THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 61, 16 November 1907, Page 4

THE STORYTELLER.

A VOICE FROM THE DEEP. The rain was descending in torrents, and the wind howling a weird discord M I struggled in pursuit of a Kilburn omnibus. " 'l'rry up, sir," bawled the conductor, and I, breathless and dripping, at last leached it and staggered down its length to tie only unoccupied seat it contained.

"Ftall inside, Bill!" shouted the man, And onward we lumbered. It fia past seven. As we gradually left it behind us, the city looked a dismal and desolate waste whence all who nmld were flying. With the rain rattling against the windows we passed Chancery lane, Oxford street and the Circus without a change. -Nolxxly got out, and we therefore made no stoppages of any kind. At the Marble Arch we .came to a hall, and I heard the conductor assuring someone with stern suavity that there was absolutely no room wi*iinthe conveyance. "I'm truly sorry, miss, but look for yourself," he said. "Will any gentleman ride outside to oblige a lady!" he added, turning round. No one moved. The prospect of a •eat on the outside of an omnibus on »uch a night ai this nipped the instincts of politeness in the bud. At the conductor's invitation the lady had mounted the footboard, and stood gazing de •pairingly within. I raised my heal and saw the sweetest face I had ever encountered. A young face, with great bine eyes, which seemed to rest mournfully upon my own. For one moment I hesitated, then rose. "Allow me to offer you my seat," I ■aid sadly—gladly—sadly. thank you so much!" exclaimed tie owner of the blue eyes, giving me a ravishing smile. I handed her in, watched her until she waa Mated, caught a last look of grititude from her, and then clambered up to the roof in the darkness and the rain without another regret. There I sat under my dripping umbrella while we threaded our way down the Edgware road and out into Maida Vale. Several timea we stopped to disgorge a passenger or to pick lip one, but tlie owner of the blue eyes still remained within, destination was now not far off] |

A/ w« neared i: I sighed to think that aba and I would have to part, perhaps .wjj&oot a glance, never to meet again! filled with this regret I descended, and, fts the This stopped, came into collision with (omeone in the doorway. A pair of arm* clutchei me, a soft voice murmured apologies, and a moment later I wa* standing in the roadway beside the Object of my thoughts. As the "bus rumbled on she turned towards me.

"How can I tliank you sufficiently for jwir kindness?'' she sweetly said. I made some deprecating reply, and the continued: "But you are wet through, and it's my fault" fihe touched my sleeve. Was it that which aent a thrill through me, or the piercing ctld! I could not distinguish. "No, no," I laid quickly. "I was wet Mora I went outside. It's nothing." "Ton must make haste home," she

Murmured in tones of solicitude, "and take your things off, and have some hot brandy and water." It wai an unpoetic but sensible suggestion. Certainly I would adopt it. "But perhaps you are a teetotaller?" ahe hesitated.

"No, no," I hurriedly assured her. "Bat we must noT stand still. You most be anxious to reach your home. May I ask in what direction it lies!"

She indicated the locality, and oh, joy! her house was near my own. "Ton will permit me to see you to your door!" I asked. "If you will be so good. I have no umbrella."

In" a moment mine was covering her trader figure. She crept close beneath its shelter; her hand confidingly sought mj arm; and, where it lightly lay, a gentle warmth sprang up, making my poises throb. Thus we began our walk. The street lamps as we pasted-showed me as dainty «ld as neatly-dressed a maiden as it had ever been my lot to meet. My eyes fed upon her face, until, aware of my gaze, •ad with what scorned a slightly nervous laugh, she said: "Do you fancy you have seen me before somewhere* Tes—no—thaf, is, in church, perhaps," I stammered awkwardly. Heaven forgive me! . I pass my Sundays at my dnb.

"Very likely," she returned. "I hope I am not taking you out of your way. •Your friends will wonder what keeps yon."

"Not it all; nobody expects me.L |WH spend my evening in "Ah! If I could but do the same!" |W» cried, eluping-heth her hands on my am, wißi childish regret in her simple to. '

"Your relatives, parents !" I said. "I have neither. lam only a goverMtt—* domestic servant, without a serratf! liberty, and——" She buried her lace on my sleeve. "It's an abominable shame!" I declared

"Never mind," said she, wiping her eye*. Poor little sonlt I tried to cheer her. Bnt there would be time for that when we met, as I was determined we ■tumid.

"Won't you tell me your name!" I flytrap emboldened by her confidences. "Bitty—Kitty Cleveland. And your!" "George Butin." £Efe repeated it softly. Never had it aonaded like that before. "This if where I live," said ahe almost it the udu moment.

"Hay I call and see you!" 1 asked eagerly. ' "No, no," ahe demurred. "You forget, Xam only a governess." Then putting her little hand in mine, "But on Sundays lam free. Perhaps we may meet in church." "Which church!" I entreated.

"St. Thomas's. Good-night, Mr Basing «nrf thank you foi your kindness/ 1 tore myself away and walked home full of compassion for the tender little •00l whom 1 pictured the slave of a host of rode and tiresome children, treated like a servant by her mistress, and by Uw servants with disdain. 1 grew s«4 with pity as I contemplated the misery of her existence. A deluge should not Veep me from church on Sunday. It did not Through the mud and puddles I sought fit, Thomas's. Kitty was there. We net in the porch after the service, and iOT the second time took joint exercise under my umbrella. For many Sundays after that we spent pleasant hours, flmngfr mostly wet ones, in each other's company. Kitty acquainted me during these walks with the story of her life. It was a sad one. Her father had been in the army. He jra* either a general or a colonel—sometimes one, sometimes the other, she never seemed quite certain on this point. Her mother she never knew, but believ*■—«d her to have been a lady of title. Her childhood was a dream, yet a dream of splendour and pomp. When she was sixteen a terrible disaster occurred. Her lather was killed in a battle, and she was turned out of Iter ancestral home by a cruel and rapacious uncle. Alone and penniless she faced the world, and after many cruel trials and privations found an asylum in a convent. There was a break in her story here. H<jr lips were lealed, she Mid, concerning the events of the next .few years. I must ask her no questions. Ultimately, circumstances compelled her to accept her present situation, which was in the house of a wealthy but illiterate female, who, as 1 gormised, treated her shamefully. This was the pith of her story, told in •ach mournful tones that it brought tears to my eyes. I asked lier tinname of the battle in which her fa the' ML After much cogitation. she thought it was Waterloo, but it might have been the battle of the Nile! Poor child! the bitterness of her loss had impaired her memory. Neither could she recall her mother's maiden name, the place of her birth, of her father's mansion, or his regiment. "Some terrible secret hangs over this young life!" I groaned. "Oh, that I could penetrate it and so restore her to her proper position!" Why 1 put nfT asking her to be my wif> I scarcely know. To sit and dream of love seemed happinees enough, and 1 hesitated to make "her a formal niter of my hand. As Christmas approached, f noticed my Kitty growing more and more low-spirited. I exerted to dispel this dejection, which I lHieved arose from thonghts of her early sufferings. "Why should you dwell upon thn;<> nn happy dayst" I said. "Ah!" she sighed, "you do not know •what makes me sad." "Yes, I know." I declared. "It I- tli" Wtter recollection of the past. \nur| father's death at the battle of Thermoyour uncle's cruelty, the penances

of your convent life, the " '.No, no," she interrupted. "It's the children!" she sighed again. "And their mother and the servants. My life is miserable with them. They treat me shamefully!" Poor child! It was the old, old story oPThe friendless girl made into a kind of domestic slave in the name of charity!

I had made up my mind what to do. I would release her from her bondage without delay. I said nothing of my intention, however. I saw Kitty to her door that Sunday evening, filled with determination fo rescue her or perish in the attempt. I was comfortably wound up to the propfr valorous pitch next day when I rang the bell at Treloar House, Kitty's temporary home. I rang it loudly, so that the house resounded to my summons. A servant, with scared face, came quickly to the door. "I wish to see Mrs Smith," I said in commanding tones. The woman hesitated, but, awed by my steady gaze, ushered me in. "What name, please?" she asked tremulously. I informed her how to an-

nounce me, and she retired. "Xow," I thought, " I must assume my most severe manner. This Jtrs Smith must be given to understand thai in constituting myself Kitty's protector I will stand no nonsense. The brazen faced creature shall not impose upon—' Just then the door opened, admitting a lady of such unassuming aspect that my unfinished threats abruptly left niv mind. With a grev bow she inquired the nature of my business. "Il'm!" I commenced, rising. "There is some mistake, I tnink. I desired to see Mrs Smith." "I am Mrs Smith," he replied gently. "I thought—that is, I was given to understand that she—that is—now, my dear madam," I stammered, taken aback., "cannot we argue this matter out quietly. without violence of any kind?" Keeping her eyes steadily on mine, she moved to the bell and placed her hand upon it. "I do not understand you; pray sit down?" she naid presently, growing a trifle pale. "Then, madam.'l said, "the sooner I explaiji mjself the better. lam here to champion the cause of that unhappy girl whom it has been your pleasure these many months to maltreat most shamefully. lam here to demand an explanation of conduct that is outrageous and inexcusable; and I will have it before I leave tttis house." Then I sat down and watched the effect my words had on this hardened creature. For. I said to myself, I would not allow appearances to favor any other view of her. "To you allude?" she asked with a tremor in her voice. "Oh, it is wilful blindness!" I cried, fitting up again, "to pretend that you lo not understand. You have in your bouse a young and beautiful girl, the scion of a noble race; a gentle creature whom Heaven has endowed with every exquisite quality of the mind and heart, who, for the mere pitiful wage of a sempstress, slaves the lifelong day imongst a horde of unruly children, and who in return is treated with obloquy ind disdain by you and yours. That, nadam, is my charge; that is what 1 lave come to expose. And all I have low to say is that I will wait until Miss Cleveland can pack her trunk and accompany me, her affianced husband, Out if your house." I could have said a great deal more, tut I saw by ber face that I had made : he requisite impression; so I paused. , "Cleveland ? Was that the name you nentioned!' she asked.

"It was, madam. Miss Catherine Cleveland, your unhappy governess." "Governess!" she echoed. "1 have no governess." "I suppose you will assure me next that you have no children!" "Most certainly, none!" "Madame, beware how you trifle with me. lam not in the humor /or pleasantry!" "But lam quite serious. And you are laboring under some very great mistake. I have neither children nor governess. 1 have been a widow for fifteen years!" I was not convinced. Yet, if it should be as she said—a widow of fifteen year? cannot well have a let of children! "Do you deny all knowledge of Miss Cleveland then?" I asked after a pause. "No, I admit I know a person of that name." "Ah!" I exclaimed.

"But she cannot well be the one you are interested in. She's not a governess." 'ln Ifeaven's name what^tben,- is she?" I asked in desperati:rnV "A housemaid. "Whose madam!" ™ouid you like to see her?" she inquired. "Perhaps you will believe me then." 1 "It is absurd," I said with a sh»*;ig. "Still, if you wish it— M She rang the bell. The maid who had I admitted me answered it. j 'Tell Cleveland I wish to see her—■ I here/' said Mrs Smith. The girl withdrew, and we waited in silence. I felt annoyed at being compelled to differentiate between my Kitty and a household drudge. Presently there was a tap at the door, the handle turned, there was a rustle of skirts, and the next moment my head was reeling and my senses wandering. I staggered to a chair and stood, dazed and voiceless, facing the apparition in a cotton gown and muslin cap of—Kitty! She had caught sight of me as she entered, given a gasp of recognition, and tlen, pale as a statue and as immovable, paused, jegarding me with cold and ?iuny eyes. "What is this? What does it mean?*' I heard Mrs Smith's voice ask. "Ay, what does it mean?" I whispered hoarsely. j - i There was no response. The figure that wore my Kitty'# face was silent. "Speak!" 1 cried, "and dispel this horrible nightmare. Speak! and let your voice assure me that you are not the Kitty whom I have loved—and now seem to have lost. Speak!" "What's the good?" Those were her words, spoken sullenly. I shudaered, for the voice was Kitty's. And there she stood, the object of my adoration, the being upon whona I had lavished the holiest and most tender of passions, she who had inspired me with hope and now doomed me to despair. "Can you indeed be that sweet maid," T murmured brokenly, "whose life's romance touched me to the very soul, whose father was a famous warrior who fought and died at Trov, whose noble mother left you in the mercy of a black-browed uncle who robbed you of your fair heritage and cast you on a cruel world? Have those lips indeed touched mine in lingering cartas? Those eve- and told of worlds well lost for love ? Have " '"Oh. cut it short, do," came fhat voice once more. 'lf you'd not come fooling here, as I advised you. you'd have had nothing to complain "of. It's all your own fault; and now sec what you've done. Made a fool of yourself and lost : me my place. It's perfectly disgust- . fog!" . I waited to hear no more. I rushed j fi'.ui the wandered into the Re- . gent's Park, reached a bridge, and. wifhI out a moment's hesitation, cast myself t into the cajial! I No one saw the deed, and my body i lies there to this day.—Armigeh Barclay.