FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

Cromwell Argus, Volume L, Issue 2647, 10 November 1919, Page 2

FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

(COPYRIGHT.)

By Ralph Venour, Author of “Tales from an Old Curiosity Shop,” etc. - PROROGUE. Homeward bound ! Her Majesty’s transport Agra, carrying eight hundred of the best men of the North Derbyshire Regiment —all that was left, in fact, of the men who had played the most prominent part in the Eoochoo campaign the Agra, with these on board had Portsmouth in sight— Portsmouth, which was England, which was home. In many a manly heart was the desire to see again wife or sweetheart ; for absence, when accompanied by hard blows, certainly makes the heart grow fonder. All along the lower decks clustered the rank and tile, eagerly /scanning the shore, as yet some three miles distant, and longing for the moment when gangways would be shot on to the landing stage, and weary Thomas Atkins would rush into the arms of his waiting womankind.

. The officers on the quarter-deck were just as eager to touch the soil of Old England. Seven long years in India —years packed full of lighting and hard work—make the very name of home sw r eet. And the sight of home the green of the fields, the faint purple of the hills, the white line on the beach where the suncasts up foam these are sweet as nothing else is. And when the sight of the shore means that there are waiting father, mother, sweetheart or wife, a gush of tears wells up from the heart to the eyes, and the strongest man is then not ashamed of his weakness.

“By gad, sir,’’ said Major Leverton, turning to Captain Bailey Balfour, “by gad, sir, the sight of Portsmouth Hard, that most prosaic of all places, stirs me so much that—hang it all, sir—l feel inclined to kiss the stones of the landing stage.’’

“You may -remember, major, that Columbus did something of the same sort when he touched American soil, so you can’t claim to be original in your desire,” rejoined his companion.

“Confound it, sir, I believe Columbus did do something of that sort,” cried the major. “That knocks me out. But the feeling remains in me all the same.”

“Now, look here, major,” said the captain, “if you are going to play the enthusiastic patriot like that, I'm not going to be loft behind. You love England I love the Englishwoman. You kiss the soil. if you fiko something softer and warmer the lips or the first woman I meet on lauding.” “Now you’re making fun of me,” cried the major. “Not a bit of it,” the captain replied. “I mean to do what I say. And I’ll back myself to the extent of a liver.” “What’s that about a fiver ?” asked Lieutenant Esmond Porterfield, who strolled up at that moment, in company with his cousin. Lieutenant Viscount Clive. The major explained in a few sentences. “That’s not bad,” said Porterfield, when the major finished his explanation. “But why stick at kissing the girl ? Is the age of chivalry so dead tiiat no one of us will show his love for England and its fair women by marrying her ? Are .VC so sunk in commonplace circumspection and dullness that none of i;s will venture matrimony in vindication of his patriotism ?” All this was spoken with an air of mock heroism. And it was spoken direct at Viscount Clive, who was noted for his quixotic hot-headed-ues.s and reckless daring. Clive flushid slightly, and. after looking over the side of the vessel for a couple of minutes turned to the group, and with head held proudly high, said : “Look hero, you fellows, any of you on for a bet ?” “I’ll have something on, if the wager is a worthy one, and the stakes arc not five shillings, or thereabouts.” This reference to live shillings was mtended to be a hit at Clive,, as he had for some time past limited himself to that sum in his bets, in deference to the desire of his father, the Earl of Isledon, who had had some reason to jib at his son’s extravagance. Clive flushed hotly. “All right, Porterfield,” ho said. 'T’ll bet you a level thousand that inside three months I marry the first woman we meet to-day when we iand.” “Dohe !” cried Porterfield, nialicljusly, “Don’t be an ass, Clive,” said Major Levertou. “You know you don’t mean, what you say, so you’ll lose. And Porterfield has had quite enough of your money.” “I’ll thank you to mind your own business, major.” snapped Porterfield. “1 am the best judge as to whether 1 have had enough of Clive’s money or not.” “All right,” said Leverton. “If you're to bo fools, be fools. ’Suppose that’s what Cod made you for. 3ood-bye.” And he stumped away orwurd. “Is it a bet?” said Clive. “it’s a bet,” said Porterfield. “You’re a witness, Balfour,” said Clive. “A thousand pounds cash to Porterfield if I don’t marry within three months the first woman I meet to-day.” “Very good. I’m witness,” said Balfour ; “but 1 don't like it, Clive. What if you meet an eighty-year-old woman ?’’ “Well, I’ll marry her.” “Suppose she won’t have you ?“

“There’s nothing in the wager about that,” put in Porterfield. “Ho is going to marry her, that’s all.” “Yes, that’s all,” said (.’live. So the bet was boohed.

Half an hour afterwards the Agra dropped anchor, and the moment the gangways were run out a crowd rushed on board to welcome friends not seen for years.

The troops had fallen in on deck, in full marching order. Mothers, sisters, brothers, sweethearts, and wives went up and down the ran'-s. giving the first words of greeting, and scanning the faces bronzed by the torrid sun of India. “There’s my Tom,” one woman would say to another. And then she would wave her hand and cry, “Ah, there, Tom !” and Tom, still as a ramrod, would wink an eye and lot a smile ripple over his tanned face by way of signal, for he was not allowed to leave his place in the ranks. lii a few minueet came the order, “Fours. Ecft turn. Quick march !”

And the gallant North Derbyshire Regiment began to disembark. The crowd that lined the quay at the same time took up the step and accompanied the regiment on the road to the barracks at the o h:r side of the town. The band played a lively march ; the brasses blared and the drums hanged.

Lieutenant Viscount Clive belonged to F Company, the sixth company to leave .the ship. As lie stepped on the pavement of the landing-stage his eyes fell on a young girl, standing at the end of the gangway and leaning on a chain rail. .Her head was bare, showing her rich, I hazel-brown hair. Her cheeks were ruddy as an autumn apple, and contrasted well with the creamy white of her throat, at which a knot of bine ribbon made a bright spot of colour. Her hair, parted in the middle, fell away on each temple in a smooth, silky wave that covered her ears, all but the tip, that showed pinky. This style of coiffure gave her the look of a Madonna.

As Clive’s foot touched land she turned and began to walk alongside the young lieutenant. His heart leaped in him. This was the woman he had. sworn to marry, lie turned his head to look for Porterfield, who was one of the lieutenants of G Company, and who was immediately behind him. The malicious and doubting gleam in Porterfield’s eyes inspired new courage in Clive’s heart.

There was no great love lost between the cousins. Clive know well that should ho die the succession went to Porterfield, and he knew that Porterfield, being not too well off and a bit of a spendthrift, would bo only too glad to succeed to the title and estates of Isledon. At this moment these facts ran through Clive’s mind, and he resolved that not only would he win the thousand pounds, but he would do his best to keep Porterfield out of the succession.

Clive looked down at the woman walking at his side. She was very pretty. Indeed, she was more than pretty—she was beautiful. “I’m rather glad it’s you I’ve got to marry,” he said aloud, talking to himself. The girl’s eyes opened wide, and she looked at Clive wonderingly. “Did you speak to me, sir ?” she asked. “I was really speaking to myself,” ho answered ; “but what I said you may take as said to you.” “You said you had got to marry me.” “Did I ? Now, that’s very queer—that I should have said that to you whom I’ve never seen in my life- before. What did you say your name was ?” “I don’t think I said it was anything,” and she looked up saucily at him, so provokingly, indeed, that he fell as if he wanted to kiss her there and then.

“Well, is there any objection to tolling me now ?” he said, lowering his voice, and picking his way carefully over the cobbles. “None in the world,” she replied. “My name is Susan Oldbury, and 1 hope you’re wiser than you were an hour ago.” “Susan Oldbury ! I hat s a pretty name. And as to being wiser than I was an hour ago —that’s finite possible. ... Do you belong to Portsmouth ?”

“Yes, sir.” “What does your father do ?” “You're very inquisitive.”

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to be. But it is so long since L have spoken to one of my country-women tiiat all I want is an excuse for talking. And one question is as good as another.”

“Well, if you want to know, my’ father has a ijtlle draper’s shop, in Merchant-street. ’ ’

Clive made a mental note of the street and then went on, with that domineering air of his tiiat won him many hearts, for women like nothing half so well as a man who is masterful. “How old are you ?’’ “You wouldn’t believe me if I were to toll you.” “Wouldn't I ?” “No ; all you men think women toll lies about their age.” “You wouldn’t lie about yours.” “No, nor about any thing.” “Well, what is it ?” “Eighteen last February.”

Clive let his eyes wander over this charming girl walking at his side, who thought it no wrong to chat in this fashion with a young and goodlooking officer. R was quite a common thing fori Portsmouth girls to do, when almost every week saw a iiunsport depart with soldiers for years of exile, or come in with those who had been fighting in foreign

parts. The silence was broken by the girl, “it’s my turn to ask questions now. Who are you-?’’ “My name is Clive —Cuthbert Clive. But most folks know me as Viscount C 1 i vo. ’ ’ “Viscount Clive ! . . . What does

your father do ?” was her next query, repeating her companion’s words of a. few minutes before. “He doesn’t do much—there’s no need for him to do anything. He is the Earl of Isledon.”

“Oh, he’s an carl. . . . Now, you are tolling stories.” “Indeed, I’m not.” “And how old arc you ?”—another of his questions. “Twenty-six.” And then, as she did not speak again, he added, “Is that all you want to know ?”

“Your lordship is very kind,” she said, with a mock courtesy. “Do you think if you wore a lord you would bo speaking to me now ? Or, if you arc —perhaps you are really alord—then I ought not to be speaking to you now. So. good afternoon, my lord.” Ere he could say a word to stay her, she turned down a side street and ran off, turning once, however, to wave her handkerchief to the man who was to exercise such a fateful influence on her life.

Little did Susan Oldbury, happy in her youth, know how strangely her life was to be linked with the man to whom she had just been speaking. If she had known she would not have run home so light-hearted ly to tell old Jonathan Oldbury all about the landing of the troops a.nd the young officer who had spoken t Q her.

Rut the Fates had already begun to twine the thread of her life with that of Cuthbert Clive —to twine a tangled cord that it would ta’ c a number of years and many bitter experiences to unravel. When Cuthbert Clive, viscount of the same name, sot his mind on anything he could he a very resolute young man —indeed, some would call his resolution sheer obstinacy. And having once set his mind on winning Ills bet with Porterfield, nothing on earth could stop him ; this, all the more, because lhe»char.m of Susan, her graceful figure and her youthful buoyancy of body and spirit, began to fascinate him.

During the month the North Derbyshires lay at Portsmouth ho managed to find a way to be introduced to her father. The old man was startled the second time the lieutenant called on him, to have a formal offer made for Susan’s hand.

“I am of age,’’ said Cuthbert ; “I have a small fortune in my own right ; I am not responsible to any one for my actions ; and I love your daughter.’’ This hast declaration Was no more than the truth, for little by little Cuthbert had come to love the little maiden who had been the first to meet him on English soil.

Old Jonathan strove to raise objections to Clive’s inpetuons urgency, pleading that the .young people knew very little of each other. And what would folks say to his daughter marrying a soldier and the bearer of one q'f the oldest titles ? And what won if.l they say to a gentleman like him : marrying the daughter of a struggling tradesman? And how woul-i she be received by Clive’s father, the earl ? Clive had never heard the old motto of the Karls Marischal of Scotland —“They say : what they say ; let them say”—but his answer was practically in those words. To settle the matter, Jonathan called in Susan, and asked her if she was willing to marry Cuthbert. “Yes, ami more than willing,” was her answer ; for even as Clive had come to love her, so she had come to love him. Remember that at eighteen one is very impressionable, and the fulfilment of one’s desires the best thing to bring about. So the matter was settled. .Exactly a month from the day on which Clive set foot on English soil, after his live years in India, he led Susan Oldbury to the altar, and led her from it, no longer Susan Oldbury, but Susan, Viscountess Clive, and prospective Countess Isledon.

Cuthbert took a peculiar pleasure in asking Porterfield to be best man, and Porterfield, hop.lul of the effect of the mesalliance on the earl when he came to know of it, took as great a pleasure in acting as witness. When the register was being signed in the vestry,' Porterfield went up to Clive and shook him by the hand. “A thousand congratulations, my boy,” were his significant words, as he pressed into his cousin’s hand a small packet. The packet contained a. Bank of England note for a thousand pounds.

The carl was not too well pleased when he heard of liis son and heir’s marriage. The old man was a firm believer in blood—himself, an aristocrat to his finger-tips, he would have had his sou marry in his own rank and station. But when Lord Isledon saw Susan, and saw, too, how modest she was, and how well she comported herself, he was forced to admit that his son might have aimed higher and done far worse.

Clive and Susan settled down, as soon as ho had sold out of his regiment, and made their home in a> charming little villa at Hampstead. There they’ led a really happy existence, for he had come to love his wife devotedly’, and she him in the

same way’. Towards the end of the year a son

was born to them, and he was duly christened in Hampstead Parish Church, by the name of Mervyn, after his grandfather, the ea.rl. Their happiness might have remained unclouded had it not been for the scheming of Porterfield. That evil-disposed gentleman, s eing that the earl hud rather taken to Susan and was fully minded lo make the best of the mesalliance, set his brains to work to brew trouble. His first notion in prompting, Clive lo make the bet was that the proud ear! would, on hearing of tin marriage, and the nature of it, promptly’ cut his son out of the will, so far as the unentailed property' was concerned. Now, however, since the ea.rl did no such tiling, he would have to adopt some new plan if he were ever

to lay hands on a considerable portion of estate and personalty. This was how ho went about the business. He visited the happy home at Hampstead. ■ Clive could hardly refuse an invitation when Porterfield asked pointedly to bo invited. Once there he made an exhaustive study of Susan’s character. Finding that she h a d an almost morbid dislike of deceit in any and every form, he made up his mind to let her know of the wager, which resulted in her marriage.

He knew well that Clive was a bit ashamed of the bet, and he knew, too, that he had never told his wife anything about it, fearing no doubt that she might feel it an insult to her.

It would be his part therefore to apprise her of it, and wait for results.

One morning about three months after the son and heir had conic to make the home at Hampstead' happier and brighter, Clive and Susan came down together to breakfast.. The spring sun was shining joyously in at the windows, winking on the-silver’e*?r*cho table, and wanning the air with the first breath of April. Nature, in the words of the old song was "smiling and gay," and Susan felt so happy that she could not forbear humming a little air to herself as she entered the room.

At each of their places lay a tiny heap of letters. Coffee was poured out by Susan’s wifely hand, and at last they both began to open < and read their correspondence. Letter after letter was read, and then Clive bailed across the table : "Here’s a letter for you, dear, from Porterfield. It’s addressed to me, but it’s for you. I’ve only read the first few words." Ho had hardly strength to finish what he wanted to say, for there was on Susan's face a look of horror and dismay that terrified him. "What’s the matter ? What is the matter ?” he cried. "Nothing—nothing. Only a passing weakness. I’m all right now.” And Susan put the coffee-cup to her lips to hide her agitation. Clive went on with his letters, and Susan began again to read the missive she held in her hand. Porterfield had written her, and enclosed it in an envelope addressed to her husband. He had also written Clive n letter and enclosed it in an envelope addressed to her. An ordinary enough mistake.

But not ordinary, when the writer does it of set purpose, Porterfield had his moments of devilish ingenuity, and this was the fruit of one of them. He could have devised no surer way of stabbing that gentle and good heart, and he had chosen each word he wrote so as to strike deeply—and kill. This was what she read : “Dear 'Boy,—The thousand-pound girl passes my expectations. You have worked wonders with the ignorant little daughter of the insufferable tradesman. When 1 heard her say, “I, Susan, take thee, Cuthbert. &c.,’’ I said to myself, ‘Poor old Clive ! Taken in and done for !’ But what a mistake I made ! I believe that one day you'll come to me and thank me for taking up your bet. You won a wife and a thousand pounds—a very-respectable dot, ray boy—and you can rarely do both by marrying the first woman you meet. 1 don't suppose you ever told Lady

C. the real reason of the wedding. Don’t, then. Keep the story for your silver wedding. It's best sometimes lo have a secret from one’s wife. Hear the bachelor preach wisdom to the Benedict ! Many thanks for a most enjoyable week. “Kver yours sincerely, ‘'Esmond Dorter held.”

Porterfield's letter to Susan went somewhat differently. It was a simple letter of thanks for (lie hospitality shown him, and breathed no word of disrespect. This note she read but once ; the other she read a third time. Then she rose and handed it to her husband. ' "Here is a letter for you, from Porterfield. It was addressed to me, but it is meant for you.” She echoed her husband’s words of a few moments before. But she made a n>table change in the last sentence she quoted. ‘•l’ve read every word of it.”Clivc took the letter from her hand. The first words he read made him turn pale. He read on—and his heart began to quake within him. As his eyes followed the written characters his thoughts busied themselves round the question: ‘‘What shall I answer her ?” He felt, rather than saw, that his wife was standing by his side, like an accusing angel. Her eyes were filled with indignation, her breast heaved tumultuously, her hands clenched and unclenched convulsively, while her breath came and went in strangely irregular pants. Ho read on until he finished the letter. Ho could not j lift his eyes from the paper, for he knew that there was no excuse to make to his wife. In spite of the love that came after their first meeting, the fact remained that ho won money unworthily by his marriage with, her. And what surety had she that lie really loved her, when she knew that lie had married her for a bet ? "Is this true ?” The words palpitated from her lips, full of suppressed wrath.

ITe . looked up. Before those keen eyes, that seemed to see right into the very depths of his inmost soul, he could not be false. She would sec it in his face.

“True ? Yes, it’s true,’’ he answered , fa.l teringly. “This man, Porterfield,’’ she said “this man and you made a bet. It happened that I was the first woman you met. You resolved on marrying me. You did marry me—to win your wager. You pretended to love me’’— “I did love you.”

”Von say so. There is nothing- to prove it. On the contrary, had you loved mo, you would have told me of tin's disgraceful plot before you led mo to the altar.”

"If I had told you, what would you havo thought of me ?” "A great deal more than I think of you now.”

"But I did love you ; I do love you."

"What love can a man have who so basely deceives the woman he says ho loves ? You have deceived me, Cuthbert —I beg your pardon, your lordship—you deceived me into marrying you. I have borne you a son—he is the child of deceit. I—I"

Her woman’s nature, strong as it was, could stand out no longer. Her heart seemed to stop beating, the room swam round her, she tottered and fell to the floor.

Clive rang the bell for her maid, and, as soon as she came he turned his wife over to her care. His head w a s in a whirl. Hfe had never dreamed that his wife, the quiet Susan, was possessed of passion such as he had just witnessed. The sudden outburst of her anger filled him with

dismay. He cursed Porterfield long and deep, and stung to a high pitch of irritation and pcrpleffity-, seized his hat and rushed, from the house. Ho made his way on to the heath, where ho walked for three or four hours, racking his brain for a means to soothe his enraged wife justly enraged, he admitted and bring peace back to their little house. It was well on in the afternoon when he returned. He entered the dining-room and rang the bell. Susan’s maid answered the summons. "Is your mistress better ?” "Yes, my lord. Her ladyship went out about an hour ago, taking Master Merv\n with her. And her ladyship bade me give you this note if your lordshifji returned before she did.” He seized the envelope and tore it open. Fro he had read three lines his face fell. He dropped into a chair, as if lie had been struck a terrible blow, and tht? letter fluttered on to the carpet from his powerless hand. This was what he read :

“I am leaving- you, and I take my son with me. I cannot remain longer under your roof. I may l)e your wife legally, but your wife I can never be in reality. You have made me suffer the pangs of hell. You,who I thought loved mo. You deceived me—therefore I go. Do not search for me. You will not find me. And if you did, no power on earth could make me return to you, “Susan Clive.”-

She was gone. That was certain, ami she had taken the boy with her. Search was made immediately ; the most skilled detectives of Scotland Yard wore engaged, and no stone was loft unturned to try and find Susan and the baby. But all efforts were unavailing. She had vanished as completely as if she had been carried off in a cloud. And to the day of his death, Cuthbert Clive, afterwards Earl of Isledon, saw her no more. Who shall say that he was punished unjustly ? ' END OF PROLOGUE. (To he Continued.’