Chapter XXVIII.—Continued.

Mataura Ensign, Volume 6, Issue 303, 2 November 1883, Page 5

Chapter XXVlll.— Continued.

1 My boy, I can trust you anywhere, after what you have been telling me. Of human nature I know nothing, except '—for John thought he did know something— 'from my own little experience. ; : I find great thoughts in the Greek philosopher ; but somehow they are too general, and too little genial. One thing I know, we far more often mistrust than trust unwisely, And now I can trust you Cradock ; in the main you will stand upright. Stop, my boy; you must have a scrip ; I was saving it for your birthday/ « V >v don't despise me, I hope !' said Cradock; « you don't think me a coward fur tunning away so ?' After what has happenrd to-day, I should go , mad if I stopped here. Not that that ] would matter much; only that, if it 1 were so, I should be sure to do it. 1 John Eosedew had no nffd to ask 1 what'ne meant by the last three words, < for the hollow voice told lam plainly. 1 But for him, it w likely enough that 1 it would have been done ere this ; at any rate, in the first horror, his hand i alone had prevented it. The pomra t trembled at the idea, but thought best { not to dwell upon it. ' ' " Eeformidare mortetn est anirni \ pusillanimi," but " reformidare vitam " i is ten times worse, because impious, i Therefore in your case, my boy, it is j utterly impossible, as well as ignolile t towards us who love you so. We- c member you will break at least two i old hearts you owe some duty to, if 1 you allow your own to be broken, i And now for your viaticum ; see how f you have relieved*- me, While you t lived beneath Hymettian beams in j the goods of Tyre and Cyprus, I, even i I your godfather, knew not what to t give you. The" thought has brenj vexing me for months, and now what c a simple solution ! You shall have it! c in the original dross, to pay the toll t on the Appian road, at least the South ( Western Railway. Figs to Athens, I ( thought it would be, or even as eels to i Copais ; and now " serves iturum i CsesareW I believe it is at the j twenty-first page of my manuscript, i such as it is, upon the Sabellian ele- i ments.' t After searching in three or four i drawers — for he. was rather astray i at the moment, though generally he ] could put his hand, even in the dark, upon any particular one of his ten thou- ( sand books — he came upon the Sabel- j Han treatise, written on the backs of y letters, ,on posters, on puffing circulars, ; even on visiting cards, and cast-away t tradesmen's tickets ; and there at the < first page or deltis, lay a LSO Bank of ] England note, with some very tough i roots arranged diamond-wise on the back, and arrows, and hyphens, and asterisks flying about thickly between them. These he copied off, in a moment, on a piece of old hat-liningy and then triumphan-i^m^ai(^_tj;# banknote in the air. It was not often 1 poor Uncle John got hold of so much; < m i:oy ; too bitterly knew Aunt Doxy i how large was the mesh of his purse. , J While Cradock gazed with great < admiration, John Eosedew, n-ith his j fingers upon his lips, and looking half : ashamed of himself, went to a cvp 7 board, whose doors?, half open, gave a : glimpse' of countless .sermons. From i among them he drew a wide-mouthed bottle of leeches, and set it upon a : table. Then he pulled out the stopper, < unplugged it, and lo! from a hole in the cork fell out two sovereigns and a half one. As this money rolled on Ihe table, John could not help : chuckling a little. • Ha, good sister Eudoxia, have I over-reached thee again!- Double precaution there you sco, Crad. She has a just horror of my sermons, and she runs at the sight of a leech. " N on missura cutem " — be sure, not a word about it, Crad. That asylum is inviolable, and seropitern I hope. I shall put more there next week.' Cradoek took the money at ouue with the deepest gratitude, but no great fuss about it ; for he saw how bitterly that good man would feet it, if he were small enough to refuse. I shall not dwell upon their goodbye, as we have had enough valediction ; only Cradock promised to write from London, so soon as he could givo an address there ; then leaving sadness behind him, carried a deal of it with him. Only something must yet be recounted, which befell him in Nowelhurst. And this is the first act of it : . While he was in his garret packing a little bag of necessaries, forced upon him by Miss Doxy from John's wardrobe and her own almost indiscriminately, and while she was pulling and struggling upstairs with John, and Jemima, and Jenny-for she would have made Cradock, if she could, carry the whole house with him— he, sfcowin* some things in his pocket, felt what he had caught up so hastily, while flying 1 out of the wood. lie examined it'by the candlelight and became at once intent upon it. It had lam beneath a drift of dead leaves backed by a scraggy branch, whence anything short of a great 'Skedaddle' would never have dislodged it. And yet it was a great deal too pretty to be treated in that way. Cradock could not help admiring it, though lie shuddered and felt some wild hopes vanish as he made out the meaning. It was a beautiful golc! bracelet, light, and of first-rate workmanship, harmonious too with its, purpose, and of elegant design. The ' lower half was a strong soft chain of the fabric of Trichinoppli, which bends like the skin of a saake.; the front and face.s'iowed a strong ' right army gauntleted, yet entirely dependent upon the hand of a lady. No bezilling, no jewel whatever, except that a glorious rose-shaped pearl hung, as in contest, between them. Cradock wondered for some little time what could be the meaning of it. Then he knew that it was Clayton's offering to the beloved Amy. No doubt could remain any longer, when

he paw in the hollow of the back the proposed inscription pencilled, ' Rosa debita,' for the dead gold of the lady 'a palm, 'Rosa dbdita' for the burnished gold of die cavalier's high pressure. With ingenious lovb to help him. he made ir. out in a moment, 'A rose due now a rose true.' That is what it came to, if you took it in punster fashion. Just one of poor Viley's conceits. Cradock had no time time to follow it out, for Miss Eudoxia then came in with a parcel as bisr as a feather-bed, of comforters, wrappers, and eatables. But after he had left the house, he began to think about it, in the little path a, toss the green to the village church-, yard. He concluded that Amy must; have been in the wood that fatal 1 evening. She must have come to meet j Clayton there ; and yet it was not like ■ her. Facts, however, are facts, as sure as eggs are eggs ; though our j knowledge makes no great advance ] through either of these aphorisms. But a growing sense of injury — though he had no right to feel injured, however it might be, — this sense h*ul kept him f i oni asking for Amy, or leaving ( the flirt a good-bye. . He entered the quiet churchyard with the moon rising over the tombstones, a mass of shadow c st by the great tower, and some epitaphs pushing j ' well iuto the light, like the names { which gt;t poled into histoiy. 'Jhe; wavering glance of the cUfli.i<nt nioo.i l uncertain yet what fho clouds infant, \ j slipped along the buttressed walls, and' ( tried to hold on at the angles. The j damp corner, where the tower stood forth, aud the south porch ran out to t look at it, drew back like a ghost who j was curieaying, and declining all further enquiry. Green slime was about, like the sludge of a river ; and a hundred sacred memories, growing weary and rheumatic, had stopped their ears with lichen. Cradock came at a rickety swingstyle,and,caring no shadow for ghost or ghostess, although he had run away so, took the straight course to the old back doorway, and on to the heart of the churchyard ; for he must say goodWe to Clayton. All Nownlhurst still clmired that path ; but those who had paved and admired it first were sleeping"on either side of it. The pavement tnow was overlapping, under, tucked, and crannied, full of where lob-worms lived and came out after a thunderstorm, and three-cor-nered dips that looked glazed in wet weather, but scruffy and clammy in drought. And some of the flags stole away and gave under, as if they too ; wanted burial, while others jerked up, [ and asserted themselves as superior to some of the tombstones. Therj in the dark, no mortal with any respect for his grandfather, nor even a ghost with nnbevilled soles, could go many steps without tripping. "Who will be astonished when I say that the lightest and loveliest that ever tripped in the New Forest not only tripped but stumbled there % ,' At . the very corner where the sidewalk comes in, and the shade of the was deepest, smack from behin^ a hideous sarcophagus^ fell, into Cradock's arms the most beautiful thing ever seen. If he had not caught her, she must have cut the sweetest face in the world into great holes like the pavement. Stunned for a moment and then so abroad, that she could not think, nor even speak — ' speak nor think' I would have said, if Amy had been masculine — she lay in Cradock's trembling arms, and never wondered where she was. Cradock forgot all despair for the moment, and felt uncommonly lively. It was the sweetest piec« of comfort sent to him yet from heaven. Afterwards he always thought that his luck turned from that moment. Perhnps it did; although most peeple would la.igh who knew him afterwards. Presently Amy recovered, and was wroth with herself and everybody. "Ruddier than a Boursalt rose, she fell back against the tombstone. lOh Amy/ said Cradoek, retiring , < I have known it long. Even you are turned against me.' ♦ I turned against you, Mr Now«ll !^ What right have you to say that oH me !' 'No right to say anything, Amy; and scarcely a right to think anything. Only I felt it.' ' Then ' I wouldn't give much for your feelings. I anean— l beg your pardon— you know I 3an never express myself.' <Of course I know that,' said Cradock. <■ Oh, can't I indeed V said Amy ; 'I dare say you think so, Mr Nowell. You have always thought so meanly of me. But, if I can't express my meaning, I am sure my father can. Perhaps you think you know more than he does.' ' Amy,' said Cradock, for all this was so unlike herself that, loving that self more than his own, he scarce knew what to do with it; 'Amy dear, I see what it is. I suspected it long ago.' * o What, if you please, Mr No well 1 ? I am not accustomed to be suspected. Suspected, indeed !' 'Miss Rosedew, don't be angry with me I know very well how good you are. It is the last time I shall ever see you, or I would not restore you this.' The moon being on her way towards the southeast, looked over the counterlike gravestone, and Cradock placed on the. level surface the bracelet found in the wood. Amy knew it in a moment and burst out crying. <Oh poor Clayton ! How proud he was of it! Mr Nowell, I could never have though this of you; never, never, never !' 1 Thought what of me, Amy I* Darling Amy, what on earth have I done to offend you ?' « Oh nothing. I suppose it is nothing to remind me how cruel I have been to him; Oh no, nothing at all. A.nd all this is from you. . In a ; storm of sobs she fell upon Jeremy Wattle's tombstone, and Oradock put one am around her, to prevent her being hurt. ' Amy, you drive ma wild, i naw

> brought it to you only because it is . yours, and because I am going away.' 1 * Oadock, it never was mine. I refused it months ago ; and I believe he gave it — 3'ou know wh.it lie wni, poor dear — I be'Jievo ho transferred ir, and something el.se— oh no, len n't express myself — *to -just io sorneb.xly else.' ' Oh, you darling ! and who was, that other? Whut v fool ho must have been 1 Confound it, I never meant that.' ' I don't know, Oradoek. Oh, please Ice-- ->-vnv. But, I think it was Pearl G'i.-h. . Oh. Onulock, dear Cradock, h vdito yoi.! No, I won't. Yes, I v. 11. •"'rail ; considering till your ! mis" y.' She put up her pure lips in the moonlight — for Cradook had got her in both arms by this time, and was listening to no reason — her swwt lips, pledged for ever, she put-, them up in her love and pity, and let him do what he liked wit i them. And the moon, attesting a thousand sen]* hourly, never witnessed one more binding. After all, Cradock Nowell, so tried of Heaven, so scourged with the 'nitterest rods of despair, your black web of life is inwoven now with one bright thread of gold. The purest, the sweetest, the loveliest girl that ever spun ha (pi ness out of sorrow, or smiled through the vale of affliction, the truest and dearest of all God's children, lo ing all things, 'hating none, pours into your heart for ever all that fount of love. Freed henceforth from doul't and wonder (except at her own happiness), enfranchised of another world, enriched beyond commercial til-. ughts, ennobled beyond self, bho blushed as she spoke, and grew pale as she thought, and who shall say which was more beautiful I Cradock could tell, perhaps, if any one can ; but he only kuew that he worshipped her. And to see the way she d-ied with f.y, and how her young bosom panted : it was enough to warm o'd Jeivmy Wattle, dead and buried nigh four score years. Cradock, all abroiul himself, full of her existence, tastiu<r, i eel ing. thinking nothing, except of her deliciousness, drew his own love round to the light to photograph her for ever. Poor Clayton was dead : else Crad would have thought that he deserved to be so, for going away to Pearl Garnet ; but then the gropes wore sour. How he revelled in that reflection ! And yet it was very wrong of him. Amy stood up in the moonlight, not ashamed to show herself. She felt that Cradock was pouring upon her, to stereolype every inch of her ; and yet she was not one atom afraid. She knew that no man ever depreciates his own property, except in the joke which is brag. It is a most wonderful thing, what gi fla know and what they won't know. But who cares now for reflections 1 Her thick hair had all fallen out of her hat, because she had been crying so ; her delicate form, still, so light and girlish, leaned forward in trust of the future, and the long /dark lashes she raised for her lov,er .gnstened with the deep light under "thetafc — Shame : wad; ntstled in her cbeekjs, the shame ofgrowing womanhood, -the down on the 1 yet ungathered fruit' of love. Then she crept in closer to him, to stop 1 him from looking so much at her. 'Darling Cradock, my own dear Cradock, don't you know me now ? You see, I only, love you becanse you are so ilultfckfy 1 , J and I am so dreadfully obstinate;' *Of course, ■ I know all that, my pet; my beauty inexpressible. And, remember, that t only love you so because you are such a darling.' Then Amy told him how sorry she was for having been so fractious lately ; and then she would never be so again, only it was all .his fault, because she wanted to comfort him, and lio would not come and let hfT — here the slightest gleam .fluttered through her tears, like the Mazarine Blue among dewdrops—and that only for the veriest chance, and the saucer sli9 had broken — but what of that, she would like to know ; it was the surest sign of good luck to them, all hough it was the best service — only for that, her Crad would have gone— gone away for ever, and never, known how she loved him ; yes, with all her heart, every single atom of it, every delicious one, if he must know. And she would keep it for him for ever, for ever ; and be thinking of him always. Let him recollect that, poor darling, and think of his troubles no more. Then he told her how Uncle John had behaved— how nobly, how magnanimously ; and had given every bit of money he possessed in the world for Cradock to start life with. John Rosedew's only child began to cry again at hearing it, and put her little hand into her pocket in the simplest way ' Yes you will, dear ;' 'N o I wont ;' went on for several minutes, till Amy nestled quite into his bosom, and put her sweet lips in his ear. •If you don't, I will never believe that you love me truly. I am your little wife, you know ; and all that I have is yours.' The marriage portion in debate was no more than five and sixpence, for Amy could never keep money long ; so Cradock accepted the sweet little purse, only he must have a bit of her hair in it. She pulled out her little sewingcase, which she always took to the dayschool, and the small bright scissors flashed in the moonlight, and they ' made a great fuss over them. Two great snips were beard, I know ; for exchange after all is no robbery. Then hand in hand they went together to see poor Clayton's grave, and Cradock started as they approached, something black was moving there. 'Little dear/ said i.my, as the doggie looked mournfully up at them, 1 she would starve if it were not for me. And I could not coax her to eat a morsel until I said, * Clayton, poor Clayton !' And then she licked my hand and whined, and took a bit to please roe. She has had a very nice tea to-night J I told you I broke the saucer, but that was all »y o^ n clumsiness.'

( And what has she got there ? Oh God ! I can't stand it ; it is 'oo melancholy.' Black "Wena, when it was dark that evening, and Clayton must have done dinner, had stolon away to his dressingroom, and fetched, as she had been tau«ht to do, his smoking-jacket and slippers. It took her a long time to carry the jacket, for fear it should be wet for him. Then she came with a very important air, and put them down upon his grave, and wagged her tail for approval. She was lying there now, and wondering how much longer till he would be ready. Cradock sobbed hysterically, and Amy led him softly away to the place where his travelling-bag was. • Now, wait here one moment, my poor dear, and I will bring you your future companion. 1 Presently Amy came back, with "Wena following the coat and the slippers. ' Darling Cradock, take her with you. She ia to true and fa ; thful. She will die if she is left here. And she will be such a comfort to you. Take her. Cradock, " for my sake." ' The last entreaty settled k-. Cradock took the coat and s ippor?, and carried Wena a little wiy, while she looked back wistfully at the- churchyard, and Amy coaxed *nd pitted her. I hey agre-d on the road 'hit Amy Eoaodew should cill upon Miss Garnet to restore the bracelet, and should mark how she received it ; for Amy had no v a strong suspicion (especially , nft'-v what Cradock had seen, which now became intelligible) that Pearl knew more of poor Clayton's death than had been confessed to any one. IMy own Cradoek, only think,' said . Amy ; c I have felt the strongest conviction throughout, that you had nothing to do with it.' 1 Sweetest one,' he replied, with a desperate longing to clasp her, but for Wbtih and the carpet bag, ' that is only because you love me. Never say it 'again, dear ; suspense, or even duiiot about it, would kill me like slow ' poison.' Amy shuddered at his tone, and thought how different men were ; for a woman would live on the hope of it. But she remembered those words when the question arose, and rejoiced that he knew not the whole of it. And now with the great drops in her eyes, Bhe stood at her father's gate, to i say good-bye to her love. She would not let him know that she cried ; but ■ Wena was welcome to know it, and i Wena licked some f ears off, and then : quite felt for Amy. . ' ' Good-bye, my own, my Oflly,' said \ Cradock, for the twentieth time ; even i the latch of the gate was trembling ; ; ♦ God loves us, after all , Amy. Oiy at; any rate, He loves you.' '•' " J : i ' And you, and you. Oh, Cradock ! j if He loves one, He must love both of! i us.' j .'' ' I believe He does,' said Cradock j; ' since I have seen you I am. sure of it.Now I care not for the world, except, my world; in you.' - \ ' Dearest darling, life of my life, pro-i misc. me not to fret again.' ' .'.' -Frety iw^S^fcjSi^^P.u. to. love me h Cradock, ! n| I he ever thought to own again (and yet: with a hole, and a string ir^tifc, for, afterall, he did not own it), being begged away, at last by the one who then went down on her knees, only to beg him back again — that helpless yet most blessed fellow strode away as hard as he could, for fear of running back again ; and the dusky trees closed round him, and he knew and loved every one of them. Then the latch of the gate for the last time clicked, when he was out of sight, and the laurustinus by the pier, beginning to bud for the winter, glistened in the moonlight with a silent storm of tears.

(To he continued.)