How Will it End.

Taranaki Herald, Volume XLVI, Issue 11018, 8 September 1897, Page 4

How Will it End.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of The Burden of a Secret, Love in a Mask, The Woman Between Them, Lord Lynn's Choice, One "Woman's Sin, A Brokon Vow, &c. CHAPTER I. s^xa^jjyjHE stood in the beautiful sni^t^ °'^ rec ' or y garden, aS^ fflski£S^ whose face was a dream of fe'-^^^^l beauty, and whose golden <«#|§=J| hi'- wrs kksed by the t(cSfi?^3> sun. Sweet Daphne Hardy ?Jgc — as fair a vision as e'er tho sun £?£ shone on. Iv her fleecy white dress, with odorous violets nestling in the richlace upon her bosom, and her suuny hair massed like a cloud of gold ' — "just tied iv a knot and falling loosa again." "It is good to he merry and wise, 'Tisgood to be honest and true; 'Ti3 good to be off with the old love Before yon are on with the new." She sang in a clear voice, every tone which was sweet as that of a bird singing in the sunshine. "My dearest Daphne. " said the Rev, Mark Hardy, "do you think those really nice words far a clergyman's daughter to sing?" "Do I think so? Yes, papa; no clergyman's daughter could sing better. They are honest words, with a good moral. What can yon have better?" The Rev. Mark Hardy shook his head gravely. "Dr. Watts has written beautiful hymns, Dephne." My dear papa, I will leave you to sing them," cried the girl. "I am young, and foolish, and worldly enough to prefer Moore. The good [curate looked even more grave. "I alwaya told your mother, my dear, that no good would ever come of giving you such .a name as Daphne." "Did- she agree with you, pnpa!" asked the girl. "I am sorry to say she did not," was grave raply; "you may be quite sure she did not, or would have had some sensible scriptural name, such as Esther or Deborah. To me it seemed almost sinful to call a Christian, child Daphne. " The sauciest smile rippled around the girl's mouth. "Why was it done, then, papa? Why was I called Daphne, if you strongly dißipproved?" The good curate looked around uneasily — even to bis daughter he'did not likje to confess that his wife had ruled him entirely, and that he had never known the luxury of having his own way once during the whole course of his married life. The girl, with a deeper Btnile, repeated the question : •'If you did not like the name, papa, why did you give it to me? ' The cnrate'B thin face flushed. "It was in this way, my dear: Your mother was romantic, and she liked her own way" — a very mild way of saying she had always had it — "she knew all about the great pictnres and the great statues of the world; she talked very often of the famous painting of Daphne. She had a very fine engraving of it, and when you lay in the cradle she declared that you had the same shaped head, the same brow, the same features as the far-famed Daphne, and she would have yon bear the name. I was nervons and horrificd — I was afraid the bishop would hoar of it, and, perhaps, suspend me; bat married men would understand I : had to give in. You know tho old French proverb: 'What woman wills Heaven wills.' For my own part, I have always thought the little faults in your life were to be attributed to your name, and nothing else. " "Do you really think that a name influences a life?" she asked, gravely. "I should think so. I imagine, naturally, that any girl or woman who hear 3 herself called 'Deborah' twenty times in an hour, mast of necessity be a steady, quiet, God-fearing woman, Sound influences people quite as much as sight. To me the idea explains all your peculiarities, child; yon hear the name of Daphne every five minutes — it is associated with poetry, art, romance — no wonder that your ideas and thoughts are coloured by it." "That is qnite a novel idea, papa; you should take out a patent for it. If there be any truth at all in it, I would have every girl in the world named Kate — the most charming, delicious, fanciful name we have. Papa, who is that crossing the field? The Bun is in my eyes; I cannot see?" The enrate ruised his head and looked. "That is Arthur Danvers," he replied. And Daphne turned away with a little triumphant gesture that was mo3t charming. "Who is that, papa, coming by the lime-trees?" The curate leaned forward in order to Bee better. "lliat is Philip Stowe, " he answered. And this time a rosy flush came over the girl's fair face, "Always together — T believe they watch each other. I never see ona without the shadow of the other." She stood for a few minutes embarrassed — the prettiest picture iv all the wide world — not quite sure whether she Bhould turn to the field to greet Arthur, or to the limes to meet Philip — the prettiest, daintiest picture of coy, shy,' saucy confusion. It was a beautiful picture, altogether. The picturesque, old-fashioned rectory — a bnilding of grey stone, tie windows of which were framed in roses and passion flowers — a pretty porch, that was coveied with clematis— a garden that was like a picture from the old world — a row of beehives under the apple trfes — nn old sun dial, half covered with moss — oldfashioneu flowers, such as Herrick and Wallor loved; sweet peas and mignonette, Bweet willinms, and gilly flowers, luscious - double stocks, and carnations of richest bloom, great blush roses, and sheaves of white lilius, pear trees, in full bloom, rustic seats placed here and there; from £ every opening in the trees, a glimpse, \ almost divine, of the beautiful church and the village of Inglewood, with its - qnaint homesteads. A garden in which to dream — in which to read and understand the oldfashioned poets, in which to enjoy all sweet odors, and hear all sweet sounds. , The cherry trees were scarlet with fruit, and the lilies perfumed the air. Tho ReV. Mark Hardy had come out C that evening to see how the cherries were getting on, and found his lovely young a] daughter busy driving away the hungry birds, to whom they were a maddening temptation, and singing to herself abont the old lovo and the new. As he stood watching her, ihwardly i ailing at her name, he owned to himself that human eyes had rarely seen a fairer picture. Daphne was above the middle height, with a form as perfect as ever sculptor moulded, a figure that was full of grace fll lines and curves, slender and stately, 'trith tho willowy grace of a young palm.

Her faco was more than beautiful, and ! to those who have seen the art treasures of the world it brought back at once (lie memory of the famous Daphne. The golden hair lay like a coronet on the broad, low brow, the oval face, Ihe beautiful dimpled chin, the mouth, like a cleft rose, the blue eye 3, with their long, silken lashes, and the beautiful hue of an Italian sky. Every one in the neighborhood know Daphne Hardy, every young man, far and near, either had been or was, in love with her; every girl envied her, everyone liked her, and two — the two most eligible men in the neighborhood were both madly in love with her. Sweet is the very word that expresses Daphne Hardy. Some girls are handsome, some clever, some spirited, she was sweet; her rippling laughter, her clear voice, her charming amile, her caressing manner, wero all sweet — no other word describes her. No girl had ever more lovers or more love; from the time she was sixteen until now, in her ninetcpnth year, her career had been one of conquest; no man could help falling in love with her, she was quite irresistible; a village beauty, it is true, without any artificial charms, but as fresh and as natural, as simple and sweet, as the flowers that grew in her garden. She was not without a certain sense of the humor of the situation; she enj-iyed being a village belle; she enjoyed the confusion and embarrassment of ln-r different suitors, who male love in su. h various wajs; but she herself, uutil lately, had been quite heart-whole In the pretty little town of Ingl-woo 1 they were all fond of her; she had Ih-< n born at the rectory — had lived all Iht sweet, simple life among them — hud, i i her own charming fashion, brokf v tlie hearts of half their sons and nephews. She had never spent one day away fr«nu Inglowood. Every one was interested in her lovo affairs; and just now ttir. wli»'e neighborhopd looked on, half with amusement, half with anxiety, at the rivalry between the two men — Arlhnr Danvera, the young lawyer who had j'ißt settled down at Inglewood, and Philip Stowe, the only son of the head master at the grammar school. Rivals, indeed 1 Some laughed, but the older and wiser shook their h^ads, and said evil must come of it. Alrt-udy had sweet Daphne refused, one by one, the young farmers and tradesmen of the neighborhood — refused ihem with such quiet kindness, that each one seemed to like her the better for it; but they — g"od, simple-hearted men, did not hate one another; on the contrary, the fact tlwt they had loved Daphne, and had been rejected by her, seemed to give them a fancy for each other — it was a bond tiiat cemented their intimacy. But with tlie.^e two it waa quite different; they were rivals, and they hated each other with a bitter, intense hatred tbat no words Cutild describe. For some months past the good people of Inglewood had been watching the silent, deadly struggle. At times it Beemcda3 though Mr. Danve/s would win, and then the chances were moro in favour of Mr. Stowe. Daphne was no coquette; she could not help being a beauty, she was certainly no flirt, but she intended, in all earn, est simplicity, to marry for love, and she resolved on finding out whom she did lore— there raußt be no mistake on such a vital point as that. [to be continued]