CHAPTER I.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 8104, 1 September 1904, Page 4

CHAPTER I.

It was a clear, bright 'November day. On the hillside the.^eind blew chill, and m the myriad orchards of the plain below gnarled apple-branches stood out in weird relief, casting black shadows over the gra-^s. The sun was shining and the sky was intensely, frostily blue. Just half-way up the hill, at a spot where a grassy road leads direct to an 'old Roman •ncampment, stood the Grange Farm. It was a low, picturesque house, strongly built, to resist the winter gales, and boasting two gabled wings, which had a quaint resemblance to brooding eyebrows. The . front of the house was overgrown with ahardy, small-leaved ivy ; no other creeper > Would flourish in the keen* wind. 1 To the left the farm buildings clustered jti in a small, compact mass. The dwelling--5 house was separate, hence no farmyard litter marred its dainty neatness. Between the farm and the road lay a tangle of bracken and whins, fenced off a-t the bottom by a moss-grown dyke, whence a lootpath led straight up by a short cut to the ; Roman camp. The place was far remote from other human dwellings, and there brooded over it I ' a strange calm. The gales had not yet ber 8 un > an d f° r some weeks there had -been A \ • spell of fine, clear weather, which had ;> • rejoiced the heart of old Deborah, Eunice '"' Leigh's right-hand and factotum. For Deborah was seriously of opinion that witclies Ik rode on the 'winter storm-winds, bewitching f the cattle, so that they frisked and danced >.* like things possessed, and refused to let I down their milk. L- 'Deborah was standing now in the cool ■ dairy, with its tiled walls, and shelves ol B dean! grey slate. Her churning was done, B and she was shaping the pats of butter with H. Sana, capable hands, ready for market day. A moment later, and there was the sound of another footstep on the stone floor, as r _ Eunice Leigh entered the dairy. ¥■' . " I've come to ask you to give me an £ early dinner to-day, Debby," she said. '' " I'm driving Peggy down to Tedbury. Mr *. George comes to-night." f Deborah glanced at her admiringly as f «he stood there. Eunice was small and slender, with a graceful, willowy figure, 5j and brown hair that waved softly round her delicate oval face. Her eyes were a % clear hazel and her skin was fair and *. unlined. She wore a clinging dress of soft V grey woollen scuff, which suited her well. c " And why can't Mr George come here I\, < irst?" questioned Debby. " Surely it would fe- be more fitting that he should seek you in ?/" your owu house " '£ • "It was I who arranged to go to Ted bury," interrupted Eunice. "JMiss Prissy |, and Miss Ma 17 would be so disappointed **> If I took him away from them tiie , first V Bight," y There was no animation in her tone, her \ cheek did not liush. nor her eye brighten, ,/ as she mentioned her lovers name. The « freshne.-.-s of the emotions is apt to be a little <;ullcd after ten years of waiting. " Well, that's as may be !" went on Debby, savagely punching the butter, and noddi'n# her head as one who could say much more, and she would. Eunice smiled j. faintly as she passed oufc of the dairy. v; She took her way out of the kitchen, and *'• ascended the steep stair that led to 'he; '„ ' • own room, a dainty chamber that nestled * beneath one of the overhanging gables-. She went to an old oak chest that stooi' ■'. beside the bed. Lifting the lid, shetook out a parcel. , j She untied the string, and revealed 11 } ' magnificent dress-piece of brilliant orange * silk, which might have suited an Eastern "■• princess, but would certainly have altogether extinguished her own small, quiet personality. She smiled a little, half sadly, as she absently stroked the folds of the ; splendid fabric! Then she drew from her 1 pocket an envelope, and took out a photor If ' She looked at it long and earnestly. j|' "'When I come back to marry you, * Eunice, I shall be a successful man,' ' she 1 said slowly. "That was what George ?f said, when" he went away, ten years ago, g. and now — he has accomplished it. I — l jf' -wish I oared more about that kind of sue- .! < cess," and she heaved a little sigh. The face in the photograph was eminently that of a man destined "to get on in tne world." The square brow, the close- ? set eyes, the firm lips, all indicated power , t " and determination, but the face lacked some f indefinable quality of sympathy and com- \ prehension. " Perhaps he has changed since this was taken," said Eunice to herself, meditatively ; "it is — let me see — three years old. I <jk>n't feel, somehow, as though we should ■nderstand one another very well." Then she put on her long, dark grey cloak, with its scarlet hood and lining, and. going swiftly downstairs, stepped out on to the grassy .path that led to the Roman camp. V Up, up she went, the air striking ever ? r tnore keen and fresh, as she neared that mysterious region of old time, which was i- one of her favourite haunts. Arrived, she »* stood awhile, and looked around her. Away V fco the west stretched the dim blue peaks of far-off hills, and at her feet lay the I grassy circles, still strangely perfect, ranged one within another. She drew in a '* long, breath of the life-giving air, as she •tood alone upon the hilly summit. ** "I sometimes wish one could live up v here in the clouds," she said to herself, as the wind whirled back the long folds of her cloak, revealing the symmetry of the slight figure. \ "And why not?" said a voice just Below her. She started, and flushed, as the familiar tone fell upon her ear. A moment later, \ Gabriel Marchant stepped from the shadow v 1, of a grassy mound. 7 ' ' His was a- strangely attractive face. The o brow was broad and intellectual, and the I" finely-cut mouth bespoke an unusual , re- , finement and delicacy. His voice was magnetic in quality, and his smile singularly winning. An unaccountable feeling of contentment and restfulnes-s stole over Eunice as he stood there beside her, looking down into her eyes. He held out a bunch of autumn violets, which diffused a rare and delicate perfume. Eunice thanked him, flushing, as she ,i pinned the flowers into the bosom of her dress. . " Why not always up on the heights?" he asked, reverting to her uttered thought. Her answer, .when, it came, did not seem apposite. > " George is coining here to-day," she, said. •'l^am going to Tedbury this afternoon to \ spend some days with his sisters. So I haven't any time to be transcendental at the present moment." The tone. was repressive, and Gabriel's face clouded. "I — I do not think I shall be •here much

longer," she saM, nervously, her fingers playing with a blado of grass. " George and I have been engaged so long — ten y^irs " She did not finish her sentence. "Ten years!" echoed Gabriel. "And have boon alone here — all that time—waiting. Are you ready fbr Ihe, new life and its changes J" The tone of his question was curt, imperative ; his eyes did not seek hers. There was a pause ; then suddenly Gabriel, with a movement which he could not control, stooped, and passionately kissed the litde hand ;that rested on the grassy bank. Eunice started round and faced h:m, flushing crimson. The blue eyes were looking into her face with an expression of agonised love and' longing that she could not misunderstand. "Oh!" she cried, "you had no right— you— l " " „ " "It's no use keeping it in any longer, he burst out,- "I can't play any longer at being merely your friend. I love you with every pulse— with every heart-beat — with every breath of my life " She put up her hand to. check the passionate flow of words, but he would not be 6topped. ; "I think I have always loved you like this," he went on. I tried to think it was only friendship, when I know you were nob free", but it was no use. If you knew how I have longed to take you in my arms, and hold you against- my breast, and ta.e care of yon ! And that " He broke off. "I will go away and leave you, now, and you must try not to .hate me for telling you j this. We shall not meet again." j She turned to him, her eyes swimming in reproachful tears. i " I never dreamt of this," she said, I i thought you were just my friend— the truest friend I have ever had j " The one who has loved you most, at ail ■■ events," he went on, hoarsely; "the one who would never have left you ten years in loneliness. Good heavens! the very thought of it — " She silenced him with a gesture. "I think we had better part now, «he said " anything more you may say will only give us both pain." He turned to go, and, acting on a sudden impulse, she held out her hand. He took and clasped it, mutely. Then he turned, and walked slowly down the hill,-; without a backward glance. ! Eunice stood there, watching his receding figure. She was aware of a dull, heavy pain at her heart, a weary consciousness that the world was wrong, and that, life j was going to !* too hard for her. j At last she made her way home, along : the <*rassy path and after a pretence of a . meal° stepped into (her little pony cart, and taking the reins, started for Tedbury.