The Story Teller.

Wairoa Bell, Volume V, Issue 176, 16 December 1892, Page 7

The Story Teller.

HIS LITTLE GIRL; OR WORKED OUT,

The heart of an English valley ; a stretch of green slope, where oaks and elms had grown through slow centuries into grandeur; and through the fields, like an airow of silver, the clear waters of the Lean. Down by it 3 hanks a young girl, wandering alone-; singing as she went, her white gown shining in the sunlight. What was her song, I know not. Possibly it was the effort of a very young and sympathetic nature, seeking some faint expression for a sense of joy and beauty instinctively felt. She thought she was alone ; but presently above the high reeds she saw the head and shoulders of a solitary angler, Theu she stopped singing and went on cautiously. The young lady’s chaperon was sitting up among the elms sketching. She had warned her charge not to wander too far away, and of the possibility of encountering strangers ; some of the 4 all sorts of people ’ —tourists and wanderers—who were said in summer to delight in fishing the waters of the Lean. There was that, however, in the shape of the head and shoulders, seen outlined against the sky, which attracted Miss Rawdon, and she did not turn back as she might have done. She was very young, and the world promised to be a fairy tale, with always an impending transformation scene of entrancing possibilities, Only three weeks ago she had left school; the school-house at Norwood and the care of the two kindly Misses Lake, its mistresses, bounded all the horizon of her childish recollection. Now she was longing to comeinto touch with this world of wonders, the smallest incident of which promised an adventure. When she reached a willow, half a field’s length from the angler, she stopped. The trunk partly concealed her, and she could watch proceedings comfortably. 'Nothing might have come of it. She might have returned to Mrs Montressov sitting under the elms with no distinct increase of impression, beyond the outline of a hat and a pair of shoulders ; hut swish through the long grass came something—straight in her direction. It was an Irish terrier, as keenly excursive as herself. He had caught sight of the white gleam behind the willow trunk, and, forgetful of his master and his master’s interests, of all a dog’s duty, he started to investigate its meaning. 4 Back, Rollo—back, you beast !’ The call was imperative ; but for once Rollo paid no heed. He had the bit of something white in his mouth in a trice ; the next moment, with much sagacity, he was fawning and fondling the littlehand laid upon his tawny coat. Instinct told Miss Rawdon it would be better to come from behind her retreat ; so she stood forth in the flicker of sunlight and shadow, a maiden revealed. He hat was in her hand, her brown hair was all tumbled and blown ; the folds of her white gown hung simple and straight round her slight, lissom figure. Bhe was young, and fair, and sweet, and the dog, fawning upon her, had nestled his muzzle in her hand. The fisherman forgot the already startled fish ; he left Ins line in the bushes and came towards her. ‘ Down, Rollo— down, you dog, you Why do we love to picture the birth of the greatest joy which eaith has to give out in the open, where the wind comes laden with songs of a thousand birds, the scents of a million flowers that have Jived and loved and died ? For the sake of our poor humanity, let ua still think that to love purely js to draw nearer to God- —is a step forward upon the way that shall lead to His disclosfngs. It is at the time of this awakening of our greatest capabilities for joy or sorrow that we are most willing to believe Him near—then, and at the time of that other awakening which we are apt to call death. In both cases the issues are so tremendous, the weakness of our finality turns outward, seeking help from the Infinite. Like death, love is no respector of persons, time, or place—he comes upon us when and how and where he wills ; but, if we may choose, let it be far from the jarring discords of the world, the flesh, and the devil —for one moment let us enter

Eden, let us stand, pure, holy, unstained before God. The fisherman had no idea that anything tremendous was happening to him as he stood, hat in hand, apologising for his dog. Only the day had suddenly grown more fair, his heart younger, God nearer. Ellinor thought, * What will Mrs Montresor say ? He is worth looking at.’ And she also felt happier; but in the meantime she must speak. * Oh, it doesn’t signify at all, thank you.’ looking at her soiled gown ; ‘ I love dogs, but I am afraid I have spoiled your sport. ’ ‘ I have had none to-day—the sun is too bright,’ The dog had by this time retreated to his master, and Ellinor felt that she must make a move in the direction of her chaperon. * My friend is up there,’ she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the trees, ‘and I must go back to her, I hope you will have better sport —though not a change of weather,’ she added, laughing gaily, ‘ for the sake of our luncheon.’ She turned away ; but to lose her just then was not within the calculations of the fisherman, ‘ Forgive me,’ he said, with an air of profound anxiety, ‘ but there is a bull up there on the hill. He is, I know, apt to take umbrage at strangers—in fact, he belongs to Sir Arthur, my father. If you will allow us, Rollo and I will see you safely over the bridge,’ A mild herd were grazing on the hill. They showed no signs of ferocity ; but it was impossible to say where the bull might be hiding. And why should this pleasantmannered person tell a story ? She felt rather amused. The first young man to whom she had spoken, and, 10, he was walking composedly at her side ! * Is this land your father’s ? I hope we are not trespassing ?’ 4 Oh, dear no—no end of people come here to sketch the ruins.’ ‘I am Miss Rawdon, of Eirholt,’ said Ellinor, a little stiffly. She did not care to be confounded with ‘ no end of people.’ ‘ Oh,’ lie said eagerly, ‘ I know. Your father has bought that property—a splendid property, too.’ ‘ 1 am expecting my father to-night.’ ‘ That’s jolly 7 for you,’ he said sympathizingly, ‘ at least, I suppose it is.’ She looked at him gravely. How was it that she felt she could say to this stranger what was in her heart. * Is it not strange ?’ she said, almost below her breath. ‘ I have never seen him —that I can remember. I have been at school all these years, and he has been in America.’ ‘ Well, that is rather a stunner—to drop all at once into a parent when you are full grown ; but I expect it will be all right.’ He smiled at her so kindly that the com-mon-place words seemed the deepest sympathy. By this time she had taken his image with some clearness into her mind, as she never again quite lost it. A tall, well-made man of thirty, with kind, grey eyes that smiled pleasantly ; a broad and rather high forehead, where the hair already grew a little thin about the temples. The rest of the features were straight and finely cut; the chin slightly pointed, * Somebody would have liked to paint him,’ she thought ; ‘ one of those old men, Velasquez or Rembrandt.’ They Lad reached the bridge, and the vision of Mrs Montressor, standing up and looking for her charge, presented itself Catching sight of her in her present alarming vicinity, she hurried forward. * There is my friend,’ said Ellinor, ( Mrs MontressoT. Will you come and be introduced to her ?’ She felt pleased at the consternation visible on her guardian’s face as she drew near. ‘ This is Mr Peyton, Mrs Montressor ; he has kindly protected me from a ferocious bull in the other field. It seems we are upon Sir Arthur Peyton’s ground ‘ I am very much obliged to Mr Peyton, but you should not have wandered so far away, Ellinor, and you are quite heated. Come and sit down.’ ‘ I hear you have been drawing the ruins. I dabble a little in colour myself,’ said Peyton. He seemed to have no intention of leaving. He went back with them to the shade of the elm trees, and stayed chatting directing most of his attention to Mrs Montressor, until Jacky (the page) appeared with the luncheon basket, prompted by his own inner cravings. Then at last Mr Pey-

ton remembered the claims of hi tackle. He held Ellinor’s hand for a nu as he said farewell, ‘ I hope we may soon meet again,’ he said. ‘ My mother has been meaning to call upon you ; but she has scarcely been able to leave the house for some weeks.’ When he was gone they spread the snowy cloth upon the g'-ass, and such a collation as women love, cold chicken, and a fresh young lettuce, a bottle of ISauterne, and crisp pastry sheltering green gooseberries. Afterwards Ellinor lay with her head resting against Mrs Montressor’s knee, gazing up through the trellis work of green to the blue depths beyond. She dreamed peacefully a vague, fanciful dream, half pleasant retrospection, half anticipation. She felt that her morning’s encounter had broken the isolation of her life. Strange that it should happen upon this day, of all others : for its close was to reveal to her her one near link with her kind—the unknown father who yet had shaped her destiny. Miss Rawdon was distinctly an heiress, the sum of her expectations had been vaguely hinted at as nearly half a million. She had stepped from her school life to this glorious independence ; to be mistress of Eirholt, ‘ the place in Hampshire ’ bought and fitted up for her reception. And the royal giver of all this was her father, known only through letters delivered to her through the medium of Miss Lake. Her school days had been watched over vicariously by Messrs Ridgway and Smithson, solicitors ; hut now, he was coming the being whe should crown his gifts with his presence. She had often pictured him. Tall she fancied him, with hair turning iron grey ; perhaps a little stoop ; tired from the toil of the years in which he had amassed the wealth which he was coining to share with his little girl, That was the name he gave her in his letters. Short letters they had been, explaining little, but often repeating his desire that she should fully qualify herself for the position it would be hers to fill —telling her that all the hopes and desires of the writer’s heart were centred upon his little girl, and that he was always ‘ her affectionate father, Matthew Rawdon.’ Today her dreams were clearer than ever. They seemed a very foreshadowing cf his presence- It was the restlessness of expectation which had drawn her to persuade Mrs Montressor to come out to spend these last hours in the open field. It was nearly five o’clock when they started on their homeward drive. On reaching Firholt they were met by the housekeeper with the news that Mr Rawdon had already arrived—two hours before his time, Ellinor waited for no comment, she flew up the steps and across the hall, to the small drawingroom, where, she was told, he was awaiting her. An older woman would have paused—tried to prepare herself for the meeting— Ellinor thought only ot the end of suspense. She threw open the door. He had seen the carriage drive up, heard her coming ; he was standing in the middle of the room awaiting her, ‘ Father !’ then she stopped short. Was this he—this her father? There must be some mistake. A small man stood there. His right hand held the wrist of his left, as if seeking support even from himself. One foot shuffled nervously over the other. His clothes hung loosely, and set badly. He was spare and thin ; his scant hair was iron grey and stubbly, inclined to stand upright ; lfis heard was stubbly also, and apparently of recent growth. Aoove all, he did not look a gentleman. He came forward and spoke. His voice was a redeeming point ; it was soft and musical—coming from such a man, it was a surprise. So were his eyes, when he lifted them as he drew near. Habitually they were downcast. He came, leaving the custody of his own wrist, and rubbing his hands together. ‘ Is this,’ he said, ‘ is this my little girl V She lifted her head and blushed. Was it for him, or for her thoughts of him ? ‘ Yes, father, I am Ellinor.’ He leant forward and kissed her brow—he had no occasion to stoop. As he did so, his eyes met hers, She saw them, wistful, pleadiug, as though asking forgiveness for she knew not what, perhaps for his presence. Her heart reproached her ; everything was his, even herself It was a relief when Mrs Montresor came in. If she felt surprise, she was too clever to show it, and her somewhat effusive greeting gave Ellinor time to recover herself,

s. t than on. Mrs Mo. upon the girl _ hands among the the function was ove, duct Mr Rawdon over i. ‘ Messrs Ridgway and b good as to consult me about . incnts,’ she said. 4 I hope they „ with your approval.’ 4 Sure to do that, ma’am—sure to do that,’ he answered. ‘ Ellinor, dear.’ said Mrs Montresor, ‘ you look tired. Had you not better go and take your hat oft’? Meet us in the long gallery. We will wait for you theie.’ Ellinor was thankful for the respite, for the chance of solitude. In safety within her own room, she flung herself upon her bed ; she was over-wrought, over-excited, and her dismay found vent in ready tears, a fit of childish, heartbroken sobbing. ‘ What was she to do ? What should she do ? Who was he ? What was he ? And the Peytons were going to call!’ Theu, the fit of crying over, and being a child still, and simple in her ways, she knelt beside the bed, and prayed for strength to do her duty. When Mrs Montresor came to seek her nearly an hour later, she was sitting calmly by the window. 4 You should have come down, Ellinor,’ she said, busying herself about the room ; ‘ your father was disappointed.’ ‘ I was very tired, dear Monty. I am sorry.’ There was a quiet, constrained tone in the young voice that was new to it, Mrs Montresor was a good woman, but of coarser stuff than her charge. Bhe went over to her side. ‘ Tut dear child—don’t fret —he has kind eyes—you must take care of him—£3oo,ooo —he’3 a prince compared to many a man I’ve seen feted for half the money.’ Ellinor drew back a little ‘ It is time to dress for dinner,’ she said. ‘ I mustn’t vex my father by being late. Is he gone to his room !’ Instinct had revealed to her her Lsson. There was a burden she must stoop to carry 7, but to the world she must walk upright. With curious consistency she chose the handsomest dinner dress in her wardrobe for her toilette; one which she had put aside as unfitting her years The train and bodice were of grey velvet, falling open in front over a petticoat of brocade and old lace. Indeed, it was better suited for a woman of forty ; hut, when her maid had gathered her hair into a tight knot on the top of her little head, and she had fastened a great bunch of roses in her bosom, slie looked a quaint and dainty lady, and moved with a uewly born dignity pretty to see. She glanced at herself in the pier-glass. 1 Had it been different,’ she thought, 4 I could have put on my white gown. 1 could have remained young. Now I see why he educated me ; I must make it np to him-’ He was waiting for her in the large drawing room ; not in evening dress, but wearing a loose black coat and white waistcoat, He looked at her with pride, almost with awe, as, her head held high, she swept into the room. The dinner passed off better than she had hoped. She noted that he was cautious and quick of observation. Ho watched her and Mrs Montresor from beneath his eyelids, and followed their lead j also he talked little, Mrs Montresor was right in her prediction that the county would call. Before Mr Rawdon had been a fortnight at Firholt the carriages began to roll up the diive with considerable frequency. Ellinor took her line. She was a little on the defensive, dignified, very quiet, defying criticism. In the daytime she dressed with marked plainness, in the evenings with marked splendour. It was wonderful where the girl had learnt that she could no longer afford to be childish.

(To be continued).