FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

Cromwell Argus, Volume L, Issue 2649, 1 December 1919, Page 2

FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS PARTS

(COPYRIGHT.)

By Ralph Venour, Author of "Talcs from an Old Curiosity Shop,” etc.

The story opens with a prologue, i in which is described the return of j the North Downshire Regiment to i England, after some years’ service j in India. One of tlie officers, Lieu- j tenant Viscount Clive, heir of the Earl of Isledon, makes a bet of one j thousand pounds with Lieutenant Porterfield, that he will marry, with- j in three months, the first woman he ! meets on landing. As Clive steps I on the landing-stage his eyes fall on j a young girl, the daughter of a j local tradesman. They become ac- ; quainter!, and within the stipulated time Viscount Clive is married to Susan Oldbury. Towards the end of j the year a son is born to them. It : is soon after this that Clive's wife learns from Porterfield of the wager. Being proud, she leaves her husband, taking the child with her. And to the day of his death, Culhbert Clive, | afterwards Earl of Isledon, sees her . no more. . . . The scene changes to : India, where Private Mervyn Clive receives a letter from his mother, in j which she tells him that she feels j (he end is near, and urges him to j purchase his discharge, to claim his right to one of the oldest names in England, and to take vengeance upon ' Colonel Esmond Porterfield, who so : cruelly wronged them both in , days gone by. Mervyn is instrumental in j saving Sister Rose, one of the j nurses, from the odious attentions i of Porterfield, who is attached to the same regiment as himself. The next day Sister Rose is missing. ■ and during an engagement with the natives Private Clive is wounded and ; taken captive. He is conveyed to a rude fort, where he finds Sister Rose j also a prisoner. It appears that 1 Colonel Porterfield is in the pay of , the Russian Government, as is also | the chief of the Pathans, into whose ; hands Mervyn and Rose have fallen. Shere Ali, the chief, turns out to be | an old acquaintance of Mervyn’s, and after a little delay the prisoners are released, but not before Porterfield learns that Mervyn Clive is the heir to the Earldom of Isledon, and that Sister Hose is in reality Lady Rose Haverlield, daughter of the Marquis of Havorfield. By telegraph Porterfield warns his accomplice in London, Abraham, the legal adviser of Mervyn’s mother, of Clive’s existence. Meanwhile Private Clive has reported to his commanding officer all ho nas learnt concerning Porterfield. PART FOUR. The colonel paced up and down, his •ngged brow contracted into an omiious frown that boded ill for Porterfield, should that gentleman come into his ken. ■ "Beg your pardon, sir," Mervyn said. "Well, my man. what is it ?” Clive hesitated for a moment,while a blush spread over his bronzed and manly face. "If you please, sir, I wish your permission to marry." shouted the colonel. "Good heavens, haven't you had enough adventure, without risking \ ourself on the troubled s:a of matrimony ?" "If you will he kind enough to fit /no explain, sir" "This is not a lime to speak of such a thing." went on the colonel. ‘‘Here we arc in face of the enemy ; ail our thoughts require to be concentrated on the task of beating him. There is no time to think of wooing. An army, in time of war, is 1 i ' c Heaven —neither marrying nor giving in marriage is there. Speak to mo when the campaign is over —and I'll see about it." Mervyn stood bark abashed and disappointed. Ho knew that it was useless to attempt argument with his commanding officer. "Indeed,” said the colonel, "1 am /surprised that you should moot such a subject at this critical juncture." Rose owed the colonel none of the implicit obedience due from Mervyn, so o-l>e skipped bravely into the fray. "Pardon me,, colonel,” she said, "It is precisely because the juncture is critical that 1 would like to see this matter settled." "Indeed," laughed the colonel ; "and may J ask why you take such an interest in Private Clive’s matrimonial prospects, pray ?" "Because I am the woman in the ca-vs, co’onel," Rose replied in a low voice. •‘What !" cried the colonel. "In tolling you the story of the adventures of the past two nights, Mervyn has carefully avoided dragging me into it. He has not told you that he had more than a more soldier's interest at stake" And t.hrv. she recounted as briefly as pos si‘fie tPe essential facts, which Hindi Porterfield’s actions clearer and still mors indefensible. "Bo—this is a queer romance !" laughed the colonel. "But why this unseemly haste to marry ?" "My fifj-t reason," said Rose, "is that together we may he better able to Porterfield. That he will try to '••• !*rvenged on each of us. I have no centre. Together we shall be better able to defend ourselves. Secondly." and Rose’s voice fell us her cheeks became suffused with a tenderblush. "we love each other very much, colonel, and supposing one of us should he killed’’ The colonel’s eyes were kindly. He had had a romance himself. He had been engaged, when a lieutenant, to the daughter of his major; the wedding was postponed from time to time, nnt.il he got his company. But when the step came Blanche I.emaP'e had "gone out " with cholera, love and married bliss untasted. That was

why the colonel remaiiv-d single. "Well, well,” he muttered, in a softened tone, “1 supi ose I shall have to give my permission.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he walked over to Rose and whispered. "But remember, he is only a private." "Do you think I care for that ?” was the proud reply. "No. I daresay you don’t. But I see you are a girl of gentle birth—there is no disguising that—and remember common soldiers arc —common soldiers.” "Colonel Ada.ms." she replied, "I have been insulted by one man only in my life. He was an otficor. From common soldiers I have received respect always. And Mervyn, even if he is a common soldier, is a gentleman." * ‘Very well,” said the colonel, "I shall make out my permission." So he sat down at his (aide and scribbled a few lines. Ho handed the paper to Mervyn, who i received it saluting. Lieutenant Lowers entered. " I have To report, sir, that the Gurkhas returned to camp about two hours ago, having been so ordered by Colonel Porterfield : but that officer has not as yet entered camp." "Where did the Gurkhas leave him. lieutenant ?" "On the top of the Zakha Kbtal, three miles to the north." "Did he give any reason for sending them hack ?" "He said a spy was to meet him, and the spy had stipulated that he was (o meet Porterfield alone." "That was -very foolish of Porterfield. the spy was a decoy. Order a dozen Gurkhas to make a reconnaissance to the Zazha Kotal at once.” Towers saluted, and left to execute the order. "Now, you had better get to your quarters,” hj& said, turning to Hose and Mervyn. As they made a move to go the chaplain of The regiment came up. "Hold a moment," cried ehe colonel. Rose and Mervyn stopped. "Hero, padre." The chaplain advanced into the tent. "These young people are very mad, padre. They wish to get married.” "A very common form of madness, sir," laughed the chaplain. "And as they seem to be in a very great hurry, I have given them permission. Suppose you do your part, now ?" "I have no objection, if they are willing. The question of banns may be waived, if you will provide a special licence," lie said, with, a twinkle in his eye. Rose and Mervyn waited patiently until the colonel and the chaplain finished laughing. "Well,” said the padre, "it is somewhat irregular, you know, but I think I can make it all right with the bishop." In a few minutes a couple of witnesses had been procured, and the ceremony was completed. When the improvised marriage certificate came to be made out, there was a surprise in store. Mervyn was unable to give his father’s mane, and Rose gave her father’s as Oecil Alberic Godfrey William, Marquis of Haver field. The- chaplain looked at Ihc colonel. and the colonel looked at the chaplain. Private Mervyn and LadyRose (’live walked out of the tent, leaving them staring at each other in blank amazement.

CHAPTER V. Pour months after the events narrated in Die preceding chapter had happened. Mervyn and his wife, handed on Dio shores of England. Lady I lose had a small lint comfortable fortune in her own right, her share of her mother's private she insisted on purchasing; Mcsrvyn’s discharge at Die end of Dio campaign. in which he had found a wife and she a husband. They took up liou.se in. a. charming little cottage on Die, outskiirts of Pinner. This they did only after Mervyn had made sure that his mother was no more, narad after he had settled all the ncoaifar 3* business with Abraham. At his lirst interview tvilh that worthy Mervyn produced tlw last letter lie had received from hfs mother, and in blunt, soldier-Hkc fashion, demanded to know from tiio lawyer what was the meaning of her reference to his father. He also demanded from him the papers nec; sssary to prove his (Mervyn's) identify and status in society. The Jew was all blandness.. “I am afraid J don’t •■understand what you mean.”. “It's plain enough. My mother said that my father is a man. in high position, and. that you know who he is. Further., that you hold, all the documents Pa Die affair, an cf are in a position,,, therefore, to pint me straight.” “This in a very curious s tory, f’an you show me Mrs. Clive’s 1 jotter T ’ "C’erta - inly. Here it is,” find Mervyn pry (inced it. Abnd .am read it carcf rH.v over, and D ,en laid it down on the table before him with a sigh. “Vf ;ry sad,” he murmunedi “Such a civ irrning woman as she wad. too-” * T Ahat do you mean ?” '* My dear young friend, I aaxi very SAVcry to disillusionise you, bat the for ist said’s Die soonest mended isn’t that the jiroverb ?—and I must U 11 you that there isn’t a single bit ‘i f truth in all this story.” | “You mean to say my mother lied t*o me?” cried Mervyn. , “You put it too bluntly, too baldly. But if you will have plain apeak - *- i brig—yris. Under distressing c;ircumi stances - '’ “My mother never (old a lie. in her life, a/irl do you think she woaild-tell one to me—on her death bed"?” “I ifjn sure she wouldn’t/’ said Abralitun. sauvely. “but "suppose that ;#he were not in possession of her s Joses whom she wrote UtwU fact- , lor? .Suppose that her long; and ciisjjtressifig illness had so unltfng.ed hor^

mind that she really believed this marvellous talc herself ?" "Nonsense," cried Clive, impetuously. "There is nothing improbable in the supposition at all. The like happens every day in the week. Any medical man of reasonable knowledge will tell, you that it is not only possible, but that it occurs—sometimes with disastrous results." "My poor mother mad,” Mervyn sighed half to himself. "I do not say mad," rejoined Abraham, "merely the victim of a very curious hallucination, induced by the years of physical sufi’ering she had undergone." "But did she never say a word of it to you ?” "Never a word, my dear sir—never a word." "This is queer," ejaculated Clive. "Queer isn't the word.’’ answered Abraham ; "especially as I knew your father." "You knew my father ?" "Perhaps I should not tell yon of him," said AbraiThm. "I ought to spare you pain, but I see I must relievo your mind of all doubts. Yes, I knew your father. Indeed, I may say I was not only his confidential adviser, but his friend. Had betaken my advice always lie might now be , alive. “Your father," lie went on. after a pause, "had been in the East for j many years in business. He returned i to England about twenty-five years j ago, and settled down in bachelor j chambers. Then be met your mother and married. Soon after he began to gamble on the Stock Exchange, and ii\ the short space of six months he had fritted away not only all his ' own carefully-amassed fortune, but he had squandered almost all your j mother’s marriage portion. "I had advised investments in ! house property, but he had met some knowing friend who recommended copper. Everybody remembers the panic of that year. Your father lost, I as I said. But he lost more than , money he lost his head, and to ! crown his misfortunes he took his . own life.” | "What !" cried Mervyn. "He took j his own life !" i "Ah ! I should not have told you. I was sure you would take it to heart. You were born two months after your father was laid away in a nameless grave at Kensal Green." Mervyn was stunned at this story. Somehow he had come to put perfect trust in his mother’s letter, and the stra.nge story it contained. He had hoped that he was somebody, so that he might, in birth as well as love, bo the equal of his wife. It was not to be, then, and more—he, instea.d of bringing her honour brought her disgrace. His father was not only a gambler, but a suicide. Ordinarily a very clear - headed young man, he was now confused and his nerves were benumbed. The story Abraham had told him was so plausible ; it was certainly as proliable as, and far more possible than the one contained in his mother’s last letter. lie stumbled from the offices in Bedford-row, hardly without saying "Good morning" to the wily lawyer. "Well, I think- I have laid that young man to rest for a few weeks at least. Of all the greenhorns I’ve ever come across, he's (he biggest. Ha. ha ! That was capital about the nameless grave at Kensal Green ! If business were to fail, I could make a decent living at fiction writing. My word ! Talk of flights of the imagination. You're the boy, Teddy Abraham.” Weil pleased with himself and his delightful yarn. Mr. Effwat'd Abraham lit a cigarette, look a pull at the decanter in the cupboard, put on Ids hat, took his umbrella, and went out. to discuss a well-earned luncheon at the 11o!born Restaurant,. Meanwhile, Mervyn returned home to Rose Cottage—that was (he name Mervyn insisted on giving their little home —and strove to get through (he luncheon with a brave front. But Rose was eager to know the result of his interview with Abraham. Little by little Mervyn told befall I that liar! passed, a.nd at the end, when he had spoken of the suicide — for lie was too honourable to conceal a single word —he bowed bis head on bis hands, overcome with despair and shame. But two soft hands were placed under his brow and lifted his head tip, while at the same time a fair head bent flown to him, and warm lips cheered him. "Gome, Mervyn, be brave," said Rose, cheerily. "After all, what does it matter who our fathers were, or what they did. We arc here now—alive, with all life before us. And we are to be happy if we can. It’s ! not- your father, nor your grandfather, I love —it’s you : and it’s I yon love." "That's true, dear," said Mervyn ; "but you can’t understand how this appears to a man, to whom a good name means much." "Besides,” interrupted Rose, "I don’t believe one word of all that man Abraham told you. Somehow, I can’t bring myself to believe that y our mother lied to you. or that she was mad when she wrote that letter. Truth seemed to be in every line of it ; truth, and the love of a mother's heart." "God bless you for saying that," and Mervyn kissed her hand. .-"By-the-by, let me have another look at your mother’s letter." Mervyn thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out his lettercase. He opened it ; the letter was not (here. Again he dived into his pocket ; no. it was not there. lie searched all his pockets. but there, was no sign of the precious missive. 1 "1 must have lost it. he said. "Surely not." cried Rose ; "you cotr.ld not have lost it. Where did you have it, last ?” "Ah ! I remember. I gave • it to Abraham to read and he laid it on hjs desk. Oh. it will he quite sa.t’e." •‘No, indeed, it’s not quite s a fe." Rose interrupted, impulsively, with that fiery feminine intuition that

sometimes proves more correct than the most logical of judgments. “I don't think it’s safe as long as it’s in that man's hands. t don't like him, Mervyn ; he’s too smooth and polite to be Honest. You must go back, at once and get it.” ‘•lf you think I ought, I will.” “Think you ought ! I should think I did.” The door opened and a maid entered. “If you please, ma'am, a lady and gentleman of the name of O’Shea wish to see you.” Mervyn sprang to his feet with a cry of joy. “O'Shea ! Where arc they— where are they ?” “They arc at the door, sir.” Mervyn brushed past and ran out into the hall. “O'Shea, by a H that's wonderful,” ho cried, ' and in a minute he was shaking Michael’s hand with the vigour of a hundred Horse-power. “Yes, it's me, Gintleman Clive — me an’ Missis O'Shea ; Juicy Rrannigan that was !” rejoined Michael, heartily, as lie and his blooming bride followed Mervyn into the draw-ing-room, there to be welcomed by Rose. “Mo an’ Juley, ma’am don’t blush. Juicy, me dear, shure the lady’s not so long married hersilf — mo an’ Juicy, ma’am, havin a fortnight’s furlough, so to spake., jist fought we wud cross th’ Channel an’ take a Ink at the great city av London afore we settled down on the farrm.” “When did you arrive ?” asked Rose. “This blissid mornin’, as ever was, an’ a foine job it was, Oi tell ye, to foin.l our way from the harrt av London to tin's minichure paradise. Trains we have tuk, an’ cabs, an’ ’buses, an’ tram-cyars. an' shanks his mare but glory be, we're here at last, on' it’s the powerful thurrst mcsilf has on me.” “Right, you are, O’Shea,” laughed Mervyn. “What will you have ?” “Fwhat wud a souldjur av the Quane take but a quarrt “Ye’re a souldjur av the Quane no longer, thanks be,” said Mrs O'Shea, Julia Brannigan that was. “A resarve man, if ye loike, an’ that’s bad enough.” “Whisht, wumman, a souTdjur’s loike a praste—wancc ye put on the red coat ye hate army other.” “And what will you take, Mrs. O’Shea ?” asked Rose, rising. “A cup of lea ?” “Thankin’ yc kindly, ma’am.” said Julia, “a cup av lay is just fwhat Oi’m (lyin’ for.” From the foregoing it will be seen that O’Shea had returned to his native isle a time-expired man, and that he had found Julia Brannigan faithful to him, waiting for him with the patience that characterises the simple heart. Their wedding had taken place only a week before, as Mervyn had been advised by the arrival of a huge jrunk of currant cake in a fancy silver-paper box, inside which there reposed a tiny card bearing a brief announcement of the marriage. Although he knew of the happy event, this visit was quite unexpected. and so it was all the more pleasurable. Michael and he retired into Mervyn's snuggery, there to smoke the pipe of peace and exchange confidences. “Well, me son,” said "Michael, “an’ how does the married stale agree wid ye ?” “As well as it seems to do with yon. O'Shea,’’ laughed Mervyn. “I’m tremendously glad to set* you well and happy. Long may you continue so.” “Xow, Oi hope we re not intrudin', Cintlonian Clive.” j “Xot a bit. my boy.” | “But yer good lady made me proj mise as Oi’d come an’ see ye as soon ns Oi cud—an' we've come.” j “And you're welcome as the llow--1 ers in spring.” ! “Tell me. now. Vo moind yon letter ye showed me : the letter from , yer mother —rest her sowl in glory.” | “Yes, I remember.” I “Oi’ve been t’inkin’ over if’ “I’m afraid thinking won’t do any good. The lawyer says it's all wrong.” And again, for the second time that day, Mervyn retold the story Abraham had told him. lie : felt it was due to his old comrade that ho should tell him, for O’Shea had been the first to hear of it. ■ “It seems you were right, O’Shea. when yon warned me not to put too ; much faith in what was written. Yon remoinber you said she might have been wandering a bit in her mind. Your words sprang into my memory, as soon as the lawyer had expressed the same opinion. You’re always right,' O'Shea.” and Mervyn j laughed somewhat bitterly, yet as if with> an effort to turn the conversation, “Bivil a bit av me’s always right. ! Oi'vc bin finkin’ over that letter, I an’ the more Oi fought, the more 1 Oi said to mesilf, • That's a quarc 1 story, but be jabers I wudn’t wonder but it’s thruc. Gintleman Clive i he’s called,’ says Oi to mesilf, ‘an’ I Gintleman Clive he is. There’s somethin’ in fwhat the ould lady said.’ “Oh, well, there's no way of finding out anything more now.” “Ye can foind out. a Jot if yc was to try, mo hoy.” “What's the good of trying ?” “Fwhat docs your good lady say to ut?” “She doesn't believe Abraham’s version.” , “Thin you jist sf ick to fwhat she finks. Wimmon has more brains than we have —at las to, .In ley has — an’ they hit the truf noinc toimos ofttmer that we do an' they foirej bloind. too. It's a gift, mo son. so it's bound to come roight ivory 1)1 i?.- | sid toime.” Some days alter tills, stirnuiafed i by the private discussions with his {wife and the blunt enconragemei/1 of I O’Shea and .Julia, who were e/.isily ' persuaded to become guests at Hose , Collage for a couple of weeks, Meri vyn took his courage in both,"hands, and went to Somerset House* to ui-

stitute investigations into his father's identity. It must not he supposed that the wily Abraham was idle all this while. On the contrary, lie was unusually busy. He and Porterfield were so involved in common villainy that he was compelled to look after Porterfield's interest —since that would ultimately mean looking after his own. He kept a pretty sharp wa.tch on all Morvyn’s doings, and it was not long before he discovered that Mcrvyn was hunting for traces of his father. One of the clerks in _ Somerset Mouse was in his power Abraham had on one occasion pulled him out of the fire by advancing him one hundred pounds (at an exorbitant rate of interest, it need hardly be said) — so it was easy for him to find out wha.t was the object of Mcrvyn’s search. When Sandeman, the clerk, brought the news *to Abraham that Mervyn was hot on the scent, and but a day or two would put him in possession of all the facts, Abraham felt that the time had come to play a bold stroke. What the stroke was to be he took a good deal of time to consider. Ultimately he hit upon a plan which ho thought would be sufficiently simple, yet effective enough, to attract Mervyn’s attention for some considerable time. O'Shea and his wife had been packed off to Madame Tussaud's. there to improve their intellects and amuse their minds among the kings of England and the malefactors who had won the name of horrors. Mervyn had accompanied them as far as Baker-street station, a.ml ho had then gone on to Somerset House. Hose had complained of a headache, and wished to have a quiet day on a sofa with a book and a bottle of smelling salts. She lunched alone about two. Her headache had gone, but she had n. curious depressed feeling she could not explain. It seemed as if some trouble was impending which was to have some influence on her life. The day was heavy and close, and thunder was in the air. About half-past throe a ring came to the hell, and the maid entered the room and announced that there was a gentleman in the hall who wished to speak with her. “What is the gentleman's name?" asked Bose. “I'm not quite sure, but the gentleman said, I think. Dr. Scrope.” “Dr. Scrope !’’ Bose repeated, and tried to recall the name to memory. “I don't think T know him. Never mind ; ask him to come in I will see him." In a few seconds the maid ushered into the room Mr. Edward Abraham. It must he remembered that Bose had never seen Abraham, and, further, that though Mervyn was the best of fellows, his powers of description were not such that he could portray to her the wily lawyer so that she would be able to recognise him at first sight. Abraham relied on these facts in carrying out his plan. Bose made a step forward. "Dr. Scrope ?’’ she said, inquiringly. “That is my name, madam." he answered —a nd ] mused. "May I ask to what do I owe the honour?” she began. “I am afraid that my visit is not one (hat will make you think of me as a friend, but’’— —and again be paused. Ills solemn, almost sorrowful tnn°struck ;l chill to Bose's heart. Her visitor was a doctor. Could anything have happened to Mervyn ? At once this conclusion leapt to her mint!, and in a rush it was put into words. "My husband ?’’ "Your husband is quite safe, unclear madam —quite safe, now." "Saife, now ! What do you mean, sir ?" “lie is out of dapgcr, I mean. He has been hurt." “Mervyn hurl ” she cried, in "a tone of anxiety aruil agony that would have molted any other heart than that of the un.scrt'qmlous dew. (To be Continued.)