LITERATURE.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XLVII, Issue 7702, 3 January 1905, Page 4

LITERATURE.

FHILLTS IS MY ONLY JOY. (Continued.) ' " You do care for me ? " I " l>o not ask me ! " she answered 1 almost pleadingly. "I was going to jl refuse to see you just now—but—ll l could not. Oh do not speak." | l She sat down. I felt I loved her j 1 at that moment bet for than all the money in the world. |< j "1 know all." she continued after;' a pause, " and X cannot let you .make such a great sacrifice. Wluit matters if—l do—as you think '' I •" I know ! " ' I "As you think, I care for you. ,You have your duty to do—l mine. You wdvl be happy. I trust so, in-', deed, I do; but I cannot niairy ' you." I " l'hillis, you arc hard ! Toll me, ! have you spoken to your father ?" I ! " Xo," she answered in a whisper ; he is abroadl and wfll not return for a month." | I " Wait till his rflturn, dear." | I "It will make not difference. Oh ! i can you not see I d a re not marry you ! It would be robbing you I of-—"• | | 'lt would got rob me. It would ' give mc the one girl in tho world 1 want for wife." | Oh, no, no ! "• Anfl. from that decision no argument?, no entreaty, no appeal of mina could move her. Surely never had been so strange a wooing. I knew she loved me. Her eyes told me, her lingers that nervously twin- I d themselves and then again loosed-) od, her her faltering lips—l i knew she loved me. In every way 1 but ini words she told me so-. j et what could I do 'but accept < my dismissal ? Her self-restraint was ' superb, and I could not 'but admire ■ it, though my heart ached. - I loved i her all tha more for it, though I I |longcd to take her in my arms and 1 jiuake her alter her decision. But I .doubt if phe would have done so, 'even then. I can see the inflexible determination on her face even- to this hour< | " Then it is good-bye ?"- I said [ at last, I "It is—good-bye ! " she answered. | I left her, and went away, cursing fate, the will, the money, "and the 'world at large. | | Let it be said that never once did I it suggest itself to me that I'hillis •Thorne had said no "to me for [mercenary reasons. I had too much 1 -honour in my heart for her ever to tliink that. I knew only too well she was not thet kind of woman, j I wVnt straight to Chaiilc tnderiwocd, and, throwing myself into an easy cbair, told him all —or nearly 'all. I Best thing that cou!d happen," ' was his cynical comment ; " now, j what do you mean to do ? " "Go abroad for a year, anyi where, out of this mlser a ble " 1 J " And forget, of course ! It is I easy to buy forgctfuhiess, if you can afford it ! " But he saw I was " hard hit," and changed his bantering tone.. 1 " Oheer up, old man," he said, I putting a friendly ' hand on my shoulder; " go, and, even if you do not fouget, leave Fato to settle the [matter— Fate always settles matters •'if you leave them long enough,. Go ! away for a year, and w hen you get back sht—l mean Miss Thorne, not ■ Fate—will probably have changed her mind, or n.arried someone else." ! Don't trouble," I said grimly ; v I am going. I wish the money was at the ibottom of the Atlantic." "A chance for the Scfc-nt'ilig l(c- ---! !searches, then," reponded Charlie, cheerily, v Come out and dine with ! mq, and we wiM talk it over." We dined together,, and 1 decided to ltave England at once. I promised to keep him acquainted with my address, a promise which-1 never ;kent, and the breach of which led to, | , a strange sequence of event!;, as will seen, My decision was rendered all the more determined by the receipt of a letter in the morning. It was very short, but I have it yet. " Please do not see me again. I cannot bear. it. To say good-bye is betted, tooth! for you and for me.— I'hillis." After tbVs I packed up, in haste, and went abroad., instructing my : uncle's solicitors that uiy friend, Charlie Underwood, would undertake . to forward any communications to > me.

I had plenty of money, so could choose my own exile, a nd 1 went to Australia. It was new ground to me, and I had always longed to see the finest harbour in the world, that of Sydney.. It did not strike me as .anything out of the ordinary, but I then probably my mental eyesight w a s somewhat jaundiced. I-jaJghT .hava seen supreme beauty in it a lyear before !

From there I, -went to New Zeaamd^a-- variety of adventures befcUjjiei not the least exciting of whjeh were a broken arm in a railWay accident*, and the being lost in the bush for four days, and discovered, by settlers m the nick of time. When I recovered 4rom this Hast " incident " my best friend would not have known me. I was bearded, brown, and a new man, and I wondered, had she fortoggen me. And whenever I h a lf made up my mind to go back to England, the thought of her turned that half mind into a whole mind to remain where I was.

As for my uncle's property—or rather mine—l did not feel the slightest interest in it. I had sufficient money for the year of vagabondage I had set out upon—and truly vagaiwndage was the most applicable word.

I travelled a s Walter Armitaget, when, which was rarefy, my name was asked for. It was a nomad life, yet not an unpleasant one. Unconjcern makes one accustomed to a great many discomforts.

Barring, the railway accident, a "d the being lost in the bush, the worst mish a p I met with was the theft of an overcoat,, which did n°t trouble me beyond that it compelled me to purchase a new one. It contained nothing but an old pocket book, with a few. valueless letters, amongst them being the last pitiful one Phillis had written to me—my sentence of exi)e, and everywhere I went I was haunted by that old song that Charlie Underwood had hummed to me : "Phillis is my only joy" At last my year of wandering was over. Yet I baldly knew, whether to be glad or sorry. If I returned, I could not go and sec the girl I loved. Uut there was the ch a nce that I wight meet her by accident. My heart clung to this crumb oi hope. I loved i her as much as. ever, and we I were p a rted by a silly old man's jidiotic will.-

However, I turned my face homeward, and in due course found my feet once more on English soil'v The lirst person I went to se-> on

my arrival in London was Chai'ie Underwood, and my reception was decidedly startling. I never saw my friend so madly excited, or so surprised in his life.

Ifc grasped my by the hands, and was so overcome that he could not speak a coherent word.. ■'■' What's the matter, man ? Are you not glad to see me ? "

| '•* GOad ! " he literally shouted. ''Glad .' The dead come to life : I was never, so glad of anything in all |my life as lam to see you."

••''Dead come to life ? "-"l repeated, puzzled.: "■ You have been dead and buried these three months ! " he cried.- " I identified your pocket-book—and " I sat down. Tell me all," I said.

" Here it is ! " he began ; " tha body of a man your lm:*d, your Height, anil wearing an overcoat with your pocket-book uml jour letters in it, washed ashore, over three months ago at the mouth of the Thames. The features were unrccOKjiJsabkv but what was I to do but believe it was you ! Thank God it was not. We could find out nothing more, so it was bui'ied as you, and the papers dismissed the matter us one of Life's unsolved mysteries. And here you ar<i alive !"•

"Amd I'hillis ?" I inquired. "Phillis ! " he exclaimed, starting from his seat ; "why, you know nothing, of course ! You've Ijeen, dead ! Oh, sit down, and let me tcj-1 you '." He was rushing up and down the room likq a madman^ '■'She'snot dead?" "Xo 1 no I no ! '* ! V,a on for Heaven's sako,! a i'You'rc free—free to Ecr and keep the money," he almost shrieked at me; r< an( i ifc nevel . camo to jj eht until you were dead. When the news cama, and I identified you, William Thorno camo to see inc, knowilng I had l>een your, friend."

-Well r*"J"he shock of your de a th hud so affected bis daughter I'hillis that she had iold Thome about your uncle's jvitflj .You remember, he was away whep your uncle died, and fov his return it' jveis B U, forgotten, aiid Batui>

ally your name-was menlioned. 1 " "But how am I free?;" 'iAVu.it and hear. When Thorne had beard from his daughter of that tomfool will, he broke an oath he h a d taken over twenty years before, and told a secret he had sworn to keep. Pllillis is not his daughter ! Nor is her name Thome. She is nobody's ! child—adopted from babyhood by Mr and Mrs Thame. There is no such person as Phillis Thorne !" I put my hands on Charlie's shoulders and looked him straight in the ;faco. •'ls this true ?" I said. "Ask Mr Thorne himself." "Then I am the happiest wan in the whole world, Charlie :" 1 sat down in a 'daze. The last tei! minutes of my life had held more 'joy and surprise than would suffice for a whole year. I "I must stee Phi His !" I said, after some thought. | "Wfl'Vsuid Charlie ; "it will be a great shock to her. Remember, she believes you to be dead." I "My poor FhiUis t " The two bars of thy old song kept , beating their insistent sweetness upon my brain. | "Let mo go to sec her. and break I the good news as. gentSy as I Can." I "Stay ! Will it be good naws—to her ?" I "Yes ! " said my friend, emphatically. 'Then go—and nt oncei" "You will come with mo, and wait." I assented, and very soon we were in the fastest hansom at hand, bowling away to Wcstwood Square. llt was only a mile, but to me it scorned twenty. Shown into a mornting room, Charlie asked that his ! name only should he given to Miss I ThoVne, and then pushed me into an ] ante-room. As Pllillis—my only joy ~—came into the room, I could see I I from where I stood her sweet face, I lovelier than ever, but looking at Charlie with surprise. [ "Forgive me," said he "for calling at such au hour, but I venture to think I am the bringor of good news." My darling clasped her hands together at these words. "Oh tell me—tell me—is it ," "It concerns Mr Marchmont." "He is alive—ho is alive ! " said my poor sweetheart with a thrill of joy in her sweet voice that went .through and through me. "Oh, why did you not bring him , or send hiim to mo! Where is he ?" . J I couM hear no niorej and in anothler instant, Phillis was in my arms, and ner beautiful mouth was upturned to mine in the first kisses |we had ever known. Charlie the discreet was studying the. foliage in L Wcstwood Square, and humming , I'Thillis is my only joy" under liis breath. Presently he slipped out cf , the room and left us alone. "And you love me ? " "} ha vo loved you all along," said Phillis ; "t'ei'l me nothing—l want to hear nothing—now you are nlhs!" "And yours—yours for ever mv ( only joy."