THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

South Canterbury Times, Issue 5015, 24 May 1889, Page 4

THE MAYOR’S DAUGHTER.

LITERATURE

‘Poor Algy ! Oar glorious Algy! ’ be softly murmured. 1 1 wonder what Lady Cecilia Warriuer’s thoughts have been ! ’ observed Mrs Buddlecombe. * I wonder what they are now! ’ said old Bolitho. * Surely she does not carry her resentment beyond the grave.’ 1 Never even to have seen her grandchild all these years! ’ said Mrs Buddlecombe. * 0 dear, 0 dear, how could a woman’s heart Joshua, where are you going ? for goodness’ sake where are you going ? ’ ‘ 0,1 can’t stand talking about that acidulated old icicle,’ replied Mr Buddlecombe, as he hobbled off towards the door, ‘l'm off. Pm going to get up on the top of the house to hoist my flag myself. I said I would, and I will’ . ',. { O, nonsense, Buddie, said old Bolitho; ‘don’t do anything of the sort.’ ‘ And pray why not ? ’ asked Mr Buddlecombe, angrily. ‘ Your age, Buddie, your age.’ ‘ What do you mean ? Bolitho, what do you mean ? lam eighty-one. What more do you want? If a man isn’t old enough to hoist a flag at eighty-one, how much longer are you going to give him to prepare for doing it ? ,n

‘Well, well, Buddie, don’t let us have any words about it,’ said old Bolitho soothingly, for Mr Buddlecombe was very angry. ‘ Tes, but you say such extraordinary things, Bolitho —such silly things,’ returned old Buddlecombe, only half pacified. ‘You should try, ■ Bolitho, to exercise a little judgment, even il yon haven’t got any. The idea of thinking I’m too young to hoist a flag ! ’ Any further attempt the eccentric old gentleman may have marie to carry his project into effect was diverted from its course by the clang and crash of joy-bells from a neighbouring steeple. ‘Ah ! that means the regiment has just marched off from the station,’ observed old Bolitho. ‘ Dear, dear, how this carries me back to that day riearly twenty-five years ago.’ ‘ I must get ready,’ said old Buddiecombe, fussily. ‘ I wouldn’t miss seeing them pass my gates for a whole year’s income.’ ‘ 0 dear, 0 dear, I should like to see them too,’ said Mrs Buddlecombe. ‘ So you shall, so you shall, my dear, dear old friend,’ said old Joe Belitho, as he assisted the old lady out of her chair. * Take my arm. Come along, come along.’ Slowly and shakily the two walked arm-in-arm towards the door.

‘ Ah, Q-eorgiua,’ soliloquised Mr Buddlecombe, as he watched the two retiring, ‘ Georgina, poor old woman. How changed to when we welcomed the regiment home last time. How well I remember it. As she sailed out of the room with the majestic bearing of Juno, she sang a song and called me a brute. Dear, dear, these recollections are too much for me,’ he concluded, as he hobbled out of the room under deep emotion.

- The three old people had not long left the room when Florence Warriner entered. Her dress was of course one of deep mourning, but there was deeper mourning in her pale sweet face, yearningly her eyes turned to the portrait of her husband ; then with a weary sigh she sat down and took from her bosom two worn and soiled letters. For a long time she gazed upon them, and then broke into a dreamy monologue : ‘My two priceless treasures, Algy’s first letter, stained with age; Algy’s last letter, roy own darling’s last letter, stained with his own precious life’s blood. They found it on the field of battle near where—where ’ The poor quivering lips refused to utter, even in a whisper, the cruel words ‘ he was killed,’ * O, Algy, Algy,’ she exclaimed, clasping her hands and turning her eyes to heaven, * intercede for me where you are, intercede in my behalf that I may be granted help to bear this as you have told me to bear it. Algy, Algy, I do try ; I do try, darling. But O, 4lgy, this is the only hard task you ever imposed upon me.'

‘ u lf I live to return home, Florry, what joy unspeakable it will be to clasp you once more in my arms. But it is better always to be prepared for the worst. If 1 fall, ray dying prayer will be that English shouts of victory may be my requiem ; that you and I, darling, may meet hereafter ; and that until then our brave boy may be spared to be the pride, the hope, and* the comfort of your widowed life. And may God hear my prayer,”

‘Yes, it was heard,’ she exclaimed with passionate vehemence ; ‘ it was heard, darling. English shouts of victory mounted heavenwards with your pure spirit ; and our darling boy was spared, though they tell me that, maddened with grief when he saw you fall, he threw himsell amongst tne enemy and courted death. But your prayer had been heard, darling—heard as the prayers of the noble and good always are heard ; and God sent an angel of life to guard our precious one and to turn aside from him the steel and lead of the foe; and to-day I shall clasp him in my arms.’ The faint sound of distant cheering now reached her ears, ‘ He’s coming, darling. He’s coming now. I hear the people cheering them. Your old regiment you loved so, and which loved you so, is bringing him to me.’ Louder and louder rose the cheering. ‘ 0, those cheers! ’ she exclaimed, with her left hand pressed to her side. ‘They go through my heart. 0, it, is cruel of them to cheer. It is unfeeling. Pon’t they know there are hundreds

of hearts breaking in England ? I cannot bear to hear them. What am 1 thinking ? Forgive me, darling—forgive me. They’re the cheers of Englishmen, the victorious cheers of Englishmen you prayed to hear. They’re cheering your old regiment—your old regiment you were so proud ot. Yes ; there, darling, 1 can listen to them now. They were sweet in your ears, and they shall be, must be, sweet in mine.’

It was piteous, inexpressibly piteous, the way in which she tried to call into her white anguish-stricken face a look of pleasure, and a poor, little smile struggled for existence on her quivering lips, while the cheers swelled i’ato one continuous roar.

‘ Yes, there, darling, I’m listening ; listening with pleasure to them,’ she said j but the sickly little smile died away, and the heart sounded , its knell with a sob.

Above the cheers now rose the soldiers’ music.

‘The old familiar march—the dear old regimental march to which he has so often marched. How bright and joyous it used to sound; but now it is like mournful wailing. 0, with what a rush do those well-known strains bring old recollections to me. Tbe same old march to which they stepped so proudly when they first came here flushed with Crimean victories, and he was with them, the brightest, tbe handsomest, the noblest, and bravest of them all. They all said so themselves. O, I cannot. I cannot, bear this patiently. lam only a woman—a poor, weak woman, of flesh and blood.’ Like one demented, she now strode from one part of the room to the other, her hands clasped to her brow, and her golden hair streaming down her back ; and, in the frenzy of her grief, she rebelled against Heaven’s decree.

(To ie Continued .l