LOVE AT THE GOLD FIELDS.

Patea Mail, Volume VIII, Issue 1045, 11 June 1883, Page 4

LOVE AT THE GOLD FIELDS.

LITERATURE.

By B. L. Far jbon. ( Continued.') ‘Dear friend, that CJod has sent me to carry out my heartfelt wish ; do not interrupt me, but let me pour out my heart to you. Ah, if you knew the exquisite relief it is to me to do this without restraint, yon would bless the chance thajt has sent yon to me. It means so much to me, so little to you. 1 shall remember yon in my prayers, to-night, and every night. It will do you no hariq. and Elsie—the sweetest, dearest maid on earth—-shall pray for you too. And when she and my noble boy are .you shall come to us-—Oh, my heart, my heart!’ The contemplation* of the happy future she has mapped out was toomuch for her. She sank upon the deck in a passion of tears, and rocked to and frp. Baebnrn knew that it would be useless to attempt to undeceive her in thesj® supreme moments. Events must take their course, he thought. Her sop might never be found, might be dead, if found might be married—there were ja hundred eventualities in his favour. But if (and an ominous fear oppressed him at this turn) some part of his mother’s hopes should strangely be realised—if her son shonld be discovered, unmarried, and seeing Elsie in her spring, beauty nndfreshness, shonld love her — : —. He would not think of it ; he strove to thrust the’ torture aside. >The man might be wealthy unscrupulous—— Well, then* it would, be man to man. But Elsie ! Duty might tear her from

him—he had not studied her in yaini; from a sense of duty she might make this % sacrifice, and wreck her life and his. Ijt shall be done in the clear light of day, he thought glooraingly ; no false feeling shall deprive her life and mine of sunshine. He had but little time to pnrsne the current of his thoughts. The old woman’s convulsive emotion attracted . the attention of the female ,passengers, and she was led to her cabinj and given into the care of Elsie. . . . . It was midnight. Raeburn paced the deck restlessly. * Will she come.?’ ho thought; ‘ can she not feel the torture which is weighing me down ?’ ‘ Charlie.’ Ah, Elsie 1 Thank God!’ He pressed her in his prms; he kissed her again again and again. She was surprised to feel his tears upon her face. *lf I lost yon,’ he said abruptly, ‘ I should not care to live. My heart, my soul, are in your keeping. I have suffered tortures ’ these ' last two hours. OH, Elsie, T feared -yon would not come. Say that yon love me.’ ‘Do you doubt me already, Charles? I love you—l love you.’ , f And you will be true to me ?’ ‘ For ever .and .ever.’ Another . figure steeped forward towards, them—divided them—the figure of Mrs Briy, ‘ Elsie, my child, what brings you on deck at this hour?’ She drew the trembling girl away—conducted her below—and returned alone.

*Mr Raeburn, she said; you are false to your work. You have behaved . treacherously, towards me. It is part of the truth and honour of a gentleman, I suppose, to . endeavour' to disturb the heart of a simple, innocent girl like my adopted daughter, who is promised to another, man—who loves another man. Bu| you shall not tear her from me. I will find' my ; 'son',yji.thprit,your help.. As you hbpe for salvation, do nothing to thwart the fulfilment of a mother’s dearest hopes !’ -Three’,weeks after the passengers landed, a covered dray half-loaded with goods, with a pair of sturdy horses, was wending, its "way towards the Mclvor Diggings. Within the covered awning? were seated two women ; by the side of the horses walked the driver, encouraging his cattle'to do their last two miles f of the day’s journey'with a will-, They were within fourteen miles of Mclvor, too great a distance to, traverse before night/' They camp in half-an-hohr, and by mid-day to-morrow Mclvor will 1 be reached. The women were conversing. ‘ Elsie, my dream'last night troubles; me sorely.’ - * i ‘ Place no faith in it mother; dfearns seldom come'true.’ ■ The girl sighed as » she spoke; She haddreamt last night of one she dearly loved ; that they were together once more, never to part again. How’swiftly had life’s fair promise been blighted. * But, Elsie, it may have been sent to me as a sign. Never before have I dreamt that my boy was dead, and now; it comes to me after all these years. Oh, God ! have pity on me ?’ ‘We are in His bands, mother. Bear in mind what you said to me—that He would guide ns.’ , ‘Yes, child; He will guide us—has He not done so- already 1 From place to-place, through these silent forests, nearer and nearer to my lad—and the driver tells ns he has a clue. Ah, Elsie, how you comfort me! What should I do if yon were to leave mo ?’ :* I will not leave you, mother; to you I owe my first dnty.’ Her lips quivered, and -she paused a moment or two before she continued. ‘ And mother, if it should be true—if it were God’s will that he should be taken, yon must bear it.’ ‘ Oh, child, child, what are you saying?’ ‘l am striving to strengthen you, dear, for what might be. Even if you have lost him,' would not the loss be sweetened by the knowledge that he died a good death ?’ The tears flowed down the old woman’s face, but she cried silently, and presently she kissed the girl, and said, ‘ You do strengthen me, child ; I am old, and cannot have many years to live; should be be dead, lam very near him; if he died a good death, I shall still bless God?’ ‘ Spell, oh !’ It was the driver’s hearty voice announcing that the day’s journey was at an end.

* Now, ladies, if you will allow me to help you down—that’s your sort! A feather’s weight!’ He had lifted Elsie from the dray, swinging her lightly down, and was now assisting Mrs Bray. 1 We camp here for the night; take this tin dish;--ypu .see the .dip of the land yonder—at the’ bottom of it you will find a creek with still a little water in it, thanks be V The sun hasn’t dried it all up. Fill the saucepan first, for tea, then take what you want, gently, so as not to muddy the creek, and wash the -dust out of your eyes while I hobble the' horses.’

Soonythe ladies were in their natty tent and not long before they were asleep. These long days in the open air were healthfully tiring. Elsie did not know at what time of the night she awoke, nor how long she had been sleeping. Why did she awake ? If she had taken the trouble to inquire of herself, she could not have told, but certain it is that she lay quite contented and happy in this wild spot, listening to a familiar sound. The sound of a man’s soft whistling. And the air ? What could it be but ‘ Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, Bonnie Lassie, 0!’ Where was she then ? Why, aboard ship, of course, where she had heard ■ the ; old song whistled—yery sweetly, too—by a certan person who was never absent from her mind. Gradually, however, the local delusion faded away, and she knew that she was lying ‘in a canvas tent in the Australian woods. It was the tinkling of the bells attached to the horses’ necks that forced this consciousness upon her. There could be no harm in endeavouring to ascertain who it was that was amusing himself, or herself, or itself (Elsie, let it be known, had a pretty knack at whistling, in which she sometimes indulged when no one was by) with the old familiar air. Harm or riot, she could not restrain her curiosity, being a very woman in every nerve of her dainty body.. So out of bed she slipped—--softly, in order hot Iq disturb Mrs Bray, who Was sound asleep and quietly dressed herself, and then' crept like a mouse into the open.

She looked about her, and in an instant discovered who it was whose whistling had aroused her. Upon the trunk of a tree which had been cut down for a camp fire sat the driver. His back was towards her, and there was a distance of some Jen yards between them. She stood still for a little while, debating whether she should speak to him, and a blush stole into her face as she decided that such a proceeding ‘on her part might be misconstrued. ‘ Although they had been travelling together for many days—although he had been extraordinlHly kipd and attentive to her ip a hundred thoughtful and unobtrusive ways—they were, after all, in a measure strangers to each other. No ; she would creep back to bed as quietly as she had left it, and he would never know that" she had been watching him. Unless, indeed, in the morning she had an ’innocent 1 joke with him on the subject. She stepped backward to the tent, and as luck would have it, trod upon some dry leaves, which crackled beneath her feet—a sharp, clear sound, which set her nerves a quivering. The man sprang from the tree, and crying, * Stand !’ covered her with his revolver. ■;

In mortal fear she fell upon her knees, and hid her face in her hands, removing them almost instantly, ashamed of her unreasoning terror. She looked up boldly, bravely, at the man who was how close upon her, and saw, standing over her, Charlie Raeburn I He, and no other; with no hair upon his face but a'brown moustache ; in his right hand a revolver,! in his left/a glorious brown beard, bushy enough to turn a sinner into a saint (outwardly), and to so transmogrify any mortal man that it would be impossible for his own mother to recognise him.; ■ The driver’s beard, not a doubt of it! They seized the situation in the same moment, a moment of delight' and ecstacy. Elsie was the first to speak. * Shameful imposture ?’ she said, with the tenderest smile, her eyes swimming: in happy tears. ‘False hair hj for a man to wear it! a woman’s dearest prerogative ‘Hush 1’ he' whispered, with his finger to his lips; ‘ ; see if your mother is sleeping.’ He turned his back, and she stepped into the tent, and out of it. ‘ Thank heaven,’ she said, ‘ we have not aroused her.’

r ‘ So I’m discovered,’ hp spid, with a ibright look. , ‘Yes, sir, you are. discovered,’ she replied, severely. ; . (To ibe continued.)