TWICE TWO.

Auckland Star, Volume XLI, Issue 4, 5 January 1910, Page 10

TWICE TWO.

COPYRIOHT STORY.

By ROSALINE 31A502?

&&aSLor of "Leslie Farquhaj," '-'Edinburgh/ , etc.) Jabez Badger, the landlord of the Golden Cock, kicked ay.-ay the snow that lad drilled up into a hard ridge against the coorvrav of the inn, and etood for a moment peering into the darkness powdered with snov.Tiakes. Behind him. in the kitchen, the fitful sound of a Jew's harp ■was heard, mingling -with the distant church bells to which Jabez had come out to listen, ringing for a service of carols in. •he little village church half a mile off, for it was Christmas Eve.

A sudden fierce gust blew the snow into Jabezr's ever-open mouth, and he turned, banged the door to. shot the rusty bolt, lowered the wick of the oil lamp that hung above the hall table, and irarnped back to the kitchen that led off the cosy bar. It was barely 8 o'clock, but there was no likelihood that anyone would come that night to the front door, even though a stray herd might stop at the bar for something warm and comforting.

Hardly, however, had Jabez reached the kitchen: told John, the ostler, to stop his noise, and thus silenced the Jew's harp: nodded first at Mrs Badger and then at the kettle, as a suggestion to her to put it on the fire; and sat down and begun to fill his pip<3—when a resounding knock broke the silence. Jabez Badger paused, his pipe halfway up to his mouth, his spill in his other hand.

"Go and see who that may be," he remarked: and then, curiosity getting the better of Ms laziness, he rose and followed the boy into the hall. Framed in the doorway, half seen by the dim light of the oil-lamp, stood a tall young man. ■with a bag in his hand and a pile of snow on his hat, and ;a thick coating of snow down the side of him that faced the wind.

"Can I have supper and a bedroom?" he demanded, in the tone of one angry ■vrith circumstances, and ready to blame the first comer. For answer, Jabez held the lamp aloft and scanned him. The result seemed satisfactory. '•Light a fire in the coffee-room, John," lie said, and himself took the stranger's bag. The young man, divested of overcoat and hat, st%.id gloomily watching the progress of tne fire lig\» l ing. He was, as Jabez saw whilst spreading a cloth on the supper table, very young, very well dressed, very good looking, and very cross. '•And a stranger," he reported to Mrs Badger, who was by now busily engaged in cutting thick slices off a ham, and breaking eggs into a frying-pan. "Swore at mc 'orrihle," John the ostler reported, 'and stuck 'is boot into the fire, and the boot hissed and steamed like the 'ot poker does when missus puts it into her beer; and says 'c; 'Can't yer light a. fire, yer darned shaver?' says 'c, and "c took and put "is boot into it, and put the fire out. And says : e, 'The wood's damp and musty, like everythink else in this blamed inn,' 'c says; 'and ain't I going never to 'aye nothink to eat?' 'c asks." Mrs -Badger smelt an egg delicately, and discarded it. "Christmas Sve," she muttered, "ain't no good time for eggs nor gentlemen. Depend upon it, Badger, he's been up to mischief, that young spark—else why is be-away -from home and friends ou Christmas Eve?"

--T exoects—" began Jabez, when suddenly he was interrupted by another resounding knock on the door. Again" John hurried out. Again Jabez followed. Again the opened door revealed the fieure of a young man in the snow. This one wore a motor cap, the flat top ■white with snow, and one hand rested on a motor cycle, whose lamp lit up a patch on the frozen ground. "Can I have a bed and some food?" asked the newcomer. His voice sounded anxious and appealing. Again Jabez unhooked the oil-lamp and Ecmtinised the stranger. - Take this round to the stable, John," he said, indicating the cycle"ls the stable damp?" asked the owner, quickly. " Xo, sir, it ain't damp. My 'oss inhabits, it-"

The stranger laughed. " All right, I'll go and clean"it myself, later. What can I have to eat?"

"You can 'aye ham and eggs, sir, and cold pie. and a joint. There's another gentleman staving in the house just about to 'aye the werry same, so perhaps you'd 'aye it together." He opened the door of the coffee-room es he spoke. The interior of the room ■was full of smoke from the newly-lit fire ami the first young man rose from his kuees on the hearth-rug, where he was engacced in trying to make the damp wood kindle. The" two travellers took rapid and annoyed stock of one another. They ■were very like, only the first comer was in a dark suit and had straight- dark hair, and the newcomer was in a brown suit, and had curly fair hair.

" Beastly night!" said the fair-haired new arrival, affably.

" H'm.—Seen worse!" responded the other turning his back and attending te the lire again-

The fair-haired one walked around the room and carefully examined the four oleographs on the walls. Every time that Jabez Badger opened the door to bring in the wherewithal to set the table, a sound of frizzling ham was heard from the had: premises, and presently an appetizing odour penetrated also. Dead silence prevailed until supper was brought in, and the two travellers drew up their chairs to the table, and surveyed a hug? dish of ham and eggs, an ambiguous cold pie from which a three-cornered slice of flabby crust had been removed, a piece of orange coloured cheese, a brown jug of beer with a man's face on the spout, and ivarious other equally tempting viands.

"Well, I'm about starved out," remarked the fair-haired one, who had arrived on ihe cycle.

* So am I," the fire-lighter allowed.

With the geniality produced by the fceat the mustard and the excellence of Mrs. Badger's cooking, the two young men gradually thawed. Each was consumed with a curiosity he could scarcely conceal as to what had brought the other to an out-oi'-the-way inn on a Christmas Ev..-. TJiey rose from the table when at L\=t nothing edible worth attention was left on it, and turned their two chairs rewind t.i the fire, now burning brightly; nn-i each iil'.ed his pipe. Jabez Badger, iaving cleared away the supper, and having s et a black bottle and two glasses, a. sugar-basin and two candlesticks, on the table, and a kettle on the fire, and having asked if anything else were required for the night, reported that the young gents were seeming more amiable. " What do you smoke?" asked one of the other, when they were alone.

"This isn't what I generally smoke: It's poor stuff," replied the other, with (he air of parrying questions.

Silence. ■ fire's begin to do you credit."

' " yes—oh, I knew it would be all right when the wood dried." Silence. - - , . " Fancy we disturbed this inn a bit, you and I, arriving- at this time of night" on Christmas Eve.'" "Daresay!" Silence- " Pity we haven't an evening paper." "Two evening papers." 'Eh? Oh, yes —two!" Sllence- " Say when." " Thanks!" SilenceSuddenly the fair man looked up and found the dark one furtively regarding him- They both chuckled nervously, and it seemed to break the ice. "Look here!" cried the fair one, his tongue loosened, "we're in for a night of each other's society, you and I, it's evident, and there's riot a book nor a paper in the room, and its' only half-past nine. What shall -we do to pass the time ? I wonder if there are any -cards in the house?" "I'm in no Tnood for cards!" growled the other. " Besides, the old Johnnies off to bed I've had a long tramp to-day —and—and—and a bit of unpleasant experience." " Yes. that's it- So have I.' 1 " Eh?" "Mm." "I wonder " "Yes?" "Well, I wonder what the deuce has brought you on such a night—Christmas Eve, too—to this wretched little wayside inn!" "Well, if it comes to that, what the deuce has brought you?" "I don't mind telling you;"—it was the dark one who spoke—"it is a thing that might happen to any man. Besides, you don't know my name." The otheir looked up quickly. "Legal trouble?" "Certainly not! Purely private reasons!" "Well, them—come, I say, let us make a compact! Let each tell the other his story, omitting all names." "Like the pilgrims of old, let us beguile the long hours—done! Toss who'll begin." The other produced a coin and spun it. "Heads!" "Heads it is—you begin." "That is only chronological, as I was the first to arrive." He slowly filled his glass from the ke*ttle, and tasted it with appreciation. "Well, the truth is," he said, slowly, "I came because—she refused mc." "Lord!" cried the fair one quickly. "I came because she accepted mc!" ""The deuce she did, man! Who oares? Let mc teU my tale first. I won the ■toss!" "Oh, fire away!" '■I've loved her for years—on and off. This morning I put it to the touch, to win or lose it all. I lost." The other shook his head sympathetically. "Nasty at the he owned, "but when you think it over in cold blood you are generally glad. No doubt it is all for the best. Now, turn to my "It may be all for the best, but I have not got over what you are pleased to call the nasty stage, yet. She's one of the cold sort —a saint, you know. Makes you feel good all over." "Fatiguing, eh?" "Sir!" "Oh, beg pardon! I only meant—the lady whom I " '•' —She spoke very gently to mc about a man having a profession—-I have none —and not being a cumberer of the ground. You see, her father's a rector " "What!" "Well," the dark man cried testily, "there is nothing out of the way in being a rector, is there?" "Oh, nothing!—and she has no mother —lives alone with the old gentleman, you said?" "I did not say; but it happens it is so. Well, she as good as told mc that she would never marry a man who did not make something useful for the human race. I asked her what she thought useful, and she said such an odd thing." "What did she say?" the other asked. He was leaning forward eagerly; but the speaker, absorbed in his story, did not notice. "She said—buttons were useful!" "Great Scott! The darling!" The fair youth rose and pranced. "Sir!" The dark youth rose anc glowered. "Fire's a bit hot —that's all! Go onmost interesting. You think her refusal final? You are dead sure she does not care a brass cent for you?" "iiy refusal shall certainly he final; I am not a man to ask a woman twice." They both resumed their seats and the dark man kicked the fire. "She said she would be a sister to mc," he growled. "I said I'd see her further first—or words to the same effect. Well—what's your story f The fair youth, thus appealed to, half roused himself from an enchanting dream, which was making him smile inanely and gesticulate with hands and eyebrows. The other regarded him .surlily. "You said she'd accepted you," he prompted, presently. "Oh, no, never! I never had the courage to ask her! I thought to approach her lofty ideals, her beautiful soul—ideals high and remote as Alpine peaks, touching the very heavens; a soul as pure and cold as Alpine snows, fallen from the very heavens; and then —such a common-place chap as I!—I and my wretched buttons " "What the deuce are you talking about? What rank idiocy are you mouthing? Man, you said you had come here because someone—it must have been a fool! —had accepted you!" But the other was proof against offence. He beamed. "Of course —my mind was wandering. And 60 she refused you? What you must be feeling! No wonder you're a bit put out! As for my story," he leant forward, confidentially; "Bhe accepted mc. How glad I am now that I escaped! You see, it was this way. I went to stay for thisChristmas week at a very jolly country house—an old house with a moat round it, and a haunted room in a turret, and a yew. avenue like a Cathedral aisle. Lot of yonng people staying there —rather sportive. I threw myself into it all: it is a way I have, —I am Irish, you know, and not responsible." "No, I do not know." "Well, —she didn't either. She made mc responsible —confoundedly, responsible. She is a fascinating and vivacious—lrish too, for the matter of that. She ought not to have stood under the mistletoe; but: she did. I ought not to hay I did. Well, —was it only this morning ?—my host, a stiff, pompous dog, came to me'and made a most unnecessary fuss. Said the lady considered herself engaged, and that she was his guest, and that both he, our host, and Eis wife, our hostess, considered it too. I could not face the situation, —nor the widow. I "fled." The other maintained an aloof silence, smoking steadily. iri " - "Eh?" "I did not speak."

The fair Irishman's* ingenious countenance clouded over. He looked pained.

"I wish you would speak!" he said presently. "Weil, I think you behaved uncommonly badly, then." "Under the mistletoe?" "No, no! —under ithe circumstances. A woman does not like to feel neglected. She's bound to feel neglected, now." The Irishman looked sorry for a moment or two: then he lit up. "Not she!" he cried with conviction. "There's a whole household of them, and she's the only widow there—the rest are .all girls!" "Is she pretty?" "Pretty as fire!" "Is she rich?" "Rich as Christmas pudding!" A sudden gust of wind shoot the house, and the snow fell down the chimney, and hissed on the coals. The dark young man emptied his pipe and put it into his pocket. The fair young man yawned and rose. By mutual consent they went to the window —the snow was piled up on the ledge, and beyond was darknpss. fitfully broken by a moon that struggled through. "I suppose it is time we turned in," suggested the Irishman. They lit the two candles and blew out the lamp, ascended the rickety stairs, and nodded to one another before taking their separate ways to two doors that stood open, showing the flickering fire-light within each. The Englishman looked round his room disconsolately, felt the number of blankets, and spread his still damp overcoat on the top of the checked cotton coverlid. "It's my cousin's house he was at," he muttered. "I recognise the description—moat, and haunted turret, and yew avenue, —and it is just about ten miles from here. Yes, it was The Moated Manor, to a dead certainty. . . . Pretty as fire and rich as Christmas pudding! I wonder who she is? . . Helen is as cold as an icicle! Well, no doubt that chap was right —a man does not regret a thing long. . . Mistletoe— Confound his impertinence!" And meantime the Irishman was leaning out of his window, gazing, with his soul in his eyes, at the moon, which had now come out and was gleaming over the snowy country. "She said buttons were useful!" he murmured. "Oh Helen, my darling! — my lady of dreams! And I thought you despised the buttons I make as much as you despise the money they bring mc! . . . And he proposed to you, did he? —Confound his impudence!" Next morning, at seven o'clock, the Irishman crept down the crenking stairs, boots in one hand, bag in the other. It was quite as dark as it had been the night before. The oil-lamp in the hall was again burning, and by its light John the ostler was performing some perfunctory passes with a broom. He stared up* at the Irishman, and the Irishman stared down at him. "Breakfast—never mind what —as quick as you can, and my bill and my bicycle!" "Yes, sir!" John banged down bis broom. "And hi!—l say! Make no noise—l don't want the other gentleman wakened!" John grinned. "The other gentleman's" breakfasted and gone, Sir!—said as how I wasn't to -disturb you!" The Irishman rubbed his curly head, and then laughed. "An early bird, eh?" he remarked. "Yes, sir! Wonder what worm he's after, Sir?" The Irishman wondered too—wondered whilst he drank a concoction Jabez Badger called coffee, wondered till he worked himself 'into a frenzy, and continued wondering as he throbbed and foghomed off on his motor" cycle down the pitch dark frozen road, leaving Jabez and Mrs. Badger and John the ostler gazing after his track of light,—John glowing with an enthusiasm towards the Irish nation, born of the munificence of the tip he had received, that nothing would ever eradicate, and that made him a champion of the Irish for all time to come. The road was frozen, and the Irishman —whose name, now that he was relieved of the society of the dark Englishman, may be acknowledged as Denis Owen, no one all the six miles that lay , between the Golden Cock and the little village of Lower Hepvale,—the village that enshrined the lady of his dreams. It was barely nine o'clock, and the morning was growing lighter, when, at a turn in the road, Denis Owen sighted the village, nestling in a snowy hollow, the clustered roofs while and frozen, a faint smoke making itself felt showing that beneath the little roof-trees the busy 'housewives had kindled their household altars. Amongst the leafless trees that stood, a ghostly filigree at the end of the village street, the square Church steeple was blotted, black and solid. The windows of the Church glowed richly with light from within; it was Christmas morning. Denis Owen walked his cycle up to the Church door, lest its impetuous panting should disturb those within, and he stepped within the lytch gate, reverently removed his cap from his curly head, and waited. The few early Communicants came out in twos and threes; and Helen Wyatt, the Rector's daughter, came out last, walking with her father's curate. The Irishman glared with such ferocity at the curate that the curate became deadly white and walked hurriedly away. Then Denis turned to Helen, and at the sight of her fairness, there in the shadow o$ the old Church in the early gloom of the snowy winter's morning, his eyes lit up and his voice trembled. "A merry Christmas, Miss Wyatt!" "A merry Christmas, Mr. Owen!" "It is a long, long time since I saw you!" "Is it ? Where have you come from just now?" "I am staying with the Crumleys at the Moated Manor; —but I have left—l cycled here." "You must have left very early!" "Not a moment too soon!" "Have you had breakfast?" "I shall be glad of some more." "Will you breakfast with us?— Father will like to see yon." "And you?" "Yes, I shall too." "You see, I always supposed I was such a stupid ass, quite unworthy—" "Of breakfast?" "No—of you." They walked slowly back to the Rectory, and when they reached the gate, where the laurel bushes stood dark green amid the snow. Denis Owen knew himself the happiest man on earth, and the old Rector, standing white-haired in the porch feeding'his robins, was called on to give his blessing. Two hours later, Denis sat alone in the old, dark oak, high-backed Rectory pew, and looked about the ancient Church —for it was again snowing heavily outside—at the crumbling arched roof, at the worn Altar steps, at the flowers on the Altar, at the holly and evergreens that lay on the deep stone window sills, at. the ivy entwined in the Chancel rail, and all the simple, faithful village decorations, and at the happy faces of the child-

ren, and the" village folk_ in their best array, and then, lit, a., 'slender\.;figure at the organ, and little hands busy among the stops. Suddenly as a full throated, vibrating chord thTilled ; the hushed silence, the congregation lose to. their feet, and every voice took:; .upi -the familiar Christmas hymn. Scarcely had the little choir hoys, in their newly washed surplicesj the young curate, and the old Rector, filed slowly to their places on either side of the Chancel, when the hooting of a motor was heard outside, and the Ohurch door was opened, and, with a rush of cold air a blast of snow and the sound of many feet, about a dozen people entered and found places at the back. The Christmas service was over. . A thaw had set in, and the melting sno>v dripped off roof and trees, and the ground in front of the church door was tramped and soiled with 'many footsteps, and the cold was intense. Denis Owen vvcapped Helen's shabby fur cloak tenderly round her. "She shall have sables some day soon, the darling!" he thought to himself. It was at. this moment he looked up and saw the Englishman oi the night before. "Hullo!" said the Englishman. Then he saw Helen Wyatt smiling-at Denis' side, and his expression of face underwent a curious change. "Hullo!" responded Denis. Then lie saw the fascinating and vivacious widow, lately his fellow guest at the "Moated Manor," smiling inscrutably just behiDd the Englishman, and his expression of face underwent a curious change. "Marmaduke," Helen Wyatt said tenderly, fixing him with her gentle eyes dim with compassion for him, "let mc introduce to you Denis Owen—my betrothed!" "Helen," he answered, vouchsafing the jubilant Irishman only a side glance of contemptuous amazement, 'let mc introduce you to Mrs. Fitzmaurice—my fiancee!" The little Irishwoman, blushing and sparkling and smiling ever her rich furs and laces, held out both hands —one to Helen and one to Denis. In a moment they were surrounded by a group of chattering, laughing people —part of the house party from the '-'Moated Manor," who had motored 16 miles to attend Christmas service at the famous old church of which Helen Wyatt's father was the rector. Denis Owen felt his arm caught, and turned to find his late host, red in the face with cold and mirth combined. "Well, you're a nice chap, Owen, to give us all the slip. Took it seriously, did you?" "It was you took it seriously." "Man! The whole thing was a concocted plot between that little witch Mab fitzmaurice and my wife! I was to go and preach to you and frighten you, as a just punishment for your— well, your Irish impetuosity." "Then she didn't " "Of course not, you conceited ass! Why, she has been in love with my young cousin, Marmaduke Jones, ever since—well, it would be indiscreet to say. But the story goes that she married Fitzmaurice because Jones was too poor to support her, and now she's rich enough to support Jones." "In love with that chap over there?" asked the Irishman incredulously. "Yes, for years." "Well, there's no accounting for a woman's likings!" Denis answered, with a touch of pique. "Queer chance Jones turned up to breakfast this morning, wasn't it?" "D d queer!" "I say, who is that young lady there, with the regal air, talking to Jones and Mrs. Fitzmaurice?" "She is Miss Wyatt—my future wife." "Whew!—congratulate you, old chap! And no wonder you ran away! How my wife will—but you never told us!" "I did not know myself till this morning." •, "Great Scot! then that is the second engagement this morning!" "Christmas morning—so ideal!" lilted the Irish widow, joining them. Denis Owen and Helen Wyatt stood and watched the "Moated Manor" party struggle into their coats and wraps, and tie on their veils, and pack themselves back into their motor; and then, when the motor had throbbed and snorted and backed and jerked and finally started off through the sleet and slush, Helen turned her dove-like eyes to her lover. "How soon men forget!" she said. "Not all men, darling!" he breathed in reply. "Oh, Denis—that poor woman! How little she knows! Fajicy if I thought you had come to mc straight from making love to another woman!" "Shocking!" answered the Irishman. The rector, seeing their friends had gone, disengaged himself from a knot of his parishioners and approached them, his fine old face lit up with happiness. He placed a hand in his daughter's arm, and rested the other, momentarily, on Denis Owen's shoulder. "The turkey must be growing cold, young people!" he reminded them. "Dinner grows cold, though love never can! An ideal Christmas, eh?" he asked them, glancing whimsically from one to the other—"an ideal Christmas!"