had been her own by right. Poor Dorothy Vance 1 It was as if every bright memory, every happy and beautiful thing in life, had disappeared for ever, leaving only the dark shadows of despair on her heart. The hall door stood wide open, that hospitable door sbe had loved and looked upon as the entrance to her home. She sped through it with harried footsteps, like a hunted thing who had ho right there. The library door was a little ajar, and at the side of the velvet curtains which hung outside of it a gleam of yellow light indicated that the master waa within. As she sped past it t she heard him stirring in the room, and presently a footfall cross the floor. Bhe had reached the drawing-room landing, however, before the curtain was swayed aside and Roger Marcham looked out into the hall. She did not know what made her pause and look over the balustrade ; perhaps the thought occurred to her that she might not look upon his face again for long. She admitted to herself, with a pang o? selfsoorn, as her eyes dwelt for a moment on the

i grave, , somewhat careworn, features that it ■ was the face she loved best on earth. She j i did not know with what manner of love her j | heart was filled, whether she regarded Roger Maroham with the feelings a ward might entertain for a guardian who wa6 supposed to fill the place of a father ; but the love was there, and it made the sting of her humiliation and pain a thousand times harder to bear. As she stood, Fred Wellesley came hastily into the hall. " All alone, Fred 1 Where's Dorothy 1 " she heard Roger Marcham say, but the eagerness with which he asked the question was quite lost upon her. " We fell out on the way, and she ran off and left me," Fred answered curtly. "You ought not to have allowed that. Were you within the grounds when she left you 1 " " Ob, yes, just at the bridge. She can't be many minutes upstairs," Fred answered with a short laugh as he hung his hat on the rack. Dorothy wished to hear no more, but hurried on to her own room and looked the door from within. . " What did you fall out about to-night 1 " asked Roger Marcham as his nephew followed him into the library. " I thought you were the best of friends." " Oh, so we are ; but we have our tiff*. She's so jolly hard on a fellow," said Fred with unblushing coolness. "How did you like the affair to-day I—not1 — not badly managed at all, was it 1 Mrs Tracy is really a clever woman. She can mako a good deal out of nothing." " She is certainly a successful entertainer," returned Roger Marcham absently; and then conversation flagged between them. An hour passed, and there was no sign of Dorothy's appearance downstairs. At halfpast 9 tbe supper tr&y was brought into the library as usual. The inmates of Underwood lived quietly and without ostentation, their meals were very simple, and did not entail much labour on the servants. "Go upstairs, Martha, and see whether Miss Vance will come down," the master said to the girl who entered the room. "Yes, sir," she answered,. and ran upstairß at once, but her knock at Miss Vance's door brought no response. II What's the matter ; what are you knocking there for 1 " asked the housekeeper, who happened to come downstairs at the moment. " It's for Miss Vance. Supper's in, and the squire's been asking for her, Mrs Maple." "Ob, well, run down and I'll see. I daresay Miss Vance is tired with the long afternoon," said the housekeeper, as she tapped with her own hand at the young lady'e door. " The supper's in, Miss Dorothy, and tbe gentlemen are waiting. Are you not well, my dear 1 " she asked when she received no reply. After a moment she heard a movement in the room, and the door was unlocked. 11 1 was lying down, Maple," Dorothy j answered in alow voice, and holding the door only a little ajar. " Say to Mr Marcham I have a bad headache, and will not come down to-night." " I am sorry to hear that, deary. Let me j get you a oup of tea," said Maple kindly, for , the young lady quite rivalled the squire in ; her affections now. ] " Oh, no, thank you; I couldn't driuk it — ] indeed, I conldn't.. Thank yon, quite the j same. * " Well, let we come and bathe your head, Miss Dorothy. I can't bear to leave yon, and the master wouldn't like it. "Oh, he wouldn't mind," she answered quickly. " Just leave me, dear Maple. lam going to lie down again ; I'll be all right in the morning." " Well, if you must have it, miss, I suppose I must go. G-ood-night, deary ; try to get a good sleep," said Maple kindly, as she reluctantly went away, little dreaming that she had heard and seen the last of the squire's ward for many a day. Fred Wellesley seemed to be in good spirits that night. He talked incessantly, but his uncle gave him only divided attention, and went off early to bed. ' " I'm going up to town by the early train," said Fred, as his uncle left, " bo I'll say goodbye aB well as good-night." " The early train ! " said Roger Marcham with a smile. " That will be an unprecedented feat. Do you think you'll manage it?" "Of course I will, lifople knows. She's to have breakfast for me at half-past six." "Very well, my boy; c I shall be the last to put anything in the way of your industry. It ifi a great satisfaction to me to see you working so well," said Roger Marcham kindly. Fred looked rather abashed. He was conscious that he scarcely deserved these kind words. In his talk with Dorothy Vance he had scarcely been loyal to his uncle, who had ever been his kind and generous friend. ; " Oh, don't say anything. I'm a good-for-nothing fellow," said he hastily,' speaking the truth this time at least. " You'll be up soon in town, I suppose 1 " " Next week. 1 have promised Dorothy a week in town before the season closes, so we shall be seeing a good deal of you. You deserve a holiday this year, Fred. Goodnight. Don't oversleep yourself, or the joke will be against you." So they parted for the night. It was the month of June, when the days were a dream of lovelinesß and light, the nights laden with the odonrß of the sweet summer time, the whole earth blessed with the fulness and promise of the coming bar- j vest time. How lovely were the early mornings at Underwood ! " Often had Dorothy stolen out of doors before the household were astir to enjoy the delicious freshness of the young day. Many a time she had watched the daisies opening under the sun's kiss, and seen the dewdrops glittering in his beams. These early walks bad been delightful experiences for her, and had given a healthy stimulus to her whole being. On the morning after tbe vicarage garden party she was astir almost as early as the dawn. The light was breaking greyly into her room as she moved very softly about, gathering a few things together with a curious, nervous haste which indicated a spirit excited and overwrought. Her face was deadly pale, her eyeß encircled with dark rings, her mouth set in a sad but resolute curve. Bhe had

lain down for an hour or ti7o on the bed, bod had not slept. Her ntrves were quite un; strung. She had wrought heraeif into a state of nsrvcus excitement whioh sooner or later would wear her out. During theser painful hourß imagination had been busy/ shs had brooded over bar fancied wrongrf until she saw only one way of escape from them. Sbe must go away from Underwood—* where she did not know or care — only she must go. Surely somewhere there would bd a corner for her, something for her willing bands to do ; bo she made her resolve, poor girl, without realising the momentouß risks to which Bhe was exposing herself. Her ignorance of the great and evil world misled her here, and she mafle her resolve without a misgiving or a fear. Anything, she told herself bitterly, would be preferable to eating the bread of charity under Roger Marcham's roof. When she rose she changed her white dress for one of dark woollan stuff, put on the travelling hat and veil she bad worn on board the Indus, arid into a small . handbag put a few things most necessary, - or most precious to her. * Shs had not very muoh money to set out seeking her fortune-— four sovereigns and a few odd shillings were all her purse contained. When sha was quite ready she opened the door softly and looked out anxiously into tbe corridor. As she did so the half clock struck the half-hour after 8, When tbe echo died away thera was not a, sound in the houce. Sfte stole downstairs softly, fearing lest the slightest creaking of the stair should alarm and waken any one in the house. In the entranco hall she paused a moment irresolute. It would be impossible for her to turn tbe heavy look of the great door without making a noise which won Id certainly betray her. In her perplexiiy ?he thought of the library windows wbioh oponed" out upon the terrace. They would be bolted and barred, but the room was not in the vicinity of any sleeping chamber ; it ai^ht be possible to open them unheard. Sha crept into tbe room, and noiselessly Bbut tbe door behind her. As she set her bag on the table and looked at the papers and books there, at the chair pushed back, jmt as Roger Marcham had risen from it, her mouth trembled. The temptation came upon her to lift hiu p- n and write a word of farewell, bat she restrained herself* and moving over to the window, swept back with oervon* ha id the heavy curtains which hung down befora the shutters. The bolts creaked a htUe as she removed them, and her heart beat with apprehension. With the haste of fear she unfastened both shutter and window, and threw open one side of the folding door, admitting a glorious flood of sunshine into the rocm. It was sunrise, and the nxquisite' radiance dazzled her hot tired eyes She caught up her bag, oast a lingering look round the familiar room where so many happy hours had been epent, and with a> catching sob stepped out on to the terrace. As she did so, a little bird on a neighbouring: bough suddenly burst into Hong and poured forth' a flood of melody, which, ia-spite of its very joyousness, brought the tears t<r Dorothy's eyes. Bvary Jiving thing was rejoicing except herael!. How fair the summer morning, how indescribable and how lovely the tints with whioh the sunrise had adorned the sky, how fresh and aweet the zephyrs, how full ot light and beauty that exquisite dawo 1 But Dorothy saw none of it. Her eyes "ware full, and when at the turn in the avenue sha looked back for the last time at tb.9 place she' had learned to love as ■ a dear and happy home, shs saw it dimly through a mist of! blinding tearß.