LYTERATURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 5282, 12 June 1895, Page 1

LYTERATURE.

THE THIRD VOLUME.

BY FEBGUS HUME, Author of "The Myatery of a Hansom Cab," "The Lone Inn," "The Chinese Jar," &c. (All Bights Reserved.) Chaptbb xx;v.. THE RKCLUBX. Meanwhile Jenny was proceeding homeward in a rather unhappy state of mind. The conversation had left an unpleasant impression, and she was by no means sure what it would lead- to. A hundred times did she wish that she had not meddled with the matter ; bat it was now too late for regrets, and she reoognieed that she must bear the burden of her wrong-doing. Though, indeed, she could see no reason to characterise her action by bo harsh a name. ' "A bundle of old papers in a garret," she thought, walking quickly through the lane, "where was the harm in reading them P And as they contained an interesting story I fail to see that I acted wrongly in telling it to Prank. The Larcher affair can have nothing to do with ?»pa, even though Kerry wbb bo atigry. U speak to Kerry, and aek him if I have done wrong." According to her promise one was determined to say nothing to her father for at least twenty-four hours; for she was curious to Bee if Mr Hilliston would call to speak of the matter. If he did so, then would be the time to exculpate herself} but, pending snoh vißit, she saw no reason why she should not consult with Kerry. He had expressed anger at her possession of the papers, so he, if any one, Would be able to explain if she had been rash. On Kerry's answer would depend the explanation doe to her father;' — Thus thinking, she Bpeedily arrived in a deep lane, at the end of which she turned into a white gate set in a, rugged stone wall. Nut trees bent over this wall, dropping their fruit into the ruts of the road, and on the opposite Bids fose a steep, green bank topped by blackberry bußhes. This bye-way was little frequented, and here quiet constantly reigned, unbroken cave by the voices of birds. It was a great place for nightingales, and 'many a summer evening did Jenny stand under the bending boughs listening to the warblings of those night singers. So birdhaunted was the spot that here, if anywhere, Keats might have composed hiß famous ode. Indeed, the road was known as Nightingale Lane, for obvious reasons, Passing through the gate, Jenny saw before her the little garden, odorous with homely cottage flowers— Sweet William, delicate pea blossom, rnddy marigolds, and sombre bushes of rosamary. A hawthtfrn hedge on the right divided • the flowerß from the kitchen garden ; while to the 16ft grew' ignar led apple and pear trees; now white with bloom: A sprawling peach tree cluttg to the guarding wall of the lane, and beds of thyme and mignonette perfumed the still air. In the centre of this sweetness was built the humble cottage of Ferdinand Paynton, a broad, lowi-roofed building, with white-waßhed walls and quaint windows, diamond-paned and snowy curtained. Pots of flowers were set within, and under the leaves of the thatched roof twittered the darting swallows. One often sees Buch peaceful homesteads in the heart of England,' breathing quiet and ■ tranquillity. Bose cottage, as it was called, from the prevailing flower in the garden, was worthy to be enshrined in a fairy . tale. Here lived Ferdinand Paynton, with hiß only daughter, and two servants, male and female. The one «aa Kerry, a crabbed old Irishman, Btaunch as steel, and devoted to hia master ; the other a withered urone who was never seen without her bonnet, yet who bore the reputation of being an excellent cook, and an economical housekeeper. As Mr Paynton was poor, and spent more than he could afford on books, Maria waß very necessary to him, as she soraped and Borewed with miserly care, yet withal gave him good meals, and kept the tiny house like a new pin. Kerry attended principally to the garden and the books; looked after Jenny, whom he was always scolding, and passed his leisure time in fishine in the Lax. ' Hot or cold, wet or fine, summer or winter, nothing varied in the routine of Rose Cottage. Mr Paynton rose at nine, took his breakfast, and read his paper till ten, then walked for an hour or so in the garden with Jenny. Till luncheon he wrote ; after luncheon he slept, and then wrote again till dinner time. The evening in summer was spent in the garden, in winter within doors, before a roaring fire in the book-room. For more than twenty years life had gone on in this peaceful fashion, and during that time Jennie could not remember the occurrence o? a Bingle episode worth recording. Bose Cottage might have been the palace of th« Sleeping Beauty during the hundred y .-» *' spell. Tue inhabitant of this hermitage was a puzzle to the goasipa of Thorston, for after the industrious inquiries of twenty years they were aa wise as ever touching his antecedents* Then he had arrived with Kerry, and his daughter, a child of five, and staying at the Inn of St Elfrida, had looked about for a small plaoa in the neighbourhood. Eose Cottage, then empty and muoh neglected, appeared to be the most secluded spot procurable, so Mr Paynton Bet it in order, patohed the roof, cultivated the garden, and took up hia

abode therein. Here lie had lived ever since, rarely leaving it, seeing few people and accepting no invitations. The man was a recluse, and disliked his fellowcreatures, so when Thorston became aware of hiß peculiarities he was left alone to live as he chose. It may be guessed that his peculiar habitß made him nnpopnlar. The Vicar was friendly to the misanthrope, for in Paynton he ; found a kindred boul in the matter of books; and many a pleaßant evening did they spend in discussing; literary subjeotß. The bookroom was'the pleasanteßt apartment in the house, cosy and warm, and lined throughout with volumes. In the deep window stood the desk, and here Ferdinand Faynton sat and wrote all day, save when he took his usual stroll in the garden. Jenny had also grown up in the book-room, and as her education had been conducted by her father, she was remarkably intelligent for a country maiden, and could talk excellently on literature old and new. For the softer graces of womanhood she was indebted to the care of Mrs lanton, who from the first had taken a great interest in the motherless girl. Into this room' came Jenny with her mind fall of the recent conversation with Tait. She threw down her music-book on the table and went to kiss her father. He waß Boated in his arm chair, instead of at his desk as usual, and looked rather sternly at her as she bent over him. Tall and white haired, with a sad face, and a slim figure, the old man looked singularly interesting, his appearance being enhanced by his peculiar garb, a dressinggown and a black skull-cap; Indeed, he was moze like a mediaeval magician than v an aged gentleman of the nineteenth century. He looked like a man with a history, which was doubtless the reason Thorston gosßips were so anxious concerning his past. In country towns curiosity is quite a disease. I In the hurry of her entrance Jenny had not noticed that a stranger was present, but on greeting her father with a fond kiss, she turned to see an elderly gentleman looking at her intently. Mr Faynton explained the presence of the stranger with less than his usual snarity, bnt from the tone of his voice Jenny guessed that be was angry with her. As it afterwards appeared he had good reason to be. '■Jenny, this is my friend, Mr Hilliston." " Hilliston ! Jenny could not suppress a Btart of surprise, even of alarm. The prophecy of Tait had been fulfilled sooner than she expected. There was something uncanny in the speedy ascomplishment of a prognostication in which, at the time, she had hardly believed. ' < "Hilliston! Mr Hilliston," she repeated, with a gasp ot surprise, "already!" Thiß time it was HilHston's turn to be surprised, and ' his face darkened with Buapicion. - ■ . ;.■': .'■■ ■ ■ ■'■■■■. ,'.•' - . . 'v : ' " What am Ito understand by ' already/ Miss Paynton ?"he said, quickly. 'f Why •— Thai is-*Mr Tait," began Jenny, in excuse, when her father out her short. He rose from his chair, and exclaimed in a voice of alarm— . "Tait! Then you have seen him already ?'* ■ . "Tea, father," said the girl, in some bewilderment at his tone. , - " Where P" " In the church, half an hour ago." ■• " Did he question you ? " "He did." " And you replied?" " I answered his questions," said Jenny, quietly, "if you refer to the Larcher affair."

" I do refer to it," groaned her father, sinking back into his chair, " unhappy girl — you know not what trouble you have caused."

Hilliston said nothing, but stood moodily, considering what was best to be done. He saw that Tait had been too clever for him, and had anticipated hiß arrival. Yet he had come as speedily as possible; not a moment had he lost since hia arrival in Eastbourne to seek out Jenny and ask her to be silent. But it was too late; he had missed his opportunity by a few minnteß, and it only remained for him to learn how much the girl had told hia enemy. No wonder he bated Tait, the fellow was too dangerous a foeman to be despised.

" We may yet mend matters," he eaid, judiciously, "if Miss Jenny will repeat so much of the conversation as Bhe remembers."

« Why should I repeat it," said Jenny, objecting to this interference, as Tait gnessed Bhe would, " there was nothing wron? in the conversation with Mr Tait that I know of ."

"There was nothing wrong in your telling Linton the story you found in The Canterbury Observer," replied Hilliston, dryly, " yet it would have been aa well had you not done bo."

' " Father," cried Jenny, turning towards the old man with an appealing gesture, *• have I done wrong ? "

" Yes, child," he answered with a sigh, " very wrong, but you Binned in ignorance. Kerry told me you had found the bundle and read about the trial, but I passed that over. Now it is different. Tou repeated it to young Linton, and Mr Hilliaton tells me that all London knows the story through his book."

••lam very sorry," said Jenny after a pause, " but I really did not know that it was wrong of me to act as I have done. A bundle of old newspapers in a garret. Burely I was justified in reading them — in telling Frank what I conceived would be a good plot for a story," " I don't blame you, MiBS Paynton," said

Hilliston, kindly, "but it so happens that your father did not want that affair again brought before the public. After all you have had less to do with it than Fate."

"Than Fate," interrupted Paynton, with a groan. " Good heavens, am Ito be— — "

" Paynton ! " Baid Hilliston, in a warning

voice.

" I forgot," muttered the old man, with a shiver. "No more—no more. Jenny, tell us what you said to Mr Tait."

Considerably astonißhed, the girl repeated the conversation, as closely as Bhe could remember. Both Hilliston and her father listened with the keenest interest, and seemed relieved when Bhe finished.

" It is not ao bad as I expected," said the former, with a nod. " All yon have to do, Paynton, ia to warn Kerry against gratifying the curiosity of these young men. They will be certain to ask him queßtions."

" Kerry will baffle them ; have no fear of that,'' said Paynton, harshly, "and, Jenny, you are not to refer to this subject again with Mr Tait/' "Am I not to speak to him P " Her father interrogated Hilliaton with a look, received a nod, and answered accordingly. " Tou can epeak to Mr Tait, if you choose, and no doubt you will be introduced by tbe vicar to Mr Larcher. I place no prohibition on your speaking to them, but only warn you to avoid the subject of the Larcher affair. Promise ! "

" I promise. lam sorry I ever had any* thing to do with it."

" Say no more about it, my dear," 6aid Hilliaton, patting her shoulder. ." How could you be expected to knowP But now you have been warned, do not speak more of it. We do not wish the unjustifiable curiosity of these idle young men to be gratified." "If you assist them to learn that wb?.oh had better be hidden, you will ruin me," cried Paynton, with a passionate gesture. "Father! Euinyou!" " Yes 1 It means ruin, disgrace — perhaps death. Ah!"

He broke down with a cry, and Hilliston, taking Jenny by the hand, led her to the door.

"Go away, my dear. Your father is ill," he said, in a whisper, and pushing her outside the door locked it forthwith. Jenny stood in the passage, in an agony of fear and surpriee. Bum! Disgrace ! Death! What was the meaning of thoße terrible words P

(To be continued.)