HEARTSEASE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXV, Issue 20028, 18 August 1928, Page 14 (Supplement)

HEARTSEASE.

BY JOSEPH HOCKING.

CHAPTER XXlV.—(Continued.)

Heartsease had mado her choice, she had of her own accord spoken to her father and told hire that he must do what was in his heart to do. Of her own accord she had offered to do her part in carrying out his plans. I was silent for what could t say or do ? As for old Betsy Flew, I heard her mumbling the words which she declared had come to her while the spirit of prophecy was upon her: When tha child of a Polruan Shall to save a soul from ruin, Learn to love Polzeath. When the child of a Polzeath Shall with true and prayerful breath, Love Polruan's child. Then shall cursing cease to be, Then shall true joy come to we. That is God's own word. " That's it, that's it," croaked the old dame. "My prophecy is being fulfilled I will go back to my 'ouse now, Gideon. I be gittin' tired, I be, but I be as spry as a maid, and I sh'll come to the weddin'." The ole dame staggered to her feet as she spoke and prepared to leave the room. Old Melchisedek also turned to his grandson. " We'll go now Jim," ho said. "The horse and trap are waiting, and you . ill drive me back to Treswceta." " I want to speak to Ileartsoase," said Nancarrow. " I have a right; sho is to be my wife, my wife." " No, you shall not speak to her," declared Mrs. Polruan, "and sho shall nevei be your wife." ■ Again old Melchisedek laughed " Oh, theso women, these women, Gideon," ho said. But there, it doesn'i matter. She'll have to do as she's told, just like my wife always did; but let her have her way now. Come, Jim, your time will come, and when tho knot is tied you will have your own way." I watched them as they left the room; watched them with madness in my heart, but what could I do ? Heartsease cared nothing for me, how could sho? Of her own will she had promised to do her father's bidding and to mai'ry this grandson of old Melchisedek Polzeath. We wero alone in the room presently, Mrs. Polruan, Seth and I. Gideon had accompanied the old man to the conveyance. " Mr. Caradoc," said Seth, " is there anything 1 can do ? If thero is I will do it; but I am a poor ignorant fellow and can't do anything without first having orders. You are a clever man; a college man, 1 expect; can you do nothing?" "If Heartsease hadn't promised," I found myself muttering. " But her words had no heart in them," cried tha mother. "I am suro they hadn't; she is only sacrificing herself for her father's sake. What, my little maid marry that fellow! It would never have entered her mind hadn't it been for Gideon. Surely there is a way out of it, somehow. Gideon is out of his mind; that fiend has frightened him, and he didn't know what ho was saying. You don't take any notice of his promise, do you ?" " No," I replied, " the whole thing is unholy, and it is madness. As for his promise, it has no more weight than thistledown; it was obtained by a trick. The whole thing is cruel madness. But Hoartsease seemed willing, she gave her consent."

" Bub you can persuade her even now," cried tho mother. " I am sure you can. She thinks a world of what you say; she told me so only this afternoon." "But you heard, Mrs. Polruan; 1 did all I could. I told her sho mustn't consent to her father's wishes. I promised 'to—" " Oh yes, I know you did," cried the bewildered mother; "you offered to pay off tho mortgages. Oh, it was good of you!" " But you. heard what she said: she would not take advantage of the little I could do." " That was because sho was sensitivo about accepting help from you. But can't you persuade her?—can't you even now ? A loveless marriage, a forced marriage is a terrible tiling: it's maddening, and she's my only girl, Mr. Caradoc Do try to persuade her. Let us find her right away and we will leavo you together." " Very well," I replied, " 1 will do my best." " And I will agree to anything that you may say or do," cried tho woman. " Wo both will, won't we, Seth 1" " 1 will agree to anything Mr. Caradoc thinks best," replied Beth; "but father's tho difficulty." Yes, Gideon Polruan was tbc difficulty. 1 could see him talking with old Melchisedek as I looked through the window, and I knew they were confirming the pact they had made. ' Tho farmer had apparently forgotten the feud of generations in the possibility of tho curse being removed: forgotten the hideous plot to wreck his child s life: forgotten everything in the hope that his future would bo bright. , I saw him bidding good-byo to the old Inan, and tho young one whom ho already regarded as his son-in-law, and then returned to the house. "It's all settled," ho said, as if regardless of his wife's feelings; "it s all settled. Tho curse has gone, Kezia, the (jurse has gone, and I shall spend the evening of my life in peace. Just think of it, I shall bo a freo man, I shall no longer be clogged by a weight of debt, and Heartsease will live at Lincc Farm. J feel twenty years younger at the thought of it all—aye, more than twenty years." " But, Gideon," pleaded his wife, " it's wrong, it's sinful." " How could it be sinful to do away with hatred?" was his reply. " How can it bo sinful to do away with cursing .' I am following your advice, Mr. Caradoc. Didn't you tell me yesterday afternoon when we were on the way to the Bodinin Moors that I should try to destroy hatred and not foster it'/ And that's what this will do." " But think of Heartsease, Gideon, pleaded his wife. "It will kill her. " No, no," tho farmer assured her. "Why, she volunteered to do it; you hoard her with your own ears. Yes. think of it, the curse is gone and I am a free man again." Ho left tho room as, ho spoko -arid i turned to Mrs. Polruan. " Let us find Heartsease," I whispered; " let us go to her now."

CHAPTER XXV. • HEARTSEASE AND I. " You can go into the p;:rlour," Mrs. Polruan said to rno, " I will find hor and bring her to you." I therefore went intc tlic room where, only tlireo clays before, Iloarts'caso unci 1 had sat playing the danco music which 1 had brought from Truro, fhen, she had not seemed to have a care upon her mind. Her heart was light, and her mouth full of laughter as a young girl's should bo. At that time I did not know that 1 loved her; had not a shadow of an idea that my heart had gone dut to her in a devotion that was beyond words. But 1 knew now, knew that the sacrifice she had promised to make was worse than death to mo. I heard whispering voices outside, and a second later Mrs. Polruan entered with Heartsease by her side. Tbe girl was white-lipped and dry-eyed. She looked years older than sho had looked an hour before. Her eyes, which had so appeal ed to mo. bore a haunted expression. But she was strangely calm. She spoke to her mother without a tremor in her voice, indeed without any emotion or feeling whatever " Mr. Caradoc wants to speak with you, Heartsease, my, dear," • said Mrs. Polruan, and sho left us in the room alone together. *" It was she who broke the silence, for which I was glad. I had much to

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say to her, but I did not know how to begin. " I am afraid* you think I am very rude, very ungrateful, Mr. Caradoc," sho said. " I did not mean to bo, but naturally Then she stopped as though she did not know how to finish the sentence. " You were neither rudo nor ungrateful," I replied. " But I was. I shall never cease to think of your goodness to us all. You have been just wonderful, and believe me wo are not ungrateful. You have done so much for us that 1 feel almost ashamed. Why—Why—you offered to pay father's debts, and to relieve him from the cares which have made him so miserable!" " That was nothing," 1 replied. "But why didn't you accept my offer?" " How could I ? How could I allow you, a stranger, to do all this for us, when—when—? You told me the other day—" " You told mo the other day that I did not seem like a stranger," I reminded her. " You said that I seemed like a big elder brother. Why should not a big eldor'brothor sdek to make his little sister happy'! It would have been a joy for mo to have done it." " But how could I let you? I have no claim on you; a week ago 1 had never seen you, how then could I? Besides, you saw father's face, you know what he feels. It is almost a religion to him to keep his promises, and he has promised." " But he had no right to promise," I replied. "No man has a right to promise anything that will blacken another's future. In this case it was a cruel promise, an unholy promise." " Oh, but I had to do it," she replied. " Don't you see ?—it removed the curse from him, it made him happy." " You don't believe in the curse," I replied, "do you? It was as you said, tho venom of a madman's heart. Why should you suffer because of his superstitions " Oh, but I believe in it, too." , " You don't," I replied. " Yes, I do —at least in a way. Bosides, I havo mado him happy." " And you have sent me to hell," I blurted out bitterly. " What!" she cried. I was afraid I had said too much, and I hesitated. " You have mado us all miserable," I went on weakly. "Don't you see that you have ? Don't you see that you have made Setn sad, and how your mother is suffering ?" " Yes, but they will get over it. I havo taken away father's burden and—and—l shall bo all right," " Heartsease," 1 said, "do you give yourself to this man willingly ? Would you under ordinary circumstances have elected to marry this grandson of old Melchisedek Polzeath ?"

"No ! —no ! —no —" she repeated the words as if in anguish, and she shuddered as she spoke. " Then you never shall marry him," I said. " But I must. Why should you care ? I am nothing to you." " You are everything to me," I replied, "everything!" She looked up to mo in wild-eyed wonder. "You don't mean that—l arn sure you don't." " And if I did, Heartsease? Tell me that." " But you don't. What can a man like you care for a, poor, simple, ignorant girl like 1" am ?" " But Ido care," I replied. " I care moro than light or life. That's why I told you just now that by promising to marry that fellow you are sending me to hell. I told you that I cared for you as a young sister, but I care, for you moro than that, Heartsease. I love you moro than a man over cared for a sister. Don't you understand mo?" " Oh, but you can't!—you are mocking me. Why didn't you tell me that before ?"

" And if I did 1 asked. " Oh, then I would have died rather than make that promise; but I didn't know. I thought you didu't care, I thought you were promising to do everything because of pity and—now it's too late."

" Then you do caro ior mo—in that way ?" " Why, you know I do. I havo almost from the very first time I saw you. I was afraid I had been bold and—and forward, because — Why, I showed you that I did, and you must know that I did. Of course I didn't think that a great man liko yon could caro for—just me. If I did— Oh, why didn't you tell me ?"

Sho spoke with ail tho simplicity oi a child, and yefc I was afraid. Tho way sho had revealed her heart to mo gave mo infinite joy, and yet, even in her ai'tlessncss sho had revealed something else. 1 knew that sho had so far inherited her father's nature that a promise was to her a sacred thing, that her word was binding and would bind her till death. I saw by tho look of mute agony in her eyes that sho regarded the words sho had spoken to her father as final; that although sho might dio at tho altar sho would still go to it, and stand by tho side of tho man who I knew was longing for her.

But I would not givo her up without a struggle. What sho had said under tho excitement of the moment made no appeal to my sense of honour Besides, tho happiness of my life was at slake. I know that tho sun would never shine again for me if I had to think of her as having given her iifo to appease her father's fears and to gratify the hopes of a madman. And so I pleaded with her, told her with all tho fervour of a lover what sho was to me; but I could not move her. fler word was given and sho would stand by it. " Oh, I lovo to hear you say that," sho said with childish simplicity. " I am so proud to think that you care for me; but how can I help myself ? I must do what I said." " Then you have no pity tor me ?" 1 pleaded. " You will allow mo to go back to my old life, and eat out my heart in loneliness and misery ?" " I would give my life to make you happy, I would really," sho answered; " and you havo been so good, so wonderful ; but 1 can't help myself, I can't go back on my promise." At that moment her mother camo back into tho room, doubtless longing to know of what success I had obtained. For a few seconds she stood looking at as qucstionmgly, evidently not understanding " Have you persuaded her ?" sho asked, looking at me. " Mother," sobbed Heartsease, " do you know that Mi Caradoc loves me—me? Ho lias told 1110 so. Oil, why didn't you tell mo before?" " Is that true?" and the mother looked at mo with kindling eyes. "You are not vexed, are 3 r ou ?" 1 asked. " No, no, but I have neved dared to hope for such a thing. You are so far removed from us. your ways are not our ways, and —and —" She looked eagerly toward Heartsease as if trying to read her heart. "Oh, if 1 had only known before! If 1 had only known before!" t sobbed tho girl. " But I havo given by promise, mother; you know I promised father." Still the woman could not understand; sho seemed to bo unable to reau her child's mind " And you want to marry Heartsease ?" she said, looking at me steadily. " The dearest hope of my life would bo roalised if I couid," I replied. " I am so proud, so happy at tho thought of it. But why are you crying, my dear ?" "If I had only known before! Why didn't he tell mo before?'" 1 I heard her say to herself. " Mrs Polruan, I can't do any more," 1 said. "It is for you to persuade her now. God grant that you may sucr eeed. It would mean everything to me." I left the room as I spoke, and then went out among the fields to try and

fight this new battle, to think how I could overcome the heart of this girl who loved me with a great love, and yet who would sacrifice that love for what was to be a mistaken duty. - For hours I tramped the fields, scheming, wondering, planning. Somietimes I could not believe that the problem that faced me was true. * It was only a week before that I had ever heard of Heartsease Polruan, only a week that very day that I had first seen tier. When I had first read Gideon's letter it had appealed to me.as the ietter o) a nutn who was not quite sane, and yet I remembered a kind of dread falling over me as I perused its pages. What could have been more absurd than that a man living in this remote part of England should, because he had read a novel of mine, ask me to come and help him in his trouble; yet so it was. and I had come. Only one short week, and my life was changed. t had never been a woman's man and although like other fellows I had been thrown into the society of girls, I had regarded none of them seriously. Then 1 had come to Cornwall and had made friends with a child reared on a farm; a winning child, in some respects a happy child, but in others weighed down and haunted by unnameable fears. And I had learned to love this simple girl; I had given the whole of my life to her only to be mot by this impossible situation. Had mine been the story of another man 1 think I should have laughed at him; it was too absurd for words. But I could not laugh at it now, it overclouded my life, changed everything. Again and again 1 recalled her words, " Oh, why didn't you tell me before," and I called rnvself a fool and a madman for waiting And yet what could I have done other than ■: did ? How could 1 have blurted out the most sacred thoughts of my lifp for all to listen to ? It was all so fantastic, so absurd. 1 went through the whole story again, pomt by point, recalled every incident of the past week, find had it been some other man's story T should have laughed at it as; being altogether unbelievable. The thought of an intelligent girl throwing away th happines; of a lifetime in order, to work out the will of a madman and to satisfy superstitious fears seemed too chimerical for credence. Yet so it was. Common sense was thrown to the winds, while a phantasy, a foolish sense of honour stood as firm as the old grey granite hills of this western county. But I would not give up hope, and presently when darkness came and I again returned to the house, I made one more appeal. I must go back to London to-morrow, Heartsease," I said. " To-morrow ? Oh, no, please don't!" "But I must, T have nothing to stay for; my work's done." "Yes, but you must not go; you promised you would stay for a long, long time."

" I will gladly stay if 1 have the right," 1 replied; " but how can I? If I stay it will only bo to see you wedded to old Polzeath's grandson. Could I do that ?" " But—but—that must not bo for months, years; I can't bear it." "It must be soon," 1 urged. "Didn't you hear what the old man said ? Your father agreed to it, too." 1 She looked at me in wild-eyed agony. The reality of the thing came to her. " Oh, stay and help me," she cried piteously. " I will gladly stay if you: will withdraw that foolish promise. Tell me you will do that, and—" "Oh, but I can't; yon know I can't. Oh, if I only could. But it's impossible." " Then 1 must go—go away into the darkness and utter' hopelessess." " And all because of mo. You—you love me like that ? " " Yes, like that; but you do not care," 1 said a little bitterly. " Care! I would give anything, everything to keep you." " Then withdraw that promise." But it was no use. I could see that she shuddered at the thought of marrying tho grandson of the old madman, but she had given her promise—her father had given his promise—and though it might mst her lifo she would be true to her word.

The house was in quietness presently, and all went to their rooms, but I could not sleep. For hours I paced the great bedroom which had been allotted to mo, trying to sec my way out of tho impasse, but everywhere I was met with the same impregnable barrier. I know that it would be as easy to set back the rock-bound coast of Cornwall as to set back that old madman of the moors. Knew, too, that his grandson's one hope, and one determination in life, was to accomplish tho thing upon which he had set his heart There was no hope in that direction. As for Heartsease. T had done my all, and it ended in nothing T called to mind the old saying, " Love will find a way": but love could find no way hero Hatred had brought its curse, and love could not overcome it. That morning I packed my portmanteau ready for my journey back to London. I could not bear to stay in the house any longer When [ came downstairs I found the family at breakfast. Gideon was sitting at head of tho table, as 1 thought calm and contented, although 1 could not see how it could have been so. Mrs. Polruan sat near him, her eyes swollen with weeping Selh looked sullen and defiant. Heartsease was there, too, but she gave mo no look of welcome as I entered.

" Mr. Polruan," 1 said as calmly as 1 could, " I find tlioro is a train leaving Bolventnor at noon to-dav. Could you let mo liavo tho horse and trap? lam afraid my bag is too heavy to carry." " But not to-day, surely not to-day." " Yes," I replied, "to-day." lie seemed about to utter a protest; but the words died on his lips. _ I think Mrs. Polruan must have told him what sho knew, and ho was silent. Seth, however, rose to his feet in a passion. " It's devilish, simply devilish," ho cried. Mr. Caradoc, you are a gentleman far above such as we, but I can't help it. lam a dull sort *of fellow, and —and I never knew the meaning of friendship till now, T never wanted a friend; but I want you to bo my friend, and if—but for, tho madness of it —I could have .been —I'd, why I'd have been the proudest man in Cornwall and—no—l won't stand it—there now." " I shall be proud to remember you as my friend. Seth." I replied, "and vou must come to London to sec me. When you conio I will treat you liko a Prince, 1 will be proud to—" He caught niv hand before I could finish tho sentence, while a great sob came into his throat. " And you might liavo been my—my brother! " he cried. , The words came out with difficulty and tears rolled down his weather-beaten face. ; " Heartsease," lie shouted, " can you let it be? Can you let him go likelike this?" Bnt HenrtKMSP mn ! et' moved a musclo or spoke a word. Sho sat looking at us dry-eyed, white-lipped, in mute agony " Father," continued Seth, ' can you stand by and—" f) " The curse is gone, the curse is gone, said Gideon Polruan. " Heartsease has me to remove it." "The curse is here!" shouted Seth savagely; "a curse ten times as had as that which you have conjured up There ho's coming across the garden now, the young devil 1 will kill him. yes. 1 will"; and looking through tho window I saw tho young schoolmaster coming toward tho house. (To be concluded next week.)