THE MAYOR'S DAUGHTER.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 5014, 23 May 1889, Page 4

THE MAYOR'S DAUGHTER.

LITERATURE-

Led off by old Bolitho’s roar, a general laugh ensued; but I bave to add, with regret, that Mrs Buddleeombe’s laugh was sardonic. ‘Joshua/ she said, ‘you quoted a proverb with something about a fool in it. Does not another proverb on the same subject—about there being no fool like an old fool—occur to you? And allow me to remind you that there are more ways than one in which a man can make an old tool of himself. ‘Georgina,’ said Mr Buddlecombe, who read the thoughts which prompted this biting taunt, ‘ will you do me the favour to accompany me to my study for a few minutes’ * private conversa-

tion?’ ‘ Certainly,’ replied Mrs Buddlecombe j and with a stiff demeanour she followed her husband out of the room. . ‘ Do you remember, Georgina, said Mr Buddlecombe, in an easy, pleasant wav, as be unlocked his escritoire, ‘do you remember my receiving on a certain morning some weeks ago a letter which led to a slight unpleasantness between us ? ’ ‘ Joshua,’ said Mrs Buddlecombe, bitterly, ‘ sear a woman’s tender flesh with a red-hot iron, and while she still quivers under the torture, ask her with a smiling face if she is conscious of the “ slight unpleasantness.” ’ ‘ No, I won’t do that,’ said Mr Buddlecombe, with graceful nonchalance, as he drew a letter from a pigeon-hole; ‘ IT! ask you, instead, to have tbe goodness to peruse that document ? ’ With a countenance on which indifference, interest, hope, joy, and ecstasy were successively expressed, Mrs Buddlecombe read from beginning to end. ‘Do you mean to say, Joshua, this was the letter ? ’ ‘ Yes, my dear.’ ‘Then it wasn’t an assignation —at least not a romantic assignation, after all!’ said Mrs Buddlecombe, as she threw her arms round his neck, ‘0 Joshua, forgive mu for having doubted you.’ « Yes, yes. Now go and undeceive old Joe Bolitho, But the secret must not go farther than his ear. TWENTY TEARS AFTER. ‘ Joshua, you must not really. Now promise me, dear, you won’t go out. Remember your age, your sciatica, your lumbago, and your earache.’ ‘Georgina, age, sciatica, lumbago, earache, and a wife—though last, not least—won’t keep me in this day. I will see them. They shall not pass my ga’es without a cheer from me.’ Reader, do you recognise in the old, old couple now speaking to each other .from their respective arm-chairs, Mr and Mrs Buddlecombe, whom you have not met since the memorable night of the riot more than twenty years ago ? ‘That’s all very well and very*beautiful, Joshua. But do consider the lumbago.’ ‘The lumbago, Georgina, does not consider me,’ piped the poor old roan, as he struggled to rise from his chair. ‘Yah!’ he exclaimed, as the exertion induced a severe twinge. ‘So I maintain I am under no obligation whatever to consider the lumbago. And I tell you what it is,’ he added, with a savage effort, as he rose to his feet and tottered across the room ; ‘no one shall hoist my flag but myself. On that I am determined, even if I have to stand on ■ one leg on the top of the truck to do it/

* Ah, Joshua, Joshua, how the times have changed I Do you remember that day, more than twenty years ago, when —when ’

The remainder of the sentence was lost in the folds of a handkerchief.

• ‘ Ab ! yes, yes,’ said the old man ; ‘I know what you mean. This day does indeed carry one back, as you were going to say, to that day when—when ’

At this same point Mr Buddlecombe also became inarticulate.

‘ Ah, Joshua,' said old Mrs Buddlecombe, after a pause, and as with a trembling hand she wiped her wrinkled cheeks, 1 if this day is one which stirs up afresh in our hearts the bitter dregs of sorrow, what must it be to our darling child ! ’

‘ Poor Florry, poor little Florry,’ said Mr Buddlecombe, the tsars streaming down his furrowed face. ‘ Ah, Georgina, we have paid our share of tribulation towards the maintenance of Old England’s honour. But, Algy, my son —for such yon were to me—while our hearts ache they also swell with pride. Though no tomb marks the spot where you rest, “ He died for his country” is the epitaph we have all carved for you, Algy, on our hearts ; and carved, too, a great deal deeper than it ever could be on wood or stone.’

‘ Isn’t it a strange coincidence, Joshua,’ said Mrs Buddlecotnbe, after a long silence, in which the two old people had been busily engaged in wiping their eyes, ‘that the Queen’s Own Fusiliers should now come here to the same place which welcomed them after their last victorious campaign ? ’ ‘No, Georgina. You forget that Bolitho and I got up a petition to the H orse Guards, begging for the privilege of repeating the welcome to the same regiment upon what. is, I am proud to #ay, a similar occasion,’ * Ah, how vividly and painfully that day is recalled to my memory,’ observed the old lady, with a sigh and a shake of the head. ‘lt was an enthusiastic reception they met with, Joshua, wasn’t it ? ’

‘Yes—well, yes, it was,’ acquiesced Mr Buddlecombe, rather uneasily. ‘ The town, I recollect, gave them a very hearty welcome.’ ‘ With the exception, perhaps, of the Mavor at that time.’

* Well, I believe he didn’t go absolutely wild—at least not with enthusiasm. But he’s changed his mind.

I’m chairman, and Bolitho’s vicechairman, of the reception committee ; and if we don’t do the thing properly, it won’t be for lack of zeal and goodwill. We won’t let our private grief damp the public enthusiasm/ ‘ Poor Florry, poor darling !,” sighed Mrs Buddlecombe ; ‘ how the ringing of bells, the cheers of the crowd, the strains of martial music, will seem to mock her grief! But, thank Heaven, she will soon have her gallant boy to console her.’ ‘ Yes, thank God, he has been spared through all the perils of the campaign, to be our child’s comfort, I hope. Ah, here’s old Joe Bolitho.’ Not with heavy tramp and merry song did old Joe Bolitho make his appearance on this occasion, but with a subdued air and leaning on a stick our old friend tottered into the room. • Ah, my dear Mrs Buddlecombe, how do you do—how do you do ? ’ be said. Mrs Buddlecombe did not reply. She only looked into the sad kind old face, shook her head, and covered her countenance with her handkerchief. ‘This is a day of conflicting emotions,’ said old Bolitho, ‘ History repeats itself. Ah, Buddie, old friend, how do you do ? History repeats itself.’

‘ But you are not history, Bolitho.’ ‘ I know that, Buddie. I know that.’

‘ Then you shouldn’t repeat yourself, Bolitho.’

‘ Poor old Buddie! he’s getting old, very old,’ murmured old Bolitho, as he shuffled off to place his hat on a table.

‘ Poor old Joe Bolitho ! he’s dreadfully aged,’ muttered old Buddlecombe, as he watched his friend’s movements.

On the wall over the table where Mr Bolitho placed his hat, was a large portrait of Algernon Warriner, and at it the old man stood gazing with an earnest sorrowful countenance, until the tears blinded him. (To he Continued .)