JUNE HEARS NEWS.

Waikato Times, Volume XXVIII, Issue 2310, 30 April 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

JUNE HEARS NEWS.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Duys of waiting—anxious clays, but no news. Jnne would sit hour after hour, watching the door which never opened, to give passage to the form she wished to see, and the long dreary nights would come, and with them fear and trembling, for as she had said, the gloom of the place troubled her spirits, so that the ripe rich flesh began to fade slowly away, and a couple of thoughtful lines to grow more deeply marked in her forehead, while the eyes seemed dull aud heavy that once were bright. At times they would light up as with a flash, when a step which she fancied she recognised was heard upon the stairs, but only to fade away again into a dull heavy look of despair. But there were times when, as she sat working, the hand that held the needle would fall to her side, and a strangely sweet smile pass over her face—a countenance now full of thought and dreamy .musing. These were the happy times of her desolate life, for she would sit thus for hours, at times perhaps with her eyes half closed,, alone and not yet alone, thinking ever of the future, and of what she should say to her husband when he returned. At such times as these, the Midge would perhaps enter the room, and seeing her so silent, lean against the doorpost and watch her, scowling perhaps the while, till her presence was observed. They were always far apart, these two; the Midge resisting attempts on June's part to mollify her jealous resentment, for June pitied the girl, and could feel no bitterness against her for her far-off worship of the man she loved—the man who was, she told herself, battling down all jealous suggestions of her mind, wholly hers. But they would talk together upon one theme, one that was absorbing in its interest for both, and that was the possibility of his early return. Balass knew nothing, so he said, and the Major merely laughed when asked, though it was seldom that either made his appearance at the house, the former contenting himself with sending money to his child for her daily wants, while June found that a sufficiency had been left for hers. Always the same gloomy look-out when she watched for his coming, and always the sound of those cab-wheels in her ears ears—the departing wheels ; but she clung to the hope that this day, the next day, or the next, she should hear them again. It was one day when a few brighter gleams of sunshine than usual had entered the room, and a pleasant breeze stirred the stagnation of the lane, bringing to June's nostrels the peculiar ether-like odour of the oranges in the neighbouring warehouse, setting her dreaming of the accounts she had read of sunny Spain, or the blue Azores with their dark eyed maidens, the warm voluptuous nights made romantic by the guitar and the mellow glowing moon. The song and dance and love—that trio of which her own warm young imagination had so often in bygone days dreamed and dreamed again, picturing delights to come, happy days of joy when

some one would call her his, and the life of this world would be one long sunny time of bliss. Dreams and dreams ; and this was the waking. Her hero who had seemed to come before her in a maze of romance had turned cold and fallen away, leaving her what?—sadness, regrets, a home in a gloomy house, and weary, weary expectancy—nothing more. Yes : something more—a strange feeling of hope, a sense of a new joy in the future, that of which she dreamed and was dreaming now once more upon this brighter day when the Midge suddenly burst into the flush in her sallow checks. She had evidently run upstairs as hard as she could, and stood , with her hand pressed to her side, too eager to impart her news to think of her news to think of her jealously. '1 know now,' she cried as soon as she had gained her breath, her quick eyes at the same time detecting that June had hidden something from her sight in her work-basket. 'You know? what?' said June, with parted lips. ; ' Why he doesn't come back,'said the girl. 'You do?' The Midge nodded triumphantly. 'Tell me, quick,' cried June. 'Do you know where he is ! Can I go to him !" ,' No,' said the girl, ' not you. too clever to let any one find out that. Even the detectives can't tell.' ' Detectives ?' cried June, with a shiver of horror. • ■ Yes : detectives. They are after him. I've had 'em here, questioning me. The regulars and one as has been before, a tall • thin man in black. ' That's why the major and father kept away. They won't catch him.' ■ • • ' Oh, heaven,' murmured June, ' has it come to this,' and, unable to control the emotion which she wished to hide from the Midge, she rose and walked into the back room, closing the door after her. As the* door closed the Midge crept quickly to the workbasket, and with deft fingers uncovered that which had been hidden from her, to hold it up and gaze curiously at the tiny white robe in course of construction, hiding it again directly, and then creeping back to gaze at the closed door with her face full of wonder and a something approaching awe. The look intensified as June returned, sallow and troubled of feature, to resume her seat. ' ' Are you sure of what you say, Midge ?' she asked. 'Sure? Yes,' said the girl ; and there was a change in the tone of her voice as she watehed June now, full of newly awakened interest. ' But don't you fret about that,' she said, softly; he don't mind ! he's used to it. Perhaps it will all blow over, and he'll be back soon." " Oh, no, 110," groaned June. " You must be wrong." 1 Wrong ?" naid the girl laughing. 'It would'nt, be lucky for him to chow himself .here, I can teil him, unless he altered himself pretty well. I tell you what,' she said, ' perhaps he'll send to you to join him.' June's face lit up with joy, and she gazed eagerly at the speaker who opened out to her so happy a release from her troubles ; but she sank back in her seat the next moment, hopeless in her misery, and feeling more and more that her short spell of happiness would never be renewed. There was one visitor, though who showed no little tenderness in his way, and that was John Huish's ugly dog, Joby, who came regularly every day to be fed, to walk in a puzzled way about the rooms, whine softly, and end by laying his great massive head in June's lap, and staring up at her as if studying her character. The house in Portland Place was closed against him now : the chambers in Duke street empty and bare. The housekeeper used to put meat and water for him but as often as not he left them untouched, and after sleeping in St. Jam'!", trotted off to the city, where Midge whs always glad to see and feed him, trying hard in her jealousy to keep him from ascending to the next floor. But the Midge's efforts were all in vain ; sooner or later Joby used to find his way up, and a scratch at the door or a yelp gained him instant admission. To a bystander it would .have, seemed that Joby's head was too heavy, and that he was glad to rest it upon the nearest knee ; but no greater mistake could have been made : Joby's muscles in his neck and about his jaws were like iron, and if he should at any time fix those massive jaws upon any one who did him wrong, strong measures would be required, to make him quit his hold. Day after day then he would seek June's room, looking as if he had - a great conundrum on the brain, at first to be greeted joyfully as the herald of his coming master ; later on for his friendship and fidelity, sitting there gazing up in June's great dark eyes as if wondering why they'were sometimes joyous, sometimes suffused with tears, and then curling up at her feat, picking out one as a pillow for his head, while he lay and thought in his dense thick-brained fashion of: the great problem that puzzled his head as well as several wiser ones—a problem that he was to solve though for himself when the due time came, for Joby could not make out his master. Poor Joby was not happy just then, and more than once proved himself a nuisance at the Duke Street Chambers by uttering low snuffling whines upon the stairs and landings, which being interpreted, meant, "Why doesn't master come home?' But by degrees he smothered his feelings on finding that an open avowal of his trouble only resulted in boots, boot-jacks, empty soda-water bottles, and other missiles being flung at him from open doors, while he was reviled as being ' a beast.' His retort upon receiving such forcible salutations was mostly a display of his teeth, and so threatening an action in the direction of legs that he generally caused his assailants to beat a retreat ; but at last he performed the same strategic evolution himself, consequent upon having to deal with the unknown. In fact, science conqured him. He stood shorb. and dodged them bravely. So clever was he indeed, upon this point, that it was almost impossible to hit him with hair brush, boot or bottle ; but one day an angry occupant of the chambers, upon hearing a very long drawn howl, opened his door suddenly and hurled a bottle at the dog. It was this bottle which puzzled Joby, for, instead of being empty, it was fully of the water known as soda, highly charged with gas, by one Schweppe, and though it missed the dog, it struck upon a partly filled coal-scuttle, and exploded with such violence, and so great a scattering of fragments that for two days Joby preferred to sleep in the Park, and had a narrow escape from a dog-stealer who tried very blandishment he knew to get the dog to follow him, but without effect. Sometimes he would go and hang about the great house in Portland Place, but there was no admission. Attempts to o-lide past, or between the legs of the servants dismally failed ; but he had a look or two at Lord Anthony, and followed him when lie went out, giving sundry sniffs at his pocket, and more than once coming in for a bone. But this was very exceptional, and, save that he was unconsciously working out his part in the scheme of the history

of the strange lives about him, Joby's was, just now, a very unsatisfactory and useless life.