“THE MISCHIEF MAKER”

Manawatu Times, Volume 60, Issue 276, 22 November 1935, Page 9

“THE MISCHIEF MAKER”

fed to her. i “We might have the piano in.. Il could play to you. Why ever didn’t I think of it before? ” • -] Sir Timothy had not heard her. He, was staring beyond her at the movement of the curtains. “ Shall we have it moved in to-; morrow? ’’ Titus was coming. He was beginning to oreep across the room towards the unsuspecting girl, knife; pointing downwards from half-raised arm.

Margaret saw only a strange deadness and lack.of response. “ You would like It, wouldn’t you, father? ” < Titus was half-way across the room. Sir Timothy fought with his, crippled body like a madman. A ton weight pressed down upon him. Hts limbs might have been crushed to pulp for all the feeling there was in them. His tongue seemed to have swollen till it filled his whole mouth and throat; it was choking him. Titus was close behind her. In a second his arm would go up, the murderous knife would descend on her warm, white, living nook. “ God, " he prayed. “ Oh, God in heaven, if there is a God, give me strength. ” No soul ever cried in greater desperation to its maker. “G0d!.... Godi G0d!.... hear me I " Titus was tensing for the spring. “God!” the crushing chains that bound Sir Timothy snapped as if they had been gossamer. A queer strangled noise came from his throat. Titus sprang, and in the same instant Sir Timothy rolled over and out of bed, thrusting Margaret violently aside. It was over in a flash. The knife that was meant for Margaret struck savagely into Sir Timothy's breast just below the shoulder, and the blade snapped off short. In the last moment of consciousness his mind cried out to Margaret and —miracle of God, wondrous miracle —he heard his own voioe take up the words:" Run, child—runt” A confused babel of sounds, rushing and scuffling, voloes raised in strife or terror, the sound of blows, a heavy thud and Sir Timothy knew no more. CHAPTER XXIX. Margaret stood at the study window and watched the pale light of dawn filtering through a mist-laden sty. It seemed strange that the sun should ever rise again; Foolish thought. It. would go on for ever, rising and setting—rising and setting on a world where such things could Happen. t . She knew the worst now. let she sould not cry. She seemed drained sf the power to feel anything but her }wn vast Insignificance. Her own life; her own desires, her own sor'Ows dwindled into nothing before the •ealisation of the one thing, the one iwe-inspiring thought: “He gave his He for me.” Her lips formed the ,vords in silence, “He gave his life for ne." “He is conscious now ” She had not heard Dr. Hake enter. she turned quickly, her lips asking the question she dared not utter. But ae understood. "Yes, his speech has returned, but tie is very weak. I’m afraid, Miss Standish—l'm afraid." “I know. Y’es —I know.” “He may hold out a day or two. Or it may be only a matter of hours. He Has the will to live. That’s all that s aolding him." He turned away from her and blew lis nose violently. “I’ll go to him," said Margaret. “Yes, you may. He asked for you. Well, I must go now. There is notli.ng more I can do. I’ll call again luring the morning." Margaret noticed then how tired he looked. She thought of the tremendous battle he had fought to save a life for a few hours longer, a battle against overwhelming odds. . ' She lauglit, his hand and pressed it, not •.rusting herself lo speak. He patted icr hand gently and turned to go. Margaret opened the door of the slok-robm and stole softly in. Sir Timothy saw her at once. Hte lips were moving. She heard the whispered sigh: “Margaret," came and knelt beside him, placed her cool lands on his wasted cheeks and kissed him adoringly, reverently. She fancied he tried to turn his head uvay. ' "I have something to tell you.” His voice was low and very feeble. Though she expected that, it shocked ler beyond words. "Not now, dear, not now'." The ghost of a wan smile flickered across his pale features. “The end is not far. There is much to be said." “Shall 1 leave you?” asked the nurse. Again the faint smile. "Thank you, Nurse.” She left the room, and Margaret was alone with her father. "You have asked me about your mother,” be began. “I am going to tell you—all.” Nevmr had he undertaken such a difficult task. And he knew it. Always there was the temptation to keep something back, just that little; the little unsaid that would leave her compassionate, that would spare him the final drop of pain; the little told that would make her recoil from him as from something unspeakably loathsome.

He kept to the narrow and difficult mil), not excusing, not. explaining, but imply baring the taint of his soul for icr to see.

“Jimmy was unstable, be had weak spots in his character. I encouraged his self-indulgence, his looseness, and 'lnally packed him off as a remittance man, believing he would sink. I • rought. him homo to marry you—he .vonld at least have kept some sernInnce to a gentleman. He has surprised me. I thank God for it. Then your Michael came on the scene. I could have broken the affair. But I learnt who he was, and for a few minutes 1 think 1 must have been insane. . .”

Tiie hardest of ail to tell, but Sir Timothy went through with if to the end. lie told of his visit to Michael’s

(By ALAN GREY)

Instalment 28. 1

studio, and of all that awaited him on his return. , jt was done. He could die now in peace. Yet there was one thing more. ~ “I would like Jimmy to know. There was a long silence. It persisted till he could bear it no longer. He forced himself to look at her, at Margaret, his daughter. She stood rigid, looking fiercely into space, Her hands were pressed tightly together, , her arms forced straight down as' though thrusting something away

from her. There was no escaping the dreadtui horror of it: —Jimmy’s father _ condemned to waste his life away in an asylum; her mother's suffering and death; Michael and herself —it did not bear thinking of.” Forgive? How could she ever forgive? Would forgiving bring her back he mother? Would it bring Edmund Raike baok to life?. Would it wipe out the awful stain? There was a sigh from Sir Timothy, a pitiful sigh, like the sigh of an ailing child. She looked and saw his pleading eyes. He was dying. He had given his life for her. More than any, he had suffered. Something stronger than herself took hold of her. She dropped beside him and hurled her face in the pillow next to his, close, her cheek soft and smooth against his, and broke into passionate weeping. “Father! —my poor father 1" For long minutes they remained so. Margaret had ceased to ory. There were no words now they could speak. All had been said. His fingers feebly stroked her'hair. She stirred at last and kissed him on the lips, on the eyes, on the forehead. “God has been good to me," he murmured, and a few moments later sank into a gentle sleep. Presently there was a tap on the door. It was the nurse. She at once persuaded Margaret to try and get a little rest. “He will sleep on now, I think,”, she said reassuringly. “But if there is any change, I will send for you at once.” Margaret did not expect to sleep, but jaded youth will have its way. It was ten o’clock when she awoke. She made a hasty toilet and went at once to the sick-room. But there was no change. Sir Timothy still slept or peacefully. In the morning-room James brought hot coffee and toast. She noticed the bandage round his wrist and, was filled with conoern. In the stress of anxiety she had forgotten James and his terrific meleo with an infuriated madman. James, Indeed, had been superb. No one would have suspected that his thoroughly domesticated hand could, in emergency, deal a knock-out blow any boxer might have envied. “It’s nothing, Miss Margaret,” said James; with a modesty he, was far from feeling. "The, edge of his knife caught me as I landed him one. A scratch, that’s all," —but, lest that should be taken too literally, “Dr. Hawke dressed it for me,” he added. “You were splendid, James. I can never thank you enough." , “I am glad I was handy, Miss Margaret. Who’d have thought it, him going off it sudden like that? And going for you of all people. He didn't know what he was doing, that's about it." “What have, they clone with him?" she asked quickly. “Wetherton Asylum,” said James. “Poor Titus 1 Poor faithful old friend 1” The wistful note In her voice, her compassion, came very near to shocking James, Under -ordinary circumstances he would never have dreamed of criticising his mistress, much lesf of expressing reproach. But this was no ordinary occasion. “He’s done harm enough. Miss Margaret, harm enough. When I think of the master, Sir Timothy, lying the,re and like to —" emotion threatened to disintegrate the artificial crust deposited by years of honourable servitude. “Thirty years have 1 been with him, Miss Margaret. Thirty years and never a hard word that wasn’t deserved. I don’t say he wasn’t hard to please, but he was always fair and Just. No man could wish for a better master. It was always? ‘Will you oblige me, James,’ anil when it was done. I’ve never known him miss his quiellike ‘Thank you, James.’” His loquacity suddenly left him. He murmured a quick, “Your coffee will be going cold, Miss Margaret," and retired to the kitchen to recount for the third time lo an appreciative audience every thrilling detail of his single-handed battle with a raging madman. .Margaret, a little refreshed by the coffee, felt the need of cool fresh air. She must get away from the house if only for a little, while. Only under the open sky with the whisper of the wind around her and the twitter of the birds, could she find herself again and bcgiii to think clearly. As she was going out she met the Vicar, white,-haired old Parson Quaile, arriving. He had been coming every day for three or four days to spend an hour with Sir Timothy, and Sir Timothy seemed glad to see him. As a rule he came in the afternoon. But the news had reached the village. He had come as soon as /ie heard It. lie had nothing to teU Margaret, how--1 ever. "I wrote to Basil,” he said, trying to keep the bitter disappointment out of his voice, “I had hoped he inigh* help, but—but lie lias not replied." Margaret passed on into the park.

Thoughts drifted through her mind like wandering leaves driven past in the wind. She could not control them, nor direct them. It was ‘a

broken panorama of memory rather than active, thought. Here Michael had walked with her. Here he had told her the sad history of her mother, that part of it that was so cruelly untrue. Hero in this spot? Could it really have happened? It seemed more like a vivid memory of a previous existence. She came to the edge of the shrub.besry,• to the turtle of a. fallen tree. Here Michael had sworn a solemn oath that no power on earth should tear them apart; here she had answer-

ed him, her heart surrendering all, borne., father, the whole world if need be, to his love.