THE MARRIAGE LINES

Auckland Star, Volume LX, Issue 244, 15 October 1929, Page 20

THE MARRIAGE LINES

By J. S- FLETCHER

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

MARTIN 7 MUSCROFT, a prosperous ahd industrious, mill-owner, discovering.'that lie may,-drop -lead at; auy njoujeht. conunder an oath of secrecy, to JUDITH, his-niece, that, her fiance and his ■' -son,., ~-. ',; "- ' ~ ,'_\ - : '" MICHAEL, -was.born out of wedlock. In .order''to prevent Michaells-dissolute step- ,. brother, ' '"- •■"' •■ STEPHEN, from inheriting, his property, Martin has had a new;: will' drawn up. • ; He dies, however, before .-signing' it. JAED QUINCE, the sinister old housekeeper, not knowing the will'is unsigned, tries to steal it, but Judith ' struggles with her. In the struggle Jael suddenly collapses* and- dies. Judith disposes of the body, in -a -.desolate place called Hob- . man's Hole, and gives it out that Jajel has gone on one of/her periodic visits . to-a relatives •. £./•„.«».•... ~ •')

CHAPTER XI. Judith wenf'into ;the little .'.parlour late that evening, hand a "packet done up in 6ivi' pi ".-Martin's big coloured y}?he laid it before -Michael, who sat, at'-.:his: father's, desk,-posting up the'affalr^of'.the. mill, which had been some\vJiat : >. neglected during the previous few'idays. y It struck her as she entered how;' quickly he'had settled down to his': father's ways, and habits. .As she broad shoulder'a" bent over .the? desk, he: reminded her, of Martim .'And'-once.anore - she felt the, deadly fear-'-Ndf discovery. Nothing, nothing, she -jy-qwed passionately tO'herself, must; happen that would turn' Michael out of that' place which his father -had meant him to occupy. "What's- that, Judith?" ;he asked, looking at ; . tKe small bundle "curiously.' ■ "It's your father's pocket book," replied Judith. 'T took it out of his jacketr.-aft'er he was "dead,,-.and wrapped it-up -in* that handkerchief and-put it away,'-,and I forgot all/about it until now.-.V'l.'lsuppose it isn't likely, there'd be a will in that, Michael?" . , ... She.knew well enoughr'that these were only.idle "words, but'she wanted words of any sort just then;, and' these came to her tongue. Something.had made it difficult,for her to talk to Michael. "Not likely, lass," he answered. "However, .we'll look." And he unwrapped the handkerchief, opened the pocket book, and looked hastily through the papers, most of them faded, torn and creased.' "Np, there's naught here," he continued. "And I didn't expect there'd be aught, anywhere. I'd a notion of what my father meant, Judith." ,- Judith; lingered. The restlessness which had been on hev .ever since the night of Martin's death was still there;, she.could not remain in one place. She wanted to go away now; where, she did not know; she also wanted to stay where she was; why, she could not tell. So she remained at Michael's side, looking over, his shoulder at the figure's which he was setting down in an account book.

"Michael," she said suddenly, "do you thing Stephen'll do what you want,?" - Michael, laid down his pen and reached for his pipe, which had gone 'out while he wrote. He relighted it and puffed meditatively for a time before- he answered.

"I don't know, Judith, I don't know," he answered at .last. • "It strikes me! it's got to be a sort of disease with Stephen, has that. A ma'nj- ; was .talking, to t'other day said it-is' a disease more than a habit. However, he. said, too, that if you get a man to "keep, off it' for a good time, there was a chance for him, •especially if ■ he-was- a young 'un. Well, now then, Stephen's every inducement to change himself. He's naught to do but to make up his-mind.-.to keep-steady, and he'll be set" up for life."" "But you can't stop him of his share of the readv money," remarked Judith. • "I can't stop him of that, though from-what Mi;. Mar.cher tells me, lean put that off for --.a 'time,!' answered Michael. "But that's naught to do with my offer. My offer, lass, is what I said. It's if he keens steady, makes a new, man of himself, behaves himself for three years. But he starts doing it now, just;.now; not next month, nor next week, but now. Straight away, do you understand, lass?" "Isn't it expecting him to. do a lot after —after what's "he's got into the habit of doing?" suggested Judith. "I expect naught unreasonable." said Michael. • "I've naught against Stephen taking a pint o' ale" with'their_ dinner nor their supper, nor having their glass o' spirits at nights—l do it myself, don't j?—so long as they do it like men, and ,i' season. What I will not stand to see is that there sitting .for hours together in places like yon Hooded Hawk, tippling and tossing good brass away, and going wi' fellows like yon game keeper, 'at gets-'chaps into his house ■whe'h v they're m'azejHwi' bad drink all to win-''their moneyToff..themi If' Stephen wants his reasonable drop: at night, let him have it, and if he wants a hand at cards, why, he can.icome here-' and have one, or we'll go and have' one w' him. I want naught unreasonable; all I want is 'at he should steady dp and gp soberly and believe himself. However, I'm master, and I will not see my father's brass wasted, no, not ifv.T'keep. Stephen out of that half-share' all his days. I'll take care-that neither him nor his wife wants for naught. I know what my father was going to do, and what he'd started doing, because he'd given me a notion, before T went away, and'he told John Crawdale, too.' And I shall do just what my father was doing.. I shall settle these debts, up. to- date, and give all orders "for. .proper supplies, but I shall hand out no more, money. And happen Stephen'll reform—he's not a bad 'un at bottom, if he's kept away from bad company. -All-the same, Judith, lass, I don't think over and above much o' that wife of his.-' : She's a tongue in her head, has that woman!"

He slipped his arm round Judith's Avaist and drew her passively on to his knee, looking closely at her. "Ye're that white and drawn like, lass!" he said, uneasily. "I'm troubled about you. It was too much for you, that night; it's given you a rare upsetting. How. ; came it,; Judith, 'at yon old atomy went off as she did ?" 'fj doji't i;kno\V," ' answered . Judith feebly. "You <know what she was like when '.she.-- tpokV.it -*into her head. She's gone before, Michael." "Aye, but always to come back," said Michael. "An' I should ha' thought sh'd ha' been sure to come back when she heard about my father. Besides, she couldn't have- gone far by the time, she :.didVhear;Kit'u'd>3Se v ceTtkia-'to?btf alt'bver the- countryfeide' ,J nest? day:" '-'"What did they"start quarrelling about, lass?"' "Oh, about Stephen," replied Judith, wearily, as if she were tired of the matter. "Your father said he wouldn't have money given to Stephen, and she said — she, said she'd do. what,she.,pleased.with.

"Well, I dare say fold jade had part brass," remarked Michael. "She never spent, aught much, and she'd been here a good while, so she's no doubt got a nice penny put away in a bank somewhere. What is it, Judith?" Tor Judith had unconsciously started. That was something she had never thought of. If Jael Quince had money in a bank, the bank people would be wanting to know where the owner was. And then —but that eventuality was still far away. "It's nothing," she said, answering Michael's question. "A stitch in my side, that's all." Michael drew her back to him. He was still thinking of Jael Quince. "And took what brass she had with her, did she?" he asked. "I suppose so," replied Judith, with indifference. "She used to keep money in a- purse in an old stocking, at any rate, and when she'd gone the stocking was thrown on flie floor." "Well, .1 won't have .th' old beldam back if she appears," said Michael. "I'd about-got-.stalled of her. I've arranged with Ann Piper to stop till we get wed, Judith. We'll be wed, lass, as soon as seems decent after my father's death. I know he wouldn't ha' had us make any difference, so we'll fix it somewhere about as arranged, just about when spring comes, Judith." Judith made no answer. Presently she began to stroke Michael's hand softly, and with a certain timidity.

! "Michael," she said, "do you think I could go away for'a bit?" "Eh, why, bless your heart, of course, lass," he answered. "It'll do you good to have a week or two off —it's pulled you down, like, has this. You shall go where you like, and with as much brass as 'ud make a frying pan! But where can you go, Judith," he added anxiously, after laughing at his own small jest. "It's not up to much at them seaside places in winter, and you'd be lonely.' r "I don't want to go to any seaside place," she said. "I want to go where there's some life, and some—some bustle. I'll go and see Tilly Cordaker —she's been asking me to go ever since they, were married, and I'll go now." "What, to Clothford!" exclaimed Michael, to whom Clothford, a smokecanopied, overgrown manufacturing town, represented all tlu.t was to be avoided. "Gow, lass, can't you think of a better spot than that!" "It isn't all mills at Clothford," said Judith, knowing his thoughts. "There's a theatre at Clothford, and, concerts, and a park, and fine shops." "I misdoubt if theatre-going's the proper thing when there's death in a family," observed Michael, with oldfashioned gravity. "However, when you're in Rome, you must do according as the Romans does, I reckon." "Well, then, lass, write to Tilly Cordaker and tell her you'll come to visit 'em—happen I'll drive you there myself —it's less nor twenty mile." He drew her more closely to his side and kissed her, looking at her fondly. "Aught that'll do you good, lass," he said. "We can't have no pale faces about." Judith removed herself from his knee and stood looking down at him. "Michael," she said with sudden irrelevance, "there's a picture of your mother in that pocket-book." Michael nodded. His face, smiling before, grew suddenly grave. "Your father showed it to me that— that night," said Judith. She was wondering secretly why she mentioned this matter; she had not meant to speak of the silhouette, and yet she could not repress the words that had sprung to., her lips. "He —he thought a lot about your mother, Michael," she added. "Aye, I know, I know!" said Michael. "Aye!" He pulled out his watch—an oldfashioned thing that Martin had given him in his boyhood. "By Gowd, Judith, my lass!" he exclaimed. "D'ye know it's past ten o'clock? Away to bed, this minute—Ann Piper'U think we've started to turn night into day."

Judith went away wondering why Michael seemed as if he did not wish to talk about his father and mother. At the door she turned.

"Aren't you going tor bed. yourself, Michael?" she asked.

Michael jerked his head towards the bureau.

"When I've finished these books," he answered. "There's a lot to put straight yet."

Judith left him staring into the fire. He remained in that attitude until all grew- quiet in the house. He heard Judith go her usual rounds; he heard her go upstairs; he heard murmured conversation between her and Ann Piper; then all grew still. And at last he went over to the desk, and, sitting down in his father's chair, took up the pocket-book and began to examine its contents more carefully..

(To be continued daily.)