|Newspaper Title||Sydney Mail (NSW : 1860 - 1871)|
|Trove Title||Which Wins? A Tale of Life's Impulses|
' WHICH WINS?
A. TALE OF LIFB'6 IMPULSES.
11 The 1 ulliir panion, be il whal it wilt, The l'utiiiK portion cunqum I Cti.on I1.. Tiiiir.r. weeks passed busily ond happily, with a grave happiness to me. My father's impulsive nature led him to lavish upun his daughters the whole eager buret of love that death and sorrow had raised in his heart towards the woman who had fled alike beyond hie love and hia neglect. What proofs of renewed t flection he could (how her he did, and it needed the united effort' of John and rnyaelf to prevent the stone he raised over her grave from being disfigured by the
wiugjefeB ciifruca una doiduuuc inuaBuoninH 1 9 oiicn dishonours the dead end disgraces the living. Finally, there waa ere etc .! a plain monument to the memory of ' Emily, wife of Charles Alvern.' Only my father made a point of duty to imprint some Scripture pltrsso above the wreck of hia dead victim, ' It is always done,' he said, and we yielded to the erguracut. ' Charity covereth a multitude of sirs' we wrote upon the witness atone, and left the dead to rest in peace. At the end of three weeks a carriage rolled out from Sydney on the road along which I have once or twice taken the reader before. Ita occupants were two gentlemen, a little girl, and a woman with pale face and lips bursting apart to emit continual half-smiling sighs that were the signs of that hope consummated which had long been hope delayed. Jlolh gentlemen were in clerical attire. The vounger of the two sat looking out of the window with an air of abstracted thoughtfulnCFs, but the elder continually watched, with a smile of mingled tenderness and mockery, the face of the girl who sat before him. She blushed many times before his mutiny, and at length exclaimed with a queer manner of angry timidity, ' I do wish you'd follow Ilenrj's example, John.' ' So I did, love.' ' Nor seme 1 meant I wish you'd look out of w indow instead of staling ine out of countenance in that absurd manner.' ' I've got a right to — ' ' Dear me ! I hope you're not going to assert a right to do every tingle thing I dislike, John. You're very tyrannical.' ' I've got a right to tjrnunUe.' 'Tut, tut ! how s'upid you are. I'll not talk any more.' ' But you will.' 'I won't.' ' You will.' ? 'Why:' ' Because I say so.' ' You can't make me talk against my will.' ' My w ill's your's henceforward.' ' You're very much mistaken.' ' Why, you're talking now.' I put my lips together at that, and tried to main tain silence for a long time, but was forced to laugh cutriglil in a few minutf a. ' I little thought, Isola,' Henry said, ' that the firat wedding ceremony 1 should perform would be yours.' 'Are you angry, Harry:' ' No, Isols, or I should not be here. I thought you might be harpy as my wife, but I know you will be happy as John's, and in your happiness my own is unfeigned.' ' I shall be your sister, you know.' ' Yea : I am more than contented, dear.' I turned a way at that and looked out of window. ' Ob, John, look. There's the place where I hid from the bullock-drivers that night, and where I thought I'd never sec you again, and where I, found Jumbo.' ' We'll eocn have Jumbo again,' said Una, in soliloquy. 'My mrd little pet!' John said, and his tones were very much at variance with the words. 'Iwas'nt mad, and I wont be a pet, I tell you. I'll be a rational woman wbo seta about housekeeping in a steady sensible manner.' ' You were mad, and you'll be what I choose to make you.' ' Tyrant 1 How waa I mad, then :' ?' You ran away from the best friend you had.' ' And became the best friend her mother could have had,' Henry said quietly. ' Thank you, Henry. John*, I tell you again you're a tyrant.' ' And you're a very rebellious subject.' ' I always will be.' ' You won't.' ' Women were made to have their own way.' ' 7hey were not.' ' Wcie men : ' ' Oi c.itrse.' ' You egotist ! But, Jolm dear, I want to get down at this little hut and talk to the woman there, that gave me a night's lodging once upon a time,' ' Suppose it's zny will that you should not.' 'Ah, please do t ' ' That's your way, is it ? Well, because you asked prettily you may — I'll let you.' 1 pouted, but took the permission I got. The poor Irish woman looked astonished at the idea of a carriage slop j irg --.t her door, and put one hand up to her untidy cap in an uncomfortable manner. Nor did she recognise me until after a long explanation. ' Sure, mirs dear,' slieeaid, ' and who'dhave thought the durty thratnp I give a bed to out of the pity of my heart, would ever come back to me a purty bride riding in her own carroge.' Indemnifying her well for the shelter she had given me, we left her amid a shower of florid blessings that excited Una's merriment to a considerable height. ' Now, John, down that road, pleaae.' ' ' What for, pet:' 'To pay a visit to another old woman at Ryd leigh.' ' But it will take us out of our way.' ' But I want to go.' ' I think we won't.' 'I will, then. I can walk it, you know.' ' You little rebef. Suppose I won't for your naughtiness.' ' Ah, pleaEe.' ' Well, well ; I'll give you a little license on your wedding-day, but see if I don't draw the reins tight after that.' 'Not you.' ' I will.' ' I've found out a secret.' 'What is it:' ' I won't tell you.' ' You must.' 'It wouldn't be a secret any longer.' ' Never mind. Tell me.' 1 ' Ab, please ! can I slacken those reins any day ?' ' Monkey ! I'll show you.' 'Take care, sir ; I'm not married yet.' ' Do you threaten me 5' 'Yea. You're not going to do all the threat ening.' So we stepped at the little latticed cottage at Hydleigh, and saw the grave old woman who had succoured me in the first day of my flight, and I fully convinced her that, whatever might have been on the day whereon she doubted me, all was quite right with me now. ' Don't let her go tramping any more, sir,' she said to John as wo were leaving, with an old woman's peculiar wicked look at myself. ' I give you full power to detain, if she comes this way,' John said as we drove away, ' Now, don't you think you are the most impudent little woman in the world t' 'What for:' ' Asking that old woman to visit us ': You did.' ' Well. ' Do you think I'll have old dames of all qualities hanging round my house !' ' You'll have to have her, John.' 'Ah! I sec: I am going to depose myself, and I shall find in a few days that I am no longer master in my own house, but a mere nonentity.' ' Put me down, John. I won't marry you, I won't ; I won't ; let me go, if you're afraid I should make ycu miserable.' ' Love, I'd not Iobc a moment's eight of you for the mastery of a thousand worlds, &c., &c.' 'Isola, why are you getting so grave!' Henry asked some time after this, when I had relapsed into silence, and thought, alike prospective and retrospec tive, had saddened my tnauner. ' Because, another hill, and—' ' Well !' ' We'll acr the church.' ' Are you afraid i' John asked, suddenly. ' Of what ' You.' ' Me ! Isola, in reality are vou afraid of me ?' ' Yea, in thia way, John. I mean to try hard to do all a wife's duty, but what if I fail ! what if you are not happy ? what if I should see your face shadow with disappointment r You'd try to hide it, but you could'nt— 1 should sec il,' ' Love ! ' ' And what,' I edded, ar.d lowered my voice in speaking a thought that had been torturing mo, ' if you and I become idolaters r— what if you should love
me or I should love you better than the Diver of Love, and He, in eotihequenoe, should part ua!' ' It ia a grave thought, Isola,' 'You bc-ih pray !' Henry interposed, 'Yea.' It waa Jobnthat spoke, but he answered for both. ' And you both believe that n prater for n certain , pood will'be favourably answered by God -' ' Yes ' ' Ard you bolli think tliot salvation ft run such an idolatry would he n attain pood ?' Apriti, ' Yes.' ' Will, ll.ir, pray apeii.ft it, and you are safe,' he tot, eluded drily. ' Lrgiolh Olid truly put, my dear brother,' John sa il : ' v e'U take hia advice, love '? Yes.' And 1 :rc we ate at the church,' said Henry, ' A rd tin tc's pejia ar.d a lady,' shouted Una, and I j utnjtii g out, r«n to meet my father and Miss Lowe, who wite standing near the church door. I Anoflte r lmlf hour, and, in the dear little church of .St. Cudgertcwonga, 1 guined a right to the name of Barrett tor ever. ' Now I linvc you,' John said, as tve drove on to the parsonage. ' Mine fir ever, Isola.' 'Verywel1.' ' To do with as I like, Isola.' ' As you please, John.' ' Wh'at will 1 do with you, pel ! llow will I love you sufficiently !' ' Don't love me too much, John.'