"VERE"

Star (Christchurch), Issue 16449, 10 June 1921, Page 4

"VERE"

-f*Hf*Hf* ’X'•i' «p■-]>' «t« * «> OUR Seßi AS-, * •I- ❖

By L

G. MOBERLY,

CHAPTER X,—Continued. • * He knows there is an affinity between us,” she .-aid. “ Bran and I wm«' meant to bn friends Oh f LUc •*'!• place,” she broke off to cm I -is they reached the Iro" "I •' hill v>. ; the road dipped, over into the - ed valley m which S'ramsl y ■->• 'the village looks to cos.> .-o. peaceful, tucked ay mi-lcr *h© -■<« iK: " the hills, and 1 hose "oc Is l to the upland? arc melt a delicious y- >. • tur© of purples and browns ' * mond's glance followed hers hillside where the hazels wei l with their piomisc of spring, whern t>" larches burned a dull. soil gohLu. • where, brown leave? hi ill hung * 1 oaks: whilst the bitches and Irc I •' rnndo a delicate brown tracer-. . _rain.*t the blue of the sky. “Of cour-’c ! , should want to live, on the Inti aw. look over the other side," Then went. - on -with a laugh, “ 1 always want to • see out and away 1 • Then you will agree with me that. ; Mr Burmand, the artist, as they call i him, has an ideal place tor bis house, i He can see our and away with a veil- j geance.” . j The trio went slowly down the vil- ■ logo street. Theo exclaiming with de- j light at every turn, here at. a quainttimbered cottage, there, at a vista of dun copses or a sweep of meadow land, finally at the vista which opened out before her v hen they had climbed Liu; lane, beyond the village and stood at the gate of the orchard. •Oh!” she exclaimed a little breathlessly, “ I don't know why any of us want to live in towns, grey grimy towns, when we could have this. and she stretched out her nvmt towards Lh© groat landscape as though she were actually welcoming a friend. The sky was mistilv blue, faint blue mists hung over the far-stretching, expo use of field and woodland and distant hills which lay spread at their feet; whilst in the.' immediate foreground the artist's slopiug garden merged into broken hillside covered "with scrub offk and tangled undergrowth. bp there on the ridge the flooding sunlight mad© a. glow of the day. and the keen fresh air seemed to blow right, across plain and moorland from the sen. which lay out of sight in tho soft blue mists behind the hills. • ; Every worry would drop away from one here.” the girl went on, leaning against the. gate and drinking in the. loveliness before her with rapt eager eyes, “ it seems as if one ought always to feel good here,” she said. Rayniorid’H glam© rested upon tho eager face, ami his own eyes J?cew tender“l rather expect one’s baser self follows on© even into these beautiful wilds,” he answered. “and —I don t think everybody would be happy m the depths of the countryside. As somebody once said to me, ‘ One can t live entirely on fine scenery. ” “ You mean you must have tu© human interest. too?” Theo’s eyesgrew thoughtful. “ 1 believe w most hove it unless we are .insi going to turn into hervrtifc*« and 1 don t muen believe in a. hermit existence. Fife would bo dreadfully dull if there were

no other people to tako care of and make happy.’ “ And we should lose. some, or our best spiritual effort if y c were always away from the big cities where there are evils to be fought, and struggles to be made for betterment and progress,” Raymond answered, bis eyes looking dreamily across the vista or sunlit 'pirun. “ AVe need the human contact, to stir up our highest spiritual effort.” - - ••I like that idea,’ Theo said .slowly, as Raymond opened the gate against which they had been lean- j ing, and they walked together to j the door of Orchard Cottage. Tt stood open, and from within there came cheery sounds of whistling, s. delicious | fluting whistle with a. lilt of gladness in , its notes which brought a smile to the girl's lips. • , “He sound? happy, she said, as j Raymond raised the knocker. “Judging from what I saw of him | last time T came, he is one oi the j happiest siouls T ever met. vas the I response, and at the same moment the I whistling ceased, footsteps crossed the hall, and Dan Burnand came out to : grset his visitor?. •• T sav, I’m awfully glad to see you he exclaimed on catching sight of Raymond, “ arid---you have brought why, von are absolutely the picture com©' to life,” he said, breaking off j his sentence and staring at Theo. " .Mr ,

Trenton seemed a bit surprised n lien j he was first introduced to the picture, and I’m sure T don't wonder lio was surprised. It—sweeps you off your feet when a painting comes to life- as von have done/’ Theo laughed, and the absorbed and admiring gaze nt the artist iri no wav embarrassed her; it was too impersonal, too obviously be- j cause he saw in her an extraordinary j ; likeneWs to the portrait he already j I knew. “ You must come and sec your- , j self,” Burnand went on. “when you i j look at the picture won will realise j what a sense of stupefaction you pro- j due© in me and in Mr Trenton! "Why | ! should you be so exactly like t-lic pic- i i ture that hangs in dear old .Mis- i | McCarthy's sitting-room:-' That is the I mystery wc want to clear up.” i “ I don’t understand it. T don't unI derstand it in the least,” was all that ’ Theo could say, vrhen a minute later : she stood looking at the picture in the ! room which still retained the eharaci teristics given to it by its former i owner. “ 1 might quite well have sat ; for that portrait. I can see for myself that it is like me, or rather that. 1 am \ like it,” she amended. “ and what pos--1 sible connection can there bo between me and the portrait of some dead and gone McCarthy?” she added, drawing ; her brows together and looking with puzzled eyes from one man to the other. *‘l wish—l do wish 1 could t remember anything at all about who I am, or what happened to me before ! that minute when I woke up in your j house and saw kind Mrs Jameson bend- | ! ing over mo.” i “It must be very queer to forget all •one’s past,” Dan said slowly, his glance | j iised upon her lovely wistful face ; “it j j makes you feel so isolated, so stranded j in a kind of valley shut in by the high | mountains that bar out all that went | before in your life.” j “Tt is like a thick, black curtain in ■ j my mind,” Theo answered a little sadj ly; “a. thick curtain through which j T can see nothing-—absolutely nothing. } It is like being born with no backj ground to otie’s life.” ' “ Jolly hard luck,” Burnand exclaimed sympathetically, “and this picture ' conveys nothing to your mind? You j : never saw it before?” “ As far as I am aware-—never,” she answered. “You see a. sponge lias j been passed over my memory- I remem- | her nothing. I have no clue to my : name or my relations—or to anything.” <l Never mind,” the artist- said in j his cheery voice, which carried someI thing comforting in its tone, “ you’re ! bound to find out all about yourself i some day. You mustn’t worry just bej caus© you haven’t got a. background. ; When you come to think of it, what j does it really matter? You have got * to make yourself a background, that A j all.” ' CTis eyes smiled into her troubled eyes, and something of his spontaneous i youthful gaiety Ecemed to transfer itj self to her. (To be continued.)