LOVE'S CROSS ROADS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIV, Issue 19721, 22 August 1927, Page 16

LOVE'S CROSS ROADS.

■BY ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW.

CHAPTER X.—(Continued). " Well, really, papa, this is an extra (Ordinary piece of news. You have quite taken my breath away. Just fancy those two men having found gold!" Rose looked at her father thoughtfully, ther she gave a little shrug of her shoulders. * 5 What's the good of such a lot of money to men like Reuben Morgan and Davie Hughes? What use will they make oi it? They are not gentlemen—the} never will be, for, to quote a homeiv proverb, you cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." " You find that society will treal them as gentlemen pretty soon, my dear. They will be greeted everywhere as gentle men. We have outgrown all the class prejudices that formerly distinguished us. We are agreed that it is money anc nothing else that makes the man nowa ways—or perhaps I should say the gentle man." Sir Jordan paused, then he laughed. " Why, you'll see that that young fellow, David Hughes, will be making a fine marriage later on—marrying some girl ir our rank of life. 'Pon my word, i. you hadn't been engaged to Tony voi: might have had a try for him yourself, Rose, for budding millionaires are not to be picked up every day. I'd have taker you straight to Rhodesia in the hopes that the young man would throw hi: handkerchief to you." "Papa!" Rose sprang from hel" chair. Her checks had flushed a vivid scarlet, She 'was distinctly angry. " I don'! like you to speak like that, even ir joke," she protested. " I would nevei marry a man who- was not in my own rank of life—never —not for ail the monev in the world." " What a proud little thing it is!" Sit Jordan looked at his daughter and laughed and walked out of the room laughing, nor did he suspect, any more than Rose suspected, that before so many months had passed, he himself would be dealing the death blow to Rose's pride—inflicting immeasureable humiliation upon his daughter—breaking her heart. CHAPTER XI. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. " Indeed, ,■ an' it's a terrible place this , London. I made sure I should be able to find employment directly 1 got to London—that someone or other would be wanting an honest, sensible lass as housekeeper—that work would not be difficult to find. • But I made a mistake—a great mistake; an' I'm at my wits' end to know what to do—where to turn." Gwen bent her brows together anxiously. It was a bitter cold February afternoon, far too cold for anyone to be sitting on a bench in Hyde Park, hat she had been trudging the streets all that day—drifting hither and thither—seekiifg employment and seeking it vainly and the situation was becoming desperate, for Gwen had come to London with only a few pounds in her purse, and her little store of money was now pretty well exhausted. But Gwen was far too proud to think of appealing to any of her old friends and former neighbours for assistance. She had left Wales of her own accord—she had hidden herself away in London, and nothing would ever take her back to Grynseinon again—nothing. That was what Gwen told herself, at least, as she 'sat and shivered on the bench, her toes getting colder every moment, her little nose redder. She had left Grynseinon about a month ago, taking her departure a few weeks after Owen, Hughes' funeral—a funeral that had been attended by the whole neighbourhood. And. for many reasons, f Gwen had felt glad to turn her back on the farm which had been her home for so many years, and the village where she had grown up, for she wanted to make it impossible for Dave to find her when he ultimately returned to his native land —she desired to hide herself from him to make no appeal either to his charity cr his love. Gwen sometimes wondered what Dave's feelings would be when he learnt from the lawyer that, owing to his uncle having destroyed his will and then died without making a fresh one, he came in for everything as heir-in-law while Gwen did not inherit one penny. For Gwen had lied as boldly to her oid cousin's lawyer as she had-lied to Mar|. She tpld the hatchet-faced solicitor that old Mr. : Hughes had destroyed his recently-execu-ted will a few days before his death, having suddenly come to the conclusion that it was an unjust will, and that he had been too weak to draw up another. " It's a terrible thing for y.ou though, Miss Gwen," the lawyer had remarked, " for we all know that it was Owen Hughes' intention to provide for you most handsomely. An' now it's Dave who takes all. But I am convinced that your cousin will do what's right—that Dave will see that fitting provision is made for you. I'll be writing to him about this myself—indeed, I will." " I would rather you didn't—l couldn't" take money from Dave. Besides, as it laappens, I have saved up quite a nice little sum, for Cousin Owen gave me money during his lifetime —a good deal of money." Gwen looked so positive as she made the last statement that the lawyer really believed her, and was under the mistaken impression that the old farmer had given his adopted daughter several hundreds of pounds instead of a few half sovereigns. And before Gwen left Grynseinon, .the whisper had gone round the village that there was no such great need to pity her after all, for, doubtless, she had well feathered her nest, and now, as Gwen Bat on the bench, she decided never to let the real truth be known, for it would be better—less galling to her pride—to starve to death in London than be forced to appeal to her friends at Grynseinon for financial assistance and eat the bread of charity. She had been so confident when she left Wales that it would be perfectly easy to obtain a housekeeper's post in England that Gwen had indulged in no fears about ; the future. She knew that she was a I good cook —a splendid .nanager—a lab- j ourer well worth her hire. But she had j forgotten that , no one would be aware j of her excellent capabilities once she had left her native village; she would be merely an unknown quantity to the people she was now being brought in contact with—the strangers who would have to take her at her own valuation. For Gwen had ro references to give, and that was what .ill the Labour Bureaux and Domestic Registry Offices see: t. require—a personal character or, at all events, a written recommendation. " You'll have to do without either— j just believe my word," so Gwen had as- ! sured the various booking clerks who took down her name and address. " I've ; never been out in regular service—l've i only looked after a big farm house for a j relative, and I don't < ni. any of my [ old friends to know that I've gone into ■ service, so can give you o references. ; But, indeed, I'd do my best for any master or mistress—l would indeed." Her words carried no weight. Besides, i so many things were against Gwen —her ■ Welsh accent, her quaint speech, her I homely clothes—so she was olitely bowed ont of office after office, and, in the i meantime, a» rapacious landlady had been ; fleecing the Welsh girl terribly. Gwen j had no idea what she ought to pay for • hoard and lodging, and yielded meekly to exorbitant charges, for London frightened her. Nor did she know her way about ««®h e was a stranger in the land. . only got sixty shillings left of little hoard—or, may be it's sixtyPwo shillings—l'd better see." Gwen put

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a hand into the pocket of her black cloth skirt, for she was unfashionable enough to make all her , dresses with 'pockets; ! but a second later she uttered a shrill, nervous cry—her purse was gone. It must . either have dropped out of her pocket 1 or, what was far more likely, her pocket • had been picked. " Oh, indeed! but this is terrible — terrible!" Gwen turned quite pale, for the I loss of her purse had completely over- : whelmed her. She was now absolutely r penniless and alone in a strange city—alone and unable to obtain work. " What shall I do ? Oh, my God, what shall I i ; do?" Gwen rose shivering to her feet; she realised, for she was no fool, the danger of her present condition. She knew that she was facing destitution, and she half repented the quixotic generosity ■ that had made her purloin her cousin's ; will and tell lies to Mari and the lawyer and so allow all that would have been hers to go to Dave. And yet she was con- ' vinced that it was to escape from a love- • less marriage that Dave had run away . from the farm—taken the risk of being disinherited —and so she owed it to him not to rob him of his heritage. But*it was hard—very hard—to be obliged to ■ look starvation in the face herself, and , Gwen's eyes suddenly brimmed over with tears, her body shook with sobs. Weep- , ing bitterly, she flung herself back on the 1 bench, pressing her pale face against the i woodwork of the seat. A park-keeper came along presently 5 and bhde her be off—the parks closed early on winter afternoons, he explained. 1 He was rough and curt in his language, > and Gwen looked thoroughly cowed and ; frightened as she hurried away through the gathering dusk—hurried out of the park—not that she had any very clear idea in her head as to where she was going, for Gwen was half afyaid to re- , turn to her lodgings now that she had l lost her money, for she had promsed her landlady that she would pay her something on account that evening, and 1 Gwen could not imagine what the woman • would say when she broke the news to her that she had lost her purse—been j robbed! In all probability she would not j credit Gwen's story; she might even make I out that her lodger had been obtaining , j free board and lodging during the last , j week by making fraudulent, misrepresentaI tions and seek to have her put in prison, j For the Welsh girl was'quite ignorant of i English law; she had believed ajl the ! stories her landlady had told her—stories in which the law was always on the side of the landlord. "Indeed, I'd rather kill myself than be sent to prison," Gwen muttered miserably, conscious—painfully conscious—that her account for the last week's board had run up to two pounds and some odd shillings, and that at the present moment she did not possess a penny in the world. She moved blindly forward, and she was just about to cross the road—to plunge into the midst of a great stream of traffic—when her arm was suddenly clutched, and she turned her head to find that a girl was holding her back—a very lovely and beautifully dressed young girl. " You mustn't rush across the road. _you must wait until the policeman hold? up his hand and stops the traffic. It would be very dangerous to cross it at this minute with so many motors about." Rose Wildare spoke in short, broken sentences, for it was Rose who had seized Gwen by the arm and who still kept tight hold of her. The little lady had only come up to town two days ago; she was staying with an aunt, and the important business of the purchase of the trousseau had just begun. In fact, Rose | had been trying on clothes all the afternoon, and she was now walking back to j her aunt's house in Hyde Park Place ! with a maid in discreet attendance, for 1 Rose could never do without her daily , walk. And she was more thankful than 'she could say that she hacfl decided to send her aunt's motor back earlier in the afternoon and trot home on her own little feet, for surely some accident would have befallen the girl whose arm she held if Rose had not been at hand to prevent j that wild rush across the road. | " Indeed an' I don't know what made !me act so foolishly." Gwen spoke in low tones. " An' it's greatly obliged to you I am, miss, but the noise of London bewilders me till I hardly know where I am—the glare of London frightens me. I'm a stranger hei - e." She leaned up helplessly against Rose, the first person who had shown her any kindness for weeks, and she felt an odd, roolish longing to. confide in this dainty 'ittle lady—to tell her that she was friendless and penniless—as desolate a creature as anyone on God's earth—a girl who had ; loved and lost to her sorrow—stripped herself bare of all her worldly possessions —exiled herself—and done this for the | sake of a roving adventurer—a heartless, selfish youth—a youth who would know j that she had renounced ease and competence for his sake —understand the magnij tucle of her sacrifice. "You're ill—you're faint!" Rose's ' grasp tightened as she felt Gwen sway up against her. "And you tell me you are a stranger in London. Perhaps I you haven't any friends living here—- ; you may be alone in this big city—are iyou ? " - ' j " Indeed, an* 1 am." Gwen drew a ; deep sobbing breath. ' All her strength | seemed to be leaving her—all her courtage. "There's no one 1 know in Lori- ! Don—not a living soul an' I've just had j a terriblp loss—my pocket has been picked—my purse stolen." " Please, Miss Rose, ,hadn't we better hurry on? It's : getting very late and her ladyship will be anxious." The discreet maid pressed forward—interrupting Rose as she was about to address Gwen again. But Rose waved her back impatiently, and bent over the pale, trembling girl who appeared to be so friendless—so forlorn. "Look here—you must come home with me. My aunt, Lady Selton, may be | able to help you. Oh, she'll be bound jto help you. 'She is the president of ! a Girls' Home in London—a sort of j club—and they look after friendless girls ; there—they make it their special busi- ) | ness. You're pne of the people that j club was started to help. " i Rose spoke with a sweet yet eager i impatience. She was certain that the girl she was addressing was telling her the truth, that this was a genuine case of distress. Besides, Gwen's face impressed her—it was such an honest young face, also she was so quietly and respectably dressed. " What part of the world do you come from ? " she went on. " You are not English, are you ?" " I come from Wales—from Cardiganshire. My people were farmer folk, but they are dead now." "You come from Wales—from Cardiganshire ? " Rose repeated Gwen's words briskly—brightly. " Why that absolutely settles things. 1 owe Wales a debt—a great debt. I got engaged while on a motor tour there only six months ago, and I iove all Welsh people and everything connected with Wales." She linked lier arm through Gwen's—her cheeky bad flushed with excitement —her eyes shone like stars. " Come straight back with rue—Aunt Lucy will be at home—she'll see you, pbeTl help you. Here, Martin," Rose turned hurriedly to the maid. "Whistle up a taxi, and we'll all three jump in." Martin hailed a taxi immediately, and a few seconds later Gwen found herself being driven rapidly through the London streets en route to the house of some great lady quite unknown to her. But she no longer felt frightened and desolate —little warm fingers held her cold hand. She was comforted and sustained by the presence of Rose Wildare—she knew that she had found a friend, and her whole heart went-out to Rose. She looked at her with dog-like devotion—falling nnder Bose's spell—telling herself that she had never seen such a lovely little lady before—such a kind little lady, (To be continued daily.)