CHAPTER XXXVI. GEORGE'S STORY.

Waikato Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2182, 3 July 1886, Page 1 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XXXVI. GEORGE'S STORY.

George received this letter with mingled feelings, the strongest of which, howeTer, were gratitude and thankfulness that Captain Clayton had left Oldcastle -without any further dicovery. But a certain regret also, an undefined feeling of disappointment in her character, rose in his mind at the sudden decision which Laura had so hastily made. «I need not have disturbed myself about her feelings, at any rate,' he thought, half bitterly. ' Poor Amy ! it would be better for her if she had a little of Misi Claytons prudence and composure.' But ' Poor Amy ' seemed to his leart just at that moment the sweeter and tenderer woman of the two ; and, eager to relieve her anxiety at once, he started almost immediately after receiving Laura's letter for Narbrough. He reached the station about seven in the evening, and in walking down the road to the Vicarage he encountered the •doctor, and aa usual Btopped to address Jhim, but was received by the rough Scotchman with the scantiest of courtesy. •Well, I must pay good evening to •yon,' said George, after a few words had been exchanged between them, • for they *xpeot me at the Vicarage.' •I have a patient there just now,' said Dr. Ruthyen, and then he paused. i Yes, Miss Williams, replied George, •quickly; adding, with natural anxiety, * how do you really think she is, doctor ? —nothing very wrong about her I hope ?' *You do feel a bit anxions then, Mr George, about the poor laseie V answered Dr. Ruthyen ; and he fixed his small, keen, grey eyes on Georges face, and added, * you have some cause ; Misa Williams won't be alive, it seems to mo, to trouble you long.' • What do you mean, anked George ; 1 1 do not understand you.' •Mr George,' said the dootor, •with your leave, I'll just turn with you if you are in a hurry, for I would like a word or two on this subject. I've known you since you were a lad, so you'll excuse plain speaking, and I'm a plain man.' • Say what you like.' 'Theresa disease,' went on the dootor, ▼cry gravely, * which gets a vast deal of fine names— a disease which breaks up the health, the temper, the nerves of the patient, one after the other— a disease which is the prelude Lo many; whi«h iometimes ends in a oold, sometimes in a sometimes only in tho Idas of

all beauty, spirit, or enjoyment of any kind. But it is not uncommon, and my patif-nt at the Vicarage is a case of this sort.' I But what is it, doctor ?' 4 Just a broken heart, lad, that's about the truth,' answered Dr. Ruthyen; 'a lingering, wasting sorrow of some kind or other, which saps the constitution, and brings many a bonny lass to an early grave. I've good cause to know it,' he continued, sorrowfully, 'for my sister, my only sister, was one of its victims. • How did she die ?' 4 Just as this one will, if we don't take care. She pined and pined, and then caught cold and went into a decline one winter. But we found out the cause too late, for on her deathbed she left a letter j for a young gentleman, who had amused some of his spare time by breaking poor Maggie's heart. Folks say, Mr George, added Dr Ruthyen, turning awayjhis honest face, ' that you and this Miss Williams were once very kind. Would you like to have her death at your door, as Mr Selby had my poor sister's?' 4 You are utterly mistaken,' answered j George, much disturbed. • I may be ; but if it'isn't you, it's some other. The poor lass has lost all j heart and hope, and she's only a delicate creature to begin with. She won't last over the fall if this goes on. But I've said my say, and so I'll just wish good c'en to you.' 'But, Dr. Ruthyen,' began George, slowly ; and then he paused, for he remembered he could scarcely say anything without partly betraying Amy's secret. 1 Believe at least in one thing,' he continued earnestly, ' this illness of this unhappy young lady is through no fault of mine. I have asked her to be my wife.' I 1 am glad to hear it, Mr George— heartily glad,' said the doctor, and he held out his hand as he spoke.' 'I've always respected you before as an honest man, and I'm glad to do it again. So this young lady has other troubles, has she ! Well, well, whoever the man is, he's a scoundrel, I'll be bound. But I'm glad it isn't you, lad ;' and he once more shook George's hand in his large, strong one, and then nodded and turned on his way, leaving George more unhappy and desponding than before ; and with the most painful feelings struggling in hig heart, he continued to walk slowly homewards. The Vicar was in the garden enjoying the air as he opened the gate, with his hands under his long clerical coat, and a short pipe in his mouth, and he advanced to meet his son as soon as he appeared. • Well, my boy, is that you ?' he said. • Nelly half expected }ou to-night, I think, as our interesting invalid upstairs sB rather worse to-day, I believe.' ' Not worse surely, father ?' • So they tell me ; and if it isn't asking an impertinent question, George, I would really like to know all about this mysteri ous return of hers, and my wife's silence and disopmfort on the subject. She doesn't lie well, poor Nelly— worse than any woman I cve 1 ' saw, I think ; and she's tried a few very transparent ones with me on this matter. But if you've a mind to speak the truth ' 1 ' Miss Williams was not oomfortable in her situation at Oldcafttle,' said George. • That's enough, my dear fellow, that's enough,' said the Vicar, waving his pipe in the air. 'That is one of Nellie's stock. I see you two mean to keep me in the dark ; well, I'm a good-natured man, and it doesn't disturb me in the least — only I feel rather offended at being taken for an idiot; and I think that must be your opinion and Nelly's of my mental capacities ; for young" ladies in general don't leave their situations in the middle of the night, and come express with young men, because they do not happen to be comfortable in their situations. Nay, don't bother to invont anything new. I'm content, quite content, with the fifty pounds a year Nelly tells me you mean to pay for her board. Your first payment will in fact be very convenient to me just now, and will just buy me a new rod I have coveted tlice six months, but never could make up my mind to afford.' 4 Well, father, you shall have it at once,' said George, with a smile. 'Thanks, my dear fellow; short accounts, etc., you know the old adage? But there is another thing perhaps I should mention— Ruthyen thinks badly of her, and I've a kind of feeling it isn't a very gentlemanly action to break a peor girl's heart; but it's your look out — I don't wish to interfere.' ' Does everyone take me for a scoundrel, father ?' said George, angrily. ' I've just met the doctor, and he's taken me to task on the same subject ; but if it will satisfy your scruples at all, I may as well tell you at once that I would marry Miss Williams if I could.' 1 Then, why the deuce don't you ?' •Simply because I can't,' answered George, and he walked into the house, leaving the Vicar full of curiosity, though he would not have admitted it for the world. ' How is she, mother ?' asked George, after Mrs Manners had kissed him. 4 The same, Georgie,' she answered gravely ; • I wish I could say anything but that ; but she has no life left, poor thing, and lies up yonder in bed or on the sofa, and never speaks, and doesnt' eat so much as a sparrow. Sir Hugh was down this morning, and wanted to see her ; but she only shook her head. •It will do no good ' she said ; and she wouldn't. 1 Well, it would have done no good, mother.' 4 1 thought it might have roused her a bit; but she'll see you, of course, Georgie ; so I'll just run up and tell her you've come, for fear it starts her if r you go in too suddenly.' A few minutes elapsed, and then Mrs Manners called from the top of the staircase for George to come up ; and as he entered Amy's sick-room she went out of it, closing the door after her, and left them alone. George had schooled himself for this interview — he had fixed what he would say ; how he would try to cheer her, and rouse her mind from the overwhelming sorrow which oppressed it ; but both his purpose and his memory seemed alike to fade away at the sight of her altered face ; and in silence be held out his hand to her, utterly unable at that moment to collect his thoughts. She was stating- on a couch by the fire, though it was midsummer, with a shawl wrapped round her wasted form, and her eyes had a look of restless fear and anxiety in them inexpressibly painful for George to witness. • Tell me at once,' *he said, hurriedly, fixing them upon him with a kind of wild eagerness in her gaze ; tell me the worst — am I still safe ?' • Yes.' said George, rousing himself, and trying to shake off the shock which her changed appearance bdd given him ; 4 yes ; but why are you bo nervous ? what are you af rai lof here ? — and, besides, Captain Clayton is gone.' 4 Thank God ! thank God ?' said Amy, fervently, sinking 1 bank on thp couch. •My Father, I thank Thoe. Oh ! George,' she continued, excitedly, ' I have prayed and prayed hut to die — to die before he tears me away — asd I think God has heard me. I i-hink lam going 1 fast.' •And is this right?' said he, gently, suppressing by a violent effort the throbbing agony which filled his own heart. lls this right of you, Amy ? Suppose my sister were to pray for something else _t Q pray that she might lead a different

life— to live for others ; not lament over

what now cannot be changed. 'But I am so afraid,' said Amy, speaking fast. ' I start up in the night and see his dreadful faoe. Oh !if he were to find me, George. But tell me all, I can bear it. Did you see him ?' 44 Yes, and he is not quite such a bugbear after all. I dined with him at the Mounseys, aud I have a piece of news for you also, Miss Clayton is to be married to Mr Peel." 44 Is that true ? Really, how can she, to suoh an old — old man ?" 44 To such a rich— rioh one, you mean," answered George, with a smile. You are a romantic little girl, Amy, and should learn to be more worldly. It's a grand match I think for our friend, and she told me herself ; so you see I have it on the best authority." Talking in this strain, and with the greatest patience and kindness, George tried during the next half-hour to make the unhappy woman besides him forget her grief, and prodnoe a more healthy tone to her mind ; and gradually, as he drew her thoughts away from her own affairs, her faoe began to assnme more of its ordinary gentle expression, and by-and-by George proposed to have Milly in beside them. 4 You must not shut up yourself any more,' he said authoritatively ; ' mother tells me the little one cries beoause you won't see her;' and with a kind of sigh of rest and relief, which his presence seemed to give her, Amy shut her eyes and lay back on the couch while George went to seek his little sister. ♦ Whatever am I to do to amuse you two sick ohildren ?' he said, when he brought MiHy in, having previously instructed her to be very quiet and not to ! excite Miss Williams ; and the child, with j that delicate instinct which she possessed, when softly up to the couch where Amy was lying, and laid her lovely little cheek ! against hers without speaking, and then | timidly kissed her. •What shall we do, Milly? Shall I read you a book or tell you a story ?' said George. 'Now, little woman, you come here and sit on my knee, and don't disturb Amy. You are such a great heavy thing, and I can't have you pulling her about; and Amy smiled more like herself as George said this, and held out her hand to her poor little visitor. 4 Tell a story, George,' said Milly ; 4 a story — something about the sea.' 4 Shall it be tragical. Milly — shipwrecks, &c. ? or mormaidish and sentimental ? Which will you have ?' 'Oh about the mermaids, I think. Yes, I like that best ; not about the poor sailors— it's so dreadful to hear about them being drowned.' 4 Very well,' said George, 'about the mermaids, then. Well, let me see. I must go bsck some nineteen or twenty years to begin with, to the time when— somebody, who is a grown man now, with a pack of troubles always to carry about on his shoulders, was only a very happy, jolly, little boy, who lived by the sea, and had great faith in the mermaids, and mermen, who were still said to haunt by the shore. But he had never seen one, though he often risked a scolding from his good mother by stealing down j in the dusk to the sands, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of these strange creatures. But it was all in vain — he never heard anything but the strange music of the sea, which, however, had a sort of satisfaction for him, and seemed ever to touch and thrill some feelings in his little heart, for he would dream by the sea of things which he was to do in the future \ of good actions, which I fear never came to light; and of beautiful faces — which, perhaps, he may have seen. 1 But all this soon came to an end. The little boy was sent away from the sea ; was sent some hundreds of miles away, and he played cricket and football, and fought — I am ashamed to say — with other boys, and almost forgot all about tne mermsids and the shore among his new companions ; until one day the doctor, who was head-master at the school, took it into his head to have his garden-walks new laid with gravel, and have it brought all the way from the coast. Then the little boy, who came from the sea, thought he felt the old, fresh smell of it again as the men were spreading the gravel out in the garden ; and he peeped in on the sly, and saw a great a heap of it lying close to the gate, and on the top of the heap there was a shell — a shell of the kind which, when he was a little child, he remembered his nurse telling him that if he put it to his ear he would hear it sing ; for they never forgot, she said, the sound of the waves. So for the love of the sea the boy stretched out his hand and took the shell, and carried it to his room, away from all the noisy boys in the playground; and lo ! and behold when he held it to his ears, the shell sung with the music of the sea. 1 Well, the litfcle boy was quite pleased with his treasure, and at night he hid it under his pillow, and when all his companions were asleep he listened ' again to it, and somehow it made him think the old thoughts, and dream the old dreams, which he had almost forgotten. By-and-by he also fell asleep, with the shell still in his hand — at least he thought when he grew to be a man that he must have been asleep, but it seemed like reality to him then — the reality of what he wished for so long ; for he saw a mermaid. * I will tell you exactly how this name about. He was lying with the shell in his hand, and he felt something move and gently touch his fingers, and. so he opened his hand and looked, but ttyere was only the shell. Now, this happened twice, and he saw nothing, but tin the third time the moon, vvhich had by this time ' risen, and was shining into the window, showed him, by it* pure bright light, a lovely little head peeping out of the shell, j with long, curled, fair hair, and beautiful blue eyes, and the boy gazed at it in j speechless admiration. Then presently ! the most perfect little creature which could be imagined crept right out of the shell, with a golden harp in her hand, i and began playing the strange musjc which the boy had heard before. Only it seemed louder now, and he knew then that this was a mermaid — a mermaid who must have been hidden in the shell. 4 He was almost afraid at first, but after awhile he took courage and spoke, and, asked the little mermaid how she came to be there — came to be hundreds of miles away from her native shore. 4 Then the beautiful creature burst into tears, and told him in the sweetest voice which surely ever was heard, that she had fallen into a snare — that she had been dragged away from the sea. 4 And, little boy,' she added, when you picked up my poor shell to-day, and listened for the music, I knew you belonged to the shore, and I said I will ask him to take me back — not leave me to perish on the odious gravel- walks of a school.' 4 The little boy promised to do whatever she asked him, if she only would not cry any more ; so she began to smile, and he felt so much in love with her he really did not know what to do or say. ' O n 'y tell me your story, beautiful mermaid,' he said ; 4 only tell me how you came to be hidden in the shell.' 'Well, I must confess,' said the little mermaid, ' I fear I am only properly punished for my disobedience to my elders. My mamma told me never to go near the shore, but I felt very curious.' 4 Like Eve ?' said the boy. ' Who was Eve ?' asked the mermaid ; 1 was she a woman V

4 Only rather a curious one,' replied the boy. 4 Well, like your Eve then I was curious. I saw so many strpnge things when I peeped out of the water, that I wanted to know all about them ; but when I asked mamma or any of the older mermaids, they gave me no satisfaction, and told me the less I saw of the world was the better, as it was.full of nothing but wickedness ; but this only made me very naturally more curious. At last I determinod to creep into a shell, and let myself be tossed on the"shor© some fine day by the waves ; and the next tide will carry me back, I thought, after I*hav9 seen something of the world. Alas ! like many adventurers, I little knew what I was doing. But I had made up my mind, and I therefore looked out for a pretty, nice sheel ; and having found one whioh suited me admirably, I imagined, though I afterwards found it most inconvenient, I orept into it all on the riy, for no one knew I was thinking of going ; and when the waves bejran to sweep, sweeping into the bay, I floated near; and finally they swept me in, and left me* high and dry upou the sands. I was in a great fright, I may tell you, when I got there — a great, great fright ; but it was rather too! late then to repent, so I resolved to make the best of my situation, and began to inspect the world all around me. I was greatly amused at Jthe bathers— the way the young ladies quarrelled and frowned at each other about the different machines, as they called them, but did not look quite so cross if any gentleman who happened to admire them drew near. But then this is just the same in the sea I think; there is ill-temper and jealousy everywhere, 1 eaid the mermaid reflectively. * There is sure to be jealousy wherever you are, at any rate,' said the boy, fervently. 4 Oh, I don't know that,' answered the little mermaid, canting down her blue eyes. Bittogo on with my adventures in the shell. If I were to tell you then all, lam sure I would only tire you, I need not repeat how I was taken up and tossed down — first by one rude child and then another. How a wretched little poodle dog" ran away with me in its mouth, and snapped and snarled, and tossed and scratched me, till I thousrht I should fairly die of fright. I will leave out the most, therefore, of what happened during that dreadful morning on the sand, and only tell you that I was deposited on hu'ne loose shingle by my friend the poodle, and left.' ' The tido will reach me here I thought, hopefully, peeping out of my little ho^e, and beginning to breathe moro freely. Alas ! alas ! an hour afterwards there came a great noise of carts and horses, and rough men swearing, and boys ; and they began to throW the loose gravel where I lay in the cart with spades, and drove it away. My turn came at last ; I was shovelled into a cart, and suffocated beneath a heap of stones and sand, and lost all consciousness where I was going. 4 When I revived I was in a railway train, and being whirled and whirled through the air in a truck. I was on the outside of the sand and stones now, aud could breathe ; and finally I was crot our at a station and carted here. That is my story, little boy ; and now will you save me ?'