Burnt Wines

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 200, 24 August 1928, Page 14

Burnt Wines

By G. HERBERT TEAGUE. J[

CHAPTER XXX. By the first post the following morning, Jeremiah Weston received a letter from the secretary of the firm, informing him that the directors had voted unanimously in favour of his resignation, and enclosing a cheque for £2000 in payment of his surrendered holding.

He gazed at the fateful letter like a man reading his death-warrant. His acquisition of wealth, in that direction at any rate, was over. He was like a rudderless ship—he did not know which way to turn, what course to go upon. The journey to and from the office had been so much a, part of his life, so much a part of the daily mechanical routine, that his thoughts re/used to carry him in any other direction. After a leisurely but meagre breakfast, he strolled round to the bank to deposit the cheque. His most congenial journeys had been those to the bank, and he was well known to all the staff there. When Weston returned home, he found he could not settle down. The place looked strange. He was not used to being there at that hour of the day. Various tradesmen were going their rounds. A butcher's dogcart rattled round the corner with the dash of a Roman chariot; milk-barrows, attended by more or less tuneful boys, were slowly patrolling the streets on their forenoon journey; and a modern counterpart of the ancient minstrel was blowing a faint resemblance to a popular tune through a tin-wliistle. A spiri'; of restlessness seized him. He had a strange desire to be moving— anywhere, but moving. He left the lonely house once more and walked up the street. After a little hesitation he set out at a good pace towards Downmcre. Eppy Smith, putting inta his pocket the whistle he had been playing, followed at a discreet distance, with the careless abandon and jaunty step of a man who did not care where, chance might lead him. He would be at home wherever it was.

Much to his astonishment, Weston turned abruptly back through the town after proceeding up the Downmere Road for a few rundred yards. Eppy had the fright of his life. Quick as a flash he put the tin whistle to his lips again and reversed his own direction, playing somewhat erratically and bending his steps down a newly-built road that contained nothing but incomplete houses. Ho laughed softly as be noticed his surroundings and hoped Jerry had not seen him. But he ha J no need to worry; the man was too miserable to notice anything. Eppy carefully emerged on to the ntain road once more and saw his quarry walking at an even pace past the otlico of Hopper's mill. Without appearing to notice it. however, he kept bis eyes straight ahead. On, by many twists and turns, ho went until he camo to the big gates leading to the drive of his late employer's residence. "Wot's 'e goin' ter do now, 1 wonder?" murmured Eppy from a safe distance. As he stood and watched he saw Weston go up the drive a few yards and crouch behind some bushes which bordered the gravelled approach. For some minutes he was only partly visible, but appeared to be hiding aimlessly behind each bush in turn. Shortly afterwards, still keeping behind the leafy screen, he came crouching back right to the gate, and, with a ghastly grin on his set features, continued straight up the Downmere Road, with a hesitating walk as though following some uncertain guide. Wondering greatly and impelled by a queer, uncanny fascination, although the June sun was flooding everything with golden brilliance, Eppy followed. Hardened by adversity as he was, Epsom Smith could not look without a shudder at the man he knew so well.

Jeremiah Weston gazed at the hill in front of him as though watching something on the empty, sunlit, grassy slope. His face was drawn with silent agony and his eyes stared wide with horror at —nothing. Suddenly, as though galvanised into life by a violent shock, ho gave a short, inarticulate cry and dashed up the hill. Still keeping under cover of the trees, Smith followed as quickly as he could. Eppy Smith strained his eyes to see what was attracting his enemy's attention, but nothing was there. The mill stood stark and drear even in the bright sunlight, but a lark was singing overhead, bees were humming among the heather, and care-free butterflies were flitting here and there in the simmering heat. Nothing fearsome there. Yet Jeremiah Weston stood as still as a petrified man, staring—staring. Smith could hear his stertorous breathing in the sunlit silence. It was horrible. Now Weston was cowering again and making a sound that could only be described as a whinny. Almost immediately afterwards, however, he stood up, waved his arms frantically and laughed with a mirthless cachinnation which made the listener's blood run cold. The next moment he fell on his face, foaming at the mouth and scrabbling convulsively at the soft turf. Kppy Smith ran to his assistance and was about to help him when an old Gipsy woman hobbled from behind a tree. "Leave him to me." she croaked. Unnerved as he already was. Smith felt obliged to obey the weird figure of the Romany Queen and went back to his observation post to steady himself with a pipe of tobacco. After a_tiine Weston sat up and gazed vacantly around; he saw nothing but the sunlit heath. At the first sign of returning animation the Gipsy had darted away, hobbling quickly from bush to bush until she neared the mill, where, half hidden by trees, she watched him rise slowly to his feet.

Weston shook nimself like a dog, gave one fearful glance round, and half I scrambled and half walked down the! slope, then ambled unsteadily up thei road baek to Kirkehester. Keeping a snfe distance behind, Eppy Smith followed. CHAPTER XXXI. Meadow Street, Islington, was all alive with curiosity a few days after Reggie Deauville had called there. Lady Hopper had redeemed her promise to see Mrs. Betsy Tolworth. < "I felt that you would come," said Betsy happily, "and although it's poor, I'm glad to see you." "Xever mind about it being poor," said Lady Hopper. "We can't all be rich." "No, we can't," was the sad reply. "Let me see; it must be nearly thirty years ago now, isn't it?" Her ladyship made a mental calculation. "Yes, I suppose it is," she replied softly, "but it seems more like fifty." - "How time flies, to be sure; and yet sometimes it doesn't seem long since you had all the trouble and we used to sit up together wondering what to do.

I've often thought about it. . . You see, I've had my share since. . . . My busband .... you don't remember him, do you!" "Only faintly. I think I saw . him once. You see, I was touring most ol tha time . *. . . afterwards." "Yes, I thought you wouldn't remember," replied the old woman musingly. "Dear, dear! Yes, Fve had my share,. As I was saying, my poor husband died not long before my only boy was killed in the war. I'm glad he was spared that blow, because he was never very strong, you know. Well, after the boy went I got a bit of nursing to do, but it didn't last long and I got lower and lower until I was glad enough to find a roof over my head here." "What a shame," remarked her ladyship. "I had no idea you were so poor, and even when you mentioned my name outside the polo ground I couldn't think it was you. You see, so many people know me by sight that sometimes I'm afraid—er—that I don't take much notice. One cannot be running here, there and everywhere, can one?" she concluded with a touch of her. old a.TTOgance. "And selling matches, too!" "It was honest," replied Betsy with a suspicion of rebuke in her tones, "and I had no money. My rent was overdue and I'd been told to leave. In fact, you will hardly believe it, but that money you very kindly sent me saved me from being turned into the street." "What a good thing you wrote to me when you did. I would never have known otherwise, and how ungrateful you must have thought me."

"Oh, I don't know," was the resigned reply. "As we get older we stop wondering why things should be bo unfair, although we perhaps don't understand J the reason for it. But it is quite plain j why people who are rich can't be i expected to spend time on old match- ! sellers." "Now you are being severe, Betsy," said Lady Hopper with an awkward little laugh. "In my position I have other people to consider- as well as my* self. It is necessary to preserve one's prestige as long as possible." "Yes, 1 quite understand," remarked Betsy. "I can appreciate your difficulty . . .'. and yet .... Doesn't time change things?" she concluded inconsequently. "What would you and I have thought fifteen or sixteen years ago if someone had told you that you would be Lady Hopper now? Dear, dear! The unknown dancer in a touring revue." "There's no disgrace- in playing in a revue, is there?" asked her ladyship with a touch of asperity. "Decidedly not!" cried Betsy. "Decidedly not! I've acted as dresser to some of the. best little women in the world during my connection with the profession. I'm just saying how time works wonders." "Besides, I was not Lady .Hopper at first. I was plain Mrs. Hopper for quite a long time. It was only the war that brought my husband's knighthood—and I think he earned it!"

"I suppose he did," agreed Betsy. -"I had heard of how rich he was." "You are never going to be poor again, Betsy, I'll see to that. You stood by me in my trouble when I didn't know where to turn until I met Sir Horace —Mr. Hopper as he was then —and I'll stand by you as long as you need me." "You are very kind," murmured Mrs. Tolworth, her eyes brimming with tears. "And the boy, too. He won't suffer, either. Do you know, I'm afraid I had no idea where he was or what had become of liim." "That's not to be wondered at. He was only a few months old when those theatrical people adopted him—or rather bought him—and when they disappeared and went right away, how was anyone, to know where they were?" "Still the same dear old Betsy!" smiled Lady Hopper, kissing her. "ion are quite right. I did not know and could not advertise for fear of being; imposed upon. It is difficult to tell where that sort of thing might end. An adopted child loses all knowledge of its parents and becomes attached to people %vho are often—er—well, quite impossible. Even now it was only the name, that attracted my attention and set me wondering. Hi* foster-parents evidently did not want their name to be used."

"But you have no doubt now, after my letter?" asked Betsy. "Not the slightest, but—well—er—l don't feel particularly happy over the matter." "Yes, a skeleton in the cupboard is not a-nice thing to have about, and I think peace of mind is a wonderful comfort." "That's why I came to you to-day, Betsy," said. Lady Hopper. "I want you to come over to Kirkchester in a few days and be introduced to my husband. We will then discuss the entire business. 1 will tell him all about my share and what happened, and you can tell him what you know." , "I shall be very glad to meet him," replied Mrs. Tolworth, "and if he is anything like 1 imagine he is, you will, I am sure, be glad to drag that skeleton out of the cupboard and bury it for ever." | Tears of gratitude welled into the | woman's eyes as Lady Hopper pressed a few Treasury notes into her hand and went downstairs. A group of slatternly women and children crowded round as the opening of the street door announced to all that the visitor was about to leave. The young woman living downstairs stood outside smiling as her ladyship emerged and the chauffeur jumped quickly down to open the door of the car. As the Rolls-Royce glided away with a silky purr, the upstairs curtains fluttered for a moment as Betsy Tolworth took a final glance. "Well, I never r-exclaimed one. of the watching women lower down the street to her neighbour as the car went by. "Did yer see that ?" "No —what!" "Why, the old duchess in the motor. I She's cryinV . (To be continued daily.)