THE STORY-TELLER.

Waikato Times, Volume XI, Issue 903, 6 April 1878, Page 2

THE STORY-TELLER.

WIPiS IN PME ONLY. By the author of " J)qnx TironyE,-" "On Hv.n "\VKnm?fG Manx," '■' IfaDEESIED 11Y LOYB," "A WOMAN'S Wab," &c, etc. (Continued from lust Saturday's issue.) CHAPTER XIII.

He looked up in b aoi< surprise at the question— -it was so total y unexpected. ' In modern poetry ?' he repeated. ' Ye.s, I think' 'I ; am. ' ' Why, Piiilippa? 1 "'■ '' •'• *J will tell you why,? she §,ijd,

turning her beautiful face to him. ' If you will be patient, I will tell 3 r ou why.' Sho was silent for a few minutes, and then Lord Arleigh said — ' I am patient enough, Philippa ; will you tell me why V

The dark eves raissd to his had in them a strange light— a strange depth of passion.

1 1 want to know if you remember the beautiful story of Priscilla, the Puritan maiden,' she said, in a tremulous voice — ' Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth ?' 'You mean the story of Miles Stand is!),' he corrected. ' Yes, I remember it, Piiilippa.' 'That which a Puritan maiden could do, aud all posterity sing her praises for, surely I— a woman of the world — may do without blame. Do you remember, Norman, when John Alden goes to her to do the wooing which the staunch soldier does not do for himself — do you i emember the answer 1 Let me give you the verse —

But, as ho warmed aud glowed in his simple aud eloquent language, Quite forgetful of self, and full of praise of his rival, . Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes overrunning with laughter, Said, in a triuuloua voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John." ' The sweet musical voice died away in tht starlight, the wind stirred the crimson roses-' silence solemn and deep fell over Lord Arleigh and his companion. Piiilippa broke if. 1 Surely ) T ou, in common with all !of us, admire the Puritan maiden, Norman V 1 Yes, I do admire her,' he answered ; ' she is one of my favorite heroines.' ' So she is of mine, and I love her the more for the womanly outburst of honest truth that triumphed over all conventionality. Norman, what sho, " the loveliest maiden in Plymouth," the beloved of Miles Standish, said to John Alden, I say to you — " Why don't you speak for yourself r" ' There was infinite tenderness in his face as he bent over her — infinite pain in his voice as he spoke to her. ' John Alden loved Priscilla,' he said, slowly ; ' she was the one woman in all the world for him — his ideal — his fate; but I — oh, Philippa, how I hate myself because I caunot answer you differently? You are my friend, my sister, bub not the woman I must love as my

wife. 1 ' When you urg-^d me a fe*v minutes sincj to many your friend,, you asked me why I. could not love him, seeing* that he had all lovable qualities. Norman, why cannot you love me ?' ' I can answer you only in the same words — I do not know. I love you with as true an affection as ever man gave to woman ; but I have not fjr j r ou a lover's love. I cannot tell why, for you are one of the fairest of fair wjmeu.' ' Fair, but not your ' ideal woman, ' ' she said, gently. ' rs T o, not my ' ideal woman, ' ' he returned — ' my sister, ciy friend — not my love. ' I am to blame,' she said, proudly ; ' but again 1 must plead that I am like Priscilla, While you were pleading the oause of another, the truth same i;ppermosb j yon must forgive me for speaking so forcibly — as the poem says — There are moments in life when the heart is so full of emotions That if, by cliauue, it be shaken, or into its depths, like a pebble, Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret, Spilt on the ground, like water, can never be gathered together.' <My dearest philippa, you have not been to blame, 1 he said « ' you judge yourself so hardly ahv.iys.' 'It is tho fate of woman to bo silent,' she said again. ' Still, lam glad .that I have spoken. Norman, will you tell me what your ideal woman is like, that I may know her when I see her ?' 'Nay,' he objected, gently, 'let us talk of something else.' But she persisted. <Teil me,' she urged, '■ that I may know in what she differs from me.' ' I do not know that I can tell you,' he replied. ' I have not thought much of the matter.' ' Bat, if anyone asked you to describe your idei>l of what a woman should be, you could do it,' she pursued. i perhaps so, but at best it would be but an imperfect sketch. She must be young-, fair, gentle, pure, tender of heart, noble in soul, with a kind of shy, sweet grace ; frank, yet not outspoken ; free from all affectation, yet with nothing unwomanly; a mixture of child and woman. If I love an ideal, it is something like that.' ' ' f'Arid she must be fair, like all the j/idies Aileigh, with eyes like the hyacinth and hail- tinged with gold, I sappo-e, Norman V 1 Yes ; I sa v a picture once in Rome that realised my notion of true womanly loveliness. It was' a very fair face, with something of the iunoco-nfc wonder of a child mixed with the dawning love and passion pf noblest womanhood,' •"^ou admire, an y^nice. "Vp'o hare both our tastes ; mint 1 , if 1 were a man, would incline more to the brilliant and handsome. She would have added more, but at that moment Lady Peters drew aside the silken hangings. 'My dear children,' she said, f I sh mid ill play my pan of chaperone if I did not remind you of ihe hour. We have been celebrating my birthday, but my birthday is pa.t and gou'e. 'It is after 1 iii'ijuiirhi;!

Lord Arleigh looked up in wonder. 'After midnight? — impossible! Yet, I declare, my watch proves that it is. It is all the fault of the starlight, Lady Peters ; you must blame .that. 1

Lady Peters went out lo them. ' I do not wonder at your lingering here,' she said. 'How cairn and sweet tho night is ! It remiodg me of the night in •• Romeo and Juliet." Ib was on such a night Jessica "

Philippa held op her hands in horror.

'No more poetry to-night, dear Lady Peters; we have had more than enough.' 'Ts that true, Lord Arleigh? Have you really had more than enough V

' I have nofc found it so,' he replied. 'However, I must go. I sometimes wish time would stwnd st. ll ; all pleasant hours end so socn. Good night, Lady Peters.' But that most discreet of chaperones had already re-entered the drawing room— it was no part of her business to be present when the two friends said good night. ' Good night, Philippa,' he said, in a low, gentle voice, bending over her.

The wind stirred her perfumed hair until it touched his cheek,' tho leaves of the crimson roses fell in a shower around her. She raised her beautiful pale f,ce to his— tho unspeakable love, the yearning sorrow oh it, moved him" greatly. He beut down and touched her brow with his lip*. ' Good night, Philippa, my sister —my friend,' he said.

Even by the faint starlight he saw a change pass over bev face.

' Good night,' she responded. ' I have more to say fco you, but Lady Peters will be horrified if you remain any longer. You will call to-morrow, and then I can finish my conversation.'

' I will come,' he replied, gravely. He waited a moment lo see if she would pass into the drawing-room before him, but she turned away and leant her aims on the stone balustrade, j

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