FREED TfkoM SUSPICION.

Wanganui Herald, Volume XVII, Issue 5100, 30 June 1883, Page 1

FREED FROM SUSPICION.

1 . (BY THE AUTHCfe OF " BIBCHWOOD HALL.") (

CHAPTER XXVIII. tHK D4AWN,,4)F HAPPINESS. In the fair -■sunlight, upon the smooth daisy-pied law£ »t Hadleigtt Vicarage— the familiar haunt jof her childhood, sat Mrs Edward; PembOrto^. Th? voluminous folds of her sombre ((rape dress rendered the small figure an appea ranoe of touching grace, and the conventions!! widow'R cnp filled to conbeatthe cfely itingsof hair, which she had made many v&n attempts to coax into smooth braids. In th»|dark frightened eyes, thero reposed an expression of peaceful contrast, wholly n«* to them. She was occupied in braiding a little frock, fir a tiny peKonage, Beated, bolt upright upon a carriage rpg, which waa spread o/er the turf j and who was surrounded by sundry toys, and bunches' of wild flowere, which her nurse was gathering for her amusement, * "You can take Miss Dottie, nurse," said the young "widow rising to meet her mother, Who, silver haired, »nd placid faced, advanced towards the happy group. " The carriage ought to be sent to the station, Eunice, for Mr Fairford, his train is due I see," she observed, regarding her watch. " You are very thoughtful dear mamma, but it is such a short; walk, that he will have reached us, ere it is ready I think." Meanwhile, alon* the high road fiom the Tillage, and up the shady Avenue, came qufck manly footsteps, verifying Mrs Psui» berton's wotds, wljo was soon imprisoned in the arms of 1 Harry Fairford, ; despite the presence of her niother; who discreetly 'funned away until 'the interesting ceremony Of his arrival was oter. " I trust' you wil I pardon me M>s Taylor, be exclaimed, *• but it seems so long since I saw Miss— a— a, your daughter ; and I am so overjoyed at beholding the great improvement that has taken place in her, that I am sure you will not misconstrue toy enthusiasm. ' "A year has wro pent a wounderful change in her certainly, Mr Fairford," replied Jtfra Taylor with affability. •• Sloborough was the scene. of so mulch care and sorrow, that the kindness and consolation of her dearest ' frfchds failed to distttl its influence, for sometime after her return," ■ She continued with * deep sigh. ,i;, i; - : •• It is all past pour let u« hope, M he returned cheerfully. ••• and I come to confirm in person, what has giveni yen me so much happiness to writeMabput, (luring so many long, iu»d weary monihVof sjuspense; Jfes, my dearest Eunice," he added Vith kindEng eyes," ijfc is not enough- to -rend your consent, though penned ,by your own fair hand; I wish to bear it from yqur lips, to know that my lpng tried love is reciprocatedr ocated !" Perceiving that they were' alone, his words followed ejach* other with deeper vehemence. " Youmdot shrtTe my home and happiness j nappy,at least when it shall be tenanted by youl It is lonoly enough at present, on fcoctiuntuf toy poor father's protracted ill* ness under which his medical attendants assert he is rapidly sinking. " ■ • " Your knowledge of my past history must convince you of my inability to respond^ to your much appreciated protestations. The unhappy circumstances of my life prevent my acting in accordance to the dictates of my keart," was the sad rejoinder. "I know all my beloved ; distress yourself no longer—," let the dead past bury its dead—" the barrier, , which, signalled the "knell of all my dearest hopes— one short year /ago,' is removed; iierefore, yon can; no - longer plead that my happiness is not in your. keeping l" - t " It wouldbujj ilijitone^fQr the rash vpws my youth andmexpenence once led me to make, were I to take the happiness of another into my keeping lightly, or carelessly. Your deep «nd permanent regard for me, co oft reiterated,* demands my affectionate gratitude, but; : " ; ■ "Oh say you will share my future lot Eunice 1" . "But Harry— Mr Fairford— my child; what of her ? , The precious treasure confided to me, who will require my heat energies, .until. she has attained womanhood, if it should please Qod to Bpare,us to each other, what ol her!'* 41 Sufl&rnW'tfiT 'share this responsibility with [ you J Such, 9 burden—if it be so — coufd be lightly borne by two loving hearts ! I can ofFer~ydu~wtalth, position, and above all— my deepest love, he said, eagerly ' seizing her • hand ; which she vainly endeavoured to extricate from his passionate clasp. She felt the trial of her life was come upon her with overwhelming power. She knew. tuatJby becoming his wife, her sweetest dreams, .would be realised, and the brightest of all that life holds would , be hers. **" * *? Again there maybe those who would object to such a union. Miss Fairford, ;for instance, would strenuously oppose any connection with one who had occupied the position! of governess in a family whom she considered, so far removed from her own sphere.* :■ . '' "Dismiss such idle fancies from ypur brain. . My Aunt has already exhausted the grange; and would not be in residence thither now,, were it not fpr my father's Her property lies in the South of England, whore; ehe will, live in the future, Consent linen to brighten my bcjme with* your 1 ' presence Eunice; do' not delay my happirlegg for the conventional laps^ of time observed by society, tod. to thje; cold expediency of which our hearts can find no ' '•- ■'• ■■ ' j ~~* — - * * * #_ ■»..#, The vicar received his guest with » ko»«iy_ and almost welcome. Though his natural temperament was somewhat stern, and unyielding, his bearing ' towards strangers, was ever refined and courteous. The dinner hour passed away pleasantly ; enlivened by [the - usual light converse , incidental to such occasions, with but l'fctle allusion to the all engrossing Bubjecta of two hearts' at the table. ,; ' . Upon the withdrawal of the ladies, Mr Fairford lost no time in putting forth his claim to the hand of the vicar's daughter, and obtaining bis free consent, not without • •slight feeling of trespidation it must Jbe owned, he, being aware of the reception a similar proposal had elicited some years before, consequently he felt uneasy at the bare possibility of < encountering objections. Harry Fairford's pathway through life had hitherto: been smooth, and nearly jail eoulcur de rose ; his, was therefore a disposition that could ill bear opposition, an any form. . He however, found Mr Taylor cap, self-possessed, and not wholly unprepared for what he was about to propound ; and though the vicar, like moat of his class and calling, would not have had the young man suppose that bis consent was to be won by the temptation of his wealth — and in justice, it must be stated, that it was quite a secondary consideration, Eunice, being his only child, enabling him to leave her in affluent circumstances, in the event of ihis death. The position and worldly states young Fairford could offer were not without their weight— in fact all he could possibly desire, and would amply atone for the evil and self imposed miseries of the past, under Which she .had so long suffered the stings of her father's displeasure, and the bitterer pangs of self-reproach, CHAPTER XXIX. " FOE BETTER, FOR WORSE." The months, weeks, and days, sped pleasantly away at the peaceful vicarage, and not, it must be confessed in the wearisome monotony of our heroine's childhood. The four seasons had come and gone, and with them, the bright and welcome visits of Harry Fairford. Eunice Pemberton had laid aside bet trappings of widowhood, for with her sweet star of hope in the ascendant, such habiliments of woe were a mockery, a chest j wholly belying' the peaceful serenity of her countenance. Ana Dottie— the wee com-

panion, and solace of these happy hours, whose sunny presence alone would have sufficed to disperse all gloamy retrospection for her too, the black sash and sleeve ribbons, had' been replaced by those of gayer hue. Upon a warm spring morning, they eat at the open French window, these two, whose long deferred happiness was so near its consummation, that it eeemed borne on the wings of the birds; as they sped their flight through the sweet spring air, hvJen with the fragrance of tender bud and blossom, and fluttered gleefully from twig to twig, carolliug shrill an 1 incessant; love songs to their mates. Tall and gorgeous tulips nodded their heavy heads upon the ~parterresß, and butterflies chased each other around,, and above the delicate snow blossoms, and tender green leaflets. The sun shed a rich yellow light upon the golden haired child, as she toyed, and played with a bunch of garden daisies, finally pulling it to pieces. The morrow was to see the union of Harry Fairford, and his sorely tried love. The ceremony would be performed by a neighbouring clergyman, with little or no ostentation ; and the tiny fairy like Dottie was designed to hold the position of sole bridesmaid. *••♦••* A more glorious day seldom dawned upon our somewhat uncongenial climate, than the bridal one. It was in vain that any outward demonstration of rejoicing had been objected to, on the part of the vicar, who. was too desevedly respected, and the bride too well beloved to allow so auspicious an occasion to pass unnoticed. The inhabitants of Hadleigh and its vicinity were united to manifest their affection and esteem by a liberal display of banners, and garlands of rich evergreens, interwoven with the sweetest of spring flowers. The Sunday Bchool children, in faultlessly neat attire arranged themselves on each side of the broad walk, leading to the church doors, their sweet taste being to scatter flowers upon the bride's pathway, sn allegorical lesson for earth's adults, many of whom have the power of rendering the rough and thorny path of life more sweet and flowery to each other, if they had but the will. But who is the fair girl at the head of the row of smiling rosy faces, bending forward so eagerly to peer into the church ? Her slight figure is draped in white, and the bioad brimmed white hat fails to conceal the large dark eyes, lightened by unwonted, excitement, as she nervously awaits the bride's appearance. A loud peal upon the organ, succeeded by the deafening cheers of the villagers, who crowded the churchyard, proclaimed the marriage over, Mr and Mrs Fairford stepped between the file of children, bowing and smiling, when Lillie Hilton— for it was none other than she— stood timidly forward, j placing a beautifui bouquet of lilies.and for-get-me-notF, so emblematical of hetself, into the bride's hand, who, bursting into an exclamaiien -of- surprise, mingled with, illconcealed sorrow at the sadly altered appearance of her spirituelU pupil, quickly withdrew her aim from that of her husband, and fondly embrace her, and then, — circumstances allowing no other course, — passed on through the crowd. Lillie stood for some moments in bewildered admiration of the happy couple ; then gladly welcomed her mother's supporting arm — who had withdrawn herself from, observation, behind the church. Away from the merry throng they bent their steps, where a carriage awaited them in which they " were borne through the gay village throng, with the joyous clangour of bells ringing in their ears, out of sight. Hereafter the reason of Lillie Hilton's unexpected ' appearance at the wedding was. learnt ; and her mother's inability to dissuade her from undertaking the journey from the adjoining county, whither they were Bojourning for "change of air," according to good Doctor Brown's last prescription. Long had the gentle fading girl pined for this Bmall gratification, so trifling in itself, but of such all importance to her, the inborn happy thought of her solitary musings, nursed in anticipation, and accomplished in almost overwrought excitement. r . And now to return to our friends at Slo* borough. Amy Scott had fairly settled down as one of Britain's fair matrons, a happy wife, and,mother. Mr Hilton, ever wedded to the duties and responsibilities of his farm, fulfilled them in solitude. For a year past the old farm-house had lacked the sound of cheery voices,, and ceased to re-echo the light footfall of its female occupants. The farmer did not consider any sacrifice too great to make for his darling child Lillie. She had relapsed into a state of the deepest despondency after the departure of the kind friend, monitress, and companion, who had dwelt among them. Therefore, acting under the advice of doctor, and friends, she wa3 taken to a warm, and congenial clime, and the most sanguine results were anticipated ; but, alas, never to be realised, for, in the almost holy stillness of an evening in Autumn, some months after the wedding, her soul passed •W»y from.tbe fragile shadowy form. Without a struggle,* without a pang, but with a gentle sigh, they were wafted : apart, as the soft south wind wafted the Bear and yellow Jeaves apart from the trees. Thus, the heart broken mother returned alone to a childless home t - CHAPTER XXX, AND LAST. CHANGES AT HOLLOWDALB. It is a sultry day in August, the seene — a fashionable hotel at Anignon. A handsome couple, apparently man, and wife, are seated at breakfast in a large and sunny room, the windows of which are thrown widely open, to admit the delicious zephyr, exhaled from «n» neacefnl unrippled blue waters of the Ehyne. The gentleman Has a' telegram in hand, at which he gazes with an expression of intense pain. He sits for the space of some moments in silence. The lady, who possesses a calm, quiet, and gleamy stye of beauty, is attired in a pale blue Cashmere wrapper, bound at the waist by a silken cord, and tassels. She regards him with tender solicitude; and perceiving that his eyes are welling over with tears, exclaims in a low tremulous voice. " Dear Harry, you seem grieved. I trust that you have not received bad tidings ?" " Yes, Eunice ; my Aunt informs me that — that— my dear father " his utterance is chocked with the intensity of hia sorrow. Herewith Mrs Fairford rises, and stealing towards her husband, winds one arm softly round his neck, sparing no effort to console him in his great bereavement. It is almost needless to state, that the telegram was from Miss Fairford, sternly intimating the death of Sir Charles This lady had never forgiven her nephew's marriage, therefore desired to have no correspondence with him, unless necessity prompted it, as was the case upon the present occasion, where she had contrived to make her communication as brief, and as harsh, as ranged within the limits of possibility. Making a mighty, and Btrenuous endeavour 0 compose himself, Mr Fail ford speaks with gloomy sadaesa, " He— he died last night Eunice, so we must instantly repair to England, I could not be happy unless I—l—sawI — I— saw the last of so noble a father." It was late when the carriage bearing Sir Henry, and Lady Fairford reached the large entrance gates, loading to the Grange ; which was now enveloped in that nameless, and terrible gloom— like a pall— belonging to death alone. Miss Fairford's cool reception of her nephew, and his interesting bride, was scarcely perceptible, upon this occassion, when there were so many more serious thoughts to engross the attention of all who beheld this meeting. The tenantry, dependants, and labourers of the estate, were assembled for a twofold purpose, to pay a heartfelt tribute of respect and affection to the memory of the late beloved baronet, at these last sad obsequies, and to offer their sincere but necessarily

undemonstrative welcome to the heir and his bride.

A few words, dear reader, ere this story closes, relative to the good folks, whose fortunes and misfortunes, have enlisted your sympathy, and interest hitherto. Arthur Brown had taken Lydia Goodwin to wife, and was enjoying a life of peaceful contentment at a charming little residence somewhere between Sloborough aud Kidlingto . The two elder Misses Goodwin Btfll rejoiced in single blessedness, but, whether self-imposed, or otherwise, must be left to reader's imagination. In this state of spinsterhood, they were kept iv countenance by fciiss Brown— who hid rejeoted a double offer of t marriage, on the part of each of her father's hapless assistants, with, what she considered, bi c fining, and well merited contempt. And, now, having followed our heroine through cloud, and sunshine; midst few smiles, and many bitter tears ; less of joy, thin sorrow, to her new/ congenial, and luxurious home, a home fairer and brighter, than her most romautic dreams of youth had ever pictured — there we will bid her odleii; and seek no further to penetrate that ©vil of the future, so mercifully obscured from our view, which, if otherwise, whether forboding " weal or woe,'' would of ten prove more than our weak moral nature could bear j for reader, are there not joys that come of sorrow ? And doth not sorrow wait upon joy ? E. C. A. THE END.