KILVERT OF OURS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1156, 27 April 1894, Page 8

KILVERT OF OURS.

(By GUY BOOTHBY in TO-DAY.) ~ Tho past, tho dead past, that has swallowed All the honey of life and the milk, Brighter dreams than mere pastimes we've follow'd, Bettor things than our scarlet or silk ; Ay, and worse things : that past, is it really' Dead to us, who again and again Feel sharply, hear plainly, seo clearly Past days with their joy and their pain ?. — Adam Lindsay Gordon. Scene — Country racecourse under military occupation. Half-hour preceding the start for the Regimental Cup. Carriages lining either side of the Straight. Usual crowd, etc. Young Squire of Neighbourhood (approaching carriage occupied by elderly and young lady) : Good day, Mrs Haskayno. Delightful meeting, isn't il', Miss Maude ? You've backed all the winners, of counKTf Miss Haskayne (lifting her parasol clear of his hat) : Oh, dear no! I've consistently drawn seconds, but I live in the hope of doing better in the Cup. Young S.: And what do you fancy ? Miss H.: The favourite, of course. How can Captain Kilverfc possibly lose on that chestnut ? You suroly don't think so ? Young S.: Couldn't say, I'm sure; fancy Blue Blazes myself. You see Jimmy Andoo rides him, and he's got all Kilvert's dash •and a good bit more than his science. Miss H.: Very likely. (Then with an air of clinching the argument) But Trumpet Major is such a beautiful horse, and Captain Kilvert looks so well on him. Young S.: Yes; but unfortunately, Miss Haskayne, good looks don't win steeplechases. Miss H.: Perhaps on this occasion they may. I shall bo ruined if he loses. Young 3.: So'll his owner, I fancy. Tney say Kii's got every cent ho can raise on him, and it'll bo a proper caso of sink or swim this time. Miss H. (nervously lowering her voice) : This time! You don't mean to say Captain Kilvert has been so near it before ? Young S. (who is not particularly in love with Kilvert for reasons not specified) : Never quite such a shave, I should aay, but from all accounts he's been fiffhting his fortune pretty close for years past. However, it won't do for rae to be taking' his character away in this fashion. Can I do anything for you over there ? (Nods in the direction of the ring.) Not a savor on Blue Blazes? (Lifts his hat and walks away, feeling that if he has not advanctd his own cause he has at least not improved Captain Kilvcrt's.) (The saddling bell rings, and the crowd edges towards the paddock. A tall military' looking man bows and walks towards the carriage. The elder lady frowns and returns to her conversation with an old beau of the neighbourhood, reluctantly leaving her daughter free to the stranger.) Miss Iladkayne; The saddling boll rung, and you not gone to dress, Captain Kilvert ? You'U most certainly bo late ! Captain Kilvert (loud enough for bystanders to hear) : Oh, dear no, plenty of time, I assure you. (Drops his voice almost to a whisper.) Besides, how could Igo without seeing you ? Did you remember your promise ? Miss Haskayne (in a whisper) : Hush ! mamma will hear you. Slip your hand inside mj muff!

Captain Kilvert (leans over panel and does as directed. Then puts something into his waistcoat pocket) : Thank you. If I don't win now, I never shall. To-night, at tho old place ? Migs Haskayne : No, no! I dare not! Captain Kilvert: It may bo tho last chance !

Miss Haskayne: Oh, no, no! What time?

Captain Kilvert : The usual! (To man approaching) How do, Acklom? Congratulate you on your win. Tho grey's a plucky little beggar. Plough's a bit heavy, isn't it?

M. F. H. Acklom : Like a quagmire near the lane, wait till you try it! Good day, Miss Haskayne.

Miss Haskayne: Good day, Mr Acklom. Are you going, Captain Kilvert? Then good luck to you. (Half an hour later the Cup horses engaged in their preliminaries.) Miss Haskayne: Mr Acklom, I'm going to press you into my service. Will you be so good as to toll mo all about the horses and their ridors ?

Acklom (mounting to the box) : Delighted, I'm suro. Tho bay now pa3sing is Bluo Blazos, and is, perhaps, Captain Kilvort's most dangerous rival. His rider is Major Andoo, of the Dragoons. The groy is The Friar, and his jockey you know. Miss Haskayne : Yes, but why don't they start ? I'm sure they're all ready. What a large field ! Ido hope there'll bo no accidents.

Mrs Haskayne: Maude, you are overexciting yourself. Mr Acklom, who is that gentleman with such a distinguS air, talking to Colonel Brentwood? I seem to know his face.

Acklom : Lord Laverstock, Mrs Haskayne — just home from Vienna. Mrs Haskayne: Dear me, of course! How foolish of me to forget. I know him years ago, when he was attached to tho French Embassy. Ho has aged a great deal. My dear Maude, what is the matter ? Miss Haskayne (standing up — excitedly) : They're off! Look, look, Mr Acklom, what's first ?

Acklom (watching through field glasses) : The Friar leading, Bluo Blazes second, Trumpet Major third—Kilvert can't hold him. Ah—something down, it's Tally-ho ! Another spill—and another! By Jove, they're thinning out. Trumpet Major leading. Now for the plough. Another spill —two stopped at the brook. He's making the pace. Hullo! Blue Blazes down, Andoo doesn't got up. On the turn for home. A good race, by Jove ! Miss Haskayne (trembling violently, and in her excitement clutching at Acklom's arm, as she watches the horses come into the straight) : He'll win, won't he ? Say yes. Oh, do say yes ! Acklom : Kilvert wins, by Jove ! Well ridden, well ridden. No! What's this in blue ? It's a dead heat. No! tho blue by a head, Trumpet Major second. Good gracious, Miss Haskayne, are you ill ? Can I get you anything ? Miss Haskayne {ghastly white) : Nothing, thank you ; the excitement was too great. lam better now. Mamma, can't we have the horses put in and go homo ? Mrs Haskayne (icily) : No, my dear; you wouldn't go before the race, as I wished, now you must wait until everyone else goes.

Scene — Entrance to stable yard of the George Inn. Time — midnight. Horses being put into mail phaeton.

M. F. n. Acklom (lighting cigar—to companion) : Gad, Tommy, it's a bad business, and will hurt the regiment more than we can imagine. Who'd liavo thought it of old Kil ?

Young Squire : Well, somehow I always did think he'd go wrong. Ho looked that sort of fellow, and he was terribly dipped, I know. Still, I'm awfully sorry. How did it come out ?

Acklom: Kingdon discovered it. The play had been too high altogether, and at last the stakes wcro enormous. Kilvert went on madly increasing and winning every time, till something aroused suspicion and Kingdon watched. Then it all came out. There was an awful scene, and we strangers thought it heat to withdraw. Poor old Colonel! The scandal will nearly kill him!

Young Squire: What about the man ? Acklom : God knows, poor devil! He must have been in awful straits to think of it. He'll havo to clear out, I suppose. Bad business altogether. Ah ! here's the team !—jump up !

SceNe — Wicktt-gate at'ihe lower end of the rose garden, Haskayne Hall. Time — Five minutes to 1 a.m. The moon just disappearing behind the housetop. He (after an interview lasting half-an-hour) : It is a'hard thing to say, but you must try to forget me, Maude! lam a ruined man, and everything is hopeless. It will not do either of us any good to prolong this farewell. Good-bye! Good-bye! She: You will keep the ring, James ? He: Until my death ! {He kisses her, and she goes sobbing towards the house. Clatter of horse hoofs down the road. The church clock, in the village, strikes one.)

Twenty-Jive years later. Scene — The Australian Bush. A night's camp beside a creek. Fire burning brightly, showing racehorse (hooded and rugged), feeding from a nosebag beneath a tree. Grizzled and gray-haired man lying on blankets near the fire. Young man busily engaged cooking. Elder Man (withdrawing pipe from his mouth) t You're a young fool. What's tho use of being tired of your life if you have not the pluck to end it ? I've been tired of mine for twenty years, and yet I go on living it. Young Man: Why don't you practise what you preach P Elder Man : Because I haven't the pluck. I prefer to be what I am, a Sehleinter

racing man; travelling tho Bush on tho merits of that animal there.

Young Man : Running him to suit your book—a Spieler or Welsher, as we should call you at Homo. Nice one you are to talk.

Elder Man (raising himself angrily) : Didn't I tell you six months ago never to speak of home to mo? I'll break every cursed bone in your body if you do it again. What do I know of home ? Nothing! Bah! I'm a Fourty — a Schleinter a Spieler—a Welsher, call it what name you will. Some day they'll find me out and shoot me for the cur I am. (A pause.) Never mind, young 'un, I didn't mean to speak roughly! You keep out of it, and go home to your family while you can, whatever it costs your pride. Play the role of the Prodigal Son, eat humblo pio, and when you peg out you'll have had a happy life of it. Young Man: How can I go homo when I haven't a pound to my name? I might try if I had the money, and I swear if they took mo in I'd run straight, to my dying day. I would, so help me God! Elder Man: What was it, Sonny—anything very bad? Young Man: The old man's namo on a bit of paper. He never denied it, honoured it for tho mother's sake. But he kicked me out all the same.

Elder Man: Do you think he's changed ? Young Man (softly): He's dead—died last year, and left the mother all alone. Poor old mother! She'd take me back, I know. I'll show you her photograph, taken five years ago, before any of this business happened. (Unbuttons shirt and takes locket from his neck, opens it, and hands it carefully.) Elder Man (holding it at an angle to catch the firelight) •. Good God! Young Man: What's up? Elder Man (trying to recover his composure) : Young 'un! What's your real name ? No bluffing now ; what is it ? Young Man: George Geoffry Acklom. Elder Man: And your mother's maiden name ?

Young Man: Maude Agnes Haskayne. Why? Elder Man (gazing fixedly into locket, then returning it with evident reluctance) : Nothing, only I thought I knew the face. It's time to turn in. Good night! (Rolls himself in blankets and speaks no more.)

Scene — A Bush racecourse. Assemblage of squatters, station-hands, shearers and larrikins. Behind a drinking booth, elderly man, in jockey costume, engaged in earnest conversation with a Hebrew bookmaker. Hebrew Bookmaker : 'Ow's Flyin' Buck ? Elderly Man: Fit to run for his life, couldn't be better. Will walk through his field without exerting himself. Bookmaker: Good jumper as ever, I suppose ? Elderly Man: Not a better in the country! Bookmaker (shyly) : Couldn't make him fall? Elderly Man: Couldn't afford it; want money too badly this trip. Bookmaker: 'Ow much does it want to bring him down ? Elderly Man (after a moment's reflection): Stake's worth fifty; could bet the same. Nothing less than .£IOO. Bookmaker (handing notes) : 'Ere's fifty; if he falls there's another be'ind it. Is it right ? Elderly Man: All right! (When alone) Would anyone have believed I could have sunk so low? But it is for her sake. (Going to saddle, he again mutters) For her sake! (The horses go down to the post. Elderly man on big raking black. They get off with a fair start, and, for the first time round, all goes well. Two falls occur at fence at the back of course. Five horses race for the last jump.) Crowd (with one voice) : Flying Buck wins! Flying Buck for a fortune! Flying Buck! (A sudden hush.) He's down, he's killed! (Flying Buck, in the lead, falls with a sickening crash, the rest of the horses jumping on him.) Judge (announcing his decision): "Tho Jackeroo," by a neck!

Scene— Temporary Hospital Tent behind a Drinking Booth. Crowd round door. Elderly man, in jockey costume, stretched on ground, supported by Hebrew Bookmaker. Young man sponging the blood from his lips.

Young Man: How is it now, Jim ? Elderly Man (recovering consciousness by degrees): I mark tho King? Who says I? I—l—what's tho matter! Hullo! young 'un, what's up ? Young Man: You've had a bit of a spill, old man. Keep quiet, and you'll soon be right. Elderly Man: Oh! I remember —at the last fence. Send that crowd away, I'm not a damned show! (Young man walks over and draws the tent flap.) Where's the Jew, Levi ?

Bookmaker (supporting him): 'Ere I am, me poy, a-'olding on yer hup! Elderly Man (sinking his voice): You owe me fifty pounds, slip it into my pocket. That's right. Now go! I shall peg out in a few minutes, and I want to be alone with the young 'un first. (The Jew goes out, leaving them together.) Elderly Man: How's the horse ? Young Man: Dead; they had to shoot him.

Elderly Man: Poor beast (pause). How fatal I have been to everything I've had to do with. Young 'un! feel in my pocket and you'll find some money there. (The young man extracts notes,) Elderly Man: There's a hundred pounds, all I have to leave, but it should be enough to see you home. Go at once, and when you get there may God deal with you as you deal with ycur mother. I shan't be able to speak much longer. Take this ring from my finger and wear it in memory of me, If jm m\hsx eyer asks how you

came by it, say that it was given you by a man whoso only redeeming point was an unswerving loyalty to herself. Young Man: What do you mean ?

Elderly Man: Never mind —do as—l —l —I . Excuse me, Mr President —who accuses me of cheating ? How dark it's getting. Why—don't they light the lamps ? Trumpet Major. At the old gate —at nine. Maude —forgive me—forgive me. Young Man (five minutes later, drawing a cloth over the face): Poor old Jim !