CHAPTER I.

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 196, 26 March 1887, Page 6

CHAPTER I.

our iu;ro akd heroine, They stood upon a verdant Cornieh head land, on an afternoon in early summer— a youth and a maiden — looking off upon the xoatlcss waters of the English Channel. The poet, or the painter, in search of the t*ue and the beautiful of life, would have looked no further. He was twoand-twenty ; tall, and strong, and healthful, his form perfect in its manly proportions,, with a face classic in its outlines, and full of intellectual fire and vigour. His hair, of a rich, dark brown, clustered about his head in shimmering curls ; and hia eyes, a deep, warm grey in colour, clearly reflected the nobler qualities of the inner man- qualities, they were, without Wot or blemißh. She was seventeen, scarcely up to the average height of women ; her figure rather fcoo full and plump for a fairy • and yet, no fabled queen of fairy-land could have possessed a form more comely or graceful in its itlhe and evenly-rounded perfectness. Her foa r was brown, .like that of her companion ; ahl her eyee, unlike hia, were of a warm, gulden hazai— the warmest and the deepest inotheir eoft, mellow light — more than *>ue had said— that were ever seen. Her face was not classic, like the other face. It was a piquant, eparkliDg face, full of sunshine, with dimpled cheeks and chin, where amiles lurked continuously in her happy, blithesome mood?. Ifc was n lovely face, winsome and charming — her companion thought, the most beautiful faco the eun •ver shone upon. The twain had reached a point on the headland overlooking a horizon-bound sweep of the Channel, where they stopped and gazed for a time upon the restless waters, and upon the white sails that dotted the billowy expanse. He broke the silence ; *«d hia voice, usually so firm and resonant ia its tuneful melody was strangely low and tremulous as he now epoke. "Morns, —is Ifc true— the report that has xoached me— that your father is going away —to India?" " What ?" she returned, looking up in quick surprise. " Hasn't papa told you ?" "You forget, dear Morna I have not Boen him since I came back from London. 1 arrived at home quite late last evening ; and this forenoon I was obliged to spend at the hospital. The first moment I could sei-ze from professional duty saw my face turned hitherward, dear girl, in search of yourself ; and immediately on my arrival I found you" •'Yes, I know," with a quiv9r in her voice and a deepening of therolour of her dimpled cheeks. " And papa had gone out— l think to see Jonas Crandal. But tell me, Ealph, how did you hear of capa'a going ?" "I heard of it at the hospital. Doctor Laybrcok told me. Your father had been ia to see him, he said. But, dear Morna, you have not yet anewered my question. Is he really going ?" " Yes, Ralph. Oh ! yea !" There was a ring of pain in her voice, and a ahadow of unrest on her bright face. "And he has a message for ycu. He is very anxious to see you." "Is ifc a me3?age from Sir William ?" "Yes." "Do you know if it is true that he is dangerously dick ?" "It must not be so. If it were not, papa would not go so far away. — Yes, yes — Uncle William must be very, very sick. Bat," looking up and speaking more blithely, "papa will tell you all about it." " When doe 3 he think of going?" ** Just a? soon aa he can get ready." Ralph Ashmore heard, and then looked off upon the boundless waters. Morna, when" she knew that his gaze was turned from her, looked up at his handsome face with an intensity of yearning that could not be hidden. She did not seek to hide it, By-and-by he looked down and caught her eye. *' Morna ! Morna !" he cried, all timidity and reserve thrown to the winds, " can you Jiofc guesa why I brought you to this faraway place ? Why I asked you to give me an hour of your time ?" She returned hid ardent gaze, but did not speak. Twice she started to reply, but her speech failed her. A moment later he stood facing her, holding both her hands in hid own ; the glow upon his brow, and the deep effulgence of his dewy eyes, telling of the depth and strength of the emotions that thrilled him through and through. And they thrilled her ag well It may have been from the electric flashing of opalistic eyes, or it naav have been from a ajmpathetio current from tho contact of his hands ; but, come as it might, there wa= something in the roseate glow upon her upturned face, and in the deep fires of her golden eye 3, that told him her heart responded as he would have ifc ; and he gained courage from the belief. "Morna ! my own ! 0 I let me aay so this once ! Your father is going far away. When he will return to us we know not. Before he goes ought not you and I to xuideretand one another ? Ought we not to know what our future -so far a3 we can control, it— is to be 1 Morna, it is not needed that I should tell you of my love. 1 love you with my whol* 1 heart, and with ali my Btrength ; I have loved you since I knew you, I must go on loving you to the <md. Dear Morna, answer me /truly, honestly, frankly— do you not know thwT •• Yes ! yes ! 0, Ralph ! I kaow it how, and— and— " "You have known it for a long, long ihae." *■ I have— hoped it." " And that hope tella me, darling, that you love me. Ia it not so ?" "O, Ealph ! Ralph ! you know it ia so." He caught her to his bosom, and she pillowed her head there with a low cry of rapturous joy. "0, Ralph ! if you had not iovad mo I ahould not have cared to live !" 41 Darling ! if you had not given your love to me, my life must have been joyless for evermore !" And so they stood, clasped in loving embrace, dwelling upon this blissful fruition of the one brightest hope and promise of their lives— they knew not how long. Morna was the first to give thought to tho duties of the present hour. " Ralph !" — looking up through her happy tears, and drawing gently back— "wo must think of papa. He is at home b/ tbia time, and is probably waiting to Me you. The servants will tell him that you have been there." " Yea, darling ; our next duty ia to your fatfcoc." He drew her arm within, hia own,

then took the dear hand in a gentle, loving grasp, and in a moment more they were on their way down the slope of the headland. " Morna, is it understood between us that I shall ask your father tor this precious hand !" " Ye?." " And Ido not think he will refuse ife." i *• 0, Ralph ! you know ho will not."; " Remember, dear girl ; should Sir William be sick unto death— which Heaven forbid— your father will be the head of the house -the baronot. Ab simple Doctor Dale he has been very kind to me— he has loveU me, —l know — but aa Sir Lawrence —Ah 1 the change may be more than you think !" •' Hush ! Ralph, I will not hoar you talk bo, Are you not Sir William's adopted son ?" " 0, no, no, no. You mi&take, dear Morna, Daring my late boyhood, and through my nonaee, Sir William was my guardian — " " Aye," broke in the girl, impetuously ; " and you know that he loved you as a father might have loved an only Eon. I have heard papa say so." " Bless his noble, generous heart ! he did love me, I know. Yes, Morna, Sir William gave to me his love without stint or measure, and all that I am, and all of wordly possessions that is mine, J awe to him. Sfet, when he went away to India, leaving me to finish my studies under your fathers care and supervision, he, in one sense, washed his hands of me " 11 0, Ralph ! Ralph ! Think what letters j he haB written to you from that far away land ! Think—" " Hash, darling ! Do not misunderstand me. Ido not mean that Sir William took away from me his love. No, no. What I mean is simply thia : He left to mo no right to look to him further for material aid. So, you understand, when I ask your father to give me the hand of his bleesed child — to give her to me for my wife — I must rest my claim upon my own manhood, and not upon anything I may expect in the future from the dear old baronet. Darling, as you know, I have received, from the bighaet authority in the realm, my diploma as a surgeon and physician, 1 think lam the youDgest man on record holding* official appointment as practising and consulting surgeon of a first-class hospital. But I do not intend to devote my best energies i the work of the hospital. By-and-by ; I shall fiod a good opening, and settle i down to look for patients of my own ; and then, darling, I think I may venturo to take to myself a wife. You would not fear to trust your future in my hands?" She looked up, with a bright light in her eyes, and a warm, loving smile wreathed around the dimples of her roseate cheeks. "Dear Ralph, I havo no fears for the future— at loast so far aB you are concerned. I have given myself to you, and 1 will trust you while wo both shall live. As for papa, I am sure he will not make me unhappy." "Weehall soon .xnow, dearest. I 3hall speak to hid on the subject before the day is done." They had reached the foot of the slope, and weie passing near to the fishermen busy with their nets and boats, and were obliged to turn their thoughts to the answering of the kind and loving salutations that were extended to them from every hand. The headland whereon we found our hero and heroine was at the entrance, on the easterly side to a small bay, or cove, which made up into the Cornish coast not far from midway between Plymouth Sound and Lizard Head. It afforded an excellent haven, not only to the fishermen who lived on its sheltered shore, but to any craft, large or amali, that might seek it in case of storm and tempest. The distance betweon its two outer points was not more than a mile, while within, at the widest part, the distance from shore to shore was more than a mile and a half. The western Headland was, if anything, higher than that on the ea&t, whence the character of the harbour, as a place of shelter from furious gales, may be readily eeen On the immediate shore of this inlet stood a score, and more, of fishermen's cots— most of them neat and comfortable, and in good repair. Close at hand, further inland, with this hamlet of fishermen for a suburb, was situated the village of Covedale. Originally the whole thing— the harbour, the hamlet and the settlement beyond— had been called Dale Cove, in honour of the owner of the estate ; but a baronet who had reignod as lord of the domain little more than a century before, with a love of euphony, had transposed the two words and made them into one. The village of Covedale had one broad, handsome street, adorned with grand old trees its wholelengtb, extending from the inner shore of the cove to the gates of Dale Abbey, a distance of nearly a mile. There [ were a few narrow streets, very ehorfc, extending out on either hand from this main avenue, to accommodate those who wished for more land around their dwellings ; but the great majority of tho villagers dwelt upon the main thoroughfare. The Abbey was a rambling old castellated structure, portions of all datiDg back to the time of the Crusades, and waß the abode, when at home, of the lord of tho manor >• but the present lord, Sir William Dale, was abeant in Indn, where he had been little more than cix years at the time of the opening of our story. He was on the staff of the viceroy, a member in ordinary of the council. By far the handeomBst dwelling in Covedala, and, excepting tho Abbey,the largest, was the Grange, known near and far as Dale Grange, the dwelling of Dr. Lawrence Dale, a younger brother of the baronet. It stood a little way from the main street, on a court of its own, with an extensive park on Uvq sides of it, while from the other two sides swept away hundreds of acreß of forest and tillage. Very neatly midway between the cove and the Abbey, on the right-hand side of the, main, street going up, stood the little stone church, with the rectory on one side of it, while on its other side, and in its, rear, lay the burial ground. The entrance to the court of the Grange was on the other side of the way, and directly opposite the I church. Lawrence Dale, M.D., was a man of five and-forty ; not quite so tall as the average of his fellows, but inclined to be plump enough In form to make up for it. He could hardly be called a fat man, yet he w&q of a goodly rotundity , but flesh was evenly distributed, and he possessed good solid muscle enough to bear the adipose tissue lightly, blightly and healthfully. He was a good man ; a great hearted man, with a pleasant, intellectual face, and had been accounted one of the most successful physicians and skilful surgeonsinthe kingdom. Of late years, however, he had practiced but little. He had inherited wealth, and had married a wealthy wife ; and when he had reached the meridian of hie life, with more money in his coffers than he could epend, he had resolved to devote himself to hia farm and to such labours of love as his hands and heart might find to do ; and they found many, be sure. Five miles distant, in the old cathedral town of Wallingham, was one of the largest and best appointed marine hospitals in the country. Of this he had been one of the chief patrons ; be was at present one of its moat responsible officers j and he never refused to visit there when his professional help was required. Dr. Dale, in truth, had practised but little as a visiting phyeician since the death

of his wife ; and she had been dend ten 1 years and a little more. He loved her with all the strength and devotion of his great, impulsive heart, and her death had been to him a blow from which he had not soon j recovered. Fortunately for him, hie daughter—his beautiful Morna— was growing up to fill the aching void ; and novr &a we open our Btorv, she bad become to him an angel of love nnd blessing -an evangel of peace and resignation. The good man, on this summer afternoon, was in his elegantly furnished library, having come in but a short time before from a visit to the Abbey, where he had been to see the man in charge. He had a book in his hand, bnt he wea not reading. He was thinking of his daughter and of Ralph Achmore, who, he had been told, had gone out with her. One further remark with regard to ourj hero we will make before we again introduce him. In the years agone, when William Dale had been a student at Oxford, he had formed a strong and enduring friendship with a brother student named Atthur Ashmore; and it had strangely happened that on two separate occasions during their college career Ashmore had saved William Dale's life. Once he i had plunged into the flood of the lais, when j the baronet's son was sinking the last time, and brought him forth ; and once again had he oome up just in season to beat off a pair of murderous ruffians who had a knife at the throat of the wealthy youth as he struck iside the ruthless hand and the blade it held. Naturally, William Dale gave to his gallant preserver nc empty love. In after years, when, by the death of his father, Dale had become a baronet, Arthur Ashmore had accepted the post of tutor in the old college. They married at very nearly the same time, the baronet having been the first to take a wife. Sir William had loved with all his heart, and his wife was worthy of a'l the love he gave her. Children were born to them, but they did not live ; and at the cud of a few brief years of mingled joy and pain, the ivife was taken from him to join the little ones that had gone before. A few yeara after the death of his wife Sir William received a message from Arthur Ashmore, bogging him that he would come to him at Oxfoid. The baronet went, and found his old classmate dying. His wife had been dead several years, and he was now passing away, to leave behind him a man who would be without a near relative living. The son, Ralph, was then ten years of age, and one of the handsomest and brightest boys, Sir William thought, he had ever seen. Said the dying tutor : " William, I shall leave my boy ten thousand pounds, safely invested. That will surely give him a good education. Will you-" At that point Sir William had stopped him, and answered without allowing him to aßk : •'Arthur, I am wifeless and childleßß. Your boy, if you die, shall be mine ; mine to love and care for ; mine to cherish and protect ; mine in every sense of the word. He shall, when he is old enough, elect his own course in life, and I will ccc that he ha« every advantage in following it. la everything, save only in name, he shall be to me a son." Arthur Ashmore died, and after the baronet kept his word. The sum which the dying father had left in the funds for his boy Sir William did not break in upon. He only made sure that it was safe and in proper form of deposit, and he left it to lie and grow until tho boy should have reached his majority. In his act of adoption the baronet was laying up a blessing for all his after life. Tho boy proved a blessing, indeed ; and on the day of his entrance into the old Abbey a gleam of sunshine came which did not again leave it while the two remained together. Early in life Ralph learnt to love the genial doctor — " Uncle Lawrence," he had been taught to call him — and, likewise, he came to love the doctor's bright eyed, laughterloving daughter. No two brothers were knit together by bonds of love and esteem stronger than were those which bound in brotherly affection William and Lawrence Dale. And when Ralph, having passed his college course, was aeked what profession he would choose for his manhood, he answered that he would be a surgeon and physician. Ho bad fallen in love with the calling. He had left college with a knowledge of chemistry that might compare favourably with that of a professor of the science. Sir William had hoped that the boy's choice might have fallen upon either the navy or the army ; but when the decision had been made, he said not a word in opposition. About this time the baronet was called to India, the government making upon his good faith and patriotism a call which he could not disregard. When he had made up his mind that he would go, he gave Ralph into the care of hia brother, the latter having promised that he would do for the youth all that could be done. So Sir William Dale went to India, and Ralph Ashmore was sent to Wallinghain, there to pursue his studies in eurgery and medicine under the immediate care and supervision of Dr. Sam. Laybrook, the Superintendent of the Marine Hospital, and ono of the be9t and most skilful practitioners in the couatry. And there, as we have already stated, Ralph had passed his final examination, and received a diploma of which any man might bo proud. Sir William, in his far-away Indian office, had received word of the triumph of his proUqe, and had been made proud and happy thereby In a letter to his brother Lawrence, he bad said, in a postscript, in speaking of Ralph, — " You lOill know vjhen to give him his patrimony." We left Dr. Dale sitting in his library with a book in his hand, which he was not not reading. He was thinking. He had thought and waited, until he had begun to feel fretful. ** Where in the world can they be ?" he thought, in spoken words, at the same time throwing the book on the table at his elbow. " I wonder if he knows that I only went out for a short — ' The sentence was not finished ; for at that point the door communicating with the hall was opened, and Ralph Ashmore appeared -alone, tie had left Morna behind,., as he had that to say to her father whiOliif he could not say in her presence, and if due might judge from the heightened colour of hie face, and the perceptible tremor 3f his eager lips, the subject matter of his thought could be of no ordinary moment.