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The Huron Signal, 1881-03-18, Page 21 LIFI 11 LIFlI sir rasa .whets CHAPTER XXL MILK ITuar. Thur things went ua " 1 shall set down no incidents, though bitterly I remem- ber these a11. At last it came to end. I shall relate this, test there may be no doubt left as to what paved between us-Oolin and me. We were standing in the oorridor, his mother having just quitted us to settle with paps about to -morrow's journey, desiring us to wait for her till she re- turned. Colin suggested the Library, but I preferred the corridor, where con- tinually there were persona coming and going. I thought, if I never gave him any opportunity of saying anything, he !night understand what I so earnestly wished to save him from being plainly told. So we stood looking out of the hall windows. I can see the view this minute, the large, level circle of snow, with the sun -dial in the centre, and be- yond, the great avenue gates, with the ,!venue itself, two black lines, and a white one between, lessening and fading away in the mist of a January after- noon. "How soon the day is closing in -our last day here '" I said this without thinking. The next minute I would have given any- thing to recall it; for Colin answered 'something -I hardly remember what - but the manner, the tone, there was no mistaking. I suppose the saying is true: ,no woman with a heart in her bosom can mistake for long together when a man really loves her. I felt it was coming; perhaps better let it come, and then it would be over, 'and there would be an end of it. So I just stood still, with my eyes on the snow and my hands locked tight to- gether, for Colin had tried to take one of them. He was trembling much, and so I am sure was I. He said only half a dozen words, when I begged him to atop, "unless he wished to break my heart." And, seeing him turn pale as death, and lean against the wall, I did indeed feel as if my heart were break- ing. For a moment the thought came -let me confess it -how cruel things were, as they were; how happy had they been otherwise, and I could have made him happy -this good, honest soul that loved me, his dear old mother, and every one belonging to us; also, whether anyhow I ought not to try. No; that was not possible. I can understand women's renouncing love, or dying of it, or learn- ing to live without it; but marrying with- out it, either for "spite," or tor money, necessity, pity, or persuasion, is to me utterly incomprehensible. Nay, the self -devoted heroines of the " Emile Wyndham" school seem creatures so weak that, if not compaasionating, one would simply despise them. Out of du- ty or gratitude it might be possible to work, lige, or even die for a person, but never to marry him. So, when Colin, recovering, tried to take my hand again, I shrunk into my- self, and became my right self at once; for which, lest tried overmuch, and liking him as I do, some chance emotion might have led him momentarily estray, 1 most earnestly thank God. And then I had to look him in the eyes and tell him the plain truth. "Colin, I do see love you; I never shall be able to love you, and so it would be wicked even to think .of this. You must give it all up, and let u9 go hack tc our old ways." • "Dora ?" "Yes, indeed, it is true. You must believe it." For a long time the only words he said were: "I knew it -knew I was net half good enough for you." It being nearly dark, no .ane came by until se heard his mother's step, and her cheerful "Where's my Colin r' -- loud enough, as if she meant -poor dear !-- in fond precaution, to give us notion of her coming. Instinctively we hid from her in the library. She looked in at the 3oor, but did not, or would not, see us, and went trotting away down the tern - 'ler. (►h, what • wretch I felt. When she had departed, 1 was stealing away, but Cohn caught my dress. „One word- lust one. Did you never .yore for me never the least bit in X11 the world r "Yes,'. 1 answered, feehtrg no mews ashamed of telling this, ..r anything, than one would he in • dying confession "Yes, Colin, D VIII "nee very food of you, when 1 was about eleven years . std. " ' I "And never afterwardr "No --as my saying this proves . Hover afterward, and never should. by any pnaurble chance ---in the sort of w•y yoe wish 'That is teiots(gts _1 understand, he said wick s we4 .4 wirrnwfnl dignity Finite new in Colin Granton "1 was only geed enough for yeti when you were a ei.i)d, sed we are net eheldren new. ' We never shall be children any mora," al "Re ne And the tho•oghe 4 that Old timrZ ier* upon ass like s 6eud the dap, ressime mega to edged, joy acme home again -the lore that was so limit, - emit, so painless And he had breeder, ever eine---nae, not Umbel; t oegh for a time he tried flirting with ler, he uwatad, just to find out whether or not 1 oared for him. I hid uiy face and "bleed - And thee 1 1*4 need to reoover self- control; it is an awful thing to see a man weep. 1 stood b) Colin till we were both calmer; trusting all was safe over, and had paned without the one question I most dreaded. But it Caine. "Dona, why doy not care for met Is there --tell me not, as you like -is there any one elai Conscience! let me be u just to my - as I would be to another in my place. Once, 1 wrote that I had been "mis- taken," aa I have been in some things, but not in all. Could I have honestly said so, taking all blame on myself and freeing all others from everything save mere kindness to a poor girl who was foolish enough, but very honest and true and wholly ignorant of where things were tending, till too late -If I could have done this, I believe I should then and there have oonfessed the whole truth to Colin Gunton. But, as things are, it was impossible. Therefore, I said, and started to notice how literally my words imitated other words, the secondary meaning of which had struck me differently from their first, "that it was net likely I should ever be married." Colin asked no more. The dressing -bell rang and I again tried to get away; but he whispered, "Stop one minute -my mother -what am I to tell my mother?" How much does ahe know?" "Nothing. But she guesses, poor dear -and I was always going to tell her outright; but somehow I couldn't. But now, as you will tell your father and sisters, and--" "No, Colin; I shall not tell any hu- man being." And I was thankful that if I could not return his love I could at least nave his pride, and his mother's tender heart. "Tell her nothing; go home and be brave for sake. Let her see that herboy is not unhappy. Let her feel that not a girl in the land is more precious to•him than his old mother." "That's true !" he said, with a hard breath, "I won't break her dear old heart. I'll hold my tongue and bear it. I will, Dora" "I know you will," and I held nut my hand. Surely, that clasp wronged no one; for it was hardly like a lover's -on- ly my old playmate -Colin my dear. We then agreed that, if his mother asked any questions, he should simply tell her that he had changed his mind concerning me; and that otherwise the matter should be buried with him and me, now and always -"except" -and he seemed about to tell me something, but stopped, saying it was of no matter -it was all as one now. I asked no farther, only desiring to get away. Then, with another long, sorrowful, silent clasp of the hand, Colin and 1 pealed. A long parting it has proved; for he kept aloof from me at dinner, and instead of traveling home with us, west round another way. A week or two afterwards, he called at Rockmount, to tell us he had bought a yacht, and was going a cruise to the Mediterranean. 1, being out on the moor, did not see him; he left next day, telling his mother to ''wish good -by for him to his playmate Dors " Poor Colin! God bless him and keep him safe, so that 1 may feel 1 only wounded his heart, but did his soul no harm. I meant it not! And when he comes back to his old mother, perhaps, bringing her home a fair daughter-in-law, as no doubt he will one day, 1 shall be happy enough to smile at all the misery of that time at Treherne Court and after- ward, and at all the tender compassion which had been wasted upon me by good Mrs. Granton, because "my Colin" changed his mind, and went away with- out marrying his playmate Dorn. Only "Dora." I am glad he never called me ' `Theodora-'. 1 red in a book, the other day, this extract: "People do not sufficiently remember that in every relation of life as in the closest one of all, they ought to take one another 'for better for worse.' That grunting the'tie of friendship, gratitude, or esteem. be strong enough to have el- ate.? at all, it ought, either actively or passively, to exist forever. And seeing we sane at beet, know one neighbor, companion, ..r friend, as little as, alas' we often find he knoweth of u*, it be- hooveth us to treat him with the most patient fdelity, the tenderest forbear. Knee; granting to all his words and sc- ions that we do not understand, the ut- most tient of faith whieb common sense and Christian justice will allow. Nay, these failing. Is there not still loft Christian charity? which, being past believing and 'hoping, still ',inde nth 1 things I hear the ,whin(. wheels , slams, !sr Ihktrsii•' Asorio4 46t..36.1 (1ir.otea leave [�aanse rnoesK I watched them streldlslg a�i -is. Darby and and Jess faehi.a--till wo small, black figures vanished is hilly road, which always used to remind ms of the Bleeping Beauty and her prima -and on bee tower► arm she leant. And .reuse her waist she telt it told, And tar emcee the ►&1M tier went, To that new world which is the old." They must be very happy -Francis and Penelope. I wonder how soon I shall be well. This fever and ague lasts sometimes for months ; I remember Dr. Urquhert's once saying so. Here following uiy plan of keeping this journal accurate and complete. I ought to put down something which oc- curred yesterday, and which concerns Dr. Urquhart. Driving through the camp, my sister Penelope saw him, and papa stopped the carriage and waited for him. He could not pass them by, as Francis declared he seemed intending to do, with a mere salutation, but staidandspoke. The con- versation was not told me, for, on men- tioning it, a few sharp words took place between papa and Penelope. She pro- tested against his taking so much trouble in cultivating the society of a'man, who, she said, was evidently, out of his own profession, "a perfect boor." • Papa replied more warmly than I had at all expected. "You will oblige me, Penelope, by allowing your father to have a will of his own in this as in most other matters, even if you do suppose him capable of choosing for his associate and friend 'a perfect boor.' And were not accusation as true as it is false, I trust he would never forgot that a debt of gratitude, such as he owes to Dr. Urquhtkrt, once incurred, is seldom to be repaid, and never to be obliterated." So the discourse ended. Penelope left my room, and papa took a chair by me. I tried to talk to him, but we soon both fell into ailence. Once or twice when I thought he was reading the newspaper, I found him looking at me, but he made no remark. Papa and I have had much lees of each other's company lately, though we have never lost the pleasant footing on which we learned to be during his illness. I wonder if, now that he is quite well, he has any recollection of the long, long hours, nights and days, with only day- light or candlelight to mark tie differ- ence between them, when he lay motion- less in his bed, watched and nursed by us two. I was thinking thus, when he asked a question, the abrupt coincidence of which with my silent thoughts startled me out of any answer than a simple "No "My dear, have you ever had any let- ter from 1)r. Urquhart?" How could he possibly imagine such thing! Could Mrs. Granton, or Penel ope, who is quick -sighted in some things have led papa to think- to suppose - something, the bare idea of which turn- ed me sick with fear. Me, they might blame as they liked; it would not harm me; but a word, a suggestion of blame to any other person, would drive me wild, furious. So I called up all my strength. "Yon know, papa, Dr. Urquhart could have nothing to write to me about. Any message for me would have put in a letter to you." "Certainly. I merely inquired, con- sidering him so much a friend of the family, and aware that you had seen more of him, and liked him better than your sisters did. But if he had written to you, you would, of course have told I did not say another word than this. mer Papa went on, smoothing his news paper, and baking direct at the fire. "I have net been altogether satisfied with Dr. Urquhart of late, much as i es teem him. He does not appear surf ciently to value what -I may say it with out conceit- from an old man to a younger one, is always of some worth. Yesterday. when I invited him here, he declined again, and a little too - too de- eidely. " Seeing an answer waited for, I said, Yes, PePa a 'stlid•aiphily, R K doth not quite wear aleie i110e11 Ns, awe put off and Day stomata a than as Itis own skin and lea, ars yet liable to became diseased he may have to lose them, and hes em without them, as alter the lopping off of a limp, or the blinding of an y.. And likewise, then be friendships wkick a man gruweth out of, naturally and blamelessly, eves as, out of kis child - clothes; the which, though no longer suitable for his needs, he keepeth re- ligiously, untorgotten Bud undestruyed, and often visited' with a kindly tender- ness, though he knuweth they can Dover and warm him no more. All these in- stances do clearly prove that a friend is not always a friend." "'Yea,' gsoth Fideltd, 'he is. Not in himself, may be, but unto thee. The future and the present are thine and his the past is beyond the both -an un- alienable possession, a bond never dis- annulled. Ye may let it slip, of natural disuse; throw it aside as worn out and foul; cut it off, cover it up, and bury it; but it hath been, and therefore, in one sense forever must be. Transmutation is the law of all mortal things; but so far as we krpw, there is not, and will not be --until the great day of the second death -in the whole universe any such things as annihilation. " "And so take heed. Deceive not thy- self, saying that because a thing is not, it never was. Respect thyself -thine old self as well as thy new. Be faithful to thyself and to all that ever was thine Thy friend is always thy friend. Nut to have or to hold, to love orrejoice in, but to remember. "And if it befall thee, as befalleth most, that in course of time nothing will remain for thee, except to remember be not afraid! Hold fast that which was thine -it is thine forever. Deny it not -despise it not; respects its secrets -be silent over its wrongs. And, so kept, it shall never like a dead thing in thy heart, corrupting end breeding corrup- tion there, as dead things do. Bury it and,go thy way. It may chance that, one day, long hence, thou shalt oome suddenly upon the grave of it-- and be- hold' it is dewy green "' CHAPTER XXII. HIa eroaT. That fact -that poor little' white, patient face! How she is changed! I wish to write down how it was I chanced to see you, though chance is hardly the right word. I would have seen you, even if I had not waited all day and all night, like a thief, outside your garden -wall. If I could have seen you without your seeing me (as actually oocurred), all the better; but in any case I would have seen you. So far as relates to you, the will of Heaven only is btrong enough to alter the resolute "I will," of mine. You had no idea I was so near you. You did not seem to be thinking of any- body or anything in particular, but came to your bedroom window, and stood there a minute, looking wistfully across the moorlands, the still, absorbed, hope - leas look of a person who has had same heavy loss, or resigned something ve dear to the heart -Dallas's look, almost as I remetnbe; it when ee quietly told me that instead of preaching his first ser- mon he must go away at once abroad, or give up hope of ever living to preach at all. Child, if you should slip away and leave me as Dallas did! You must have had a severe illness, and yet, if so, surely I should have mentioned it when I met them. But no mere bodily illness could account for that expression --it is of the mind. You have been suffering mentally also. Can it be out of pity fur the young man who, I hear, has left England? Where fore, is not difficult to guess, nor did I ever expect otherwise, knowing him and you. Poor fellow? But he was honest and rMe, and your friends would ap- prove him. Have they been urging you on his behalf ? Have you had &mil ry feuds to withstand ? Is it that which _ has made you waste away, and turn so still and pale t You would just do that; you would never yield, but only break your heart quietly, and say nothing about it I know you. ` Nobody knows you half so well. Coward that 1 was, not to have taken care of you' 1 might have done it easily, as • friend of the family the Doctor a grum fellow of forty. There was no fear foe anybody save myself. Yea, i have been • coward. My child - my gentle, childlike child - they have been breaking your heart, and I have *tend aloof and left them to do ' I am sorry, having such great res- pect for him, and such pleasure in his society.- Papa pared. " Wbes a man desires t. wen or retain his footing in a family, he usually takes some Nina to secure C 1f he dies not, the natural eoeclueson is that he does not desire it." Another pause. "Whenever Dr. ;ergo hart choose to some herr, he will be al- waym se - waw -meet wekoe, but 1 cannot again invite heel to Rockmount "No paw.. This was all. He then t....k up hr mer, and read it through - i lay quiet, iet until i went to bed. To-oiay 1 find in the same old book he- n Doted Ti ea f ore 'The true thoor) of fnendahip is this tine a friend. always a friend But, answers+ then doth not every day's practaee give the 1e to that doctrine? Moa,,. if not most friendahins. he like it. You had a cough an autumn, and your eyes are apt to get that Might, limpid look, diLaeti pupils, with s dark shade under the lower eyelid, which is sup- posed loo indicate the oonsumptive ten- dency Myself, 1 differ; believing it in you, as in many others, merely t. indi tate that which for want) of • clearer term we call the (nervous temperament, exquisitely sensitive, and liable to slight derangements, yet healthy and strong at the rote 1 es ne trace of dimwit an you, ne relearn why, ere, ymi ahowtd net •ninon That .s. notch* to he. jndi ►t. oItitiditelf asiLNes also, issybt ao ee amid aiisld you !toss tlw►--but Ike kt,ve would eouatsrhakow all, and you would feel that --yon would feel it -1 amid snake you feel it. I must find out whether you have been ill, and, if so, who has bees attend- ing you. Dr. Black, probably. You disliked him, had almost a terror of him, I know. Yet they would ue course have placed you in his hands. my little tender thing, my dove, my flower. It makes me mud. Forgive! Forgive also that word "my" though in one sense you are even now mine. No one understands you as I do, or loves you. Not selfiahly either. Most solemnly do 1 here protest, that could 1 now find myself your father or your brother, through the natural tie of blood, which forever preventa any ether, I would rejoice in it, rather than part with you, rather than that you should slip away like Dallas, and bless my eye' no more. You see now what you are to nue, that a mere appa rition of vour little face at a window could move me thus. 1 must ge to work now. To -morrow I shall have found out all about you. I wish you to know how the discov- ery was made; since, be assured, I have ever guarded against the remotest possi- bility of friends or strangers finding out my secret, or gossiping neighbors coup- ling my name with your.. Therefore, instead of going to Mrs. Granton, I paid a visit to Widow Cart. wright, to whom I had news to give con- cerning her daugeter. And here, lest at any time evil or careless tongues should bring you a garbled statement, let me just name all 1 have had to du with this matter of Lydia Cartwright, of which your sister once !poke as my "impertinent interference." Widow Cartwright, in her trouble, begged me to try ' and learn something about her child, who had disappeared from the family where, by Miss John- ston's recommendation, she went as parlor maid, and, in spite of various inquiries set on toot by Charters and others, to your sister's great regret, never more been heard of. She was be- lieved not to be dead, for she "Ince or twice sent money to her mother; and lately she was seen in a private box at the theatre by a perr.,i: named Turton who recognized her, having often din- ed at the house where she was servent. This information was what I had to give to her mother. I would not have mentioned such • story to you, but that long ere yon read these letters, if ever you do read them, you will have learned that such sad and and terrible facts do exist, and that even the purest woman dare not ignore them. Also. who knows but in the infinite chances of life you may have opportunities of doing in other cases what I mould fain have done, and one day entreated your sister to do -to use every effort for the redeCnption of this girl, from all I hear, must have been un- usually pretty, affectionate, and simple- minded. Her poor old mother being a little comforted I learned tidings of you. Three weeks of fever and ague, or dome - thing like it, nobody quite knew what; they, your family, had no notion till lately that there was anything ailing Jou. No, they never would. They would let you go on in your silent, patient way, sick or well, happy ..r' sorry, till you suddenly sunk, and then they they would turn mound astonished: "Really, why did she not say she was ill? Who would have gussed there was anything the nutter with her?" And I -1, who knew every change in your little face -every mond in that strange, quaint, variable spirit. I have let you slip, and been afraid to take care of you. Coward! I proceeded at once to Rockmonnt, but learned from the gardner that vour father and sister were out, and "Miss Dura was ill in her room." So I waited, hung about the road for and hour or more, till at last it struck me to seek for information at the Cedars. Mrs. Granton was srlad to see me. She t.ld me all about her son's depart- ure -gentle heart' you have kept kis se- cret-- and, asking if d had seen you late- ly, poured out in a stream all her anx Sties concerning you. So something must he dome fee you -- something smitten and determined They may all think what they like -set as they chigoe, and s. shall I. I advised Mei Granton to fetch eon at once to the Cedar+, by pewsuasicta if she could; of not, by eempulsion- bring- ing you there as if fey a drive, and keep- ing you ethe has a will, that good old lady, when she *eve fi; to use it, and she has considerably influence with year father She said she thought she could twnnade him te IM her have yen, and nurse you 'And if the pone child herself is ob- stinate she has been rather venabk ,f temper lately I may say that yaw nrtierwt me t- hung me here? Rhe has even fragile as von live to be an 1 • mei reugwrt for yore. •oPtnion 1 .way otell bPr 1 yelp1 by vim, desire if treated as lea eiOt*1y ►pimb:� 1 oatatdorP•1 y mon '-' ,>,d said she best fur your reinvest- a surioea under- taking ndertaking f, au invalid. You, an le. valid, aur brighj eyed, light•foutaxl, moorland girl ! •! I do net think Mrs. :3ranton bed a shadow ut suspicion. She thanked ere ountinually in her warn -hearted fashion for my "great kindness." Kindness' She also begged ase to mall immediately as her friend, lest 1 might have any pro fessiunal scruples of etiquette about its• terfering with Dr. Black. Scruple- -I coat theta all to the wind... Come what will, I must tee you -must assure myself that there is no. danger -- that all is done fur you which gives you a fair chance of recovery. If sot -if with the clear vision that 1 know I can use oil occasion, I see ynt fading from mo, I shall *mach at you. I will have you; be it only fur • day e.r an hour, I will have you, I say -on my heart, in my arms. My love, any darl- ing, my wife that ought to have been -- you could not die out of my arms. 1 will make you live -- I will stake you love ass. I will have you for my wife yet. 1 win -- God's will be done ! CHAPTER XXIII. HFI iTOILY. I AY at home again. I sit by'my bed- room tire in • new esay chair. 11h, such caro •m I taken of now! I cast my eyes ever the white waves of moor land; "Moor and pleasance looking e tuvl in one snow." Let me see, how does that verse begin ? "God be with thee, my beloved, God be with thee. As alone thou goest forth: With the face unto the north. Moor and plealence looking equal in one snow, Whtie I follow, vainly follow. With the farewell and the hollow, But cannot reach thee so." Ah! but I can. Can roach anywhere -to the north nr the south -over the land or across the sea, to the world's end. Yea, beyond there if need be - even into the other unknown world. Since I last wrote here, in this room, things have befallen me sudden and stranve. And yet so natural do they seem that I almost forget 1 was ever otherwise. than I am now. I, Theodora Johnston, the same, yet not the same. just as I was, to be thought worthy of being -what I hope some one day to be God willing. My heart is full; how shall I write about these things, which never could be spoken about? which only to think of makes ane feel as if I could but Ly my herd down in a won- derful -stricken silence, that all should thus have happened unto me, this un- worthy me. It is not likely I shall keep this jour- nal touch longer; but, until closing it finally, it shall go on as usual. Per- haps it may be pleasant to read over some day when 1 am old -when we are old. One morning, 1 foogot how long after the last date here, Mrs. Granton sur- prised me and everybody hy insisting that the only thing for mo was change of air. and that I should go Feick at 1 once with her to be nursed at the Ce- dars. There was an invalid carriage at the gate, with cushions, instil, and fun ; there was papa waiting to help me down stairs, and Penelope with my trunk Packed; in 'short, I was taken by stunt', and had only to sub- mit.. They all said it -was tha wrest way of recovering, and out be tried. Now I wish to get well, and fast too: it was necessary I should for several reasons. First, there was l'enelope's marriage with the after responsibilities of my be- ing the only daughter now left to keep the house and take care of papa. Secondly, Liaabel wrote that before autumn she should want me for a new duty and new tie, which, though we never spoke of it to one another, we all thought of with softened hearts -even papa, whom Penelope told me, she had seen brushing the dust of our old rock- ing -horse in an absent sort of way, and stool in his walk to watch Thomas, the gardener, tooling Iris grandson. Poor, dear papa! (lei IS QOiwTUHvID. 1 LITIMILBT NOTIC138. Catiaaatt IMay.onirr MAGILCIVIE ter March. to ulfa� Toronto. Prior $ • year • Mal !t given torn .vet+, The articles of travel in this number !tsMra. aid lir. emit toer the Islaed of . andYthde P�yviarnidf ds��hwnel. one ly disarmed. The editor reseunts the Airing story of William the Silent, Prince a( t Mange. the kern and martyr of - Prntestantiam in ita seduce with the Spanish imluisiti.m, with gond megrim. Mee of the Roman (katacorstr. The sketch of (Motley and Irish Methodism will be widely appreciated. A high edaentioetal authe sty says :- --" 1 have found this Magarine an invalnable waist ant in the editnatien of my family, by cultiratiag a low. of reading, and at the sante tiaw idehbly impressing on their minds the great fundamental truths of ear eemmon ('hrisirnnity. We fully aapp predate the effortsnet are putting inrth to suppthe people of tpeople • Magazine ramming reel tioarary merit, and pervade/1 hy a pure end high religions trine 1