“THE MISCHIEF MAKER”

Manawatu Times, Volume 60, Issue 246, 18 October 1935, Page 9

“THE MISCHIEF MAKER”

(By ALAN GREY)

Instalment 13.

“Jimmy, do run up Und see ii Michael is all right.” It was not difficult to read her train of thought, and Jimmy, though he roared in great amusement, needed nc second blddipg. If the truth were told, he was looking forward to giving Michael the benefit of his wide experience In the treatment of thiefc heads. As he had expected, Michael wae still sleeping soundly. A gentle shake proved quite ineffective, so Jimm; tried rougher methods. Even so, 1 was some time before Michael became conscious of the aggravating disturbance and tried to frown it away. “ Wake up, Michael, wake up 1’ roared Jimmy, and Michael opened lib eyes and blinked at him stupidly. “ How's the head?” Jimmy waited with delighted anticipation for the groan, but Michael only stared. “Head? What head?” he muttered drowsily. “What head Well, I.ask you. Yours, you old rip; your delightfully mu2zy old head.” “What's up with my head?’ grumbled .Michael, still half asleep. “Ah I k That’s more like it. I know the feeling weir enough.” Michael stared at him blankly. “My head’s all right. What the dickens are you raving about?” It was Jimmy who groaned for the sad waste of sympathy. “ Do you mean to say you feel perfectly all right? No head-ache? Nc lime-kiln throat? You don’t want to drink your hath-water? Well, I’m damned. You must be a bally robot, if- I’d been as sozzled as you were last night . . . . ” “ Sozzled 1 What on earth do you mean?” And not till then did it dawn on Jimmy—he had quite overlooked his own diagnosis—“not drunk, bul drugged.” But Michael \Vas beginning to remember things. He stared at the grinning Jimmy in alarm, “llow did I get here? I don’t remember coming to bed last night. I was waiting for you!' Uncle in the library.” “ That’s where we found you.” “We?" Michael's aldrm grew tenfold. “Margaret saw me?” "Um." Jimmy’s tone was most aggravatingly casual. “We had to carry you up to bed.” “ Margaret thought—look here, Jimmiy you said just now I was sozzled last night. Does Margaret know? Does she believe I was—” “Drunk?" supplied Jimmy, helpfully. “Why, yes, blind drunk; paralytic in fact.” lie had to laugh then at the look of blank despair on Michael’s face. Margaret would put him out of his misery soon enough; meanwhile, it was all very amusing. “ Don’t worry too much, old man," he advised, sagely, and proceeded to rub in salt. “ Margaret’s waiting for you._ I believe she has a few words to say. 1 won't spoil it for her. Stiff uper lips, old man, face the music and all that sort of rot. I’ll tell her you'll be down in two ticks.” Chuckling to hiniself Jimmy ran down the stairs two at a time. "lie’s all right,” nb told Margaret. “ When I let hint know you were waiting here for him—er-—well, he simply leapt out of bed and made a dive for the bathroom. I do hope he remembers to wish his neck.” lie had no sooner given Margaret this reassuring information when his own affairs suddenly forced themselves upon him with •decided unpleasantness. Sir Timothy Standisii sent for him, and for an hour he remained closettcd with his Uncle. When he came out, the merry grin he usually wore was missing. Indeed lie had the look of a man who is swearing hard under his breath. In the hall ho ran into Michael, and would have passed with no more than a quick nod; but Michael stopped him. “ Whete’s Margaret? Have you seen her?” “ Margaret,” repealed Jimmy, •* No idea. She’s somewhere about, 1 expect.”. He jammed on his hat violently, and strode out. In a little over half an hour, he was doing the last .100 yards to Arden Woodside station in flno style. He lost a perfectly good hat in the struggle; he had no -time to gel his ticket, but he caught his train very neatly—by the last handrail on the last compartment. Meanwhile, at Arden Hall Michael had given up looking for Margaret. She \Vas avoiding him, and it was not difficult to understand why. How was he to know that the thrill of the coming reconciliation had driven her t<r run away frdm it simply to make it all the more wonderful? Michael must search for her. He would come to her a little crest-fallen perhaps. Her surrender would he the more complete, her confession of blame the more extravagant. But Jimmy had given him no hint of this. He could only judge that she was too disgusted to face him. If he followed and found her, what could he say? -He could tell.her of the con-, elusion lie had come to, that her father had deliberately drugged him to try to make him appear a dt’unken sot? It was too much to expect her to believe that. Far bettfer to offer no excuses at all, but just respect her desire for solitude. Later, perhaps, there might be an opportunity of clearing himself without bringing Sir Timothy into it. He set off through the park and out along the lane to the Vicarage. And there he found Simon Quaile pacing the lawn with hands behind his back. “ Ah, my dear boy.” The old man's face brghtened as Michael came in through Hie wicket gate. “ Martha has turned me out. She wants to clean my study, bless her. I won’t be able to And anything for a week." He could see at -once that something was wrong, so he talked on merrily for some minutes. Michael took his arm, and they sauntered up and down the lawn. The expected silence came. “Is everything well at the Hall?” asked Simon gently. “ Oh, quite, thanks.” “ Margaret well?" “ Yes, quite, well,”. Michael hesitated, and then took the opening with characteristic direotness. “ 1 came to talk about Margaret and mo. I must know the truth, sir. You remember you spoke of something that might come between Us." “I'm glad you have asked," said the old man quietly. “It would ha.vo 1

if been hard otherwise, arid I tiiirilf you ought to know. I have been teriipted n to keep you in Ignorance and take e the responsibility, but I have no right o to decide for you, even though the ■e decision may bC painful for you, my - boy-” . „ e “If it has to do with Margaret, k said Michael quickly, “I may as well say now that nothing, nothing on l 0 earth will'make me give her up.” e “Dear boj, I know." Simon Quaile iy sighed heavily. it “ Then what does it matter?” ,e “It will make it harder for you? - Michael. I am putting a high wall in your way.” ” "An odd wall more or less won’t Is make a great deal of difference,” said Michael, gloomily. Simon Quaile sat down upon an old - stone seat beneath a laburnum bush :1 and drew Michael down beside him. “ Have you ever wondered about d your father?” he asked. • The question took Michael comi. pletely by surprise, but he unswered y at once: “No, I haven’t, or at least only ” vaguely. I suppose I ought to have done, but 1 have never thought of v him as real." Michael always jibbed at the idea of displaying sentiment. He would q have liked to add, “ I never wanted any father but you.” But Simon c Quaile understood, and gave bis arm a gentle squeeze; _ 1 “He was In many ways a very fine 0 and courageous man. You must have o heard of the famous Jenny Gordon.” n “ The explorer?” t “He was your father.” e ' “My father! But how could he be? My name isn't Gordon.” u “It is. Michael Sinding Gordon. „ Sinding was your mother’s name, d They were not happy together, Michael. It was no one's fault; just . a mistake. They were quite und suited to each other. He was a man v of commanding nature and strong , r possessive instincts; your mother, a very lovely ahd gentle creature, resented his primitive nature. She did not understand him. Eventually he left her, and two years later died in ' Tibet. Y’oUr mother was then living . in Cornwall. ■ She had adopted her 0 own name again, and everyone thought Mrs Sinding was a widow. But she told me. You see, I loved her, 3 Michael. We were to have married, l but God willed it otherwise." Michael was silent. This quiet revelation of tragedy, because it was so quiet, and the sudden realisation of the deep love that had been given to (. him all thoso years, rose before him like a wave and swept, him a.way '■ headlong. All he could do was to seize the hand on, his shoulder and grip it hard. i “He gave me you, Michael,” said j Simon Quaile, In his husky whisper, and, looking Into his 'eyes, Michael . marvelled at the serene beauty that f shone there so steadfastly. • i “I’m sorry, sir, I—l wish It, 'had | been you—that you were really my father." “ I could ask for no greater joy than you have been to me,” said Simon Quaile, simply. " But I am ' shrinking. There is something else, ‘ the part which is harder to tell. Your ' father came to slay with Edmund ; Bailee before he departed on what was ' to he his last expedition. Sir Timothy , Standish had been married just a year : to Bailee’s sister. Your father met 5 her arid was constantly up at the Hall. No one knows the whole truth of that story. But there can be no doubt ho } fell madly in love with her. After sho ’ went Sir Timothy became a changed , man.” * ' “ She ran away with my father?" demanded Michael, in a strained voice. “ That is what was said at the , time,” said Simon, very gently. “But no on except Sir Timothy knows the real truth. He found his wife dying ‘ In London some years later. All that is known is this. Edmund Baike was leaving for India. Your father trans--1 ferred his things to the Inn at Little Arden. And then Lady .Standish vanished, and the day after your father 100 disappeared. Nothing more was 1 heard of them till the news of ills ; death a year later. And shortly after ; that Sir Timothy found his wife dying ' of starvation iri a London attic.” [ There was a long silence, and then ’ Michael spoke through tightly clenced teeth: . “So that was__it?" Simon Quaile "ached for him. He , could see that he was badly hit. He ; knew Michael’s way of taking nasty ’ medicine. | “What will you do?” he asked, . with the purpose of driving Michael to j face the issue once and for all, for , now if ever, he could help and strengthen him in the light. Michael | must not be allowed to light alone. | “ What will you do " he repeated. “ I don’t know. I don’t know," in . MUer desperation. “I’ve got to ■ think; to sort it all out.” “ You can hold your peace or you I can go .to him and tell him." “ I’ve got to think,” said Michael, as . though he had not heard. “ My father , stole his wife. I want to lake Mar- , garet. Oh, my God, it’s hard.” . “ Only you can decide whether to . tell him or not.” “Tell him! Oh! I’ve got to tell ’ him,” said Michael harshly. “I know ■ that. But it's going to be —he’ll ■ want to strangle me, and I don’t blame him." “Dear boy, dear boy!” Simon Quaile put his arm about Michael’s should- : ers and hugged him tightly. "Courage, Michael! Courage always wins.” “ Sorry to make such an ass of myself.”" Michael achieved a ghost of a smile. “ I can’t and won’t give Margaret up.” “In spite of Sir Timothy ” “ Oh, I know it seems like kicking a man when he’s down, lie’s gone through it. ohce. I hate the idea of hurting him again. But Margaret must come first." “And what of Margaret? You riiuSt tell her." And how Michael faced the worst. What of Margaret indeed? Knowing the truth, could she even bring her-, self to deal her father such a blow? Not tender-hearted Margaret; no, she would suffer and sacrifice her own happiness rather than that. “ Yes, of course, I must tell her,” said Michael, with a crispness that veiled black misery. “ Slit) shall decide.”