"VENGEANCE"

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 46, 23 February 1929, Page 12

"VENGEANCE"

By S. ANDREW WOOD,

CHAPTER I. Tricked, Reuben Greenwood's big pearl grey motor car jolted through the narrow streets of Mossgiel town. The master of Greenwood's Mills leaned back against the cushions, with his shrunken body swathed in heavy rugs. He lifted his thin, white face to the pile of grey stone buildings which towered to the leaden sky above, its windows shaking to the throb of machinery and its gaunt chimney stacks smoking. There was hunger in his keen, tired eyes. "Greenwood's Mills, Joan!" lie said tothe girl at the wheel beside him. "I thought once that I should never see them again!" Joan Greenwood laughed a little tremulously, and slackened the pace of the car to a. crawl as the big gates of the mill-yard came into view. A long, booming note broke from the engine house. The thudding pulse of Greenwood's Mills slowed and stopped. Out of the wide gateway a crowd of men and women began to pour. It was dinner hour in Mossgiel town.

"Wo shall have to wait, dad!" Joan said.

She stopped the car as the throng of grimy men and shawl-clad women swept round it. A stain of colour crept into her face. Her eyes smiled faintly, but, in their depths was the sweet gravity that befitted her twenty-two years. There was a lump in Joan Greenwood's throat which made her unable to speak to the old man beside her. For one week of dread and despair, when Reuben Greenwood had lain on the borderland of death in the big canopied bed' at Mossgiel Manor, she, too, had thought that he would never again set eyes upon Greenwood's Mills.

A shout passed through the surging crowd of workpeople. A little knot gathered round the car. A grimy cap was waved.

"It's Reuben Greenwood back again! Welcome to yo' master!"

Inside the engine house the whistle suddenly broke forth again in a shrill greeting. On the steel staircase which ran to the upper storeys of the mill a crowd of laughing women and girls stood, waving their hands as the car slid slowly forward into the smoky yard. The men who filled the gateway cheered. Some of them had been boys with old Reuben Greenwood. They knew him for one of the last of the old school of mill masters, as blunt, honest and plain dealing as themselves. "They are HI glad to see you, dear!" Joan said, with a little catch in her voice. Iler violet eyes were misty as she helped the old man from the car. Reuben Greenwood waved his stick. For a moment the old light came into his haggard eyes. He lifted' his hat from his white head. Then the door of the crflices closed behind them. A knock sounded at the glazed, blacklettered door of Reuben Greenwood's private office. It was the head clerk. "Mr. John Lyndon to see you, sir," ho said. Reuben Greenwood half rose from his chair. A startled shadow seemed to pass across his face. "I will see him," he said', curtly. He turned to Joan. He had seated himself at his desk beneath the window, which opened out to the higgledypiggledy mass of houses which made up Mossgiel, their chimneys smoking sluggishly in the summer sun. At that, same desk Joan's grandfather, the Reuben Greenwood who had built Greenwood's Mills, had sat, half a century before, and looked out upon the little town which, body and' soul, he had owned. Times had altered. But Greenwood's Mills still gave Mossgiel its daily bread, and Reuben Greenwood was its king and emperor. "He'll want to see me alone, little girl," Greenwood said, slowly. "It's special business." His pale, tenuous hand stroked Joan's wrist tremblingly. The old man's smile seemed, for a mere flash, twisted and forced, for a moment Joan hesitated, still haunted by the ghost of that dreadful week when her father had hovered in the valley of the shadow. It was of John Lyndon, his old friend, that he had babbled in his delirium, with terror ana hatred and rage in his feeble old voice, calling out that John Lyndon had stolen Greenwood's Mills from him, leaving him a ruined and broken man.

Joan closed the door behind her and flitted along the corridor outside. "You fanciful little goose," 3he whispered to herself. "He was—ill!" The mill was strangely quiet and deserted in that hour of rest. Joan glanced at the shining alleyways of looms and spindles, thrilling a little, as she always did, at the thought that she, the last of the Greenwoods, would one day be mistress of it all. Then, reaching the door upon which her own name was painted, she opened it and entered. There was a mirror hanging above the broad fireplace of the room where Joan Greenwood found herself. She moved slowly towards it, gazing at the grave reflection of her face, with its bright, steady eyes. "I want to look at you, Joan Greenwood!" she said, speaking very solemnly. The clean-cut mouth, with its slightlycurling tipper lip, curved in a faint smile. Joan's hand had gone to her blouse and taken forth an opened letter. From it, with a deepening colour, she took the written paper and opened it. It was addressed to her at Mossgiel Manor and it had come that morning.

"I must see you at the cave to-morrow afternoon. I have a confession to make and a question to ask you. —Dick." Abruptly Joan turned from the mirror and looked out of the window into the blue smokeless haze that hung above Mossgiel. Beyond the valley where the town lay the stony moorlands rose in a steep hillside. It was up there where she had first met Dick Travers. A thunderstorm, breaking over the moors with tropical suddenness, had caught her and driven her to shelter in the limestone cavern which was known as Clougli's Cave. A near stroke of lightning had stunned Joan as she stood in the gloomy entrance. She had recovered to find herself in the arms of a big, capable young man, who smiled coolly into her startled eyes and carried her, in spite of her protest, to the nearest cottage. Accidentally they had met a second time—oll the moorlands again, as if fate had written it. After that, dough's Cave had become their trysting place. Reuben Greenwood's heiress had met many men. But none had stirred her pulse as Dick Travers had done. Yet — her lips parted in wonderment at herself even as she realised it —she knew nothing of Dick Travers, save that he lived over

the moors at Pernio], Whether he was rich or poor she had not even tried to guess. What was the confession he wished to make and the question he had for her ?

Joan crushed the note guiltily into its hiding place and passed, with a sudden unaccountable song of gladness breaking in her heart, out into the corridor.

The oflices were deserted. The drowsy hiss of a steampipe came from the yard outside. As she passed the door of Reuben Greenwood's private room, moved by an impulsive curiosity which seized her before she knew, Joan paused and lifted the heavy curtain.

The door was slightly open, the room strangely silent.

Reuben Greenwood, master of Greenwood's Alills, sat with his body crumpled in the deep armchair, his gnarled hands gripping its arms and his shoulders bent, looking like a man who has withered suddenly. Ilis hard, clean-chiselled face had a pallor that made it seem as though cut out of alabaster. Jt was the face of an aged and stricken man.

CHAPTER 11. An Old Man's Appeal.

Reuben Greenwood lifted his white face slowly. "You treacherous cur, John Lyndon! ho whispered. "You have forged the date of that document, I swear!" Reuben Greenwood's visitor rose softly to his feet. He was a large, elderly man, immaculately dressed in morning clothes. He had a heavy, stone-coloured face and eyes that were the clear, cold tint of ice. "You arc ill and unstrung, Greenwood," he said, speaking with a soft deliberation that held ft note of mockery. "And I forgive your bitter words. The agreement into which you entered with open eyes five years ago expired a fortnight "ago, with five thousand pounds still owing. Your signature is upon it, duly witnessed. It provided that if the twenty thousand pounds which I advanced you then was not paid off in toto by this month of this year, Greenwood's Mills become mine " "You altered the date!" Reuben Greenwood said huskily. "I trusted you, Lyndon, because we were friends— blood-friends, I thought. I did not keep my copy of the agreement even. Heaven help me! Why do you do this, John Lyndon ?" Lvdon's voice went on monotonously: "The money was not paid, and so, by the agreement, the mills become mine. I have sold them to my son, Richard Lyndon, of whom you have no doubt heard since lie became famous. Greenwood's Mills now belong to the Lyndon Syndicate. I have nothing more to add." John Lyndon made a cold bow. He turned towards the door. But Reuben Greenwood caught him with a hoarse word. Before the other could resist he had pulled him to the window. "Look at them, John Lyndon!" he said, with a sort of desptrate appeal on his rugged face. "Greenwood's Mills they call them, and Greenwood's Mills they have always been. My father built them. The Mossgiel folk called him Straight Reuben, and the name has come down to me. The Greenwoods have always been straight. That is ,why syndicates and cotton companies have never set foot in Mossgiel until now. The working people couldn't have them while the Greenwoods were there—the Greenwoods who had sprung from them and were of their blood. In Mossgiel they love and worship the Greenwoods, John Lyndon!"

The old man paused. His lips trembled for a moment. John Lyndon watched with a half-veiled smile of pity ( and contempt. Joan stood motionless behind the curtain, with a feeling that she had been turned to stone.

Reuben Greenwood swung swiftly round upon John Lyndon with a passionate movement that made him step back swiftly.

"You have me in your power, Lyndon," lie said huskily. "False and treacherous friend you have proved to be. I trusted you, like a fool. But I am too old and feeble to fight you. I have heard of your son, Richard Lyndon. I know that he is the head of the Lyndon Syndicate which is buying up all the cotton mills in the north. I know he is one of the most powerful men of to-day. Greenwood's Mills are nothing to him. But, to me, they are my blood. Have some mercy, Lyndon! Ask your son to give me a chance to buy off the mortgage. For myself I do not care. My years are numbered. But I had dreamed of my daughter as the mistress of Greenwood's Mills, loved and honoured by the work people more than even her father or grandfather have been. Have mercy, Lyndon!" John Lyndon turned on his heel. His face was cold and expressionless. "It is impossible, Greenwood," he said curtly, "the mills must be in the Lyndon Syndicate. I can stay no longer. I am am a busy man. Good morning." John Lyndon, with his lips pursed precisely, passed softly through the doorway that led to the outer office. Joan, watching with wide, bright eyes, saw the door close behind him. She was inside the room a moment later. "Dad!" Bhe said swiftly. "You, Joan!" Reuben Greenwood half rose from the chair into which he had sunk. Joan thrust him back gently, her arms slipping about his neck. "I heard—everything," Joan said with a brave, unsteady laugh. "Do you think I am a coward?" The old mill master sat without moving, his eyes with a light that filled Joan with something like terror. "Heaven give me vengeance!" he whispered. • "Give me the strength to pay back!" Joan touched the blanched head with her warm mouth. Something in the broken look of her father made her heart contract with dread. "I don't think I ever hated a man until now, dad," she said slowly. "But I hate —that man." Reuben Greenwood's hot fingers closed upon his daughter's wrists and held them tight. His Voice trembled with eagerness. "Promise me, Joan!" he said quickly and painfully. "Promise me that you will always hate John Lyndon and everything that belongs to him! Promise me that if you meet him or his son in the future you will think of nothing but the vengeance which is owing to us! They are too cunning and powerful to light. But revenge comes to everybody who waits long enough. I am old, and it -may not lie given to me. But you are young. Promise me that, even after I am dead, you will seek the just vengeance which is due to us, Joan!" • Joan tried to speak. But her father's voice came in a fierce whisper again. "Promise!" . . She nodded. "I promise, dad]" sl'.e said.

CHAPTER 111. Where is Joan's Father?

Joan sat in the window seat of the little grey-blue morning room of Moss-

giel Manor.

It was almost half an hour since she had driven Reuben Greenwood, white and silent, back to the old house where the Greenwoods had lived for a cenluiy. At his own imperious command she had left him there.

Joan's thoughts were in a tumult. Richard Lyndon! All the north was ringing with the name. • He was the youngest millionaire in England, and the most romantic figure in the great cotton boom which was sweeping the country. And Greenwood's Mills had fallen into his hands—by fraud'!

Joan pressed her cool lingers against her hot cheek.

"I wonder why money makes men cruel!" she murmured.

She. pictured Richard Lyndon as a younger and more merciless edition of the man who had betrayed her father's trust. To her knowledge she had never seen him, though once or twice she had met John Lyndon before. A sense of desperation caught Joan. Were John and Richard Lyndon too powerful to light? Was it yet too late to keep Greenwood's Mills? The hatred which she had promised Reuben Greenwood surged up in Joan, unbidden, startling her with its strength and bitterness.

Anna, the maid, knocked at the door,

"Lunch has been ready ten minutes, miss," she said, with faint reproach in her voice.

Joan rose guiltily, forcing a smile to her white face. A quick, uneasy thought of her father seized her. A glance into the dining room, with its white damask and shining silver, told her that he was not there.

The door of the library was ajar. The room was empty.

Joan, with a pang of dread for which she could not account, passed along the panelled corridor which traversed the length of the old Manor House. She saw then that the door of the yellow-washed porch, which opened upon the wandering garden, .was wide to the summer day. She stood on the stone steps, in the gloomp network of shade and sunlight. Since childhood she had feared the dark mill-stream—relic of the bygone days when the mills of Mossgiel were worked by water-power—which ran, smooth and deep, through the great wild garden. Now, as she listened to its hoarse, low voice, a dread thought struck her. She fought against it and thrust it aside, But it returned, hauntingly. What if her father, his brain unhinged by the shock he lifid received, had

She had reached the broken, mossgrown wall which edged the mill-stream. Joan gazed down at the stream arid saw that, in a niche of the stone wall, caught there and hanging with its open leaves half-trailing in the water, was a small leather notebook. It was Reuben Green, wood's.

With a little cry of dread which she could not stifle, Joan leaned recklessly over the low wall to reach it. One of the crumbling stone gave way under her weight. It dropped with a sullen splash. But she did not heed the warning. Then, abruptly, and even as her trembling fingers almost touched the notebook, the wall seemed to open and break beneath her, and she fell. By mere wild instinct, Joan caught at a jutting ledge of, stone. But for that, the swift current would have claimed her. She tried to cry out. But her voice was lost in the clamor of the water that poured past her. "Hold on a minute!" The voice, dimly familiar, seemed to come from far away. Framed against the background of the trees above, Joan saw a man's pale, set face. His head and shoulders came slowly into the gap of the broken wall. She felt his hands slip beneath her arms. The mill-stream deafened her. The smooth, slipping water held her eyes spellbound. "Now!" The word came faintly above the din. She was swung outward and lifted bodily. She stumbled on to the grassgrown pavement above. For a moment things went black.

The man who had rescued Joan stood, liatless, staring at her. He was dressed in riding breeches and grey tweeds, and was probably not more than 30. His features were clean-cut and delicate. Perhaps it was his low-brushed hair that left his forehead narrow and made his dark, handsome eyes appear too close together. .

"I believe you have 6avcd my life, Mr. Bromley!" Joan said, with an unsteady laugh.

Max Bromley stood silent. At Joan's words, and at the light of gratitude that was in her violet eyes for a moment, a look that might have been hunger or triumph, or both, sprang into his face.

"It is the happiest moment of my life, Miss Greenwood!" he said, in a low voice. "I looked over the wall and saw you standing on the steps. I am glad now that I was so rude."

Joan swayjd weakly. Max Bromley stepped forward and caught her. It was as though he had been watching and waiting for the opportunity. "Poor little girl!" he said, swiftly. "Something has happened!" During "the past few months Max Bromley had been a frequent visitor to the Manor. Yet she had never been able to conquer her dislike of him. The Bromleys were the county family which owned all the land about Mossgiel. There were also many ugly patches of slum property in the town which helped to keep up their impoverished glory. In Mossgiel there were whispers about the private life cf Max Bromley which did him no credit. She remembered it all, even in the tumult of the moment.

Her hands went behind' her to unclasp Bromley's arms, which still held her. Before she knew it the man who held her had bent to her lips and touched them, holding her powerless. "I love you, Joan!" he said. His face was so near to hers that she had to close her eyes. "I come to tell you so. And I was. nearly too late!" Joan stepped backwards. At the touch of Bromley's lips she shuddered. She felt as if some blow had struck her.

"You are mad!" she said, incoherently. "When my father is in there and wo are poor and no longer own Greenwood's Mills, and " She stopped. At her words Bromley started.

: 'ln there!" he repeated, stepping back,

Joan wrenched herself free. Suddenly the sight of the mill-stream filled her with an unfathomable and unreasonable terror, in which Max Bromley's face, lean, eager, and startled, seemed to be strangely mixed. She ran to the moss-grown steps of the porch. Bromley's voice came behind her. "We must let the police know, Joan! I will telephone now. Perhaps it is not too late even yet. You must be brave, and hope!" She felt his arm about her as the maid's scared face cam© out of the gloom of the hall, and Leech, the old man-servant who ha 4 been with the

Greenwoods for thirty years, leaned/) pale and wide-eyed, over the balustrade J of the wide staircase.

Joan Greenwood stood in the morning room again, with her hands pressed close against her breast. "If lie is dead, they have killed him— John Lyndon and his son!" she whispered, dry eyed. The note'which she had thrust into her blouse an hour before fell to the floor. She picked it up and pressed it to her lips. The cool touch of the paper seemed to extinguish the memory of Max Bromley's kiss. "I want, your help now, Dick!" she whispered, "I want it badly!"

(To he continued daily.)

FUN FROM THE PRESS.

Fun from the American Press col lected by the "Literary Digest":—

A treaty is a document very carefully written so that it has to be elaborately explained to all who read it. —"Mobile Register."

A woman's clothes are her sentimfents expressed in fabrics, says one of our leading novelists, and, as you so often hear, there is very little sentiment these days.—New York "Evening Post."

An expert has figured it out that the electrical energy developed by 5,000,000 persons all talking at once would keep just one ineande'scent light going. That helps to understanding of how little illumination comes from most conversations. —Manchester "Union."

We learn from the Press that broadcasting has added 500 words to the average radio fan's vocabulary. And we wouldn't dare to print any of them. — "Judge."

If Mount Etna were in this country there'd be a Federal board to control it. —Ohio "State Journal."

When a man begins to feel that his wife doesn't understand him, the chances are he'd be lucky if she didn't.—San Diego "Union."

Business success falls to the "ad"' veuturous.—Wall Street "Journal."