( All Rights Reserved.) " WHICH IS HEIRESS ? "

Auckland Star, Volume XLIII, Issue 214, 6 September 1912, Page 10

( All Rights Reserved.) " WHICH IS HEIRESS ? "

BY KITA -RICHMOND.-;-;.

Author of " The Dead Man's Hand," | " Handsome Nod's Daughter,'" " Beggar by Choice."

CHAPTER XXVIT. LADY MARJORIE (JIVES UP .M.VK'II.MAKINc;. ••'Now, 1 think that is all I have to [mi in." Dick Burton is packing in his room, preparatory to setting off from Holm House. lie intends to sec his father before lie starts on his American tour, and acquaint him. moreover, of his good resolutions for the future. But the young man's heart is heavy in spite of the brave attempt he makes at whistling over his task, and as he now stands up stretching himself and looking vaguely round for a mieeing collar or two to put into his bag, his face belies the whistle on his lips. In sooth, Mr Dick is wishing sadly that he could pack his heavy heart into his bag like a suit of clothes and carry it off to America with him. And this. a.la.s. he knows well he cannot do. Wherever his feet may roam his heart will remain with Aileen. Having finished his packing, Dick leaves his room to go down to breakfast, and as he walks slowly along the corridor ■with gloomy thoughts filling his heart to bitterness, another person, by strange chance, meets Dick just as he reaches the head of the staircase, and Dick, lifting hie eyes, sees what seems to be the very impersonation of the mooring coming towards him. Radiant, smiling, this aurora flits along the snnlit corridor, humming a little snatch of ■sang, but as she comes face to face with Dick the song die« from her lips, the smile chaeed from her face by the sadness, the misery of that other face. Dick Barton has grown older looking •within these last days. The boyish careJessness has left his brae eyes. Struck by hie look, Aileen stops as they meet, forgetting wen to greet him, her light pretence of cheerfulness vanishing in a jiioment before the sorrow of Dick's rfjiee. '•Dick," she says hurriedly, "oh, Dick, is it to be the American post?" "Yes," replied Dick, slowly, miserably, staring back at her. "And oh, Dick, tell mc quick." Aileen goes on desperately, ' is it because you— yon like Anwrica, or is it because Tin engaged to Gksoir Wargrave?' There is a little pause, then Dick xepEed grimly: "It isn't because I like America." "Then, Dick, listen: if it's because I'm engaged to Geoffrey, you needn't, for Dick, it's all a. mistake. I'm not engaged at all, and I'm not the millionairess. Geoff knows it's Vera. She pauses breathless. Dick has stagy gered back in amazement as she pours forth her excited speech: for a moment or two he cannot take in her meaning. "Is this true?" he stammers huskily. 'It's fearfully true," replied Aileen earnestly: "Tell mc quick, Dick, does it make any difference about that American post: In a flash Dick's face changes—lights up as if a stream of sunlight had poured itself out upon it: he makes one impetuous stride towards Aileert, and, throwing his right arm round her, F ;sweepa her in -x- mod' impulsive rush do»n £&& stairway, -Bhe--while he stammers ojjt; ■•AiJeeS, corn*.-into'-.tii?' garden-'for five* minute*. and I'll tell you—yes, I'll tell vim the difference . it "will make about that American .post.". Meantime down in the sunny breakfast room of Holm House. 'Sir Jim" and Lady .Marjorie await their guests' arrival to the morning meal. .Marjorie is flit tin <>• around the table, changing the flower glasses to Huk her own changeable f-.incv; nevertheless her thoughts are not- upon the-flowers this morning, and the frownshe wears on her brow is not occasioned by the difficulty of arranging flower glasses. - ■ , - , ' '■Jim," she says present! .as she absently sticks a •crimson rosebud right in the centre of a posy of deep purple cornflowers, 'What do you think has become of Mr. Verisopht—he 'hasn't 'been over [for an age?" Sir Jim a,t the moment, is- scanning the columns ~of the morning paper' with an-interested eye, and almost as his.wife ■ speaks he starts violently, -with an amazed look upon his face. "Look here, Marjori-e!" he -exclaims, in a queer tone. "You want to know what .has become of him." He drops the paper on his knee and looks up at his wife.. "That same gentleman, it appears from the .paragraph I have just "read, has come a terrific smash in his •business affairs. Moreover, a, •certain bogus company, of which lie was the head, exploded, and Mr. V-erisopht has departed rather suddenly to .America with most of the -company's money. That's why, my dear girl, Mr. Verisopht hasn't been to see us lately," and Sir Jim leans back in ■hie chair with an amazed yet half-a-nrased expression in his eye. As for Lady Marjorie, she sinks suddenly into a chair with a pale- and -horrified face. "Oh, Jim," she gasps, "and 1 was nearly marrying him to Vera!" She shudders ard covers, her face in her hands. "Wei!, my dear, you know I always bold you you,; were no hand at matchmaking," .replied Sir Jim, eyeing her sympathetically; "and don you think old lady, that this is a pretty good warning not to try it on' again?" "'Jim, Til never, never, try to make another match as long as I live." cried Lady Marjorie, with fervent earnestness, looking up at him with wide and frightened iblue. eyes. "'Don't, my dear; and now perhaps you'll agree with mc that it's rather a relief that those two charming young women are going home to-morrow. To , tell the truth, Marjorie, the Tjjs.ponsibility.of looking after millionairesses-is rather too much for me—"Tis. the burden of an honour, unto', which "we -.were not born.' The house will be nice and. quiet, and my nerves and digestion a good deal relieved after they are gone." , ; -' : -. OaA-PTEfc iptyiri^ } I J ; ' -NOT THE HEIRESS AT ALL." "Well, my boy, you have got back?" Once more Geoffrey Wargrave stands in the library of The' Towers. He has re- i turned from Barehester as speedily as : he could withdraw himself on the"p' e;l ' of business from Sir J-.vmes Maxtouns ! house. And truly disagreeable business I it is which lies before him this mornin" ' As he stands looking gloomily out upon ! the rainwashed garden, Geoff's heart: almost quails beneath the task he itas i set, himself. -J4ucli need he has of that poor coaniort winch he is desMra telv tuaa he vriU at least have ra<r<. n f honour e£t to wrap himself in £ v' ilSfl ■ SOT wiil queue!, tl> P light o( t to H /zger, anxious old eyes, and Wast the

■hope in the-old man's heart. He turns, j and the two men face each other m silence for a moment. ~ "I. have come back to tell you, sir, that I have failed."' says Geoff, slowly, heavily. There is another silence. ■ Outside the rain falls drearily—there is no other sound in the tense pause: Then Sir John speaks huskily, tremulously. "What do you mean?" "I mean that I have failed, —have broken my word. I mean that, paradox as it may seem, 1 love this girl too dearly to marry her, and make 'her the 'prop of our fallen fortunes. I 'mean that, rather than fulfil the promise I will see us beggared —will allow the Towers to pass from us."' He bows lite head as he finishes; for the mttnen.t lie dare not meet the agony that he knows too well has flashed over the old -while face, but when at length he does lift his eyes to the other figure with a pang of fear ne sees all the dreadful meaning that the last anguished pause has held. Sir John stands quietly erect by the table, Ids hand grasping the back of a chair, but so fearful is the stillness of that erect old figure, so terrible the look upon his face, that a ghastly impression as of a man shot through the heart, yet standing upright on his feet dead, the beat of the rain upon the windows nits through Geoff's mind as he eyes it. For a moment, however, only the old man stands thus stiffly, then suddenly the unnatural calm breaks up, he sways upon his feet, and sinks trembling into the chair beside him, burying his face in his arms, and then there steals upon -the silent room and mingles -with the sound of slow, muffled weeping, the painful sound of the tearless sobbing of an old man. v Rent from head to foot by tire pain of that heart-breaking sound, Geoff stands mutely enduring it. with bent head and white, stricken face, till at last the white head lifts slowly again. "Forgive mc, Geoff," he says in a tremulous, husky whisper. "Forgive mc, boy. 1 ought not to have taken it. like this, but I had been hoping so much. Only this morning I had a letter from Mallard saying that the mines might yet be worked again, if we could but promise ready money to go on with shortly, and this money I had been hoping you might have had to lend if only " He stops short with a long sigh. But Oeoff stands staring at him, aghast. What new and dreadful blow is this? Good fortune perchance within their grasp at this late hour, and their hands tied by his own a-ct from the power of grasping it! As he stands, however, the old man goes on again, wearily: "Never mind, my boy: never mind. It can't be helped. We must try and bear it. We must prepare ourselves, we must prepare your mother, Geoff, and our little Maudie must be written for. She is away staying with the Stanhopes Stanhopes, you know, who were ." His voice trails off into a dreary absent murmur. Geoffrey starts. All at once he becomes conscious of a letter which he holds in his clenched right hand— letter which had been handed to him as he crossed the hall to the library. "I have a letter from Mandic here, sir" he says. "Shall T open it. and read what she says?" *> "Yes, yes."' returns Sir John absently. "See what slie says." Only a little letter from little Maudie, but still let them see what she has to say. •8 Carelessly-Geoff elite the envelope, smooths out the letter, and his sad eyes? Scan the opening Words heedlessly';'"but as they travel down the page slowly an amazed and strange look grows upon his face. For this is the little letter from little Maudie which Geoff reads: • "Dear Old Geoff,Father and mother are wondering why I am making so long ii stay at the Stanhopes, and, oh, Geoff, I'm too friglrtenod to tell them why, and this is the reason I've written to you to try and break it gently to them. ! For I've got into a dreadful scrape, Geoff, and I really don't know what you will say about it. The .fact is. I've gone and engaged myself to a young man who has been staying with the Stanhopes. ■ He ie extremely good-looking and frightfully rich, but oh", Geoff, how can I tell you? Father will never consent] Arthur is in the trade. There! I can imagine your face when you read this. Of .course, it is an extremely clean-trade; Arthur has" immense soap factories, complexion soaps, splendid, I've tried them: but there, I know it's no use to talk, I may. say that 1 mentioned to Arthur that father seemed a little worried about money matters, and Arthur immediately said he would lend him any amount if he would only consent to our marriage. Neither Arthur nor I, however, have much' hope of this having any weight with father, and we have simply, decided to elope. But I could not take this step without giving you all a chance. of agreeing, and so 1 write. If we don't get a telegram to-morrow morning with consent, Arthur and I shall have gone. But, oh, Geoff,' dearest boy, do let us have that telegram!" For a little Geoff stares only halfcomprehendingly at this letter, then all at once the terrible revulsion of feeling caused by this lightning streak of comedy which lias flashed upon the dark gloom of tragedy which surrounds him, forces a half-hysterical sound like a woman's from his thToat, as Geoff with a single stride reaches the table and lays' the letter before his father eyes. "Oh, oh, Geoff, my' boy, you may yet be rich enough to woo your millionairess without shame—you may yet bring her beneath the old roof." Tt ie half an hour later, and the two men still sit in the. library eagerly dis- ! cussing the sudden change of fortune which that letter of Maudic's may mean to them. Outside the rain had ceased, and foe sun is breaking through the clouds, sending long golden shafts of light into the room, a blackbird pipes. joyously on a 1 tree close .to the window. "•In this last half-hour ten years; seem' to have fallen from Sir John's shoulders. The light has come back to the keen blue eyes, the ruddy colour to his face. Geoff's gloom has flown, too, and his dark face is eager and light. >■ For a moment now, however, at his ■father's last.words it fails a little again. j "Xhysir, how canX*sk; girl; like that I to wail for "mc? .'.l'should be no match ! for her for years to come,"perhaps, and ■ there -will be so many others wooing her,' , he adds with a despondent sigh. i . "Tut, boy! Faint heart never won ! fair lady. She will wait for you if she ; is worth at all. By the waVj though, I I never asked you, Geoff, if you had much ' difficulty in- identifying tfie heiress," j adds Sir John curiously. J "No,- 1 very little." replied Geoff, look- ; ing dreamily out 'of the window. "For. -. though I must confess that, the points 1 of identity got mixed in my memory. I I recognised the heiress by the ring she wore." ' I' "tSH" 8 rih e~!Vhat:Vihg?" says Sir John ys*r?' vn " Ul^iin inflexion of astonish-i oial r^ » I photo wore'? hi yOl po,nte<l *° in the c J deiieek — *?* ?* Sl °^ ?y "** d won "

Sir John eyed him strangely for s moment. "I don't /know anything about a ring," he says. "I only know about the difference in the two girls' eyes. Has your heiress the slightly lighter eyes with the clear rin»- round ihe iris?' , '•No, she hasn't!" saya Geoff quickly, breathing hard and staring almost wildly into Sir John's face. "She's got the darker eyes, with no decided ring " Sir John chuckles a little amused chuckle. "Then, my dear boy," he remarks coolly, folding his anne and staring back at his son across the table -with a broad smile on his face, "she isn't the heiress at all—she/s the other girl!" Geoffrey springs from his seat with an incoherent shout, stares for an instant wildly, incredulously at his father, who continues to smile blandly back at him, then the nevt instant the young man dashes for the door, and vanishes like a whirlwind. (To be concluded.)