A Tale of the North Countree.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue IX, 2 March 1901, Page 387

A Tale of the North Countree.

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Complete Story.

AUSTIN STRANGE.

(Author of “A Fit of Hysteria,” “A I'relude.” “The Ennui of .ie,eb I s Daughter,” etc., etc.)

1 fain would follow love if that eould be; 1 needs must follow death, who calls for me; Cail, and I follow, I follow; let me die. The almanaksaid that it wasJune,bu> the weather seemed to be indulging in reminiscences of February and March with a dash of November thrown in. The rough wind howled and beat upon the rugged fellsides and rushed sweeping up the valley, making the smoke from the village chimneys perforin wild witch dances in the air. All day long heavy showers hail been falling until all the little waterfalls that lept down into the valley were turned into foaming cataracts and every trickling lieck had become a miniature torrent. Ghyllside, the old grey house on the hill, was used to the wild westerly gales, and its solid stone walls braved them with indifference; but the long sprays of ivy tapped impatiently on the window panes and the drencher] white roses on the porch raised tearful faces to the blustering winds. But inside, in the low old-fashioned drawing-room, a wood fire was crackling merrily, and the two young people who sat on the long settle beside it had little thought for the weather, save that its wildness seemed to accentuate the cosiness and comfort within. For “it was a lover and his lass,” and they were fully occupied in talking in the dear, foolish way That lovers always have talked and always will talk, let cynics sneer as they will. It was no wonder that the old servant beamed on them when she brought in the tea tray, piled with all the good things she could think of, for she was no cynic, and they were indeed, as she said, a bonny pair. The tall broad shouldered young fellow with the frank, kind eyes was Jack Merrivale, owner of Hawton Hall, across the valley, and his promised bride was pretty Monica Hailey, who lived with her widowed mother in the old ivy-covered house that had been her grandfather’s. Mrs Hailey had gone for a few days’ visit to Carlisle -so the lovers were able to enjoy an undisturbed tete-a-tete: and if there be any lover so unselfish as not to prefer the absence of even his most- respected friends when his beloved is near, I don’t want to know him; he is no true servant of the god of love! But presently Monica, who had been looking out of the window w’rth somewhat anxious eyes, said in heartfelt tones: “I wish mother were at home.” “Do you, darling?” said Jack, in some surprise, “I am afraid I am only too glad to have you all to myself. But perhaps 1 am boring you?” “Silly boy, no! Don’t you know I love you? But if mother were here she would make you stay the night. I don’t like to think of your riding home through this storm.” “Don’t worry about that, little one.” he answered cheerily. “Nellie (his mare) and I have weathered the gale on many a worse night than this. We shall turn up again to-morrow safe and sound.” Monica’s sweet, anxious face brightened. “I hope you will. Jack. Mother says you are to spend the whole of Sunday with me. Isn’t she good? And Mary is to chaperone from the kitchen.” “Dear old Mary,” laughed Jack. “Would that all chaperones were equally discreet!” “Will you meet me as I come from eh u reh ?” “Of course I will, sweetheart, and we will have a long, blissful summer’s day together.” Monica laughed from sheer happiness. “Oh! it will be jolly! It will be just like being married. I shall make you take the head of the table, and you can grumble at the dinner.” And she blushed so delightfully that

her lover was constrained to kiss her on the spot. "You dear!” he exclaimed ecstatically, “it simply takes my breath away when I think that in two months' time you will be mine altogether. Do you really think you can give yourself to a great hulking fellow like me?” “I think I can,” she replied demurely, “but 1 shall he able to tell better to-morrow, when we have had a day’s experiment in matrimony; we must do the thing correctly, you know. You must complain horribly of my extravagance, anil I shall have to clamour for more nousekeeping money.” “Is that what they do? Poor things!” said Jaek pityingly. “It’s a consolation to think that we are ourselves and not the rest of the stupid world.” Monica disengaged herself from his arms, and looked at him with laughing eyes. “Jack, you are becoming as illogical as you are vain. It is time you went home.” “Half an hour more, dearest.” he pleaded. “Not another minute, sir. The night is getting wilder, and you must get home while the daylight lasts.” In vain he coaxed; she was inexorable, and after a last embrace he turned to go. But when she opened the hall door, and the wind thundered in. sending all the doors banging, and the rain came driving in her face, she drew back in dismay. “Oh. Jack, you can’t go in this weather. I am sure mother would wish you to stay, if she knew. You know Mary always keeps a bedroom ready for you.” “I shall be all right, darling. Never fear. Your mother is awfully good to me. and she has left me on parole. I mustn’t do anything she wouldn’t like.” “Do you think she wouldn’t rather have you stay, than go and catch your death of cold?” returned Monica, indignantly. But the young man knew the ways of this scandalmongering world better than his innocent little sweetheart, and he was determined that no breath of gossip should touch her name through carelessness on his part. “Don’t tempt me, darling; you know how hard it is for me to tear myself away. Nellie and I will be safe at home in an hour or so.” Monica shook her head ruefully, but she felt that he was right. “Promise me at least,” she entreated, “that you will go round by the bridge. Don’t try the ford to-night; the river must be running fast and high.” “Very well, little sweetheart. I promise. Now, good-bye. I must go and find my gee.” He always attended to his horse himself, for, though there were disused stables at Ghyllside, there were no men-servants. In a few moments Monica heard the clatter of Nellie’s -hoofs, and she ran down the stone steps with a wifely caution. “Be sure you change all your clothes as soon as you get in. Jack." “All right, dear little woman. Go in out of the rain and take care of your pretty self.” But when he looked around again she was still standing there, a slim, white figure against the dark stone and ivy, her fair hair blowing about her temples, and such a look of loving pride on her sweet face that he was obliged to turn back and stoop down for another last kiss, much to his mare’s disgust. And then at last he rode away in the twilight, his heart beating high with chivalrous love for his fair young bride. Little, alas, did they dream that already the cruel strength of the swollen river was wrenching and tearing at the supports of the bridge he was so soon to cross.

the morrow dawned bright and ealm. Sunday'ssuustreameddoo n from llie clear blue wiuu-swepc sky and all uatuie had the look of clean ireshuess that follows a storm. Very wiusomu looked Jack Mernvale’s sweetheart as sue tripped lignily down the hill on her wuy io church. All the lorebodiiigiHat uad kept her awake listening to the moaning of the wind were dispers<>i i>y me morning’s brightness, and the very bells as they rang out on the quiet ,->abbath air seemed to tell her that soon, very soon, in an hour or iv»u, her true lover would be by her side. She thanked God in her gentle, girlish heart for the tender and manly .otei. ilown the hill she came, a glad light in her eyes, her dainty mus . .. ih.o> suiting to perfection the bloom and freshness of her youth. as she turned into the long, straggling village street her eyes fell upon olii Hetty Gudgeon, the despair of the. parson and the disgrace of a thrifty, self-respecting Cumberland village. There she sat at her cottage door, dishevelled and unkempt, sucking away at a short clay pip-.', a blot on the brightness of the morning. Moniea was passing her with a word of kindly greeting when the old woman. raising a skinny forefinger, muttered; “Hist! Dost hear?” The girl paused and. listening, heard a rumbling sound, as of distant thunder. “ ’Tis t'river,” said the old crone, shaking her head. “Eh. my! but there's some drooned beasses hurtlin’ together i’ t’ watter to-day.” With a shudder Monica turned away and hurried down the road. But a shadow seemed to have fallen on the lieautv of the day. anil the singing of thrush and lark seemed to be eclipsed by the rumble, rumble of the river below. Was there something strange about the people, too, or was it only her imagination? Did the children look at her with awestruck, round eyes as they made their curtseys, and whispered together when she hail passed? Why did Mrs James and old Farmer Mason disappear into their cottages when they saw’ her coming, instead of greeting her in their usual hearty North Country way? Anil what was the meaning of those groups of people in the middle of the road, who looked first at her and then down the street, and -melted away in ones anil twos as she drew nearer? A feeling of apprehension and bewilderment came over her. At last one of the women, a tall, grey haired farmer’s wife, severe in face and speech, but with a heart of gold, detached herself from a group of neighbours and came resolutely towards her “Miss Monica,” she said, and she spoke with a gentleness and hesitation quite unusual with her. “Miss Monica, dearie. I think ye’d better be steppin' homewards.” “Homewards, Mrs Lewthwnite? Why. whatever do you mean?” “It—it’ll likely be raining before long,” answered the woman lamely, looking up at the clear blue sky as if in search of a cloud, and there w-ere mnwonterl, tears in her nard grey eyes. Monica gazed at her in astonishment, wondering whether her mind was wandering. Before she could speak the woman glanced apprehensively down the road and uttered a stifled scream. “Oh. honey, go home, go home,” she cried. But the girl’s glance had followed hers and she saw a knot of men moving slowly up the hill and they seemed to he carrying something. A sudden chill fell on her heart, she knew not whv. “What is it?” Mrs. Lewthwaite? Oh. what is it?” “It will be something as they found i’ t’ river. I doubt. There’s —there’s strange things i’ t’ river the morn. Ob. my dearie, let me take 'ee home!” But Monica stood as if rooted to the ground. Her face grew’ white as her dress, and the glad light in her eves failed and gave place to a look of bewildered terror. And yet she did not know what she feared—she only knew that she seemed to be in the clutch of some paralysing dread that laid icy fingers upon her heart. “I must go and see.” she said at last, and she spoke in a quiet, almost breathless, voice. “No. no. for the love of the Lord, no!" broke in the woman vehemently. But Moniea was moving swiftly down the road, nnd she could only follow, wringing her hand in despair. The men, stepping slowly and heav-

ily up the hill, saw the slight ghostlike figure hastening towards them, and their consternation could not have l>een greater if it had been a ghost indeed. They paused and looked at one another. "My God!” murmured one of them. “ Tis Miss Monica herself. What mun we do now?” Hardly knowing what they did they laid their burden on the ground, and stood closely round as if to hide it. Already she was upon them, and her entreating eyes searched their faces as if she would beg them not to let that be which she feared. When she spoke it was not in the clear. liell-like tones which they knew, but in a strained, unnatural voice. “What is it?” she cried. “What have you there? Mason, Cartwright, can’t you answer me? Farmer V\ilson, surely you will speak to me?” The big. red-bearded farmer shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “ ’Tis—'tis sumniat us have found down by t’ river.” "Is it —is it—a man?” and the questioning voice died off almost into a whisper. "Aye, missie.” There was almost a sob in the man’s rough voice. “Aye, 'tis a mon.” There was silence for a moment — a moment which, to the men who stood there like whipped children, felt like an eternity. They would not, they tell their wives, pass through such a moment again for a thousand pounds. At last she spoke again in a far-off voice. “I must see him.” “Nay, nay, missie,” cried the farmer. and he put out his hand as if to ward her off. Here Mrs Lewthwaite, who had been standing by in dumb distress, interfered. "It’s gone too far. Farmer. What mun be. mun. If you’re a man, take these fellows away till ’tis over, and I get her home.” So the men slunk away, leaving on the ground that which they had carried. And the two women stood and looked down at it as it lay there at their feet. So still, so still it lay shrouded in the coarse white sheet. Monica fell on her knees beside it. "Oh God. oh God!” she cried, and her voice rose to a wail, "help me to bear it.” And then she turned back the sheet and saw the faee and form she loved. There he lay in the pride of his young manhood—so white, so cold. His face that used to be so boyish strangely ennobled by the majesty of death: the arms that used to enfold her crossed for ever on the broad breast; only the small black mark on his right temple showing where some roek or tree had struck him and caused his death, as the swirling torrent had swept him along. With a shuddering sob that seemed to tear her heart, she bowed her lips to his, murmuring: "Oh. my love; my love; my love!” And that was all. To the village woman’s surprise, she did not shriek or make a scene. That splendid quality which runs in English blood which the French sneer at as cold- ess, but which we may call dignity or selfrestraint, came to her hel" and she reverently covered the dear face again and rose to her feet. In a quiet mechanical voice, she said: "I will go home now, Mrs Lewthwaite. And please ask them to bring —to bring him up to Ghyllside.” And then over-strained nature gave way. and she sank down in a swoon. Willing arms carried her home, glad to find something they could do. A fainting girl seemed to them a far less uncanny thing to deal with than the ghost-like figure with horror in her eyes and strained voice, asking questions that they dared not answer. And so the two. the loved and the lover, entered the quiet old house side by side, alike unconscious—the one to sleep the sleep that has no waking, the other to wake to a life of pain and loss. Long she lay unconscious, hovering lietween life and death, watched with tenderest care by her mother and the loving hearts were wrung to find that nothing would give back the glad light to those blue eyes, nothing would take away the look of haunting terror fixed there for ever by that one 'ld servant. And when at last she was able to go aliout again their dread sight.

In vain they took her away to try to change her thoughts. London, Paris, the Riviera, all alike were vain. She tried to be grateful, but it was evident that she always pined for home, and the question was ever rising to her lips: "Mother, dearest, shall we soon go home ?” But her mother dreaded the homegoing. for she knew how the child’s steps turned ever to the river, where she would spend long hours gazing with fascinated eyes at the rolling water, as though she expected to see her lost lover’s form rising from its depths. She never went to the quiet churchyard. where, while she lay unconscious on her bed. they had laid his body. She seemed to have forgotten the terrible meeting in the road. It was always to the river, the river, that her thoughts turned. There was her l»eloved, and there she fain would be. June came round again with its sunshine, its roses, and its summer showers, and they were again in their beautiful fellside home. But the mother’s heart sank when she rememlie red that the day was at hand which was the anniversary of Jack Merrivale’s death. A whole year had gone by and she could see no improvement in her child. The day dawned wild and stormy as its predecessor. Mrs. Hailey rose with a foreboding heart. As she dressed she made her plans for the day. She had bought and kept for this sad day T a new book, said to be of absorbing interest. If that failed to hold her child’s attention she would herself feign headache and try in that way to keep her by her side. And if she found that still the poor, breaking heart must brood upon its sorrows she would lead her to the pretty, peaceful churchyard Where the tired body lieth. With its feet towards the east. and try to persuade her to take an interest in the green flower-decked grave, instead of turning always to the melancholy river. Hut while she was thus thinking there came a knock at the door, and faithful old Marv burst in.

“Oh, ma’am. Miss Monica is out somewhere, and I can’t find her in the garden. Her bed has never been slept in this uight. Eh. dear, dear, dear. what’s to do. what’s to do?” Mrs. Hailey’s face blanched. “She has gone to sit by the river, Mary,” she said with trembling voice. "We must go and fetch her home. It was a year ago to-day!” But it was too late when the anxious. grey-haired women reached the riverside. It was early in the grey day when Monica, sitting at her window. as she had sat all night, had heard her lover’s voice calling, calling through the roar of the wind. And the voice seemed to come from the river. "1 am coming, my love, my own. Oh, I am coming,” she cried. And through the darkness and the rain she had hurried, her long fair "hair all ravelled i’ the wind,” her tender feet cut and splashed by stones and pools, hastening on and murmuring. “my love, my love. I am coming!”

And so she had found rest at last, sinking into the rushing water as into the arms of her beloved. They found her half a mile lower down, lying on the grassy bank, a slender, white, wave-tossed thing. But the strained, unnatural look had gone from her’ face, and it wore an expression of ineffable peace.