WHAT CON DID.

Press, Volume LXII, Issue 12591, 6 September 1906, Page 3

WHAT CON DID.

By Dorothy Daixd (Author of " By the Path of the Storm." etc.) "When a young man is cooped up in a microscopic village miles and miles from ajiywhero and anylxxly, lie has two courses open to him. Either ho will fall in lovo and marry respectably, or he will get into mischief." Mrs Roberts shut up her mouth with a snap, as uws her habit after making a definite assort ion. "To young »Stokes tlicrc Ls but one course open," she added after a pause. ''Why?" asked Kli-.o softly. ""Why!" retorted Mrs liobert«. ''How can you child!-' There i* no one here for him to fall in love with." Elise cowered closer into her corner. Even Mrs Roberts found it hard to avoid reminding her daughter of her deformity in the course ot conversation. "I don't see why ho need necessarily get into mischief," t-ho said. .'My dear Elise, you are no longer a baby. Do use your common sen-*?. What" els© lias tho poor unfortunate young man to do? Ho cannot potter round his farm all day and all night too. The hunting season is over. He is not intellectual, and a man tires of novel-reading, aud there is not a bil-liard-tablo or a tennis court or golf links for miles. There is no society __——" "There ... the Rector," interposed Elise. "And 1 am sure we have asked him often enough.'' "Tho Rector!" Mrs Roberts's voico was full of contomnt. ''A snuffy old bachelor, with no idea outside his grub cases. A healthy young man such as Bernard Stokes would find an evening under his tonguo worse than an evening in Purgatory. And for ourselves, I am sure there is nothing to attract him here." She stopped short; she was treading on dangerous ground again. But Elise boro no malice. She rose, and, going to the window, looked out into the soft velvety twilight as it crept down over the hills. "Perhaps it will bo different when Con comee home," she said. Mrs Roberts brightened perceptibly. If Elise with her shrunken figure arid hoc misshapen shoulders was the greatest' disappointment of her life, Con, tho cleverest girl of her time at Newnham, was its greatest joy and pride. "Ah," she said. "When Con comes home it will be different. She is so full of life and spirits she will waken the while village. I should not be at all sorry to ccc them make a match of it," she added softly. "I like young Stokes. He is honest and manly, and if he has not been all that he should be—well, there is every excuse considering." Mrs Roberts thought over her idea a good deal that evening, and the more she thought of it, the more it found favour in her eyes. Con might do a great deal worse than marry this good-, looking young man who was blessed with ia* long pedigree, a small private income, and <a farm to "boot. Con would have a little money too." It' would all be very nice and very convenient. She must bring the young people together as soon as she could. Accordingly, before she went to bed that night, she indited a letter to Bernard Stokes. "Dear Mr Stokes," it ran, "Will you come and havo dinner with us oi Thursday next ? We shall .be very pleased to see you if you will. I am expecting my daughter from Germany to-morrow, so we shall not be so dull as wo usually are.— Yours very truly, "ISABEL ROBERTS. "The foundation stone," said she to herself with a smile as she folded the letter. But Bernard Stokes was not neady so pleased to receive the missive aa Mrs Roberts had been to send it. "Confounded blue-stocking of a girl," he mused, calling to mind rumours of Con'a Newnham days, which were afloat in the village, "I suppose I must consent to be bored for one evening," he added, seating himself at the writingtable. And when he had finished his note he wandered out into the soft stillness of the Bur_iiner night. The moon and stars were shining brightly, anrd-the yellowy glow of the sunset still lingered i in the west. Perhaps it was the heat! and closeness of it all that made him I turn towards the stream which trickled ' on merrily through the rushes, hurry- j ing blithely to the mill which roared faintly in the distance. It was cool and shady in the lane by the mill, and the Toses and honeysuckle in the hedgerows filled the damp night air with a j sweet and subtle perfume. He that as | it may, he bent his steps towards the [ mill six nights out of the seven, and as i often as not, he found Mary Alder waa.- j dering in the lane, or walking up and ; down the Mill House garden with a '■ wonderfully expectant air. I Poor Mary Alder 1 She was not old, j she was only about twenty-five, yet everyone called her poor, and everyone looked upon her as an old maid. She was what might be called a sad-coloured little person, with soft grey eyes, a commonplace face, and hair of a mon- . descript shade. Her dresses were always dark and dowdy, her manners quiet and a little prim. But she bad a soft, sweet voice and a pleasant smile that kept her from being totally un- ' interesting. • She had lived all ht>r life at the Mill House, she had never slept away from it for a single night. The wildest of her dissipations had been a concert at the nearest town, to which she had driven in her father's light cart. She had been taught by a governess after her mother died, and though from this lady sh© had learnt refinement of manner and tastes, and a certain broad-minded- j ness of ideas, the very fact of her having had a governess cut her off from other girls of her station. The young ladies of the place would not condescend to know the miller's daughter, the humbler girls assumed that she would be too proud to mix with them. Poor Mary Alder was left severely alone. ' And co her life dragged itself out, each year as dull and monotonous as the last. i Then Bernard came. Bernard was bored to death on his lonely fnrm, and he fell into evil ways for want of soniething to do. But he grew tired of playing cards and losing money—for there is no village so small or so remote where a man cannot play cards and lose money if he will. He was secretly ashamed of himself, too, when he thought of the times he had come home the worse for drink, and ho cast his eyes about in search of fresh amusement. By some ill luck his eyes lighted upon poor Mary Alder, and they brightened considerably. She was quite passable, she was even intelligent, she would help to white away many long hours during the next year—he would probably tire of her after that; but in the meantime she would do very well. So ho made friends with the miller.

and in course of time with the miller's daughter also. Hardly a day paasct! but what Bernard Stokes came down to the mill, and the old man chuckled to himself whenever he heard the wellknown step along tho lane, thinking that poor Mary Alder would not be an old maid after all. Was it amy wonder that Mary herself wondered that she had ever found her life dull and monotonous, or that her eyes brightened and her heart beat quicker at the very sound of Bernard's name? Truly his parents had hardly been wise in buying him a farm in this remote country spot, miles away from anywhere and anybody. But a blue-stocking is not always a bore. Neither is site always awkward and dowdy. When Bernard Stokes paid his duty visit to the Parish Church on the? following Sunday morning he was .surprised to see a tall and graceful figure next to Elise wi tho corner of the Roberts' pew. His confounded blue-stocking of v girl carried her.-elf like a queen and gowned herself like a coquette. She w:is pretty too, with tho frank and open beauty of a woman who knows her attractions, but, who has so many other and b-ttcr things to think alrout, that the knowledge takes its rightful place in her estimaticn.nnd so only adds to hor charm. There was an expression ou her face which made the young man listen to the words ot the service as he had not listened to them since he left home years ago for a public school, and he left the church with a feeling of utter unworthiness growing up in his heart. But Con was no prude, as Bernard found out on tho following Thursday. To hoar her talk it waf; difficult to believe that she was a learned woman, to hear her delicious laugh was to discredit the fact that she had ranked high among the wranglers when she took the tripos, in spite of all the books and papers which certified that it was an undisputed fact. Her conversation was a rare treat to one who had boon cooped lip tor many months in a dead-alive country village, with no one to talk save the Rector— ■whese only joy in life was studying the habits of grubs—and the employees upon his farm. Mary Alder's conversai tion was necessarily limited of rango ; and lacking in brilliance and originality, at times it was uW> a little heavy, ! so that the talk of this cultured girl, with all her learning and her wholehearted frivolity, was a revelation to I him. Even the quiet Elise brightened I up under her sister's sunny influence, t and became quite witty. j Bernard lingered as late as proi priety would allow, and when ho left j h-i found himself booked for a picnic 1 which Con had planned for the follow- ! ing week. His house seemed strangely big and deserted when ho returned, and he could not help thinking how different it would be if there were someone to sing about the dark old corridors, and waken tho echoes of the gaunt square rooms, but that someone was certainly not poor Mary Alder. Eliso was right. It was quite different now that Con had returned. Even the monotonous village hardly 6eomed tho same, for Con's bicycle would fly through it two or three times a day, scattering fowls and dogs and other sleepy loiterers in the street to right and left, and Con's merry laugh was often heard at the cottage doors. The old rector himself wa3 persuaded to leave his grubs and join her walking parties and picnics, and he grew quite frivolous when sho insisted on accompanying him on his naturalising expeditions. It must bo owned that his frivolity was slightly heavy and purely scientific, but as Con was scientific also, 6he took it as it was meant and appreciated it duly. As for Bernard, to him the world was a now place since Con had come within his ken. Of course he loved her. Few people could know Constance Roberts and not fall a victim to tho spell of her pretty face and the direct glance of her bonny blue eyes. And to Bernard his lovo brought a new n'nd strange feeling of unworthiness. Somethings about this bright, pure English girl called iip all that was fine in his nature. Ho would give his soul to blot out some of the incidents in his past, he would do anything, suffer anything, to be worthy of her love, even though he should never gain it. Maty Alder wandered alone night after night in the Mill House garden and in the lane-—long after the roses in j the hedgerows had faded and wild clematis was blooming in their stead. After a while she grew listless and hardly ever ventured outside the house, but 1 sat in tho parlour window evening after I evening, listening, in the mute tension of hope deferred, for his merry whistle over the meadows, for his step in tho lane, for the click of the gate, but he never came. He spent all his evenings at the Grange, or walking with the girls through the woods, or better still, bicycling with Con along the sweotsceiitcd lanes. Mary was forgotten, and she knew it. She knew that the boiwiy young girl at the Gra_nge had taken away her on© treasure—and yet she hoped. So the days passed, and Mary did not find them monotonous—her life could never be monotonous now that Bernard had gladdened some of it—only there was a weight at her heart, aflid sometimes the pressure amounted to agony. July passed into August, and Mrs Roberts chuckled to herself over the success of her scheme. "Ho is head over eairs m love," she said to Elsie. "And as for Con, ho is the only man she ever sees. I do not think there is much foa.r of her refusing him." But Elise onJy sighed. Con had not heard what sho hid heard in the quiet months when Bernard had been bored to .death on his lonely farm. The next day, as luck would have it. they bent their steps towards the lane by the mill when they started for their usual walk. Con was full of spirits, for it was one of those soft, cool summer evenings that render it a joy to be alive, and she sang softly to herself as she sauntered along, carelessly making a bouquet of the flowers which Bernard brought her from the hedge. Them they came hi sight of the Siill House, ami as luck would have it, Mary was leming 'over the garden gate. Bernard saw her almost without looking, end the red mounted into his cheek us ho stretched up towards a cluster of late honeysuckle growing high in tho hedge. Con noticed tho flush when she took the flowers from him, and scanned his face curiously, while Elsie held hor breath and talked wildly to bridge over the silence which had fallen between them, but which seemed to prevail in spite of her gentle voice. And us she talked they drew near to the figure at the gate" and Con, watching I closely, saw the euger look which made poor "Mary Alder's commonplace face look almost pretty, saw her movement as if she would open the gate and come '. forward to greet them, saw her look of disappointment as Bernard merely lifted his hat and walked on. I Con suddenly stopped quite etill in the roadway. i "I think Miss Alder wishes to speak j to 3-011," she said; confronting Bernard uncompromisingly, so that there was no escape. There was nothing for it but he must go to tho gate and exchange a few words with Mary, while Con's keen , eyes watched the two—Mary's flushed j face, where joy at his coming and j Borrow at his reluctance strove for mas- ; terv, and Barnard's rather white, with j a drawn look about the lips. | Con's good night to Bernard was somewhat strained and cold after this encounter. _-nd Eliso dreaded being questioned when they should be alone ; for the night. But Con said nothing to I her till the following morning when ! they were busy over the drawing-room i flowers. lf Do you think Mr Stokes is fast?" she asked carelessly, bending over her bowl of creamy roses in order to hide her face. j Eliso was glad that her bowl was ready to place on the shelf so that she j need not reply at once. Had she beerable to lie with an unfaltering tongue

' and UTibltishing cheek assuredly she would have done so, for Elise's character, like her body, had a crook in it. Her face —as quite calm when she turn■ed round again. j "No worse than anyone else," she ; said. 'Ot course there were rumours I about him in the spring, but in a vil- ; lago like this there is always gossip I about someone." i Con tore the leaves from a roso-spray j with a vicious gesture. j "There is never smoke " she began firmly. j 'Hut Con, there was every excuse. He had no one to speak to and nothing jto do. I am sure " | But she stopped short. .. Con was paying no attention to her. She was look- • ing out into the sunlit garden and its wealth of flowers. J "Poor gjr'i," she was saying, half to : herself. wihh lips that trembled suspiciously, "poor, poor girl." : And fcliso raged inwardly against her own stupidity. She would have given anything to take back her accusing ex-cu-e. i "It is her fault!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot. "She might have known that ho would never look at j her." j '"Apparently he has looked at her— to amuse himself.'' replied Con bitterly. "But it is siie who suffers,"' she added under her breath. Perhaps it was Con's coldness to Bernard, or perhaps it was tho young man's very evident misery which aroused Mrs Roberts's suspicions. Be that as it may, she insisted on acconii pnnying the young people when they started for their usual walk the following evening, and she would not allow Con to stay indoors when she pleaded a headache. • "Nonsense, child," she said. "Tho walk will do you good." And Con wont, though it must be confessed that she was very pale and silent as they passed the lanes. "Come Elise." said Mrs Roberts in an undertone, as they turned to retrace their steps. "Let us lag behind. There is something wrong between those two. Wo will give thorn an opportunity of making it up." Accordingly they lingered behind, plucking tho tall grasses from the hedgerow hanks, ami listening to a blackbird who was evidently loth to go to bed, while the other two climbed the hill iveforo them, and passed through the white gates of the Grange. It was quite dark when they climbed tho hill, and before they reached the gates Bernard passed through them, hurrying like a man who has received some hurt. Mrs Roberts was too busy talking of Con's marriage to notice him but Elise saw his white, set face and noted his hang-dog air, and her heart sank like lend. Her sentimental thoughts went directly to the mill-race, for a rejected lover was always desperate to her mind. i They found Con seated quietly in the drawing-room with a book in hor hands, I but she laid it aside as they entered. I "Well?" said Mre Roberts, meanI ingly. She thought it time that even Con, the most reserved of girls where her inmost feelings were concerned, should tako her mother anto hor confidence. "Well," responded Ck>n_rt<anoo casu- ! ally. "Have you nothing to tell meP" ventured Mrs Roberta, making as though she would approach and caress her j pretty daughter. j But Don perceived the movement, and she lay back.in tho chair, stretching out her arms and yawning. • "Nothing whatever," said she, with an attempt at her usual gaiety. "Except that it is very hot." Elise from the background saw the paleness of hor cheeks and the strained , look about her white lips. "You had best come up to bed if you are as tired as all that," she said sharply, but there waa a soft look in her eyes which made Con understand, and tne two girls escaped together to tho shelter of their xoom. Elise respected her sister's reserve. She just lighted-.her candle and left her in silence, only her good-night kiss waa very tender. | "Con is ridiculous," said Mrs ' Roberts when Elise reappeared in the j drawing-room. "But they must make litup as others do. It is only a ; lover's quarrel. They are sure to i make it up to-morrow." | But Bernard did not com© the next I day to make it up,' nor the day after, I and then one morning as they sat at ! breakfast there came the astounding news that Mary Alder of the Mill was engaged to young Stokes of Abbey Farm. Mrs Roberts and Elise exclaimed with astonishment. Con turned first red, then pale, but she showed no surprise. "It can't be true," said Mrs Roberts. She was always loth to believe facts which went against her wishes. j But a not© from Bernard left no room for .doubt. Mrs Roberts had to i acknowledge herself convinced. "He has done it out of spite," she said vindictively, turning to Con. "1 suppose you refused him on Tuesday night. You are a fool, child, you havo ruined his life and your own. You will nevor get such another chance.'' j But Con merely bit her lip and toyed with her breakfast in silence. They saw nothing or next to nothing of Bernard for the next few months, for Mrs Roberts flatly refused to have anything to do witli a man who, she affirmed, had behaved disgracefully, and she took en.re that her daughters had nothing to do with him either. i But when Bernard and Mary came back from their long honeymoon, Mrs Roberts's curiosity overcame her pride, and sho went to call. The rumours of the changes at Abbey Farm had in no wise outstripped the truth. The house was artistically decorated and handsomely furnished. Bernard had spared neither pains nor expense to make everything beautiful for his bride, and Mrs Roberts fumed inwardly at the sinht of what Con had lost. Outwardly she was affable and con- i descending. After all, Mary was refined, and she had brightened up wonderfully under her husband's careful guidance. She played the hestess very prettily, telling them of the places they hatl visited during the honeymoon—places sho had dreamed of all her life, and which she had never dared to hope she might see for herself, and there was perfect happiness in her commonplace little face, in her grey eyes, vibrating in the tones of her gentle voice. Con's 'eyes glistened as she saw and heard. Then, after tea, Mary and Bernard walked with them to tho gate, for the ' garden was in. a blaze of glory with tulips and hyacinths, and they must . needs come and show it off. Mrs Rob- i crts walked on in. front, pouring mat- j ronly advice into Mary's ears, and the ! other three followed, chattering and j laughing, much as they .had done in i the old times. j "Well, youdoseem happy," exclaimed Elise, as they drew near the gate. Then she remembered, and she could have bitten her tongue out with vexation. She was always making blunder- , ing speeches. But she need not have feared. ! Bernard's answer cam© straight and . firm. j "Yes. I am happy,'' he said. "Hap- ; pier than I ever thought to be—or deserve to be—" he added lower, and his eyes rested affectionately on Mary. j "Con turned impulsively, and hold out ', her hand. j "I am so glad," she said heartily, and they turned to go. . ! It was a very ordinary thing to say ! to a friend, who has just acknowledged his newly-married happiness, and Con said it wholeheartedly. Yet Elise, who knew her sister well, heard that in her voice which brought the ready tears to her eyes. Why should Con suffer any more than Mary? Poor, pretty, bravo Con'