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THE CURSE OF EDEN.

CHAPTER VI. MY FATHERS BRAIN. Christmas, merry, peaceful old Christmas, is close upi»n us. Not that the season possesses ike former of those charms for me, for—year in arid year out—life at home has bean one dull monotony. Only since Will has been here have I realised that life may be worth living, that there are worldly pleasures and civilised enjoyments at present beyond my ken; for he has, by his conversation and tales, partially raised the curtain of that vast the world —of which Shakespeare has made mention, and has given me a view down the vista of life, other than that of Dorsetshire existence, at second hand; and has eet me longicg to free myself and taste the sweets of gaiety—to go to a theatre, a ball, the Royal Academy, the Grosvenor .Gallery, to drive to Hyds Park, and a thousand other things which to many persons constitute "' the trivial round, the common task"; and to me it seems impossible that such things can never pall upon one. No taste, surely, can bo so vitiated or too familiar with such a round of ceasesless pleasure as to grow weary of it! WUI has been tolling me of the "jolly" time that they have at Christmas in his Scotch home. His family is not numbered ! among the " unco' guid." He is going away, in two days' time, for a fortnight's holiday amongst his brothers and sisters and cousins and numerous other relations tnd friends. But he does not waait to go | at all, although his people are longing to j sea him. He either wants to stay with us, or to take me -with him, and burden I his family with me. His mother—dear, good, kindly woman —has sent me a most pressing invitation, which I have refused, for I will hearken to neither of these wild propositions. So the last day which we shall have to spend together comes at last, and the thermometer —standing in the chilly hall—corresponds with our spirits, for they have sunk very low, now that the time of parting has drawn so near as to be counted by hours. Howeer, the ice bears on Farmer Wadham's pond, and Will and I determine to make the best of our time, and enjoy ourselves while we may. The ice is in excellent condition as, with hands crossed, we gaily sail round and round the picturesque miniature lake. " Do come np north with me, ma chere," Will pleads for at least the fiftieth time. " No, no, NO!" I say, laughing at his earnest persistance. "It will be a test of your affection for me." 'Two whole weeks, ma chere," he groans " I 3ua!l be back on Boxing-Day! I swear that I won't star away any longer. ... There I" "If yon do come back before the fortnight has expired, I shall be very angry," I reply, striving ineffectually to look as though I mean what I say;* "and I will flirt desperately with Doctor Mostyn under yonr very nose" (for the old assistant of clay-pipe and whisky-toddy fame has consented to return and do Will's -work —which is nothing—for such time as he may be away), "and perhaps I will try to inveigle him into kissing me beneath the miseltoe bough, and offering me his grubby band, and what is left of Ids wretched old heart, and a half share of his twenty thousand pounds; for it cannot ba nearly all spent yet, if he does go in for horse-racing and gambling it away by every lawful and unlawful means.'.'

Will laughs* heartily at my feeble attempt to be facetious. "I—l thought you you said he had a red nose, ma chere. Imagine the contact with your cheek 1"

" G;b," I make reply, " you do not think that I would allow him to kiss me anywhere except upon the hand! ... I should make him kneel down upon a clean pocket-handkerchief—and—and vow eternal fidelity—and heaps of pin-money; and I should be at first be tenderly remorseful, and "much regret," and all the rest of it, so > as to induce him to shed a few tears and threaten to put an end to himself. What a blessing to mankind in general if" he would!" ' And what- about me." Will chimes in. " should I be whilst this touching scene wjs being enacted, and what should I be doing." ' Oh, probably you would be meanly looking through the keyhole or the door hinges, and be pulling your moustache out by handfulls, whilst biting your nails and saying awfully profane things beneath your breath," I say maliciously. "I should be effectually—if not politely —ejecting him from the room." He smiles grimly, and his hand crushes mine so hard that I cannot help crying out with the pain. I am afraid that I should not have a very pleasant time if I -were to throw over this giant lover of mine. Not that thereis any likelihood of such a thing coming tc pass.

We glide en in silence for a while, wrapped up in the keen enjoyment of the exercise—j it least I am; but I fear' me that Will's thoughts are wrapped in me alone.

Will brialzs the long silence at last. ** Ma thjre"—and he drops his head on a !e?l with my own, so that our warm, "■io.rinij cheeks meet and touch for an insta:it—"d"s cnme to Scotland."

Utu'cr the influence of his warm breath playi::g upon my neck, stirring my wild lialr, the touching of our cheeks, the loing squeazs £*j:reptitiuusly given to my gloved hand, and the "I cbnld-eat-you" expres-s-ion in his clear grey eyes, I almost give

way. But a moment later I harden my heart, cilthougli 1 nnke answer softly, " Xo. Will, darling"—it is the first time that I have ever called him 'darling," and I am re- r warded by a look of gratitude such as af dog will give to a stern and unbending roaster when the latter throws it a kind word as he would throw it a bone—"no, it: would entail telling my father how—how we stand tow-ards one another, and all sorts of other unpleasant things." " But"—he commences, still undaunted. "' But me no buts,'" I quote placing my hand before his iinpetuous mouth. 'lf I hear another word on the subject, I will leave ycu at once:" —I glance down the ice, and notice a stranger, truly quite a phenomenon in our parts, doing the out- ; side edge" and cutting " figure eights"; he has bean" here all tne morning, and, ourselves and a few village boys sliding excepted, is the sole occupant of the pond—"and I will ask that good-looking stranger who skates so gracefully to take me for a tnm."

I am only jesting; bat Will's face flushed though it is by our rapid skating, turns ;ii: ashy white, and a look of horror come.-; into his eyes. He staggers and slbi"*- 1 loses his balance, clutching my han<!.- :»s in a rice. ' Whir on earth is the matter?" I ask, half frit;!itcced, half annoyed, by his rough grii>. He* e'riads his heel into the ice, and P"P< rv r»j» shortly. "" Y' Ti ':\'i menn that? You would rerer •«!<:tj. •«-;►!; i, Granger?" He speaks sternlj aisd tl«.ro is an element of suppressed

agony in his voice, as though bis bosom friend had struck him. I feel angry with h'm for making such a fuss about nothing. So, to nettle him, I glauce at the stranger, who, I observe, is gazing admiringly, almost rudely, at me; and a conscious flush overspreads my face, for I know that lam looking-at my best; the keen air has imparted a healthy glow to my cheeks and made me eyes glitter more than their wont. "Wouldn't I, though?" I whisper defiantly, in answer to Will's last question. He is watching me narrowiy, jealously., ' Are you playing with me?" " Yes; and always have done," I reply, laughing in his face. But a moment later I would have given worlds to recall the spoken half in jest. "Ma chere, that cannot be true," he says; 'I can never believe that of you." Yet he looks at me doubtingly, as though he knows not what to believe. "Ma chere," he goes on gravely, placing his hand upon my shoulder, "it m3y be sport to some women to play with a man's heart, but if he* is - of a weak, or even of a very strong mental calibre, her sport may mean deadly earnest to him, and the effect may be to tumble his soul into Eternity in such » state as she never dreamed of during the play." '' "What a charming sermon! When do you intend taking Holy Orders?" I ask banteringly, with a mocking laugh. He makes no answer, and shortly afterwards we saunter homeward, for the barmoney is marred, a false nele has been struck, and all sense of enjoyment has vanished. Will is absent.and .taciturn all the time, and whenever I look .up I find his grey-, penetrating eyes fixexd unwaveringly upon my face, as though-he would- readvmy inmost thoughts but cannot. I experience a similar gruesome sensation to that caused by some unseen person looking over one's shoulder as one is writing a letter. - : 1 At length I can bear it no longer. It seems so uncanny. The habitation of my mind becomes een as Hood's fmmortal " Haunted House," under the haggard, doubtful, yet never fluctuating gaze of my lover:

"O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!" Even so do I mentally suffer—my mind is haunted by a vague fear. What is that question which lurks unanswered beneath his lowered eyelids? Is it distrust that causes.it? Is it that awful gnawing paii, raised by' the first doubh, brings it there?

" A penny, sir," I say, trying to laugh away my nervousness, " a penny for your thoughts." " You would not care for them, even at so cheap a price," he says grimly. "Will!" I speak pleadingly—to me he looks so handsome with that pained scowl gleaming in the depths "of his eyes, and that drawn, yet determined look about his firm mouth—as I lay a detaining hand upon his arm, which is vigorously swinging our skates to and fro with a clang, clang, as the steel strikes. "Willi don't let us quarrel in these last two days." He pauses abruptly in his stride, and, turning so that he faces me.and forces to- stop also, he places his finger-tips beneath my chin and tilts up my face. I have no alternative save that of looking into his eyes. '• ' '

So, with his eyes fixed on mine, he says, "This is no question of quarrelling, child. ... It is to me a question of life and death. . . .1 must have: perfect trust in you. ... I cannot bear these doubts wiiilst I am with you. Apart from you my life would be one long agony. . . You may have been joking just now on the ice, and I try to think you were;. but the mischief is done, the wedge has been inserted in the timber, and the rift may, and probably will, widen owing to some purposely-givea and some accidental hammer strokes; but it will never quite close again, even if you withdraw the fatal wedge. . . . Still, you must do that, ma chere, now and at once. I demand it as a right. . . Promise me that you will never speak to that man, nor any other man, unless you are introduced in the orthodox way." /

He pauses. Yet he never relinquishes that steady, burning gaze, that seems to that seems to pass through my eyes, on, on, into my brain, as though it would probe my reason and know my mind, as I myself know it. For a moment a wild feeling of anger sweeps through me so that I quiver in every limb, and I feel that a blazing fire—which until now has been only smouldering —courses, in lieu of blood, through my _veins. > By what right does he stand thus before me—calm outwardly, calm in his mode of speech, whatever the flashing of his eyes may indicate—demanding a promise from me as a right, as though he were a lord sternly claiming allegiance from a serf? By what right does he bar my way and insult me by telling me that <he can no longer trust me as heretofore, owing to my own-speech—made, in jest—and that probablythe distrust may grow in days to come? I survey him for a full minute, scornfully. " I will promise no such thing," I ejaculate passionately, yet striving to keep my temper under * control withal. "How or why am I bound to do so?" and I step back, flashing a contemptuous glance upon him. 'Because you nave promised yourself to me. Because I love you, and you have told me your love is mine. I love you too well to spare a corner of your heart, and you do not mfpersrand the world or its pitfalls, ma chere; but I do—if you had a mother living, or—or—your father—pshaw I I cannot explain to you properly; but I swear to you that I am asking - no more than I have a right to ask." "You doubt my honour. You 'think yon cannot trust me. Perhaps you think that, my knowledge of the world being considerably less than yours, my honour must bemore elastic. For myself, I -have seen honour and ignorance, honour and poverty, honour und wretchedness/ allied." " Darling, I never doubted your honour," he makes reply. "Honour is not only, or always, the robe of princes. It may be the sole covering of the pauper, and ragged to look upon, but when the light of day falls upon it, the rags and patches become illumined, every thread appearing to be golden; and where the wearer's tears have fallen upon the hem it becomes studded as with diamonds of flashing brightness. It is then no longer Trail humanity's garment, but the robe of God Himself." He pauses, his eyes are shining, |iis whole face is lighted .with, a look which surely was never born of the earth. Then he takes a step towards me. "Your robe is honour,- sweet. I never doubted that. All I fear for is what,may be .occasioned by youf impetuosity, by your ignorance of the world. Now a promise—?' In a.second a..re'vulsion of .-feeling takes possession of me, and I feel that I aim

dealing but 111 with him. And so, with the inconsistency that marks nea'riy all /my speech and actions, I turn to him with at little -wan smile. The fire in-my blood has turned almost to ice, and I shiver involuntarily as I lay my gloved hand upon his aim. '?

"Forgive me, Will. I will promise. I will promise anything else, too, that you say is right." "Ma chere!" is all his reply;- but it is more than enough for me, for there are over two ways of expressing those two little words, and this is the tenderesfc, most unspeakably tender way. So the tiff ends, and I, for one, feel all the better for it. Never before have our two lives seemed so closely knitted together as on this day, when, we walk home°along frosty lanes, with the leafless, naked boughs of the trees rattling and sighing in the keen wind overhead; the sky listening with a comfortless grey steel hue, the stretches of arable tend one continuous piebald brown and white—brown in the hollows made by the ploughshare, and white on the ridges—all nature sleeping, seemingly dead, like the very air which seems to blow the raw, biting blast of death.

And yet—silently though we walk, silent though our surroundings are, save for the dismal .shriek of the -wind—l think that this is' one of the happiest hours of my life. "We pass an. old and shrivelled woodcutter clad in patches of leather of different shades and qualities, with a bundle of faggots upon his bent shoulders and a rude' stick in his right hand, dragging his rheumatic limbs slowly and painfully along. His eyes are dim. with tie film, of the courier of -the damp grave—his worb teeth chatter in'his-head; what little blood' he yet may have" has lost its vitality; : : ia him, Christmas and Christmas cheer are things of the past—a dim and hazy memory, perchance a happy dream, but nevertheless a dream. (To be Continued.)

Permanent link to this item

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/THD19060518.2.3

Bibliographic details

Timaru Herald, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 12978, 18 May 1906, Page 2

Word Count
2,757

THE CURSE OF EDEN. Timaru Herald, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 12978, 18 May 1906, Page 2

THE CURSE OF EDEN. Timaru Herald, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 12978, 18 May 1906, Page 2

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