Our Novelettes.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1860, 26 February 1892, Page 3

Our Novelettes.

"FINE FEATHERS" Chapter VII. True to his word, Val's uncle get forth on the Tuesday afternom for Blnkley in Kent. It was a hot dusty day, and Pet< r Blunt was always cro»s in hot weathpr. At mid-day the thermometer stood at ninety-fi*e degrees in the shade, and the itinerant venders of penny Japanese fans were driving a roaring trade in the region of the Royal Exchange. But Peter Blunt would no more have thought of inverting a penny in a fan than in a jumping frog or a cheni'le monkey. Before leaving the office he had given one and all of the clerks as sound a rating ss they over hud in their lives. And, to make matters wors", jupt as he was about to depart, ore of his largest cu'tomers dropped in and detained him for nearly half an hour, thereby earning him to lose his trnin and to have half an hour to wait at the Cannon Street Station. So a'together it was a very choleric little old pentlemm who set off to make the acquiintanre of Val's father-in-law that blazing summer afternoon.

The stuffy atmoiphere of the first cla»s carriage did not, tend to improve Mr Blunt's temper, nor did the companionship of two very pretty but frivolous young ladifs, who chatted incessantly about Henly and some lawn-tennis tournament in which the prettier of the two had come off champion. 'What fools women are! B-tter be like the monkevs and hold their tongues. Even if we couldn't make 'em work, we should be the gain-rs,' thought the old gentleman. Blank'ey was not reached as soon as he had anticipated. There was a stoppage on the line, and the train was behind i's time. ' Why can't the man live in a civilised place ? ' he muttered, when at leneth the train steamed into a trim little station at which he wns to alight; and he scowled so fiercely at the ticket -collector that that official, who was indulging in a little pleasantry with the booking-clerk, took him to be no lrss awful a personage than a railway director, and trembled for his future.

Out«ide the station Peter Blunt found himself in a pretty country road, with houses on either side, which stood well back from the road, and which, although modern, were not too new to be picturesque. • On 1 ? of theie, I euppoie,' grunted Val's uncle, 1 oking about him ond mopping his brow. ' About a hundred and twenty to a hundred and fifty a year.' he derided to be the rental of th*m. ' Wouldn't »uit me. AH very well for women and children but too far out for a bu-iness man. Might as well be landed in a citv of the dead '

And indeed at t'-at precise moment there was no living ceature wiihin light. Presently, however, a nursemnd wheeling a perunbulator appeared upon the fcene, and to this damsel Mr Blunt thus addressed himself 'I want the Lturels, young womanperson's name Kendal —d'ye know it ? If you don't, say so at once. I know -vhat women are ■ th.ro's no going straight to the point with 'em. And my time's precious. I'm a business man; and time with me means monev.' ' There's no one of the name of K'ndal lfri"g in this road that I ever heard of,' said the young woman, tossing her head. ' Nor no Laurels neither. And I'd advice you to keep a civil tongue ii your head the next time you stop to make inquiries, old gentleman. Other people's time U quite as precious to them as yours is to you' which indignant retort she wheeled off her juvenile charge), leaving Val's unci J very little wiser than he was before, but very mueh more irare. ' Confound the hus'ies 1 They're not worth their [salt,' he fume 1, stamping hi* foot in impotent rage. ' A pack of lies, I'll be bound. She knew the placo well enough.' Then a postman came to the rescue. 'Kendal?—the Laurels ?' repeated that functionary, who was a very civil young man, and shrewd enough into the bargain to see that hii inteirogator was a moneyed man. ' There is a house called the Laburnum? in this road - Knight is the party's name ' 'Tut, man, what's that to do with me? Kendal, the Laurel', is what I want. Why the deuce can't you give me a straightforward answer? Do you, or don't you, kno* the house I'm looking f« r? ' demanded the irascible old gentleman. ' There's no one of the name of Kendal that I know of, sir, except —' • Except the very person I want,' interpolated Mr Blunt sarcastically. The postman smiled. He was a very amiable post man. 'l'm afraid, sir, the pirty I wis about to mention is not the one you're in search of. The onlv person I know of that name is Mr. Kendal, the nurseryman and flori«t; his place is inthoCrofton Roal. By the way, now I come to think of it, I do believe the place is sometimes called the Laurels. But I'm at ew hand, and all the letters I've delivered there have been addressed plain 'Crofton Road.' You see, every one knows that, ' Kendal, Nurieryraan, Blankley,' would be safe to find him And there's no name painted upon the house. But there's a lot of evergreens in the front, and no doubt the Laurels is tafcen from them. ' Yes, that must be the party jou want, sir, after a'l; only your saying the house was one of theae fogged me for the moment.'

' Hang your impudei ce ! I want no beggarly gardener. The man I want is a gentleman!' 1 Val's uncle. 'What do you meun by telling me about your confounded nurseryman— eh ? ' 1 1 beg your pardon, sir; but I meant no offence,' sail the postman, with unruffled composure. 'An 1 I'm sorry to saj tint's the only Kendal I can give you any information abmt. You are quite sure the gentleman you want lives in thio part, fir? 1 'Of courie I am, young man. My time's too viluable to waste on running on foo's' errands. I should thin l ! a man's ov»n daughter ought to know where he lives.'

•Mr Kendal, the nurseryman, his a daughter,' ventured the postman dubiously. 'No doubt ho has. A buxom red-cheeked wench '

' No, indeed, sir; Miss Kendal i 3 quite a lady,' interrupted the young man. ' She's more the lady both in manners and appearance than many living in theie big houses. But then I've heard say that Mr Kendal married a good bit above liitn. He wai under-gardener in a huh family, and one of the young •r.i9tr< , sseß eloped with him git married the fame dav up in London. The family never look any n »tice of Mrs Kendal from that day to the clay of her death, which happened about two or three ye*rs back. But, bless you, sir, people say thi-re never was a happier counle than theywi're! And, since the poor lady's deith, Mr Kendal has not been like the same man. He has aged terribly ; and, strange to say, he can't bear the sight of his daughter, because she's the very image of her poor mother. At leist that's what I was told by the young person who lives as servant ther*. And she says a nicer youn? lady than Mies Sylvia never lived.' ' Miss what ? ' roared Peter Blunt.

' Miss Sylvia—Miss Kendal, sir. But I'm wasting your time and my own too, sir; so I'll be getting on. I'm sorry I can't help you. I should advise you to inquire in the town. Keep straight down this road, and turn to the

left. Good-day, sir.' ' Stop! Where's this confounded Crofton Road P The town he hanged; I've been swindled—swindled, I tell you. I'll bring an action against the jade ; the marriage shall be annulled. I'll—l'll—why the deuce do you stand staring there, like a gaping idiot, man ? Tell me how I'm to get to jour infernal Crofton Road ?'

' Take the second turning to the right and the first to the left. It isn't more than seven minutes' walk, sir,' said the postman, amiable to the last; and with that he turned in at the gateway of one of the pretty houses, leaving his choleric interlocutor to vent his anger upon some one else. Words utcerly fail to convey an idea of the state of Peter Blunt's mind while wending his way to the abode of Val's plebeian father-in-law. Purple with suppressed rage, he pounded along, looking as though at any moment he might drop down in a fit of apoplexy. He anathematised both Val and Sylvia—Val, for not inquiring into his wife's family affair*, and hunting up her belongings before tying the fatal knot; and Sylvia for having him into making a fool of himself as well as his nephew. ' I wash my hands of the pair of 'em from this very minute,' he muttered fiercely. ' Not a penny more of my money goes to feait and deck out that deceitful minx—not a penny, my lady !' He was fast becoming oblivious of the fact that he had been the means of introducing Val's wife to her husband, and that he, and be only, was entirely to blame for his nephew's marriage. Val's rich unc'e was a most unreasonable old gentleman when he happened to be in the wrong, and he always managed to shift the blame on to some one else's shoulders. In this instance, by the time he had reached the modest abode of the hapless nurseryman, he had succeeded in fully persuading himself that Val had only his own unb'isiness-like self to th'jnk for the unfortunate alliance.

Sylvian home was a pretty cottage, with a latticed porch, a window on eithor side of the door, and three windows above. The porch wag covered with graceful Virginia creeper, and a pair of rustic brackets and a swinging basket, bearing ferns, made the entrance to the little house a perfect bower. Pre'ty Madras mus'in curtains, tied back with Liberty silk, adorned the windows of the down-stairs room?, and the little cottage looked a picture of [neatness, and, <'espite the evidencei of its master's cslling, in the shape of numerous glasshouses {in the background, the abode of a leraon or persons of refinement. Petpr Blunt however saw nothing but the fatal glasshouses. His ferocious aspect gave the trim miid who opened the door to him a sensa'ion, which she afterwarus spoke of t> her sweetheart, the amiable postman, as ' quite a turn.' 'ls your master in, young woman?' demanded the awful old gentleman, glaring up->n the startled dome«tic as though he could eat her.

' Yes, sir—that is to say, he's out at the back. If you'll please to step in, I'll go and tell him he's wanted.'

'And wanted at once, d'ye hear? I can't be kept waiting.' ' What name ?' inquired the girl depreciatingly. 'No name; I'll make my?elf known to your mas'er when I see him. He'll know whom he's talking to quite soon enough.' And Val's uncle smiled with grim enjoyment of that little piece of sarcasm. ' Will you take a seat, sir ? ' ssid Sy'via's w-dl-trained domestic, baring shown Mr Blunt, into the room to the right of the pretty coollooking little hall, which was covered with fresh Indian matting, and the corners of which were filled with rustic fern-stands, whi'e a striped i.wning shaded the doorway that gave access to Sylvia's own little garden.

The room in question was ai dainty an apartment as anybody of refinement an! simple taste could desire. Hand-painted plaques, art-needlework, easy chairs, no two of whieh were alike; a little ebony piano, a violin suspended by ribbons on one of th-i walls which were so tastefully adorned with fang and brackets, and water-oolourg; a wicker-work five o'clock tea-table, a few good knick-knacks, all harmoniously arrmeed, served to make the li'tle room a charming lounsine-plac for any one give Peter Blunt. But for the wealthy founder of the firm Blunt & Day Sylvia's little drawing-room had no attractions. The dr\wing-room at the Pines, with its handsome gilt console-tables, Axminster carpet, magnificent chandelier, bevel-edged mirrors, and gorgeous peacockblue and gold-plush upholstery, was guch a very grand apartment compared with that other little room.

' Mere truniDery, like my lady herself!' was Peter Blunt's verdict as he looked contemptuously about him. 1 A parcel of shams!'

Then Svlv : a's father came into the room, a handsome sad-eyed man six feet in height, and broad in proportion. Richard Kendal as a young man might well h»ve attracted the attention of any woman, for there was nothing vulgar about hire. An honest Saxon, of sober temperate habits and independent ipi-it, he was one of Nature's gent'emen j and his wife had never had cause to be ashamed of him. Nor had Sylvia's mother ever regretted her misalliance. Richard Kendal had loved his lady wife with an unswerving devo'ion that, few wives are b'esspd with after (Ive and-twenty years of wedded life. And, now that she was dead, he refused to be comforted, or to allow the daughter to fiU the mother's place in his heart. His marriage with a lady had been an incentive to him to cultivate hia intellect, and to m-ike himself a fit companion for his wife. Therefore he was essentially a eentleman, and looked one.

' Whom have I the pleasure of addrersing ? ' he B'»H, with a courteous bow to the wrathful little mnn, who confronted him as he entered the room like an enraged turkey-cock. ' Peter BlunS air—the uncle of your daughter's husband j and I've come here to tell you that you and your fine lady daughter are a pair of swindlers, sir! Swindlers, I s»y fraud*, cheats, adventurers! But the marriage ahull be annulled! Not a penny more of my money goes to feast and deck out my lady ! I've been duped once ; and ' once bit twica shy !' Madam will soon find out. her mi-take! She's not landed a very big fish after all! Mv nephew's income isn't enough to keep himself! I've made my money, sir, and I've something bet'cr 'o do with it than squander it on a deceitful hus 'Slop, Mr Blunt!' You are speaking of mv daughter—and a lady! ' Ri -hard K°ndal spoke wth a culm dignity that made him master of the situation. ' I do not understand you. You talk of my daughter's marriage as though it had already takan place, when—' ' Hang it all, it has taken place ! Oh, never fear; she's hooked him fast enough ! And she'll live to rue yesterday morning's work, as sure as mv name's Peter Blunt!' stormed the infuriated old man. 'She won't talk much about her ti'led friends now. She'll learn to find her 'level. No more brag about coun'esses and all that humbug!' ' Mr Blant, unless you moderate your language, I must refuse to listen to you, and wish you good day,' said Richard Kendal, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking down upon Val's uno'e with cold i grave eyes. ' Have you sought this interview merely for the purpose of abusing me and my a ughter F If eo, the eooner we end it the

better for us both. From what you say, I t»ke it that you accuse my daughter of having deceived your nephew as to her social landing. You imagined her to be——' ' Some'b in g that she's not, s : r—a woman of position ! Not a gardener's daughter.' 1 The mother of my child, Mr Blunt, was ' a woman of position * —a lady in every sense of the term—yet she was never ashamed of being my wife. And I cannot sea tW your nephpw has cause to be ashamed of having married mv daughter, since her mother was nnt ashamed to marry me. It is true I am, comparatively speaking, a poor man. Since my wife's death I have had no heart to work, and the severe winters we have had for the ptst two years have occasioned me great losses. But Sylvia has a little income of her own—fifty pounds a year—that her mother left her; thereforo '

' She puts it all upon her back, to hoodwink honest people into the belief that she's an heiress and an aristocrat to the finger-ends!' broke in Peter Blunt, giving full vent to his fury. 'What do you suppose my nephew married her in such a hurry for ? I'll tell you, sir. Valentine St Lawrence married your daughter for money to pay his debts, sir —that's why he married her—and, when he hears what a fool she's made of him, a (pretty 'cene there will be! Oh, a very nice life they'll lead! And it's no more than she deserves, a deceitful, dressed-out ' Richard Kendal walked to the door and opened it. ' I wish you good day, Mr Blunt. I will write to your nephew, but I decline to hold any further conversation with you in your present mood. [ will only say that, had I tusppo'ed your nephew's motire for marrying my daughter, I should never have permitted the marriage to take place. My trouble has mide me selfish, and I see now [that I have been very much to blame in this matter. I have neglected my duty as a parent—shamefully neglected it! But Sylvia was always so capable and clever—'

' Ah, very clever indeed, sir,' sneered Yal's uncle —' mighty clever! I Jquite agree with you there; but olerer people sometimes outwit theminlves.'

And with tint the exasperated old man strode out of the house, slamming the door behind him with such violence that the pots of ferns were shikeu off their rustic brackets and broken.

'Heaven forgive me and help'my child! ' cried Richard Kendal, dropping down into one of Salvia's pretty chairs, and covering his face with his hands. ' Oh, my wife, I have betrayed your trust! But, when rou died, my heart was burie 1 with you ! It is not in me to love even our child, for all my life was hound up in you ; and, when you left me, I died 'o all the world ! That is my only plea for the Ketrayal of your trust! I am lost without you, my wife, my hea-t!'—and the strong man wept aloud in his agony. Chapteb VIII. It was not until Thursday morning that Peter Blunt's letter to his nephew was delive'ed at the hotel at Lynford. Val and Sylvia were a"; breakfast in their pleasant private sitting-room hen the'r letters were brought in to them. were two for Svlvia, and thr.'e for her hugband. ' What a budget! ' said Val, drawing his share towards him. ' Ah, that's from the old hoy! I should know his fist amongst a thousand. TKs Oh, I know! Who ihe dickens?' he muttered, kn : tting his hrows; and, puzzled a* to the identity of the third correspondent, he opened that letter first. But, turning to the signature and seem? that his unknown correspondent was only his wife's father, —a vprr unintpresting individual in his opinion - Val laid the letter down agsi n , and took up his uncle's. He was anxious to know the re'ult of Peter Blunt's visit to Rlanklev

Stlrn wag quietly p a rsuinar one of h«r own letters with a set pile face, which her hmband cou'd not see because she had moved her chair, so that her back was towards bim. Her letter too was in Peter Blunt's crude handwriting ; but, although its contents had power to make her face as white as the dainty gown sh« wore, she was keenly alive to her husband's slightest audible movement.

Why did he sppak P The suspense was tortn-e. B»t she went on reading those cutting Cfnel taunts and gibes that Peter Blunt had penned until she came to the bitterest »nd cruellest of them all. Could it be true ? Had this man she called husband really married her in order that she, wh >m he supposed to be a rich woman, might pay his dxbtg ? Heaven h?lp her if it wrre so ! She read no farther. She heard the wash of the waves as they beat upon the shingly strand, the ticking of the clock the rustle of the rage that Vol turned; not a sound was lost upon her, because she was listening with every nerve strung to the utmost tension for the words of condemnation that she knew her husband would surely speak and sbe had every right to expect.

So little did she know of her husband's nature that she vaguely wondered what form h ; 8 anger would take. Would be storm at her and give full vent to the rage he was now retraining, or merely have recourse to that cruel weapon in the use of which he had on one or two occasions shown himself to be a pa«t master —sarcasm ? She heard bim push back his chair. Her heart seemed almost to stand still.

' I shall not be back to luncheon, so don't wait for me,' was all he said.

Then he left the room, closing the door after him. For several minutes Sylvia fat motionless Where had he gone ? Would he ever come back to her? What, oh, what did that ominous restraint he put upon himself portend ? She knew be had never loved her, that it was Lilian Ffrench he loved. Mrs Ri 1 He had made her aware of the latter fact n-1 an hour after her marriage. But sbe had never once suspected him of mercenary motives in seeking to make her his wife.

' Poor vain fool that I was tod«em my face a sufficient fortune for Valentine St Lawrence!' Ihe said, rising to her feet and pressing her ice-cold hanris to her tuples ' What will be the pnd of it all? it mean lifelong ruin for him and for me ? '

Ht eyes fell upon Peter Blunt'a lotter to her husban l,j which lay upon the carpet. Val had flung it down when he reached the bottom of the second pit;?, and f#fc his heel upon it.. Sylvia, stooped and pic'<ei it up. She might as well read it. It could not add to her shame and misery. So she went through all the three cruil page*, not missing a single line; then she too left the room, and, sroing to her bedroom, put on her hat, and five minutrs later Yal'g wifo had set out in s«arch of him. ' We are married, and we mu«t make the best of each other if we are to pass our lives together,' she told her elf, when the fresh sea-breeze had cooled her head, and she was her sensible capable self again. ' Oh, of what avail is it, after all, to be very deeply in love with one's husband? In nine cses out of ten it leads only to disappointment. A man, after mirriage, very soon grows tired of playing the lover to his wife. Even the best of husbands a>-e not quite what they were as lovers To look well to the wiya of her household is the best thing a woman can do, if she would retain her husband's affection. And at least I can make Val St Lawrer.ce a good and economic il housekeeper

( To be continued.)