LOVE'S CROSS ROADS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIV, Issue 19719, 19 August 1927, Page 18

LOVE'S CROSS ROADS.

BY ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.

CHAPTER VIII. the new will. «' Then yoa think he's no better ? You m© no hopes that Cousin Owen ■will pull through his sickness? But what is it that has laid hold of him, doctor ■what is it ?" Gwen Hughes raised the candle that she was holding in her hand and peered anxiouslv into the face of the weatheibeafcen old doctor who had just broken the sews to her that her Cousin Owen Hughe-i' days were practically numbered, for the old farmer had taken to his bed a, month ago and it seemed as if he found it impossible to rally from the sickness Which had stolen over him—the strange fnvsterious illness which left- him "«eakei May after day, but to which Doctor Jones tad as vet given 110 name. " Indeed, Gwen fach, I should be deceiving you moSv cruelly if I held out anv hopes that your good cousin—your kind guardian —had the least chance of recovering from his sickness, for I tell you, and it's the truth, that Owen Hughes will never leave his bed-chamber again till he is carried downstairs in his coffin. The end has come for him, my lass, as it has to come one day for all of us. The Lord has seen fit to summon one of His servants home, and who are we to stand up against the Lord our God ? Besides, 'tis not as if Owen Hughes was a young man. He has outlived the allotted span of years. Y know, my poor lass, that this is but sorry comfort, an' my heart bleeds for thee, Gwen fach, bleeds." Gwen drew a deep sobbing breath. Six . months had passed since that, memorable night when David had left his home—had turned his back on his uncle and on his newly-betrothed wife —had set forth to eeek'adventure across the seas, and Gwen had changed during these months—changed greatly. She had lost the look of quiet placid contentment which had formerly distinguished her. Her face had sharpened. There were dark circles round her eyes and she was much thinner. But, as Doctor Jones glanced at her in the candle-light, he told himself that Gwen Hughes was made of fine stuff—that she was a true daughter of Wales, for how wonderful her devotion had been to her old cousin during the last six months, and how indefatigably she had worked on the farm, trying her very best to take the runaway nephew's place—to lessen old Owen's labours; nor had she neglected any of her home duties. But she had been over-working herself, there was no doubt about that, she had been doing far too much for her strength; and now,. how bravely, how splendidly she was facing the fresh trouble that was coming upon her, the death of the relative who had been like a father to her all these years; for she was not going to break down, Doctor Jones could see that; she was not going to indulge in anv selfish manifestations of grief, any hysterical display of emotion. " Tell me what is the matter with Cousin Owen. Oh, indeed, doctor, isn't there ia chance of saving him, then—isn't there a chance??' Gwen clasped her hands tightly together. There were tears in her eyes, big, burning tears, tears that welled up straight from .her heart, but she repressed them bravely. But her Countenance revealed what extreme anguish she was passing through, for her face had turned thfi hue of grey ash. " 'Tis hard to say what's really the /matter with him, poor old man." Doctor Jones shook his grizzled head mournfully. " 'Tis a general break-up, Gwen —that's tow I should put .it—a general break-up. SJone of the organs of his body are doing fcheir work as they should. The wheels . are ceasing slowly to go round, and his heart is in a sao Way. Why, Gwen fach, it may stop beating at any moment, an' there, lass, I've told you the truth now, 'an 'tis a load off my chest, a great load." Gwen clutched at the bannisters for support. She was standing at the bottom of the staircase, having followed the doctor down from old Owen's bedroom. "Dear Lord!" she cried. "Do you mean to tell me that Cousin Owen may die, suddenly—to-day—to-night—to-mor-row—that things are as bad with him as that ?" " They are every bit as bad." Doctor Jones drew a step nearer to Gwen and laid his kind old hand upon her shoulder. He could feel how her whole body quivered—trembled. " Look here, my lass," he continued. lam going to send one of the women from the village up to the farm to keep you company and to help yoi* with the nursing, for this state of affairs may go on for a long time. Mv old friend may die to-night, or last for weeks. 'Tis all in the Lord's hands. Gwen fach—all in the hands of the Almighty." .Gwen's grasp tightened on the banisters. " I don't want anyone from the village —indeed, an' I don't, doctor. I'd prefer tp nurse Cousin Owen myself. I can do all that is necessary. Besides, he loves to have me near him; the sight of a neighbour would bother and distress him." "Indeed, an' no one else shall nurse your cousin but you, Gwen fach. I understand your feelings in the matter—l I respect them; but a kind woman will be of help to you during the sad davs that may be coming—of great help. Besides, there's more to be done here than one pair of hands can manage, an' the snows will be upon us presently, an' maybe there will be young lambs brought in from the fold. Anyway, you must have a woman staying with you—a neighbour. I'll be "sending old Mari Davies round in the morning, an' you'll not mind having Mari about the place, will you ? She's been through trouble herself, poor soul; she's lost her husband an' two sons during the last four years—she's acquainted with grief." Gwen bowed her head. " Very well. / doctor." she agreed. *' Send Mari round in the morning. She's a kind woman, I'll say that for her, and, as you truly say, she knows what trouble is. But, oh, before you leave to-night, tell me one thing—just one thing. You don't think that it's Dave's departure from home that has been the cause of Cousin Owen's illness ? For that's the thought that presses upon me day and night—that's the thought that's come near < to breaking my heart." Her voice quivered as she spoke, and she trembled so violently that she had to set down the candlestick. Her eyes were dark with pain. Doctor Jones pulled somewhat sharply at his beard. " Why, now, Gwen, that's a question to ask me—that's a question. Well, I'll not be telling you, for it would be a lie, that your cousin hasn't fretted himself a good deal o\ 7 er his ungrateful nephew's 'departure—worried more over Dave than the lad was worth , but this sickness would have come upon him all the same, whether Dave had been at home or not. He's had heart trouble for years, has your cousin, thoi'gh he's never -spoken of it to you or anyone, only I've known it. But what's the good of a doctor if he can't keep his mouth shut; consider his patient's secrets as his own secrets? An' when a man or a woman's heart's bad, their organs become defective in time—the whole body breaks up." " Then Dave isn't responsible for Cousin Owen's illness? Tell me that again, doctor. Dave isn't to blame for it? Oh, I am so thankful—so thankful, for I have been putting it all down at his door—at Dave's door." Doctor Jones plucked at his beard again. "I am not absolving Dave altogether. Maybe the fretting that old Owen has been indulging in, lately has hastened on the end, for, indeed, that nephew of his behaved most ungratefully to the old man, deserting him at a minute's notice, going off to seek his fortune across the seas. Turning his back on the man who had been like a father to him, who'd brought Jum 'up: an' 'whatever did he want to leave-Wales for, did Dave?" M'll tell you why. doctor." Gwen's Jace turned paler than ever. " Cousin .. w ® n practically forced David to ask me •v. iT wife. He insisted that we two •fcouia marry, arid that was what sent i. - '

(COPYRIGHT.)

Dave abroad, I do believe—the dread of having to marry me and settle down here for life—settle down in bondage, for he wrote to me the day he left Wales, an' his letter —well, it was not the letter of a lad who is truly in love with a lass, an' when he wrote again to Cousin Owen, giving us an address in Rhodesia to write to—well, I wrote to him a long letter, in which I released him from his engagement and made out that I wanted to be free myself an* not tied to a lad who might not return home for years. She took a step down the passage. " Oh. it was all on account of me that the trouble came about—l know that now. I It was to escape from a loveless marriage that Dave took his flight from the farm just six months ago, an' do you think 1 don't feel the shame of this —the shame ? For maybe I let Cousin Owen see too plainly that my heart was fixed on Dave—that I loved him, an' that was why he tried to bring the match about — to force Dave into it. Oh, the trouble I have brought upon the two I love the best! Why, I have parted them from each other, for 'tis Dave who should be smoothing his uncle's pillows now, sitting by his bedside —Dave, who is miles away from us across the sea." She opened the heavy farm door mechanically. "You will be wanting to go on to your other patients, doctor, an' here am I detaining you with talk—my vain talk. But you "will never say a word to anyone about what I've just told you ? You won't betray my confidence? For there's no one knows in these parts—there's no one ever will know that Dave an' I were once betrothed." Doctor Jordan looked at her pitifullyHe understood the cause of Gwen's changed looks now. He realised why she had grown so thin, so pale. She was breaking her heart for a graceless young vagabond, for a foolish adventurer, and the pity of it—the pity! " I'll* keep your secret faithfully, Gwen fach. I can promise you that, lass; but don't tell such that you care for the lad still, for such a worthless lad." " Dave's not worthless." Gwen's eyes flashed with sudden fire. " Haven't I just been telling you that I have been the cause of all the trouble —that it was all on mv account that he had to leave the farm f But as for not loving Dave—" she laughed fiercely. " Why, I shall love him to my dying day, but he shall never know it—never know it." She opened the farm door wider. A cold wind blew in, the bitter blast of a November evening, but the stars were shining in the sky; it was by no means a dark night. " I'll be coming round early in the morning, Gwen. Make the old man comfortable to-night with his warm broth just before he goes to sleep; an' mind you, he's not suffering, lass, an' the end when it does come will be That's some comfort for 'ee, isn't it ? " Doctor Jordan drew on his heavy coat as he spoke and walked out of the farm, and as Gwen closed the door behind him a wild look came over her face. She drew another deep sobbing breath. "Dear Lord! " she muttered hoarsely. " Cousin Owen may die at any moment, an' there's that new will he has made — | that will in which he has left everything sto me an' naught to Dave —and he'll never have the strength now, poor old man, to make the fresh will—a more just will." She leaned against the farm door. Her face was as white as her apron. t Her eyes looked immense. ""If I'd the courage of a mouse," she muttered, " I'd burn that new will tonight, for I know where Cousin Owen has hidden it, an* if I burn the will—why, the farm an' all that Cousin Owen possesses would go to Dave, for Dave is his next-o£-kin, his nephew. But dare I destroy that will—dare I ? " CHAPTER IX. A DEAD LETTER. " There, now, 'tis peaceful he looks, quite peaceful, Gwen fach; an' now that thy loving hands havg done all that they can for poor Owen Hughes I'd be lying down an' resting for an hour or so, if I were you—indeed an' I would, for there'll be the watch night tomorrow—the biggest gwylnos that's been held in Grynseion for many years, I reckon, for there never was a man more esteemed and respected by his neighbours than Owen Hughes. An' you'd like me to be arranging with the minister for the prayer meeting before the gwylnos, wouldn't you, Gwen ? Shall I say that you would like the prayer meeting held here at eight o'clock at night ? " Mari Davies spoke in low, gentle tones. She had a very sweet, resigned face, and her age might have been anything between forty and fifty, but Gwen, who was standing by the side of her guardian's bed, hardly seemed to hear what the widow was saying. She was gazing intently at the dead man—at the old farmer -who had died at dawn just three days after Doctor Jones had warned Gwen so emphatically that the end was at hand, but there was something terrible about the girl's dumb grief. Mari stole up and put an arm about Gwen's shoulders. " Leave him to rest, Gwen fach," she whispered. " You can take this comfort to your heart: that you did all that could be done for Owen Hughes while he was alive; that you were the joy an' comfort of his later days—his consolation. Now leave the good man to his j sleep—leave him in the hands of his Maker." She led Gwen from the death chamber, and when the girl found herself outside in the cold passage she shivered violently , and looked at Mari with wild, halfdistraught eyes, then made as if she would go back to the bedroom again, but Mari held her fast. " Let me go back, Mari. Don't you understand that I want to keep watch by Cousin Owen's dead body—not leave him till they carry him out of this farm, till the mourners bear him to the churchyard; for indeed lie was as a father to me, an' who is there left to care for me ? I am alone in the world—alone, a homeless girl." "Twt. twt!" Mari shook her head. " How can you call yourself a homeless girl when you know that this farm and everything that is in it will be yours now that Owen Hughes is dead ? Besides, there never was a lass who had more friends. Why, there's not a cottage in Grynseion where you would not be a welcome visitor, an' you know this, my lass—you must know it." She led Gwen down the passage to her own bedroom, the homely, plainly furnished little apartment that was kept so scrupulously clean and tidy, tho room which smelt of the mingled odours of lavmder and yellow soap. Mari half-lifted the exhausted girl on to the bed and then began to pull off Gwen's shoes, for both women had been up all night, waiting for tho end to come—keeping the death-bed vigil. Gwen looked at her friend strangely, as her head sank back on the pillow, and a curious smile crossed her lips. " Indeed, an' I don't think that this farm will be ray home much longer," rhe murmured. " ' Tis my daily bread I shall have to earn elsewhere—my daily bread." She paused, then added in lower tones: Tis Cousin Owen's nephew—'tis Dave—who ought to own the Glen Farm, for right is right, Mari Davies, an' there's no getting away from that." (To be continued daily.) I