THE GRINDSTONE

Evening Star, Issue 21005, 20 January 1932, Page 3

THE GRINDSTONE

By MRS. A. J. PHILLIPS.

Author of ‘ Swifter Than a Weaver’s Shuttle,’ ‘ A Miner’s Romance,’ etc.

SYNOPSIS. Edith Clayton, daughter of a Lancashire millowner, has married George Henton without her father’s knowledge. Six weeks after the event she confesses, and her father declares that he will have no more to do with her. Ho gives her two cheques for £I,OOO each —one for herself and one for her husband, to whom he then takes her. When Henton asks the reason of Clayton’s objection to him, tho latter says that Henton’s father did him an injury and tried to destroy his happiness a second time, but without success. The interview gives Clayton a better opinion of his son-in-law than ho had previously hold, but he does not attempt to prevent tho young couple from going to America, as they had decided. Twenty years later Clayton, now a baronet and a millionaire, receives a visit from an old friend, Josiah Brooklands, who inquires for his god-daughter Veronica, Edith’s daughter, and Clayton’s grand-daughter. He ’ had seen her shipped from New York fifteen years before, in charge of a woman who was to deliver her to her grandfather. Clayton has never seen the child nor heard of her existence until now. CHAPTER 111. THE SHOP XX CHAPEL STREET. “ Sit down, my friend,” said Mr Brooklands, in a quiet voice. “ There is no need to become so agitated. Come, let us have a talk together. It seems to me there is something that wants explaining.” Sir Robert sat down, looking dazed. “ I should be glad if you will tell me all you know of my daughter, for your information fills me with profound dismay and surprise.” “I will toll you all, my friend, and lose no time about it. During my stay in New York, some seventeen years ago, I ran against your daughter. _ I was naturally surprised to see her in that city. She begged me to return with her to her husband’s house, and spend the evening, and this I did, admiring their pretty and comfortable home, and falling in love with their exceedingly pretty baby, who was then about two years old, and a very fine baby indeed.”

1 not flourishing. It was kept by a strange-looking woman called Miss Dcspard, a mysterious person, who kept her own counsel, who spoke but seldom, and who of late had been more silent than ever. She was sitting by the fire now, looking into tho warm depths and apparently deep in thought. Her thin, sharp, pinched-looking face was not pleasant to look at, and she appeared a woman to be more feared than loved. That was what her niece felt as she looked at her with troubled eyes. She was trying to mend up an old blouse, and at the same time to keep cheerful under depressing conditions. She had lived with her aunt all her nineteen years, amid looked back upon dull days and weary months in which the sunshine of love had never •shone and human kindness had never existed. And yet Vera Despard was lovely and sweet to look upon. She had been blest with more than a fair share of good looks, and had a loving, gentle way with her that ought to have won her aunt’s heart. She was wonderfully pretty, and made a charming picture as she bent over her sewing. Boor Vera. She sighed to herself as she examined her blouse and found it so little better for the mending, then looked across at the grim, silent figure of her aunt, and ventured to break tho silence. “ What is the matter, Aunt Matilda,” she asked gently. “ You are so very quiet, and have been so all night. Is there any trouble on your mind?” “ Trouble enough, child,” ■ said her aunt sharply; “but what’s that to do with you? Get you to your sewing, girl, and ask no more questions.” “ But 1 must ask, auntie, and I ought to share your troubles. Is it money matters that Are worrying you?” “ Yes, yes,” replied the little woman testily, “of course, it is. How is this wretched little shop to keep us both, I should like to know?”

The girl flushed and rose to her feet. “ 1 never wished it to keep me,” she said quickly, “ and you know it. When I knew how poor you were I always wished to help you by earning my living. Now I mean to do it, and shall set to at once to find something to do.” “Is that so, my dear?” said Miss Despard, and she laughed a little sarcastic laugh. “ And what will you do? There is not very much you can do, is there?” “ I mean to do something, and what I will do is to go in the mill. Rachel Tonge will teach me, and I shall soon be earning my pound a week,” said Vera resolutely. “In the’mill?” mumbled the little woman, her cheeks suddenly flushirig scarlet, and her eyes flashing wickedly. “ Yes, yes, of course, in the mill. Ha, ha! I’d never thought of it. Down to the dust of shame shall he be brought—ay, in the very dust,” Vera drew back and looked at the woman with frightened eyes. “ What are you saying, auntie?” she asked fearfully. “Nothing,” cried her aunt sharply; “ there’s nothing to be said. Yes, get off to the mill, and quickly. You are too much a lady to please ray fancy, and poverty is but a poor companion.”

His listener shaded his with his hands, but remained silent. “ After that I was a constant caller, and spent many happy evenings in their society, George Henton being a man I liked, and an excellent husband. Of course, they told me all about their romantic but had given up hope of ever seeing you again. The next two years seemed full of events, to both of us, and I was in Edith’s cosy drawing-room when the news was brought of her husband’s brave death. Ay, poor lass, and I was with her when they buried him and carried her home broken-hearted. She never looked up, but faded slowly away after that terrible day: and one night, just before she breathed her last, she begged me to advise her what to do with her little baby girl. I said straight out, without hesitation, ‘ Send her with you can trust to her grandfather, with letters explaining all, and papers proving her birth and parentage, and she will find a happy home.” “ Yes, yes, man,” broke in the older man, sharply, “ and did she do this?” “ Yes, Robert, she did, and as soon as I had seen her laid beside her husband, j carried out all her directions to the minutest detail. I myself saw her housekeeper, Mrs Quayle, a very respectable woman, leave New York with your grandchild and with documents and letters proving beyond dispute her relationship to you.” The baronet was greatly 'agitated, and could not conceal it. “ Had the woman a sura of' money upon her?” he asked in a deeply moved voice. '

And she walked out of the room with a quick glance at her niece.

“ What can be the matter with Aunt Matilda?” Vera mused. “ I am sure she is not well. She is certainly becoming more difficult to live with. She looks at me so strangely sometimes, almost as though she hated me.” And Vera’s eyes filled with tears. “ Come, get you to bed,” said her aunt, suddenly appearing in the doorway. “It’s about time. I’ll shut this wretched place up, for I am sick of it. Come, don’t stare as though you’d never see me before. Go and get your beauty sleep. Not that you need it,” she added, laughing sourly, “ But good looks have proved the ruin of many girls. Remember that.” ! Vera put her sewing away, and departed to bed, but Miss Despard sat down once more and stared into the fire. She kept muttering to herself in a strange manner, as she rocked herself in her chair. She looked a very fierce little woman indeed, and now and again a hoarse little chuckle escaped her. “ Matilda Despard does not forgive an injury to her or hers in a hurry,” she whispered. “Ah, he’ll rue the day, he will. I’ll bring his grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. I’ll lower his pride and humble him to the dust. Ay, to the very dust in his own mill, and his own blood shall do it. Through his own offspring will I punish him, so help me God!” She lifted her thin hand and shook her fist in sudden, impotent rage, and her figure seemed to shiver as a frail tree in a sharp gust of wind. “ Vengeance—that is what I have lived for. When I meet him face to face, and tell him what I have done, oh, what a day that will be!, Where will his pride be then? Ay, tho mill, that’s it. A mill girl. Ha, ha! His own kith and kin, heiress to . his thousands, a mill girl. Ay, the mill! to work at the looms, to begin at 6 o’clock in tho morning in her clogs—l’ll see to that —until 6.30 at night. My girl—yes, yes, a mill girl you shall be. Oh, what a fine sense of humour has Matilda Despard, and what a splendid revenge she is having! Ay, but the best is still to come.” With a sudden sob the fierce face went down upon her hands, and she was silent. Presently she rose and dragged herself upstairs to her bed, and peace reigned in the little house. Vera was up early. She was fond of housework, and under her care all was neat and clean. She sang happily as she went about her work, and soon the little living room was bright and tidy, and a cheery fire was making the kettle sing loudly. Breakfast was ready when Miss Despard appeared. She looked pale and haggard, and had no word of greeting for her niece. Tho meal was partaken of in silence, and Vera felt a sensation of great relief when it was over and she could clear tho things away. She was busy most of tho morning, tidying the little shop, and setting out tho window. In her heart she hated it, and always had done so, but somehow she had managed to conceal it from her aunt and to bear it as best she could.

“ No, nothing beyond what she herself required. Besides, I’d swear to her honesty.” “ Then what has become of my granddaughter?” asked the mill-owner. “ What, indeed! It is a most amazing mystery. The last I saw of Mrs Quayle was when the steamer was making her way out of the docks. She stood with the little child in her arms. 1 can see her now.” said Mr Brooklands, slowly. “ W© must make all inquiries at once. Somewhere, perhaps, in _ this little England of ours, there is living my grand-daughter, heiress to all my wealth, 'and as God is my witness, by hook or by crook, I’ll find her before the New Year,” cried Sir Robert, emphatically. His friend laughtd softly. “ AVell said, old pal, well said; but go slow, my friend, for a bit. We are into November, as you know, and we must not be in too great a hurry. But Josiah Brooklands is with you, and will do all ho can to help you find your grandchild,” cried Mr Brooklands. “ You must not get _ down-hearted, Bob, my lad. This night’s work is bound to he a shock to you, as it has been to me, but I’ll bo glad to stay with you if you’ll have me.” “ My dear Josiah,” _ replied! Sir Robert,''after blowing his nose somewhat vigorously, “I shall be thankful to have you, and be grateful if you will take pity upon a lonely man, and take up your abode with me.” “ Right you are,” laughed Josiah. “ I’ll stay here, and very comfortable I shall make myself.” He strolled to the window and looked at the wintry scene. “There’s more snow to come, I do believe,” he remarked casually; but Sir Robert made no reply. He was busy writing to Scotland Yard. Bresterton was a large and important town in mid-Lancashire. It was thickly populated, and possessed some fine buildings and beautiful churches. It boasted at least one beautiful park, through which the river Ribble ran, and in whose broad acres and handsome terraces the people took great pride. The principal thoroughfare of the town was a well-lighted street called Fishcrgate, which possessed excellent shops and a well-organised car service extending all over the town. At the top of Fishergato was the Town Hall, which stood close to the Public Library and Art Gallery, situated in the market square. This, with the Assize Courts and General Post Office, made as fine a set of buildings as any town could wish to possess. Bresterton House, Sir Robert Clayton’s residence, -was one of many family houses situated in a very pleasant part of the town, called “ The Square.” It was approached from Fishergatc by rather a small, unim-portant-looking thoroughfare called Chapel street, at one end of which, among several offices, was one small, good-looking house. It _ was neat and clean, but it could not hide its povertystricken appearance. In the front window was displayed a strange conglomeration of things for sale, hut it did not give one the appearance of a shop, and its condition was certainly

She hard nearly concluded her operation when Miss Despard came into the shop.

“ You can clean out all that window,” she called out sharply. Vera sprang from her chair and looked at her aunt in surprise. “What do yon mean? I have just finished the window, auntie.” “Nevermind that; take all out when you are told, and pack the things upon the boxes you’ll find under tho counter.” said her aunt fiercely. “And don’t look at mo as if you thought me daft. I’ve had enough of this farce, and I’ll finish with it once and for all. After

to-day there is no more paltry shop in Chapel street. I’m sick of it.” Without a word Vera began to lift the things out of the window and pile them on the counter. CHAPTER IV. THE SHOP IS GIVEN UP. Tea time saw a great change in the room. Where a shop window had been, now hung clean curtains, and the small dresser which had done duty as counter was in its proper place against the wall. From a lumber room unstairs had come chairs, small tables, and a sofa, a carpet covered with oilcloth, and altogether the place looked as though a shop and never existed before. Miss Despard sat in one of the chairs and looked-at their handiwork. “ That’s better,” she said brusquely. “ I may as well tell you that I am going to let this room to a gentleman, if he likes it. It’ll pay better than a shop.” “Have you heard of somebody?” asked Vera' in surprise.' Yes, Mrs Sumner, Sir Robert’s housekeeper, told me that one of the managers of the big mill in Friargate wanted rooms, and I told her I would take a lodger if I knew of one. She sent word last night that Mr Stafford —that is the gentleman’s name—would call one night this week.” 11 That would bo splendid for you, auntie; but what about the upstairs room?” “ Well, you must move out of your room, that’s all. The little boxroom won’t be a bad bedroom,” replied her aunt shortly. Vera said nothing, but wondered inwardly how she could manage in a small, stuffy chamber with one tiny window. A little later she left her home, and made her way up Fishergate, stopping now and again to look at the shops. She turned round by the Town Hall, and went quickly up Friargate, until sho came to a house situated between two shops. She knocked, then opened the door. “May I come in?” sho called out in her sweet, clear voice. “ Ay, come in, and welcome, lass, a weak voice answered, and Vera walked down the narrow passage into the kitchen. A bright fire was burning in the grate, and the room looked warm and comfortable. Upon a narrow bed, by the fireplace, lay a woman whose thin white face lit up with pleasure when she saw who her visitor was. “ Eh, come in, my dear, I’m fain to see you. Rachel’s out. Why, bless my soul, you get bonnier every day, you do that, my lass,” sho said, gazing at the radiant face of the girl. Vera bent and kissed her. W I ought to look well; this frosty weather makes -my cheeks all aglow, and I feel splendid. I wish you felt the same, Mrs Tonge.” ' ' “ Never in this world, my dear, but happen in the next. Nay, nay, I must beai\ my cross patiently if I wish to wear the crown. It’s hard at times, but I gets through somehow.” “Will Rachel be long away?” “I think not, Miss Despard, but I can’t say for sure. Did you want her for anything?” asked the invalid. “Yes, I want to tell her to take mo in the mill with her,” said Vera simply. A sharp ejaculation escaped Mrs Tonge’s lips. . “You in the mill, Miss Despard! What do you want with the mill. Your aunt is a mad woman. I’ve alius said so; but she ain’t so mad as to send you to the weaving shed!” “Not exactly, but hesitatingly-- “ she is not pleasant to live with, and she seems quite pleased at the idea of me going out to work. You see, I can t do anything else. When I suggested going away as a nurse in a children’s hospital she flew into a terrible temper, and said I was not to leave home yet. She talks so often of my being a drag upon her. Oh! Mrs Tonge, I don’t know what I should do if I had not you to talk to.” And suddenly Vera burst into tears. “ There, there, cry, my lassie; it will do you good,” said Mrs Tonge, palf ting the shabby coat with a thin white hand. 1 “Yes,” sobbed Vera, “I cannot cry at home. Aunt Matilda is so strange of late, so cruel and unkind. Not in deeds, but in words and looks, and I cannot help but feel she hates the sight of me.” “ Never mind, my dear, don’t, you fret. Come and read a little bit to me. It’ll ’appen do us both good.” . Vera read in her sweet, low voice to the sick woman for some little time, and gradually she felt calmer in spirits. “ The grand words do a power of good,” whispered the patient woman. “ They help me to bear my burden, they do for sure.” Mrs Tonge had been very rebellious at first when she realised that the simple accident which had twisted her back had resulted in something so serious a nature as to render her a helpless cripple, and to lay on her bed, not for a week or for a month, but for years, and in all probability for the remainder of her life. Ten years had come and gone since then, and no improvement had taken place in her body; but her mind was at rest, and sho had become reconciled to her fate. The opening of the door brought Rachel in their midst. , “Hallo! Miss Despard,” she cried gaily. “ Well, it is a long time sin’ I saw yer.” And the two girls shook hands. CHAPTER V. MISS despard’s lodger. “ I called to see you upon rather important business. I want to get work in the mill, Rachel.” “ Eh, Miss,” ejaculated Rachel. “ Yes,” went on Vera hurriedly, “ and I want to go in with you.” “ Well,” cried the girl, and stared at Vera. “ Eh, Miss, I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“ I must get to like it,’’ said Vera. “ It’s no use. I must earn some money somehow, for we are very poor, and I need not hide it. Look at my clothes,” and she stood up and lifted her skirt slightly, with a little scornful laugh. She was decidedly shabby, and her blouse was poor and ugly. “ I have not one penny to myself, and a new garment is a luxury. As for a hat ” —she pointed at her headgear, and her pretty laughter filled the room. “ That is my one and only hat. Now don’t you think I’m bravo to go out in a thing like that?” “ It’s a shame,” hurst out Rachel hotly, her cheeks flushing with the indignation she felt, “ it is, indeed, and I’ve said so all along. I don’t think as how your aunt is as poor as she makes out.” “ Neither do I,” sighed Vera. “ She is very strange just now, and sometimes I think she must have something on her mind.” “ But do you think you will be able to stand this weaving shed? It ain’t easy, yer know, miss, and it ain’t for girls like you. ’Cause though you come here kindlike to cheer mother up, it’s easy to see you ain’t one of us,” said Rachel, gazing with open admiration at the lovely face looking at her with amusement. “Now, Rachel, don’t say any more. I am going to bo a working girl, and you are not to pour cold water upon my scheme.” “Well, miss, I’ll help you and willing; but'when you get to working and

earning your own you stick out for half of it, and don’t be silly and give it all to your cross old aunt,” said Rachel emphatically. “ Tell mo what I must do,” asked Vera. “I am anxious to begin as soon as possible.” “Very well, miss, then you begin Monday morning*. I’ll let you know, and you can come in the mill with me. I’ll soon show you, and you’ll learn in no time; and if you’re lucky you’ll soon get looms of your own. You stick to Rachel Tonge, she’ll look after you, and they’ll reckon with me,” said-the mill girl stoutly. _ “ Now, Mrs Tonge, see what a champion I have,” cried Vera. “ Yes, miss, and right glad 1 am,” answered Mrs Tonge with a smile. As Vera made her way home her thoughts were busy. She was glad she had made up her mind so firmly, and began to look forward to the experience before her. As she entered her home she heard voices, and upon opening the sitting room door found her aunt talking to a gentleman. “ This is my niece, Mr Stafford,” she said in a voice a little less sour than usual. Vera bowed and moved across the room; but Mr Stafford walked across to her and held out his hand. “ How do you do, Miss Despard,” he said in a friendly way. “ I have just been saying to your aunt that it is very kind of her to let me come here. It will be quiet and comfortable, and I shall not be much trouble.” Vera smiled shyly. She was not accustomed to the society of men. “I am sure we shall do our best to make you comfortable,” she said in an embarrassed voice. “ When do you wish to come, Mr Stafford?” asked the old woman. “ In a week’s time, if I may,” he answered quickly. “ Your time is mine,” said Miss Despard in her short way, and walked out of the room. Vera stood, not knowing quite what to do. “ Then I will bring my things in here to-morrow week,” said Mr Stafford gently, looking at the shy, sweet face and inwardly marvelling at its beauty. “ But I wish it to be understood that you are not to go to any trouble on my account, please. I do a good deal of waiting upon myself.” “ You are very kind,” replied Vera in a hurried, nervous little voice. “We shall prepare for you, then, a week tomorrow.” As she lay in her tiny, uncomfortable room she wondered what sort of man this Mr Stafford was. She liked his tall, manly figure. Though ho was not exactly well-made, there was something about his build, that suggested power. He was not very good-looking, she thought, but something in his face appealed to her. “ I believe he is as lonely as I am,” she whispered .in the darkness. “He looks very severe. I don’t think he is much given to smiling, and his mouth is decidedly stern, but I am glad he is coming—yes, glad,” she repeated, wfth a little sob, “ for perhaps my aunt will be a little kinder to me, and, at any rate, I shall not feel quite so lonely.” Meanwhile, Paul Stafford was thinking of Vera Despard. He had made his way down Fishergate Hill, and_ had turned down a side street into his uncomfortable and cheerless rooms-. Having settled himself comfortably with his pipe, ho sat in silence, deep in his own thoughts. Her entrance had been a great surprise to him. Somehow he had thought the small thin woman, with such sharp features, who spoke so abruptly, lived by herself, and when he had turned to greet her niece the beauty of the girl came upon him like a shock. , “ How sweet she was,” he thought, “so winning; so shy. I wonder if she likes having a lodger? She had rather a sad look on her face, but—who knows?” He blew a cloud of smoke into the room and frowned impatiently. “ She may be placed as I am. Goodness knows I am lonely enough in the world, and my unsociable ways gain me no friends.”

Paul Stafford was a man who would make a name for himself, who would carve a pathway high up in life, but ■would walk alone. He was very reserved, as firm as a rock, and thoroughly trustworthy. He was very dark, with pale features and keen eyes, stern-set mouth, and masterful chin. There was something about his serious face and erect figure that suggested power, and he was trusted more than ordinarily by his employer. He had no companions, and came and went about his work with that same reserve that kept him without friends and made him mor? feared than loved. Yet his heart cried out for the counsel and sympathy of someone, and he longed to clasp the hand of a friend. His lot in life had been singularly lonely. Sent at a very early age to a public boarding school, he had remained at different schools all his boyhood and early manhood, for his parents had gone out to India soon after his birth, and left him to the guardianship of a man who cared nothing about children in general and detested boys in particular. His parents bad died in India just after he had finished the university career from which he had emerged with flying colours, and through the influence of his guardian, he had been offered a post as head clerk in Sir Robert’s largest mill in Bresterton. From that he soon foiind himself in a high and trusted position, with a good salary, and with the knowledge that Sir Robert had perfect confidence in him. Presently he rose and busied _ himself with putting his books and things together. He began to look forward with something like a thrill of expectation, something quite foreign to his nature, to the coming week. He felt a great desire to meet this exceedingly pretty, shy girl again. “ Probably she may be as glad as I am to have a friend,” he said with a laugh that was almost boyish, in spite of his twenty-eight years; then he pulled himself up and looked apprehensively at the door. “ The landlady will think I am mad,” ho thought, and his serious eyes suddenly lit up with a smile that broke over his face and completely dispelled the stern, severe look habitual to his features. Just then a knock came at the door, and his untidy landlady walked in. “ This note came for you while yos was out, sir,” she said. “It came from Bresterton House, and the man as brought it said there was no answer.” And she tossed it down upon the table and departed, banging the door after her.

“ What can Sir Robert want, I wander?” thought Paul, as he slowly opened the letter. (To be continued.)