OUR SERIAL STORY HER DEAREST WISH.

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume I, Issue 63, 24 February 1911, Page 9

OUR SERIAL STORY HER DEAREST WISH.

(Continued.) Ho submitted to the embrace, and Decima ran up to her room. She slept like a top—if ever the gods are envious, it is of the blessed sleep of youth—and in the morning came down “fresh as the rose that's gemmed with dew.’’ Her father had already breakfasted and gone to has laboratory, and Bobby was dashing wildly through a course of eggs and bacon aud marmalude, preparatory to his morning grind with the army coach, who lived in the town, tlwee miles distant.

“You’li be left to your own devices all day, Decie. What shall you do?’*

Decima smiled rather nervously. “1 am going to interview the cook and Sarah Jane,” she said. Bobby grinned. “Well, if you live through it, you shall, as a reward, go fishing with me at Leafmore this evening. I generalFy take a rod down before dinner, and to-day’s a good day. Meet me at the gate—you know ?—at five o’clock. Going to interview the slaveys, are you, my poor child? If a brother’s blessing and deepest sympathy—l’ve been tltere myself—are of service to you, pray accept them. I’m off. Five, by the gate, remember.”

After breakfast Demina went all over the house, and then “interviewed” the cook and Sarah Jane. The former at first met her timid remarks aiuent the dinner of the proceeding evening with a bland contempt which, gradually developed into reluctant respect and civility, for there was a

j certain some dung at the back of I Deeima’s innocent grey-blue eyes which had its effect. As for Sarah Jane, she was instantly moved to tears, and, remarking that she was an orphan and had been “brought up by charity,” assured Decama that she ! would be more careful of the crockery iin the future. A portion of the i morning Decima spent in the labort atory, where her father submitted to i her presence in an absent-minded way. She lured him into lunch at j 1 o’clock, and in the afternoon she wrote to Lady Pauline a full account of tins new chapter in her new life. Then, at a quarter to five, she went down to the gate through which she and Bobby had passed to the Leafmore avenue. Bobby was sitting on the bank, awaiting her, a pipe in his month and his fishing-rod by his side. “Good girl,” be said. “Always be in time, though, for that matter, i half-an-bour later wouldn’t have mat- ] tered, for it’s too bright for trout. But there’s a cloud coming up and I I can start presently. Meanwhile, as i you see, I am hard at work.” I “Yes, smoking; come and sit ! down.” * She went and sat beside him, and ’ examined his fly-book with some interest for a few minutes; then she got ’ up and wandered down the avenue, ; picking the wild flowers that grew ! along the border. | Bobby lay back with his eyes closed i and haff asleep, until suddenly lie was aroused by a clinking sound. He | looked up, and saw a gentleman ’ shaking the big entrance gates. i Boy-like, he watched him for a ' moment or two with bland enjoyi ment: then lie shouted out: “Hi I”

The gentleman looked around, saw the recumbent figure, and said:

! “WeM>?” i “Gate’s locked,” remarked Bobby, ! in liis concise fashion. “There’s a i door here”—he indicated the gate—- : “if you want to come in.” [ “Thanks,” said the gentleman ; and ’ lie came along to the wall, passed ; through the gate, and stood beside * tlie lad, kv>kiug down at him. “Tliat gate's always kept locked,” ' said Bobby. “Indeed!” said the gentleman. “I am a stranger here;- I didn’t know.” j Bobby looked at him casually. i “Are you going to see the house?” • lie .said. “It’s worth seeing; the ' carving and pictures esjiecialy.” j “Are they?” responded tlie gentle- , man. “Do you live here?” ' “Oh no; that is not at tliia house. ■ I live in the village; buit I know it . very well.” j “You are going to try your hunk with the trout, I see. Is the sport good ?”

“Oh, yes; it's a capital river,” said Bobby. “Been neglected and a good deal poached, but there are plenty of fish in it still.” “Will you let me look at your flies?” said the gentleman. “I’m a fisherman also.”

Bobby handed him the book with an angler’s promptitude. “I’m going to put on a ‘blue upright’ and a ‘march brown.’ ”

“Yes.” said the other. “And a ‘coachman’ an hour or two later. You have some good flies. I hope you will have grx d sport.” “Thanks. I think I will get down to the river; it's just below here.” “Yes; I saw it ae I came up the hill."

. Bobby nodded and gave him goodj day, and, rod in hand, crossed the i avenue, calling to Decima. “All right,” site culled back; “I will follow you. Here aro the loveliest -cowslips! I must get a bunch.”

“Very well; follow the track,” he shouted back, and went on his way whistling.

The gentlemana looked after him,

then sat down on the baoik, took out his cigar-case, and lighted a cigar. The match was still in his hand when Deeiraa came, with light, fleet steps down the avenue. She was arrangeing her flowers as

!she canoe, and dad not see him until she was dose upon ham. Then she , paused and glanced at han

with a faint surprise, and was passing on again, when he rose and raised his hat. She stopped short, with a slight cry of recognition and astonishment on her laps, for she saw that it was the gentleman who had befriended her at the Zoo.

He had recognised her at the first moment, and his eyes rested on her fate inquiringly, as if he were half curious to see what she would do. He had not long to wait. "With a touch of colour in her cheeks, and a sly, embarrassed expression in? her eyes, Decima looked at him, them looked beyond him, over his head, and passed on without a sign of recognition. Gaunt smiled grimly, and stood, like a soldier, erect and unibeindiing, his eyes fixed on her, as if the cut direct amused rather than ■wounded him.

As ghe passed on, her lovely face set and cold, she continued the arrangement of her flowers, and—perhaps her hand trembled, for it was trying business, this outing of a man who had been kind to her—she let a Large number of them slip through her fingers. She stopped and, biting her lap softly, began to pick them up; and Gaunt stepped forward and assisted her.

As he handed the yellow blossoms to her, he said very quietly: “Have you forgoten me?” The blood rushed to Decima’s face. “No,” she said. ' “Not forgotten me? And yet you would not bow to me? Why was that ?”

“I—l cannot tell you,” she said, looking from side to side. “But—forgive me—don’t you think you owe me some explanation? Let me put the case in another way. If you had deigned to bow to me, and I had declined to respond; if I had cut you, would you not think an explanation due from me?”

“Yes,” said Decima, her brows coming straight, her eyes growing violet. “Be just, then. Do unto others as you won Id that they should do unto you,” he said. There was a suspicion of banter in his tone, and at the same time a grim kind of appeal wliich touched Decima.

“Must I tell you?” she said, in a troubled voice.

“Yes, I think you ought.”, “Then'—oh, I wish you would not ask me !—my aunt does not wish me to —to know you.” “Why?” he asked, very quietly “I admit that it is a sufficient reason for the cut, but I am curious to know her reason.”

“Because—because you are— Oh I cannot tell you,” she broke off, scarlet to the very neck. “Too bad for you to know?” he said, with a smite. Decima hung her head. “Thank you,” he said. “I am answered. Good-bye.” She turned and went a few steps from him, then she swung round and came back, her innocent sout shining through her eyes. ‘Why are you so wicked?” she said, painful-Iy, as if the question were forced from her. “You were so kind to me.”

His face grew grim and set, then he smiled grimly. ‘That would take a lot of answering,” lie said. “Wait a moment until I decide whether I can tell you.” CHAPTER VIII. Decima waited, her innocent grey eyes on his face with a kind; of troubled patience. He looked beyond her fixedly, with, a grave thoughtfulness, and was silent so long that Declma almost thought that lie had forgotten her; then he looked at her with a grim smile.

“1 have decided that I cannot tell you, Miss—” Ho hesitated. “Deane,” said Decima—“Decima Deane. You have forgotten my name.”

“I had,” he said. “It was unpardonable. But, you see, when a man has need of so much forgiveness, a small shortcoming or -two mure or less scarcely counts. No; I can’t answer your question. Miss Deane. But, ail the same, I should like to make a small statement in my own defence. Every criminal is allowed to crossr-question and palaver before the judge passes sentence, you know.”

“Yes,” admitted Decima. “Very well, then. Shall we sit down? This bank shall serve for dock and bench.” “My brother is waiting for me,” said Decima.

“If I know the angler, he has completely forgotten you by this time,” said Gaunt. “And I will promise not to detain you many minutes. Will you not sit down ? Let me remind you that it will not be the first time we have taken a rest together, and—well, I trust you suffered no harm on the last occasion.” Decima sank down on the mossy bank, and he sat beside her, but not too close. Then he looked at her in an absentminded fashion, and mechamically realised that she wore a white Linen dres, and that the dark-blue bow at her throat was the only spot of colour. From her bow he looked to her eyes, and the depth of their hue struck him at the moment as strangely beautiful. Something in the face, above and beyond its young < loveliness, smote him, as it were, ; softly. Then-, as he turned his eyes i away, he asked himself if it were j worth while to attempt to change > this girl’s—this child’s—estimate of ' liim. Was it worth while? her think him the monster Lady Pauline had no doubt painted him. But Gaunt was in a queer mood that afternoon. Perhaps the sigth the old place in which he had been x>rn, which he had neglected so long, tad told upon him. Perhaps the prl’s innocent frankness and candour lad had their effect. Anyway, he delded to the impulse, and began. 1 (To be Continued.)