CHAPTER XIII.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XIII, Issue 11, 3 July 1885, Page 5

CHAPTER XIII.

TROUBLED IN HER MIND. It was a moment of some excitement to May when she climbed into the great travelling carriage of the Archbold's, and was taken from the gate of Monasteries. Miss Martha inspected her departure with pride. " I have done my best to turn her out like a gentlewoman," thought that kindly spinster, " and let them have whom they may. they can never see a sweeter face at their board. Ah, deary me ! why does Paul not come home while she is looking like that ? " And Miss -Martha returned to her lonely parlor to follow out the train of this idea, with her knitting in her lap, her spectacles on her nose, and her mouth at the reflective angle. She had been busy as a bee for the past few days ; but now the delicate laces were all cleaned and pressed, the fair muslin gowns were all folded, the little knots and rosettes of gay ribbons were all stitched in their places, the excitement of trunk-packing had come to an end, and the humdrum knitting had returned to its place between Miss Martha's fingers. Her child was gone; but, though Monasterlea might be sleepier and lonelier than ever, Miss Martha was neither sleepy nor lonely. She was accustomed to live out a great deal of life within her twenty-four hoars; and she could live it out as well in her silent parlor, over a silent occupation, as though she had been haranguing a multitude, or ploughing the rustiest field on Mr. Finiston's estate. It was a gift that she had got in the order of charity, this unflagging vitality, which would not be unoccupied. It had lit a comfortable hearth in this ruin surrounding her, it her farm, made a pride of her meadow-grass, drew beauty *4and fatness from her garden and dairy, and made a pleasant proverb of her house-keeping. When constrained to be quiet, she could employ her energy in planning good things for other people. There were many within her reach who were worthy oE a thought, and very many who were in need of it; and when all those were reckoned, there was not found one who was not infinitely the better when tbe fruit of such remembrance was dropped, ripe and unexpected, into his lap. Was there thirst or hunger, or nakedness or repining, hiding itself in anguish in the holes of this land ? The trouble was a lion, and Miss Martha was but a mouse—but a mouse who never left off gnawing at the nets and the chains. On the present occasion Miss Martha was thinking about Paul. She could not tell why, but she thought a great deal about tbe young man lately. For the past few days he had scarcely for a moment been absent from her mind. She had dreamed about him every night, and she had talked about little else every day. This was the more remarkable, as a new event ought to have sent all her ideas in the direction of Camlough. Miss Martha was fully aware of the important step that was taken when an attractive young girl like May was sent to establish a friendly footing in a house like that of the Archbolds, where sha should be admired, and coveted, and taught the ways of the world. Miss Martha's pride on this point

knew no bounds. A stray duke might find his way to Camlough, and might want to place his coronet on May's simple brow. Well, and was it for her own desolation upon the consummation of'such an event that Miss Martha could fret over her knitting? Was it for her own sake that she cherished so fierce an enmity towards that imaginary duke ? No, there was nothing about that ; it was Paul who would be wronged. Miss Martha, I have hinted, was a faithful soul ; and she had accepted Paul Finiston as the son of her heart. While his mother had lived, he had been nothing to her ; but his mother was dead, and ha was second with her now; and Miss Martha's second was far better than many people's first. It was an object of her life to bring him home from his wandering, to pet him, to care for. him, to watch over his interests, and constrain fortune, if it might be, to relinquish her old grudge against his family, and to shower favours for the future upon his innocent head. And in order that her heart might not be divided, she would make her first and her second into one precious whole ; so that one could not hurt the other, while she herself must be just to both. Thus best would she pay her debt to the dead Elizabeth. Yet here, and amid these daydreams, was May, with all her sweetness, whirled away into the chances of the world, and Paul beyond seas, and that imaginary duke coming post haste to Camlough. So Miss Martha might have guessed , very well how for the past few days Bhe had been thinking so incessantly of Paul. Now, when she was alone, she drew his letter from the pocket of her apron, and spread it upon her knees, and read it many times. There was not one word in the whole about coming home. In the meantime May had passed over the Tim of the Golden Mountain, and forgotten her own identity in marvelling at the beauty of the world. This midsummer eve seemed like to be the first of a new era in her life. The oxen planted their feet oa t.he steep pavement, the carriage slid slowly from brae to brae, and from hillock to hillock, moors, fens, and lakes shimmered and burned in the sun, and shifted with a magical intermingling of lines and hues, .floating off in flecks of blue and silver, and amethyst and amber, to become mere pencillings of tinted glory in" the distance. In the midst of all this flush of natare, on went May like a queen of summer upon a royal progress, witb golden weeds brushing her cheeks, and crimson berries dropping ripe into her hands, till the castle appeared in sight, and then a little acci ient occurred. A shrill wailing sound had been for somi minutes coming from a distance towards the carriage. Accustomed to the strange cries of birds, and shepherds, May did not mind it ; neither did the coachman nor the drivers of the oxen. At last it rose out of a bush above their heads. " Aye— aye — aye— aye— aye 1 " This was a human voice, and, moreover, there was a white pocket-handkerchief waving madly from a point of a very long umbrella. Yet no human being was to be seen. " It's a banshee !" murmured one of the men who led the oxen. " Go on, ye baste !" he said, whacking the animals in trepidation. " Ye idiot 1 don't ye see its a lady in disthresa I" thundered down one of the coachmen from his perch upon the box. " A figure had appeared upon the bank above, looming largely against the sky. It was dressed in a long, dark gown, a scarlet shawl, and a white kerchief over the head and under the chin. The face was long and fat, and suffering from recent sunburn. The arms were waved with a tragic appeal towards the travellers. " It's Mrs. Lee, a lady from the castle, miss," said the coachman, touching his hat to May. " It's likely she wants a sate in the carriage. Lost herself, I suppose, sbe has. Ye've no objections, miss 1 Yes, ma'am, comin', ma'am. Lane on me. ma'am I Oh, begorra, you'll have to come an' help us, Darby 1 Press yer weight betuue the two of uz, ma'am ! it'll balance, betther, Now, si — ither down, ma'am, and yell come safe to the bottom 1" and the tall, stout lady was fairly dragged down the sandstone cliff, and deposited panting on the road. She looked helpless, travel-soiled, and weary. Tears and dust were mingled in her eyes. •' My dear ma'am," ehe said piteously to May, " I beg your pardon, but I am obliged to intrude." " Not at.all," said May. " I shall be glad of a companion. '• Thank you, thank you, thank you !" gasped Mrs. Lee all around, as the men once more put their hands under her elbows, and hoisted her respectfully into the carriage. "Aaahl" she groaned, sinking back into t\e seat, and sitting upon May, and unfurling a large umbrell i against the sun. "My dear ma'am, lam exceedingly obliged to you. We cannot be introduced till we get to the castle. You are particular in these countries, and that is quite proper ; but in tbe meantime, might we not have a little conveisation ?" " I should be very glad of it," said May. "A-ah 1 " groaned Mrs. Lee again. "If you had been lost on the hills ever since breakfast-time this morning you would not be a very entertaining companion. You would be hungry and tired, and in a bad humour, like me." Mrs. Lee's long, smooth face was chiefly expressive of softness and feebleness, and her great brown eyes were full of meek and irritating patience. She had a complaining voice ; and her words fell out of her mouth as if the wire that managed her speaking were out of order. She had come from America ; but it was not very clear to what country she belonged, as she had neither the smartness of an Ameiican, the elegance of an Englishwoman, nor yet the liveliness and humour of an Irishwoman. She was not exactly coarse or vulgar, but she was heavy and unrefiued. Her accent was of no nation, and her manners were peculiarly her own. She had been heard to address Sir John as "My dear ma'am." It seemed odd that this lady should be a guest at Camlough ; bin she was Christopher's mother, and this was Katherine's doing. May was naturally wondering what could have brought this good lady so high up the hills, alone, and without her bonnet. Her figure did not seem suited to climbing or jumping ; yet, to enjoy solitude on the braes of Camlough, climbing and jumping were indispensable accomplishments,

"You will feel quite surprised at finding me here," said Mrs. Lee, answering her thought, " but, my dear ma'am, a troubled mind will not let a person rest. It walks one about. It gets one into scrapes. What would I give for leave to sit and rest myself a whole long day, my dear ma'am— l could not describe it to you 1" May murmured something to the effect that she was sorry to learn tbat Mrs. Lee was troubled in her mind. " My dear ma'am," said Mrs. Lee, " trouble is no name for it. Tortured is a more natural expression." This was said with such earnestness, and with such a face of distress, that May became sympathizing, and looked so. " A-ah 1 Tortured is the word. And there has been no one to confide in here. The truth is, lam afraid of her ladyship, and besides how could I speak to her on such a subject 1 I have already appealed to the girl herself ; but she is as hard as flint, and as wicked as a witch. And Christopher is mad and blind. My dear ma'am, my son is being ruined before my eyes." May at this point got a lively fear that .the lady beside her was a little more than troubled in her mind. A marriage with the beautiful and wealthy Katherine seemed the strangest disguise in which iuin could attack a young man. " I hope you are mistaken," she said. " Well 1 well 1 This is no place for entering into particulars," Mrs. Lee said, waving her umbrella towards the coachman. " Another time I will pour out my tioubles to yon." Here the carriage swept round before the castle entrance, and May had hardly time to protest that she was the very worst person in the world for a confidante. Figures were scattered on the lawn, watching for the travellers. Sir John welcomed May very kindly as his special guest ; Lady Archbold gave her the outside of her cheek and the tips of her fingers, and Katheriue embraced her. The greetings were made in the midst of laughter. Scouts bad been sent to the hills in search of Mrs. Lee. "Go away, young man," said the lady to the footman ; •' I will have my own son to help me out." Christopher stepped forth with a good enough grace, blushing, smiling, and knitting his brows. H« was fond of his mother, and anxious to be good to her ; but she was apt to try his patience before strangers. " Why do you go roving about the hills like a gypsy, mother 2" he said deprecatingly, as she leaned on his shoulder, and heaved herself slowly to the ground. "Why?" she said, turning upon him with meek wrath. "To keep you lrom harm it I cau : but it seems I might as wtll stay at home." ' " Quite as well," said Christopher, with angry eyes, and then laughed foolishy, and told his mother to go iv and dress ; that she was a dear old goose, and made great mistaken. {To be continued )