Our Novelettes.

Western Star, Issue 1387, 7 September 1889, Page 2 (Supplement)

Our Novelettes.

HER PROPER PLACE. Chapter IX. {continued.) Ida sat down at a small table to write. Rachel lay with her faee hidden among the pillows. There was no sound to be heard except the crackling of the fire and the great old clock in the corridor outside striking the hours and quarters. Rachel felt so ill and dizzy that she began to wonder if she should be able to get down to the fields in the evening to meet that man, her father. What should she do if Johnnie’s help was not to come in time ? How could he help her ? Well, he had said he would—that was enough. But if he failed ! Rachel was growing feverish. She tried to stop thinking, but she could not; she endeavoured to sleep, but in vain. Over and over again the old puzzles came before her, Johnnie said this man was not her father ; Johnnie said Click was not engaged to Ida. Was nothing certain ? She could not bear this suspense much longer. When she reasoned herself into calmness on one point, then the other arose to vex her.

Ida wrote on, finished her letter, directed it, murmured something about being uncertain as to whether that address would find him now, and, with a pitying glance at Eachel’s flushed suffering face, she stole quietly out of the room. Quick as thought Rachel sprang from the bed, stepped over to the writing-table, and seized the directed envelope. * Yes there it was in"lda’s fair clear, writing, ‘ Reginald Fay re. Esq.’ It was true ! That tantalising pronoun stood for Reginald after all! She dropped the letter, crept back to the bed, and when Ida returned to the room Rachel’s hidden fate was wet with relieving tears. A little sleep did really come after that, and she awoke about five o’clock feeling greatly refreshed. The room was empty. Ida had been called away to the tea-table below, and the housemaid came in presently with a cu p for Rachel. On the tray lay a little packet Rachel supposed that it contained some patterns she had written for at Ida's request, and pushed it wearily aside Had no message or letter come for her P she asked the maid. ‘ Nothing,’ replied the girl, with a compassionate glance at Rachel’s white face- * Your head is bad still, I am afeared miss P ’ ‘ Yes Jane, but better than it was. Miss Ida is down stairs ? ’ 5 Yes, Miss; and the Vicar and the Vicar’s lady are there' Rachel was glad to hear this, for it assured her that Ida would not be free for some time; she would be able to leave the house unquestioned. The clock reminded her that in little more than half an hour she must face the ordeal of an interview with the man she had learned to loathe and dread j and Johnnie’s promised help had not come. She drank the tea and considered what was to be done. ‘ I suppose he could not get any money for me,’ {she murmured, too weak and languid to feel any very keen disappointment, 1 Well, I must fight my own battles; but I cannot do this again. I must go—l must run away, I cannot go through it. And then a blush of shame tinted " her cheeks at the thought of having told her story to Johnnie, since he either could rot or would not help her.

* I think I was half mad this morning; ’ she said to herself, as she moved over to the table and, taking up a small box, found a key, and unlocked it. It contained a few ornaments which had been given to her by Ida. Some of these must be sacrificed to-night. She put aside a fe was a reserve for herself. The feeling grew upon her that flight would be her only means of escape from all her troubles and perplexities Jand she could not go penniless. She took a chain and a couple of lockets, and made them into a packet; after mentally discussing their worth and the tramp’s expectations. She had put on her outdoor garments and was seeking some warm wrap, when a careless movement knocked some object off the dress-ing-table. It was the packet that had been brought in with her tea. In nicking it up she noticed that it had no postmark, and was scarcely the shape or size of the patterns she expected. She broke the seals, unfolded the outer covering, and found that there was a second packet inside, containing some papers, which were soft and stained with age. A slip of paper with some writing on it was attached to the ribbon that secured them. ‘ I don’t know what this may be,’was the inscription, writtten in Johnnie’s best hand; * but my father thinks it is some papers belonging to your mother that she gave to mine to keep for her. They were put aside to be given to Mrs Elliott for you and overlooked. Perhaps they may tell you something. Don’t be afraid to meet that man to-night. Refuse him more money, and make him give you his proofs that he really is related to you. You will not be alone, though it is best for me not to show myself unless you want me.’ 4 Poor Johnnie—good Johnnie! ’ thought Rachel. 4 1 wronged him when I doubted.’ A glance at the clock told her she still had time to look over the contents of the package. Carefully folded in many wrappings there appeared at length a man’s note case. The edges were silver, and there was a silver monogram on the outside — 4 G. D.' The lining was of silk, but torn and ragged. In one pocket were a couple of gentleman’s cards yellow with age, and the name on them was I Mr George Durand.’ On the back of one of these cards were some accounts, whereof the result did not appear to have been satisfactory, for the pencil marks upon them bore evident signs of impatience. The other pocket held four papers. One was a certificate of the marriage of George Durand to Rachel Lee. The other three were letters. The first she opened read as follows—- ' I return your letter to your father ; and it will be best for you to understand that in his present state of health no communication with you can bo permitted. You have always been a source of grief and anxiety to him, and it ia impossible to place any confidence in your promises of reformation, especially since you have crowned your errors by marrying a common gipsy-girl. Do not attempt to write again. Pen-and-ink pathos will be thrown away upon me, and your letters will get no farther. Your father never mentions your name, and I am persuaded will never alter the provision he has made for your brothers, who will, I trust, grow up to be more dutiful than you have been. Emma Dueand.’ The sacord letter was a mere scrap written in a tremulous hand.

* Dear boy—Your old auntie sends you five pounds. Your poor father is quite under your stepmother’s influence, and too ill to act for himself, though he knows it was her harshness and unkindness that drove you to do wrong. She tells me you have married ssme dreadful person, but I am sure that isn’t true. Try to get straight, dear boy, for your pnor mother’s sake ! I wish I had more to give, but you know ’ Here the paper was torn Rachel read ' both letters through. They bore the same

heading in blue letters—' Erlsham Rectory, Surrey’—and the date showed that they must have been received about the time when, according to her mother’s story, Rachel’s father had died.

A sigh escaped from the girl’s lips as she read these fragmentary records of troubles long since over. The third letter was from a clergyman in a Welsh village, addressed to Mrs Durand, and giving a short but touching account of the death of a young man known as George Lee, who had confided his true stop* to the writer, and earnestly begged that the expression of his regret for past errors might be allowed to reach his father; and that his poor young wife might not be forced to return to the gipsy tribe, but might receive some help. This letter bad been re-enclosed, and returned, ‘ Hard-hearted, wicked people ! ’ muttered Rachel, clenchit g her hands. ‘ Better to have been a gipsy altogether, to have belonged to the people of my poor gentle loving mother, than to be one of these who left her to starve and die, for all they cared !' Then, as the clock struck the hour and she thought of the coarse rough man who had claimed her as his daughter, she felt a sense of thankfulness and relief that was not quits consistent with her passionate apostrophe. ‘ Yes, Johnnie, this is help indeed! ’ she murmured. And, as she grasped the fact that she did not belong to this tramp, to this imposter, her strength seemed to return, as though she had been relieved from a heavy burden; She would take John Maynard’s advice, and defy the man to show his proofs, to do his worst, for she knew he could not injure her now. Her eyes filled with tears again as she thought of her real father who had been so cruelly used by his own kindred. Her vivid imagination filled up all blanks in the story. Whatever hia faults might have been, he had repented, and the softening veil of time was between her and them. Sue could picture him, noble, generous, led astray by his very virtues—his bold spirit that would not bear oppression and revolted against injustice. He had loved her mother, had perceived how different the beautiful girl was from her rough surroundings ; and she had loved him, and had been willing to forsake her people to follow him. It was a wonderful and a romantic fabric that Rachel wove in her mind. How much of it was true she never knew; and perhaps it was well.

ChAPTBB X., AND LAST.

It was the time of year when the days lengthen perceptibly, and spring appears to advance with sudden bounds. Rachel, hastening briskly across the fields, could scarcely believe that this landscape, lying before her in the calm spring twilight, was the same that had loomed gray and desolate through damp mist and chilling fog such a short time before. She was nervous about this coming interview; she had no very clear ideas as to her own future or the result of these new discoveries ; indeed, they were so surprising and came with such suddenness that she could not master the details. She was young, however, and hope soon found its way back into her heart; she felt a vague foreshadowing of future happiness. Her spirits did indeed sink for a moment when she actually beheld the figure of the slouching vagabond she had come to meet, a thrill of shame passed through her at the thought of ever having associated herself or her poor dimly-remembered mother with this rough coarse-feathered man. As he turned at her approach, she strove to rally her courage and go forward bravely. • Well,’ said the gipsy eagerly, 4 have you brought the tin ? Hand over, my girl ! The feelings of a father isn’t to be trifled with.’

There was no attempt at coaxing now. He had found that he could frighten her into giving him money, and was determined to make the most of the fact. Eachel trembled a little, and looked round vainly for any trace of Johnnie. There was nothing to be seen; to all appearance she and the tramp were alone. She summoned up courage however to answer firmly—- ‘ I have brought you nothing! ’ ‘Nothing!’ exclaimed the man, with an imprecation. ‘ Oh, we will soon see about that, my dear ! Don’t try to make me believe that you can’t get at it. You’ve got ways and means, and you’ll use them for your father, or you know the course I’ll be drove to! ’ Eachel did not utter a word ; she only longed for the sight of John Maynard’s honest face. ‘ Como now; * continued her persecutor threateningly. ‘ Hang it, don’t give me all this bother for nothing; your young man will come down with the tin quick enough if I go to him. But you’ve got some girl’s reason agen it ; and your father don’t want to be hard upon ye. If yer mether ’ ‘ Let my mother's name alone! ’ interrupted Eachel. ‘You are not my father ! I defy you prove to that you are! You have been using my poor mother’s name to get money out of me, bus I’ll give you no more.’ The man looked at her, his eyes wide open in surprise. ‘ An’ who has been putting you up to deny yer own father ? ’ he asked, with a return to his original whine. ‘ Come now, Eachel, ye never had a chance to know naught about yer father, an’ I’ve got all the proofs, ye know, an’ the Squire shall have them. I’ve a right to my own girl.’ ‘ You are notray father! ’ repeated Eachel, shrinking from his touch. ‘ And as for your proofs, produce them if you can. My father was no gipsy—his name was John Durand. I have my proofs against yours—if you have any! ’ The tramp started back in astonishment, and gave vent to his feeling in an oath that made Eachel tremble. ‘ Who has told you that pack o’ lies ? ’ he asked angrily. * An’ who is goin’ to believe you, as was picked up out of a barn or a ditch ? A pretty one you to have a gentleman for your father ! ’ * Do you say he was a gentleman ? ’ asked Eachel. * I never told you so.’ Her courage rose with her excitement, and yet she listened with every nerve strung to its highest pitch for some sound that should betoken help and protection. But all around was silent, save where the sparrows chirped and chattered over their evening meal. * Never mind what I told you ! ’ growled the man, coming nearer to her. ‘I am your father, Rachel, an’ I’ll have no more of this nonsense. Fetch out the tin, my girl, and let it be worth having ! You don’t know nothing about your father; but I am here, and, mind you, if you don’t obey me, it will be the worse for you ! * Eachel set her back against the stile, and looked him full in the face

* I have nothing with me,’ she said, steadying her voice with an effort. She was terribly frightened, and wished in her heart she had brought the little packet of jewelry —anythink to keep this man off She could hear no sound of help, could sre nobody. Fortunately her show of courage deceived her persecutor.

‘You are a plucky one!’ he muttered. ‘ Come now’—assuming the wheedling tone he had used at their first interview— * a father can’t be hard upon his girl, even if she do behave undutiful; but a couple of pounds, my dear, ain’t much j an' then I goes off an’

leave you to yeraelf. Come, Rachel—’tia a fair offer! Ye know I have only to go to the Spuire—to either on them for that matter. Te talk about knowing as I ain’t yer father, but have ye got anything to show agin me ? ’

* I have this ! ’ cried Rachel, drawing the letter-case from its wrapping. * And there is enough in it to make it best for you to leave me alone. You cannot frighten me witn * the Squire * I shall go to him myself.’ ‘ Oh you have that! ’ he exclaimed, with an evil gleam in his eyes. * And you think everything is in there ? ’ ‘ I know it,’said Rachel, repenting ot her imprudence, and trying to replace the book in her rocket. 1 You had better hand it over and let me see if it is all right,’ suggested the tramp, watching her. ‘ltis a pretty little thing. Hand it over Rachel, do ye hear ? ’ Rachel shook her head, and felt once more for the pocket within the folds of her dress.

* Give it to me, or I’ll teach you manners! ’ He seized her arm, and twisted the precious letter case out of her desperate grasp, making Rachel shriek with fear and pain. ‘ Hold yer noise ! ’ roared the tramp, suddenly pausing to listen. There was a sound of hurrying feet, a crashing of the brambles, and the tramp audden'y flung away the case, and disappeared through a gap in the opposite hedge, as two men came running through the fence on the left. Rachel was dimly aware that one pursued, while the other called her by her name, in a voice that was familiar, though she was too faint to recognise the speaker. She was not actually unseonscious, but a mist came before her eyes, a numbness seized her, and she could neither see nor hear. She only felt that some one made her sit down on the step of the stile, supported her head, and, taking off her hat, fanned her with it. In a few moments sight and hearing returned. She sat up, conscious ot a gray frieze coat beside her, a strong arm on which to lean, and a well-known voice saying tenderly— ‘ Rachel, my own poor Rachel, you are better now ? Oh, my darling, how could you doubt me ? And what an ignorant jealous fool I have been I Only say you forgive me, Rachel—do just say it, dear! ’ Words were not at Rachel’s command just at that moment, and the impatient speaker changed his tone.

* What a selfish brute I am—don’t try to speak, darling ! Just keep still. Did that scoundrel frighten you? ’ It was Uliob, and the clouds were gone from between them Rachel feit rather than understood this. She roused herself at last out of the passive sense of protection and happiness, and exerted herself to question in her turn

‘ What brought you here, Ulick ? ’ ‘ That good fellow has been telling me all. Ho is a good fellow, Rachel, although it was rather impudent of him to think about you, and he ought to see it.’ * Oh, don’t, Ulick —he was too good for me ! Remember who I am, and in my loneliness he only wanted to shelter and help me. Poor Johnnie —I was a proud spoilt girl to despise him! ’ ‘You don’t mean—oh, darling, I hoped it was because you cared for me a little! ’ Rachel’s shy glance was her only answer; but somehow it seemed to satisfy her lover. The sparrows chirped louder; the soft breeze fanned the opening leaves ; twilight began to close in ; the distant tress stood out a confused purple mass against the pearl-gray tint of the evening sky. A quiet happy calm was over all, and Rachel felt like a storm-tossed bark that has reached its haven, as in her lover ’ sheltering arms she found at last peace and protection. ‘ How could you think I would desert you for Ida P ’ whispered Click presently. ‘ Dear little thing, she will be a charming sister ! But, even if I hadn’t lost my heart to somebody else, I couldn’t have interfered with old Regie.’ * I expected you to forget me, ’ murmured Rachel, not quite truthfully. ‘ As if I could ! ’ replied Ulick, kissing her tremulous lips. ‘By-the-bye, Eachsi, I never asked you, but I suppose you will come to Canada ? ’ ‘ Canada ? ’

* Yes. You see I always knew the dream of my uncle’s life was to j oin Payee Park to Fayrways ; so, when I found how things were with Regie and me, 1 wasn’t a bit surprised at what my uncle told me.’ * You have given up your inheritance for me ? ’ exclaimed Rachel. *lt was never exactly my inheritance ; and Regie was always the favourite—more like the old uncle, and safe to get into Parliament and so forth. So, when he spoke to me, of course I told him there was somebody else; and, though he is very fond of me, I know he was glad that Regie had chosen Ida. Why, Rachel darling, do you think all the estates in the world would make up for the loss of the woman I love P I had come down for a day or two when we met on that wretched evening, and so misunderstood each other, just to see you and tell you all; and then you seemed-so strange, and there was that horrid gossip about Maynard, and I was fool enough to fancy you were off with me because I had lost the Park. Oh, Rachel, I was miserable that night! Only somehow, wretched and angry as f was, there was always a feeling of hope that would keep springing up in my heart, though I hardly understood what it meant. I always intended to try once to have it out with you before I went.’ ‘ Where are you going ? ’ asked Each-

* British Columbia; I always thought I would rather break new ground than vegetate as a country squire. My uncle has given me some land out there, and plenty of capital to start with. He is so good, poor fellow, trying to make amends to me for the loss of the Park—though he knows I don't grudge it to Regie.’ ‘ Does he know ? ’ asked Rachel timidly. ‘ Not yet,’ said Click, understanding what she meant. ‘ But don’tjbe afraid, darling—he is very fond of you.’ ‘He will not like it,’ said Rachel sadly. * He will say— —’ ‘ No, he will say nothing of the sorb,’ delared Click. ‘Don’t be silly, my darling 1 You are worth fifty men such as I am; he will know it.’ * Click,’ said Rachel, suddenly recollecting what had just taken place, where is the case I had F That man threw it away.’ Click looked round and discovered the missing treasure. ‘Open it, Click, and read the papers they are my father’s; mother had them—see what is there.’ There was scarcely sufficient light to enable Click to read them. ‘ He was a gentleman,’ said Rachel. * So much the better for my uncle, perhaps,’ rejoined her lover : * but forme—don’t doubt me, dearest Rachel—you are yourself, my darling, and that is enough.’ The strong loving arms enfolded her once more, and Rachel knew that she had found at last ber proper place. * # # * « * Old Mr. Fayre did not like Click’s choice of a wife at first; but he soon became reconciled to the idea. Some inquiries were

made concerning Rachel’s father, but they led to little result. Old Mr Durand had been dead many years; his second wife and her children had long since quitted the Rectory, and to them he had lelfc whatever little property he possessed. There were but few people who remembered the eldest son, and they’gave no very satisfactory account of the wild headstrong boy who had broken his father’s heart. However there were one or two old folk in the village who remembered the lad tenderly, and shook their heads, as they asserted that poor Master George would have come round right enough if he had had fair play at home.

On the whole TJiiok vas inclined to think that an honest poor man might be a more respecatble ancestor than a scampish gentleman ; but old Mr Fayre considered this a Radical view of the subject; and the knowledge that on one side at least Rachel could claim gentle blood went far to smooth the old mans ruffled feelings. The tramp was not caught. Mr Elliott gave Rachel a good scolding for the false shame or cowardice, whichever it was, that bad induced her to permit an annoyance which a word to him would have stopped. But then he never knew the full details of the case, and probably would not have understood u hem if he had,

Miss Elliott was greatly annoyed; and she and Parker prophesied many evil results from the marriage. John Maynard was such an excellent young man, and they both agreed that the marriage they had arranged for him would have been much more satisfactory than the one that was to take place. Poor Rachel seemed born to upset Miss Hannah’s of propriety and fitness. But, while Parker remain ed offended to the last, the kind heart of the Squire’s sister soon made her as nearly interested in Ulick’s bride and her outfit as in the glories of Ida’s wedding. The heiress was married in June amid great rejoicings. She had begged that her fostersister’s wedding might take place on the same day ; but this, for obvious reasons, was impossible ; so Ida and Regie came home a month afterwards to be present at the quiet little service that was such a contrast to the pomp of their own wedding. Ulick and Rachel went out to their new home in British Columbia. It was a hard parting between the foster-sisters; but it must have come one day, and there was much to soften it. Both Ulick and Rachel daolored they owed their happy reconoiliotioa to John Maynard’s unselfishness, and parted from him protesting a life leng friendship; while poor Johnnie coulu onty feel that the wor Id was gray, and that Rachel’s friendship was not her lo*e. E.P. i- THE END.