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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1895-8-23, Page 6Immouel!N THRO THE RYE. 'SY HELEN B. Meel'elERS, (CONTINUED.) Here our oonversation beceenee nds- 1ino and tidiculous. Aud in our little gmen parlor leave us, 0 reader, to our idioey, and cast your memory back to the days when you loved and {me beloved, awl your happiness was but freshly beam to you; reanembering that time, yon wifl *while smiling at our folly, understand it. OHAPTIelt November has (some upon us with a gar- ment et men and fog, with Imam skies and sodden earth; and the land looks like oue vast mournful burying -ground, with its fallen leaves, dead. plants, and flowerless brown stalks. But to me these sluggish days bring no sense of dullness and op- pression. I am not even Ion aing or spring, with the passion 01: longing I used to know all through the dead, silent, win- ter months, I have Paul now, and. he is the, and home, and love, end seasous, beund up in one; and since he is mine lack nothing. The ablel winds have shak- en every leaf from the trees in our green parlor; the groond is all dank and drep- ping, it knows our faces no more; but we do not care, we are cozier indoors than we 411-01: were out. Wit have been playing at a foolish game this past month, Paul and L We made a bad beginnbag in being so much in love with each other, and we have gone stead- ily down, deeper and Sleeper; every day we go a little further, for love either increases or diminishes passionately; as one may care for a thing to -day, one oan love it even better to -morrow; there is no stand- ing still. A.nd as besottedly fond. as Paul Is of me; so I am of him, and an unoom- monly pretty pair of fools we make. We are in the old schoolroom, whence Amberley's rule has forever departed ; cur- tains are drawn, and we are sittinet'before the fire. It is our favorite hauntfor the boys are far too svelobred to intrude upon. us; indeed, they avert their jolly faces if they happen to Ineet us. as though a recognized pair of lovers were the most immoral spernaele in the world.; and there is no chance here, as in tha drawing -room, of Simpkins or the footman walking in every five minutes or so, on some trifling pretext or or and. "Have you heard from your father yet?" asks Paul. "No. Paul?" "Yes." "Do you know, that I really think he was sorry when he went away:—" "Well, clanging?" "Nothing! Only I don't think / can ever feel comfortably rebellious with him again; I shall httve a sort of half-and-half feeling, that will make me a detestable mixture." "You won't be here very' long, little one," he says; "You will be at The Towers before he has been beak very long." "Shall I?" I ask, doubtfully. Somehow It seems natural to me that Paul should be my lover, but I never look ahead or • fancy myself his wife. (A pause. which we fill up.) "I want to ask you a few questions," say, presently. "Will you ever swear at X110 when we are married?" "Good heavens, no ! I never was a very good. temper, but I hope to know how to behave like a man." 'And don't all men?" I ask, medita- tively. "I always thought they did, at home, you know; its very nice to find they don't You had, better never put me ! out," I said, pinching his brown cheek; for I have a command of language that: wood frighten you. Tell me, do you ever , shy dish -covers at people?" "Never." "Would you ever call me a peacock, a dunamy, a mummy, a gawk, a mawk, or a beast?" "I won't promise. They are pretty names, Nell—some of his." "Of course! but when he wishes to be, especially withering he calls me 'that beauty.' " "Lucky little woman," says Paunfonde ly, "for both her lover and her father to have suoh a high opinion or her good looks. "Yes, indeed!" I say, laughing; "only, you see, Inc means it rather differently from the way you do!" "It is my turn now," says Paul. pres- ently, "to ask you a few questions; it may be as well that we should know each other's little weaknesses before marriage as after. Do you ever go into hysterics?" "It is like poor Martha Snell's saying," I say, laughing; " 'who would if her could, but her couldn't' I would if I could, bee e don't know the way. Hys- terics is a luxury papa would never have permitted." • , "Do, you nag?" "I despise n nagging woman I" I say, sitting soddenly upright; "it's so in- tensely Inean ! No Patel, I shall gat into a boiling rage, and then I shall have done with it." "Well spoken!" be says, heartily. "Get into as many passions as you like, my r pet, but never nag, and. don't sulk; more love Is worn out that way than by any °thee. No N for another question. Will yoa ever flirt? I could stand. a good deal foam you, child, but I would never stand. that." "Are you afraid?" I ask, proudly. "Is your opinion of me so had as that?" "There is only ono num I should ever be afraid of your taking too much notice .of," he says. "You know who that is; . souse da,' - perhaps, yen will compare me : lelleesforeetletwith antio--" elenves noi Oise ' that old madness!' .Pare, :Parabefiseee not a wide difference between pity and Inve?" ',Timro is; but I hate to think that any Man ever uttered a Word of love to yeti save me, and—confess now," he goes on, bell jest Ingle. half earnestly, "that you don't thinit me half as good as he is?" "You will not get me to say that you. are, for you aro not," 1 say, shaking my heed. ' "'You are too masterful and deter. mined; yon will have yonr own way, and you are more than a little bit selfish, "A ,jortems fool!" Inc says, finishing my sentence in a different way than I had in- tended. "Well, you have taught nio one vice I never knew beton, and that's jeal- ousy." • "Is it a vice? I think the very pitch and matrow of love enust be gone when lovers grow carelems about eaoh other's likes mad dislikes. Peel," I ask, sud- denly "do you think that by any possibili- ty under any circumstances, you could fall In love with Silvia again?" "Can a man be In love with two wo- men at oncol Could you Inc In IoVe with two men, Noll? "I suppose not; only' yeti lolled her first, you know," • "And I love you now, ocon know." "Aro you as fond of me as yoi1 eVet Were of her?" "What do yeti think?" "That you like me best." "Well, I'm inelined to think the same. For one thing, 1 bove a reSped for you." "net it; ic funOY Ideal I never heard of lovers doing that before." "Nevertbeless, it Is 'the sweeb-marjor- am 6f the salad, 'the very salt of mat love. Tim divine passion, as it is inaptly (galled, .may born brightly end hotly (mangle for a tame, but It does not last unless it has something mote substantial to go upon than slams love cod admiration " "And did you respect Silvia?" • "Until I found her out." I do not Wilk I am jealous now of Paul's first 101701 I Might be if she were here In her real flesh-and.bood beauty,but out of sight is very Moly out of ntiod, and she is to m e, in my warm, living every- day happiness, no more than a .half-for- gotten shadow. Paul's thoughts are mine, and sinoe Inc never thinks of her neither do I. I have never repeated to him her wild words at Luttrell; soniehow it has seemed to inc needless encl, in a certain sells°, dishonorable—she has lost, I have won; would there not Inc a species of cow- ardice in holding her impotent boasts up to ridicule? "1 wonder what she would say if she knew about us?" I say aloud. "It would not interest her," says Paul, carelessly, "bee own affairs are far more engrossing, no doubt. I say:Nell, when is year father coming beak!" "Ixi March." "Throe wbole months and part of an- other. If you think my patience will hold out till then, little woman, you are lois- anen. I shall make you marry me before Inc comes back, to make all sure." "No, you will not!" I say, quickly; "just think of another! And she has been sueli an angel to us. Only think of what it would be if he came and found me gone t Supposing she had. refused to hear of our being engaged, or let you come here, save as an ordinary visitor, what should we have done then, pray?" "Pitted up a cow house, my dear, and sat in it from "rosy morn till dewy -even " "And quarrelled when we grew hungry," I say. laughing; "but mother really is frightened out of her wits. It is all very line for us, you know, but we dance and she pays the piper." "Sweet soul!" says Paul. "How if all mothers -in. -law mom like her—" • "Wait until she is yours," I say, slyly; "pen don't seem to know half the diffi- culties that lie in our path!" "If he is very bad," says Paul, "it's easy enough to run away. Alice did." "Yes; but The Towers is not far to run away to." "I should like," he says, tightening his clasp on me, "to walk into a churoh one morning (you could put on a white bounet and a clean prutt),without a gaping crowd of people looking, on, and a pack- of idiotio children throwing flowers for us to tuto- r:le over, and you and. I be made man and wife, then eat agood breakfast, and set out for Paris without being spattered with salt and pelted with slippers." "You would take me to Paris?" I say, in delight. "Rather! you have never been abroad, have you?" "Never!" "I wish I could take you with me to Rome next month." "To Romet next month!" I repeat, sitting up and pushing the hair back from my eyes. "You are going away, Paul?" "Yes, little ono, for a few days. I have to settle poor Leriox's affairs; and it is a thing that cannot be got out of. I have , been putting it off as long as possible, but I shall be back by Christmas." ! "I have only just found you," I say, my lips quivering; "and are you going to leave inc so soon." "My flower," he says, taking me in his arms, "it is worse to me than to you, this separation; don't make it any harder, for I must go." But I only clasp my arms close about his neck and shiver; somehow this going away seems to lay a cold finger upon my heart, and changes all nes, safe, glad trust in Pau 's love to a trembling, miserable fever of unrest. "Paul!" I say in a low voice, "when two people love each other beyond every- thing, don't, you think something or other generally happens to them?" "They get married." "No! one or other of them dies or they are separated, or—or—something." "Who could possibly separate us?" he asks, almost sternly; "are you not sure of yourself, Nell?" "I was thinking of you, Paul; you will see so many people " "Are you judging rae out of your own heart?" he asks, still gravely; "would any amount of seeing people make you forget me for a moment?" I do not answer; I am s ruggling againse tbe unreasonable feeling of dread that the mention of this short absence has brought me. I think Paul sees the misery of my face, for he takes it between his two hands, and looks at me with passionate love and ten- derness. "Is it not worth the pain of parting, sweetheart, to come back to each other again? Shall we not love each other bet- ter far the days spent apart?" 'Absence makes the beart grow fond- er,'" I quote, ruefully; "but we don't want to grow any fonder than we are now; and as to that hateful word good -by, I wish I had tuner, never, got to say it to you!" "Wbon I come back," lie says, "I will never leave you again until you are my wife; never any more, little Nell!" I look up intohis dangerous, passionate proud eyes—the eyee that have swayed me so absolutely from tho beginning, and whittle if they beckoned me over flood and flame and yawning pit, I naist needs fol- low. never reeking where my feet trod. "I love you, I say, with a long -drawn, quivoring sigh ;"do yeti know what Shat reeansr" "Never desert nie, my angel," ha says, looking down with alomet fierce Ivor - Neap int(c my upturned face; "for if you do—beetee far had it been that I died be- fore I mot yon " CaTAPTER XVIII. 1)o what I will, I cannot get used to tho fact that I may run op and downstairs, sing, laugh, talk at the ton of any voice, not only in the schoolroom, but in the passages aud in the drawing -room; sit nose and knees into tin + fire if I please, in- stead of booking at it froni afar off with Moo cheeks and pinehecl nose; giro my opinion with a pleasant conviotion that it will be treated with consideration; in short, conduct myself generally' as a human being and an independent member of so- ciety, whereas, until reeve, I have been but a miserable and Insignificant atom gravi- tating Mond that tremendous Magnet, the governor. I don't suppose that he Would he consid- ered a very. mat 111A11 out of his family, Ifolk Might oall hint a handsome hale Maio or a Deese little matt; and if Inc &god on his pranks in sOcioty sto doiibt society would show hint the door, It is all Vey differett reale.The house eetoee from morning to night Witte gay Voiees, doors bang, not compelled talent) by i wraatliful hand, but naturally; dogs bark, the parrot struts about at its let - 5010, goes on briskly and evenly, "upstairs, do eu-stairs, and in my lady's oliambere our meale aro no longer servod up and eaten by steam, Simpkins has made a long farewell to all his greatness in impromptu slides and races against time, subsiding Into a digni- fied demeanor. that is far naore convenable inc man of his years and size, And Paul Vernier comes and goes. /Stever were two spoil lucky loveras we are. Mother is the most absent of donnas. Life can gi ve us no fairer, sweeter (lave than sbe gives now. And we are more fortunate than our follows, in that we lean gather fl so many precious hours, and say, "They wore wholly satisfying; there was no spook of alloy mixed with their pure gold?" Perhaps, if we onlyknew it this is the one green spot in our lives, to wallah, in days to come, we shall look back with a keen longing, If only this golden time might remain with us a little 1 But it may not. For the first time in my life I am wait- ing for Paul. He is delayed, I suppose, by some more of those tiresome people who have been flocking to call upon him since his return has been made known. He has seen a few, escaped a great many, but this morning I imagine, he has been fairly oeught to his own disgust, no doubt, as much as to mine, I have not seen his home yet; mother would not allow me to go there, and he does not want me to see It just direotly; he is getting a surprise ready for me, he says. I have not told Alice and Milly a word about him. Mother clia not wish it midi papa's return, neither have I mentioned Panne name to Jack, who did, not come home in October after all. Christmas he is to spend with the Lovelaces, and Alice bhinks I am go- ing to accompany him too. But indeed lam not; Paul is going to be here, and where ho is I shall be. "Ibis quite certain," I say aloud, "that be is not coming for ages; he will very likely not be here till luncheon -time, and then, of course, mamma and Simpkins will be there, and I shall not be able to speak to him, and—" Here any fortitude gives wayand tears run down my cheeks. "How wasted every mieute does seem that I spend away from him. I" "They're something WOXSO than wasted to Paul," says my lover's voice behlnd me; and as I turn my forlorn countenance to him, he catches me up in his arms, and lifts me from the ground. When he has wiped any tears away—and it takes a very long while, although I have not shod a single one since he came in—he puts my hat straight, and we go out tato She garden, and stroll up and down tho graveled walks, talking the Allay, selfish stuff tbat is vastly entertaining, import- ant, and absorbing to us, but would be fiat enough to anybody else. The world (say Alice and Milly) calls Peal Vasher haughty, cold,proud; if they could only seo him new, planning our married life with all the zest anti abandon of a selioolboy out for a holiday. as much!" Be is going to teach me to ride,he says; it is to be hoped that his efforts will be crowned with mom soccess than those of the governor. Not that he took any pains with me; he used to gallop away, and leave me to follesv as best I might; and follow I did—over my animal's nose. How often have I not sat at my ease on a dusty road, weeping plentifully, while ney steed refreshed. himself from the hedge, awaiti g till Providence should send somebody to put me into the saddle again! Altogether it was a failure; and after my pony had walked me in at the open door of the village public, and was forced to be backed therefrom, to papa's rage and. disgust, he washed his hands of me, and I was left in peace. "You won't be very angry if I break the la orse's knees?" I ask, anxiously; "that was what unnerv- ed me so when I WAS out with the govern- or; my own would not have mattered half "Poor little sweetheart!" he says; well, I don't know that I should care particularly for a stable of broken -kneed horses, but I would far rather.they came to grief than you did." "I can stick on pretty well," I say with modest pride; "but you will never be able to teach me to trot! You will be so ashamed of nie when you see me shaking up and dove. in the saddle, with my hat at the back of my neck and my hair tumbling down—you should only hear Jack tala about it! Poor fellow! how I have forogtten him lately! All your fault, sir!" We stand still among the cabbages to make ourselves ridiculous, and then go on again. "Do you know'Paul, that there is one thing I shall not like at The Towers?" "What is that?" "The visitors! Do you think it would be much better to quarrel with our neigh- bors all round, as papa does? We never should have had this glorious time here if callers had been popping in at all hours!" "I don't think it would do to quarrel with them all," says Paul, tangling, "but we will keep as clear of them as we can. You won't be always here; we shall go to town in May, for you to be present- ed." "Presented!" I repeat, stopping short, and staring at him, "do you mean it?" "Of course I do, child, why nett" "Why not?" I repeat again, "oh, the very idea! why—why—e" I say, going. off into a hearty roar, "the queen would laugh in my face! Oh, deari oh, deari only think of me, in a tail three yards long; mo, in white feath.ors. toe walking out or O room backware—why, 1 should turn a somersault as sure as fate!" And 3. go off again into it lousier explosion than the first "Papa would never get over it," I say, wiping any eyes, "he always called nu) 0 peacock, and if I wont to couet, should be—be ono; tail, fathers, strut, mei all!" "Nell," says Paul, gravely, "I am afraid you will not make a every dignified Mrs. Va,,spoheny"o u mind iny bane so noisy?" I ask, suddenly sobeked. "uld you rather Iwore quieter? Only 1 am so happy, yea know, and I never was quiet over that; And if you really mean me to go to court, Paul" (1 cheek myself on the edge of another outburst), "I will promise you not to smile even, or ttirn a somersault - 01 anything else; I will be as sobet as ta judge!" • "Will you?" Ile asks, "Ielort't think I should know any 1 should Inflow my Nell if she moved slowly and spoke seldom." "Did you evelethink your wife Would be a bit like me, Steam?" "Did you MX think your husband veraild be a bit like nee, Noll?" "No," I say, absently; "Mt I always thought 1 should have to marry George." 'Don't say that," he Says, ftoweing; "it sounds as though et did not matter natioloto yOu whether yna married bine or tne; and I suppose if Ieead not tonne you evetilci have married him?' lel suppose tro, 'sooner ot later," " You are vety cool over it," Inc sesta ,giving nie a little Impatient shoke ; "I do believe that After A while you would have g a comfortable sorb of a liking for him, ono neves; found out that you. were oapeble of feeling anything different." "Of pours@ I shoulal And when 7oll came book to The Towers later on, eve sbould hay looked upou you as a sort of benevolent, &nearly geutleman, whom we 8110111d MVO prevailed on to intercede with tho governor to obtain his oonsent to our memento, told we sbould have beeonee eery food 01700." "Would you, indeed?" he says, "Let roo tell you, ohild, that, yoo had been betrothed wife or wedded wife when I mune back, it; would have been just the same, yon would have loved me as I should. have loved you—instinctively." "Would you?" I ask, slowly, , "Ay! that would I! And your heart would have come to me as mine would have gone to you, aokoss an "No, Paul, it would uot, It I bad be- lenged to George, and, too:ate, mot and loved you, you should never have known it, You praised me once for being hon- est." We are in a remote corner of the garden now, and we stand still with the dull, sodden ground at our feet, and the gray, blank skies overhead, and he takes nie in his arms. et 'Sweet and honest. fair and true!" he says; "was ever any one like my sweet- heart! Thank God that no other man has O shadow of right over you, ohild; who is there indeed, of all the living world that could come between us and make our love a sin?" And the chill, wintry wiud that is moaning and creeping about the leafless trees echoes cheerily, "Who?" "If you please, Miss Ulleo," says Dor- ley, appearing, "I've got a nosegay for ,e, take the scanty Little bouquet with a very red face, and not very gracious "Thank you." "Mebbe that's your young man, Miss 'Mien?" he says, in it stage whisper. "Au' it seems ony yesterday I saw you 0- dengling from that quarrinder-tree with yer pantaloons—" "That will do, Dorley!" I say, hastily, and be shuffles away. What was the end of the story!'" asks Paul, inquisitively; your—" "Dorley sloes not yet know his man- ners," I say, with dignity; "we will not talk a,bout him !" We go and look at the rabbits, Bashan's now, not Jack's, soft, belp,ess, pretty crea- tures, whose bodies, alas! we too often nourish to feed our greedy cat "*should like a good many pets at The Towers," I say, as we move on again. "Will you read prayers, Paul?" "I!" says my lover, looking consider- ably astonished; well, no, I think not, Nell.'' "Then I must. What made me think of it was the canaries." The canaries! what on earth have they eot to do with It?" " When papa begins to read. they begin to s ng, and then he gets in a rage, and al- together—" "Hum I" says "mayors and tem- per seem to go together. Don't you think we had bettor do withreut both?" "0 Paul !" • "Leak here, httle woman !" he says. "I may as well tell you now, to save bother hereafter that 1 don't belies any amount of praying by rote does a man a vestige of good. Lot hi ne set to work to mend his moms and weed has heart ilrst, and keep the outward observance of relig- ion after." "Then yocc would abolish prayer?" I ask; "youwould do away with a man's going to church?" "No," he says;"I believe in the efficacy of the one and the good of the other, if he seeks them because he feels the need. of them ; not from custom or habit, or be- cause the omission will be observed of his fellow -men." I shako any head. "You wouli swoop away all the old land -marks, Paul." "If you please, miss," says Simpkins, In a patient voice, that 'signifies he has made the announcement more than once to us, "luncheon is served." CHAPTER XIX. We have never quarreled before,Paul and never. We have had little disputes about this, that, and t'other ; Inc has been jealous, I provoking, but we have never actually quarreled till to -day. I was certainly very rude; but what business had he to take up a newspaper and road it right before me, after I had said what I did? I lost any temper then -- always an easy matter with me—and my manners along with it, and threw a thin little book at him, and it just shaved his nose. He looked up and said, "Don't do that again, Nell!" And his cold voice so pro- voked me that 1 throw another one, and could have wept for shame when it struck his newspaper, and then fefl beside the first; for he neither spoke nor moved, nor looked at me. I always thought 1X1en remained on their knees until they married, I know a good many of them hop up pretty quickly after- ward, for, the cold plunge of matrimony once taken, they have an awkward knack of remembering Byron's words: " Love is of man's life a thing apart 'Tis woman's wholetexistence." though I never heard before of a lover be- having as Paul, is doing. How the minutes drag—the ugly, empty, dull'minutes 1 The hands of tbe clock are surely standing still, for I am sure that it is hours tt ePatil and I have been sitting apart, with this leaden silence be- tween us. 1 was very rude to Min just now, and when he bold out his hand to me and said, "Nell, did you moan what you said just now." why did I not jump out of my chair and say "No, no, no" instead of answering, "Yes, certainly!" The newspaper bangs trona his hands; Inc i.s staring into tho fire rather wearily suddenly Inc looks full at me, but, as my ote open optic 18 10050 suggestlY0 of mirth- ful winking than penitence, he looks away again. It is full a minute before I take another poop and &never that Inc is, to all appoaranoe, following .nay exaniple, and cOurting sluanbor—or pretending it e I had no idea Paul was so sulky! He looks very handsome with his head lyieg back upon the oushion, and I am joet thinking so, When ho opens leis oyes and looks at me, as I hastily shut nune, After all it 18 very like a game a bo -poop, and 11 15 goes ott mach longer I shall burst out laughing, which would bo dreadful,, fot base could I dietate terms of surrender in the Midst of breathless glgglest I wondot what will bring him into a state of repentance quickest—reproaches? 15 would be very infra dig, to speak to MM. Hysterics? I don'ts knOW the Way, and he hotos them. Faint a.weyt He would bot know When I began unless Inatie b series of horrible faces; and he might consider them purely viefous, ad take no notice. Tears? The very thing. Decent, touching, noncomproanising tears, that may anean tanytbtog or nothing. If only 1 could got them np, there'e the tub; tears never caine easy to me at any time. My tears oome 11051 and, thougla I moth eity oyes and nose and chooke iuto it high ,state of refulgency, they remain dry as bones. I am putting away any hiendkerehlef, feeling that my last weapon has broken in any hand, andthat nothing is leet to me but dignified flight, Wh011 1 catch Paul's eye, and disc:over that he is absolatoly— yes, absolutely laughing, I stave at him for a minute in amazed silence; is this his way ot! going down on his knees? "Have you quite fluished trying to pump up those boats?" he asks, passing his hand over his face. "I have been watching you for some time, and I am sure you must brave hurt yourself with that piece of cambric:. " "lam going," I say,jumping up. "Ohe I lied no idea you could behave so ill; I thought you liked 3110. He suatehoe at my skirts as I pass him, and in it second has peruhe(1 me on his knee, holding me there with a Lim grasp that I cannot shake off. Tears, real tears are in my eyes now, but they do not thal; he shall not think that what is a laughing matter with him is a crying ono with me. "Now, Nell," lie sees, and ehere is no laughter in his V0100, 1.5 is very gray°, "I want to know what you mean by this stupid behavior?" Stupid behavior 1 I nevee heard of a man saying snob a, thing as that to his lady -love before; and I thought Panl was so hope- lessly, drivelingly, bosottedly in love with me. "I think it is you who have been so stupid,'' 12117, blau k ly. " What did you say to me when leaked you to—" "That will do," I say, hastily; "we have discussed at4 that before." "And do you call that a proper way to sPealt to me?" No ansvsnr. "I)o you call it a proper thing eci throw books at my head?" "Do you call it a proper thing to read a eowspaper before me?" Certainly; if you are sulky and will not speak 51) 3110." "You were sulky too." "I spoke to you." "And I tenewered you." "In a nice nutmeat" "I had better not speak to you at ail," I say, with dignity; "perhaps you Will al- low me to leave you, Mr. Vasher." "Presently. Now, Nell, do you think that because we are lovers we are to be careless of each other's feelings? The most passionate love that ever existed between man and woman would make neither happy if consideration did not form a part of it. Do you think I would wound you as you did me ten minutes ago; do you think 3 could ever Intake suoh a speech to you as you did to me?" "Is in only ten minutes ago " I say. looking at the clock, "it seems like ten hours." "Are you sorry that you made it Nell?" I lift my head and look him in the face silently, and for a minute I have a sharp, short struggle with myself then, for I love him dearly, I say "Yes," ".Little darling," he says, clasping nae tighter; but—oh, wonder of wonders !—he does not kiss me; does not evon try to. "What a deal of time WO have wasted, to be mare! But that is not all; there are the books." "Tho books," I repeat; "what of them ?' ' "Yon have not picked them up yet." s"Dld ycu suppose I was going to?" I ask, smiling at his joke, winch is excel- lent. "lam sure you will.' I look at him quickly,fanoying my ears have played me false, but he is grave enough "Do you mean It?" I ask, slowly. • "Most certainly." "Then I never will," I say, with spirit. "Oh I I clid not think you were so mean, after I bad said I was sorry too." "What did I say to you after I had thrown the first one?" he asks. "That I was not to do that again." "And you threw another the next mu- ment, so you were not only rude, but dis- obedient." "Am I your daughter?" I ask, turning round to look at him with a hovering smile. "No, miss, but I am your lord and mas- ter, and you are bound treobey me." "Don't be so sure of that," I say, put- ting my head on one side to look at my smart engagment ring of big opals and diamonds—the "jewels of calamity," as folk say. "If you aro suoh a tyre= now, when we are only courting, what would you be if we were man ind?" I don't teel a bit miserable now, or sorry, or ashamed. He is talking to me; there is not a dreadful wall of silence built up between us. "Do you expect me M toll you I atn pleased with you when I am not?" he asks, gravely. 'Would you like me to be O hypocrite? I cannot soy one thing and mean another, and the same with you; when you are \sued 1 should like you to speak out and have done with it," "I am very much vexed with you now," I say, with alacrity. "1 wish to get off your knee this very minute and you will not let me." "You than go when you havepicked up those books." ' "Then WO shall stay, hero until we am fossils," I say, swinging my foot. " Sianp- Isins will be here proontly to say dinner is ready; aro WO 50 eat it as we are?" " The dinner can wait" "Only I can't wait for my dinner," I say. There is a little pause, during which I look into the red hot heart of the flre and take counsel with myself. ()lonely he is not to bo managesi by dignity, and I don't mean to git•o in. .N ovortheloss, I have Inc mind to sit hero mum-entince till we turn into fossils. I will try coaxing, and see if that will bring him to it proper frame of mind; I steal.my arms round his nook and hold ftp any mouth to be kissed, bele „he (loos yet bring his face it jot nearer to 311i730, tool, for the first 1 ime in ray life, my offerect caress.is repressed. LE Inc had slapped me ho could not have astonished 3110 more. Noll,"• he says, Nell," and he looks into my eyes with it vexed taid strong poin In his own, "could you not give Up yomi Wil- fulness for moo to please me?" For a little spaoo I looJ at him; 0013 I slip oot of his nems atad sit doevn oil the betartherug. Thoto tbo books lia nasty little toads I Haw I hate the man that • wrote, tho printer that printed, abd the person that broughb thorn hero! tarn them over with the point of nay shoo, and take a °caveat loolt at Paul.; his head is turned away, thank Heaven! or I could never pick them np, never. A thought strikes Om; and 1 sanfle to Myself as I sera/nate up into a their, and lift tip ate of the volumes between my two . foeb and, hold it toevarcl him. "Pauly" 1 say, in 0 very Mall voice, Pon], hero it is!" ele Write quickly, but, on Seeing the faellion in whiola my' offerang is made, he roseate himself. "That is Dot the evay, Nell," Inc meal anct is it fancy, 01 is there a keen damp- pointment in his voice? I lower the book to the ground and consider for a little while, then I jump up and kneel by his side. • Paul," I say, wistfully, "won't you let me off, dear? I'll never throw any more at you big or little, meter!" . Be torus and looks at axle. "I misun.clerstand yoo, child,"he says; "I thought you would have done it; btit never mind." "And so I will," 1 say, heartily. "I would pick up a whole library full rather than you should look at ano like that"' And 1 stoop down to gather up those nasty, nasty little volumes; but Paul snatches me in his arms. "My plucky little girll'' he cries; "after all she has not disappointed me. Do you know, child, that I had made up my mind just now that, with all our love for each othonwe should never hit it off if You were too proud to own yourself in the wrongi" "Only I dicl not pick them up after all," I say, shyly. "Row do you know I ever intended to?" "Did you not?" he asks, pinching my cheek ; 'I know better I" "If I have come ont of the oreleal well, sir, so have not you! A more pig -bead- ed, self-wi led, obstinate person I never met and how yoti could bring.yourself to behave in snolx a way to a lady--" "Why dIcl you provoke me so, then?" he asks, quickly; "have you forgotten what it was that you said?" "Hush I" I say putting my hand over his mouth. "At any rate. I will kiss you notltrf"you Please, " says Simpkins the u.bi- quitous, "hem! dinner is waiting!" HARVEST. CHAPTER I. The 10th of December has come and the 'hoer of Paul's departure—a black and bitter day—and I am bich ing him faro - well; not in the old 5011001 room, or by a warm fireside, but out here in the cold, raw winter's day, with the wind blowing evildly, dismally in our faces; with the dean leaves whirling about our feet like a hot of restless spirits and with a dull, hard, cold sky above, and a desolate sweep of barren landscape stretching out before us. We are standing by the old stile whore we first met, and our faces are not gay and warm as they were then, but rattle and cold, his with the fra fulness of a man who hates to part with the thing he loves best on earth ; mine with the restless misery .hat only a woman's heart knows who sees her treasure go forth into the world, and knows not if it will come safe- ly back to hes. It is such a little while that Inc purposes to be gone—only ten days. O mere nothing—why, therefare, do I feel such it dragging, heavy foreboding at any heart? why do I bola bis hand in both mine, and look at bira as though I were taking iny last 011 of gazing on him for years? Why do I kiss him again and again, with i passion I never knew until to -day; as 1 mild kiss him no more tenderly if he lay dying in my arms! Ah! why, indeed! have hacl a dream, but that is nothing; I have an instinct but that is nothing— something above and beyond these seems to toll rao that our porting to -day is for evil; there is sorrow in the air, there is dread in the rustling leaves, a keening of nom al anguish in the sobbing wind, a dark shadow passing like a doom betwixt my levee and me. "My sweetheart, Inc says, "how pale you are! I should not have let you come out in this cold—" "You promised," I say, buttoning his ooal; closer about his throat with trembling angers. 'You will come back, Paul; you ere sure you will come back?" "Come back to my pearl, my darling? Ay, that I will You are not yourself," he says, looking into my face; "you are ill, suffering; I cannot leave you like this, cear, I shall take you back to the house." "No, no!" I say, faintly, "but you are quite sure that you must go?" "Quite sure, little one; if it had boon possible to get out of it, you may be sure I should have done so. But it ie soon 0 little while,you will scarcely have realized that I am gone before I shall be back, and then, Nell—e" "We shall be very happy if you come back," I say, dreamiay, "Take care of yourself Paul; do not forget that any harm to you passes straight throngh me, and that every hour you are away I shall be wearying for you. Do not let any one put me out of your head; do not forget me." "Forget thee!" he cries, kissing my lips again and again; "who oould forget thee? not Paul. Write to me twice or thrice, darling; it will pass the time more quickly to you, and I will write too; but I nosier was a good scribe, pet, so you must not expect much. Of course I shall scrawl you a lino from Marseilles." "Ten days!" I say to mself, as he smooths the hair beets, from my forehead with his brown hand. "Only ten days!" what could happen in that time?" "Don't flirt with George while I an away," he says, jealously; 'you will have lots of opportunities, you know." "Poor George!" I say sadly; "I don't think there is much fear." "Darling," he says, "1 shall give up this train, and take you back to the Manor wo,,uyldesey wgioirg?0", Hoi,uNseo'b. ou "you wilt not, Paul; for where I say, gently; "you , will kiss me once, Paul, and then you will go" And so Inc takes me in his atms and kisses me many times. "Good -by, little sweetheart, good -by," he says, A/111 at last he goes away. Half -way acmes the feed, he turns and looks at 1110. All imesenseloterly I hold out any arms to hien, mid Inc comes back. "Do not; forgot," I whisper, "that loge, where I kissed you first, 1 kissesi you last.'' hi one more swift embrace, a pas- eionato clinging .of hands, and he is gone; and I tand staring at him, with wiling, burning oyelealls, ancl. a heert heavy as lead. I wateh him over the brow of tat) hill, turning oftezu as Inc goes. Then I go along the meadow with ball -bag, lagging !stops, fool presently meet Gootgo with his dogs at his heels. "Is that you, Noll?" ho asks, and me- thallically I put mo hand in bis and,look chilly into his face ee "You are 1111' eactlaims; "had you not better go home at mice?" "7 1101 going. Ile is gone," I say, looks ing up into any companion's face with a chilly smile, "and I think nay hoarb is br o lz en "He will COMO back," nye George, mothingly ; "It is only foe n little wide, Can't you livo these few clays without him , Noll?'' ele wit 1 nevet oome baok, " 7 say, stands ing still. "Do you not bear the fairies arel spirits Whispering it—"He will Mayor ro- turn to you, never, never! Thaf is What they are saying quite plainly; and 7-0 God l'' 1 cry, stab ding still, "Ho Will neVeie c0.1