THE GRINDSTONE

Evening Star, Issue 21004, 19 January 1932, Page 3

THE GRINDSTONE

1 By MRS. A. J. PHILLIPS, .

Author of ' Swifter Than a Weaver’s Shuttle,’ 4 A Miner’s Romance, etc,

CHAPTER I. HUSBAND AND WIFE.

“ For mercy’s sake, father, listen to me just for a moment.” “Listen to you! What 'do you mean, girl? Am Itp sit still and listen to a lot of sickly, sentimental nonsense from my own child? It is for you to listen to me and to answer directly and honestly my questions.” The girl turned away from her father ' and gazed with set lips and strong ace at the white world outside the great Wi “Tell'me at once, and'without prevaricating, what are your relations with this exceedingly undesirable young man?” . “I am his wife! , The words fell reluctantly .from the trembling lips of the young girl. There was a strained silence for some seconds. Then the man strode forward and grasped his daughter’s hand like a vyce. * “What do you mean?” he said very quietly, but with a loqk that froze the girl’s heart. . ~ "Don’t, father, you are hurting my hand,” she gasped, cowering away from him; but he did not relax Ins grip. “Hurt you!” he laughed, a low, shaken laugh of passion. . Do you dare to look me in the face and tell me you are George Kenton’s wife~you, my only child? Answer me, is it true. ‘‘Yes, it is true,” she whispered a sudden gesture he flung her from him. ~ . , , “My God!” he said, in a terrible voice. “My God!” . , , Then he strode tp the window, not trusting himself to speak lest he should say too much or to act lest he should strike her to the ground, > He stared with unseeing eyes at a wonderful world of snow, and tried to collect his thoughts. He fought hard to control his anger, and at last became calm. Presently he walked back to the stood," .a forlorn little figure, looking with miserable eyes a the glowing fire. His voice startled her out of her gloomy thoughts. “Edith,” he said, almost gently, “you are my only child, bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. I have loved and tended you; I have tried to be mother as well as father to my motherless girl; I have surrounded you with every luxury, tended you with every care, \yhen your mother died i was wild with grief, hut to-day I am glad she is not alive “Father!” cried his daughter, moving towards him.- ‘‘ No, no, my child, stay where you Are. Have l failed in anything? Have I been cruel or unkind to you? Rather, have I not given you of ray best, and has not your welfare been my first consideration?” . , . “Father!” again cried the girl m a voice of deep anguish, 5 ,, “ But how have you rewarded me. went on her father slowly. You have repaid me with deceit and treachery. How is it you could not persuade your worthless lover to come to me man and ask me openly for y° u^J'! \ n v How is it that you must sneak away by yourself to get married, and wjere is this coward husband of yours that he cannot stand by you and share the storm with you?” He drew his hand across Ins ej es with B quick, troubled gesture. “When were you married. he asked sharply. “ Six weeks ago. , . ■ . “Six weeks ago!” he hxclaimed in amazement, “ and I am only inf "™’’| now! Well,” with emphasis, jpu have made your bed and you must lio upon it; how hard it may prove the future alone can tell. Now, do as I bid vou. Go upstairs and put jour things on, and collect what you will want for your immediate needs m your hand-bag. No, I wish for no questions —do as I bid you. . She went out without a word, returning presently in her outdoor apparel. She looked at her father with fnghteD“(lMy daughter,” he said firmly, “ I am a just man, and you have hurt me bitterly. However, 1 have no more a daughter, for she of her own free will has cast me away from her. Now, I am going to take you to your husband, and to have nothing more to do with y °“ Oh don’t send me away from you, father, dear father” cried his child wildly,! flinging herself down beside him and laying her check, against his knee. “ I am sorry—don’t send me away, daddy, dearest daddy,” she wailed. But ho lifted her up and spoke sternly and coldly. . . . „ “What did you vow six weeks ago. Have you forgotten your marriage oath 9 —‘ and forsaking all others, keep ye only unto him.’ Those were your words, in which I had no part. No, my child, I will take you now to him to whom you rightly belong, and may God forgive - you the heartache you have-given me.” Ho picked up two envelopes as lio> spoke, and handed them to his daughteT ‘‘ You shall not go to your husband penniless,’ he said. “ Here are two cheques for £I,OOO each ; one for your husband, and the other for you, and —slowly and with emphasis—” if you are wise and take my advice, you will say no word to your husband of ypur cheque, but keep it safe for your own needs, for it is very certain that George Henton will prove ,to be a broken reed.” ... , She took the slips of paper without a word, but with a sudden broken-hearted sob she threw her arms round his neck’ and pressed her face against Ins shoulder. For a moment he held her close, then, with a sigh, freed himself from her clinging arms, and walked __to the door. ... He helped her into the waiting motor, gave the chauffeur a curt order, and seated himself beside her. No word was spoken, but, as though fearful of what was to come, his daughter clung to her father’s hand with trembling 1 fingers. Soon their destination was reached, and the car pulled up at a small house, in the middle of a long row of similar houses. The girl followed her father unwillingly,, with faltering footsteps, 1 and stood waiting in trepidation for the door to open in answer to the peremptory knock. , A young man of medium size appeared presently, and stared in no small surprise at the two standing before him. His pale face flushed a deep red, and he stammered out: “ Mr Clayton—oh! will you come in, sir?” and the door closed behind them.

The young man showed them into a small, neat room, and stood waiting to hear the reason for this' sudden call.

“ George Hen ton, said Mr Clayton sternly, “ I have discovered only tonight that you have crept like a thief in the night into my house and stolen my only child away. lam a just man.

“ A gentleman to see you, sir.”

and have tried so to live, but I ask you, is that right and just to me, so to take my daughter?” “ Sir,” replied the young man firmly, “ I know it looks despicable in your eyes, and I can offer you no excuse, only the old one of youth’s hotheadedness and impulsiveness, and the fear of losing the girl I loved.” “ Upon what grounds did you fear, young man?” “ The open dislike you have ever entertained for me,” answered the young fellow, moving to his wife’s side and looking down at her with a world of tenderness in his eyes. “Do you know why?” asked Mr Clayton, sharply. / . George Henton regarded his lather-in-law attentively. “No, sir,” he answered respectfully. “I should like to know 1 .” "Your father long years ago did me a great wrong, simply put of a desire for revenge, by stealing away from me the woman I loved. Some years later he, again attempted to ruin my mkrried happiness. In this he failed, thank God. He was a man devoid of honour—ay, of everything that goes to make up a good man.” George Henton’s face was deadly pale as he answered quietly: “I know, sir, to my sorrow; but you pride yourself upon being a just man. 1 ask you, sir, is it .just to visit upon my head my father’s sins, and label me a scoundrel? Look at my life,” proudly, “.I am not afraid: it will bear looking into. The very failings of my father have been warnings to me, and I have done my best to wipe-off the discredit he brought upon the name of Henton, but he is my father, and I can say no more. “Father,” broke in Edith eagerly, "don’t blame George altogether. He wished to do the honourable thing and marry me openly, but I was afraid of your great dislike of him, and, oh, father, dear, it was my fault, every bit my fault,” and she looked at Mr Clayton imploringly. “You must not say that, Edith, cried her husband. “ There is no excuse, absolutely none, for me; and it is upon my conscience that I have acted wrongly in this matter. I hope, sir, in time, you will forgive us, and I wish you to understand that the care and welfare of your daughter will be my first consideration.” "That is well and open, and like a man,” replied Mr Clayton, slowly, “ 1 like you better for this night’s visit; but deeds are the only way of proving one’s words, and time will show what you are made of. George Henton, good night. Good night, my daughter. I leave you with a happier mind than that with which ' I brought you; but God alone knows what a blow this night has held for me.” After he had gone husband and wife looked at each other, then with a sudden passionate movement, George Henton folded his wife to his heart. “ God forgive me the wrong I have done you, my darling, and deal so with me as'l deal with you. My heart’s beloved,” he said brokenly, “ look up and say you are not afraid to share my life.” She raised eager eyes to him. “ I Jove you,” she whispered, drawing his face *down and laying her sweet lips upon his, “ and only you, my husband, and I am not afraid.” With an exultant laugh ho kissed her lips, her brow, her crimson cheeks, and held her as though he could never let her go again. They waited for a sign from tho father to show his forgiveness, but tho stern man'gave none, and so husband and wife left the dear homeland, and went to America to see what that land held for them. Tbev went sure in each other’s love, and with a great courage CHAPTER 11, WHERE IS VERONICA? Sir Robert Clayton sat in his luxuriant study deep in thought. Twenty years had passed away since that eventful evehing when he had said good-bye to his only child, and he had never seen her again. Alas! for the justice of man when it allows of no forgiveness, or for tho forgiveness which allows or no forgetfulness. Sir Robert had never forgiven. Ho thought of the vfcrong the father of his daughter’s husband had tried to do to Him, and looked upon the son as following in his father’s footsteps; and so he had put them both out of his life, and gone on ahead alone. He had prospered marvellously. Mill after mill he had reared in Bresterton. Wealth upon wealth had accumulated unto him, until now he walked the streets of his town, a Lancashire millionaire, and one of the most influential men in Cottonopolis. He was a tall, exceedingly thin man, with a long face, thin lips, and serious ej'es. _ ] '■) had done much for his town, and given many sums to charity, which generosity had been recognised by the Crown, and a baronetcy had been bestowed upon him. ; His meditations wore not happy. He was in a retrospective mood, and now and again he sighed, and his eyes were troubled.

“ What arc my wealth, my mills, my property, ay, my title to me? Wifeless, childless, heirless. Oh, God! My heart is bitter to-night, my soul is heavy. I feel tho burden of years, the ache of loneliness, the sadness of my bitter losses as though it were but yesterday I saw my dear wife lowered to her last resting place, making mo a lonely man indeed.

“ The years have rolled away, and J feel lonelier than I did, and lately conscience has been at work and takes the form of my beloved standing before me with reproachful eyes.” With a groan he sank his head upon his hands, nad remained motionless; but not for long. Soon he rose and paced tho long room with impatient steps.' Heirless, .and with all this wealth ’ He had tried to find his daughter, but without success. Had she a son or a daughter it would be different, he thought, as he paused by the window and looked out with haggard eyes.

“ On such a night as this my wife breathed her last, and fled to join thr spirit of , her babe in haste lest shshould lose it. On such a night as thi I sent my little daughter away fro v me. Oh!”—fiercely “ How I hate th virgin whiteness of the snow; it is m continual reproach against that which . pride myself upon—my justice.” Ho gazed with smarting eyes upon the peaceful garden, beautiful in its shroud of snow; then turned abruptly away, and resumed his scat by the fire. “ I am miserable to-night. My thoughts are all upon the past. I will gr • my pipe, and see if that can soothe im ”; and he went across the room to his smoker’s cabinet.

As he was making his choice amongst his favourite pipes the door opened, and the footman entered with a card on a little salver.

Sir Robert regarded tho small card attentively. .“I don’t know the gentleman, Bennett; “you might ask him his business. I don’t wish to see anyone just now.” Bennett retired, to appear presently with a small note. Sir Robert read it through, then hastily wroli an answer, enclosed a cheque, a: 1 handed it to the waiting footman. “ And, Bennett,” he said, as the man was about to close the door, “ I don’t wish to see anyone this evening.” The footman departed, and one: more tl.) master of the great house was alone. Ho lit his pipe, nnd gave himself up to his thoughts once more; but his smoko did not rouse his gloomy spirits, and it seemed to his melancholy fancy that the thin mist around him took form and shape like unto those he had lost. An hour went slowly by, and the lonely man saw picture after picture as he sat in his chair smoking. Yea s seemed to roll away, and he was a young man about to be married to the girl of his choice. Then came trouble; his bride had listened to the voice of the tempter, and had proved false, leaving him at the last minute. F- saw her face distinctly as she appeared to him some months after, and begged his forgiveness. ; Ho saw himself a bridegroom bearing a sweet-faced, gentle giyl upon his arm, and his face grew tender as he thought of the short, happy married life, of- the true, faithful woman who through it all had been so tender a helpmate to her husband, so gracious a mistress over the big household. A dark shadow crossed his brow as he remembered his enemy's attack onco more, how he had done his best to poison the mind of tho wife of his bosom against him. His enemy bad failed, thank God; but she had not been left long to Ink care. Only six short years of married life, and then separation, heart-rending and terrible, had come, and she with her new-born babe held closely to her breast, with her pale lips for ever closed upon earth, her ears deaf to her husband’s calling for the first time, was laid in her narrow resting-place awaiting the Master’s call. Dark days had followed, days of wild longing and passionate despair, until time brought consolation and relief ; and ho had found, something like forgetfulness of his pain' in his work. “ ATter all,” he reflected sadly, “ it must have been dull for Edith. She was a great deal alone, I fear I was hard upon her. I was too harsh to my only child, and Agnes will condemn me if ever we meet again. She left her to my core, with such faith in me. Oh, God, in Thy mercy forgive me as I hope to be forgiven,” and Sir Robert drew his hand across his ej'es, “It is vain to look back; it only causes heartache. Aye, sowing and reaping, sowing and reaping, seed-time and harvest, and one day a reckoning of it all.’’ He lay back in his chair with closed eyes for some time, his pipe in his hands, and a look* of utter weariness on his face. The sound of voices in the hall niade him open his eyes quickly, and he rose to his feet.

Someone was'' there arguing with Bennett —someone with a loud, hearty voice that sounded familiar to his ears. He moved to the door, and in doing so heard distinctly what the man was saying. “ What, not see Josiali Brooklands, his old friend of years ago? Why, my lad. you’re dreaming! Of course, he’ll see me. Good gracious!” cried the voice, indignantly; “ just take this bit of pasteboard to your master, and I bet you ten dollars hell sec me.” “His orders were, sir, that he did not wish to see anyone this evening, sir,” was the respectful but firm reply. “Here—look here, my good man,” the stranger was beginning, when he caught sight of Sir Robert, and hastened towards him, his jovial, red face one vast beam, and his hand outstretched eagerly, before him. “ Old Bob by all that’s lucky! How are you, my lad, how are you? Why, I’ve come all the way frpm America to see you.” Sir Robert grasped his old friend’s hand warmly. “ Well, bless my soul,” he cried; “ it is good old Josiah. You’re welcome, my dear old . friend, and more than welcome. Come in and let mo have a look at you Why, Josiah, it must be twenty years since we last saw each other.” ‘ Aye, that’s just about it, Bob—just about the mark,” answered Mr Brooklands. ns he followed his friend into his study. “ Yes, it’s Josiah Brooklands in the flesh, and twelve stone of it at that. Not a bad burden for a little man, eh? ” Sir Robert laughed heartily. “ Well, you. are not as thin as you were, my boy, not by a long chalk; and you, like myself have grown grey in service,” he answered. “ Aye, that’s so, that’s so,’’ replied Mr Brooklands, shaking his head. “Wei! you’re looking as though life has prospered with you,” and he glanced round the handsome room as he spoke; “and you carry your years well, old friend.” Sir Robert looked pleased as ho made some remark. Josiah Brooklands was a small, stout man, with a big head, covered with a shock of white hair. _ His large face was handsome in a big way, and was deeply tanned through much travelling. He gave the impression of being of a very cheerful disposition, and his blue eyes seemed always full of fun. “Well, I’m glad I’ve found you, Bob,” he said, as ho settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “It’s always grand to meet an old friend out of the past. It’s some years since we met, eh?” “Yes, yes, a good many years; you’re right. Time has travelled wonderfully quickly, leaving us older men and adding to the responsibilities upon our shoulders,” answered Sir Robert.

“May'be, but more on yours, my friend,” returned Mr Brooklands. “You’ve remained where you are, while I have travelled the world over. Ay, I’ve seen much, while you’ve been making your pile. I could write many books of adventure .were I so inclined, but the pen is no friend ot mine.” “ You were always a restless creature,” replied Sir Robert, smiling. 1 remember well your love of adventure in the old days.” Mr Brooklands laughted as he said: “ Avc, I got you into many a scrape, d 0 b my bov, didn’t I? Well, well, I’ve had the , world to play in since, -'nd it’s a fine recreation ground when ■■ou’vc money to spend and time at ■our'disposal.” “It does me good to see you, said Hr Robert, and he looked what he l ’elt for his face had become brighter -'tid the lines of pain had vanished like magic. “ You’ve come at a tunc when r jmed a friend’s voice and clasp of the ’mud. To-nmht I have been listening to voices calling out of the past, and thev have been sad ones.” “Then Josiah Brooklands is the man for you, my boy,” answered his friend, slapping him heartily upon Ins back and beaming affectionately upon him. “ Yes, yes, I’m your man, and if you’ve got a bed to spare for a poor bachelor I’ll be mighty' thankful.” Sir Robert sprang to his feet. “ Delighted beyond foords!” cried he. “I’ll make arrangements at once. Come up now, old man, with me, and I’ll show

you your room. Dinner will be ready shortly,” and he rubbed his hands together in a pleased way and rang for Bennett. “Mr Brooklands is making a stay with me, Bennett, so take the portmanteau up into the bachelor’s room and tell Mrs Timothy, will you?” he said. “ Yes, sir,” replied Bennett, and disappeared upstairs with the bag. They had hardly settled in the study again when dinner was announced, and the two men made for the dining room. They did full justice to the wellappointed meal, and Sir Robert enjoyed his dinner better than he had done for some days, for the presence of his friend sharpened his appetite and caused the burden of years to fall away from his shoulders.

“ So you’ve travelled, Josiah, have you? Roughed it a bit, no doubt,” he said, as ho sipped his wine. “Roughed it? My word, lad, I’ve done a little of that in my time,” replied Mr Brooklands, eating his chicken with.relish. “Great heavens, 1 sometimes wonder what was in my blood that sent me wandering in savage lands, through lonely districts, across wild wastes; but it was life to me.”

“ You don’t know what it is, my boy,” he said later, as they smoked together, “ to be nearly killed with cold and hunger, to be lost in an unknown world, to be perishing through the heat and want of water. Ay, to be lost in great deserts and to search round with a parched mouth and blackened tongue for water and find none; to be surrounded by a lot of black devils, hunting the ground for you and missing you by a hair’s breadth. Eh, I tell you it’s life, my lad, it’s life.” “Or death,” said Sir Robert slowly “It doesn’t appeal to me,” with a laugh. “ Give me good old England, a comfortable bed, and civilisation.” " Yes, yes, no doubt, no doubt, but, after all. it’s the desire to explore in man like myself that opens out into the globe for you to pop your civilisation into.”

Both men laughed and replenished their pipes. “Yes, of course, I know; and in obeying those you are fulfilling the wishes of the Creator, who sent you into the world for that purpose,” Said Sir Robert, seriously.

“ Aye, that’s it, and this I know, that 1 never returned from any of my wild wanderings the worse or the poorer in any shape or form. Yes, my lad, and there’s something left yet in my old veins that longs for the forest lands of Australia or the swampy wastes of Africa.”

“ Well, some people never grow old, Josiah,” laughed Sir Robert. “You, no doubt, are one of them.” “Ah, lad, I feel young enough,” grumbled Josiah, “but my limbs tell me different sometimes.” They were silent, then Mr Brooklands exclaimed suddenly;— .“Bless my soul, I’vo forgotten the very tiling I’ve called about. Why, 1 must bo getting dotty.” “What do you mean, my friend?” asked Sir Robert, looking at him in slight surprise. “ Why, of course. Veronica, my little god-daughter, how is she, Bob, old man? Bless my soul, she must bo quite a young lady now.” A mystified look appeared upon Sir Robert’s face as he said: “Veronica? AVho on earth is Veronica, Josiah?”

Mr Brooklands laughed. “ I suppose you don’t call her by that name, but Edith always liked fancy names. Well, never mind, how is your little granddaughter, tuen?” Sir Robert looked at his friend with amazement plainly written on his features as he replied quietly; “1 don’t understand you. I have no granddaughter.” Old Josiah Brooklands gazed at Sir Robert in shocked surprise. “Is she dead?” ho whispered. “Is Edith’s little lassie dead?” Sir Robert strove to be calm. “ What can you mean?” he said. “I never had. a grandchild,” For a moment there was a dead silence; then Mr Brooklands rose and faced his friend. ' “ Do you mean to tell me you never received" Edith’s little, baby girl of four years of age, fifteen years ago?” he asked quietly. “Never,” replied Sir Robert,, unsteadily, and his heart began to thump against his ribs in an alarming manner. “What do you mean? For heaven’s sake explain.” “ I mean,” replied Josiah Brooklands, his mouth set like a trap, and his voice gruff and hoarse, “ I mean that sixteen years ago I saw your grandchild shipped to you in the care of a good, steady woman, in the ship Oyient, from New York. I allude, of course, to Edith’s only child, who was sent to you to my sure knowledge.” “Good heavens!” gasped Sir Robert, •rising hurriedly, his face deathly pale and his lips shaking, “ then all I can say is no grandchild ever arrived here, nor have I ever heard of her existence.” And the two men stared at each other in stupefied silence. (To be continued.)