CHAPTER VIII. IN TWO BOATS.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 403, 18 September 1889, Page 3

CHAPTER VIII. IN TWO BOATS.

EARfiY next morning our tourists remounted tho car and jogged slowly over that lovely stretch of country which lies botween Glengariff and Killarney. Their places were as on the day before — Sir Victor in the possession of Trix, Charley with Edith. But the baronet's gloom was gone — hope filled his heart. She did not love her cousin, — of that he had convinced himself— and one day he might call her wife. Sir Victor Catheron was that rara avii, a modest young man. That this American girl, penniless and pedigreeless, was beneath him, he never thought — of his own rank and wealth, as motives to influence her, ho never once dreamed. Nothing base or mercenary could find a place in so fair a creature ; so noble and beautiful a face must surely be emblematic of a still more noble and beautiful soul. Alas ! for the blindness of people in love. It was a day of delight, a day of cloudless skies, sparkling sunshine, fresh mountain breezes, sublime sconery. Wild, bleak valleys, frowning Kerry rocks, roaring torrents, bare- footed, ragged children, pigs and people beneath the same thatched roof, such squalor and utter poverty as in their dreams they had never imagined. 'Good Heaven!' Edith said, with a shudder, ' how can life be woruh living in such horrible poverty as this ?' 'The bugbear of your life seems to be poverty, Edith,' Charley answered. 'I dare say these people eat and sleep, fall in love, marry, and are happy even here. ' 'My dear Mr Stuart, what a sentimental speech, and sillier even than it is sentimental. Marry and are happy ! They marry no doubt, and the pig lives in the corner, and overy cabin swarms with children, but — happy ! Charley, I used to think you had one or two grains of common sense at least — now I begin to doubt it.' 'I begin to doubt it myself, since I have had the pleasure of knowing Edith Darrell. I defy mortal man to keep common-sense, or uncommon-sense, long in her company. Poverty and misery, in your lexicon, mean the same thing.' ( ' The same thing. There is no earthly evil that can equal poverty.' They reached Killarney late in the evening, and drove to the ' Victoria.' The perfect weather still continued, the moon that had lit their last night at &ea, on the wane now, lifted its silver light over the matchless Lakes of Killarney lying like sheets of crystal light beneath. ' Oh, how lovely '' Trix exclaimed. The rest stood silent. There is a beauty so intense as to be beyond words of praise — so sweet, so solemn, as to hush the very beating of our hearts. It was such beauty as this they looked upon now. They stood on the \elvety sward — Sir Victor with Trixy on his arm, Charley and Edith side by side. A glowing mass of soft, scarlet drapery wrapped Miss Darrell, a coquettish hat, with a long, black ostrich plume, set off her Spanish face and eyes They had dined — and when is moonlight half so poetical as after an excellent dinner ? ' I see two or three boats,' remarked Sir Victor. ' I propose a row on the lakes.' ' Of all things,' seconded Beatrix, ' a sail on the Lakes of Killarney ! Edith, do you realise it ? Let us go at once, Sir Victor.' ' Will you come with me, Edith ?' Charley asked, ' or would you rather go with them ?' She looked at him in surprise. How grave his face — how quiet his tone ! He had been like this all day, silent, pre-occu-pied, grave. ' My very dear Charley, how polite we grow ! how considerate of others' feelings ! Quite a new phase of your interesting character. I'llgowith you certainly — Mr Charles Stuart, in a state of lambliko meekness, is a study worth contemplating.' He smiled slightly, and drew her hand within his arm. ' Come, then,' he said, 'let us have this last evening together ; who knows when we shall have another ?' Miss Darrell's brown eyes opened to their widest extent. ' " This la3t evening ! Who knows when we shall have another !" Charley, if you're meditating flight or suicide, say so at once — anything is better than suspense. I once saw a picture of " The Night of the Woful Countenance" — the K. of the W. C. looked exactly as you look now ! If you're thinking of strychnine, say so -no one shall oppose you. My only regret is, that I shall have to wear black, and hideous is a mild word to describe Edith Darrell in black.' 1 Hideous !' Charley repeated, ' you ! I wonder if you could possibly look ugly in anything ? I wonder if you know how pretty you are to-night in that charming hat and that scarlet drapery ?' { Certainly ] know, and charming I undoubtedly must look to wring a word of praise from you. It's the tirst time in all your life, sir, you ever paid me a compliment. Hitherto you have done nothing but find fault with my looks and everything else.' ' There is a time for everything,' he answers, a little sadly— sadly ! and Charley Stuart ! ' The time for all that is past. Here is our boat. You will steer, Edith ? Yes— then I'll row.' The baronet and Trix were already several yards off, out upon the shining water. Another party — a large boat containing half a dozen, Captain Hammond among them, was farther off still. In this boat sat a girl with a guitar ; her sweet voice as she sang came romantically over the lake, and the mountain echoes, taking it up, sang the refrain enchantingly over and over again. Edith lifted her face to the starry sky, the moonlight bathing it in a glory. ' Oh, what a night !' she sighed. ' What a bright, beautiful world it is, and how perfectly happy one could be, if — ' ' One had thirty thousand a year !' Charley suggested. ' \ es, exactly. Why can't life be all like this — moonlight, capital dinners, lots of friends and new dresses, a nice boat, and — yes— -I will say it— somebody one likes very much for ones companion.' ' Somebody one likes very much, Edith ? I wonder sometimes it you like me at all — if it is in you to like anyone but yourself.'

• Thanks ! I like myself, certainly, and first best I will admit. After that — ' • After that ?' he repeats. ' I like you. No — keep quiet, Charley, please, you'll upset tho boat. Of course I like you — aren't you my cousin — haven't you been awfully kind — don't 1 owe all this to you ? Charley, I bless that night in the snow — it has been the luckiest in my life.' ' And the unluckiest of mine.' • Sir !' ' 0 Edith, let us speak for onee — let us understand one another, and then part for ever, if we must. Only why need we part at all ?' She turns pale — she averts her face from him, and looks out over the radiant water. Sooner or later she has known this must come — it has come to-night. 4 Why need we part at all ?' He is leaning on his oars, and they are floating lightly with the stream, ' I don't need to tell you how I love you, you know it well enough ; and I think — I hope — you care for me. Be true to yourself, Edith — you belong to me ; be my wife.' There is passion in his lone, in his eyes, but his voice is quiet, and he sits with the oars in his hands. Even in this supieme moment of his life Mr Stuart is true to his ' principles ' and will make no scene. 'You know I love you,' tie repeats, 'as the man in the Cork theatre said the other night : "I'll do down on my knees if you like, but I can love you just as well standing up." Edith, speak to me. How can you ever marry any one but me — but me, whose life you saved. My darling, foiget your cynicism — it is but lip-deep — you don't really mean it — and say you will be my wife.' ' Your wife !' She laughs, but her heart thrills as she says it. ' Your wife ! It would i be pleasant, Charley ; but, like most of the pleasant things of life, it can never be.' 'Edith!' ' Charley, all this is nonsense, and you know it. We are cousins — we are good friends and staunch comrades, and always will be, I hope ; but lovers — no, no, no !' ' And why V he asks. • Have I not told you already — told you over and over again ? If you don't despise me, and think me heartless and base, the fault has not been my want of candour. My cynicisms I mean, every word. If you had your father's wealth, the fortune ho means to leave you, 1 would marry you tomorrow, and be,' her lips trembled a little, ' the happiest girl on earth.' ' You don't care for me at all, then ?' he calmly asks. ' Care for you ! 0 Charley ! can't you see? I am not all selfish.' I care for you so much that I would sooner die than marry you. For you a marriage with me means ruin — nothing else.' 4My father is fond of me. lam his only son. He would relent.' 'He never would,' she answered firmly, ' and you know it. Charley, the day he spoke to you in Cork, I was behind the window-curtains reading. I heard every word. My first impulse was to come out and confront him — to throw back his favours and patronage, and demand to bo sent home. A horrid bad temper is numbered among the list of my failings. But I did not. I heard your calm reply — the "sott answer that turneth away wrath," and it fell like oil on my troubled spirit. "'Don't lose your temper," you said; "Fred Darrell's daughter and I won't marry, if that's what you mean." ' I admire your prudence and truth. I took the lesson home, and — stayed behind the curtains. And we will keep to that — you and Fred Darrell's daughter will never marry. ' 'But, Edith, you know what I meant. Good heavens ! you don't for a second suppose — ' ' 1 don't for a second suppose anything buc what is good and generous of you, Charley. I know you would face your father like a — like a " griffin rampant," to quote Trix, and brave all consequences, if I would let you. But I won't let you You can't afford to defy your father. I can't afford to marry a poor man.' 'I am young — I am strong — I can work. I have my hands and my head, a tolerable education, and many friends. We would not starve.' ' We would not starve — perhaps,' Edith says, and laughs again, rather drearily. 'We would only grub along, wanting everything that makes life endurable, and be miserable beyond all telling before the first year ended. We don't want to hate each other — we don't want to many. You couldn't work, Charley — you were never born for diudgery. And I—lI — I can't forget the training of my life even for you.' ' You can't, indeed — you do your train ing credit,' he answered bitterly. ' And so,' she goes on, her face drooping, ' don't be angry ; you'll thank me for this some day. Let it be all over and done with to-night, and never be spoken of more. Oh, Charley, my brother, don't you see we could not be happy together — don't you see it is better we should part ?' 'It shall be exactly as you wish. lam but a poor special pleader, and your worldly wisdom is so clear, the dullest intellect might comprehend it. You throw me over without a pang, and you mean to marry the baronet. Only — as you are not yet his exclusive property, bought with a price — answer me this : You love me ?' Her head drooped lower, her eyes were full of passionate tears, her heart full of passionate pain. Throw him over without a pang ! In her heart of hearts Edith Darrell knew what it cost her to bo heartless to-night. ' Answer me !' he said imperiously, his eyes kindling. ' Answer .-ne ! That much, at least, I claim as my right. Do you love me or do you not ?' And the answsr comes very humbly and low : ' Charley ! what need to ask ? You know only too well — I do.' And then silence falls. He takes up the oars again — their soft dips, and the singing ot the girl in the distant boat, the only sounds. White moonlight and black shadows, islands overrun with arbutus, that 'myrtle of Killarney,' and frowning mountains on every hand. The words of the girl's gay song come over the water : ' The time I've lost in vvooinur, In watching and pursuing, The light that lies In woman's eyes I Has beon my heart's undoing. I ' Though wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the love she brought mo ; My only boolcs Wore woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me.'

' And folly's all they've taught me !' Charley says at length. ' Como what may, it is better that I should have spoken and you should have answered. Come what may — though you marry Sir Victor tomorrow— I would not have the past changed if I could.' ' And you will not blame me too much — you will not quite despise me ,' she pleads, her face hidden in her hands. ' 1 can't help it, Charley. I would rather, die than be poor.' He knows she is crying : her tears move him strangely. They are in the shadow of Tore Mountain. He stops rowiner for a moment, takes her hand, and lifts it to his lips. ' I will love you all my life,' is his answer.

j This is how two of the water-party were enjoying themselves. A quarter of a mile farther off, another interesting little scene was going on in another boat. Trixy had been rattling on volubly. It was one of Trixy's fixed ideas bhat to entortain and fascinate anybody her tongue must go like a windmill. Sir Victor sat and ] listened rather absently, replied rather dreamily, and as if his mind were a hundred miles away. Miss Stuart toqk no notice, but kept on all the harder, endeavouring to be fascinating. Bub there is a limit even bo the power of a woman's tongue. That limit was reached ; there came a lull and a pause, 'The time I've lost in wooing,' began the English girl in the third boat. The idea was suggestive ; Trixy drew a deep breath, and made a fresh spurt — this time on bhe subjecb of the late Thomas Moore and his melodies. Bub the young baroneb .suddenly interposed. ' I beg your pardon, Miss Stuarb,' he began hastily and in a somewhat nervous voice ; ' bub there is a subjecb very near to my heart on which I should like to speak bo you thia evening.' Trix sab pbraighb up in bhe &bern of bhe boab as if she had been galvani&ed. Her heart gave one great ecstatic thump. 'Oh,' thought Miss Sbuart, 'he's going to pop !' I grieve to relate ib, but that was the identical way the young lady thought ib. ' He's going to pop, as sure as I live !' There was a pause — unspeakably painful to Miss Stuarb. ' Yes, Sir Victor,' she faltered in her most dulceb and encouraging accents. ' I had made up my mind not to speak of it at all,' went on Sir Victor, looking embarrassed and rather at a loss for words, ' until we roached England. I don't wish !to be premature. I—lI — I dread a refusal so unspeakably, that- 1 almost fear bo speak at all.' What was Miss Stuart to say to this? What could any well-trained youn^ lady say? ' Good gracious me !' (this is what she thoughb) ' why don't he out and not go beating about the bush in this ridiculous manner? What's he afraid of? Refusal, indeed ! Stuff and nonsense !' 'It is only of late,' pursued Sir Victor Catheron, ' that I have quite realised my own feelings, and then when I saw the attention paid by another and received with evident pleasure, it was my jealousy first taught me that 1 loved.' ' He means Captain Hammond,' thought Trixy ; ' he's jealous of him, as sure as a gun. How lucky we met him at Macroom.' 'And yet, 1 again resumed the baronet, with a faint smile, ' I don'b quibe despair. I am sure, Miss Sbuarb, I have noreal cause.' ' No-o-o, I bhink not,' faltered Miss Stuarb. ' And when I address myself to your lather and mother — as I shall very soon — you think, Miss Sbuart, they will also favour my suib ?' ' They favour his suib?' bhoughb Trix. ' Good Heaven above ! was ever earthly modesby like this young man's ?' Bub aloud, still in bhe bremblihg bones befibbing bhe occasion, ' I — think so — I knoiu so, Sir Victor. It will be only too much honour, I'm sure.' 'And — oh, Miss Sbuaib — Beatrix — if you will allow me bo call you so — you ihink bhab when I speak — when I ask — I will be accepted ?' ' He's a fool !' bhought Beatrix, with an inward burst. ' A bashful, ridiculous fool ! Why, in the name of all that's nambypamby, doesn't he pop the question, like a man, and have done with it? Babhfulness is all very well - nobody likes a little of it better than 1 do : but there is no use running ib into the ground.' 'You are silent,' pursued Sir "Victor. ' Miss Stuaro, it is not possible that I am too late, that there is a previous engagement ?' Miss Stuart straightened herself up, lifted her head, and smiled. She smiled in a way that would have driven a lover straight out of his senses. ' Call me Beatrix, Sir Victor, I like it best from my friends — from — from you. No, there is no previous engagement, and ' (archly this), ' I am quite sure Sir Victor Cabheion need never fear a refusal.' 'Thank?.' And precisely as* another young gentleman was doing in the shadow of the ' Tore,' Sir Victor did in the shadow of the 'Eagle's Nest.' He lifted his fair companion's hand to his lip&, and kissed it. After that of course there was silence. Trixy's hearb was full of joy — pure, unadulterated joy, to bursting. Oh, to be out of this, and able to tell pa and ma, and Charley, and Edith, and everybody ! Lady Cabheron ! ' Beatrix — Lady Catheron !' No— l can't describe Trixy's feelings. An hour later, and, as the clocks of Killarney were striking ten, Sir Victor Catheron helped Miss Stuart out of the boat, and had led her up — still silently — to the hotel. At the entrance he paused, and said the ' only disagreeable thing he had uttered tonight. ' Ono last favour, Beatrix,' taking her hand and gazing at her tenderly, 'I must ask. Let what has passed between us remain between us for a few days longer. I had rather you did not speak of it even to your parents. My aunt, who has been more than a mother to me, is ignorant still ot my feelings — it is her light that I inform her first. Only a few days more, and then all the world may know.' 'Very well, Sir Victor,' Beatrix answered demurely ; 'as you please, of course. I shan't speak to pa or ma. Good night, Sir Victor, good night !' May I toll ib, Miss Sbuarb acbually gave the baronet's hand a little squeeze? But were they not engaged lovers, or as good ? and isn't ib permibbed engaged lovers to squeeze each other's right hands ? So they parted. {To be Continued.)