CHAPTER XXXI.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XIII, Issue 29, 13 November 1885, Page 5

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE TRUE LOTE, Now that they had so exacting an inmate as Miss Archbold a f Monasterlea, it required all May's industry to keep things as they ever had been ; to stop little gaps in the household arrangements made by the irregular demands of the visitor upon everybody's time. Katherine was pleased to leave her gowns about her room, uoon the floor in heaps ; her petticoats flung on the bed, her slippers in different corners, and the delicate silk ho'-e tossed among her cambric pocket handkerchiefs. Her cosmetics and hair brushes, her pin-boxes and cream-pots, her essence bottles and jewel-cases, and powder puffs, together with the novel she had been reading, were found every morning in wild confusion upon her toilet table. Bridget was expected to reduce the place to order, and this was a work of time ; for, what with her awe, which made her hesitate her curiosity, which led her to pry, and her admiration, which forced her to pause over every new object that she touched, the morning was pretty well filled with the discharge of her new duty Nanny grumbled, and Miss Martha mghed— tue time had gone past when the old lady could sing Miss Archbold'a praises :| but the burden fell on May.

To-day she got her work done early, for she had it in her mind that she would meet Paul coming home from Tobereevil. The day had brightened amce Kathenne's going forth, and there was a promise of spring m the air, if not its actual presence. A breath from April would wake all nature into life. Ihe hedgerows were thick with buds, and alive with birds, who already scented the comi °g BUmmer in the air - A lark 80ared ' iQ »" ecstasy into the clouds through which the sun was breaking its way. Tinges of soft green bad crept out among the long purple and brown undulations of the moor.aud; and touches of pale jellow, that would soon be green, glided the edges of reddish furrows in the recently ploughed fields. As May went along she could not see Paul ; and when she came to the woods sbe shrank from pluaging into them. They only, of all the landscape, kept a frown upon their faces • hut it took a great deal of sun to make them btigbt. Near their outskirts lay pretty litt'e sylvan groves, -which seemed perpetually announcing with their emiles to the world that they had crept out fiom under the shadow of the curse, and that they had only a distant kinship with the trees of the dreadful woods. In one of these which commanded a view of Simon's avenue, May took her seat upon a fallen tree. A stream flowed past her feet which but yesterday had b-en frozen, and which was rejoicing noisily in its freedom. Clumps of primroses bad nestled themselves under the shelter of mossy stones at its edge, so that they could taste its delicate spiay, and enjoy itsgenial company. Violets bad decked out the splay roots of an old thorn, which had dragged itself Jfrom (the earth by sheer weight of its mighty a°-e

This stream, with its flower borders and mosses, its old thorn and fallen oak, was in a warm nook, where spring coald not but choose to show herself early. It skirted a vast bog, whose rugged brown' outlines swept behind in sombre bleakness, and made a bit of beauty all the more gladsome because of ugliness close at hand. The girl sat down on a fallen tree to watch for the first appearance of a human figure in the distance. The past three months had left their traces upon May. Her face was always pale now, except when a blush or a spring wind made it bloom for a passing moment. Her eyes had grown larger and darker, and had a look of hidden suffering. Piuses Ike this were very difficult to her, for she could not afford much brooding when in trouble, was not given to tears, and did not do what women call fretting. Grief dealt so hardly with her, that, for life's dear sake, she was driven into resistance. This was not the romantic sorrow of the girl ,of a year aso, whose lover had gone away ; but the quiet woe of a woman who had sworn to be faithful. Grief that is most unselfish is always hardest to bear. A selfish heart will comfort itself with the little merciful compensations which life is ever providing ; but the heart that aches for another cannot even relish peace while evil has hold of the one beloved. May plucked violets for occupation, and made them up into nosegays, and wound them together in wreaths ; one she would give to Paul for his button-hole, and she would wear another in her bosom ; but 6he would not give any to Katherine. She and Paul should share at least a wreath of violets between them.

At this childish work her heart eased itself a little, till, looking up. she saw figures in the distance among (he trees— Paul and Katharine « but they were not coming quite her way. The flowers fell from her fingers ; her hands dropped in her lap. She had told Paul in the morning that she would, if possible, meet him at this epot ; but he had met Katherine i'-stead, and she waa leaning on his arm. It seemed to May that they walking as lovers walk. She sighed a little ; and then the blow descended on her heart, her senses went away, and she fell from her seat, and lay iorgetful of ail trouble, among the primroses.

At the other side of the bank, and right behind the great tljprn, an old woman was toiling down in a cutting of the ugly bog. She was the person known in the country as " Bid the Traveller ; "' and she had been busy since daybreak cutting long sods of the black, reeking turf, and setting them upon their ends together in little stacks. By and by she would come back to them, and spread them out to get thoroughly dried ; and against autumn she would have accumulated a store of firiug to present to some kindly householder, at whose fireside sbe was use Ito sit. Her work done fur the present, she washed her hands and feet iv the brown bogwater, and put on her old cloak, which bad been laid aside carefully, picked up her stick, and began to climb the bank, that she might rest in the grove a little before beginning her evening journey to seek a shelter for the night. Old women can love pretty places as well as young girls ; and May's fallen tree was a favourite resting-place for Bid, who might often be found there on fine days, kniitiog busily in the solitude.

Bid felt a little uneasy as she climbed the bank : fur, as she tied on her cloak, she had heard a sigh fijat past her ear across, the loneliness and silence of the bog. It seemed as if the wind had bent the b)g-blossoms, and thty had whispered: "My heart is broken." No sound heard here need be surprising, where the air was full of spirits ; but Bid did not quite like to be the eonjidantr of creatures of whom she knew not the dwelling-pUce noi 1 the nature. The very bending and bowing of the ranks and files of white fleecy blossoms that rocked themselves towards her like living things in trouble mad,e the old creature shiver, and almost believe that they had spoken. She crept up the bank, and crossed herself as she s*dt foot in that little grove, but superstition fled like a bat at blink of daylight when she saw a fellow-creature lying prone on the earth. Bid knew the girl from the abbey. Not once, nor twice, but many scoies of times, had she been warmed, and fed by her in the kitchen at BlonasteTlea : and the old woman was afflicted at this piteous sight. She knew now whose heart was broken. Bid was shrewd and sympathetic ; there was not a love-Btory in the country that she did not know of ; aud she had early scented trouble when things got amiss with Paul and his promised wife. She had called Katberine a witch before that young lady had bee,n a week at Monasteries : and a few minutes since, she had deselect this witch and May's lover comintr out of the woods.

" Heart's blood of the hope of the counthry ! " murmured Ihp old woman, making a kind of mournful song in bhe chaftd, thje girl's cold ringers. •' Ye brought trouble on yer head when ye promised this bit o' hand to a Finiston. Sure the devil that is tackled wid Paul has took a woman's shape this time ! But yell rise out o' her, avourneen — yell rise out o' her j et ! " These words filtered through May's ears as she lay on the arm of the good Samaritan. She sat up, and wondered how her secret had been found out.

" Hearty don't mind an ould woman ' ' said Bid. " Sure I love Pa.ul Fimston mysel', an' I have sworn, on my knees, that the divil 11 never get him. I niver put up a prajei tbat wasn't answered in the end ; and harm shall uot get I'aul while his friends has tongues to pray !'' May sat on a stone opposite Bid, who exhorted her thus, with finger uplifted, and a. oybil-hke look oa her weather-heaten face. "The eurnj is against me," said May. desponmrigly. "It is creeping closer round him, and I am too we.ik to save him from it." Bid looked frightened. '■ You won't yive him up, avournecn ? " she abked.

" Give him up I '" said May ; and she rose to her feet, glowing with sudden energy. " No, I will not. 1 ' '■ God love you, my jewel 1" said Bid. " for you're fit to have the hope of thecoumhry injyer hauds. Of cuurae yell manage him well, for quality does not. kuow how to deal wid one another ; but I'm thiukin' its mostly the same wid high an' low. an' I wanst lost a lover wid flountiu 1 an' 'poutin' at him. He tired o' a cro>s face, an' went oil to seek a pleasanter wan ; so you just despise your flauotiri' hussey, an' smile at Paul Pmiston till ye smile the divil out o' him 1"

You are a kind friend," said May ; and she began to think how Btrange it was that she should thus give her confidence to a beggarwoman ; but Bhe put down her pride with a true instinct. " Ask the people to pray," she said, " for you are right in saying that this is the affair of the country." " |" said Bid, "it is the afiair of the whole country ; for if Paul Fmiston gels into evil hands, there'll be another miser of lobereevu, an' a star the less in heaven. An' do you keep up your heart and smile ; for they say the divil does fly away before the smile o patience.''

May went home with the beggar's lesson in her heart ; and, coming through the kitchen garden, she roet|Katheiine tripping along, carrying a large carrot by its green top, which was soiled with clay, v vT 8 JUBt left the B rouad - Tne gueßtg ueBt wa * sieging loudly, as if in the highest spirits. She seldom sang except when unable to control the outpouring of her triumph over some one ; and sbe liked to please except when she could have her will without the trouble of doing so. Her voice was shrill : and as she sang, coming down the kitchen garden, there was a cruel harshneps in her song, which might have made the birds shiver. It was dusk ; but the girls could see one another as they met between the ranks of the cabbages, and May wondered greatly at Katherine's fancy for vegetables. The latter stopped her song upon a high, sudden" tone, while she picked the clay in pieces from her carrot. " Perhaps you are looking for Paul." she said, with a carelsss air of superior knowledge. '-He is gone home to his farmhouse. He will not be here to-night." " I dare say he is busy," said May. Katherine shrugged her shoulders, and smiled. " I don't think he has much business in his head," she said. " I believe he is not in the humour of our company. He is not happy in his mind. Why don't you make him bappy ?" " He has a good deal of care," said May, not noticing the insolence of Katherine's tone. '• He will be happier by-and-by." " Perhaps he wi)l,"eaid Katberine, and turned her bask on May, and went towards the house.

In Paul's absence, conversation was apt to flag of an evening between the ladies at Monasterlea. Since experience had revealed Catherine's character to Miss Maitha the young lady took no longer any trouble to amuse her hostess, who treated her, nevertheless, with till politeness and attention ; for hospitality is a tyrant, and the unwelcome guest muyt be treated like the guest who is most desired. Katherine knew this, and made herself comfortable accordingly. On this evening while May sewed and Miss Martha knitted, she ypwned over the pages of a novel, tier entertainers were not sorry when she bade them good-uight. and yawne 1 herselt away to her own chamber.

When she had gone, May turned with her sewing to the fire; for she could not bear Miss Martha's eyes. She had known for a long time that her aunt wanted to speak to her ; at d the felt that she could not enoure the things that, the old lady would «urely hay ; bur. now she plied ber needle wildly, knowing that the moment had come when she. must listen to a lectuie with patience ; that a conversation was going to take place which it would be very hard for her to forget.

(To be Continued.)