CHAPTER V. (CONTINUED.)

Waikato Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1866, 21 June 1884, Page 1 (Supplement)

CHAPTER Y. (CONTINUED.)

A fcv day;- more and we vreie speeding down ihe c La l low v.^tcis oi Poit Chalmers, bound lor MeiLcunio; tnd yet again a few days, ar.d >/o v-tic tossjni,' on the /oiling sjas of Bn.ss'h Ruaiio, btcaraiu^; as fast as tne mail ahip cuuiu bear us for th^ shores of England. Ten yeui 3 had s c been abneul, and during thit timo Vihct c^u' gos mifht not have occucred? Foi m^lf, except that ray father v,as, r.s I had k-aiiib fiom his letters, failing, none could Imvo lipj/jjtncd that mattered niuch. Lut foi J..ok. Wh^i if Br-atiix Walton had foipoit ii him? Wli.il if t>he had manied ? What if .''he were dead? Such things, all of them had happened, were happenin .' continually. Ana Jiekj though he said nothing — for, bj a tacit undoi^tindlug, we had como never to bpeak on c'ne subject — gj"ew moody and ar^ioj'3 as th^ c 3 ays went by. The orien , tal miauled .-pl'ndov and tawdriness of p. Ceylon; flic wide-f'trticohing tieaeits of ; Arabia ; the ancient monuments of Egypt ; the watei -,tvtete oi Venice ; the faded magnific^iJC3 of Padua, Veiona, Milan, Turin, p.ad other old I?ali<m chics ; tln<t wonderful piece of enj-'inetiin.T hev.vcen ilodnne and La Praz ; the Mont CcjiL tv>nr>cl ; the gaieties of Paris ; although e.ich u r >i ail wexe matters of surpiise raid delimit to ray, for I had never seen them before, to him hud no charm. He passed through them and by them without comment, alow t without notice. His only thought, his only wish, was to be moving omvaid, ever onward. Wepaited in London, I to stay a day or two v/ith some fiiuids before going home, he to seek hi., it niij'hi be, lost, still unforgotlen, love at Casilecomer. Alas, poor Jack 1 He heard all too soon, at Lia father's houpp, the Bid story. It was an oIJ, old tale. The pri^e of the Waltons had mdeed been bioujyit low. The wealth of than ymvpiojJ man \vho had driven him Jr.to exile had va>ij ;Lcd lika the moiuingmist before- the sun. Mi. Walton had speculated in rfijlwr js*, f.ne<gn bond.3, tin, copper, what not i Lad hz.Ci lo^t. Then, with the meicantUc g^imblex's mad imatiidtion, he had risked isoiu unO moie, had lisked his all, in short ; and had licen from an uutasted breakfast one morning, haggaid, ghastly, and bowed, finding himpelf a mined man. The blow had killed him; and, even while the poor corpse wa3 being borne to its last resting place, in the old ceineteiy at Castlecomer, the creditor or thsir representatives weie taking an inventory at Walton Court. Miss Walton, pale and broken-hearted, had remained in the house with her young brother until the day of the funeral, when she b'td been taken away by a gentleman, a relative it was supposed, who had suddenly come over l-"om England, and who had then as suddenly disappeared. That was all that Jack could learn. She whom he had come so many thousands miles 10 find, had gone, no one knew whither, had disappeared as , effectually as if the sea had swallowed her up. Poor Jack. It was a, cruel blow for him, and all th" more cruoi from the uncertainty. Had she been dead, nay, had she been even mariied, he might have, after a time, found solace from Time, the great healer ; but the absolute ignorance of any clue by which the jiamiul cu&pens.3 wight be ended, wa3 more than he could bear. He became moody and discontented, and spent his days in wandering aimlessly about, especially along the bank of the Noie to the spot where he had first seen her, a spot now held sacred in his eyes. Certainly he enquired at Tom Eyan's, the Castlecomer Hotel, regarding this stranger who had borne away his Beatrix in such a mysterious manner, and by means of sundry shillings slipped into the hands of Jerry the gropm and pretty Nelly Eooney the housemaid, exw acted the information that the gentleman's nauv wa&, as ife was thought, Thompson or Johnson, that he did not look much like " Wan of the rale quality itself," ihat, bo ff.r as could be lemembered, he came from Cailow by the coach on the day of the funeral, and went back next day, taking with him Miss Wa'ton and Master Maurice, " and she, poor deur young lady, as white and whisht a^ a ghost, crying for her dead father, and maybe for somebody else in furriu parts, who ougnt to have been there to comfort her, but wasn't." This last from Nelly Booney, by which it will be seui that Nelly had, as they Bay, eye 3 in her head, and was able to ccc as far through a millstone as other people. lie went to Carlow, and by dint of enquiry and & fuither expenditure oi shillings, found out fiom one of the .stable boys who came from Castlecomer, and who knew Miss Walton by si;dat, tht,t the paity he was asking after had come by the coach, stopped for dinner at the Feathers Inn, and gone on, . presumably for Dublin. , ' To Dublin he followed, and there, by wayc laying the clerks at the various shipping -" offices, and by the process of what ia known in Australia as " ahouting " freely, he induced them to look back their passenger tioket- , blocks to the date he gave, and discovered %., that a Mr. Thompson and a Miss and Master |& Walton had sailed on such and such a day, |||by the steamship Emerald, for Holyhead. W " Here the trail stopped, the traok was lost. jf'/ Holyhead meant nowhere) or rather it meant || every where, for it was but the starting point

to ihe network of 'railways that ramified England— east, west, north, and south. But ho went to Holyhead nevertheless, and then ho went to where everybody goes, to London, calling on me at the quiet rectory in Cheshire, to aid him in his search. Poor follow, my heart bled to sec his careworn face, acd I could refuse him nothing. But our quest was futile. Iv vain we advortised in the agony columns of the London and many of the provincial papers. In vain we offered rewards for information. In vain we subsidised Scotland Yard. Nothing came of it, until the " hope deferxed that, rnaketh the heart sick " was at length worn out, and we both, tired of a life of inaction, weary of London and of England, turned our faces once mora toward the blue skies and swelling plains of the great Southern land, so long our home. • * * « • And thus came it that in the train which was rapidly carrying us from Sydney to Melbourne, did Jack say to me, a3 related at the commenceraGnt of this story, " I wonder whether we shall meet any of our old mates of the Shotover?" And now came about another of those turns in fortune's wheel so inexplicable and so unlocked for. " Nothing happens but the improbable," says some philosopher, and of all incidents in this strange eventful history, none so strange as this. Seated in the same compartment of the carriage, and nearly opposite me, was an elderly man, intent on reading a newspaper. I had taken no particular notice of him up to then, beyond a few passing words, but I observed that as Jack and 1 conversed, he looked ovtr the top of hi 3 paper, and scrutinised us narrowly. " I think," he aaid at last, " I heard you mention the Shotover, sir." " Yes," I replied, " we were speaking of the place. " " The Shotover in New Zealand, I presume you mean? " " The same, sir." "Ah," he said, "its curious, I was there once, myse]i." i " Indeed ! so were we." " Ah ! I don't seem to reeolleot you, and yet, maybs you might have hoard of i»e. Bill the packer they used to call mo. I was packing from Queenstown to the Shot, and ths Arrow for many a year." "We have hoard of him by repute, but as of one of tho old hands who had left before our time Oar conservation soon drifted away from the familiar subject of mining, and the men v; c had mutually known on the various diggings, to general tophs. He had been homo he told us, on a matter of business, but had returned some two years before, and had taken up his residence in Melbourne, where, with the money he had accumulated by his lucrative calling of a packer in New Zealand, he hud established himself in business. Jack did not take any part in the conversation. He seemed as was frequently is wont to b'i liuiied in reverie, and I was too well accus'icraei to his moods to attempt to disturb him. My new friend remarked as much in an uhdoitond. " Ycrf," I replied in the same key, " poor Jack ho h&s had a sad disappointment, a bitter grief in the old country, and has not yet recovered from the effect of it." " Jack," said my companion, "is that his name? " " Yes, Jack to me, dear old Jack Butler, the best fellow ." " Butler I Butler 1 I suiely know that name. Let me think. Why God bless my soul," whispered the stranger exoitedly, " it cannot surely bo possible. Tell me, does ysur friend come from Ireland ? " "He does. He is one of the Butlers of Kilkenny."' The man stared at me, and then at Jack as if, in sheer amaze, he could soarcely believe the evidence of his sen&es ; " are you sure ? " he whispered at last," Jack or rather John Butler, youngest son of Reginald Butler cf the Elms near Castlecomer ? " " The dame, I am his cousin, and know him to be." But why ? "I asked, as much surpiised as my questioner. " I'll tell you by and bye," he replied hurriedly; and in fact there was no time for further converse then, as the train with a warning shriek was slowing for Albury, and presently glided smoothly up to the station. But my new friend contrived to get the seat next me on the box of the omnibus, that in those days connected the New South Wales Terminus with the Victorian one at Wodonga, and during the two miles drive imparted to me something which set my blood surging through my veins, and which almost caused me to sing aloud in a very rapture of delight. "And mind," he said at parting a3hs wrung my hand warmly, and pressed into it a card bearing his name and address in Melbourne, " The day after to-morrow is Christmas day, you come and dine with me. Say nothing, but bring him with you, and please God there shall be to more than one heart, a truly happy Christma3. I remain here until to-morrow. Don't forget. The old fashioned mid-day dinner, one sharp." ***** How I ever refrained from bursting into song, how I abstained from flinging my arms round dear old Jack's neck and telling him all I had learned at any moment during that long railway ride to Melbourne and the next two days, I hardly know, but I did, and verily I had my reward. But Christmas Day camo, and I must oarry out the programme. At first Jack did not want to go, but I insisted ; nay, made it a personal matter that he should, and he gave way. " But why are you so anxious for me to dine with this person ? " he asked diffidently. "Ah ! Jack, dear boy, if you only knew 1 " "You seem strangely moved, Larry," he said ; " have been for the last two days. What is it, old chap." " Good news, old boy ; great nows, glorious news. Why, Jack, pluck up heart of grace, and smile as you shall smile before this day be done, or I'm a Dutchman. What 1 Jack Butler going to eat his Christmas dinner with the face of a mute at a funeral. Not so ; remember tha words of your favorite Longfellow, "Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining." He smiled wearily and said, " True ; but not for me, Larry, not for me." To which I returned the vague ambiguity, " We shall see what we shall see." At half-past twelve we started from the White Hart Hotel, where we sojourned, to walk to our friend's house in East Melbourne, and I thought it time to prepare Jack for what to him would, I doubted not, be the most pleasant surprise of his life. " Supposing you could have what you wished for on this gracious day, Jack, what would it be," I asked. " Suppose, suppose, suppose the heavens were to fall. What's the use of supposing ? " he said. " Well, but suppose." " Larry, old friend, I have nothing to wish, nothing to hope for ; with me even hope is now dead." "Hope is never dead; hope cannot die. What says the poet ? ' Hope springs eternal Jn the human breast.' " ""* " Yes," he replied bitterly, " but finish 'the couplet, «Man never is, but always to be, bleat.'" ■ " Exaotly— always to be blest— and you, dear old chappie, shall be blest, and that sooner than you anticipate." He stopped, and looked me straight in the face. " What do you meanrliwry ?" he aaid. 1 :~'\^'.''2i'tSfrM£i.:t:d' :U

There has been something strange about you for the last day or two that I cannot make out. What is it ? " "Wait and see," and with that for the moment he had to be content. We arrived at the house we were bound for as the post office dock was booming one. Evidently wo were expected, for our friend opened the door himself even as I rang. " Have you told him ? " he said to me. " No," I replied ; "I have left that for you to do, Mr. Thompson." " Mr. Thompson I " said Jaok hoarsely, staggering and turning pale. " Great God 1 Is it possible that " " Everything is possible. As the angelic choir sang nearly nineteen hundred years ago, so J say now, " Behold, I bring you tidings of great joy ! " "And she— Beatrix — ?" gasped Jack faintly. "Go into that room. Sho is expecting you." " Jack looked at our host like a man in a dream, but he opened the door of the room denoted. A moment, and there was a great , ecstatic cry, as Mr. Thompson, closing the door softly, took me by the arm, and with I a suspicious moisture in his eyes, led me away, saying, " I think we're managed that very nicely, but we are no longer needed here. Come into the dining room and we'll drink their healths. I've had dinner delayed for half an hour, as I thought they might have something to say to each other, and in the meantime I'd like to have a crack with you." * * - * * It is night. I lay down my pen. My story is finished. And, yet hardly so, iot even now, another Christmas Day, I have received letters from homo, sent up from my office. Some of them I lay aside to read later, but one I open. I know the handwriting, and read. Part of it runs thus: — „ Walton Court, Oastlecomer, Ireland. "Dear Larry, — ' For so Jaok insisted on my calling you ; this will, as we calculate, reach you in far away Melbourne about Christmas, and I send it wishing you all the compliments of the season. We had your last letter in due eourrfe, and were glad to hear that my brother, Maurice, was getting on so well. As you will see, we are settled in the old house ; Unole Thompson bought it, and insisted on making it over to me as a wedding portion. We have just been to the Elms. You will be glad to lenrn that papa and mamma aie well. Ted has at last got his captaincy, and Ge'jui* has a good ap pointment as manager of an iron works at Gefle in Sweden. Ellen has had another, a girl this time, who is to bo called atVr me ; and Kate is to be mauled next month. Ho is one of the Powers (C latlc?) of Abbeyleix, not far from heie, and is a, o irrhter in fair practice. Baby — you know, we have called him Lawrence — is well and thriving. He i 3 the loveliest and most wonderful, etc., etc, &c." (Here conies half a pi;io about the baby, and a few lines about other matters, which I will, if you pleape, skip). " Jack writes you by tim mail. Oh Larxy ! dear Larry, do yen i-j nember that Christmas Day ? I am f,in^ you do. God bless you. God bless you. Ameu. Is the •wish and prayer of tho Juppiost woman in lieland. "Bbvthix Butler." Of course thoie 1j a postscript, but the words swim, and the L.x 3 seem blurred. I cannot read. I walk softly to the window and look out. It had been a wet evening, but " the rain had ceased to fall, the sky had cleared, save where the fleecy rack sped across it, and the moon was shining brilliantly in the heavens," just as it did on that eventi il Christmas night on the shoulder of the WaAiupu range in 1870, when I pointed id out to Jttdcas an omen of good fortune, tho gooJ fortune that came indeed " After many days." The E.\d.