LOVE, THE TYRANT.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVII, Issue 11541, 28 November 1900, Page 3

LOVE, THE TYRANT.

BY CHARLES GAB VICE, Author .of " The Shadow of Her Life,"-"A Heritage of Hate," " Nell of Shorne Mills," " Heart for Heart," "By Devious Ways," " Just A Girl," " On Love's Altar," " Queen Kate," " The Out • cast cf the Family," "She Trusted Him," " Once in a Life," " Better Than Life." Etc., Etc., Etc.

CHAPTER XII. The Towers seemed rather dull after Mr. Selby Layton had gone. Miss Worcester deplored his absence openly, and Esther missed his wonderful voice in the evenings. She paid and received visits amongst her neighbours, but she did not know enough of them yet to be friendly, and the time hung heavy on her hands. She did riot go near jtiie home farm for a couple of days; but that did not prevent her from thinking of Mr. Gordon, and the more she thought the more annoyed with herself she became. .On the third day she met him quite by accident as she was walking across the end of the home farm. Ho was on the colt, but the horse was at a standstill, and its rider was looking rather moodily over the wide stretch of grass land before him. Esther came quite close up to him before he saw her, then he raised his hat as if he expected her to pass on. Esther would like to nave done so, but she stopped as if she couldn't help it. " Good morning, Mr. Gordon," she said. " You look like Napoleon surveying a battlefield. Is anything the matter? Isn't the grass growing to your liking?" " Oh, the grass is all right," he replied; " and there'll be a good crop; but I was wondering how on earth we were going to get it 'iu. _ , " How do you generally get it in : . she asked, looking round her helplessly. _ "Well, the way they try to get it in is to put half a dozen old men in to cut and carry it; and while they're muddling about the rain comes, and the crop's spoilt. To save it properly you want a. hay-cutting machine, a hay-turning machine, and those you haven't got." " Why not?" asked Esther. "Because you haven't," he said in his brusque fashion. " Last year half the crop was spoilt, Martin tells me ; all for the want of machinery. Out in Ans—out in the colonies they'd have all the latest machinery, and save the whole thing." "Then why don't we have it here?" inquired Esther. Jafck shrugged his shoulders and got off his horse. It was not fitting that he should be seated while Miss Vancourt, of the Towers, was standing: Esther noticed his change of position. Yes; if not actually a gentleman, he " behaved as sich." " Because Sir Richard didn't take enough interest. I've explained that before. Everything's been neglected; the game, the farm, everything. And it wouldn't cost much. Give me two hundred, three hundred pounds, and I'd buy the machinery and pay for it almost in the first.season." This is the way a woman likes to hear a man talk. Esther's eyes sparkled, as she turned them to him swiftly. " Then take the three hundred pounds and go and buy it, Mr. Gordon," she said. Jack caught firS at her enthusiasm. " All right," he said, holding out his hand. "Give me the money." Esther laughed. " I don't carry three hundred pounds about with me, Mr. Gordon ; but if you'll come up to the house I'll give you a cheque." " I shall have to go up to London," said Jack; "I shall save sixty pounds. I want it at once." " Come to the house," she said. He welked beside her, and, giving the colt to a groom, entered the hall with her. She left him and went into the library and wrc le a cheque for five hundred pounds, which she held out to him. "What's this?" said Jack. "I said three hundred." " But there are your expenses!" explained Esther. "And—and I don't know whether you've been paid any salary?" , Jack shook his head. He had about ten shillings in his pocket. " That'll come later," he said. "I wish you to take it now," she said; "at five pounds a week." Jack stared at her and laughed. " That's nonsense," he said. "About thirty bob a week is my wage." Esther drew herself up haughtily. < " That is for me to decide, Mr. Gordon," ' she said. Then, as she saw the unrelenting look on Jack's face, she added, meekly: " Say three pounds a week." t Jack shrugged his shoulders. All right. It's not for me to quarrel i about that. I'll go up to London to-night and buy" " Buy what you like," said Esther. Jack laughed. " That's rather a large order and a. free hand, Miss Vancourt." " I don't understand anything about it," said Esther. "I trust to you." Jack's face grew suddenly grave. " I'll do just as if the farm were my own," he said, quietly. " Don't you be afraid, Miss Vancourt."

" I'm not afraid," said Esther, proudly. He nodded, and stalked out of the hall. There was weeping and wailing from Nettie when he declared his intention of going up by the night train, and he.had to get her to sleep in his arms, so great was her grief; then Georgie drove him to tlie station, and, with Miss Vancourt's liberal chemie in his pocket, Jack was carried to London. On the journey he thought a great deal. His was certainly the strangest position in which a man had ever been placed. He was acting as servant on the estate which actually belonged to him. This was strange enough, but more strange and remarkable was the fact that he was not unhappy in his position. The home farm interested him, but the mistress of Vancourt Towers interested him still more. He regarded her with a strange feeling, in which something like pity predominated; she seemed so alone, so helpless. And she reminded him of his dead chum in every word and gesture. There were times when she spoke and smiled that the real Jack Gordon seemed to stand before him.

He reached London, and he put up at a quiet and inexpensive hotel. At breakfast the next morning he realised that he was still in his old riding-suit—well enough in the country, but scarcely suitable to London ; and that desire to be properly clad which is the instinct of every gentleman assailed him as he was getting through his second egg; but, with his duty strongly before him, he went off and interviewed the agricultural engineers before he sought a tailor, with,whom, as "Arthur Burton,'' he had had numerous dealings. The man remembered him and greeted him with a respectful cordiality. "I've got a dress-suit that I made for you just before you went abroad, Mr. Burton," he said, " and I was wondering whether you'd ever call for it." " All right," said Jack. " Send it on ;" and he gave the address of his hotel. He spent the remainder of his first day inspecting the agricultural machinery, and when he got back in the evening he found his dress-suit overcoat and all complete, awaiting him. It was a very long whiie since he had donned evening attire, and the sight of the clothes reminded him of past days, when he had dressed every night for dinner, in accordance with the custom of the night and thought he would go to the theatre ; set to which he belonged. He dressed that it was a long time since he had been inside any place of amusement in London. His reflection in the glass, when he had put on the things, smote him strangely. Say what you will, man is very much what his tailor makes him, and Jack Gordon of the home farm looked a very different person in I correct dress clothes. He smiled at himself I grimly, thinking, "Fine feathers make fine j birds;" and having eaten his dinner, walked down to the Strand and turned into a theatre. ' Every seat was full, and, not much disapI pointed, he lit a cigar—the first cigar he had smoked for many a long day— strolled westward. He made his way towards Hyde Park, and I paused beside the railings which front Park j Lane to look at the flowers in the park on one hand and those sumptuous and costly ' buildings which face it; and for a moment the thought struck him, if he were to claim his own, he might be living in one of those sumptuous houses which are reserved for the English nobility and the African millionaire. As he was looking at the flowers through j the railings, a little girl came up to him and j offered him, in whining accents, a bunch of roses He gave the child a shilling; and, J with a look of surprise, she ran on in front , of him. A moment lajier a tall,, dark man j

with a black moustache passed him. The flower-girl, encouraged, perhaps, by Jacks liberality, stopped this man and offered him her bunch of faded blossoms. She was very persistent and troublesome," no doubt, and Jack saw the man half push, half strike her from his path. She fell against the railings and whimpered; and, with a rush of blood to his head, Jack sprang, forward and caught the * man by the collar of his seedy coat. Jack had merely meant to expostulate with him, to call him to account for pushing and striking a helpless waif of the street; but as he seized the man a sudden flood of recollection swept over him. He had seen the man before. The dark face, the cold, malicious* eyes awakened a memory. Unless he were mad or dreaming, this man's face was that of the chief of the rangers who had burst into the hut, who had killed the real Jack Gordon, his chum! For a moment he was too overwhelmed by the resemblance to utter a word; then he cried: "It's you! You!" The man staggered back, then he struck oat wildly, and his blows were smart and heavy. Jack struck back, still keeping hold of the man. All the past came back to him vividly. Wonderful, marvellous as it was, this was the man who had shot his chum. The chief of the rangers. Here in London I The two men struggled and fought, as if to the death. The flower-girl crouched against the railing, the cabs and carriages rattl*d by. Jack got his opponent down on his knees for one moment, but the man was as slippery as an eel and he slipped to his feet again and closed with Jack. But Jack's enormous strength would have told and the man would have been at his mercy if at this moment a stalwart park-keeper had not run forward and thrown his arms about Jack.

" What's wrong herej" he exclaimed. "Hold that man!" exclaimed Jack. ''I know him—don't let him go!" But the park-keeper, seeing that Jack was the stronger, clung to him, the man slipped from his grasp and took to his heels, and Jack stood, helpless, in the hands of the sturdy guardian of order. The bushranger, if it were indeed he, fled down South Audleystreet, and Jack was left alone with the keeper and the frightened flower-girl.

CHAPTER XIII, The park-keeper who struggled with Jack was a big man and a strong, and it was a minute or two before Jack could free himself and acquaint the keeper with the fact that he was detaining the wrong man. At last he did succeed in getting free, and, with the little breath that was left in him, demanded angrily, and, I fear, with a familiar expletive: " Why on earth did you hold me and let the other fellow go?" "Well, sir, I saw you strike the gentleman— you with my own eyes—and 1 naturally went for you." " I struck the villain because I saw hin strike that child there ; and then I recog nised him as a—" He stopped; for it was

)f no use telling the park-keeper that the man who had escaped was the chief of a gang of Australian bushrangers; the parkkeeper would probably think he was out of his mind, and would want to drag him off to the nearest police station. " But it's no use bothering about it now," he continued ; "tho man's got away. Let us see if the child's hurt."

But long before this the little street-girl, who had regarded the park-keeper's appearance on the scene as that of a natural and officious foe, to be dreaded only one degree less than the hated policeman, had fled the scene.

" Very sorry, sir!" said the park-keeper, who long before this had decided that he was speaking to a gentleman; " always difficult to tell, when there's a row between two persons, which is in fault. I hope you're not hurt, sir?" " Not at all," said Jack, with a short laugh. "I'm a bit crumpled, though," looking down at his crushed shirtfront and twisted tie. He gave the keeper a shilling, wished him a pleasant " good-night," and then went down South Audley-street with rage and disappointment burning in his heart.

That the ranger should be in London was marvellous enough, but that he, Jack, should have met him and had him in his grip, and then lost him, was maddening. Jack was the last man to bear malice—the malice of the low and common nature. If the ranger had confined the attack in the hut to himself there would have been no craving for revenge in Jack's heart; he had been too used to fighting during his rough life to bear malice against a foe, vanquished or conquering; but this villain had shot the real Jack Gordon, bad murdered Jack's chum, and that chum was Esther Vancourt's brother; and it is not too much to say that Jack thirsted for the man's blood with an earnestness , which was, alas! very heathenish. The man was not fit to live, and if Jack had met him out in the wilds he would assuredly have shot him on sight.

He walked down South Audley-street, looking about him, though he felt certain that the man had escaped, and that only a chance, such as that which he had lost, would bring him face to face with him again; but, if such a chance should occur, Jack told himself that the man would not be permitted to escape a second time.

At the end of the street he turned to the right and walked on aimlessly, still keeping a sharp lookout. Suddenly, to his delight, he saw the man passing the end of the street. Jack slipped into a doorway and thought for a moment. If he followed, the ranger, with the start he had got, would be sure to outrun him ; so Jack, with the cunning of the backwoodsman, struck the street parallel to the one which the ranger had entered, and running down it, turned the corner and waited, ready to spring upon the man as he passed. He set his teeth and gathered himself together for the spring, lor he knew that it would be a hard struggle ; but the seconds grew into minutes and his prey did not appear. Very cautiously, keeping in the shadow of the houses, Jack stole to the comer of the street. It was empty; there was no one in sight. Not a little startled and surprised, Jack hid in a doorway and considered the situation. It was evident that the ranger had entered one of the houses. But which? It was a long street, and Jack could not very well knock at every door and inquire if a tall, dark man had entered. There was nothing to be done but to wait and watch on the chance of the man's re-appearance. If he could have been in the street a minute earlier, he would have been in time to see the ranger knock at the door of No.' 14. It was opened by Levett, and before he said a word the ranger closed it quickly. "Is Mr. Sclby Lay ton in?" he asked. The astonished and indignant Levett replied that he would go and see. " That means that he is," said the ranger. " Don't you trouble to announce me. I'll go straight up to him. I'm an old friend ;" and he sprang up the stairs before the outraged Levett could intercept him, even if he had intended doing so. Selby Lay ton was lying back in the easiest of easychairs, smoking a cigar and reading the last minor poet. The room was the picture of comfort and bachelor luxury; the furniture was Chippendale, excepting the easychair, which was far too comfortable for that elegant but severe style; the decorations and hangings were in the best taste ; the water-colours on the wall were good examples of modern masters; there was a semi-grand piano by Broadwood ; there were flowers on the table and cabinets, and a rosewood bookcase filled with volumes in choice and expensive bindings. Mr. Layton had taken off his dress coat and donned a light and comfortable dressing-gown, and looked serene and peaceful and altogether at his easev But all his serenity and ease fled as the. door opened and the" tall, dark man stood and glowered at him. Selby Layton forced a sickly smile, and rose with an attempt at welcome. "Ah, Denzil!" he said. "How do you do?" His voice shook slightly, and his affectation at heartiness would not have deceived an infant. Denzil closed the door, and, taking no notice of Selby Layton's proffered hand, sank into the easychair from which his host had risen, drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his face with an angry, impatient gesture. " I suppose if I hadn't come up, you would have told that lying hound you weren't at home?" he said. " My dear Denzil, how unjust!" said Selby Layton. " I came back from the country on purpose to meet you. You seem hot. What is that on your face — surely not blood?" " Very likely," said Denzil, curtly. " I had a row with a drunken beast just now. And I am hot; give me a drink, sharp!" With a smile, Selby Layton was about to ring the bell, but thought; better of it, and

got out some soda and whisky from a chastelooking cabinet. " Say when,' my dear Dezil," he said. Denzil said " when" as the glass was half full, and, taking the tumbler before Selby Layton could add the sodawater, drank off the neat spirit. v "Ah, that's better! Now you can give me a long drink and a cigar." ; Selby Layton mixed the drink and handed the silver-gilt cigar-box. Denzil took one of the choice Havana*, filled his pockets with the remainder, and looked at the silver box longingly, as if he would like to put it in his pocket also, and placed it, with marked reluctance, on the table. " And how have you been, and where have you been, my dear Denzil?" asked Selby Layton. " I thought you were in Australia." '

" You mean you wished I was," said Denzil, as he lit his cigar and threw himself back with an insolent -air of self-assurance. "But I'm not; I'm here m London, you see."

" So I see," said Selby Layton, still smiling, but with the twist of his upper lip beginning to show. "Of courte I don't want to interfere in your affairs, my dear Denzil; but do you think it is wise?" " That's my lookout," said Denzil. " Quite so," remarked Selby Layton, smoothly. " But the police have long memories, my dear Denzil, and that little affair of yours was so very— desperate, that I am afraid if you were seen and recognised '— : Forgive me, but I cannot help thinking that you were safer in Australia." "You mean that you were safer," retorted Denzil, with an ugly sneer. "Australia was well enough, but it didn't suit me, and' I got tired of it." '■ "Just so—just so.!" assented Selby Layton. "It is a wonderful country, rich in resources; I hope that you did well there, my dear Denzil?" ' " . \ _ '.' "On the contrary, your 'dear Denzil' did very badly; so badly that he was obliged to come-back, and ,very glad he is to get ■back. You appear v to be in clover, my dear ; 33elby, J -'*he remarked, mimicking Selby Lay- ■ ton's soft ' voice. "Prospering, eh? You always were the cunning kind of dog that can get the meat while others have the bones." "Admiring my room, my dear Denzil? Yes, it is comfortable, and I am fairly prosperous. Hard work, you know hard work."

Denzil laughed a mirthless and contemptuous laugh. " Hard work! You never did a day's hard work in your life ! I jw-ish I'd had you out in Australia with me; I'd have shown you what work meant. How do you manage it, eh'i That's no business of mine. I'm glad you're prospering, because you're able to help a pal who's down on his luck." Selby Layton looked grave and shook his head.

"I shall be only too delighted to help you, my dear Denzil," he said. " But I fear" . *

Denzil expectorated on the Persian carpet and looked Selby Layton full in theface with calm insolence.

" I want a hundred pounds," he said, as if he were remarking that he wanted another glass of whisky. Sclby Lay ton started and sank into a chair. " It's quite impossible," he said. " I haven't a hundred pounds in the world. I might manage five and twenty." Denzil looked round the expensively-fur-nished room significantly. " You can raise a bill of sale on this for more than double the amount," he said, coolly. The ugly twist in Selby Layton's lip became more pronounced. " There may be a bill of sale on it already, my dear Denzil," he said. " I don't care. A hundred pounds I want, and mean to have it. Borrow it, steal it, get it how you like ; I don't mind. I mean to have it before I leave here to-night." (To be continued on Saturday next.)