DEAD MAN'S MANOR

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 245, 16 October 1935, Page 20

DEAD MAN'S MANOR

READ THIS MOVING STORY OF A SURPRISING INHERITANCE.

CHAPTER IV. It was half an hour before dinner that Merrill, watching the rolling clouds away to the west across the parkland, discovered her cousin on the glass-roofed verandah smoking an inevitable cigarette. "Hello, Ernest," she greeted him, "I do hope you're enjoying yourself." Ernest Jennings turned at the sound of the girl's voice. He realised that an awkward moment had arrived; a kind of miniature crisis in one's life that had to be transcended somehow. "Oh, I'm all right," he answered; "I like being down here. Sometimes I think I'd like to live down here altogether." Which was commendably true because Ernest was at the same time thinking of Tilly Porterus down at the "Dog and Weasel." ' Merrill, momentarily startled at her cousin's words, suddenly felt that perhaps, after all, she had been misjudging Ernest. She came close beside him and they leaned together against the stone balustrading. "You know, Ernest," she told him, seriously, "that's exactly how I felt when I first came down here. There's something so peaceful and so restful about everything. No hurrying crowds, or motor cars, or noise. Just peace and the earth; the grass and the trees— everything as God intended it to be. That's why I love this place so much; why I should hate to be torn away from it. Every time I have to go up to London, or to anywhere else, for that matter, I'm always glad to be back here again."

This was not exactly what Ernest Jennings had expected. He had always imagined that Merrill was "queer," but he had never thought she would talk to him like this. It sounded faintly reminiscent of a passage from a novel. "Yes, I suppose that must be it," he agreed, haltingly. "I'm glad you all came down," Merrill went 011, his pause apparently unnoticed. "You must come often, Ernest. Just as often as you like; you and Aunt Susan and Uncle Bert." Ernest Jennings was feeling more confident. He was telling himself that if the plunge had to be taken it niight just as well be taken now while Merrill appeared to be in the mood for it—all soppy and poctical. He t'anied to her and looked into her face. "Need I go back at all, Merrill?" he asked, and was surprised how disarming his voice sounded. It was now the girl's turn to find herself void of a reply quite as quick as she might have liked. "I really don't know, Ernest," she temporised. "As I've said, you're all very welcome here and there's heaps of room, but—" The Proposal. Emboldened by her hesitancy Ernest followed up his temporary advantage swiftly. "I know it must sound silly to you, Merrill, but you see, it's like tliis. I'like you—like you very much. So much that I'd like to marry you—if you'll have me, that is. You need someone, I'm sure of that, and . . . well . . . I've told you how much I like being down here." This time Ernest was not quite so sure tliiit his words sounded altogether right. Tt was not, for instance, the kind of proposal he had heard on the films. There was nothing glamorous about it. Now had it been Tilly . . . Ernest felt that despite his knowledge of such things lie would have grown much more lyrical. But then Merrill hadn't copper-coloured hair and bright grey eyes and dimples in her cheeks. For a moment Merrill was breathless. This was certainly the las't thing she had expected from Cousin Ernest. Then she wanted to laugh, and to laugh loudly. "That's awfully nice of you. Ernest." she told him. "You know I scarcely ever expected you to say such a thing to me. Of course I appreciate it very much . . . much more, perhaps, than I can explain to you in so many words, but I don't quite know what I'm going to do about it."

"You mean that you don't want to marry me ?" The words tumbled from the young man's lips with the urgency of a cataract.

Merrill was quick to notice that ► Ernest did not sound ns though he had boon wounded. Rather did he appear to be relieved; or that he would be when once she had given him a definite assurance. Her sense of humour came to her aid. "Oil, I didn't say that, Ernest," she told him, coyly. "As a matter of fact I haven't yet made up my mind. I'm sure you'tl make a good husband and that I could rely on you to look after things for me. At the same time you must realise that your proposal has come as a great surprise to me. I must have time to think it over." Ernest Jennings was in a panic. He was wondering what he was to do if Merrill decided to say "yes." That would be awkward. Distinctly awkward. "Can't we settle it right now ?" he asked anxiously. ' Merrill laughed for the first time as she shook her head. "No, Ernest," she said, fimly, "we cannot settle it now. There are lots of things for a woman to think over before she makes such an important decision. She has to be quite satisfied in licr own mind that the man who proposes to her is really and truly in love with her. People don't always marry for love, you know. There are other things," she hinted.

Ernest was getting right out of his depth, and lie never had been an expert swimmer emotionally. But the implication in her last words startled him.

''What do you mean by that?" lie demanded, almost in a whisper. "I've told you that I love you. Isn't that sufficient?"

"No.' I'm afraid it isn't, Ernest. For one thing you haven't said that you were in love with me. What you said was that you liked me. That's rather different; in fact, there's a whole world of difference between liking and loving."

"Of course, if you're going to quarrel over a word. . . " ho began until Merrill interrupted him.

"Yes, Ernest, a word as you say, but when that word means so much, it's sometimes worth fighting for."

"Oh, well, if that's how you look at it, I suppose nothing I can say will alter it."

"Neither is it just a question of saying," she reminded him. "It's more a question of meaning."

Just then the gong,sounded for dinner. Its mellow sounds rolled like an Eastern drum through hall and corridor of the old house and reached their ears on the verandah.

The girl took Ernest's arm and squeezed it gently. "That's dinner," she told him, "and it reminds me that I'm fearfully hungry. We'll both feel better after we've eaten. I always f<?el that food was meant to

By Graham Yorke,

Author of " The Deputy Avenger," "The Jade To-

cheer us up in moments of melancholy." It was a tactless observation, but Ernest was not sensitive. No one was fastidious about what they said to Ernest.

They went together through the open window into the house, she thinking how extraordinary life was, and he that he'd made a bit of a fool of himself as usual. Around the hour of midnight Ernest roamed uncertainly along that twisty narrow road that led to Leybourne Manor. He was in a happy frame of mind. After the tension of the dining table his visit to the Dog and Weasel had been a welcome antidote. Tilly had looked more attractive than ever —attractive and scrupulously attentive —so attentive, in fact, that some of the "regulars" had noticed that she had no time to attend personally to their continuous requirements. They had sat together in the old oak nooks beside the wide stone hearth and nodded their old heads together significantly. Tilly was a wise girl. She knew which side of her bread the butter ought to be, and by the looks of it she knew what brand of butter best suited her taste. Well, come to think of it, young Mr. Jennings was a lucky fellow having Miss Grenfield for a cousin. But what, indeed, would Tom Skelton have to say about it when he came home for the week-end? The question intrigued their subtle imaginations, for Tom was "fair set" on Tilly, and, from all | accounts, Tilly was more than a little partial to Tom. The old heads bent closer and chuckles quivered on half a dozen lips. Life in Leybourne was not so drab as some of the cronies had been thinking. It was Smithers who opened the door to Ernest and placed the heavy double chain into its sockets behind him. "Can I do anything for you, sir?" the butler asked. Ernest, who had little liking for starched shirts, surprised himself by replying, "No thanks, Smithers." At the angle of the wide staircase a voice whispered from the direction of the first floor landing. "Is that you, Ernie?" Ernest Reports. Ernest recognised his mother's voice and admitted the identity. "C'ome here, we want to talk to you. What do you mean by running off the way you did after dinner?" The door opened wider and Ernest was surprised to discover that neither of his i parents had gone to bed. 1 "Just felt like a blow down to the i village," he answered negligently. Albert Jennings looked across at his son from the chair where he was reading j his evening newspaper. "Well, my lad," he said genially, i "and what news have you for us?" j "Yes, what did she say? Did you pop I the question, Ernie?" His mother's voice I was more eager than his father's. Ernie smiled indulgently. "I certainly did," lie said. "I asked her to marry hie." Albert Jennings jumped from his chair with outstretched hand. "Not so fast," reproved Ernest. "Nothing's 'been settled." "What do you mean?" The note of incredulity in Mr. Jennings' voice was almost laughable. "Just what I say. And she's going to think about it." Mr. Jennings was rubbing his hands together now. Mrs. Jennings was smiling broadly. "You needn't worry about that," decided Mrs. Jennings. "Merrill's a sensible girl. She knows a thing or two." "I suppose she does," said Ernest, "but I'll be the most amazed man in Leybourne if she says 'yes'." "Of course she'll say yes," vouchsafed Mrs. Jennings. "Who ever heard of a girl refusing an offer of marriage?" But when Ernest had bade them "Good-night," Mrs. Jennings was none too sure of the verdict. "I suppose it's just 011 the cards that she might refuse him," she said. "What then, Bert?" Mr. Jennings was struggling with his shirt. "Well," lie grumbled, "if she's fool enough to do as you say, it only means that we've got to start all over again on another plan. It don't mean that we're going to be turned out even if Ernie is turned down."

And the resolution in lier husband's voice suggested to Susan Jennings that there was still something in Albert that she could admire. (To be continued daily.)