THE CAPTIVE MAIDEN.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume VIII, Issue 49, 5 December 1891, Page 664

THE CAPTIVE MAIDEN.

BY

HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

OL are not going out to walk again with that Mr Elleslie, Meta’’ cried Miss Georgiana Tripton, austerely. ‘ Yes, I am,’ said Meta Graham, saucily. ‘ Why shouldn’t I?’ ‘lt’s very unfeminine to spend all one’s time running after the gentlemen,’ snapped Miss Georgiana. ‘But it’s just the other way in my case, Cousin Georgiana,’ said Meta, demurely.

‘ The gentlemen run after me.’ • Psi.aw !’ ‘ Mr Elleslie asked me to walk through the cemetery with him this afternoon,’ added Meta, commanding her temper with admirable equanimity. ‘ I did not ask him.’ And away tripped the little lassie, humming a popular air, in the sauciest and m >st fascinating manner possible. Georgiana Tripton was seven and-thirty and Meta Graham was seventeen, consequently it can easily be comprehended that there was no great sympathy lietween the two cousins. Georgiana was billions and yellow, exacting and irritable—Meta fresh and rosy as Aurora’s self, with a temper sweet as a May morning, and a score of lovers at her feet. Love was as yet only Meta’s plaything, but matrimony in the eyes of Georgiana Tripton was the one serious business of life. She bad made up her mind to marry Frank Elleslie, albeit that young solicitor was ten good years younger than herself, and as both happened to be sojourning at the same summer hotel fate for once seemed inclined to favour her. But when Meta Graham came down from the city, in all the glittering armour of her golden haired beauty, rose andsnow complexion and dimpled smiles, Miss Georgiana saw at once that her cause was lost. Frank Elleslie deserted basely over to the enemy at the very first Hutter of those irresistible banners of youth and beauty ; but Georgiana secretly resolved that if she could not marry the young lawyer, Meta Graham should not either. ‘ I ll keep my eye on them at all events,’ thought Miss Georgiana, viciously. ‘ The cemetery is as free for me to walk in as it is for them.’ So M iss Tripton hurriedly invested herself in a hat and jacket, and took the cross cut over the fields toward the beautiful Rural Cemetery, which was the pride and ornament of all the neighbourhood for miles around. • I shall get there first,’ thought Georgiana, ‘ for, of course they'll dawdle along under the shade of the trees and be twice as long as they need to. I’ve no patience with such sentimentalism. But I’ll be even with that pert little Meta yet. I’ll listen to all their nonsense, and I’il write such an account of it to my Uncle Graham that my young lady will find herself requested to come home the very first she knows. Of course they’ll go to the Livingdale monument—there is a green bench there and an arbour of sweet honeysuckle, and I can hide just beyond.’ Miss Tripton smiled grimly to herself as she mentally surveyed this programme of battle against true love and poor, pretty little Meta Graham, whose only tangible offence was youth and beauty. But when was the dragon in the fairy tales ever known to spare the bright-eyed princess just because her eyes were bright and her face pure oval ? The sprays of white and buff-blossomed honeysuckle were waving softly about in the delicious summer air as Miss Tripton stole into the green glade where the exquisitely carved statue that surmounted the Livingdale Monument kept its still, funereal watch in the liquid gold and odorous sweetness of the sunshine. It was a marble tribute to the memory of a girl who had died young, and whose features were supposed to be perpetuated in the graceful lines of the statne. But Miss Georgiana Tripton had neither time nor attention to waste on gleaming marble or exquisite outline now. Ju«t beyond a grim old granite vault seemed to hide itself in the side slope of a hill, with its iron gate swinging idly to and fro at the will of the wind. Georgiana stole into this vault, shrinking beneath its damp, sepulchral sha<lows. as the sound of footsteps on the green tuif beyond, and the ringing sound of Meta Graham’s laughter betokened the near approach of the young lovets. ‘A cankered old maid !’ pronounced Mr Frank Elleslie, not without emphasis. ‘So she thinks it is very wrong of yon to walk with me, does she? I’ll wager nobody troubles themselves much to walk with her I’ ‘ But she isn’t to blame for being so old and so yellow, and so disagreeable Frank. She can’t help it,’ pleaded Meta, with an innocent toleration, which made Georgiana Tripton’s fingers quiver to box her pretty little pink ears. ‘Shecan help being so ill-tempered and venomous, I suppose ? But come, Meta dear, don’t let us waste our precious time talking about such an old vinegar cruet as she is. Sit down here in the shade of those fragrant honeysuckles, and let ns enjoy the sweet air and the birds’ songs.’ ‘ Gh !’ cried Meta, with a slight start, ‘ what clanging noise was that ?’ • Only the gate of yonder grey old vault swinging in the wind.’ And Meta looked earnestly toward it. ‘ Oh, Frank, I am sure I saw something move back there in the shadows. ’ • Nonsense, Meta, what could possibly be there but the dead old Ismes of some ancient Dutch burgomaster ?’ And Meta could not but join in the merry laugh at her own childish folly, and forget it. They sat thcie some ten minntes, watching the sun go down into the river below, in a red panoply of brightness, and to Miss Georgiana's intense disappointment, saying not a word of love sick sentiment, such as she had longed and expected to hear—and then they rose up, and stiolled away down one of the broad gravelled paths that led toward the eastern gates of the cemetery.

‘ Pooh !’ thought Miss Tiipton, discontentedly. • That wasn't worth listening for.’ But as she essayed to unlatch and open the iron vaultgate she discovered, to her dismay, that it was fast. Some unseen or unsuspected catch in the iron mechanism of the gate had caged her safely in the recesses of the dismal old vault. In vain she shook the fastenings—the stone and iron were too firmly welded together to admit of any tampering with their rivets. ‘Dear, dear!’ thought Miss Georgiana, beginning to tremble all over with a sense of the very disagreeable position in which she had placed herself. • What shall I do? They can’t have gone far. I’ll scream She lifted up her voice in a small piping scream—‘ Help'. he elp !’ But only the rustling of the leaves, and the piping of the summer insects replied. She screamed again, this time at the very top of her voice ; still no answer. And then Miss Georgiana, forgetting all her strong-minded-ness and self-praise, sank down, all in a heap, in the corner of the vault, and began to cry piteously. ‘ It’s growing darker every minute !’ she whispered, ‘ and I shall have to stay here all night, with the ghosts and the spiders, and the horrid, hornd dead men’s bones. All night! and to morrow is Sunday, and the cemetery gates will be locked, and who knows but I shall die with fright and hunger before I can ever get out of this hideous place. Oh, dear, dear ! I’ll never never listen again I I’ll let Meta marry whom she likes, and never interfere, if only I get alive out of this dismal vault. Why did I come here ? Why couldn’t I have minded my own business? Old Aunt Polly Parkes always said I would come to grief prying into other people’s affairs, and her words have become gospel—true at last '.’ And once more, in a paroxysm of despair, Miss Georgiana raised her voice and wailed aloud like the croakings of a hoarse frog for help. Meta Graham, who was pansing at a little wayside fountain where a crystal, clear stream of water bubbled into a marble basin, whose edge was nearly hidden in blossoming water flags and aquatic plants, stopped to listen with the marble cup at her lips. ‘Frank!’ she said, gravely, ‘I certainly do hear something !’ ‘ So do I !’ said Mr Elleslie, ‘ I hear the water dripping into the fountain, and the sound of the wind rushing through the tree tops and two blackbirds singing in the hedges !’ ‘ But I hear a human voice, crying out for help !’ ‘ Nonsense !’ Meta pursed up her lip», and nodded her head. ‘ Listen for yourself, Fiankl’she urged. ‘Hark! there it is again !’ ‘ Well, it did sound like a voice,’admitted Mr Elleslie. ‘ Shall we go back ? Perhaps some one has lost the way in the winding paths,or,’and his eyes twinkled mischievously, ‘ some ghost is crying out for its freedom !’ ‘Ob, Frank, don’t talk so!’ pleaded Meta, clinging nervously to his arm. Let us go back at once, and see what it means !’ And a few minutes only had elapsed before Frank and Meta had retraced their footsteps to the green glade where the marble statue gleamed faintly through the darkening twilight, and the honeysuckles diffused their heavy fragrance on the air. ‘ Why !’ ejaculated Meta, ‘ it is Cousin Georgy peering out from behind the iron bars like a wild beast in a cage.’ ‘ How on earth came yon here, Miss Tripton !’ rather unceremoniously demanded Mr Elleslie, and Georgiana, well frightened for her duplicity, confessed the truth. Frank burst out laughing—Meta drew herself up flushed and indignant.

‘ Under the circumstances,’ she said, ‘ I can hardly pity your involuntary captivity as much as I might otherwise do !’

‘ But I’ll never do such a thing if you’ll only let me out this time,’ pleaded Georgiana. And Mr Elleslie went for the gate keeper and the keys, and before another half hour had elapsed Georgiana Tripton was safe - at home, in the companionship of red lavender, valerian and smelling salts ! She was hysterical for a week afterward, but she dogged the footsteps of the young lovers no longer. ‘ It was as bad as being burnt alive,’ she faltered, when-ever--which was not often—she could bring herself to allude to the adventure in the cemeteiy. ‘And to think I never heard anything worth listening to after all !’