"BURNT WINGS "

Hawera Star, Volume XLVIII, 22 December 1928, Page 7

"BURNT WINGS "

CHAFTER XXX

By the first post the following morning Jeremiah Yv’cston received a letter from the secretary of the firm, informing him that the directors had voted unanimously in favour of his- resignation, and enclosing a cheque for £2OOO in payment of his surrendered holding. He gazed at the fateful letter like a man reading ins death-warrant. His acquisition of wealth, in that , direction at any rate, was over. He was like a rudderless ship—lie did not know which way to- turn, which course to go upon. The journey to- and from the office- had been so much a part of his life, so much a part of the daily mechanical routine, that his thoughts refused to carry him in any other direction.

After a leisurely but meagre break-

fast, lie strolled round to the bank to t deposit the cheque. His most couI genial journey.* had been those, to the |i bank, and he was well known to all p- the staff there. "When Weston returned home he found he could not settle down. The place looked strange. He was not used to being there at that hour of the day. Various tradesmen were going their rounds. A butcher’s dogcart rattled round the corner with the dash of a Roman chariot: milk-barrows, attended by more or less tuneful boys, were slowly patrolling the streets on their forenoon journey ; and a modern counterpart of the ancient minstrel was blowing a faint resemblance to a popular tune through a tin-whistle. A spirit of restlessness seized him. Tie had a strange desire to he moving —anywhere, hut moving. He left the lonely house once more and walked up the street. After a little hesitation Inset out at a good pace towards Downmere. Eppy Smith, putting into his pocket the whistle he had been playing, followed at a discreet distance, with the careless abandon and.jaunty step of a man who did not care where chance might lead him. He would be at home, wherever it was. Much to his astonishment. Weston turned abruptly buck through the town after proceeding up the Dowumere Road for a Jew hundred yards. Eppy I had the fright of iii.s life. Quick as a J flash he put the tin whistle to iiis lips again and reversed his own direction, playing somewhat erratically and: bending bis steps down a newl.v-built road that contained nothing hut incomplete houses.

He laughed softly as he noticed his surroundings and hoped Jerry had not seen him. But he had no need to worry; the man was too miserable to notice anything. Eppy carefully emerged on to the main road oritie more and saw his quarry walking at an even pace past tho ofliic of Hopper's mill. \\ itliuut appearing to notice it, however, he kept his eyes straight ahead. On. by many twists and turns, he went until ho came to the big gates leading to the drive of his late employer s residence. “Wot's 'e goin'. ter do now. I wonder j*’’ murmured Eppy lrom a sate distance.

As lie stood and watv I led lie saw Weston go up tiie drive a lew yards and crouch behind some bushes wlndi bordered the gravelled approach. For some minutes lie was only partly visible, but appeared to be biding aimlessly behind each hush in turn. Shortly afterwards, still keeping behind the leafy screen, lie came crouching back right to the gate, and, with a ghastly grin on his set features, continued riglit up the Downmere Road, with a hesitating walk as though lolloping some uncertain guide. Wondering greatly and impelled by a queer, uncanny fascination, although the June sun was hooding everything with golden brilliance, Fppy followed. Hardened by adversity as he was, Epsom Smith could not look without a shudder at the mail lie knew so well. Jeremiah Weston gazed at the hill in front of him, as though watching something on the empty, sunlit, grassy slope. His face was drawn with silent agony and hi>. eyes stared with horror at —nothing. Suddenly, us though galvanised into life by a violent shock, he gave a short, inarticulate cry and da.shell up the hill. Still keeping under cover of the trees, Smith followed as quickly as lie could. Epp.y Smith strained his eyes to *>ee u‘hat was attracting his enemy’s attention, but nothing was there. The mill stood stark- and drear even in the bright sunlight, but a lark was singing overhead, bees were humming among the heather, and cure-free butterflies were flitting here and there in the simmering heat. Nothing fearsome there.

Yet Jeremiah Weston stood as stilJ as a petrified man, staring—staring. Smith could hear his stertorous breathing in the sunlit silence. It was horrible. Now Weston was cowering again and making a sound that could only be described as a whinny. Almost immediately afterwards, however, be stood up, waved his arms frantically, and laughed with a mirthless c-achin-liation which made the listener's blood run cold. The next moment lie fell on bis lace, foaming at the mouth and scrabbling convulsively at the soft turf. Eppy Smith ran to his assistance ami was about to help him when, an old gipsy woman hobbled from behind a tree* “Leave him to nicy’ she croaked. Unnerved as he already was, Smith felt obliged to obey the weird figure of the .Romany Queen and went back to his observation post to steady iiimsol. with a. pipe ol tobacco. After a time Weston sat up am! gazed vacantly around; he saw nothing but the sunlit heath. At the first sign of returning animation the Gipsy had darted away, bubbling quickly from bush to bush until she neared the mill, where, half hidden by trees, she watched him rise slowly to his feet. Weston shook himself like a dog. gave one fearful glance round, and half scrambled and half walked down the slope, then ambled unsteadily up the road back to Kirkchester Keeping a safe distance behind. Eppy Smith followed. QH AFTER XXXI. Meadow Street. Islington, was all alive with curiosity a few days after Reggie Deauville had called- there. Lady Hopper had redeemed her promise to sec Mrs. JJetsy' Tolworth. “I felt that you would come." said " poor, I’m glad to see you."

By G. Herbert Teague.

• '.Never mind about it- being poor,' saitl Daily Hopper. “\Vo can't all be rich.” --Xo, we can’t,’’ was the sad reply. "‘Let- me see; it must be nearly thirty years ago now, isn’t it F” Her ladyship made a- mental calculation. -‘Yes, 1 suppose it is,' 5 she replied 'softly, “but it seems more like fifty.” ■‘How time flies, to- be sure; and, yet sometimes it doesn’t seem long since you had till the trouble and we used to sit up together wondering what to do. I’ve often thought about it. . . . You see, I’ve had my share since. . . My husband . . . you don’t remember him, do you?” “Only faintly. I think I saw him once. You see, I was touring most- of tlic time . . . afterwards.”

“Yes, I thought you wouldn’t remember.” replied the old woman musingly. “Hear, dear! Yes, I’ve had my share. As, I was .saying, my poor husband died not long before my only hoy was killed in the war. I’m glad he* was spared that blow, because he was- never very strong, you know. Well, after the hoy went J got- a bit of nursing to do, but it didn’t lastlong. and I got lower and. lower until I was glad enough to find a- roof over my head here.”

“What a shame,” remarked her ladyship. “I had no idea you were so poor, and even when you mentioned my name outside the polo ground 1 couldn’t think it- was you. You see, so many people know me by sight that- sometimes I’m afraid —er —that J don’t take much notice. One cannot be running here, there and everywhere. can one?” she concluded with a touch of her old arrogance. “And selling matches, too!”

“ft was honest.” replied Betsy with a suspicion of rebuke in her tones, “and I had no money. .My rent was overdue and- I’d been told to leave. Tn fact, you will hardly believe it, but that money you very kindly sent me saved me from being turned into the street.”

“What a good thing you wrote, to me, when you did. T would never have known otlienvi.se. and how ungrateful you must have thought me.” “Oh, I don’t know.” was the resigned reply. ‘As we get older we stop wondering why tilings should be, so unfair, although we perhaps don’t understand the reason for it. But it- is quite plain why people who are rich can’t be expected to spend time on old matchsellers.’’

“Nmv you are being severe, Betsy,” said Lady Hopper with ait awkward little laugh. “In my position I have other people to- consider as well as myself. It is necessary to preserve one’s prestige as long as possible.” “Yes. I quite understand,’’ remarked Betsy. “I can appreciate your difficulty . . . anil ye). . . . Doesn t tune change things?” she concluded inoousequently. “What would you and I'have thought fifteen or sixteen years- age if someone had told von that you would be- Lady Hopper now? Dear, dear! The unknowndancer in a touring revue.” “There’s, no disgrace in playing in a revue, is there?”, asked her ladyship with a touch or asperity. “.Decidedly not!” cried Betsy. “Decidedly not! I’ve acted as dresser to some of the best little- women in the world during my connection with the profession. I’m just saying how time works- wonders.”

“Besides, I was not Lady Hopper at first. 1 was plain Mrs Hopper for quite a long time. It was only the war that brought my husband’s knighthood—and 1 think he earned it !”

“I suppose he did," agreed Betsy. “I had heard of how rich he was.” “Yo-u are never going to be poor again, Betsy, I’ll see to that. You stood by me in my trouble when I didn’t know where to turn until I met Sir Horace—Mr Hopper as he was then—and I’ll stand by you as long as you need me.”.

“You are very kind,” murmured Mrs Tol worth, her eyes brimming with tea i s.

“And the boy, too. Me won’t suffer either. Do you know, I’m afraid 1 had no ideal where, he was nr what had become of him."

“That’s not to be wondered at. He was'fonly a few months oid when those theatrical people adopted him —or rather bought- him —and when they disappeared and went right away, how was anyone to know where they were?” “Still the same dear old Betsy!” smiled Lady Hopper, kissing her. “You are quite right. I did not know and could not advertise for fear of being imposed upon. It is difficult to tell where that sort of thing might end. An adopted child loses all knowledge, of its parents and becomes attached to people who are often—er —well, quite impossible.. FJven now it Was only the name that attracted ray attention and set me wondering. His foster-parents evidently did not want their name to be used.” “But you' have no doubt now, after hit letter?” asked' Betsy.

’“Not the slightest, but—well —w —.l’ don’t feel particularly happy over thci matter.” “Yes, a .skeleton in the cupboard is ■not a. nice thing to have about, and 1 think paa.ee of mind Uj a. wonderful! com fort.” “That's why I came to you to-day, Het<v.” said 'Ladv Hopper. ‘‘l waist: you to come over to Ivirkuhoster in it V-;w days and 1 be introduced to my husband. \Ye will Then disoutm the entire business. I will tell him. all about my .share: and what happened, and you can •to"I him w-hat you know." “1 shall be very gliad to meet him',’ • replied Mrs Tdworth, “and if lie Lj anything "ike 1 imagine he is. you will, I nan sure, be glad l to drag that skeleton out of the cupboard and bury it for ever.’* Tears of gratitude welled into the •oman's eyes as Lad.v Hopper pressed Betsy happily." “and. although it's i, few Troavury notes rarln her hand and went downstairs. A group of svatteni'iy women and < hildren crowded' round as the opening of the Street, door announced to all .that the visitor was about to. leave. Ibe y0u, 11,01 woman living downstairs stood 1 outside, smiling as her ladyship emerged and the chauffeur jumped; quickly down la open tl'6 dror of the, car. A I the Rolls-Royce glided away with a silky purr, the u.nsta.irs curtains 1 , fluttered for a moment a->- Betsy Tolworth took ft. .filial glance. •‘Well f never!" exclaimed one o-f the watching women . lower down the 'Fleet t > her neighbour as the car went by. “Did yei; vis that?" “No—what?” -Why. the oTil duehens in the motor. She's 1 ’cry in’.” (To be continued,)