MY CELIBACY.

Waikato Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2262, 8 January 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

MY CELIBACY.

By Peri.

CHAPTER I. My adoption of the Church as a was, I fear, as it is with too many others not due to tho prompting of a young ardent temperament eager to do something in life to the honour of the Creator, to present the first-fruits of a young , and unsullied life, with all the joys of the world to choose between, to the service of the highest office. No, I hud tasted deeply of the joys of thi* life, and found them inexpressibly sweet. I had striven to lay up treasure to the gratification of my desires. It was only when the draught of joy was Miatched from my lips; when the moth and rust had already corrupted my treasure; when the fruits of pleasure which had been touched, tasted, and handled were scathed and blighted before iny eyes ; that I turned in the Church for re*t and solace—" Haur) ignara mali," &c—it was only then that I found relief in relieving , others, as a last resource—when I was left wrecked and stranded by the receding tide of the world's happiness—that I cast about for consolation in a better life, and offered to the higher service the shattered remnant of an existence which was of no further use to tho lower pursuits. I was the eldest son of an old Humrshire family, and my. parents had destined ino for the Church ; not, I be lievo, that they detected in me any traits especialiy qualifying me for the hoh calling, but iu order that I nifcht trrace a comfortable family living. A'hen this proposal was made to me I persistently declined; so it was decided that n-y brother Claude should be educated with the same object.

I was afterwards allowed to remain at home and manage my father's estate. A few months after assuming this post mv cousin, Ethel Mar*leit?h, came to live with us. I drove to Lindhurst to mpet her—she had been brought to this point by her stepmother's carriage from Salisbury. I remembored Ethel only as a little romping girl of about seven. I wan not prepared for tho wonderful metamorphosis I beheld in tho exquisitely pretty brown-eyed young lady who greeted me when I entered the waitingroom of the inn. After resting , my horse an hour, we started to drive home. How different, T thought, from my drive thither. I had always loved t\f forest. and dwelt with intense p'ea.-ure upon its beauties; but what had happened, I wondered, in the past hour to make its glades and avenues so inexpressibly eweet to me? It was not the settins , sun that tinted with a rosier tone the upper branches, nor tho delicious softness of the breeze that thrilled my pulse; nor f he full-toned melody of the ten-thousand . birds trilling their vespers from the darkening chambers of the summer foliage ; but I knew and felt, and through the bitter sorrow of years I can feel it still, that subtle influence of communion of being which mipr lied to Adam ft last ray of joy; which filled the measure of Eden's happiness; albeit the ray, as in my life, was destined to usher in the woes of sin, before which the joys of Eden paled, as the feeble planot pales to insignificance before the fierce blaze of the dazzling sun. What to .me were the pongs of birds, the setting sun, or all the thousand glories around me ? All these were nothing, to my eyes and heart, like Ada's face. I turn from earth to heaven to gaze on i«v The music of her voioe, the glance of her eyes, would have converted a lazar-house into a palace to roe. I always thought my name positively beastly before, but the cadence of the

tone that articulated " C usiu Jack " imparted a melody to it that would have made uny name sweet. " Wh'lt a lovely country this is, Jack ; how hiippy you mu-t be." "Ye-, Ethel, I should be, but it is somewhat lonely at times. " Wlmt ftiiu you want ? How ungrateful you are " "I wnnt nothing , , Ethel, now. I could sing- with the wildest of these birds if I had the voice." " Oh, I will find your voice some evening ; you must sing , to mo sometimes." Sing- to herP I thought. Gracious heavens, if it would givn her pleasure I would make a fool of myself to any extent. "Do let me drive, Jack," she asked next, and as she looked up in my faco, I would have let her do or have done for her any wish she could have expressed. Then we changed places, and she allowed me to hold her" while she settled herself in my seat, and I almost envied Firefly his placo in the shafts to be driven by those hands; but Firefly in a measure resented the change, find but for my speaking to him now anrl then, would certainly have bolted. To me it felt, almost worth any risk to watch Ethel; the excitement gave a deeper tint to her cheeks, and one dark brown silken tress of hair escaped from beneatli her hat and fluttered in the breezo. I can recall her light merry laugh— a laugh that came from >i heart wheTein lurked not one bitter thought. "Oh, Jack," she exclaimed, "how kind, how thoughtful it is of uncle and aunt ask mo to stay with them. 1 ought to be vnry srood to them always." "1 should judge, Ethel, that you could never be anything but good to everyone."

" Heigh he; I wish it were so. I often think I could be, but Down the silent avenues of thought There steals a spectre. I think it depends so much, so very, very much on one's associates, on the people one lives with ; I mean whether one is better or worse." The miles soon parsed only too rapidly, and we were wilhiu a mile of the house; thi'n Ethel resigned my >oat again, and drew off he" left glove and showed me h liny blister on her hand, tho lesult of holding the reins. How I longed to take the hand in mine and cover it with kisses, but I would no mure have dared to do bo tfrin I wonM h'tve descended the tombs of my forfiithers. By tho time we had turned to drive to the hall door, and I hud lifted Ethel to the ground to meet tho caresseof my dear fond old mother, I felt and knew—to apply the only phraseology I oould command—that I, John Chollertou, was hard hit; hit very hard indeed,

CHAPTER 11. What the next, three months were to mo no languige I <v>uld com'nund could adequately de-oribe; but certainly my life, whi''h although hitherto happy and r.ontenti'd, had been assuredly uneventful and lacking , in excitement-, appeared to h>ivo passed in astrological phraseology into the "Ascendant house.' . There was m vkrorons zest m my duties on my father's farm, that I knew not before, iud my horoscope indicated a fair goal whoreunto 1 rnisrht labour with hope. What joy, what brightness and thrilliriyr exfueni'iu the advent of Ethel Marsleigh infused into the old humdrum life. I remember, wandering, a-< I stood ■y her Mfle one evening, fazing across the planning surface of the lake. h<>w I had tolerated the monotony of the old piane. "Jack," said Ethel, " I don't think I ever saw such a completely happy home us yours ; I often wish aunty would let me help her in the housekeeping, hut whenever I attempt to offer her any assistance she seems to resent it almost; it is the only occasion on which she seems to repel me." " My mother is one of the good old kind, Ethel, who prefer retaining the reins of housewifery to the last, and any as>istauce proffered in that direction sometimes seems to imply a suspicion of failing power, which you know thoroughbreds rarely learn to submit t0. ,, " I see," she returned, " then I must nontinue to do nothing , but enjoy myself :iud worry you." "I at all events shall not resent that attention," I answered, laughiugly. " What then can I worry you in next ? I drive and ride your horses till they are almost ready to drop ; I send your dogs into the lal|e, and then always tro straight to tlie drying grouud and aggravate the lnundrymnid by shaking the water over the clothes; I stupidly !<>fc the sheep into the young turnips; I let go your ferrets in the poultry-yard, rind a dozen other wicked, stupid thintra, but you are never angry. Now I havo one point I have not worried you in yet, that is to make you sing. Now do come in my sober cousin Jack, and sing mo a good song ; you know 1 love music."

"Mr dear Ethel, you do not know what you ask; you are like the fisherman with the treuli : do not allow your '•uriosio-ity to tempt you to let loose on you a power you coul 1 not control ivhor ■.•nee abroad: nay voioe would appal you : T could sitiir except n jovi.-il dinner*, whi-re nien are not over critical about f ilse uotes as lontr as they jret plenty of noire ; wait till my brother Claude comes lown, hi- will sing with you, he has n first rate tenor." "Oh no, T want you to sing. I will bear with false notes and try to correct them." " I would advise yon to pause, my fai> cousin, ere you repent the invitation ; you know the lines— Swans sing Before they die; 'twere no bad thing Would certain people die before they sing." In spite of my blunders and false notes, I managed to creep through a song; aijd then, having done my penance. I sat in the twilight., while Ethel's h'naers ran lightly over the keys, and song after son« flowed out upon the night; and it seemed to me that the wheeling bat poised itself a moment at the open window to listen, and the owl in the granary stayed-its dis mal whoop, aud the buzzing insects flew in noiseless oddies, till the"silvery notes died away into a stillness that my soul longed no other sound would break.

Slowly the door opened, and my father and mother entered snftly and unheard by Ethel. It was not often in our old house we heard singing like Ethel's, and when once started, she seemed to be completely engrossed with her occupa tion. Presently her hands ran lightly over the keys, as if in search of another air, and then her sweet voice ran out again in "La Donna Mobile," after which she strayed on to " Baiti, Batti " My father could not rest without acknowledging thisi "Bravo, Ethel," he cried, and she stopped with a start. "Oh, uncle, I did not know you were here." " Perhaps not; but I know that nightingales won't sing when they are aware of being listened to, so I kept quiet." " Ethel," said my mother, " I did not know you san? like this. I think your voice would blend well with Claude's ; he has a very good tenor." "Ido not sing much, aunt. I have been trying to make John sing, but he will not trust his voice ; and I think he has a very strong bass, if he would exercise a little confidence." "Yes ; John was always too rearing "' said my mother.

" I do not like to make a fool of myself, ' I replied. 1 felt that the spell had been broken, and that there would be no more music, so I strolled out again on to the lawn. One of Ethel's accomplishments since her arrival had been learning to ride ; she had made very fair progress under my tuition, and I was never backward in planning excursions with this object, and by the time she had been a month with us we had explored almost every road and lane in the district for miles round. Ethel's enjoyment of scenery was at times rapturous, she would almost lose consciousness of all else when he came upon some of those exquisite breaks in the thick foliage in which the New Forest scenery so abounds ; disclosing long stretches of wood, meadow, and water. Often, with her quick appreciation of beauty, she would direct my attention to some view which I had looked on a hundred times without being stirred by any sensation of delight ; but the points of shade and light being found for me, and under such auspices, the surroundings of my oM home became invested with such enchantment that I wondered why I had not used my eyes before. Yes, those rides were intense joys to me. I loved to watch her face when her eyes rested upon some scene that pleased her. Many a time I have seen her tears gather as the sun with a brighter glory than usual passed down between the rich tints of the forest boughs. I felt in those moments sucli awe, such reverence for her feelings that I dared not speak ; I could ouly wonder how unspeakably low and debased my own soul must be that could rise to no rhapsody like this. Although Eth< j l wat so impressionable to these lofty appeals to her feelings sh^ , was none the less sympathetic in considerations of lower flight, and she could take intense interest in all my sports and occupations. In one especially exciting one she was very enthusiastic. As a lad T had been very fond of racing, and even -till, not being a heavy weight, I was not loth to enter myself for a distant steeplechase, or handicap. Ethel took great interest in the various cups and honours I had won. " How I should like to see a race, Jack I have never seen one." " Would you, Ethel ? Then J will ask mother to allow you to go with me next week. lam entered for the Kilton meet;ng." "Oh, how dt?ligTitful,"and slip grasped my hand with delight. I believe Ethel was very anxious about asking my mother j however, in the evening, when she came to wish mother good night, she bent over her chair and said, " Oh. auntie, Jack has been kind enough to ask me to go to Kilton next week ; will you let me ?"

" Well, my dear, Ido not like to refuse you anything, still in my young days I should as soon have expected to be allowed to race myself as to accompany a gentleman alone on a racecourse; but girls are so different now, 1 do not know where it will all end: but I hope the advancement of women is for the best. I think you had better consult your uncle, my child." " Oh, if she enjoys it she will be all safe with Jack," replied my father. Safe, gracious heavens ! I thought to myself. If she is not sate with Jack I should like to know where she would be? and as I looked at my beautiful Ethel, and yet not mine, standing in an attitude of half expectancy, half disappointment, I felt there was no life for me henceforth without her. With a look of sweet gratitude to me, she hurried from the room. In due course the day of Kilton arrived. We were astir early, and, after a substantial,, breakfast, the gig was brought round, and Ethel and I started. Was there ever such a morning as that? Never to me ; and to me I had a kind of spiritual augury that there could be but few more: the happiness waso to complete, too intense, for any human creature after the fall, and with a human instinct. I was so happy, so completely engrossed in the joy of the hour, that I looked, as I thought, in vain for the trail of the serpent o'er the flowerets of my Eden. The first rays of the rising sun were gleaming over the tree-tops, and as we assed through the loug avenues of the forest the million voices of the wood seemed to awaken to our welcome. I never saw Ethel so moved by the surrounding scenes, and as I inadvertently glanced at her when I spoke, I saw tears in her eye. " Oh, Jack," she exclaimed, "do not be angry, but I cannot look up a scene like this without feeling it; but lam the reverse of sad, I am very, very happy. I always feel that I long to die in a scene like this." •

How I have thought of her words since ; but at the time other thoughts than death were in my mind, and if ever a man felt like living in this world for ever, I was the man in that hour. " I honour feelings, Ethel," I replied. "I should be the last to underrate them, but I sometimes feat , you undervalue mine ; I am so stupid in expressing them. Your visit to us, Ethel, has given a zest to my life that it never possessed before ; you have -taught me to view things iu varied lights ; yon have shown tne that even the most commonplace existence need not ho. mnno'onous if we grasp the thousand innocent joys that pass us day by day unnoticed and take interest in Uie works of nature, and do not look mi everything from a commercial standpoint. This is much for you to do for •ne, but it has not stopped here your kind anl affectionate interest in my occupation and pastimes lias awakened a still iiigheraspiration. Though your accomplishments and beauty almost forbid hip 'o hope, yot I have, Etnel, been vain enough to hope that you have grown to love me." "Yes," replied "I do love you, Jack, and you make me very hippy ; but you underrate yourself. Jack; I do not feel myself worthy of such demotion, such love as yours, but you will help me to be so, f know." " Hush. Ether! Hush, my darling, such reflections shock me; you make me feel [ seem better in your eyes than I am. If my devotion can deepen your happiness, and stimulate a new vein of joy in your life, rest assured, darling that, no act of mine wiil ever blight your first conception of its truth."

Her eyes answered my words, and my arm held her closer to me ; the pulsations of her heart struck a chord of joy through my being, and the first rays of the sun witnessed our betrothal ami li;nt a deeper beauty to the blush that suffused her cheek, and, if possible, a richer tint to the lips whereon I pledged my troth. I think Firely wondered what possessed his driver for the next ten miles ; but my heart was too full for speech, and no speed seemed to keep pace with my feelings. At length we reached Kilton, and, having left the gig in the inn, we called ou some friends, a widow (Mrs Staiifield) and her sister, an elde ly maiden lady (a Miss Haycroft), who were both staunch supporters of field Hports, and would, I knew, chaperon Ethel. Miss Haycroft wat very deaf, and would not comprehend that Ethel was not my sister on my introducing her. • I had not time to explain through a speaking tube, and went on to the course. If there was u man ou the course who knew the cup was hie, that man was I. I had, in my own mind, already presented the trophy to Ethel. I felt that if the other men could have known my feelings ;hey would hardly have ridden. An hnnr lat.pr. "Tid tVir nrroeprlinsr-i of tV-diiv wiim.' no.;ri. \ fV.v inin>>r tri iU $>'■•■■<* rui oil, aad then cama tho event of tii<3 day,

Curiously enough, the trophy was a jewelled bouquet, presented by the Oountoss SavkoffUi, who owned considerable property in the neighbourhood. We took our planes ; my lior.se seemed to understand my feeling, lie almost, quivered with extiifcoment, and, ut the signal, shot well to the fore. I cheeked him the first two miles : I knew his staying power, und kept him well in hand till within a about half a, mile of the finish, when I could hear that the horse ahead "was beginning to feel the speed, and one abreast with me was urging to tho utmost to keep his. place. Then I loosened my rein, and dropped one stroke across my horse's neck, and with a rush he passed the lotter and drew up to the leader. Whip and spur were of no avail to them now they had done their bost a mile behind, and my horse was only now straining , himself. One glance, as I shot pisr. tho stand, showed me how eagerly Ethel was watching the race. I felt it was the proudest nine of my life, and my pulso thrilled with pleasure at tho cheer that greeted me at the post. After this raco I retired and doffed my jockey's attire, and pre sented myself, in conventional costume, to Ethol anrl her companions. : :

" Oh, Jack, how exciting," Ethel exclaimed ; " this is delightful." but she added, in a lower tone, 1- 1 did not know it was so dangerous ; you must not' ride in any more races : will you promise'me'r , " "Of course! will, my darling, j will never do anything but walk again in my whole life, if you wish it." At this moment I was summoned to receive my trophy. It was an equisito picco of workmanship, ;iu'3 richly jewelled : a fining adornment, I thought to myself, for my sweet Ethel. On returning to our friends' house, I duly presented the prize to my fitneee. Mi-s Flayoroft misunderstood 'ho act, and remarked to Ethel, "How excessively generous of your brother, my dear," and Ethel blushed a deeper tint, while I failed in courage to shout the circumstances or conditions of our relationship through a speaking tube 1 , and Mrs Stanfield enjoyed the joke, having known my family .«mie years, while her sister had not.

, Iu order to rearch home before nightfall, it was nece.-wary for u* to start early ; so I was spared any further exulanation, and thought not that I should ever be triad of sympathy from these two worthy old ladi.js. Our drive home was hardly less dolioiou-' than the journey thither, and I sought my bed that night with a heart full of gladness and gratitude for a day which in my life had known no parallel. I should now dread suuh an epoch of happiness, which seemed to concentrate all joy into its own uiirrow limits only by draining and absorbing the possibilities" of happiness for many a day that was coming. CHAPTER 111

With my brother's arrival from Oxford my rides alone with Ethel almost ceased, as he very frequently joined us. It happened one afternoon we wero returning from a ride; the day had been one of alternate shower and sunshine : the vegetation was looking its greenest, and (-moiling its freshest. O'a how the aniell of the exhalation after a shower in the_ country even now brings back tho incidents of that afternoon to my recollection, and the wound of my sorrow and disappointment smarts afresh as memory probes as it were the old sore in my 'heart ! but to proceed with my story. Etht'l had once or tnico startled us with exclamations of delight at the beautiful effects of light and shade. Wo had reached the top of a hill; before us lay a long stretch of road, which, at about a mile distant, turned gradually to the left and passed round at less than a right angle to the present direction ; there were no other roads leading out of it for about two miles, and it was the usual xoad home. I mention these details, which are necessary, as bearing on the incideut which followed. As we crossed the brow of the hill Ethel and Claude were a few yards in advance. They came suddenly upon a lovely view of the country stretching away between a break in the trees across the lower ground, undulating gently away to a fine view of the Solent and the island. Suddenly Ethel cried out and raised her hand to shade her eyes ; tho movement startled her horse and caused him to plunge slightly, and by some accident in drawing the rein to steady him a buckle became detached and rendered the curb useless; in a moment the horse felt his advantage and dashed wildly forward down the hifl. To follow was worse than useless. I knew the animal had no vice, and that beyond a gallop, if Ethel could retain her seat, she would be in no danger. "Claude," I cried, "you have the beet fencer; make for the road right across here, it is not more than three-quarters of a mile, and by the road it is two miles ; stand in. the road, he won't pass you, otherwise he will go straight to the stables." In a moment Claude had struck into the forest and was galloping down a footpatli in the direction indicated. I watched a few seconds and saw that Ethel was bravely retaining her seat, then having lost sight of her at the bend in the road I followed my brother as fast as my older horse could carry me.

I had been rii,'ht in my conjecture, and Claude had stopped the horse ; but before doing so the unimal had shied iuto the hedge, and thrown Ethel against the bank. When I came up she was lying on the turf stunned, while Claude was carefully loosening her habit collar. "I say, Jack," ho whispered, "she won't be able to ride back, take home the horses and bring down the pony chaise." I longed to be in Claude's place, but it was not a moment to allow one's own feelings to assert themselves,sol mounted and led the other horses on to the stables. In half tin hour I returned with the pony chaise, and found Ethel had recovered consciousness and was resting on the bank, while Claude supported her. She appeared very weak, and was evidently much shaken, but with great care we placed her ict the carriage and drove slowly horse; when we surrendered her to our mother's care.

I thought Ethel would have at once been placed in bed; and, kuowiug I could not bo more useful at home, 1 drove on to Elyfche to fetch our doctor. When I arrived he was from home, and was not expected for au hour. So I waited, and in my impatience almost worked myself into a fever. Two hours passed before he came in. I stated my wishes, and beg»ed him to drive back at once with me, which lie agreed to do, but asked to be allowed to change his clothes as he was wet through. I felt as if I should have liked to throttle him ; but I could only acquiesce, and then he found a patient or two in the surgery. At length we started, after about three hours' waiting. When we reached my home I was surprised to find Ethel had not retired to her room but was sitting in the library, supported in a large armchair with two willows, while my brother was reading to her. On learning that I had brought a doctor to see her she treated her accident lightly, and evinced, I thought, the slightest shade of annoyance ; and beyond asking a few questions the doctor had nothing to do but to retire, and I was obliged to drive him back to Hythe ; by the time I returned the evening was already far advanced, and Ethel, who complained of feeling tired, had been assisted to her room by my brother, and T saw her no more that evening. I wis not- rjiite liarjpv when I r-tired, and thft uestday wheu leaw JjSthol alo»e I su^"*

gested that she should nob have treated her accident so lightly before the doctor, as she could not possibly decide that she had not injured herself. "Oh, you dear, anxious, fidgetty old Jnck, do not be frightened about me, but stay here this afternoon and try some songs with Claude and me." " I would rather listen than sing," I replied, "and to mo your voice needs nothing to accompany it, least of all another voice, my sweet little girl." I strolled out on to the lawn and commenced budding some roses. In a fow minutes I heard my brother Claude's and Ethel's voice blending iu exquisite harmony, and could not deny to myself that the duet was'very sweot. Song after pong , fell upon my oars, then after a time the music ceased, and I oould hear the tones of my brother's voice as he read some interesting work to Ethel ; his voice was peculiarly musical and pleasing in rending. When I had completed my occupation I re-entered the drawing-room and threw myself into ;>. chair and listened a-< he read, ami us I followed I gathered he was reading the Laureate's "Lancelot and Elaino." 1 did not care for poetry, and rising presently, passed out on to the lawn, my ear catching , tho line as I went. And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. A.nd I speculated on tho rubbish men write, and the absurd antithesis of the words. • The next day my father had an appointment to inspect an estate he meditated purchasing, but he felt so unwell in the evening that ho asked mo to take the appointment. "You need not," he added, " be away more than three days." Accordingly tho following morning I left soon after daybreak. I had the evening before taken leave of Ethel; we had n few minutes alone. "You will not mind my leaving you, darling." " I suppose I mush Tint, Jack, it is for your father, but do not stay long." I know not whether any dim presentiment of danger exorcised an influeuce over her as she said the words, but her oyes met mine with a, half Bad, half terrified expression. To cheer her I replied, " You will not ho dull, my sweet Ethel. Claude will' entertain you, iind you can sing duets without my discordant voice " Her hands were renting ou my shoulder. She raised her eyes to mine and said, " I want only your voice, Jack. Dear, dear Jack, you have been very good to me; do not, I entreat you, stay long." " I need little urging, my love, to hasten me back." A long f >nd kiss closed our interview. I was to start the next morning , by daybreak. {To be continued.)