VICTOR MOREDANT; OR, THE LOST SHIPS.

Clutha Leader, Volume I, Issue 7, 20 August 1874, Page 1 (Supplement)

VICTOR MOREDANT; OR, THE LOST SHIPS.

A TALE OF FIFTY TEAKS AGO. CHAP. I. &EWS FROM INBIA— THE "PARTNERS" IN CONFERENCE. The mansion-house of Beechwood was a goodly-sized, solid modern structure, standing , in the centre of a titeedotted park, which, though not of ducal 'or baronial proportions, was yet of very fair size, and with an appearance which indicated that the estate annexed to it was of comfortable extent. The name was probably derived from the old wide-spreadin* beeches which stood at intervals on the green undulating sur* face of the ground, and gave a vista like aspect to the open spaces, which at a distance were lost in the foliage, that grew even denser till the boundary of the park was reached, and there formed itself into a compact strip, which encircled it like a serpen, and served to hide the park itself and the mansion it surrounded from the eyes of travellers on the highway and the workers in the adjoining fields. The scene inside the enclosure was fair and pleasant to see, especially in summer time, when the glistening leaves of living green adorned the trees and the rich verduie lay upon the •ground. It was then bright and gay with color, and the brightness was inereased'or complemented by the clear, glancing windows of the house, with their white window-blinds in all stages of elevation, and the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys among the branches till it vanished in the redicant sunshine. Everywhere was token given that the place was occupied and well caredfor. The gravelled walks were weedless and freshly raked, the lawn was smoothly shaven, the borders of t shrubbery were neatly trained, and the broad and spacious avenue was entirely free of grass, and had its edges cut with i the precision of an extended line. , This was not exactly the aspect which the scene presented On the day when our story ojjens, for it was near the latter end of October, and the variegated tints of autumn lay in mellow 1 richness upon the trees-, while already the falling leaves had begun to strew ' the ground, and those which still clung, to the branches had so slight a hold! that the first rude breeze would send them flying through the air and give to the scene a significant foretaste orthe: desolation of approaching winter. The splendours of a golden sunset had faded into the sober grey of twilight as a young man came across the park toward the mansion. His age did not seem to be much beyond twenty. He: was of average height, and fes frame, though slender, was well-knit, "ks was 'evidenced by the firmness and Vigor of his tread. All the possessions of youth seemed to be his—ruddy health,', manly strength, and a free unburdened spirit, which had not yet tasted of earth's cares and anxieties. All this could be discerned by the motion of his form as he passed briskly over the ground, and as there was still light enough to show his features, these revealed themselves as at' "once frank and handsome. His countenance was as open as his g-atit *was buoyant; he had a large, full, animated eye, whose glance was direct and fearless ; thick masses of auburn hdir clustered on his forehead j and cheeks and chin had begun to receive the covering of manhood. Altogether, the youth's face was pure and noble, and such as inspired a stranger with trust and admiration. Lights had begun to twinkle in one or two of the windows ere he gained the vicinity of the mansion, but he evidently did not intend to enter it just yet, for he turned into the path which led to the stables, and was proceeding in that direction When a voice T to the right arrested his attention, and a form 'came towards hith through the dark, while the voice kept calling to him as it 'advanced: " Maister Victor—Maister Victor, ! if you please, sir, Maister Moredant wants ye." "My father wants ins, does he, , John," returned the youth, in a hearty, j pleasant voice, whose tones proclaimed the frank, good-humored disposition of the speaker. "Yes, sir; he sent mc Tor ye half-an-hoor syne, and I hae been seeking _yje at the other side o , the park." " All right, John, I'll go to him at' •once. lam sorry you have had such a long and fruitless walk, especially as you must be tired after your day's York." I *<Dinna mention it, sir," returned 'the man, with a beaming face. " It's a pleasure to serve ye, Maister Victor, and I wad willingly dae ten times mair 'than that for ye at ony time." The youth acknowledged this honest' protestation of readiness for extra serrice by a pleasant nod and a word of thanks as he 'turned back and crossed the lawn towards the principal entrance. " Beechwood -wull hae a quid laird -whan, Mwster "Victor comes -intae it," 'said the 'man, 'as with smiling face he -stood gazing , after him;'"no thatit'sin bad hands at present, for .Maister More"dant is-neither : & "hard nor a hauchty man, Mtaly 'he's 'no sac kindly and so 'thochtfu' as Haister "Victor, wha"speaks t tae us Servants'£s if he was nae better Hfcaa -No a .grain V

I has he, like the maist o' the gentry, and !he thinks naething o' giein , us a lift i , the byegaun if he sees us sair beset. No ane amang a hunner wad dae the like. Heaven bliss him wi' health, happiness, and a lang life, say I." Meanwhile Victor Moredant, the subject of this heartfelt benediction, had entered the hall, and was ascending the stairs to the library, where he had been informed his- father was to be found. A free, careless air and an elastic step still characterised him, for though he had been summoned to his father's presence he deemed not that it was to receive a communicajtion ■of grave and serious import. At the far end of the long, highceilinged room, lined on two sides with well-filled bookshelves, sat his father at a table, with two candles burning beside him. Mr. Moredant was not by any -means an old man; still he was approaching the stage of life called elderly—he was beginning to stoop in the shoulders, his hair was thin and slightly tinged with grey, and the spectacles which he removed as Victor entered shewed that his eyesight had begun to fail. There was some resemblance between father and son, but the coxmtenance of the former was keener and sharper, as that of a man who had a less generous nature, and who was swayed to a greater degree by worldly considerations. At Victor's entrance he turned quickly towards him, and the expression on his face was such as at once to arrest the young man's attention, causing him to pass up the room with a look of silent inquiry. This was deepened into a feeling of alarm when he saw spread out upon 'the table an open letter with a broad black border. "Father," he cried, "what is it? Does that mourning , letter contain bad news?" " Alas yes, Victor, it is from India." " From Uncle Walter ?" " No, not from Uncle Walter," returned his father, in a tone of grave meaning, which sent the blood from Victor's cheeks. " Good.heaven, father," he faltered, " it cannot be that—Uncle Walter is— is dead ?" i « Yes, dead." " Dead!" echoed the youth, sinking into a seat in consternation. " Uncle Walter dead! When 1 how ?" " Hβ has been rapidly cut off by a only a week ill—had barely time to give directions as to what should be done. Fortunately he was able to instruct "his lawyer, and these instructions the latter details in. : this letter. All bis affairs are to be wound up immediately, and his daughter, with her cousin, iB already on their way to us. They were to sail in the Cynthia a week after the mail packet which brought the letter; we may therefore expect them in a few days." "What overwhelming tidings," ejaculated the youth, his face growing, if possible, more pale, and his consternation increasing. " Sad and serious enough, but not overwhelming," returned his father. " Doubtless I am grieved — deeply the sudden and unlookedfor death of my brother, whom we saw so lately in robust health, and who left us so full'of plans, the execution of which he looked forward to with such pleasure and interest. Alas, he has not I lived to gee his fond hope realised, but the plan itself he cherished to the last, and his final instructions had all relation to it." ! Victor's eye fell, and a shadow of annoyance came upon his open brow, but he remained silent. " Of course you understand what I mean ?" rejoined his father, the expression of whose countenance all along had been somewhat out of harmony with that which was natural to the reception of such news. It betrayed more animation than was quite consistent with a feeling of grief at the death of an only brother, as if the intelligence involved consequences df an agreeable character, the thought of which modified the natural sorrow of bereavement. " Yes, I know what you mean," replied Victor very gravely. " The plan you refer to is no doubt the proposal that my cousin blive and I should wed'; but I have told you already, fatner, that 1 regard that proposal with no favor : it is not a proper one." "There you are mistaken, Victor. It is a very proper one indeed, for it will make the Moredant family stable and important. As you know, tlncle Walter and I were left in youth to make our own way in the world. I remained at home, and have never been able to attain more than a respectable position in life. He went to India more than twenty years ago, and there he made a fortune. Two years ago he ! came home and bought the fine estate [of Beechwood. He had no son to inherit it; but his desire was that my son—viz, yourself—and his only daughter should be united, and, with this estate and the wealth he has besides, you would become the head and founder of a good county family, which might endure for manygenerations. It was a noble scheme, Victor, and I cordially agreed to it. When he returned to India he left mc in occupation of the 'estate, tomanage it in the meantime, intending to 'return with Olive next tear-see yott'married, ana behold ere he died the-realisation 'of'his fond hopea. ! But, alas I it has been otherwise decreed; for he has been suddenly

removed, and .will not. now •- see the fulfilment of his desire. His death, however, does not effect the design, for when in this country, and after he bought the estate, he executed a will making full provision for it. I am informed in this letter that the will has not been revoked, and his final instructions were that everything should be as he and I had planned it. Olive is now on her way hither, with' her cousin, Julia Hardinage, the daughter of her mother's sister, who was years ago left an orphan dependent on your uncle. She has been the companion of Olive during these years, and now comes with her as she has no other relatives. Your uncle's last expressed desire was that you and Olive should be married at the end of a year from the time of her arrival at Beechwood. You see, therefore, that the proposal is highly proper and advantageous in every respect." '"Very advantageous in a worldly respect, I admit," returned Victor; " but the whole proceeds on a vital uncertainty." " What uncertainty ?" asked his father, with a tone and look of surprised concern. " The uncertainty of Olive and I j falling in love with each other." ! " Pooh ; —pooh! There will be no difficulty about that. Uncle Walter told mc what a'dear good girl she is ; and when he saw you and got to know you, he declared that you were just made for-each other." The youth shook his head. "The ■wish was doubtless father to the thought," he remarked. "It seldom, almost never, happens that an affection is formed on a basis such as this. All proposals of the kind are wrong, and such has been my opinion regarding this one since the moment I knew of it. I tell you frankly, father, that the matter is so distasteful to mc, it is extremely unlikely the plan . will be carried out. ,, " Nonsense, Victor," cried his father, hastily. v You must not entertain such an idea as that. Good heaven ! you surely do not see how disastrous it would be ! What a frightful loss you, and I also, should incur if you refuse to wed your cousin! Never think of such a thing even for a moment, Victor," ; " Most assuredly, father, I shall not marry my cousin Olive if I am unable to love her—and to fall in love in such circumstances is well nigh impossible, • Uncle Walter has taken the very worst method to have his wish realised." ; "Good gracious, Victor, you —you you alarm mc by speaking in that manner. Surely, boy, you have not been so foolish, so infatuated as to go and fall in love already, when you knew what arrangements had been made ? Tell mc, have you formed any attachment ?" " None, father—on my honor, none." " Oh, that relieves mc. I—l feared you had by the way you spoke. Then there is no difficulty—none whatever." " Pardon mc \ I feel there is, and I fear it will prove an insuperable difficulty. The very fact that it is desired and intended for us two to love and wed will almost certainly prevent it, for love is the shiest, the most subtle of all human feeling, and will not come to order—nay. the very expectation of it will only scare it away. The circumstance of such a plan having been formed has given mc a prejudice ag.inst Olive, and it will be with a»feeling of "repulsion that I shall, meet her. From the very same cause she has probably the same feeling against mc. Thus the very means taken to effect the object will only cause its defeat." ; " Victor,! have not patience to listen • to such remarks," cried his father angrily. "You don't know or have not considered what your refusal would involve. But I have a copy of your uncle's will j and one of its conditions 1 is that if you refuse to marry Olive the estate and all the money becomes hers entirely, to use or dispose of as she f thinks proper. Thus both of us lose all' right to it. We two must quit this place and go back to poverty. You wouldn't—snrely you wouldn't doom yourself and mc to such a fate ?" "Father," said Victor, rising to his feet, Anth a look of stern indignation, " I shall not buy this estate, either for.: you or myself with the sacrifice of myheart. Not for worlds would Ido anything so wicked as contract a mercenary marriage, and betray the holiest feelings of my nature for worldly advantage, j The curse of heaven would fall upon i such an act. and Kfe-long misery would justly £ow from it. Bather than be guilty of anything so mean and base I* would earn my bread by the sweat of my brow—by honest toil, even ff that toil -was the veriest drudgery, for its heaviest pressure would be lightened and its bitterness sweetened by'the knowledge that I had preserved my self-respect, my honor and But let us l not discuss this matter' farther now. It was my duty to put you in possession of my'views, and I. have done so 'faithfully. Let us wait till my cousin come, since it is Tjarely possible that she may be such an one as I can freely love, and that a mutual tffiection may grow up between iis; in which case 1 shall make no opposition to Uncle Walter's ,plan." (To he continued.)

A telegram states that a rata tree 122 ft. in diameter has been come against on the road at the back of Mount Egmont, about fourteen miles from the-town of New Plymouth.