Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 32, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 December 1901 — NORA'S TEST [ARTICLE]

NORA'S TEST

BY MARY CECIL HAY

CHAPTER IX.—(Continued.) “Miss Foster had a new bonnet on,” observed Nora, lifting her silken lashes to meet his quizzical gaze, and then, with 8 blush, becoming' aware of something at the fire which she had forgotten. “I remarked it; Miss Foster had a new bonnet, Miss Victoria Foster a newer bonnet, and Mrs. Foster the newest bonnet of all. Byron would have been charmed if he had had my passing opportunity, for they were shining Hke a guinea and two seven-shilling pieces.” “They looked very stylish,” observed Nora, anxiously following the new direction of Mark’s eyes as he moved to the hearth rug. “Dcryou know what is the message'l bear to Mrs. Foster?” “No,” cried Nora, all interest at once. “Is it from Heaton?” “Yes,” replied Mark, trying to resist watching the effect of every word upon her. “Will and I want her to bring you all down to Heaton for a day, as our guests —Will’s and mine. You have been in England a whole year, yet have never seen Will’s home.” “No, and I thought I should stay there a great deal. But perhaps it was better not; I could never have worked industriously in the country—in summer time. I suppose it is very beautiful there, Mr. Poynz?” “You will see.” “Perhaps,” she said, wistfully. “But perhaps I may not.” “But you must; I have something to show you, and to tell you there.” “Something that would not sound so well here?” ' w Yes; it is the story of a beautiful house down there, and must be told on the spot.” “And Miss Archer?” began Nora, looking wistfully at the governess. "Miss Archer is to have a special message from us both,” replied Mark, with a smile for Helena “As soon as ever the day is fixed, she will hear what a cordial invitation I bring her from Foster, and how anxiously I second it myself.” “And now, Mr. Poynz,” Helen said, just as if she could not trust herself to answer him, “I hear unmistakable indications of Mrs. Foster’s return.” When Mark, in his unhurried way, had bid good-by to Nora and Miss Archer, and ascended to the drawing room he found the ladies of the house resting . after their drive, each with.a cup of tea in her hand. “Thomas did not tell me you were here,” exclaimed Mrs. Foster, a little surprised at his having voluntarily informed her how long he had waited for her. “I am sorry to have detained you—very.” . ' - “You see we could not have expected you, because you have been away so long,” added Genevieve, with great affability. “Will you be persuaded to have a -up of tea, Mr.. Poytiz. YquMnust be very tired of this delay, and I know you chafed at being obliged to wait so long.” “I have been very comfortable indeed,” was Mark’s reply. “You were expecting us every minute, “I expected you eventually, Miss Foster, but hardly every minute, for I met you an hour ago. No—no tea, thank you.” “Met us!” echoed Victoria, wondering how they- could have missed seeing him. while Genevieve stood angrily looking from the window, conscious that, instead of being ashamed of having waited in the school room, he seemed even anxious that they should be distinctly informed that he had done so, and had felt it no penance. “Met us, Mr. Poynz! Where?” “ ‘Far in the wqsst,’ ” quoted Mark, “ ‘remote from citizens, where Hyde Park ends and Bayswater begins.’ You were speaking to a friend, or I might have stopped you. Mrs. Foster, I bring a message from Will, which I am here myself to indorse —I mean a joint invitation from him and myself. Will had a meeting to attend this evening, or he would, I believe, have been here, too. Will you come and spend a day at Heaton, in the park —and on the lake, if you likefinishing up the evening at Will’s lodgings? I will drive you down and back as far as Guildford, if you must return the same night. There will be moonlight, too. if you will fix a day early in next week.” “Suppose,” said Mrs. Foster, glancing nervously at her elder daughter, who, though gracefully joining her sister’s paean of delight, was waiting for her mother’s reply, “we say the twenty-sev-enth, Mr. Poynz; will that suit you? and will it suit you, Gena?” “On the twenty-seventh, mamma,” Genevieve answered, reflectively, “wo are engaged. Did you forget? Perhaps Mr. Poynz will let us say the twenty-ninth. It will be moonlight for our drive even then. How enjoyable it will be!” “And this invitation, Mrs. Foster,” Mark went on, “extends, if you please, to Miss St. George and Miss Archer.” “As for Miss Archer,” put in Genevieve, with a laugh, which was not overburdened with mirth, “that is one of Will's philanthropic ideas; and he would be much surprised, I’m sure, afterward, if we, or you, Mr. Poynz, helped him to carry it out. And”—with a smile —“it would be cruel, too, to take her from .Miss St. George, who, I am confident, will not be tepipted from her work. We never can persuade her to go with us anywhere—never. Can we, Tory?” “May I try?” asked Mark, in the gravest possible manner, and not at all as if he knew of the merry twinkle in his eyes. “I will do so,” interrupted Mrs. Foster, rising, and glancing at Genevieve for approval of the tact she displayed; "I will try to persuade her, if you will stay, Mr. Poynz. But she will not consent to go, I feel sure; for, though not naturally inclined to study, she keeps closely at it, under the conviction that she is doing right. And, indeed, I think she is, poor child I” Just as Mrs. Foster reached the door, it was opened from without, and Nora entered the room, with an cp*n letter in her hand. “Mrs. Foster,” she said, without seeming to look further into the room, “Mr. Doyle has written to say he will come for

From Darkness To Light

me on the twenty-ninth. The letter hats just arrived, and yob told me to let you know as soon as ever I heard from him. You said it would be the twenty-eighth, didn’t you? Does the change make it inconvenient?” The last words were added simply in politeness, for she had not seen that Genevieve was ill at ease, and dared not glance up to see whether Mr. Poynz had noticed what day they had expected to lose Nora. “That will do very well,” was Mrs. Foster’s ready and half-whispered' reply. “Now, run away, my dear, and tell Miss Archer.” “I told her first,” confessed Nora, honestly, but without intending to delay, until Mark’s voice arrested her. “Before Miss St. George goes, may we fix upon another day to spend in Surrey —one that will equally suit us all, Mrs. Foster? Have you any objection to promise me the twenty-eighth?” “I am afraid,” began Mrs. Foster, and looked to her daughter to finish the excuse. “Yes, mainma, I’m afraid so, too. You mean that we must go out to that tiresome old Mrs. Brunton’s on the twentyeighth.” “If that is so,” said Mark, quietly, /‘and your engagements cannot be postponed, I must ask you to choose a later day, and let me take Miss St. George and Miss. Archer alone on the twenty-eighth; because after that they could not come at all.” “Of course,” began Mrs. Foster, avoiding her daughter’s eyes, and feeling more uncomfortable than she ever remembered to have felt before, “I must consent to put off a personal engagement to chaperon the girl of whom I have taken vol? untary charge. I would not neglect my duty in any particular; but I am extremely doubtful, Mr. Poynz, as to whether her legal guardian would consent to such a distraction on her last day. Otherwise “I will telegraph to Doyle,-with pleasure. That will be no trouble, and I shall have his answer in a few hours.”

CHAPTER X. The morning of the 28th of April was so fair -a one that it even rose brightly above the grimy roofs in Great Cumberland Place—so fair that it looked with a sunny smile even through the dim window of-that sitting room of Helen Archer’s, in Randolph road, Kilburn; so ..fair, .that it was just as it should be, for the dawn of that impossible day which had lived all night in Nora’s dreams. And as.she dressed —donning a few stray items of girlish finery, which relieved the somber blackness, of the well-worn dress, and going constantly to the windows’ to look ‘up; she sang softly to herself, in the gladness of her heart. Nora’s- breath came In a gasp as she looked out. The handsome drag,* - with its. high, cushioned seats, the shining of the silver on*. the harness, the liveried servants, Mr. Poynz sitting so still, with that dangerous collection of reins in his hand and, above all, the four restive horses with their glossy coats and arched necks, filled Nora with a wonder of happiness which actually benumbed her, as pain might have done. Without giving any reason for his choice of route, Mr. Poynz drove round through Kew and Richmond; and, though he rarely addressed Nora when she sat so utterly silent in the intensify of enjoyment, he still had ever an answer ready for each of those breathless questions of hers —an- answer which taught her something of the spots they passed* while it seemed only idle summer chat. Presently the houses stood more thickly on the margin of the toad, then clustered about-a long green, across which the horses sped among a few scattered, watching figures. And then the last country town was passed, Mark said, and they would soon be in Guildford. Then they turned eastward from the town, and rolled on, down sheltered lanes and across a baby river, to such a sweet and tranquil valley that it seemed as if that world of .London which they had left in the morning must be in another hemisphere. And there, before them when they stopped, was an old gabled house, standing bfoad and low on a lawn of smoothest, brightest turf, and from the gate came Willoughby Foster, running like a boy to welcome them, and very ruddily conscious of his error the moment he found himself attempting to reach Nora first of all. He was called from her before he had won an answer to his cheering remark, and then the horses were led away, the wraps deposited in Will's rooms, and the little party set out for the spot where they were to dine, and where Mr. Foster had invited other guests to meet them. When the meal was over and the party dispersing, Mr. Poynz came up to Nora, as she stood by one of the tiny arched windows of the long room. “Miss St. George,” he said, “will you come with me for a few minutes? I want to show you the lake. They will all be down there presently, and,” he added, following the direction of her eyes, “Miss Archer has been taken possession of, you see, by that pleasant old lady with the gray curls. Come.” They went, talking merrily the while, across a wide, sunny stretch of grass, and then up a little wooded knoll. But when they reached the top of this, and Mark_said, “There’s the lake,” they stood quite still, to look down upon it. It lay on their right, in the hollow beyond this rising ground; and on their left, facing the water, stood a silent, uninhabited house —a long, lofty building of gray stone, with pointed arches over every Joor and window, and a tall tower at each corner. Nora's eyes went back again djywn the gentle slope to the water, and then to the house again; then once more to the lake shore, fastening themselves there upon a low, closed boat house, the flat, leaden roof of which caught the sun rays and hehi them hotly. Then the girl’s gaze, growing more thoughtful and puzzled, slowly traced the path from this little boat house to one wide, low window, opening like a door, in the tower nearest the lake, upon the eastern aide of the house. ,

“I.feel as if I had seen all this before,” she said, “yet of course that is impossible.” “Unless you have seen it in“a picture.” “A picture!” she echoed, thoughtfully. “How and where could I have seen it in a picture?” “I will tell you,” Mark said, gently. “I have brought you here on purpose to tell you.” i • So, in that very spot where the sketch was taken which he had seen in Mrs. Corr’s Irish cabin, he told Nora the story Rachel had narrated to him a year before. They walked for a while in silence after that, Nora wondering why Mr. Poynz should have proposed this, and wondering still more why it-was that she felt such deep, real interest in the story he had told her of Heaton Place. Presently, leaving the open park, they passed through a firwood, where the bare trees stretched like a boundless vista of columns. Then they came out again into a sheltered little valley on the outskirts of the park, where a low, white house lay safe from every eastern breath, and where the buds of a drooping willow on the lawn shone like emeralds against the dark-and somber green of the yews. Instead of walking up the lawn, Mark led Nora to the side of the house, and opened a narrow gate among the yews. She started a little as she entered the path to which it led her—a path cut among them. “How cool and dim!” she said. “It is like sudden twilight.” “It is always twilight here” Mark answered, bending his head a little, as he walked under the arched yews; “and another suerprise awaits you- at the end. This little avenue leads into such a sheltered, yet sunny nook of the garden that I have known all kinds of summer flowers standing there in blossom before January has left us. See!” But though the flowers were dazzling in the little parterre to which their walk had suddenly opened, it was not their brilliance which had fixed Nora’s astonished gaze; and though in the next minute she was standing before a bed of blooming verbena, it was only to offer her hand to a young man’who was busily pegging down the plants. “Micky!” she cried. “Just think of its being you, Micky!” The lad had started to his feet as if her pretty, pleasant greeting hrfd struck him, and his cheeks were aflame when he saw her offered hand. “No, Miss Nora,” he said, taking his cap off. “You wurr our fairy princess over at home, and it wurrn’t annythin’ you cud do cud make the difference; but it's not in Oireland we are now. It is good it is to see yer face again, Miss Nora.” They stayed a few minutes longer talking to the Irish lad, and then Mr. Poynz led Nora up to the house, just as one of the low windows was opened, and a lady of about forty years, in a mourning dress, and with a snowy shawl around her shoulders, came out. She met Mark with a smile of real gladness; but the quiet, dreamy gaze which Nora had noticed first upon her face had returned to it by the time Mr. Poynz had introduced her. “Miss St. George!” she repeated, as she gave the girl her thin, soft hand, and then seemed inclined to leave it in Nora’s clasp. “Did you say so, Mr. Poynz?” “Nora St. George,” Mark answered, intercepting Nora’s own reply.- “Is the name not quite strange to you?” “Not quite.” The answer was given slowly and thoughtfully; but the quiet, grave eyes brightened with momentary eagerness, and a flash of color glided, as it were, across the pale, still face. “You have seen my garden,” she added, gently and almost shyly laying her fingers on Nora’s arm; “will you come and see my pictures—if Mr. Poynz will spare you?” There was little need for the wistful glance into Mark’s face. He wanted a stroll round the garden, he said, in his easy way, and would join them-in a few minutes. But the few minutes grew to thirty before Miss Gifford and Nora came out to the lawn. “Thank you,” the elder lady said, quite dimply, when Mark, bidding her goodby, looked a little keenly from her face to Nora’s. “Mr. Poynz,” observed Nora, thoughtfully, walking at his side from the garden gate, “Miss Gifford is just what I fancied her, while you told the story.” “And you do not think that she ” “Oh, no!” cried the girl, intercepting his question with a shudder. “It could not have been, Mr. Poynz. It could not.” The tone was quick, and almost angry, in the last few words, and Nora noticed it, while at that moment Mr. Foster caught sight of them and waved his hat, with a call. One minute afterward she was walking at the young curate’s side; and Mark, who had so lightly given up his charge to his friend, had joined jhiother group, determined that his friend should be missed as little as possible.

CHAPTER XI.

It was the day after Nora’s return to Ireland, and she and Celia Pennington had been wandering about the house and garden in the happiest, idlest way. At the vicarage gate, the children, who had clung to Nora’s side, were taken back by Celia, and Nora went on across the bog alone, singing softly to herself, as in old times, and feeling as if those long twelve months in London must have been a dream, from which she had awakened back to the old, unbroken life. The sound of a swift, light step on the turf struck familiarly on Nora’s ear, and made her stop and turn; and then a warm, kind smile beamed in her beautiful eyes, and she stooped to bring her head on a level with the shaggy head of the barefooted child who, in one nondescript garment just twice too big for him, was hurrying after her. “Why, Larry,” she said, drawing her head back in a critical, admiring sort of way, as she took both the lad’s rough hand* into her own, “what a big boy you are growing!” “Stap, Miss Nora!” he cried, in real fright, as he unclinched the fingers of one band and showed a letter, crushed and soiled. “Take it, plase. I he's to rin now, an’ nlver stap!” Before Nora had time to question him, tjie boy was speeding out of sight across the bog, and so, smiling as she stood, she opened th* soiled envelope and drew a slip of paper from it. Could Larry'a drunken father have learned to write during that year she had been away? or could Larry himself have scribbled her a line to show his progress? These thoughts were only momentary, for she had not stood two minutes there before the paper was hidden in her dress, and she was walking back toward the vicar-

age, steadfast in purpose, though so sadly deep in thought. For the few lines were from Rachel Corr, and this was what they said: “As I guess that you will soon be coming to see me, Miss Nora, dear, I shall put Larry to watch until he can give thisu into your-own hand, and then not wait a moment, for fear he should be seen. Miss Nora, for the sake of all that love you, don’t come here at all to-day! But I must see you as soon as I can do it safely. I must speak to you where no one can see us or hear us. I will be at Larry’s cottage by the river at dusk. Will you go there alone—quite alone? If you fail, this night will ruin us all; but, even if you come, what can we do? Oh, how hard it is for me to be the one to make you miserable! But I don’t know what to do, Miss Nora, dear. I must tell it all to you —and even then what can we do? Burn this quickly. RACHEL. “In the dark to-night. Oh, don’t forget!” (To be continued.)