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Free Lance, Volume III, Issue 120, 18 October 1902, Page 12

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" -w OHN WILLIAM!" The whisper q I went through the leaves and floated out over the sluggishlymoving stieam. No answering sound oarae in return save the strident laugh from a belated jackass that had perched upon a neighbouring tree. "John William!" This time the call was louder and more earnest. The laughing jackass noted the intensity of the emotion in the tones of the speaker, and ceased his ill-tamed mirth, resolved to take a night off and be a wit>ness to what he conjectured would mean a love-meeting on the banks of the stream, a romance that might possibly end in a tragedy of watery grave for one, perchance for two. The bird's feathers thrilled with excitement as he heard the soft voice of a man replying — "Marie, I am here!" The bushes parted, and, with a step as graceful and as timid as tharb of a startled fawn, John William, whose blushes the gathering dusk could scarcely conceal, advanced coyly to meet his lover. The waiting woman folded the trembling form of the man she loved in her strong embrace, and kissed him passionately. "I knew that you would come, dearest," said the woman, as she affectionately patted the bent head of the man. "I felt that you would not allow me o go away to exile, perhaps to death, without a word of loving farewell." "But, oh, Mane!" sobbed the man upon her shoulder, "it seems so wrong, so unmanly, to meet you here at dusk alone, without a chaperor.e. and without the knowledge of my parents." "Hush, darling," cried Mane, impetuously "you know I love you, and that your honour is a® dear to me as life. As for your parents, we can no longer consider them. They have forbidden me the house, they have done all they could to injure me in your eyes, and to blight our young lives. It is their cold, mercenary nature that compels us to dissemble our love and meet in this clandestine manner And why ? Because lam poor. They seek a wealthy alliance for my own dear boy. Nay, start not, dearest," she continued, "though I am forbidden the house, I hear of what is going on. They would wed you to the Countess of Footscray." "Never 1" cried the young man, flushing, "I will never man— her — never!" Marie smiled as she pressed the quivering form of the man to her womanly chest and toyed with the silken down upon his cheeks. "The Countess is noh as well as noble " said Marie. "Her boiling-down establishments make her wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and make their prescents felt —excuse the playful accent on the scents —for miles around. Her bone-dust covers thousands of acres in every State, and makes the mallee blossom like the rose whilst I am poor and unknown, with no aids to fame and fortune than, mv good sword and trusty rifle —" "Name not the hornd Lady Footscray to me," burst in the man, indignantly. "She ia old enough to be my stepmother, and I hate her. As for you, dear love" —and his voice as he spoke softened with the infinite tenderness of a man who has given his virgin affection once a-id for ever —-"I would that I could make you rich —" "Dearest John William " replied Marie "you have made me rich m the dower of your love, and happy in the knowledge that, come what may you will be true to me, and will wait for me until I come back, not empty-handed, I tnist not, I hope, unknown to fame, to claim mv little blushing bndegroom for my very own." "Marie, I will be true to you till death shall us part," sobbed the man. "But this carting is so bitter. I hate this wretched war that fills the Empire with helpless sorrowing widowers and takes from us weak men our lovers and our bread-winners. Is it too late even now to draw back ?" "It is too late 1" she replied, firmly , "the contingent sails for South Africa, to-morrow, and I must go with it. Besides, you would not have the woman of your love, your affianced wife, branded in the eyes of brave women and fair men as a poltroon and a coward ?" "No, no'" cried John William, smiling through his tears. "Do as honour prompts you —go where erlory waits thee —but, oh remember mel" "Till the death! I will be true to you till death'" she said solemnly. John William shuddered as he saw the great moon arising above the horizon, a ball of yellow fire gleaming through a haze of blood. Was it an omen of the future? With a little shiver he shook off the nervous feeling, and, looking up trustfully into his heroine's eyes, he murmured "And I will be constant and true to you till death'" The jackass upon the tree gave forth a loud peal of mocking laughter, but the lovers heard him not —their lips were

. A GIRL OF THE CONTINGENT. . glued, gummed, gloyed, and clogged together in one high-pressure, farewell kiss. The war in South Africa dragged slowly, wearily on, and John William watched the cable messages anxiously for tidings of his heroine who had gone with the Australian Female Contingent to battle for the maintenance of the integrity of the British Empire. Marie's name oceuired more than once an the despatches, and rapidly secured promotion. Then, came intelligence that a small detachment of heroic Australian women, led bv Captain Mane, had fallen into a Boer ambush with disastrous results. Several were killed, and others reported missing, amongst the latter being Captain Marie. For months and months John William hoped against hope that the heroine of his idolatry had been taken prisoner, and might soon be exchanged, or at any rate, at liberty as soon as the war came to an end But, time fled, and no news came. John William at lentil came to the conclusion that his brave woman had found an unnamed grave amongst the thousands of missing who slept their last sleep on the South African veldt, and mourned her as dead. But unavailing srief makes but a transient dent upon the elastic hearts of the younar and in time the rose® returned to John William's cheeks, the brightness to his eyes, and the lightness to his step He was too young and too fair not to appreciate the joy of living. His parents noted with delight his improving health and spirits So, too, did the crafty Countess of Footscray, whose world-worn heart had lone; since been boiled down to tho cares of business and powdered into the bone-dust of civilisation. What there was of passion in her frame thrilled into life at the sight of the fair young beauty and sweet simplicity of John William. As sho sazed upon that fresh sweet innocence she muttered to herself — "That is my mate. I wed no other man. He is lowly born, but what of that p A woman raises the husband of her choice to her own station in life. John William shall be the first Earl of Footscray." Why harrow up the feekn.es of our gentle and sympathetic male readers with a recital of the pressure brought by parents, Countess and friends u^on the unhappy John William p Suffice it to say that their persistency prevailed — how could it be otherwise, when one heart-broken lad was assailed bv so many? John William's heart was buried with his love on the veldt. — nothing else mattered now An apathetic consent was extracted from him. and in a few weeks, the Countess led the beautiful boy to the hymeneal altar. * * # Two years have passed, and the lovers stand face to face in the conservatory of the Countess of Footscray's boihngdown establishment. The smell of hides and hoofs and tallow is in the air, but the returned girl of the contingent heeds them not. She is stunned by the intelligence which the beautiful main before her tells. John William, Earl of Footscray, is still beautiful , the cares of paternity have given a more repose>ful, mellowed tone to his charms and, as Marie gazes upon her first love, now wedded to another, a torrent of emotion wells up in her heart and threatens to run a "banker." And John William, too, feels the old affection, the buried love, resurrecting itself in his breast as his Marie recounts the wounds, the long •captivity, and the adventures which have been her lot in the Transvaal. "But I am rich now John William," continues Marie. "I have a large diamond field let upon tribute, and am wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. You cannot love this woman who has stolen yooi from me." There is a catch in the beautiful man's breath, as, with his hands tightly press^ ed upon his heart, he sighs- — "Alas, no'" "Then fly with me," cries Marie, as she seizes his not unwilling hand. "Together we will seek the Transvaal, where we can live and die unknown the world forgetting, by the world forgot. Break from these loveless bonds which now enchain you and fly with her who is your wife in the sight of Heaven, although by the laws of man another woman calls you by the sacred name of husband. Fly, John William, fly with your own true Marie." She draws his unresisting form closer to her. A mist is before John William's eves — he seems as if about to faint With an effort he pulls himself together and comprehends the situation. His married life has been none too happy, for the Countess of Footscrav has been a tyrannical wife, who had treated her husband neglectfully, and contemptuously, almost ere the honeymoon had waned — who had treated him as one of her goods and chattels. "Who had held him, when her passion had soon run its novel course, Something nearer than her hound, a little dearer than her horse."

On. the other hand, here was the woman of his choice, back from the grave beseeching him to fly with her to lifelong love and happiness. The temptation was a strong, a terrible one. He was not blind to the consequences of the action — he knew only too well that he would be a dishonoured husband, and would never again be able to hold up hi<s head amongst pure men. And yet — what was dishonour when in a distant land he had the wealth of this strong woman's love? Yes he would fly — A faint cry mingled with the perfume of the hides and hoofs. It startled John William like a butcher's knife. It let the light of reason into his soul. He sprang from Marie's encircling clasp, and drew himself up proudly. "Come, Marie, with me," he said. His voice was calm now. He had come to ■his senses, and he led the wondering Marie to the window of the conservator^ overlooking the nursery. He pointed to the cot wherein the future Earl of Footscray, now twelve months old, lay sleeping. A spasm of agony passed over Marie's face. "Her child " she murmured ; "that awful woman's child ' And to think it might have been mine!" "Marie," said John William, "ours has been a cruel fate. I gave you all a young man's pure affection and — heaven help me! I love you still. For ail instant I wavered as I listened to your passionate pleading, but the cry of tli at innocent babe went straight to my father's heart. It cried to me that my dut{7, however hard, was to remain b - its side. Would you have it, when it grows up, and is wooed by some brave woman like yourself, blush for the sake of its dishonoured father? Go, Marie, my queen can do no wrong — you would not have me desert my chee~ild'" Marie was silent for an instant. It seemed so hard to lose John William for ever but the brave, womanly nature that had often faced danger, disaster and disappointment on the veldt, was equal to the occasion. Her better woman's nature triumphed. "John William," she said, in a voice broken with emotion, "you weak, fragile flower that you are, teach me the strong woman, my duty. Obe- the dictates of your pure, innocent, manly heart. Remain with your wife and child and, if you can, forget that you ever loved a Girl of the Contingent. Farewell!" Without looking at him, she turned and left him, and, as Marie went out into the night and the odours of Eau de Co-bone, she went out of John William's life. — Edmund Finn, in Melbourne "Punch."