OUR SERIAL STORY HER DEAREST WISH.

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume I, Issue 89, 28 March 1911, Page 9

OUR SERIAL STORY HER DEAREST WISH.

(Continued.) At that moment—why she knew not —she thought of Lord Gaunt. If he were only here to help her, advise her. But he was not there; he might be thousands of miles away. She was alone and helpless. Mershon eyed her covertly. He knew that she was struggling, -but he knew that there was no loophole in the net that he had drawn round her. “What do you say?” he asked at last. Decima seemed to wake as if from a dream, and turned her eyes upon, him with a half-dazed, halfappealing gaze. “Why should you hesitate?” he asked again. “You said the other night that you didn’t dislike me. 1 don’t expect you to love me, but I dare say you will like me well enough to be my wife. All the rest will come after we are married; it generally does. Anyhow, I’ll chance it. Give me your answer. Say ‘yes,’ Decima, and 1 will go straight in and tell your father and brother that they needn’t worry themselves any mor eabout this miserable business. Your father can go on playing about making his fortune at inventions, and your brother can go into the army and: be a general in tame. Only say the word, and leave the rest to me.” There was silence in the room, broken only by the faint croak of the jackdaw as be preened bis feathers. The slim, girlish figure, with the while face and dark-rimmed eyes, leaned by the window. Her heart was like lead, and beat slowly, heavily, as if it were imprisoned by a i hand of ice. To save them, the dear ones! “Weil,” he said, “what is your answer?” Her hands clenched at her side, the martyr’s look came into her eyes. “I must—l must!” she breathed. •Yes.”

CHAPTER XXIII. •‘Yes,’’ Decima said; and almost inaudible as the word was, it sent the blood rushing to Mershon’s face. He took a step towards her, with ! outstretched hands, as if to take her | in his arms; but something in her ! face, as she shrank back, arrested I him. There was almost a look of i terror in her eyes, and she went pare I to the lips, which formed the nionoI syllable “No.” I The colour died from Mershon’s | cheek, and his arms fell to his sides, ; a-s he stood looking at her irresolutei iy. But he was very much in love, ! and he was wise enough to know that I half a loaf is better than none. Bej sides, she had not told him that she ’ loved him, but had simply promised Jto be his wife. And he must be ‘ content with that—for a time. ! “You have made me very happy, ! Dec ima,” he said. “I’ve always got ! what I wanted all through life, and : my luck hasn’t deserted me; it’s not I a bad thing to marry a lucky man, my dear.” Decima winced at the “my dear,” and shrank back a little further. She was confused and bewildered, and the j predominant feeling at that moment was the desire that he would go—if ! he would only go and leave her alone ! to get her breath, as it were! “You’d better leave me to tell your father and brother,” he said. “1 dare say they wouldn’t be very much astonished; any one could have seen that I’d fallen in love with you. Yes, I’ll toll them.” “Thank you,” she answered, almost gratefully; for she shrank, from the thought of having to tell them. He stood still looking at her irresolutely; then he took her hand halffearfully and touched it with his lips, which burned against the coldness of her hand. When he had gone, Deci ma looked i at her hand vacantly, as if it did not ! belong to her; then she sank on to j one of the cages, and sat staring beI fore her, trying to lealise that she • was going to be Theodore Mershon’s ■ wife. Her very innocence prevented her realising fully what it meant. Lady Pauline’s system of perfect ignorance was hearing its fruit. If Decima had known as much as other girls I that whispered ‘Yes’ would have been I impossible. i But all she shrank from was the ; thought of leaving The Woodbines ; and her father, and going to live in ; the society of Mr Mershon and his sister at The Firs. She would have to be with him always, to go with him wherever he went; to live in the great new house, the splendour of which oppressed her; to spend long houra listening to Mrs Sherborne’s praise of her brother. This was all that presented itself to her imagination; but it was enough. Only one thought consoled her—that she would still be near her ! father, and that she would’ be able | to see him often; that she had saved him and Bobby from ruin, and that Bobby’s future was assured. After a time she went up to her own room. She caught sight of her ■ face in the glass, and its expression startled her. A knock at the door sent her hand to her heart; and she turned round with a look in her eyes, almost of terror, as if she dreaded to see Mr Mershon. But it was Bobby. “Decima!” he cried half anxiously, and yet with something like relief in his voice; “is this true—that Mershon has been telling us?” She stood with her back to '.he light, and he could not see '-e distinctly, or it wu;--ld ha*e i*. :: tale. “Y-<-. it is tree. Bobhv,” sh. • a ; and she managed- heiven only k:> ws ’iow—to force a smile a speak cheerJ fully

“Well,” he exclaimed, “it’s taken my breath away. I hadn’t the least idea! But I suppose it’s been going on since I’ve been away.” “Yes,” she faltered, “while you’ve been away.” He looked at her still a little doubtfully, and began to pace up and down.

“It seems sudden to me, all the same,” he said. “I didn’t think—” He bit his lip. “But, after all, Mershon’s not a bad fellow. He’s improved—l—l—beg your pardon, Decie; Ido indeed! But it’s the truth; he has improved. He has behaved like a brick over this affair of the company. He must be a good fellow at heart, or—he would have cut up rough. And then see how fond his sister is of ham! And—and—Decie, I’ve come to congratulate you.” “Thank you, Bobby,” she answered very slowly. “Of course, he isn’t worthy of you,” he said, hurriedly. “I don’t know a man in the world who is, except—” He stopped and coloured, and Deci ma knew—how, she could not have told—that the unspoken name was Gaunt. The blood rushed to her face then left it pale again. “You’ll be very rich, Decie,” he said, “and he simply worships the ground you tread on. I could see that while he was telling us. He has gone off like a man half beside himself with joy.”

“And father?” inquired Decima in a low voice.

Bobby laughed shortly. “Oh, father’s very gliad; it’s cheered him up wonderfully. .Besides, Mershon told him that he thinks he can see a way to save a greater portion of the money—something about foreign patents; 1 don’t quite understand.”

But Decima did, and she turned her head away. He looked at her still a little uneasily, then he went to her and took her hand.

“Look here, Decie,” he said. “You iare glad, arn’t you? You are doing this of your own free will? It's what you want?” Her lijis quivered, but she forced a smile upon them, and met his anxious gaze steadily. “1 am doing it of my own free will —yes Bobby.’ He dropped her hand and drew a breath of relief.

“That’s all right, then!” he cried. “I only asked because—because it is so sudden.”

He stood with his hands thrust in his pockets and* looked out of the window, and she went up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, and laid her cheek upon his short, wavv hair.

“You will work hard for your examination, Bobby, won’t you?” she said in a low pleading voice. “Yes, yes,” 'he replied, a little hoarsely. “1 must go back tomorrow’ morning, and I’m going to grind away Like anything.” “And—and, Bobby, you won’t be extravagant.” She felt him wince, and ho still kept his face turned from her. “No, no ; that’s all over !” He bit his lip. “I mean that I will' be very careful. Ix>ndon’s a deuce of a place, and—and the money melts away before you know where you are.” He laughed uneasily. “I am going in for retrenchment and reform, as the political chaps say; I’m going to be a model young man, Decie.”

“Thank you, Bobby 1” ®he murmured, gratefully. He turned suddenly and caught her in his arms and kissed her; then he put her away as suddenly, and hurried out of 7 the room.

Mr Mershon walked back to The Firs treading on air. No success he had ever made had effected him as this did. He went straight to Ins sister’s boudoir, and flinging his cap on a chair, smiled down at her where she sat with some needle-work. She half rose nervously, then drew back and gazed up at him enquiringly. He laughed stridently and pushed ihe hair from liis forehead.

“I’ve got her!” he said.- “I've come to tell you the news. Decima has promised to be my wife.” Her lips parted, but she said nothing. “Don’t you understand?” he demanded. “Why do you gape at me as if I’d said: the world was coming to an end? I telil you, Decinia Deane is going to be my wife. She has just accepted me. Well, can’t you speak ?’ ’ “I—l am so glad,” she stammered. “I congratulate you, Theodore, and I hope—you will be happy.” ‘‘Hope! ’’ He laughed and sneered at her. “Of course I shall be happy. I always am when I get what I want, and God knows I want her badly enough. Happy! What man wouldn’t be happy with the loveliest, sweetest girl in all the world forr his wife? For heaven’s sake,” he broke off angrily, “don’t sit there and stare at me as if I were some kind of monster at a fair!” “I—l am only surprised, Theodore,” She said nervously. “I didn’t think that she—l mean—” “I don’t care what you mean 1” he exclaimed scavagely. “But what do vou mean ? Is it so very wonderful that she should accept me. like me, care for me—yes, love me? Am I hunchbacked, deformed, old? What is there so surprising in it that you turn as white as a sheet, and gape at me?” “I—l didn’t mean to, Theodore,” die said. “It’s—it’s a good match for her.” He was leaving the room, but he turned upon her savagely. “What the devil do you mean by that? I suppose you mean to insinuate that she’s marrying me foamy money? Is that it?” She was frightened by his violence., and visibly cowered in her chair. “No, no; why should I, Theodore.” she answered. (To be Continued.)