Novelest.

Waikato Times, Volume XXXII, Issue 2602, 16 March 1889, Page 1 (Supplement)

Novelest.

[ALL KIGIITS RKSKKVKL).] TWICE"TIIIED,

13Y ANNIE S. SWAN, Author of " Aldersydo," "Carlowrie," " Across Her Path," " Sundered Hearts, &0,, &c.

CHAPTER XXI.---Continued.

"When Mary slipped into the room by-and-by she wondered what Joan had been saying to her mother, there : was such an expression of peace upon her worn face. Mr. Burnett ' joined them at tea, and he had a hearty welcome for Joan, for whom he ever entertained a warm affection and respect. There was a good deal of joking about the change in her position and prospects, and altogether Joan's visit made quite a little happy stir in the house, which was much appreciated by them all. About eight o'clock Mr. Burnett offered to drive her back to Auchengray, when Mr. Angus arrived to escort her home. It was a surprise, for Mr. Angus had not been at the Thorn since the visit he had paid at the time of the trouble which had fallen upon both houses. There was .a little restraint at first, but it soon passed away, and the talk grew so neighbourly and pleasant that it was getting dark when Joan sprang up, saying it was a shame to leave Mrs. Angus so long alone. So promising to come up soon and often during the remainder of her stay, she went away leaving the Thorn a brighter place than she had found it. " I suppose we can go round by the Castle, and see the old bridge," said Mr. Angus, drawing her hand within his arm. " It is growing very dusk, but I fancy you could walk that way blindfold, eh V " Indeed I could," laughed Joan, and then the voice grew grave again as the banker began to talk of the family they had just left. And somehow after a little the conversation turned solely upon Robert and his affairs, Joan never guessing that the old gentlman had an aim in introducing his son's name. " It is likely we shall see him in Auchengray while you are here, Joan," he said, and Joan shook her head. " Don't build yourself up in that hope, Mr. Angus. lam afraid he will not come to Auchengray for a longtime." " I am not so sure of that. I don't know whether it is that I am getting old, Joan, but I seem to feel

the want of my boy more than I did. I would like to see him happy before I die." " Don't talk in that strain, Mr. Angus. I was telling your dear wife only to-day that you look twenty years younger than you are,' said Joan. "It would vex her, I am sure, to hear you say you are getting old." " Maybe, but she knows it as well as I. Shall I tell you, Joan, what would make us both happier than anything else eould do 1" Joan did not answer, but in the darkness her face flushed deepest crimson. " Robert has been writing to me oftener of late, and there has been a something in his letters which puzzled me a little, until Isabel read them again for me," continued Mr. Angus, with a haste of manner and tone which betokened a little nervous ncss. " The very day you came I had a letter, Joan, in which he told me plainly—can't you guess what 1 Lie will be hear, lam sure, soon. I don't know whether I am doing right or wrong, but I cannot help it. Joan, if my boy comes to you, you will not send him away. He has had a hard life of it, and deserves a little happiness now. And somehow I think, and Isabel thinks too, that this is a very different love from the other, Oh, my dear, if you think you could be happy with liini, don't let any little punctilio stand in the way. If I am meddlesome or impertinent, you will forgive it in me, Joan. I was your father's friend, and many a time have I dandled you on my knee. " I am not angry," said Joan, in a quiet, still voice, which did not convey much hope to the father's heart. And there was no more said until they ha:l reached home, when Mr. Angus paused on the steps, and looked a trifle anxiously into the grave, beautiful face by his side. " Well, Joan," he said, " have you nothing to say co me 1" " Surely it must be a weak case which requires so many advocates," said Joan, at last, with a low, rippling laugh. " How can I tell what my answer will be ? It will depend upon the mood I am in when I am asked." And then she ran into the house, and Mr. Angus hung up his hat with a smile on his face, knowing that the ease was won.

CHAPTER XXll—Across the Moor.

It was a glorious July day, There was not even a ripple nor even a passing summer cloud to mar the perfect brightness of the sky : scarce a breath of air stirred the sweet flow-er-laden air; a brooding stillness luishfd every discordant sound ; surely it was the most perfect day of the summer's prime. In the town the heat, perhaps, was a trifle oppressive the roads were dusty and trying to the eyes, but away up the muirland where already the purple glow was creeping over the heather, the air was delicious, soft, and sweet, and yet fresh and cooling like a draft from some mountain spring. After lunch, when Isabel had gone to rest for a little Joan had wandered away up by Fairgate, which was still a deserted, desolate, unoccupied house, and, after lazily climbing the dusty hill-path, was now resting among the heather. She was leaning against a sloping bank, with her hat half-drawn over her brows to shut out the powerful glare of the sun, for once oblivous of the fair picture the smiling stretch of landscape made under the summer sky. The fields were whitening to harvest, and showed in fair relief against the Castle beeches and the clumps of darker pine which dotted the rising upland. It was not that life in the city had in any way blunted Joan's keen perception and enjoyment of nature s charms, but that day her heart was overcharged with thoughts of other things. All day she had been haunted by a vague restlessness —a feeling that she was approaching a crisis in°her life. What that crisis was she dared not ask herself. So absorbed was she in these brooding thoughts, and so oblivious of anything about her, even of the bees, sipping the honey from the blossoms under her very hand, that it was little wonder she did not see the tall broad figure of a man coming up the hill with a quick, swinging tread, which showed he had an aim in view. He paused once or twice, and, shading his eyes

from the sun, took long, sweeping glances across the moor, as if in search of something, and then, as if catching a gleam of Joan's light dress against the darker heather, made directly for the spot where she sat. She saw him at last, when he was within a few hundred yards of her, and she sprang up, and held her hand to her heart as if to still its throbbing. She was not conscious of any feeling of surprise, the only thought in her mind being a desire to flee away from the presence of the approaching stranger, and yet when he did come up, and lifted his tweed cap as he held out iiis hand, she raised a calm, unruffled face, and, laying her hand in his, said, quite quietly— " So you have come back." "Yes, I have come back," said Robert Angus, his eyes dwelling hungrily on the face lie loved with a Teat love. " Tliey told mo I should find you here. Will you walk a little way over the hill with me, to a place where every passer on the road will not see and recognise us 1 11 want to speak to you."

" Yes. I have a book ? oh, here it is," she said, quite quietly still, and, lifting the copy of Browning, which had been the companion of many a ramble, she turned and walked aside. " Did you see Isabel ? She had gone to lie down when I came out." " Yes, I saw her." " Flow do you think she is looking 1 I have been a little anxious about her these few days." " I don't know. I did not pay any attention to her looks," said Robert, so carelessly that Joan might have thought him heartless had she not known—oh, so well— that she had been his all-absorbing thought. "You look better than you did. I never saw you look so well." A strong adjective had been on his lips, but he repressed it. " Your father would be glad to see you. He seems to be missing you very much," said Joan, softly. " I did not see him. The bank •was not closed, you know. Are you glad to sec me 1 That is the question I am more deeply interested in at present." " Yes, of course, I am glad ; but I have, seen you so recently that—■ that " " That you don't care, I suppose," said Robert, finishing his sentence in rather a bitter undertone. "You seem to bo very cross. Have you travelled all night 1 ?" asked Joan, with a provoking smile. But she received no answer. " When did you see any of the Harringtons 1" she asked, changing the subject. "Have you been at Gadogan-place since I came down V' "No. I saw Giles one day. Joan, I was told in the city yesterday that you are engaged to Giles Harrington. Is it true; " No, it is not true," she answered, and turned her face away, for the memory of Giles Harrington cast a blurring shadow over all the sunshine of the summer day. It was a true, manly heart lie had given her, and she knew a little of the pain her answer must have given,

"Are you likely to be?" " No, I am not likely to be," she answered, very sharply. " Did you come down from London expressly to ask me these questions'?" " Yes. and one other : only I am afraid." They were completely alone now in a little isolated dell, with sloping banks on either side, crowned by fir trees which effectually hid it from view. There was a cairn in the middle of it, to which many a wayfarer had added, until it had grown to quite .1 formidable height. Joan stood still, and leaned up against it, playing with a little tuft of yellow stonecrops peeping out of a crevice by her side. "Joan, how can you look so calmly, so indifferently f' said Robert Angus, hoarsely. "Can't you see what a terrible tiling this is to mel L love you with a love which will be my bane or blessing. What have you to say to me V

" I know very well my presumption. I know very well that in the eyes of many my unhappy past is an insuperable barrier in the way," he continued, when 110 answer came to his pleading. "But I cxpect more mercy from you. You are not one to visit the sins of others on an innocent head. And I have never forgotten how you told me at the time that you thought me blameless ; that I had done my duty by my poor unhappy wife." " Hush, 011, hush ! Do not recall that! It is buried for ever," fell pleading from Joan's lips, which were trembling now,

" I know how far above me you are," continued Robert Angus, using unconsciously the very words with which Giles Harrington had pleaded his cause. " I3ut if you will take me as I am, Joan, you can make of me what you will. But I am not come to appeal to your pity. Unless you can care for me, as a wife should, let me go. There must be 110 mistake this time, Joan. A bitter experience has taught me that." " You are sure you do not mistake your own feelings ?" said Joan, with a strange, pathetic wistfulness. "Yon know my solitary position, my need of love. You know how my heart craves for the things other women have in abundance. You are sure you are not mistaking pity

for love V' "My darling, is it pity which makes me think of you by day and dream of you by night 1 Is it pity which makes every pulse thrill at your stop, ■ at the sound of your voice? No, Joan. It is love—a love such as I did not believe could exist in the world." "Then I will be your wife," said Joan, simply and quietly, and she laid her elapsed hands very lightly on his. "But you love me, Joan; it is not pity, but love 1" said Robert Angus, with an eagerness which told something of his deep yearning to be cared for, for himself alone. " I am not likely to make that mistake," said Joan, in a whisper. " Did you never guess that I have loved you all my life ?" It was long past the dinner hour at the bank when the truants returned home. Their secret would not hide, and indeed they had no wish to hide it., knowing what hapiness it would give to the two who loved them both so well. The evening was spent is discussion of plans for the future—the happy future, which seemed so bright with promise. Then there

were a few days of quiet idling and dreaming, ere Robert Angus went back to London to prepare, for a sccond time, a home for a wife. But, oh ! How different the feelings which prompted him now ! —how deep and unshadowed the happiness which Joan's true heart had given him ! There was no mistake this time, no qualms of doubt, no jealous fears, born of the richest blessing—a woman's fixed, unalterable love. In the long, golden, August days, after Robert left her, Joan's new book was finished, and placed in the publisher's hands. And when Giles Harrington read its latter pages he was swift to read between the lines, and to know what had given the brilliant pen such a deep and matchless grace. Joan was in no hurry to leave quiet Auchengray. She was willing to stay as long as they would keep her, she would say, laughingly ; and so it came to pass that sere October had crept over the sunny landscapes before she began to talk of going. The marriage was not to be delayed. There was no reason why those solitary beings, loving each other as they did, should live apart in the great wilderness of London. A house in Gadogan-place, a few doors removed from Mr Christopher Harrington's residence, was secured, and with what pride and interest did Robert Angus himself superintend its furnishings ! Joan refused to come up and choose for herself. She could leave it with him, she wrote, and she was too idle and happy to take the trouble. Early in Novetnlfcr Miss Laurence, under tho escort of the banker and his wife, left Auchengray. It had leaked out in the prying little town what was the meaning of this journey, and, as may be imagined, many comments were passed, the generally expressed opinion being that Miss Laurence might have done better.

Very precious to Joan Laurence were the words of earnest blessing with which her friends at the Thorn sent her on her way. If their fervent wishes were all fulfilled, then she would be happy indeed. So, upon a still, grey December morning, a quiet unostentatious marriage took place at tho church of St. Peter's, Eaton-square. The 1 farringtons were the only strangers present, and Giles, unselfish to the last, acted as Robert's groomsman. Then there was a week spent on the sunny Isle of Wight, after which husband and wife entered their own home, taking up the thread of life once more, and looking forward to a length of useful, happy days.

CHAPTER XXIII.—A Spectre of the Past.

" If you please, ma'am, Mrs Harrington is in the drawing room," said Mrs Angus' housemaid, entering the nursery one raw, chilly, January afternoon. Mrs Angus raised her head from tho cot over which she was somewhat anxiously bending, but her hand did not unclasp itself from the little pink lingers closed so lovingly over it. "Yes, Kitty. Is Ellen having tea downstairs V' "Yes, ma'am." " Stay you here beside baby while I see Mrs Harrington. Move about as little as you can. His sleep is so troubled. lam afraid ho is going to be very ill." " Very well, ma'am," said the girl in willing tones, for the service of the maids in Robert Angus' household was one of love. Mrs Angus left the nursery at once, and ran lightly down to the drawing-room to see her friend, who had run in, as she often dicl, in the afternoon to have a few minutes' talk. " ©ood afternoon, dear. How well you look," said Mabel Harrington. " Have I interrupted you at your study 1" " Oh, no. I havo been sitting over the nursery lire with Eric. I am a little anxious about him," returned Joan, and tho colour was already slowly receding* from her cheeks. "I am sorry to hear that. Do you think him not so well ?" " There is a difficulty, a hurriedness about his breathing I do not like," said Joan. '' But he has never been a strong child. He may not be any worse than usual. Perhaps I am too fearful about him." She tried to smile, but her lips , quivered and hor oyos filled. The delicate state of her only child was Joan Angus's cross, the only shadow which ever fell darkly across tho happiness of her married life. And it was happiness. Sho was wont * to say she had only realised what life really held during* the past two years. 5 "We were talking this morning J of leaving London for the spring 1 months," sho continued. "Robert ? thiuks a sojourn in tho Riviera would do both Eric and me good, t But it is so hard to leave him be- : hind."

" It would bo worth it if it restored baby to completo health," said Mrs Harrington. "Aud you need both rest and change. I see now how pale and worn you look." " I seem to have collapsed all at once. 1 suppose it is the spring," said Joan, gravely. " I feel such an oppression of spirits, too ; quite unlike anything I have everexperienced before. I feel as if some trouble were hanging over me. I cannot shake it off." 11 That is just the result of over-

work. Your system is down," said Mabel. "I really think you should get away without delay." " We will see if Dr. Roberts thinks it would be safe to travel with Erie just now," said Joan. "How are you all 1 I seem to have seen so little of you since Christmas." " All well, thanks. I have had some good news, to-day, Joan, and I am just like a child —I could not rest till I shared it with you." Joan smiled. "I am glad of it. You know I am always interested in what interests you. I feel quite curious." " It came with such a surprise too. You have heard me speak of my sister Lucy, who wentout justa girl with her husband to Newfoundland r " Lady Finch, you mean,'? said Joan, enquiringly. "The same. Poor John was only knighted six months before his death, a recognition of his services to the Government which ought to have been given him long ere it was. But he was not one who set great store by such honours. " I have often been going to ask you abouther, It must be so sad for her to be left a widow in that strange land," said Joan. " It is not exactly a strange land to her now, you know," answered Mabel. "It is twelve years in May since she went out to St Johns, and John had been there five years before that. I know she has many friends ; and then her three children have been a great comfort to her.'' " No doubt," said Joan, quickly. •' They must have helped to soften the blow. But it seems to me so terrible a thing to be left a widow that I cannot face it even in thought." '•'Lucy liad never said mucli about it"m her letters. She is more retieeut by nature than I am. But I must tell you my surprise. She is coming home—is actually on her way, indeed, to settle in London. She soems to have acted on some sudden impulse, she has given us so little notice, and she actually expects me to have a house taken and furnished for her before she conies next week."

" jSTo impossible task, if you bestir yousrelf," said Joan, laughing, "It will be a delightful excitement for you; and what a joy to think you will see your sister so soon. I | heartily sympathise with you ; I am not sure but that I envy you a little, too." " I hardly know how or when to begin. If she and the children had been coming alone, of course there could have been no difficulty, for they would just have come to us for a time. But she is bringing two servants and her governess with her ; so that is out of the question." " Have they sailed from St. John's yet?" " They embark in the Etruria this morning. Such weather for ail arctic voyage! I really do not understand this proceeding of Lucy's ; it is most extraordinary !" Posssibly Lady Finch may have been overpowered by a yearning for England and you. We do feel these strange impulses at times, and they sweep everything before them," said Joan, musingly. ,f She will have given some instructions about the kind of house she wants." "No; but she lias given me carlo blanche. She is well loft, you know. Christopher thinks it will bo for lier boy's sake she is coming home. He is nearly as excited as I am, Joan. He had a great admiration and respect both for Lucy and John."

" Ah, well, you have much to look forward to. X do not know how it is, Mabel, but of late I have felt a strange yearning for a mother 01* sister. It is not that I am less happy, or that my husband—God bless him!—is less dear and kind; but there is a kind of helplessness comes over me at times, a feeling* as if I was utterly alone." "Joan, I cannot understand it. lam afraid for you. You are not yourself. You must go away for a time," said Mabel, with tendcrcst solicitude. " There! T am selfish with my gloomy fancies, born of a disordered system as you say," said Joan, speaking m®re chcerfully. "If Eric is better to-morrow, I shall be glad to go house-hunting with you." " Did you guess that was what I was after 1 Oh, you most penetrating of womankind," laughed Mabel. " Well, good-bye. I will run in after breakfast to-morrow morning, and see how you all are. Do be careful of yourself, Joan. You are a precious person to very many besides ourselves." {To be conliniud.)