DINNA’ FORGET.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue XIX, 4 November 1899, Page 837

DINNA’ FORGET.

CHAPTER I. 1 am thirty or thereabouts, and I am unmarried. 1 have been engaged for sixteen years. We parted at the Liverpool landing-stage, Jim and I, in our early teens, and we have not seen eaeh other since. But I still wear his ring. It is a mourning ring, mid contains hair. I don’t know whose, and I don’t suppose Jim knows. The ring came into his possession with the rest of his mother's effects, and he was too young at the time of her death to enquire about the hair. It did not occur to either of us that th J ring was an unsuitable one for the pm pose ; it was the only one Jim had, and he placed it on my finger with a solemnity that awed me. “ Don’t forget me,” he pleaded, the tears he was too manly to shed almost blinding his eyes. “Oh, my dear little Pat, don’t forget me ! 1 am going away to make my fortune, so that we may get married. Promise me, with your’hands in mine, that you will be true to me for ever and ever.”

It seemed a big promise, and the magnitude of it made me cry. But 1 loied Jim better than anv one else in the world, except my guardian ; so in a choked voice I repeated the words after him, and he said 1 was never to forget that I was engaged. Then he told me to put my arms round his neck and kiss him, and I did that too, though there were a number of people about, and my guardian was smiling curiously. Jim had trained me to habits of obedience, and I knew he would stand no nonsense at this supreme crisis in our lives. •

He was four years older than I, and very big, and strong, and handsome, whereas I was but small for my age, an elfish little creature, with great dark eyes and a quantity of curly, unmanageable nut-brown hair. I don’t suppose any one but Jim ever thought me pretty.

“ 1 at,” he would say, “ I’m going to kiss some colour into your cheeks ; that is all you want to make you beautiful. A real princess you will be some day, and sit upon a throne — that is, one of the best drawing-room chairs, you know. And from all quarters ot the globe, by which I mean the eity, princes—merchant princes, you understand —will come and worship you. They will fall down on their kness, and they will say, ‘Be mine, fair lady.’ That is what they will say,” commented Jim, puckering his brow perplexedly; “but they will be quite wrong, because you are not fair at all, but dark. " Then you will throw back your head—so, and you will reply, haughtily, ‘Begone, every one of you! For I belong to Jim, and if he were to come in and find you here, there would be bloodshed.’ ” I demurred a ilittle to this, for I was a romantic child, with my head crammed full of fairy lore, and this fancy (picture of prostrate princes appealed to me. “Who says I belong to you?” I asked mutinously. “I say so,” Jim replied, his blue eyes flashing, “and before you are many minutes older you will say so yourself.” He seized me in h’s a,rmis. and marching to the wall that enclosed our garden, placed me upon it. Then he removed the ladder and sauntered away, his hands in his pockets, and his nose in the air. In about five minutes he returned, and asked me politely if I belonged to him. I answered meekly that I did, and I have belonged to Jim ever since. It was the greatest nonsense, but it was such sweet nonsense; and when it was decided that Jim should go out to his uncle in New Zealand, we regarded our careers as almost at an end. We began to take short and gloomy views of life, relinquished our games and mischievous practices, and resolutely declined to entertain the idea that our hearts were still intact. We begged the cook—and there was something heroic about this —to be less prodigal with her sweetmeats, for, privately, we were a. good deal ashamed of our appetites.

I think Jim felt the parting most —his was the deeper, stronger nature —but I did most of the crying, and I cried consistently every day for a week after the vessel had sailed. Then 1 went back to school, and the

first words I heard, spoken in tones of sincerest conviction, were: “My goodness, Patricia, how ugly you’ve grown! Whatever have you been doing?” “Getting engaged,” I answered, with dignity—but I cried no more after that. None of the heroines I read aliout ever fretted to the extent of making themselves ugly. Aftr bathing their faces in warm water they always fooked more beautiful than ever, because of a “little touch of languor that served to heighen their charms.” I lost no time in testing the hot water cure, and then I peered anxiously in the glass. Alas! I saw no beauty or languor or charm of any sort. Only a small, white, woebegone face, ruffled hair pushed back, and big brown eyes full of a kind of wistful entreaty —and next day I wrote to Jim teflling him how ugly I had grown, and offering to release him from our engagement. When I told my guardian, he gave a funny little cough. “My Patricia,” he said, lingering fondly over the name, it is too early for you to trouble your pretty head about sueh matters. It will all come soon enough; too soon, maybe, for your peace of mind.” He sighed heavily, and I drew his head on to my shoulder, kissing and comforting him as was my wont when he seemed in trouble.

“Sweet, tender lips,” he murmured; “so like your mother's, child!” But I afterward heard him remark to his housekeeper, Martha Hewitt, that they two —meaning himself and Martha — were frivolous, featherheaded creatures compared with the children of the present day. “An odder pair,’ he said, “was surely never sent to plague an old bachelor!”

I think he meant “bless,” but plague was the word he used.

My guardian’s brother, Mr James Hurrell, to whom Jim had gone, was a bachelor, too; and there had been one other brother, Jim’s father, who had died of fever while marching at the head of his regiment to Coomassie. Mrs Hurrell never recovered from the shock, and she died about the same time as my own mother, who was also a widow. I had no relations living that I knew of, and Jim always declared he was glad of it. “Aunts maul one so.” he said, “and male cousins might have given trouble.”

Ever alert for information, I was anxious to know why male cousins might have given more trouble than female cousins. But Jim, who was very lordly in his ways, said I must understand once for all that male cousins might have given troub’e, and that I must not ask any questions. In due time his answer to my letter arrived. He said it was impossible I could have grown so ugly in so short a time, but in any case I might have known that it would make no difference in his feelings. “Ugly or not, I intend to marry you,” concluded Jim severely, “so don’t let me hear any more such rot. Remember that you are my promised wife, and that I shall come home and claim you as soon as I have made my fortune.” Alas! that letter was written sixteen years ago, and Jim’s fortune is not made yet.

CHAPTER 11. As time passed, as the weeks lengthened into months, and the months rolled on into years, I came to regard that little scene enacted at the Liverpool landing stage as mere childish folly—an incident to be remembered only with an amused smile, or a ripple of laughter, as I glanced at the ring on my finger. That sombre pledge of my betrothal had become a fixture. At first it was the reeollction of Jim’s tear-dimmed eyes whicn rose up between me and any half-formed resolution to discard the ring. Afterwards it was my jfflysical development that held it fast.

At eighteen there was no longer any question of my growing ugly, My glass told me wondrous tales of my beauty, and my portrait, painted by a Liverpool artist, had the effect- of making him wildly and most unreasonably jealous. Our engagement was to him a definite and positive fact; he

elung tenaciously to the hope of our future union, and his letters spoke eloquently of the love with which his heart was full.

I used to wonder how with so little fuel he contrived to keep the fire of his love for me burning so steadily. I should have wondered still more had I known the passionate intensity of that love. In my thoughtlessness I never realised that the years passing so lightly and pleasantly over my head were years of toil and anxiety to poor Jim, whose happiest hours were those spent in writing to his little sweetheart at home. “I am eating my heart out. here in Invercargill,” he wrote me once, “waiting for you, Pat; working for you, dear; wearying for you always. The probation is long, my darling, and at times I have need of all my patience and courage. Then it is that the thought of you strengthens and sustains me. You are my star of consolation, my one hope, one thought, one dream in the world. Oh. Pat, be true to me! Don’t forget your promise—don’t forget. . . .” “Don’t forget! don’t forget!” that was ever Jim’s cry, and 1 would ask myself, laughing, how. with so many and sueh urgent reminders it was possible for me to forget. Dear, generous, faithful-hearted Jim! I was not worthy' of him. But I did my best. I tried to live up to the high ideal he had formed of me. and I endeavoured to infuse into my letters some of the impulsive warmth of my childish affection. The sad truth, however, remained—that the correspondence which was all the world to him. simply bored me.

But if I did not love Jim in the way he desired, 1 ceitainly did not love anyone else; and for the jealous fears which haunted him he had no cause whatever. Truth to tell, 1 found men, as a rule,’ disappointing, in many instances downright dull; and 1 looked in vain, among the many suitors for my hand, for the hero of my dreams, the ideal lover who should enchain my mind as well as heart and be at once my companion and my king! He never came; and as time passed I grew more than reconciled to his absence—grew, indeed, to regard my freedom and independence as priceless possessions. A husband, I reflect■ed, would be a very' undesirable and unnecessary’ appendage. He would probably' be a talker, he would certainly be a hindrance to me in my writing, and for aught I knew he might even be a tyrant! And for love? Well, I had my guardian, and 1 wanted no one else.

Some gentlemen were discussing me at a ball, and I was so placed as to make escape impossible. “Patricia Lang,” said one; “oh. yes, you are right! Absolutely without heart, a. beautiful statue—nothing more.” “I’m not so sure about that,” said another. “See her with her guardian! Mr Hurrell, at all events, does not find her heartless. Rather, I should say, call her a beautiful enigma —and as much so to herself as to anyone else. The girl is for ever looking for something—looking vainly, as it would seem. It’s curious, pathetic even, to watch her at each fresh introduction. Hope, expectation, indifference. disappointment, are depicted successively on her expressive face. Evidently she finds us in the last degree tedious and uninteresting.” “It’s ‘copy’ she's looking for,” miw mured a deep bass voice. “Beware of a woman who writes, for it is just these, with their analytical minds and their heads full of learning who do all the mischief. Their very coldness is a provocation and a 'challenge. I wonder how many hearts Miss Lang has broken this season. What, in Heaven's name, is she waiting for?” Ah, that was just it! What was I waiting for?

CHAPTER 111. When I was twenty-six I lost my dearly-loved guardian. He passed away peacefully, his hand in mine, and the story of his love for my mother fresh upon his lips. Her name, Patricia, like my own, was the last word he uttered, and there was a world of tenderness in his low accents.

“She was the best and sweetest, just as she was the most beautiful woman that ever lived. . . Your father met her first. Had it l>een otherwise —but I have never allowed tny thoughts to dwell itfioii that. . . The joy of loving her was great, and a man cannot but lie better for having known and worshipped such a woman. . . Did she know? Yes, and reproached hereelf, as she had never any cause to do. for having spoiled my life. . . She made it the richer and fuller for the passing sunshine of her presence. . . ‘We needs must love the highest when we see it.’ and if she had lived—ah, well! God did not so will it. . . She left you. her greatest treasure, to my care. Tell me. my Patricia, whether I have redeemed the promise I made to your mother twenty years ago.” I could not speak for the great sob that rose in my throat, but my face to ihis, and I think he understood and was satisfied.

I’his was my first real sorrow. I had fretted sadly for Jim. but the grief of a girl of twelve is not last‘llg’ “nd 1 had my guardian then. Now 1 felt quite alone in the world, and had Jim happened to return in these days of my desolation, be might have carried the fortress of my heart by storm and married me off-hand. I did not take kindly to the friends and acquaintances who, with the best intentions, sought to comfort. me. 1 shut myself up and refused to be comforted. In the end my health broke down, and Martha Hewitt, who was devoted to me, came forward with a bold proposition. “I’ve been thinking. Miss Patricia,” she said, “that it will be well for us to leave this place. It is not home any longer without the master, and you are just fretting yourself to death. I don’t know what Mr. Jim would say if he saw you now—and after charging me so' pertickler to take good care of you. too!” 1 twisted the little mourning ring round and round on my finger; it seemed to get looser every day. "Where could we go?” I asked listlessly. “We might go and live in Liverpool,” suggested Martha, who loved a city—and 1 caught at the idea.

In a city' it would be possible to dose oneself, anil obtain the repose which is denied one in the suburb. Here I could not stir twenty yards from my own door without encountering a dozen or more acquaintances, anil their sociability was appalling. How they talked! ’lt got on to my nerves at last, and Martha’s plan seemed to offer a ready and effectual means of escape. The reluctance I should otherwise have felt to 'leaving the Manor House was lessened in great measure by the spoliation which had for many years been going on around it. Every inch of ground had been seized upon by the übiquitous builder, the sound of his hammer was ever in one's ears. All day long, carts laden with bricks and timber went grinding past our very gates. Houses and shops sprang up in every direction. A gymnasium was built, "a Technical Institution, a Town Hall. Picturesqueness was fast giving place to conventionality. The hills that I loved were in process of being levelled and laid out in prim lawns and gardens. A recreation ground was threatened, a marine 'lake and promenade were promised. Rumours reached me of diabolical designs upon the shore; plans of the contemplated improvements were on view in a certain shop-window. They made me shiver. It seemed only a question of time ere the District Council would lay ruthless, reforming hands on the sea itself. The sunsets, happily, were above and beyond its reach, and on no part of our coast are they more beautiful—as Turner, who came there to paint them could testify were he still living. And the noises! Steam-rollers, school-board children, and street organs made the place a pandemonium; while bicycles rendered the life of the poor pedestrian about as intolerable as it could lie. Herein we paid heavily for our exceptionally good roads.

place a pandemonium ; while bicycles rendered the life of the [>oor pedestrian about as intolerable and insecure as it well could be. Herein we paid heavily for our exceptionally good roads. Of the Waterloo of sweet memories and musings—the dear, primitive, peaceful Waterloo of my earliest recollections—not a trace remains. And when I hear others extol the

public-spirited policy of the powers that be, when 1 look round at the grand houses and the gaily-dressefl |H*ople, I feel constrained to cry out in mv sorrow :

"Take away your fashionable seaside suburb, and give me back my Elysium !” The Manor House was about the last bit of antiquity left in the place, and my guardian had l>een offered fancy prices for the property. “ When I am gone, my Patricia, you can do as you as please,” he would say, and I was touched to the heart to find that he had left me not only the house, but every thing else of which he died possessed. “Jim will have my brother’s money,” so ran the letter of instructions ; “ it was an arrangement made between us when the dear lad went out. Some day, perhaps, the property will be united, and the dearest wish of my heart fulfilled, for I have thought there must l>e some other motive, my darling, apart from your desire to remain with me, at the root of your rejecting so many good offers. But do not, through any quixotic notion of pleasing me. do Jim the great injustice of marrying him without love. He is worthy of a l>etter fate than that —worthy of the best this world can give him. . . .” The reading of this letter caused my ears to flow afresh. Why couldn’t

I love Jim ? Wby couldn’t I ? I asked myself this question so often that the words seemed beaten into my brain. They danced before my eyes in my dreams ; they echoed through the silent corridors ; and the very walls of the library, where I spent most of my time, seemed to cry out continually : “ Why can’t you love Jim ?”

It was maddening unendurable. Martha was right ; I wanted a change. I would go to Liverpool, and there, in some quiet square or old-world, haltforgotten terrace, I would; seek a haven where I could weave my ro manees undisturbed.

CHAPTER TV. My father and mother, whom, sad to relate, I do not remember, must have been a very remarkable pair. Hardly had T been twelve months settled in my new home before I received a letter from a firm of solicitors at Southampton, informing me that under the will of the late Dame Angela Wynne, T inherited property to the amount of twenty thousand pounds.

I was thunderstruck. I had never in my life heard of Dame Angela Wynne, and my first thought was that there 'had been a mistake. But, no ! A copy of the will was enclosed, and I saw at once that there could have been no mistake.

“ And T bequeath,” so ran this strange document, “ to Patricia Lang, only child of the late Captain Robert Archibald Lang, R.N., t'he residue of my estate, in the belief that her father’s daughter will make a good use of the money, and as a token of the sincere admiration and respect for a highminded, chivalrous, and most loyal English gentleman. Here was a romance! Who was Dame Angela Wynne? And what had my father done to merit such recognition at her hands? From the solicitors I could gleam nothing beyond the fact of their late client's having instructed them to keep an eye upon Patricia. Lang, ward and adopted daughter of Mr. Benjamin Burrell, of Waterloo, near Liverpool. Dame Angela had been living for many years in retirement at Boulogne, where she was a liberal subscriber to various charities. She had travelled much, but had not, to their knowledge, visited England during the last twenty years. She was unmarried.

I searched in vain amongst my guardian’s papers for any mention of this eccentric lady, and I wondered whether he had l>een aware of the eye that was being kept upon me. My father's letters afforded no clue to' the mystery. They were written from various foreign ports, and to me, accustomed to Jim’s lengthy and loving epistles, they seemed strangely brief and unsatisfactory. I had no letters of my mother’s. Those she had written to my guardian were buried with him at own request. So it was left to me to piece together as best I could the puzzle of these four lives; and the conclusions I drew were so painful and pathetic, that T could only hope they were erroneous. There came to me with this legacy conscientious scruples about Jim.

He was, I knew, sadly crippled for want of capital; and would not helping him be putting the money to <• good use? Would he accept it, though —without me? Only too surely I felt that he would not. Then ought I not to sacrifice myself, trusting to time to rekindle the old love? Jim’s personal magnetism was great, and perhaps—who could tell?—the vague longing which is supposed to lie dormant in the,hearts of most of us might wake up suddenly at sight of him.

But when my letter was written and |»osted, and I had leisure to reflect upon what 1 had done, a sort of terror took possession of me. Jim would certainly come home and marry me, and I should be miserable for evermore. Did I not know him? Strong, cool, resolute, exacting, masterful! He would call me his queen, but in reality I should be little better than his slave. It was a terrible prospect, and the more I tried to shut my eyes to it the more terrible it became. I sought distraction out-of-doors, and now it was that I began to experience all the delights and advantages of living in a city. The gardens of the quiet square in which I dwelt were a mass of foliage; the grass was green, and soft as velvet—l might have been miles in the country. Yet I was so centrally situated that I could reach on foot in half an hour points of interest so widely apart as Princes' Park, the Botanic Gardens, and that splendid and salubrious promenade, the Liverpool landing-stage. I was also within easy walking distance of the noble block of buildings which comprise our Library, Museum and Art Gallery—our treas-ure-house of knowledge and entertainment: while University College, that brilliant centre of academic, social and literary life, was but a stone’s throw aiway. I was returning from the college one lovely afternoon towards the end of May, when just as T reached my own door the postman came up and handed me a letter. It. was from Jim! I hastened to my own room, tearing open the envelope as T went. And this is what, with tears of rage and pain in my eyes, I read:

“ Burwood Station, 7th of .April, ’92. “My dear Patricia.—T must respectfully decline your leap-year proposal. It is very good of you to think of sacrificing yourself, but it is not a sacrifice I want, and no amount of generosity will satisfy a man’s heart and soul. Before you again take the initiative in what you must excuse me for reminding you is essentially a man’s concern, be careful to ascertain precisely what it is the man requires. To offer money to one who has for years been hungering for love is little less than an insult, and to say that I am disappointed in you, Pat, is to express very inadequately what I feel. “ Uponr one [joint you may set your mind at rest : have no fear that I shall disturb your solitude. When you can say to me simply and straight from your heart, ‘Jim, I have not. forgotten the old days, and your love for me and mine for you, and I want you,’ I will come home—not before. And do not deceive yourself, young lady. No man or woman can be sufficient for his or her own happiness in this world, and sooner or later you will find this out.

“There will come a time when books alone will not satisfy you, when you will have a healthy, natural craving for love ; and if then the right man comes along, he will know how to make you feel through all your being the ecstasy of passion and self-sur-render. I believe yet that I shall be that man. Tn spite of your denials and contradictions, I believe your heart has never really wavered in its allegiance to me, and I can wait. Your always devoted “Jim.”

My first impulse was to tear this letter into shreds and fling them away. Then as I re-read it, comprehending more fully Jim’s state of mind as he wrote, realising as I had never done before his deep, undying love and exquisite fidelity, a great wave of passionate remorse swept over me, a lump seemed to rise in my throat, and pressing the letter to my lips, 1 broke into a storm of sobs and tears. “ Oh, Jim, Jim,” I wailed. “ how could you so misunderstand me ?” CHAPTER V. “ Put up the bill, Martha, and we will try to let the house furnished,”

I said, staring moodily out of the window ; “ another week of this will drive me crazy, I think.” The rain was beating pitilessly against the window panes ; the garden was strewn with dead leaves which dropped heavily from the trees; and the late flowers, bent by the storm lay wet and broken on the ground. Beyond the garden, fields and hedges were enveloped in a dull, grey mist ; the hills were invisible, and from the sea came the ceaseless, melancholy sound of the fog horns. “ Lor’, Miss Patricia,” remonstrated Martha, “ and who would take a furnished house at the seaside in winter — such weather, too I”

"Enthusiastic golfers —and whoever met a golfer who was not enthusiastic ?—care nothing about the weather; and that is just the beauty of it, Martha, for we have here one of the finest links in England. I rely absolutely upon the golfers; so put up the bill, like a good soul, before we aire cut oft in our prime.” Martha was considerably beyond her prime but she allowed the statement to pass, and hurried away to do my bidding. When, four months ago, hunting about for seaside apartments, I lighted upon this charming cottage, standing back from the highroad, midway between Hoylake and West Kirkby—its garden a wilderness of sweet perfumes—l thought I had found another Eden. We came in the time of roses, remained all through the hot, dry, beautiful summer, and not until October, with its chill and wet came to remind me that winter was close at hand, did I begin to weary of my purchase. For 1 had bought the property with the intention of converting it ultimately into a Home for Poor and Aged Gentlewomen. It was to succour as many as possible of these to prevent them, when age or ill-health unfitted them for work, from drifting into the workhouse, that I determined to devote Dame Angela Wynne’s legacy- What were my troubles compared with the sufferings of these poor, stranded women, most of whom had seen better days? Yet the truth must be told. In spite of the deep interest I took in them, the earnest efforts I was making to brighten their lives, my own sorrow, my grief and mortification, would remain uppermost in my thoughts, and my cheeks would burn and my eyes fill with angry tears as I recalled some of the expressions I had used in my last letter to Jim.

Surely there is nothing more complex or difficult to understand than a woman’s heart. Through years of tenderest love and devotion it will remain cold and unresponsive, and then —strange perversity!—a few stern words, the contemptuous manner of a moment, an unexpected repulse, and lo! a sudden revulsion of feeling takes place, and a love, all the more vehement for being so long pent up. finds expression in mad, sweet words, impulsive promises, prayers, entreaties—oh what had I not said!

I was furiously angry with Jim. How could he leave such a letter unanswered? Certainly, if he wished to punish me for my contumacy, he could not have done it more effectually. Then it occurred to me that he might be ill—dying, perhaps, and this thought was so terrible that I telegraphed. The telegram', like the letter, remained unanswered; and then I knew, if I had never known it before, that without. Jim and Jim’s love life would be for me henceforth a dreary solitude. The bill was put up, and for three days nothing came of it. The rain descended steadily, determinedly, and my spirits, always so susceptible to nature’s moods, sank lower and lower. It was as though something of the gloom without entered into my heart to further chill and depress me. But on the fourth day there was a change. The rain ceased, the wind rose, and the rapidly shifting clouds showed some blue sky beneath. In the afternoon the sun peeped out fitfully and a little shamefacedly, as though apologising for its long absence; and I threw down my book with a little glad cry. I would go for a run on the shore. But just as I reached the door it was opened suddenly from; the outside. and Martha appeared, looking much flustered. “A gentleman has come to see the house. Miss Patricia," she began, “and ”

“And he has brought the sunshine with him,” I interupted. “Look, Martha!”

“Yes, Miss Patricia; but he wants to take possession at once!” “Of the sunshine? Greedy man! Oh, now Martha, don’t distress yourself; you shall not be hurried, 1 promise you.”

I smiled reassuringly at her as 1 went toward the drawing-room. The stranger was standing with his back to the fire as I entered—a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose square jaw and overhanging brow seemed to give power and character to his face, tie was wearing blue spectacles, and 1 noticed with surprise that he had laid jiside a heavy travelling coat and cap. This, and the eagerness with which he advanced to meet me, certainly appeared to justify Martha’s worst suspicions.

I bowed a little stiffly, and he stopped short, bowing also —bowing with a whimsical and audacious politeness which made me feel inclined to summon Martha to show him out. Being, however, as anxious to let the as he apparently was to take it, 1 swallowed my indignation and invited him to be seated. If his references were satisfactory, there was, I reflected, no need to quarrel with his manners.

He sat down in the same humorous fashion in which he had bowed. Nothing, he seemed to be protesting, could well be funnier than sitting down or bowing.

“You want a furnished house in Hoylake?” I began, briskly, anxious to get the interview over. “I want this furnished house!” he replied, promptly. “How can you tell till you have seen it?” I inquired, vaguely suspicious. “I have seen quite enough to know that it will suit me admirably.” There was suppressed amusement in his tone.

“A golfer, perhaps?” I questioned, feeling unaccountably nervous. “Oh, certainly a golfer.” I breathed more freely. Golfers were, I knew, a. little mad, and no doubt this one was aware that, the links adjoined our back garden. “And when should you want the house?”

“I want it immediately.” He rose, and resumed his old position on the hearthrug—the position of the master of a house. “Then there is no more to be said,” I returned, rising also; “for I am not prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.”

The man was insufferable. “I don’t want you to leave, mv—darling!”

The last word was scarcely breathed above a whisper, but I heard it, and. really frightened now, I was moving hastily to the bell, when the stranger caught and held me fast. “We shall not quarrel about terms,” he said, in strangely familiar tones, “for I will pay you so—and so —and so ,” kissing me with an unrestrained passion and impetuosity that was almost fierce. “Oh Pat, Pat, to think you should have forgotten your own old Jim!” I stared at him for a moment with wide, uncomprehending eyes; then the room began to swim round, the ground to give way beneath my feet; a thousand voices shrieked in my ears: “Dinna’ Forget! Dinna’ For get!” and with a half-smothered cry I fell backward in a dead faint. When I recovered consciousness 1 was lying on the couch with Jim's arm still encircling me, and Jim’s blue eyes, no longer disguised behind glasses, fixed anxiously upon my face. “Drink this,” he said in the old halfperemptory manner I remembered so taking a tumbler from Martha’s hand and holding it to my lips. “ Now, how do you feel, my darling ? Ah, that is better !” as the colour crept slowly back into my cheeks. “ But you look delicate, little girl. I hope you have not been ill — naughty, I know you have been so very, very naughty, my sweetheart !”

My heart was too full for words. I eould only lie and stare at Jim—stare with happy, shining eyes that were afraid of losing sight of him for a moment. Martha answered for me.

“ Miss Patricia has not been strong this long while, sir,” she said, speaking severely to hide her emotion ; “ never quite the same since master died ; and you gave her a shock just now, which, begging your pardon, sir, you shouldn’t have tried to deceive us.” “ Deceive you, Martha ? Nonsense ! Nothing was further from my inten-

tion. But when I saw how completely 1 was forgotten, and when I found that the role of house-hunter was to be forced upon me, 1 played the part to the best, of my ability. Upon my word, you almost persuaded me, between you, that I had returned home for the express purpose of playing golf on sodden grass in the winter time. I had half a mind to ” “ We should have known you in a minute without those blue glasses,” Martha struck in, still with uncompromising severity, and I understood quite well how she reproached herself for not recognising her old favourite. “ But what with covering your eyes, and covering your mouth,” she frowned at Jim’s long, fair moustache, “ and covering ” “ I should have known you anywhere, Martha, covered or I should have known you in goggles and a respirator ! . As for these,” indicating the spectacles, “ I told you at the time of the sunstroke that I should have to wear them until my sight was fully restored. Yes, yes, my darling, I am all right now, and can dispense with them quite well ; I wish I had thought of it sooner.” Jim’s lips were again pressed to mine, and he was whispering tender, foolish, passionate words of endearment. “ My little one, my own sweetheart, how beautiful you’ve grown ! Speak to me, dear. Tell me lam not dreaming ; that it is really you I am holding in my arms at last—at last ! Oh, I can scarcely believe in my happiness 1” I could scarcely believe in mine ! My world, in the space of one short hour, had become transformed and glorified. A wild joy was thrdbbing at my heart, a strange, intoxicating delight filled my soul. In my utter content I could have lain where I was for hours ; gazing at Jim, listening to him, receiving his caresses. But there stood Martha, and she was crying so quietly and copiously that it seemed almost cruel to disturb her. Still, there are situations when the

presence of a third person is a little embarrassing, and I felt that this was one of them.

“ Martha," 1 said, smiling into my lover’s eyes, “ 1 think you had better remove the bill, for Mr Hurrell seems determined to take possession at once! And we don't want more than one such tenant.” The bill was on a board in the garden, and Martha, with a muttered “No, indeed !” hurried away to take it down. “ The idea,” I murmured then, “ of kissing me like that before Mrs Hewitt 1” And this was all I could find to say to Jim after a separation of sixteen years !

CHAPTER VI. “A romance of the Middle Ages! Don’t talk nonsence!” said Jim, a few hours later, as with his arm round my waist we passed from the dining-room, where w« had partaken of “high tea,” to the drawingroom, where the lamps had been lit and a blazing wood, fire gave us the cheeriest of welcomes. “Of course, I know,” he went on, holding me before him with both hands “that you are twenty-nine—-or rather, that you will be next week; but you don't look . No, stand still! I have not half done ndmiring you yet—you don't look a day over twenty; a.nd in your violet velvet gown, with these soft lace ruffles at your throat and wrists, you are adorable, my Patricia.” Before Jim’s bright, searching gaze my colour came and went, and he laughed mischievously. “You remind me,” he said, “of the child Pat who used to stand just—so! A little criminal awaiting sentence; do you remember?” “Am I likely to forget? Your sentences were out of all proportion to my crimes, Jim.” “Oh, 1 don’t think so; you were mostly very naughty — but such a charming culprit, such an odd and fascinating little creature! Come,

look up, my darling, I want to see the love-light in your eyes- What eyes, Pat! Oh, it is like heaven just to see your face again!” “It is a heaven you might have enjoyed six months ago,” I said sedately, as he drew me down beside him on the couch.

“No, Pat, 1 think not. Your first offer” —4 winced —“wiws hardly one that any man with a grain of selfrespect would accept. Even if 1 hail l>een the poor man you thought. 1 should still have declined to be the pensioner of a woman who, believing her heart to be dead, pro|>osed to marry me from a sense of duty. As it happened, though, 1 was not poor; for the land in which I had invested Uncle Tim’s savings turned out more valuable than I anticipated. I knew there were vast mineral stores beneath the surface, but 1 did not expect to find gold —and gold in large quantities! 1 am a rieh man, Pat, and what I want, what. I have always wanted, is your love, sweetheart, not your money.” “I am glad I offered you the money without the love,” was the unexpected comment I made upon this long oration. “Pat!” “Yes, I am glad; because it was your answer to that letter that made me feel—l mean, that made me think—that is, that made me know ” “Yes, yes,” cried Jim, impatiently; “that made you feel, and think, and know—-what?” “Oh—can’t you see? Don’t you understand?” “See! Understand! Of course not. The man doesn’t 'live who can fathom a woman's motives. But I can tell you this, Miss Lang: you were fortunate in being out of reach of my arm when that letter arrived, for it put me into one of the biggest rages “But that was just the beauty of it,” I began, provokingly, and immediately collapsed, for before my startled eyes Jim triumphantly waved an

envelope— an envelope containing, oh! 1 knew only too well, what. “Your second offer!” said Jim, smiling. at my confusion. “What, are you ashamed of having written words that brought me the greatest joy of my life ? Oh. Pat, Pat, you are just one of the small pieces of inconsistency that a man breaks his heart for.” He restored the letter to his pocketbook. “ You may ask me for it agin on our wedding-day,” he said, taking my eager, outstretched hand into his own. “ How soon will that l»e ?” I inti ui red anxiously. Whereupon Jim, turning away his head, begged me not to press for an early day. “ 1 only landed at Plymouth last night.” he murmured apologetically, “and I’m fatigued. Give me time.” “ Oh, Jim,” I cried, with a joyous |>eal of laughter, “ what a tease you are still !” “And what a tantalising child you are still.” “ How could you leave a letter like that unanswered ?” I asked reproachfully. “ Is not my presence here sufficient answer ? I was at the Otago diggings when this dear letter reached invereargill. It was sent on to Dunedin, there to wait till called for. Of course, had I known my little girl woidd find her heart so suddenly, and give it me so fully and freely—-what a beautiful blush. Pat!—-I would have arranged for letters to be forwarded. As it was, I only received this six weeks ago. and winding up my affairs with a despatch that. bewildered t.hc colonial mind, I took the first steamer home. I doubt if a letter could have come quicker.” “ You might have telegraphed,” 1 said, thinking of the cruel suspense of tin 1 last few months.

“ And given you the opportunity for escape ! How can I feel sure of you, Pat ? There, there, my darling, do not let those tears drop. See ! I

ini going to Irind you to me with fetters of gold.” lie produced a small morocco case, and taking from it a lovely gip«y ring set with diamonds and sapphires, slipped it into the place of the little mourning ring which had done duty so long.

“ You never told me how faithfully you had worn this,” he said, putting my firet engagement ring carefully away.

“ 1 am afraid I never told you anything yon wanted to hear, Jim,” 1 mswered remorsefully. “ Never mind, you shall make up for it now—l am just famishing for love—and you shall begin by telling me that you will lie married on your birthday.” “ Oh. Jim —so soon !”

" Now. Pat, I hope you are not going to lie naughty,” and the tone was so exactly that of the Jim of sixteen years ago that, closing my eyes, I could almost fancy myself back in the old garden at Waterloo, with the apple-blossoms falling all ailrout me, and great beds of carnations and mignonette filling the air with their fragrance.

“ At all events,” I said, with a deep sigh of satisfaction. “ you cannot put me on the wall.”

“Can’t I. though I We shall see. By-the-bye, Pat. you must take me to Waterloo and show me that -wall.” “Gone!” I said, in tragic tones. “Gone. too. the old house and garden; and in their place, springing up like mushrooms in the night, rows and rows of small houses, all exactly alike, and all equally ugly. They build by the mile at Waterloo, and cut off into lengths. Oh. you would not know the place. Jim ; it is quite spoiled.” Jim laughed, but he frowned a little, too.

“ My darling, you must not grudge to dwellers in small houses the benefit of fresh air and sea breezes. I cannot allow you to become exclusive and misanthropical, little girl.” “ I want.” I said, with startling abruptness, “ to build a home for twen-ty-nine poor and aged gentlewomen with Dame Angela’s money — if you don’t mind, Jim.” “ Mind ! I shall be delighted to help you in any scheme for ameliorating the condition of the deserving poor of either sex. T should say that a home for twenty-nine aged gentlewomen would be an admirable institution. But why twenty-nine ?” “ Because I am so happy, and because—oh, can’t you guess ? Well, I'm surprised you can’t guess !” “ What it is,” said Jim. with a shrug of resignation. “ to have a romancer and a riddler for one's sweetheart!” lie took my face between his hands, gazing intently into my eyes. “You mean.” he said at length, his own eyes kindling, “ that at twenty-nine the right man came along and made you f eel ”

“ Yes —yes —oh, Jim, how strong you are ! Do let me go—please !” “ Not until you have said you love me for ever with all your heart, that you are mine and mine only, that I have but to command and you will obey. Come, the words are your own.” “Oh. that letter !” T groaned. “Am I never to hear the last of it ?” Jim laughed caressingly, but he did not offer to release me, and it was growing late. So there was no help for it. And afterward, as I stood with him for a moment in the garden, we both glanced up involuntarily at the sky—so unclouded and bright with stars — and T whispered shyly : “Jim. did you know that Guardy wished it—our marriage, I mean ?” “ Yes. my darling.”

“ Do you' think he knows ?” “ I am as sure, sweetheart, as that your lr>ve is all my own at last.” “What a beautiful world it is!” I said, watching the moon as it sailed eahnly. serenely in the heavens, casting its silvery glamour over all the landscape. But Jim. jealous of my glance, turned my face up to his own. quoting softly :

•• What hath life been? What will It be? How have T lived without thee? How Is life both lost and found in thee? Feel st thou ‘For Ever' in this "Now?”