LOVE'S CROSS ROADS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIV, Issue 19720, 20 August 1927, Page 14 (Supplement)

LOVE'S CROSS ROADS.

BY ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW,

CHAPTER IX.—(Continued.) Mari tossod her head, then sho crossed over to tho window and pulled down the blind, shutting out the sunshine—the clear, bright sunshine of a cold November morning. " Indeed, indeed, Gwon fach —don't talk nonsense to me. Wo all know in tho village —in Grynseion —that Owen Hughes made a fresh will some months back, after Dave took it into his head to run away from the farm to push his fortunes abroad. Why, ' the lawyer from Cardigan told Jos' Parry all about this new will as Jos' drove him to tho station, an' 'tis yourself, Gwen, that will inherit the farm an' every penny piece that belonged to Owen Hughes. He's cut Dave off with a shilling, has your cousin, an' the lad deserved no better treatment either."

" You are wrong, all the same, Mari. " Gwen raised herself up in her bed. " ' Tis early days yet to be talking of how poor cousin Owen has disposed of his belongings," she continued. " ' Tis shame of us to be discussing such matter when the breath has only just left his body; but still' 'tis best that you should know the truth at once, I do think —an' the truth is this."

She paused a second, then added in clear, deliberate tones: " Fivo nights ago cousin Owen decided to destroy that will —the will in which he left mo all his money an" this farm. Ho asked me to bring it to him. He told me where I should find it an' I brought it to his bedside. I watched him tear it into pieces—into small pieces, an' then I threw those pieces of paper on the fire an' they were burnt —they became mere ash."

" Heaven help us, Gwen fach—an' you never said a word —you never blamed the old man for changing his mind —changing it at the eleventh hour ? You allowed yourself to be deprived of tho heritage that would otherwise have been yours—a goodly heritage ? Why, who ever heard the like ? ' Tis too strange a talo to bo believed "

Mari drew back a step or two and stared at Gwen with dilated eyes, then she shook her head impatiently. " The folly of it—the rank folly. Why, the girl must have beon mad —mad. Why should Dave come into his uncle's money —the uncle ho treated with such shocking ingratitude ? 'Tis yourself who ought to have everything. Why, no daughter could have displayed more devotion to a father than you have displayed to Owen Hughes all these years; but I suppose you'll be telling me to mind my own business an' not meddle with affairs that don't concern me. Still, my blood boils when I think that you will have to leave the farm an' that Dave will be the master here in the future—my blood boils." A low, subdued knock at the farm door interrupted Mari in the middle of her speech. She stole back to tho window an raised the edge of the blind cautiously. " There now, 'tis the postman standing down below —'tis Siencyn Price himself," she announced " 'Tis better that I should go down an' see him and' tell him the sad news. He will bo able to let the neighbours know, an' that's a good thing. Why, there won't bo a house in the village presently that won't have its blinds drawn down."

Sho tip-toed out of the room, but Gwen hardly noticed that the good woman had departed. She lay on her bed, allowing her grief to take firm hold of her—her grief that> was so very deep and sincere. Presently tho tears began to gather in her eyes and roll down her cheeks—the tears that did more than anything else to relieve Gwen's over-charged heart; but all at once sho sat up in bed and began to shiver violently, clenching her hands so tightly together that tho nails bit into her flesh.

" Oh, Cousin Owen," sho moaned—- " Cousin Owen! If I could only know that you are not angry with me—that you understand the motives that prompted me to purloin your will three nights ago, I should be so much easier in my mind—so much happier, for, indeed—indeed—dear Cousin Owen, I did it for the best. I know at the bottom of your heart how truly you loved Dave—all he meant to you. He was your brother's son—your own brother's son, an' indeed I couldn't bear the thought of robbing Dave of his inheritance —I couldn't bear the thought." She put up a hand to her forehead. Her head was aching cruelly. Her whole brain felt on fire; then, as she fumbled with her hairpins, drawing them out of her head and allowing her hair to fall down her back, her bedroom door opened suddenly, and Mari Davies made her appearance again, and she carried a letter in her hand —a letter which sho held out to Gwen. " Here's trouble now! A letter which you wrote to Davo some months back he has never received, it appears. It has come back to thee again through the post. Siencyn Price has just brought it round, an', oh, 'twas upset the poor man was when I told him what had happened hero this morning. There will not be a dry eye in the village, ho declares, an* 'tis the truth he's speaking. But Gwen what ails thee ? How ghastly white you have turned —art faint?" " No—no, I am not faint," sho answered impatiently. " Oh, give me my letter—the letter which Davo has never received."

Her teeth chattered; her nerves wero giving way at last—the nerves which Gwen had hitherto had in such perfect control, for it came upon her as a great shock to know that Dave had never received the letter in which sho had broken off her engagement with him. No doubt lie still considered that he was bound to her—bound in honour.

She looked at the envelope curiously when Mari handed it to her—the envelope, which had travelled as far as South Africa, but only to come back again. Scrawled across it on one side in a stilted handwriting were the words: "David Hughes has left this place. Present address unknown —and it hurt Gwen cruelly to realise that her letter must have been opened and read by someone bofore it could be returned to her—it stung her to the quick. She crushed -it up in her hand—crushed it into a tight ball, then she looked at Mari.

" Would you mind leaving me to myself for a littlo while ? It's not that I don't feel most grateful to you, Mari, for, indeed, an' you'vo been wonderfully kind, but there are moments in life when one wants to bo alone —when one must bo alone."

" Why, don't I understand that, Gwen ?" Mari nodded her head sympathetically, then walked toward the door. " 'Tis a good cry I'd be having," she counselled. "It will do you moro good than anything else; it will relieve your heart, poor lass, an" in the meantime I'll see to all that is needful. You'll bo wanting a -fine supper prepared for the gwylnos, I do suppose, an' as much whiskey an' malt as tho men care to drink." *' Yes. yes—pleaso seo to everything for me," Gwen whispered hoarsely, then she hid her face against tho pillow and she was thankful—more than thankful—when the door finally closed behind Mari Davies and she was once more alone. "So Dave never got my letter. He doesn't realise that I have set him free, an* maybe he'll be coming home later on. believing that ho is still bound to me—that it's his duty to seek me out, his duty." Gwen closed her eyes. Everything in the room seemed to bo moving. She felt dazed, nor was this much to be wondered at, for, surely her world was rocking beneath her feet—was crumbling. " The lawyers will be writing to Dave presently. They will be telling him that his uncle is dead—they will he letting him know that he is the heir-in-law, and maybe he will have to come home—maybe the news will bring him homo; but he shan't find me liero—no, indeed then, he shan't find me."

Gwen pressed her palo faco deep into her pillow. She was shivering from head to foot*

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" 'Tis myself that will have to leave the Glen Farm," she panted—" to follow the road of adventure in my turn, for now that Cousin Owen has left no will I shall be penniless—quite penniless, an' 'tis rny daily bread that I've got to earn; an' 'tis to England that I'll turn my steps—maybe to London, for I could hide myself from Dave better in London than in any other place, 1 should fancy—hide and never bo found."

Gwen rose from her bed. She began to walk vaguely about her room. Tears wero falling down her cheeks —staining tho bodice of her gown, but she hardly noticed how fast they were falling. She kept wringing her hands, after tho manner of her country-women when they bewail their dead.

" Oh, why have you left me, Cousin Owen —why have you left your little Gwen ? 'Tis a sad life lies before rne now—a lonely life, for I shall bo saying good-bye in a few days' timo to all that I love most—all that I value, an' indeed it will be hard to hav« to leave this farm—tho farm which has been my home for so many happy years. Who will take such care of the things as I have —the good furniture —tho piles of linen — the china that came down to Cousin Owen from his grandfather an" his grandfather before him ?"

She flung herself brokenly into a chair and sho wished—she could not help wishing—that she had died instead of Owen Hughes that morning—fliat it was her funeral feast they would be keeping in tho villago in a few days" time, not tho old farmer's, for it seemed to Gwen that she had nothing left to live for—that sho had lost all that made life worth living. She suddenly threw up her arms. Sho gave a sharp, despairing cry. " Oh, 'tis a sad thing to bo young," sho cried, " an' to feel that one may have to live to bo old—quite old, for what lonely years are stretching out in front of me now—what empty years—what barren years." She sank to the ground. She lay there, a huddled up bundle of misery, her face pressed to the cold bare boards—her whole body shaking'with sobs, and it was not only for herseif that Gwen Hughes wept. Her tears fell for the dead as well as for the living, for this was the darkest hour she had ever known—tho saddest; she had indeed become a handmaid of grief.

CHAPTER X. GAMBLING WITH FORTUNE,

" You will oblige me, Rose, by telling me what there was in Tony's daily letter to upset you so this morning. You turned quite pale when you read it. I hope that you haven't been having a silly quarrel—a lover's quarrel—for this marriage has got to come off. You are to marry my old friend's son next April—that is all settled and arranged." Sir Jordan Wildare addressed his daughter with some decision. Tho tall, greyhaired, well-preserved old man was lounging in a big armchair in the exceedingly shabbily-furnished sitting room of a distinctly mediocre lodging house at Bournemouth. For Sir John had just finished a long round of country house visits — visits in which he had been accompanied by Rose—and now ho was going to lie low for a few weeks and economise as much as he could, for there would be all the expense of Rose's wedding to be faced in April—not but what an aunt had volunteered to present Rose with her trousseau—and it was not at all unlikely that another aunt would suggest that Rose should be married from her London house. And certainly the child was doing well for herself, for young Roper would be enormously wealthy one day, and his father was making him a most liberal allowance on his marriage as it was; a princely allowance. Rose glanced up rather nervously at her father. She stood distinctly in awe of Sir Jordan, when he was in what she pleased to call one of his captious moods, for at such times the ruined, 4isappointed gambler could be exceedingly bad-tem-pered and bitter, but, as a general rule, her father made a great pet of her and she had certainly become of extreme importance in his eyes sinco her engagement to Anthony Roper had been announced, six months ago, in the fashionable intelligence columns of tho leading papers.

" Did I turn pale, papa ?" Rose gave a gay, somewhat affected little laugh. " Really, you ought not to study my face in such a lynx-like way when I am reading Tony's letters—it really isn't fair. I felt a wee bit disappointed this morning because Tony explained in his note that ho wouldn't be able to run down to Bournemouth this week-end as he had hoped to do, for they are very busy at the office—even on Saturdays—besides, I shall see him next week, when I go up to stay with Aunt Lucy and start getting my trousseau —it isn't so long to wait till next week."

She sighed, a soft little sigh, then glanced down at her engagement ring, a beautiful, speckless pearl mounted between two magnificent brilliants, and Sir Jordan followed the direction of her eyes. " That's a fine ring, Rose—l must say Tony choso the right sort of ring, and I think you ought to consider yourself a very lucky young woman, for you will be living in tho lap of luxury in tho future, spending money liko water, I expect, while your poor old father has to pig it as we aro pigging it now, in cheap and nasty seaside lodgings." " Oh, papa," Rose remonstrated, " you know, perfectly well that you will be able to stay with Tony and myself all the year round if you like—that we should lovo to havo you. Besides, you know that Mr. Roper says —how often ho has suggested that you should take up quarters with him after Tony has set up house with me. So there aro two homes open to you—two homes." Sho smiled very prettily and her father smiled back at her, then ho rose slowly from the arm-chair in which he had been sitting, and glanced at the clock ticking away on tho mantelpieco. " Why, it's nearly twelve o'clock. I must go out for my usual constitutional You'ro going to write to Tony, I suppose—you won't bo coming for a walk, my dear V Rose shook her head.

" Shall you be in for lunch, papa ?" " I don't think so, my dear. I shall lunch at that miserable little pot-house club I havo lately joined hero, and very likely havo a game of cards during the afternoon —a little mild auction."

" Papa—don't bo angry with me, but you'ro not playing cards for high stakes again, are you ? I—l know you used to lose a lot of money at cards." Sir Jordan frowned.

"My dear Rose—l am a man of honour, I trust, therefore I do not play cards for any but the most meagre stakes —stakes that correspond to my changed fortune. For debts of honour must bo paid, so I never play for larger sums than I can afford to loso. Pray, believe that I have some of the virtues of my class as well as the vices.

He walked out of tho room—a man who had gambled away two fine fortunes in the past and who was quite capable of running through a third inheritance, if given tho chance. But Rose still thought her father the finest and most polistied gentleman sho had ever met, and she adored him, though her lovo—the pure, fervent love of a daughter, was tempered at times by fear. " Poor papa—how hard that ho should be so poor—for he's just like a prince, I think—a prince in exile. It's dreadful that he should have been compelled to Ist his beautiful home —the old home that I have never seen—our family place." She wrinkled up her forehead into -a frown.

" How clover papa is—how he notices everything! Fancy his having remarked that I turned pale when I read Tony's letter this morning. But I was not going to bother him with tho worrying news—or let him know that Tony is afraid that his father has been tempted after all theso years into a frightfully hazardous

speculation that will either turn him into a multi-millionairo during the next two or three months, or a beggar. But, of course, the coup will come off, and then wo shall simply roll in riches —we shall bo like princes. And it's silly of Tony to worry—his father surely knows what he's about. Mr. Roper has speculated twice before with the most satsifactory results, so why shouldn't ho bo equally lucky the third timo ?" "• Rose sprang to her feet, determined not to sit and brood any longer. She was quite certain that Tony had been agitating himself without due cause—worrying noedlessly, for what did he know of business really ? Why couldn't he trust his clever old father—-wise, shrewd 'Mr. Roper ? It was a mistake for young men to think they knew so much and not to bo more guided by their elders. " Tony's a mere child in matters of finance, I expect," Rose decided —" a perfect infant. Ho understands how to spend money but not how to make it. I'll write to him this morning and tell him not to worry. I am sure Mr. Roper wouldn't do anything really imprudent in tho way of speculations; why, of courso lie wouldn't when he knows that he's got Tony and myself to provide for , w —when he's promised to set us up in April." She laughed—tho slow happy laugh of a girl who is absolutely contented with life, and certainly Rose Wildare had good roason to be pleased with the way tho gods had been treating her, for, as far as she could see, a very bright future stretched in front of her—a lovelit future.

" I am so glad I am going to marry Tony—oh, I am so glad." The words broko impulsively from her lips, and they came from her heart. " Each time I see Tony I fall more in lovo with him—oh, over so much more in love, and he's such a darling; and how happy we shall be once we are married! Why, our homo will be a littlo paradise."

Rose sank' down on her knees in front of the fire and stretched out her hands to tho warm glow. She was looking curiously pretty at the moment—in fact she was growing prettier every day, for happiness is a great beautifier, and Rose's cup of joy was full to the brim. She gazed right into the heart of the glowing fire, staring at the pictures she found in the flames. She saw her future home —the charming littlo house where she and Tony would live together. She saw Tony's face smiling at her, and then a wistful look came into Rose Wildare's eyes and a tremulous smile played about her lips, for it was dream children she saw in the fire now—dream children, and Rose's childhood slipped away from her as she gazed at those dream babes—her womanhood came upon her, her warm, beautiful, young womanhood. " To be a wife—to be a mother!" The words fell from her slowly—musically. "Oh, what could any woman want more in tho world than this—what _could any woman want more."

She forgot for tho moment how many other things women want —luxuries—comforts—rank—riches, for it seemed to Rose that tho only two things that are really needful in a woman's lifo are the love of her husband and the lovo of her children.

Her eyes suddenly glistened with tears. She felt she must cry just because she was so happy, for how wonderfully good God had been to her—tho God in Whom she believed so firmly—in Whom devoted nuns had taught her to believe. " I must try to niako people happy in my turn." She folded her hands sweetly together. " I must endeavour to do a little good in tho world —real good, and above all things I must conquer my pride. I mustn't allow myself to look down upon the common people as much as I do—to think myself so much their superior *just because I happen to have been born a Wildare. I must try and remember, as Tony says, that we are all made of the same flesh and blood." She rested her little face between her hands. Her eyes looked very calm and reflectful, and then as Rose gazed into the firelight the parlour door opened suddenly and her father walked into the room again. He carried a newspaper in his hand—the morning's paper, and he looked considerably amused. ' " My dear Rose —such a queer thing has happened," he exclaimed —"such a strange thing. I thought I must come in and tell you about it before I went out to the club, in case I forgot afterwards. Do you remember that motor tour we made six months ago and how we stayed for a couple of nights at Graen-y-daran ?" Rose burst into a peal of bright, ringing laughter. "Oh, papa!" sh| exclaimed, springing to her feet and facing Sir Jordan gaily. " Do you think I shall ever in all my life be likely to forget Graen-y-daran ? Why, it was there—on the beach—that Tony proposed to me—that we first found out we loved each other. Why, the word ' Graen-y-daran ' is engraved in my heart, I believe, just as ' Calais ' was engraved on poor Queen Mary's—the Queen Mary to whom they gave the unpleasant name." Sir Jordan laughed in his turn. "By Gad! I quite forgot that it was down at Graen-y-daran that Tony proposed to you. Well, child, do you remember the two men who turned up at tho inn late one night—a middle-aged man and a young fellow—rough farmer folk, but honest fellows, and the elder man distinctly interesting to talk to—curiously interesting. They called him Reuben Morgan, I remember, and the younger chap Dave, or David Hughes." " Oh yes, I remember them both quite well." Rose nodded her golden head. " You or Mr. Roper brought Reuben Morgan into the parlour tho next morning and ho talked to us at some length, telling us how he was goin<* out lo Rhodesia to make his fortune. Ho explained that ho had sold his farm and intended to purchase a gold claim out in Rhodesia and work it himself, with tho help of his young cousin; and you teased him, papa, if you remember—you pulled his leg. You told him that ho would have to ask us to go out and stay with him after he had made his money—after he had found gold—after he had mado his. pile." " And that's just what we shall have to do," Sir Jordan interrupted—" at least what 1 shall have to do, for 1 expect you will be too busy honeymooning." He paused and laughed good humouredly, thou laid an affectionate hand j upon his daughter's golden curls. I " That Welsh fellow has pulled it off, I Rose —he's done what ho said ho would. ] Gold has been found on his claim, and tho lucky beggar has not been out there five mouths—not five months, my dear. Why, it sounds almost miraculous, doesn't it, and yet it's happened—it's really happened." "But what has happened, papa? You are forgetting to tell me." Rose mado a quaint little grimace, then sho pulled a big armchair forward and motioned to Sir Jordan to sit down. " You can sparo mo five minutes beforo you ruu round to your club. I want to hear the whole story and find out what has happened to Mr. Morgan—what has really happened." " Well, I found tho morning papers on the slab outside tho door a minuto or two. ago. I wish, by tho way, Rose, you would try and persuade Mrs. Cooper to let us have our paper sent up to us at a more oarly hour; however, this is a digression, for what I have really got to toll you is that, glancing casually down tho pages, I came across a little paragraph in which I read to my astonishment that a Welsh farmer—a certain Mr. Reuben Morgan—and his cousin and partner, David Hughes, had succeeded in finding a considerable amount of gold upon a gold claim which they had recently purchased and only just started working in Rhodesia. There was no reason to doubt, tho paragraph went on to state, that they would end by making an enormous fortune out of the claim. There, Rose, what do you say to my news ? Did you ever hear anything so amazing—so astounding ? When that queer chap was telling me all about his dreams and' ambitions I never thought for one instant that he would really succeed in finding gold. I regarded him as a harmless lunatic with a bee in his bonnet and I humoured him; but the lunatic has done what he said ho would—has conquered fortune."

(To be continued daily.)