Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] TWICE TRIED.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXII, Issue XXXII, 9 March 1889, Page 1 (Supplement)

Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] TWICE TRIED.

BY ANNIE S. SWAN,

Author of " Aldersyde," " Carlowrie," " Across Her Path," " Sundered Hearts,' &c„ &c.

CHAPTER XX.—Coot inued.

Giles Harbinoton went up to Kew , by train, and, though he was little more than half an hour upon the way, he found it infinitely too long. There were a goodly number of passengers, and the pleasant, shady road leading away from the station was thronged with strollers going to and from the gardens. It was one of the loveliest evenings in the summer's prime, the sky was one unbroken canopy of blue, save on the western horizon, where the sun was sinking to his rest in a blaze of red gold light. The placid, lazily-flowing river reflected the golden radiance, and the song of the rowers came floating across the meadows, with that enchanting, peculiar sweetness lent by the distance. Giles Harrington, not insensible at other times to the sights and sounds of Nature, paid no heed to them to-night. He saw only the tiny turrets of the quaint little villa where Joan Laurence had her homo ; heard only the deep, sweet tones he had learned to Jove as the sweetest music in the world. When he swung back the fantastic little gate his heart leaped within him at the sight of the graceful, womanly figure at work among the flowers, fastening up the refractory branches of a splendid Gloire de Dijon which had escaped the fastening which bound them to the gable of the house. Hearing the step on the gravel Joan turned her head. Was that a slight smile of disappointment which followed upon her ready smile, wondered Giles Harrington. Had she expected someone else 1 " Good evening, Mr. Harrington. This is a pleasant surprise," she said, tossing aside her garden gloves and advancing to meet him. " All well at Cudogan-place, I hope ! I have not seen Mrs. Harrington for a fortnight." " Yes, thanks, all well," said Giles, rather abstractedly, for ho was wondering in what words ho should tell his errand. " What a lovely place you have here V

" Yes, it is lovely, but too sweet, I think, sometimes," she said, with just a touch of wistfulness in her voice. " I was accustomed to greyer skies and wilder scenes, and I find this perpetual sunshine and balmy air just a trifle enervating. Am I not a malcontent, Mr. Giles? But, there, I am most inhospitable, and this your first visit to Sunset Cottage. Do come in." " AVhy did you call it Sunset Cottage, Miss Laurence ?" asked Giles Harrington, as he follow her across the flower-framed verandah, and into the little hall. " It was a bit of sentiment on my part," said Joan with a little laugh. " The house in which I lived in Scotland was so named, but it was very different. You do not know what a but and ben is, I suppose?" " I must plead ignorance, I confess," answered Giles. '• Pray enlighten me." " Not I. You must find out my meaning of those obscure words for yourself. You do not feel the room chilly, I hope. I cannot shut my windows here day or night, or I could scarcely breathe. I do not think lam so well since I came to the South. Mr. Giles," as she drew up the Venetians, and pulled back tho lace curtains with a somewhat impatient hand. All day she had been home-sick, possessed body and soul by a wild yearning for the grey skies and purpliug moors of her native strath.

"You are changed, much changed admitted Giles Harrington, and he was right. She had gained in grace and elegance, but her face was paler and more worn than it had been a year ago, and the deep eyes seemed to shine with a brilliance not quite their own. "Doyou think so? I hope not. Ido not want to be so changed so that my friends will remark upon it" said Joan, quickly. " I am going home next week, and I feel just like a child about to be let loose from school." " Then you do not look upon this as your home 1" said Giles Harrington, glancing round the pretty drawing-room, in which any woman might have found rest and pleasure. " Oh, no, This is only a habitation. I begin to fear I made a mistake in leaving Scotland. Some plants will not thrive, in foreign soil," said Joan. " But I thought it would be better. I felt I must see more of the world, I knew so little." " Pardon the question, MissLaur ence ; but have youany near relatives living r " None. lam an orphan, and— friendless, I was about to add, but that would be treason against those who love me more than I deserve:" said Joan. "I am going on a visit to Mr. Angus's father and his wife. Of course, you know they are my old friends ?" " Yes ; at least I imagine so," said Giles, with a sudden restraint of manner, which however, Joan wrapped up in her own thoughts, did not observe. " You would not like to make your permanent home in England, then V he said, presently. " I can hardly teil. It would depend on circumstances," said Joan, somewhat dreamily. " But, Mr. Giles, I have never asked your errand. I hope it is a friendly visit but I can hardly expect it. Are you growing impatient for that promised manuscript ? Well, must I confess I have really and truly stuck with it ? My mind is as barren of ideas as my new skeps are of bees at this moment. lam going away home to see whether the heather scents and the muirland breezes will blow to me some new thoughts." There was a restlessness, a strange waywardness of look and tone, which seemed to indicate a heart ill at ease. Joan Laurence was not quite herself to-night. Giles Harrington l'ose to his feet, and when Joan turned her questioning eyes upon his pleasant face, she, too, rose, and a sudden terror sprang into her eyes. His meaning, the very words he was about to utter, were written plainly ihere. " Joan, you must know what has brought me here," he said, in that honest, manly way, which must hare won her heart had it not been taken by another long ago. " I love you with a love of which I cannot speak. What hope is there for me?"

She shook her head, and ib dropped upon her clasped hands, as if her sorrosvful eyes could not meet his.

" I know how unworthy I atu, how immeasurably you are my superior in all things," he went on, gaining new courage in his earnest pleading ; " but if you will only give me the chance to be worthier, if you will only give me hope that in time I may win you, I will do all man can to make you happy."

Still no answer; still the downbent head remained hidden in the hands which were trembling now.

'•You know a little of me. I think you believe me to be honest and sincere, Joan. This is no light thing to me. lam not a boy now, but a man to whom love has come a little, late, and which will make or mar his life."

" Ah, do not say that; I cannot bear it! I did value your friendship, and it is broken," came thick and fast at last from Joan's lips. " Oh, Mr Giles, I do not know what to say. You have made me verv wretched."

"I did not mean to give you pain," he said, with just a touch of

pride. " Then there is no hope, neither now nor at any future time? If you say so I shall go away and trouble you no more; for I know that you will be as true with me as I am with you."

" I wish I knew what to say. I feci as if I had done a great wrong," said Joan Laurence, in tones of keen distress. "Mr Giles, I did not give you reason to suppose my answer would be different. I liked you so much as a friend, I felt no restraint in your presence. Perhaps I ought to have been different with you, but I never thought it could or would come to this."

" Don't distress yourself. I had no right to suppose anything about your answer," said Giles Harrington, with prompt frankness, unselfishly crushing down his own bitter disappointment so that she might not be hurt, "Ifit is possible, will you still let me be your friend 1 I will make no difference, except, perhaps, that in my heart I may honour you more."

"You make me more ashamed, you are so noble, so generous, so good ! No, I will never forget it!'' said Joan, with eyes full of tears, for her whole being was stirred.

' I will go now. When we meet again there will be no trace of my folly left to give you pain," he said, with a slight smile. " May I be permitted to wish you truest, deepest happiness whatever your future life may be, or with whomsoever it may be spent V

Joan could not speak. She mechanically extended her hand, which he raised respectfully to his lips, and the next moment she was alone. The brightness was gone from earth and sky for Giles Harrington, and a grey pall seemed to have fallen upon his heart and life. It was indeed, as he had said, no light tiling for him, and if he felt the very bitterness of death in his soul he may be forgiven. And Joan 1 Very keen also was her distress. But for that strange, deep, unutterable love which had grown with the years, she would so gladly, so willingly have given to Giles Harrington a different answer. It would have been a good and fitting match for her, one of which the world would have approved She knew it; knew, too, that it would have put an end to all care, and placed her at once in a secure and honourable position, in which even she might do great good. But she would not so wrong him. The woman remained true to herself.

CHAPTER XXl.—Old Fbiekds.

"Mamma, Joan Laurence came to Mrs Angus's yesterday," said Mary Burnett, coming in from a walk to Auchengray. A gleam of interest lighted up the pale worn face of Mrs Burnett, and she raised lier languid head from the couch on which she had been taking her afternoon rest. There was a great and sad change in Mrs Burnett, of the Thorn, dating from that time two years before, when the double blow of her daughter's flight, and her subsequent fate, had fallen upon her in such cruel succession. She was uot now the bustling, active, happyhearted woman who had been such a favourite with everybody, young and old. No ; she was now a frail, ailing woman, aged before her time —striving ever, it is true, to forget the past, and to enter cheerfully into the work and interests of her children and her home. But it was easy to see how great was the effort, and when there was no one by, many a salt tear forced itself from under her burning eyelids. Ah, what mother can ever forget ? Amy's name was never mentioned in the house, but the shadow cast by her memory remained, and the Thorn was no longer the mirthful, happy home it had been in the past. " Has she really como?" asked Mrs Burnett, with more display of interest than Mary had seen for long. " Mrs Angus was not sure the last time I saw her whether she would. Did you see her ? " " No. They had gone out for a walk when I called, and I did not want to wait for them," answered Polly. " Joan will be sure to come up soon."

" I hope she will. I do not think fame and flattery will spoil her. She was always a superior girl. Is that someone at the door, Polly ? Why, it is Joan herself !"

It was Joan. There was the faint odour of violets, the rustle of a grown, and then a swift, light step across the floor, and Joan was kneeling by the couch, tears raining clown her cheeks.

" Dear Mrs Burnett forgive me; I could not wait! I know lam very foolish, but it is so sweet to see you all again." she said, half laughing through her tears. " Come and kiss me, Polly. Oh it is glorious to be at home again among old friends!" Polly advanced somewhat shyly, for this handsome, distinguishedlooking lady with the indescribable air of grace and elegance about her was a very different being from the plain Joan Laurence she had known and loved in her childhood.

" Why do you stand back, Polly ? Am I so changed that you do not know roel —and yet it is a little more than a year since I went away," she said, taking the sober face in both her hands, and kissing it affectionately. " You have changed, too, child. You seem to have grown a woman all at once. Ay, ay, time plavs tricks upon us all."

So she rattled on, to hide the deep emotion, which possessed her,

and to hide, too, the deep grief at the sight of the greater change in Mrs Burnett. It seemed that time, instead of healing her bitter sorrow, was only adding to its hopeless keenness. "We were just talking of you. Joan. J low glad lam to see you 1" said Mrs Burnett. "It seems so long since you left us, but I dare say the time had flown for you." " Indeed it has not. I am as glad to come back as you can be to see me," said Joan, laying off her hat and gloves, which Polly at once volunteered to take upstairs, guessing, perhaps, that the two would like to be alone for a little. " I expected to overtake you on the road, Polly, but your walking powers excel mine, for I never even caught sight of you. Yes, I will gladly stay tea. Mrs Agnus knows not to look for me before dusk." When Polly left the room Joan crossed to the sofa once more, and, kneeling down, took Mrs Burnett's thin hands in both her own, and looked with loving eyes into her face. "You find me changed, Joan," said Mrs Burnett, with a sad smile " And not for the better, like you. " Oh, my dear, it is not easy to bear, not easy to think everything must be for good ! Not a chance given for repentance! It haunts me day and night ! My poor, lost child !"

Joan was silent, wisely letting the pent-up struggling feelings have their way. She guessed they had few opportunities of finding vent, and knew it would do good.

" The more 1 think of it the more terrible it seems," went on the unhappy mother. "I cannot understand how she could ever be so madly tempted. To give up so much for so little I —to throw away everything. Was it not a fatal madness? And then that awful death ? I lie awake at nights, Joan, conjuring up pictures of the collision, of the terrible panic, and then the final catastrophe, until my brain begins to reel. Cut off in the midst of her sin, what hope could there be for my posr, unhappy girl r " Dear Mrs Burnett, we do not know. Death might not be instantaneous. There would be some hours between the collision and the sinking of the ship," said Joan, very, very tenderly. " It's never too late, you know. 'Even at the eleventh hour' are the words of Holy Writ" "I try to dwell on the faint hope that there might be opportunity given. Your words comfort me a little 3 I wish I had you oftener to talk to, Joan. You see I dare not mention Amy's name to John. He had been very stern over it. He does not seem to be able to forgive the disgrace—both to ourselves and to the Angus's. Isabel Angus is a good woman, Joan. She has been a true friend to me in this trouble. But you will understand that that is never mentioned between us. I know she blames herself, of course ; feels it even more keenly than we do." " Time will heal," whispered Joan, " and if we can only leave it with the Almighty's all-pitiful heart, it will be easier to bear." Mrs Burnett smiled a little through her tears. '• I have longed for you Joan. I knew you would do me good. You see you knew her so well and loved her. And you are not like these over-righteous folk, who think that the very mention of Amy's name would contaminate. There is not much Christian charity in this world. But, there? I am selfish in my sorrow. Let us talk of something else. How well you are looking ! Your London life has given you something you did not possess before." " Yes, what is that V asked Joan, with a smile. "An indescribable something I cannot put into words. I always thought you nice-looking, Joan, but you are beautiful now. But, tell me, are you happy T "As happy as a solitary woman can be," said Joan, lightly. "At least, my life is not so aimless as it was when I lived in Auchengray." " And of course you have made many friends ? When we read what they say of your books, Joan, we feel so proud, and yet a little afraid of you. But I knew nothing could really change you," said Mrs Burnett, fondly. "Tell me, Joan, do you ever see Robert Angus in London r

" Yes, I see him often," said Joan and the dusky colour began to steal unbidden to her cheek.

" Tell me about him, Joan. How my heart yearns over him ? I cannot tell you 1 Is he very unhappy 1 Do you think he is recovering from the shock 1" asked Mrs Burnett, eagerly. "I think I could be happier if I thought time was healing it for him.

" I do not think he is very unhappy, Mrs Burnett," said Joan, her eyes down-dropped on the petals of a rosebud she had taken from her breast. "He seems to be making new interests for himself in London. He has many friends." " 1 am glad of it," said Mrs Burnett, and then there was a little silence. Presently Joan laid her head down on her old friend's clasped hands, and began to speak in a low, trembling, troubled voice.

" I must tell you something, Mrs Burnett, though only this morning you would have been the* last person \ should have thought ol tolling it

I to. I came clown hero because I needed rest and change ; but there was another reason. I was afraid Robert was beginning to care too much for me, and so I came away." " Joan !" " You are nob angry, dear Mrs Burnett ?" asked Joan, with strange, wistful humility. " Angry ! My clear, my dear, it is the best news I have heard for many a day. If it is true, Joan, I believe it will make me well. Not the lightest part of my burden has been the thought of Robert Angus's spoiled and blighted life." Another silence ensued, and Joan's face was hidden away from the searching eyes bent upon it in love. "Joan, you did not come away because you could not care for him in return ?" said Mrs Burnett, eagerly; but for a long time Joan made no answer. "He would make you happy, and you would recompense hi in for the bitter past. Oh, Joan, if you only would !" " You must know," said Joan, at length, in a very low voice, " I came away because I found it so hard not to care. It was the thought of you all here. I thought it would make you all feel sad and angry." " How could you misjudge us so ? We would have little need to grudge you or him any measures of happiness. When the time comes for you to give an answer Joan, you will remember that none will wish, you deeper happiness nor feel a deeper joy over your betrothal than ourselves." " Thank you. I shall not forget," said Joan, dreamily; and silence fell upon them again. The face of Mrs Burnett wore a more serene and peaceful expression than it had done for many a day, while upon Joan's there was the dawning of a shy, exquisite happiness with which as yet she scarcely dared come face to face. In her inmost heart she knew that the crown of hor womanhood was coming very, very near, and as yet no provision of the bitter cross of pain it was to bring with it cast its shadow before. (To be continued.)