Sent Into Exile

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XXVII, 31 December 1898, Page 851

Sent Into Exile

Author of * A Rolling Stone,’ * Had He Known, and * < hi a Lee Shore.'

By

C.E CHEESEMAN

CHAPTER IX. AFTER TEN YEARS. Between this chapter and the last I have passed over a wide stretch of days. They number themselves by a few thousands, for ten years have dribbled through Time’s hour-glass. And ten years —I don't claim any originality for this remark—is a long time.

It is a long time, and I am conscious of having gone all the way with it. And when I look at Hilda—a child no longer, but grown to stately height— I know that she also has been in that procession of days. It is my aunt who makes me wonder whether a person here and there may not slip out of the old, well-worn way, and stand still, while all the world goes marching on. lam steadily growing older: but she looks as young as ever. I don’t mean that she is addicted to any of those pernicious practices which are supposed to make a permanent thing of the bloom of youth. She never had any need of such arts. To be sure, when I was a. little fellow, I thought her quite elderly. To a child of five, twenty-five is a stupendous age, it rears itself above one like a pinnacle. When I myself had passed twenty-five, my aunt had begun to come down from that pinnacle, and upon my word, she has been coming down ever since. Now. when I myself am looking at youth through the wrong end of a telescope, my aunt appears to have taken a perpetual lease of that charming property. That her hair is gray signifies nothing to the contrary —it has been gray these many years, and it is so becoming to her that one would not wish it to be otherwise. She has tried to make herself look old by wearing caps, and has signally failed. When she boldly proclaims her age, even other women declare that she has overstated it by years and years. This. I believe, is the most singular part of the whole business.

But to come back t o the subject. We have lived through ten years, and at the end thereof we are in Auckland. My aunt made her home there some time ago. Lately she has not travelled so much, if we except those trips which have been made for the benefit of her adopted daughter, whose education she has carefully superintended. She is very proud of Hilda, and indeed not without reason. For the clever little girl has grown into a very clever and handsome young lady. I have continued to follow my profession. I have followed it all over the world. It is tiring, this running to and fro. and when at last 1 too am in Auckland, it is pleasant to be welcomed to a home. The day on which I have reported myself at my aunt's happens to be Hilda's birthday, and I am informed that she is twenty. ‘Twenty !’ I said. ‘Oh. do you expect me to believe that ? It is an invention—a malicious invention. It's an attempt to plunge me into old age all at once.’

‘Old age!* said iny Hint. ‘Do you begin to talk of that ?' ‘ I do,’ I said. ‘ I see him in the distance, and I have not bought him off for the next fifty years, as you have.’ My aunt smiled. I have never known any one made angry by a remark of this kind.

‘ And you do not believe that I am twenty ?’ said Hilda.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ‘ How can I ? Isn’t it only the other day that I saw you first ? You were playing at acting. I wonder if you remember the part.’ ‘ Yes.’ she said. ‘lf I had to go through it now, I should not break down. But do you remember what a ragged and untidy and forlorn little creature I was ?'

‘ On children, rags are picturesque. You can put them into a sketch-book. But do you remember another time ? It was night, and I was on a steamer, walking the deek, and a little girl stole up to me and touched me on the arm.’

She laughed softly. ‘Am I likely to forget that ?’ ‘ Cecil,’ said my aunt, ‘ how fortunate it is that you have no engagement to-night. You will hear Hilda in “ Tolanthe.” ’

1 had already been told of the performance to which my aunt alluded. It was to be given by an amateur company of which Hilda was a member.

‘ She really is wonderfully gifted.’ my aunt said proudly. ‘ She is both an actress and a singer. Of course, there is no need for her to join the ranks of the professionals. I have only encouraged her in this, because I think that such talent ought to be exercised. If she should ever want to make a living out of it, she will find that the time hasn’t been wasted. But it isn't probable that there will be any occasion for that. I can't leave her anything’ — my aunt’s income was derived from an annuity—

‘ but I hope I may see her in a home of her own before 1 die.’

When going about the town that day. I saw several large posters, announcing the opera in which Hilda was to appear. To see her name in those flaring advertisements—letters an inch long, made me wonder at the change a few years had wrought. I thought of the little girl in the ragged frock, speaking to her audience—and smiled. I read the posters, which in another case I shouldn't have noticed. While doing so, 1 observed that another person was occupied in the same way. and that his eyes appeared to be fastened on the very name which had most interest for me. 1 did not like the look of the man. He wore the garb of respectability, lie moved aside courteously for me, he was what some people would have called fine-looking, but his face was unpleasant. Unpleasant because it suggested unwholesome living, and told of what its owner, no doubt, tried to conceal—habits of self-indul-gence. To my mind. Scamp was written upon that face, plain enough for any one to read. I don't know how it was that 1 eaught sight of the blue ribbon on the lapel of bis coat : but I did see that badge, and I didn't believe in it.

We went our different ways, and I forgot all about the man. In the evening I was at the opera. The curtain had risen on lolanthe. 1 had seen it before, and remembered nothing of story, scenery, or song. But this performance still lives in my memory. Even the nonsense about the Lord High Chancellor and the chorus of peers —‘ Blue blood, blue blood !’—at which my aunt laughed so heartily, are imprinted on my mind. But one part I remember very much better than all the rest, and one voice, to whose rich sweetness the

whole house listened as if it feared to lose a single note. • Isn’t it delightful, Cecil ?’ whisj»ered my aunt. ‘ Are you not proud of her ? She is your ward, you know, as well as mine.’

I did not answer, for at that moment—l know' not by what chance —• my eyes were directed to a spot immediately lieneath us. where amongst other occupants of the stalls sat the man whom I had casualty encountered that morning. He had an opera glass in his hand, and that doublebarrelled instrument was pointed at Hild a. So far as I could observe, he looked at no one else ; but so long as she was on the stage, kept either the opera glass or his own unassisted orbs of sight fixed on her. ‘Do you see that man?' I said to my aunt. ‘Do you know him?'

‘That man?' said my aunt, looking at the person whose position I had indicated. ‘No. how should I know him ?'

‘He stares so constantly at Hilda that I thought he might know something about you. or you about him. 1 don't take him for an intimate acquaintance.’ ‘I should think not.' said my aunt, curtly. ‘He may be looking at Hilda, but so are a good many others. There's no great harm in that.' Before we separated that night my aunt made me promise to join her and Hilda in a little excursion which was to take place on the next day. My aunt still painted pictures on immense canvasses. I had reckoned that a collection of her works would go a long way towards filling the Paris Salon. At present she was working at the flora of New Zealand. I had always understood that this was distinguished by many peculiar forms, but 1 was not prepared for such wondrous plants and flowers as were exhibited to my admiring gaze, when on the next morning I went to keep my appointment. A botanist might have studied them in vain, to know what had become of the most important organs of the plants, or whether thev were growing up or down.

‘What do you think of that?' said my aunt, pointing to n mass of erimson and green, set on a brown stalk. ‘A pohntukawa in full bloom.’ ‘lt is a blaze of colour,’ 1 said, and I don’t know what other remark I could have made. ‘Oh. if 1 could only get the real colour! Then it would be worth looking at, ‘Why, you don't mean to say it's any brighter than that? The people must wear goggles when those are in flower.’ ‘Not brighter, but not exactly like this.’ said my aunt, mournfully, and I could well believe her.

‘Do you know what I am going for to-day?’ she asked; ‘the flowers of the Dysoxylum.’ ‘The what! But never mind the name. What is it like?’

‘lt's like nothing else in the world. Just imagine long, trailing sprays of flowers springing from the trunk or the branches.or wherever you wouldn't expect to find them. They are not green, they nre not white, they are not cream-colour, but something between all three. Now, this tree blossoms in the winter, and you know how difficult it is to get about in the bush at that time.’

‘I can imagine. Swollen streams, dripping trees, and roads knee deep in mud.'

‘Well, it has lieen pretty fine this season, and I thought I would make the attempt. In fact, Hilda and I had decided to go to-day. There is one tree of this sort, to be found in a small patch of bush quite near to town. Now. my idea is to paint the whole tree ns it stands.’ ‘But that's a heroic undertaking.' I said. ‘Why. how long will it take von?'

‘I have no idea. But one or two visits will suffice. I shall just make a rough sketch to-day, blotting in the colours, and. of course, I shall bring plenty of flowers home with me. so that 1 can go on with the picture in my studio. You couldn't do better than accompany us. Cecil. If Hilda is ready we might start at once.'

Hilda was ready. She came down stairs just then, and we took our places in the waggonette, my aunt with some difficulty finding room for her sketching apparatus. It was immense.

It was an ideal day for driving. We had the flashing sea on our left, the mountains at the enstern entrance of the gulf were traced with a hard line

against the sky, and the three-peaked island, which my aunt in her artistic labours had honoured by many fond repetitions, seemed to pursue us all the way, to turn as we turned, and always to show the same face. We took a roundabout road because of a bridge which my aunt asserted to be in n dangerous state of disrepair. However, in due time we arrived at the bush and plunged into it. ‘For this sort of thing.' said my aunt, dashing ahead of us on an exceedingly muddy path, overhung by some thorny and tangled creeper. "I find nothing better than strong blue serge. Due ought never to be without a suit of that. Hilda, if you try to go round there you will get into difficulties. I couldn’t cross that place.' Where is this tree?' said I. ‘We seem to be wandering all round the compass.'

My aunt produced a plan, which the friend who directed her to this place had drawn for her. Our limited intelligences were baffled by this plan. The tree was marked by a great star in the middle of the paper, and a serpentine scrawl leading to this indicated the imaginary line we were to follow through the bush. But as there was nothing to show where this line started from, and as the maker of the plan had neglected to inform us which was the right wav up. or to fix the position of any of the cardinal points, we came upon the tree at last quite by accident. The object of our search being arrived at. I had to climb it. It is a well-known fact that the fairest flowers, the finest fruit, are always at the top of the tree.

After my aunt had rapidly thrown a sketch upon her canvas—six feet bv four—we prepared to return. At Hilda's suggestion, we took the other way home. ‘lt is such a pretty drive.' she had urged. ‘lf the road'is very bad going down the hill, or if you think the bridge unsafe, we can get out and walk.’

‘I am sure I shall.” said mv aunt. ’Nothing shall induce me to drive over that bridge.’

We drove slowly along the high ridge of land. The glassy creek, tilled by the tide, was on our left: the bluest of sens stretched at our right. Below us in a curve of the tree-fringed shore were the thatched and reedbuilt dwellings, the long ennoe shed, and the church of the Maori settlement. A boat from the man-of-war anchored higher up the harbour was in the bay, and the sailors were pushing it over the strip of cream white shells and sand into the water. It was so still, the hearty tones of their voices came to us as if near at hand; the oars clanked loudly in the rowloeks. In the west the glare of brightness hid the town from our eyes: the wharves were faintly traced through that golden haze: the ships seemed Io swim in it.

We came to the steep descent which led to the bridge, and in obedience to peremptory commands got out of the waggonette, and 1 led our placid-tem-pered horse down the road, which was furrowed to such a depth one might suppose the traffic of centuries had passed over it.

The other side being gained we were driving on again, when we met two riders, and I was face to face with the man whom I had seen at the opera the night before. He was riding carelessly with the reins loose on his horse's neck, and did not look in our direction. His friend was not on very good let ins with the unfortunate animal he bestrode. He twitched up the reins so tightly with both hands, and bent so low over his horse's neck that he appeared to be embracing him or confidentially whispering in his ears. ‘Why don't you give him his head. Tomlins?’ said the othef man. and at the name I started. But just then they were passing us. Mr Tomlins’ horse, after a wild effort to lookround to see what sort of a creature he had got on his back, broke into a lumbering trot and rejoined his companion who was a little in advance. ‘1 am sure that man will have an accident.' said my aunt severely. ‘He will be thrown. An elderly man too. and if he should fall on his head — ‘Hilda, what is the matter? what has startled von?'

Hilda had started as if in alarm. Iler eyes were strained after the two riders.

‘What is the matter.’ repeated my aunt. ‘You have turned quite pale. Are you ill?’

‘Oh, no. It was so sudden,’ Hilda faltered with an unaccountable agitation. ‘I never thought. Oh, Aunty, it was my father!’ ‘Your father!’ said my aunt incredulously. ‘That one struggling with his horse? If it was your father, fo» goodness sake let’s turn back and go after him, for I’m sure he’ll come to some harm before he goes much further.’

‘No, no. That was Mr Tomlins. Didn’t von hear the name? That made me look at them. I mean the other one. T am not mistaken. Poor papa! I couldn’t forget his face!’

CHAPTER X. WK RESIGN OUR CHARGE. T sat in my aunt’s drawing-room, the owner of that appartment being on my right hand. Opposite to us sat Mr Tomlins, yellow of complexion, stout and elderly, but benignant in the glances which he cast upon us. Near unto him was Hilda’s father, whom to my regret. T liked no better at this fourth time of meeting than at the first. He had thanked us with effusion for our care of his daughter, but had not explained why he had neglected her for so long, or why his search—if indeed he had made a careful search—had been fruitless during so many years. He informed my aunt that he and Mr Tomlins had called at her house on the preceding day, but had found no one at home.

*T would not leave my said. ‘Your servant would tell you that. Under the circumstances, it seemed better to come unannounced. I did not anticipate the meeting we had yesterday.’ ‘No, indeed,’ said Mr Tomlins.’ I am sorry to say T was so engaged with my horse, that I didn’t know of the meeting till it was over, otherwise I should have recognised Miss Dalzell from the excellent portrait you sent me last year.’ ‘Your horse seemed to be restive,’ observed my aunt. ‘I should think so! I was much relieved when I found myself in town again. I am not a rider. Dalzell knows it; but he would have me out with him.’ Dalzell smiled. After all he had a pleasant smile. ‘I was very moody,’ lie said. ‘I wanted a companion. I should not have observed whom we were passing, if my daughter had not started and turned to look at us.’ ‘Hilda knew you at once.’ said my aunt. ‘She was very startled. It was so sudden.’

‘Yes, said Dalzell. ‘I wonder that she knew me. She was so young when she left us. T could have recognised her anywhere by her likeness to her mother.’ His voice was a little husky, and I could see that his eyes were suffused with tears. I do not like a man who cries; but it was hard to find fault with him because he still sorrowed for his wife. ‘I had seen her at the opera, the night before.’ he continued, ‘but I had not known she was in Auckland, until, as T was passing along the street. 1 caught sight of her name in the advertisements. T knew it could be no one else. You may imagine what pleasure I had, when T saw her on the stage—when 1 heard her sing.’ •Upon my word,’ said Mr Tomlins, •I could have thought it was Mrs Dalzell. Tt took me back to the old times. You are to be. congratulated, Miss Winter —you and Mr Blake’ — he glanced towards me in some doubt. ‘ller talent is her own, but you have given her the training and education without which no talent can be used to advantage.’

‘1 thought, of her as a daughter,’ said my aunt faintly. T could see that the interview was very trying to her. She would shed no tears while it was in progress, as Mr Dalzell had done, but afterwards she would have a good erv in her own room. ‘As a daughter—yes,’ said Dalzell. ‘How can I thank you—and Mr Blake’ —this also doubtfully. •Hilda knows you are here,’ said my aunt. ‘Will you come with me? She wishes to see you alone this first time.’ Dalzell rose and followed her out of the room. 1 and Mr Tomlins were left alone. The manager came over to my side, and began to make conversation.

‘I am very glad to meet with you, Mr Blake.’ he said, passing his hand through his grizzled hair as he talked. •Very glad indeed, I am sure Mr Dalzell feels that he is much indebted to you. 1 have heard all about it, you ’know-, from Miss Winter. She has been kind enough to write to me now and then, when I have enquired after Miss Hilda’s welfare, and I understand that without your assistance she could not have given her all the advantages she has enjoyed.’ ‘Miss Winter and I,’ 1 said, ‘are the only two of our family, and it was not a severe tax upon us. We never thought of anyone being indebted to us—of laying an obligation on anybody. It has been a great happiness to my aunt to have Miss Dalzell in her care. I know that she is troubled at the thought of parting from her. I suppose Mr Dalzell comes to claim his daughter?’ ... , ‘Well.’ said Mr Tomlins, ‘its hard lines for a man to be cut off from everybody all his life. Dalzell has been his' own worst enemy; no one knows that better than myself. He has taken a lot of propping up.’ ‘ls he standing firmly at present. 1 asked. ‘He seems to have got on the right foundation at last. You must know that until lately I’d neither seen nor heard of him for ten years. He wwote to me that he meant to turn up again, that he was regularly sickened of his life, and that he’d made up his mind to try and reform. I answered, saying that it was about time. I asked him to come over. T was in Dunedin then. I didn’t say anything about his daughter. I thought I’d see him first. Well, he came, and for auld lang syne, you know, T was glad to see him. He’s a sort of prodigal son to me, and the first glance told me that be was pretty well tired of the husks and the swine. If ever a man were in earnest he seems to be. I’ve better hopes of him than I’ve had this long while.’ ‘ls he able to provide for his daughter?’ I said. ‘Would you feel yourself justified in giving her up to his care? Excuse me questioning you in this way, but for Miss Dalzell’s sake we are anxious to know that she will not suffer by the change.’

‘He is able to provide for her if he sticks to his profession. He can always make a good living out of that. He didn’t fail for want of abilitv. As for giving her up to him —why, Mr Blake, she’s his own child Her mother sent her away from him years ago. I never could understand that action of Mrs Dalzell’s. It would seem harsh to deprive him of her a second time. He’s done badlv; w T e all know it. That he’s self-respect enough to hold up his head and resolve to come out of the mire is a wonder. There are very few’ men who’ve been down so far that ever get up again. Well. I’m for helping those few; I’m for giving them another chance, and another, and another to the end of their days. You see. you never know but what it might be the one to set them up. Don’t preach to them, I say. but hold out vour hand.’ ‘Yon are quite right,’ T said, and T thought that if Mr Tomlins acted on this principle he had done more good than many preachers. ‘I like Dalzell.’ he continued. ‘I daresay you’re surprised at that. He

hasn’t made a good impression on you. Oh. T can see it verv easily; but you didn't know him as T did when he was a fine young man. T don’t knowwhy he went wrong; but he’d have to submerge himself very deep before 1 gave over trying to fish him up again. He has made a fresh start just now, and he’s more likely to succeed if he bashisdaughterwithhim. If he’s alone he won't care. Give a man some one to work for—a wife or a child —and he puts more heart into his work. Ive done without those inducements, but I'm one of the plodding sort. T can go in harness. I don't see the fun of kicking over the traces. Tt disarranges everything, and yon get well lashed for it. But to ent this matter short. I don’t think we need be afraid for Miss Dalzell. Her father may do for her sake what he won’t do for his own. And. of course. T can look after him still. I used to look after him long ago. And there are yon and Miss Winter. I’ve no doubt the young lady will always have your friendly interest. I don’t expect you to make friends with Dalzell. He’s my charge. I’m the only one who understands that mnn.’

At the instant that Mr Tomlins concluded his long speech Hilda and her father entered the room. The smile with which Hilda greeted her old friend the manager was very tremulous, and there were traces of tears upon her face. Dalzell looked triumphant. My aunt followed them with an affectation of cheerfulness that could only have deceived a shortsighted person. Tt seems a pity that one person can’t be made happy without injuring another,’ said -Dalzell. ‘I have found my daughter, but Miss Winter is grieving because she has lost hers.’ ‘I suppose T should have lost her some day,’ said my aunt, bravely. • ‘lf she is only happy, Mr Dalzell, that is all I care for.’

‘I hope that is what we all care for.’ said Dalzell. ‘You musn’t think you are losing me altogether.’ said Hilda to my aunt. ‘I shall always be writing to you. You will write to me. both of you’—her eyes met mine for an instant—‘and we shall meet sometimes. However fast we may move about you will be able to catch us up. You are such a great traveller that journeys by land or sea make no difference to you.’ ‘Ah.’ said my aunt, ‘when once T let you go, T may run after you as I like. When once a home is broken up you cannot put it together again. But T am wrong to talk like this. You were never mine.’

‘T am always yours.’ said Hilda. T suppose it was as well that Mr Tomlins broke in here with some remark, to which no one paid much attention, but for which everyone blessed him. Those cheery people who have always something to sav. and who round ofF the sharp angles or fill the vacant corners with their comfortable padding are invaluable in some crises.

After this we saw plenty of Mr Dalzell and the manager. They were leaving in a few days, and Hilda was going with her father. My aunt made a tremendous business of preparing an outfit for Hilda, and packing it in various trunks and boxes. The occupation must have soothed and relieved her. for I am sure that it was purnoselv lengthened and lingered over. T never saw my aunt, but she professed to be overwhelmed with work.

‘T am e-ettinsr everything ready for TTil-la.’ she said. ‘T don’t want her to be harassed and hurried the last week st>e will have with us. Can’t someone else do it? What an idea! T should have everythin!? turned nnside down. T am p-ivine - the dear srirl everything now—things that T have kept for her wedding.’

‘Her wedding?’ T said. ‘Have yon been thinking of that already?'

‘Why not? But now, when she is married, who knows whether I shall be there, or have anything to do with it. Yon may laugh if you like, Cecil, but I’ve often thought how sweet she would look in her wedding dress. Tt seems foolish, but T had planned it all out. She was to be married from my house and you were to give her away.’ ‘I was to give her away?’ I said. ‘Oh, thank von.’ ‘This is for her.’She held some old lace in her hands and unwrapped its filmy folds.Tt is verv fine, isn’t it? Tt is curious to think that the very scent which clings to it may be a hundred years old. T always fancy old lace has a smell of its own —a smell of drawers and wardrobes and cabinets, of the lavender and musk and camphor that has been locked in them for years and years. Dear me! there's a break here. That will have to be fastened together with lace stitch es.’ ‘Why don’t you give her this?’ T said, pointing to a larger quantity of ivory coloured lace—finer and more exouisitively wrought than the other. My aunt looked at me as if T had proposed a sacrilege. ‘My dear boy! Tt was your mother's. T am keeping it for your wife, when yon marry.’ ‘For my wife? Oh. don’t keep it for her any longer.’ T said, walking away. ‘Give it to Hilda.’

My aunt said something which sounded like ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ She bent over her work with a face which seemed to say, ‘I am very busy. 1 intend to be very busy as long as 1 can.' In one corner of the room were the withered flowers she had brought from the bush on the day of our excursion. She had never looked at them since.

The manager had told us that his friend Dalzell was under engagement to him. Curious to know whether he deserved the encomiums which Mr Tomlins had bestowed on him, I went to the theatre on those nights on which I was off duty. The manager had done no more than justice to his friend. One could not but admire the spirit and power of his acting. On the stage, representing fictitious characters, the charm of his personality was irresistible. I forgot that I had ever distrusted him; I believed in him altogether. He was not the only actor who has found every part easy but the one he ought to know best, who has made brilliant successes before the footlights; a tragic failure in the drama of life.

‘How is it that you dislike Dalzell, and that Dalzell dislikes you?’ the manager asked, abruptly, when by invitation I was dining with him at his hotel.

T can’t pretend to say why Mr Dalzell dislikes me,’ I answered. ‘As for the other part of your question, how do you know that I dislike him?’ ‘Because you can’t say straight out that you don’t,’ said Mr Tomlins. ‘I think,’ I said, with a laugh, ‘that you like a person who can say things “straight out.” So do I. But it isn’t always possible to answer pointblank,’ ‘A point-blank question,’ chuckled the manager. ‘Well, it’s a fact what I said just now about Dalzell. I wanted him to meet you here. Couldn’t get him to come. He didn’t even trouble himself to make an excuse — to say that he regretted that such and such a thing was in the way. If you were fond of him, you know, I wouldn’t tell you this. I try to put in a word for you sometimes. It doesn’t act like a charm; no, it does not!’ Tt is very good of you,’ I said. ‘But why do you try to put in a word for me?’

‘Oh. I don’t know,’ said the manager, watching me with twinkling eyes. ‘Perhaps I like you. I suppose you’re not altogether a disagreeable fellow. We all have our good points. The difficulty lies in getting other people to see them. But really, I’m angry with Dalzell. He annoys me a good deal. He hasn’t behaved well to you. I’m not thinking of this little affair to-day. I’ve noticed it at other times. I can tell when a man is politely uncivil.’ ‘My dear sir,’ I said, ‘why should you trouble yourself about Mr Dalzell's behaviour to me? I have no complaint to make.’ ‘But that’s not all,’ said Mr Tomlins. going on with his subject in spite of my protest. ‘He’s the most wrongheaded fellow I ever met. People say “as stubborn as a mule.” I’ve never had anything to do with mules; but I know Dalzell. When he takes up an idea in real earnest, you may argue till your dying day before you’ll convince him. Now. he’s an idea about you. He had no right to think of such a thing. It’s an insult to his own common sense. Very likely you’ll tell me that it’s an insult to you; that I’ve made myself offensive by mentioning it. But perhaps it's as well that you should know why he seems so anxious to pick a quarrel with you. It’s about his daughter. He believes that your care of her hasn’t been so disinterested as we've been given to understand. He believes that you’ve given her a home for so many years in order that some day she might share your own as your wife.’ 1 felt that 1 had flushed up hotly. ‘Did Mr Dalzell ask you to say this to me?’ I said. ‘Ob, no. no!’ said Mr Tomlins. ‘You may tell him, if you like, that

1 had no such object in view. His daughter was a little child when I first saw her. I made myself her friend because 1 pitied her destitute condition; because she asked me to help her. I would have done the same for any other little child.’

■Of course,’ said Mr Tomlins, ‘of course. Why should he gnash his teeth at your kindness, unless it’s from that sort of pride which hates to be laid under an obligation. Even if he had been partly right—l take a liberty, Mr Blake; but I'm an older man than you—would it have been a very heinous offence, if now, when you come back and find her what I’m sure everyone will acknowledge she is, a very charming young lady, you should have thought as Mr Dalzell says? I must say I don’t look upon that as a crime.’

‘lf 1 had thought of such a thing,' I answered, ‘I think I should have treated Mr Dalzell with more delicacj F than he has shown to me. I should have remembered that he had been separated from his daughter for many years; that until this meeting they had scarcely had a chance of knowing each other. At such a time I should not have tried to come between them. Whatever my thoughts might have been. I should have kept them to myself.’

Do you know, Mr Blake,’ the manager replied, ‘1 shall not say “perhaps I like you” any more. It’s not a doubtful question. I do like you, though, of course, you think me an old fool, and a meddlesome one to boot. Oh, yes; you needn’t laugh it off. But that’s just the thing, that remark you made about Dalzell. It’s the first chance he and his daughter have had of being happy together. His affection for her makes him jealous of those who have known her better than he has done.’

‘Don’t you think,’ I said, ‘that affection has smouldered for a long while?’ , h e s been very remiss,’ said Mr I omlins. He paused as if he were trying to find some excuse for his friend. ‘He may make up for it all. He is full of plans for his daughter’s future. She is to take the world by storm. I suppose you have heard Bmt she is to go on the stage?’ ‘No.’ I said. ‘I have heard nothing about it.’

"I thought Dalzell had mentioned it to Miss Winter. If not, I have no doubt he will do so.’ It was mentioned, the next time that Dalzell was at my aunt’s house. With the exception of Hilda, we were all present. Aon will have heard of our decision by this time. Miss Winter, Dalzell said, ‘Hilda will have told you about it. You take such a warm interest in her future that I’m sure you will wish her success.’ ‘I do indeed,’ said my aunt. ‘At the same time. Mr Dalzeil, I am sorry that she is to enter the profession.’ ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘You cannot say that she is not fitted for it.’ ‘Tn one way —yes. Her natural ability fits her for it. But the life will tell upon her. She is not robust enough; she is too nervous and high strung. I’ve always been glad to think that she had these resources —that if there were any need she could earn her living as an actress or a singer. But I have always hoped that there never would be any need. For ten years she has been with me. We have never parted, for I did not send her to school. I had her taught under my own eye. I ought to know her character: and I do not think she would be happy in the life of an actress. And if she is not happy, Mr Dalzell, what is all the rest worth?’

‘How strange!’ Mr Tomlins could not help saying. ‘Those are the very grounds on which her mother objected to it.’ ‘I am sorry you do not approve of the advice I have given her, Dalzell said. He seemed to be irritated by this slight opposition to his views. ‘She is my daughter, and it’s natural to suppose that I am the proper person to take care of her; that I have a right to decide what is best that she should do. But T have always been informed that I am not able to guide her aright. My wife thought so long ago.' ‘Your wife was perfectly right,’ Baid my aunt, somewhat sharply, and with a rising colour. Dalzell looked surprised at this rejoinder, and Mr Tomlins almost laughed, but checked himself in time, and turned the laugh into a cough. ‘I mean,’ said my aunt, thinking that she had better qualify her remark, ‘that if Mrs Dalzell dis-

approved of Hilda acting on account of the injury it might do to her health. T. quite agree with her,’ ‘I should be very ungrateful if I resented the anxiety you have on Hilda’s account,’ Dalzell said. ‘lf I thought it would be injurious I should never dream of her going on the stage. As you kindly reminded me a moment ago. T don’t know half so much about my own child as you do.’

‘You can scarcely blame us for that. Whose fault is it, Mr Dalzell, that you know nothing of her? So far as I know, you have not troubled yourself during these ten years to ask after your daughter. You have never once written to her: you’ve been quite content to get all the news you have had through a third person.’

‘Oh! if it comes to letters,’ said Dalzell, disagreeably, ‘Why was I not communicated with? Why did you adopt my daughter without asking my leave?’

‘Dalzell,’ said Mr Tomlins, warniugly. ‘Dalzell.’

‘My good Tomlins, if you could, you’d put a bit in my mouth, and turn me to the right or the left as you wanted. I was about to say that although unfortunately I have not had those opportunities of studying Hilda’s character which have been afforded to Miss Winter. I have some knowledge of her disposition and her abilities. There is nothing she enjoys so much as acting, and nothing for which she is so well qualified. I am so used to being in the wrong, that I don’t expect anyone to believe these assertions. But I am convinced that if she enters the profession, she will distinguish herself in it. I should be stupid not to give her all the encouragement that’s in my power.’

‘ls it of Miss Dalzell’s own choice that she enters the profession?’ T said. Dalzell glanced in my direction, and immediately withdrew his gaze, as if he grudged the short time his eyes had rested on me. ‘Mr Blake honours me by supposing that I should force my daughter into a life that was distasteful to her,’ he remarked, addressing himself to no one in particular. ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said, ‘I suppose no such thing. But I have heard Miss Dalzell say that although she had a great fondness for acting, she had no particular desire to go on the stage, simply because her mother had not wished it.’

‘I have no doubt,’ said Dalzell, ‘that the position I desire for my daughter is not exactly the same as that which Mr Blake imagined she would occupy.' ‘Mr Dalzell!’ said my aunt, with indignant surprise. ‘My nephew ’ ‘Your nephew, my dear Miss Winter, naturally stands very high in your estimation. No doubt, you are as well acquainted with his character as with my daughter’s. I will not attempt to argue with you about either. I am a marplot, am I not? It is not that I have stayed away too long. I ought to have stayed longer. I ought not to have come at all. I am not wanted. I am told plainly that I cannot manage my own affairs because I want something better for my daughter than the cheap position that has been appointed for her. Mr Blake understands me very well, and he does not seek to justify himself.’ ‘lt is not necessary,’ I said. ‘The remarks I have heard do not deserve an answer.’

‘They do not!’ said Mr Tomlins, suddenly turning angry, and facing up to his friend in a manner that astonished us. ‘Dalzell, if you are not ashamed of yourself, you ought to be. Miss Winter has been a mother to your daughter, and Mr Blake has been has been most generous. Now. you turn upon them in this way! It’s disgraceful, sir! I blush for your conduct. You say that I want to put a bit in your mouth. Good heavens! 1 wish I’d one in it now that I might drag you out of the room!’ ‘Mr Tomlins does very well to treat this as a joke,’ my aunt said, making a desperate effort to set things right again. ‘What are we talking alx>ut? 1 am sure I don’t know. We are all anxious for dear Hilda’s success; all deeply interested in her welfare.’ ‘We get a little too eager about it sometimes,’ said Mr Tomlins. ‘We do,’ sn-id my aunt. ‘Mr Dalzell, you have often asked me to show

you my paintings. Will you look at them now? Perhaps you would like to see them, Mr Tomlins? I don't know whether you take an interest in Art.’

‘With pleasure,' said Dalzell, rising.

‘I shall be delighted. I'm interested in every branch of Art,' said Tomlins: and they meekly followed her out of the room.

This was the last day but one of Dalzell’s stay in Auckland. On the morrow Hilda was to take leave of us.

‘As a rule I don’t believe in this seeing people off by a steamer or train,’ said my aunt. ‘I like my leavetakings io be private. But Hilda has begged of us to go down with her to the wharf. She wants to be with us to the very last. You will come too. Cecil? She wishes it. Mr Dalzell will not be going down at the same time, or I should have been obliged to refuse. If that man were not Hilda’s father. I’d never say another word to him.’

We walked through the town with Hilda, each of us wearing a semblance of cheerfulness. It was late in the afternoon, and the rain which had been falling all day had just ceased. Now the wind was rising, and from the cold south-east the ragged clouds streamed across a sky of steely blue. ‘Det us go through the park.' said Hilda. The park with its sodden grass and draggled flowers lfa<l never looked more miserable. Beneath us was the business part of the town; the sound of its traffic reached our ears. Beyond the muddy streets, thronged with people and noisy with the rattle of omnibuses and tramcars, we saw the masts of the vessels lying at the wharf. One of the steamers was sounding her horn: it was the first signal of departure. ‘Do you know why I have brought you here?’ Hilda said. ‘lt is where I said good-bye to my mother. Book, she stood where you do and I was here. I left her. and 1 never saw her again. But oh, surely I am not losing you as I have lost her?’ ‘My dear my dear!’ said my aunt distressfully. ‘You must not feel this too much. ' We shall see you again; you will often hear from us.’ But even as she spoke the tears were on her cheek and she turned away her face to hide them.

We went through the park and along the street toward the place where the steamer lay. If we said anything I do not remember it. I suppose we must have manufactured some sort of conversation: but it is not likely that it was particularly interesting.

Down the wharf came Tomlins in a cab. his luggage piled around him. I saw him turn his face in our direction, raise his hat from the mass of grizzled hair that seemed always to be pushing it off. and smiled upon us. Before him and behind him came other cabs loaded with passengers and their luggage. Every one was in a hurry, every one dashed through the mud'or ran along the wet pavement. The steamer snorted angrily in short, quick blasts, as if to urge them on. We were at the gangway, and Tomlins had thrown himself out of his cab to shake hands with ns, and Dalzell was saying good-bye. with what for him seemed excessive civility. Then a hand was in mine, and a pale, dark-eyed face looked at me for a moment and smiled in farewell. Goodbye. good-bye! What else is life but a succession of good-byes? We retraced our steps, my aunt and I, every now and then turning to look back towards the harbour. We saw the masts and the red funnel of the steamer moving out from amongst other funnels and masts. She was in the stream; she was passing outwards, leaving a long bright wake behind her. "I feel an old woman to-day. Cecil,’ said my aunt. ‘While she was here the child made me forget it. I am old and sad.' ‘You arc tired.' I said. ‘You ought not to have walked. I will gel a cab.’ 'No. I couldn’t endure to be cooped up in n cab.' We went on. and after another silence she said: 'lt is harder than 1 thought. I didn't think I should feel it so much. I didn’t know 1 loved her so dearly.’ I took her hand and held it. but I made no reply. (To be Continued.)