PART II.—CHAPTER I.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 397, 28 August 1889, Page 3

PART lI.— CHAPTER I.

' MISS DARREIX. Ipt 1 had been a week of ceaselesss rain — the whole country side was sodden. The month was March, and after *an unusually severe January and February, a % soft" spell' bad come, the rain had poured or dripped incessantly from a smoke-coloured sky, the state of the earth was only to be described by that one uncouniortable word 'slush.' Spring was at hand after a horribly bitter winter — a spring that was all wet and slop, miserable easterly winds," and bleak, drizzling rain. Pei haps it you searched the whole coast line between Maine and Florida, you could not light upon a drearier, dirtier, duller little town than the town of Sandypoint, Massachusetts. It was a straggling place, more village than town, consisting- mainly of one long street, filled with frame houses of'staring white, picked out with red doors and very green shutters.- Half a dozen pretentious ' stores,' ■ a school-house, one or tw>o churches, a town hall, and three hotels, comprised the public buildings. Behind •Satadypoint stretched out the ' forest primeval ;' ■ before Sandypoint spread away its j onli beauty, the bright, broad sea. To-day it looked neither bright nor broad |.buj)all blurred in grey wet mist, the surf cannonaded the shore with its dull thunder,, the| woodland in the background was a very' blajck forest in the dreariness, and the roajds - \vho shall paint the state of the Sandypoint roads? Worst of all, the weather shcfwed no sign of relenting. The new clock i*ecently affixed to the Sandypoint Town Hall was striking the, matutinal hour of ten. The population of Sandypoint might all have been dead and, buried, for any sign of life Indepen-dence-street showed. Doors and windows were all closed in a melancholy way— a stray, draggled dog the only living creature to be seen. Or stay— mo ! there was a girl besides the dog, al-nost as draggled as her four - footed companion. A girl of eighteen, herh'aps, who walked along through rain and disconrfort, without so much as an umbrella to protect her. She had come out of one of the ugliest of the ugly buildings nearest the sea, and walked along in a slipshod sort of way, never turning to tho right or left?to avoid an unusually deep puddle. She plunged right on through it all — a dark, sullen-looking girl in a shabby black dress, a red and black tartan shawl, an old black, felt 'hat with dingy red flowers, long £ast being Bpoiit by rain or wind. And yet she was a pretty girl too — a very pretty £irl. Take the Venus Celestis, plump her down in a muddy i*oad in a rainstorm, dress her in a draggled black alpaca, a faded shawl, and -shocking bad hat, and what can you say for your ' goddess but that she isn't a, bad-look- | ing young woman ? Miss Edith Darrell labours under all these disadvantages all present. More — she looks sulky and sour ;

, it is evident her personal appeararTc'e' Mas troubled her very little this '/dismal March morning. And yet as yotf look afc' her, afc those Big, black,' Fiombre eyes) , ati those almost classically regular', features, at all that untidy,- abundance of blackishbrown hair, you.' think involuntarily" 4 jwHat a pretty girl that might bo if she' only combed her hair, put on a clean drees, and. wasn't in bad temper !' ' - She-is tall, she is slender — there is, stipple grace'about her even now— she has "shaipgijfeet and hands. She. is a brunette of the pronounced type,>with a' skin : lik'S' tjreamy velvet, just touched ori"'eibher 'ripe cheek with a peach-lik& glcw, - and with lips like cherries. You Jrnoio without seeing her laugh chat she- has very white "ifcegftb. She is in no way inclined to show her white teeth laughingly this., morning. *' She goes , steadily along' to her destination^one of ' the ' stores ''Where groceries ar&sold.'—'l'he storekeeper smilingly aocosfcs her wi|<h a .brisk " Good-mbrning, Miss Darr'ell 1 Who'd have thought of seeing you oat this I nasty weather ? Can I 1I 1 do anything for yo» " to-day ?' ' It you couldn't do anything for me,' 'Mi? Webster,' answers Miss Darrell, .in no- very conciliatory tone,- 'it isn't, likely you?d<sfee me in your shop .this morning. (?ive m 6. one pound of tea, one pound of coffee, three pounds of brown sugar, and a quarter of starch. Put them in this basket, and I'll call for them when I'm going home.' She goes out again mto 4 the rain* and makes her way to an emporium where dr^y goods, boot 3 and shoes, millinery, ancl crockery are for sale. A sandy-haired young man, with a sandy moustache ahd a tendency to blushes, springs forward at sight of her, as though galvanized, reddening to the florid Toots of his'hair. ' - ■ ' Miss Darrell !' he cries, in a sort tjf raja-, fure. • Who'd a thought it ? , So early in the morning, and without an umbrella.! How's /your pa and ma, and all the chil-, dren ?' * My pa and ma,, and all the chiidren'aro well of course,' the young lady answers, impatiently, as though it \yere out of the nature of things for anything to ail her family. 'Mr Doolittle, 1 1 want six yards of crash for kitchen towels, three pairs of shoes for the children, and two yards and-a-half of stone-coloured ribbon for Mrs Darrell's drab bonnet. And be quick/ The. blushes and emotion of young Mr Doolittle, it was quite evident, were entirely thrown away upon Miss- Darrell. | c Not at home to lovers,' was plainly written on her moody brow and impatient lips. So Mr Doolittle produced the crash and cut off ! the six yards, the three pairs of shoes "wiare picked out, and the 'stoniest of the stone colours chosen, the parcel tied up and paid for. IWe didn't see you up to Squire Whipple's surprise party last night, Misa. Edith,' Mr Doolittle timidly ventured, with a strong ' Down Bast ' accent. 'We had a hunky supper and a rale good time.' ' No, you didn't see me, Mr Doolittle, and I don't think you're likely to in a hurry either. The';! deadly liveliness' of Sandypoint surprise parties, : a.'hd the beauty of Sandypoint, and its beastly weather I " aye labout on a par — the parties, if any thing, the* most dismal of the three.' * ( >, * With, which the young lady wenfcdut wrth a cool parting nod. There 'was one more" errand' co qo — this one for herself. It was to the post-office, aud even^the jsld""pj"o^tmasber lit up with">& smite of -we/kibhi^ afc sight of his' visitor. It was-eyideiVfi that when, in good temper-Miss- Darrell' .inusfc b> rather a favourite in the neighbourhood,.; ;', ' Letters for you ? Well, yes, jftiss.Edie, I think there is. What's this ? Miss Edith S. Darreil', Sandypoint',' Mass. Thatfs foryou, and from New Xock again, I see; Ah i I hope -none, ,,p' 'them. York, chaps will .becoming down here to carry away £he besfclookin' gal in town*', . ' y ~ He handed' he.r fche 4 letter. For ' a 'mcfcnenif her dark face lit up with an eager flush j r 'as she took the letter it fell. I-t was superscribed in a girl's spidery tracery, sealed with blue wax, and a, sentimental French .* seal and niottOf ' From Trixy,' she said, under her breath ; ' and I felt sure there would be one from — . Are you .we this ia all, Mr Merriweather ? i I expected another.' , i „ , ■' --£ ' Sure and certain, Miss EdieV Sorry _to disappoint; you, but that's all. Never mind, my' dear — he'll write by next maiL 1 She turned shortly awAy, putting the letter in her pocket. Her face relapsed 1 'again, into what seemed its - habitual lootfc" of gloom and di&concent. ■*- ' He's like all the rest of" the -wgr.ld, ' shethought, bitterly, ' out ot sight, out of mind. I was a tool to think he would remember me long. I only wonder Beatrix takes the trouble of writing to this de,ad-and-alive place. One thing is very certain, she won't do it long. ' She returned for her parcels, and set out on her wet return walk home. Mr Doolrbtle f volunteered to escort her thiuher, .bjit.sho made short work of him. Through the rain,, through the slop, wet, cold, comfortless, the girl left the ugly town behmd"'her, and came out on the 'lonely road -that led along to the sea. Five minutes more brought her in sight of her horne — a forlorn house, standing bleak and -bare on thecliff. - Oofe path led to it —another to the sands below. At the point where she must .turn either way, Miss Darrell stood still and loo'kefl. moodily up at the house. 'If I go there,' she muttered,, 'she'll set me to hem towels, or trim the feonnefc, or make a pudding for dinner. It'swaah ' ' day, and I know what tltat means in our house. I won't qo — it's better out in- the • rain; the towels and the drab bonnet >may. go au diable, and my, blessed stepmother with them, if it comes to that.' She turned sharply and took the path to the right. Half-way down she came to a sortof projection in the cliff, partly sheltered from the rain by a clump of spruce-trees. Sekting herself on this, with the grey sea seeding its .flying spray almost up -in her face, she drew forth her letter, broke the "seal, and-; read : ,"* , . < New York, March 13, 18—. 'Dearest Pithy,— Just half-an-hour ago I came home from a splen%U(t ball, the most splendid by far of tiie winter, and betore one ray ot its brilliance fados from my frivolona mind, let me sit down aud tell you all about it i£ I can. ' The ball was held at the De Rooytcr house ' up the a-vejuie, in honour of thoir distinguished hingiish guoßts.. Lady Helena Powyss, > of' Powyss Place, Cheshire, and Sir Victor Catheron, of Catherdn Royals, Glioshire. Hdw grand the titles sound 1 My very pen expands as it writes thoso patrician names.. Bady Helena. Oh, Dithy 1 how delicious it must be to be "My Lady !" ' ' What did I wear, you- ask ? Well, my dear, I Avore a lovely trained green* silk— gas-lighc green, you know, under white tulle, t all looped up with trailing sprays of lily.Of tlje valley, and grasses— ditto, ditto, in niy hair.'and just one pink, half-blown roso. A trying costume 1 you say 1 Yes, I know it, but you see, jthei only beauty poor Trixy can claim is a tolerable niak and white complexion, and a decent, head of light brown hair. So I Garried it oft— everyone 'Says 1 really looked my very best, and— don't sel this down to vanity, dear— the gentlemen's eyes indorsed it. fc I" danced all night, a^id here -is/Where the rapture comes in, three times with tho baronet. I can't say milch for his traltzmg. | but he s delightful, Ditny— tfharming. Could a baronet be anything else?. Ho talks with that >dejightful English accent,' which itis impossible 'jto.jmitato car describe — he is>very young, abput three-and-twenty, I should judge, and really (in lhat blonde English way) very handsome. His Ivairia very light-he has large, lovely, shortsighted blue eyes and wears an eye-glass. Now, T think an eye-glass is distinguished looking in itself, and it is haxit ton to be shortsighted. Why are they in New York do I hear you say? Lady Helena was recommended a sea voyage lor her health, and her nephew accompanied her. Lady Helena is not young nor

cautiful, as you might imagine, but a fail', fat and sixty, I should say, British matron, Sho is the daughter of the late Marquis St. Albans, and a widow, her husband having died som3 time ago, And they are immensely rich. Immensely, Dithy! Capitals can't do justice to it. And of course all the young ladies last night were making a dead set at tho young baronet. Oh, Dithy— child, if he should nly fall in love with me— with me, and make me lady Cathoron, I believe I should iust die of pure ecstasy (is that word spelled right ?) like Lord Berleigh's bride in the story. Fancy yourself reading it in the papers. 4 "On tho — th h st., by the Rev. Blank Blank, assisted by etc.. etc., at the residence of the bride's father, Sir Victor Cathoron, Baronet, of Cathcrou Royals, Cheshire, England, to Beatrix Marie Stuart, only daughter of James Stuart, Esq., banker of Fifth Avenue, New York. No Cwrts." ' Dithy, think of it ! It makes my brain swim, and stranger things have happened. My twentieth birthday comes next week, and ma gives a largo party, and Lady H. and Sir Y. arc coming. lam to wear a pink silk with trimmings of veal noint, and pa sent home a set of pearls from Tiffany's yesterday, for which ho gave l.OOOdol. If the roso silk and pearls fail to finish him, then there is another project on the carpet. It is this, Lady H. and Sir Y. go home the first week of May, and we arc going with them in the same ship. I say we— -pa, ma, Charley, and me. Won't it be lovely? If you were coming, you might write a book about our haps and mishaps. I think they will equal the "Dodd Family Abroad." Serioiisly, though, Edith deai\ I wish you ware coming with us. It's a burning shame that you should be buried alive down in thntpoky Sandypoint, with your cleverness, and your accomplishments, and good looks, aud everything. If I marry a baronet. Dith, I shall take you with me to England, and you shall live happy for ever after. 4 1 set out to tell you of the De Rooyter ball, and see how I run on. All New York was there— tho crush was awful, the music excellent, the supper—heavenly ! Sir Victor likes us Americans so much ; but then who could help liking us I Oh, it has been a charming winter— parlies somewhere every night. Nilsson singing: for us, some sleighing, and skating no end. 1 have had tho loveliest skating costume, of \iolet velvet, satin and ermine — words can't do it justice. 4 Hark ! A clock down-stairs strikes five, and, 44 Kathleen Mavourneen, the grey da-\\n is breaking " over the deserted city street?. As Lady Macbeth says, "To bed— to bed !" With endless love, and endless kisses, ever thine own. • Beatkix.' She finished the letter — it dropped upon her lap, and her large, dark eyes looked blankly out over the cold, grey, rain-beaten sea. l'his was the life she lonuert for, prayed for, dreamed of, the life for which she would have sold balf tho years of her life. The balls, the operas, the rose silks and pearls, the booths and merry-go-rounds ot Vanity Fair. She thirsted for them as the blind thirst for sight. She longed for the * halls of dazzling light,' the dainty dishes, the violet velvet and ermine, with a longing no words can paint. She had youth and beauty ; she would have suited the life as the life suited her. Nature had made her for it, and Fate had planted her here in the dreariest of all dreary sea-coast towns. The rain beat upon her uncovered head, the cold wind blew in her face — she felt neither. Her heart was full of tuuiulb, revolt, bitterness untold. Beatrix Stuart's father had been her dead mother's cousin. Why was Beatrix chosen among the elect of Mammon, and Edith left to drag oub • life among the lowly ?' She safe there while the moments wore on, the letter crushed in her lap, her lips set in a line of dull pain. The glory of the world, the flesh-pots of Egypt, the purple and fine linen of life, her heart craved with an exceeding great longing, and all life had given her was hideous poverty, going errands in shabby hats, and her stepmother's rubbers, through rain and mud, and being waited upon by such men as Sam Doolitlle She looked with eyes full of compassionate despair at the dark, stormy sea. 'If I only had the courage,' she said, between her teeth, ' to jump in and make an end of it. I will some day— or I'll run away, l don'fc much care what becomes of me. Nothing can be worse than this soit of life — nothing.' She looked dangerous as she thought ib — dangerous to herself and others, and ready for any desperate deed. (?'o be Continued)