On a beautifully mild afternoon in that loveliest of Australian seasons, the transition between winter and summer, there reclined in an easy chair, on the verandah of the Fern Vale cottage, a young girl whose pale though handsome features seemed to be invested with an angelic air as they were contrasted with the deep mourning in which she was attired. We need hardly explain to the reader that this was Eleanor Rainsfield. At one side of her sat our hero, attempting to relieve the weary hours of the invalid by some light and amusing reading, and on the other side sat his sister, who, while she was listening to her brother, was engaged in some of that description of work which constitutes at the same time young ladies' toil and amusement.
During Eleanor's gradual return to convalescence John Ferguson had been assiduous in his endeavours to keep her mind diverted from the contemplation of her grief; and, forgetful of all his past resolutions to think of her only as a seraph exalted above his possession, their constant contiguity, if possible, more than ever made havoc in his heart, immersed him more than ever deeper in the sea of love, and made him yield a willing sacrifice to the ecstatic delirium of his dream.
The attention of the trio, at the moment we have visited them, was suddenly attracted by the sounds of an approaching horseman, and looking up they perceived Bob Smithers riding wildly towards the house. Eleanor instantly rose from her chair; and, leaning upon Kate, entered the sitting-room, while she said to John: "I expect the object of Mr. Smithers' visit is an interview with me, and if he desires it I will see him." Then addressing her friend, she said: "Leave me, dearest Kate, for the few minutes he is here. I don't expect he will stay long."
In another instant Smithers pulled up before the house; and, throwing his bridle over the fence, he strode up to John, who was waiting for him with a welcome and an extended hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Smithers?" he said. "It is some time since you honoured us with a visit. I hope you're well."
"I wish to see Miss Rainsfield," replied Smithers, without heeding the proffered hand or the inquiry after his health.
John felt rather chagrined at the want of civility on the part of his guest; and, pointing to the half-opened window of the room in which Smithers could find the lady he desired to see, he turned upon his heel and walked out of hearing.
What was the nature of John's thoughts that this visit of Smithers gave rise to we will not attempt to divine, though we may safely assume they were of no pleasing nature from the cloud that came over his countenance as he left the house. And yet a gleam of hope would at intervals attempt to break through the gloom. As he stood leaning over the fence in front of the house, thus ruminating over the circumstance and its contingencies, he was startled by the precipitate approach of Smithers, who, clenching his fist and shaking it at him in a menacing attitude, exclaimed: "This is your work; but, by G—, you shall repent of ever having interfered in my private affairs." After the delivery of this minatory declaration the infuriated individual mounted his horse and galloped from the station.
John remained for a few minutes musing upon the strange address he had just heard until a faint appreciation of the cause flashed across his mind, and, his heart beating with salient palpitations, he entered the house to solve the mystery. With this intent he walked into the sitting-room, but found it empty. Eleanor had retired, and he was about to leave it again in search of his sister when his eye rested on an open note lying on the floor. The superscription, he perceived, was—"To Mr. Robert Smithers;" and in its caligraphy he at once detected the tracing of Eleanor's hand, and saw a solution of the mystery even before he glanced at the epistle's contents. If his heart beat quickly with pleasing apprehensions before his curiosity prompted him to pick up and read the note its proper functions were almost destroyed by the violent palpitations as his eyes devoured the following lines:—
Dear Sir,—I hardly know how to break to you the subject on which I wish to address you. When I say it is with regard to our engagement you will understand what I mean, more especially when I tell you that I think, for both of our sakes, it were wise to annul it. To recount to you all the causes that have actuated me in the establishment of this desire would only be to reiterate all your various acts of contumely to myself and friends, and to relate all my daily sufferings. I will not say that I never loved you. When I was induced to consent to become your wife I would have endeavoured to have placed my whole heart at your disposal; but your conduct has not only been such as to estrange from you the most forgiving nature, but towards me it has been absolutely cruel.
I say this not to stigmatize you for your ill-treatment of me, but to endeavour to show you that you can entertain no regard for me; and, in the absence of all mutual affection, such an union as ours would only entail misery on both of us. You will therefore perceive that it will be better for us to forget the relationship that has existed, and remain independent of one another.
I bear you no ill-will, and desire to maintain a friendship for yourself and your kind relatives; but beyond the light of a friend I never can consent to regard you. So there will be no use of your attempting to alter my determination; it is already fixed.—Yours truly,
Eleanor Rainsfield.