THE PRIVATE SECRETARY.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1266, 4 June 1896, Page 41

THE PRIVATE SECRETARY.

Br Hob Cbomie.

Mr Henry Markham, M.P., had accepted nn invitation from his political friend, Sir George Howard, to his countiy house, Afl the vi-sit was more politic/.] than private, Mr Murkliam brought hi* private mm! political srcntaiy, John Warrington, with him. An important measure wan before the House, and adivi-iou was expected to take place inlinediiitely. Sir George represented land, Mr Markham capital ; and Warrington knew more about both than ei:hcr, Besides, Mr Markham was vicariously on a work dealing with bimetallism. Warrington had ideas on the subject, and Mr Maikhani believed in these so far that he had decided to put his own name to them. ' Warrington, 1 he explained to Sir George, Ms a deuced clever fellow. He works up my speeches— you see lam very busy—and upon my soul I could not do them better myself.' Thin statement was scrupulously true, Mr Markham and his secretary achieved immediate and merited unpopularity with Sir George Howard's household and guests. Markham was ignorant, ill-bred and arrogant. The secretary was a man of undoubted natural gifts—he was highly educated and had a fine literary style—but he was lacking in the mroir vivre that makes civilisation worth while. A strong character, he wanted that precise mental adjustment necessary to those who make the beat of life as it is and leave the conduct of life as it ought to be to remote posterity. Warrington's apparent indifference to his own and hu chief's social failuie was pure affectation, lie was miserable, and tried to disguise his emotions by an oveidor.e cynicism and a preposterous interest in bimetallism. He worked night and day at Mr Markbam's book with only an hour off in the afternoons for pistol practice—his sole recreation. Miss Marion Howard, Sir Georges daughter and mistress of his house, was at first civil to the private and political secretary. It was her duty, bimetallism she earnestly believed to be a bore, though a hannlcs one, but when she discovered that the bimetallic was also a Socialist she was not sure that she ought not to send for the police. The secretary's futo v.-.-S sealed. Henceforth there he ":ust be left alone. Warrington was a dangerous character. Cut the great divisim was still ill the future. The dangerous character must perforce be tolerated for the present. _ A Committee of Public Safety was meantime organised. Its president was a public school boy and its action was worthy of its president. One evening the secretary was strolling through the grounds thinking about bimetallism and other things. In a dark corner of a shrub-bordered path he stumbled over the outstretched legs of a man lying on the grass, Warrington apologised, but the man was not appeased. His coarse face, enormous muscles and whole set-up could hardly be mistaken ; he wae a prize-fighter, or should have been. He would accept no apology. ' I have apologised,' Warrington said. ' What more do you want V ' I want to know if, as you thinks yourself a man, you'll put up your lives.' 'No,'said Warrington, 'I won't. But I'll tell you what I will do.' He put his hand into his hip pocket and snatched out a short, black object, with a land, which he pointed in the man's face. 'lf jou advance a single step Til put a bullet in your skull. 1 The man fell back, There w.-.s a slight movement in iho thubbeiy. Wairington noticed it.

'Observe,' lie said sharply. 'Yon think 1 could not hit you in ill! heed in this light ? See me tube that branch off the ye* !' He pointed the pistol straight at the ds ttsc-st growth of underwood. There was a hasty scramble and the sounds of running footsteps. 'J he pugilist again gave ground. 'Go!' said Wanington. 'And if ever you molest me again I'll fire first and think the matter over afterward.' In tho smoking-room that evening Warrington was reading and smoking a cigar, when young Charlie Telford, tho president of the ommittee, exclaimed—- ' What do you think of a sweep who draws a revolver on an unarmed man ';' 'That he is a sweep,' came so unanimously it was evident the seine had been rehearsed. Warrington did not appear to hear. 'What do you ssy, Warrington? Telford asked pointedly. •It depends,' replied the secretary, upon what the unarmed man was doing—or going to do. If he was inoffui.-ive the man with the gun wtiß a criminal rulKan.' _ 'Suppose the unarmed man was offensive ? •Then the man with the gun was an ass.' ' For what ?' 1 For not firing.' 'Oh, indeed! Perhaps, under the same circumstances, you would have fired.' •Why, Cciiainly.' , . , .. 'That's curious," ufClce m two or three. • For they say that you yourself wer'G rr.Ofe?fect this evening, and that you didn't fire.' 'I was molested, as you say, but it wasn't necessary to fire, fortunately for me, aa I had pot got a gun,'

'We won't haggle over the word "gun." It is certain you had a pistol.' 'Oh, dear, no,'said Warrington, knocking the ash off his cigar, ' I had only a pipecas?.'

The subject was dropped, and with it the private secretary, When Miss Howard received the report of the committee "-he laughed immoderately. So they had had their trouble for nothing. At the same time the girl did not forgive the secretary certain sins of omission. He had treated her from the (irst with marked indifference. Sill, she was irUd if the overthrow of the committee. !she wanted to be her own executive.

Next morning Mies Howard received a written application from the secretary. He required his meals served in tho room where he worked ; otherwise he would have them provided in the village. This was a terrible dilemma. To give l way to a private and contumacious secretary was not pleasant; but to allow a stranger within the gates to seek in the village what it must be presumed hud been denied in liie Castle was unthinkable. Miss Marion did ivt fu'get this to the man who had tet the traditions of a thousand years at defiance. Wanington had his meals in the room given over to him. They we:e splendid feasts. Ha ate what he r.quired ot the simper foods, and ignored tha mystic delicac'es. He ma :e good progress with M r Marklnm's book on bimetallism,

Miss Howard told her best girl friend that she began to hate the secretary heartily on his own merits. She often met him as he was entering or leaving the Castle for his daily walk. When she was wearing a new sr particularly attractive gown she was certain to meet him. This coincidence was without exception. The secretary's tired face began to brighten as she passed. Her antipathy was really less violent than she had described to her friend. But he was still contumacious. He had not yet bent the knee, and did not seem likely to do so. The mistress of the Castle was going on a round of visits. She was beautifully dressed. It was the seeretaiy's hour for 'knocking off.' But he did not knock off at all that day. Consequently Miss Howard found him in his woiking-rooin at the time when he should have been out of it. She only waited a moment; just long enough to have the breath of a delicate perfume and the recollection of a charming face, luurc and costume with the secretary. He looked up as she was going out with a short apology [or her presence. He had been working hard that day, 'Thank you,' iie said, quietly.

' For what ?' she asked, surprised, ' For letting me see yon in that dress. It helps me with this,' he indicated the mass of manuscript on the table, 'lt is kind of you. 1 ho] e yc.u will have a pleasant day.' 'Do you dare to say,' she cried, ' that 1 came here to exhibit myself?' A change came over his face—a change so sudden and so ugly that she stopped sharply. ' 1 beg your pardon,' he said, coldly. 'lt is altogether my fault. I thought it would have given you pleasure to know that you had done a kindly act, even though you did it unconsciously. lam sorry that you are angry with me for being grateful. I shall not offuiid you again.' He arose ami preceded her to the door as confidently as if the house were his own. And he bowed her out with a dignified courtesy which he could not have copied if a thousand dancing masters had po.-ed for him. His grievance lent him grace. She said ' Good afternoon' frigidly. He returned her salutation with studied politeness. They did not meet again for several days, At last the book was finished. Mr Markham was delighted wdth the tone and argument, ami signed his name thereto with a flourish, and without noticing his secretary's look of quiet contempt.

Miss Howard was indignant when she heard of this, though the signature really meant much, including a publisher. She blamed Mr Markham more or less, but Warrington's conduct was inexcusable. He had no spirit, she told him. He replied that it was impossible for her to see the matter from his point of view—that of a man who had to work for his living—and that she could not grasp the complex influences at work in such a mean scheme of existence. She left him with unaffected disgust. Mr Markbam's visit was nearly over. The last evening had come.

A large skating party had been improvised. All the guests except the secretary were on the ice—a lake live miles over a lonely moor. Warrington went there, too, hut only to look on. He did not care to join the skaters. They did not care, either. One, perhaps—but that would anticipate. Ah the evening advanced, snow began to fall. It came gently at first, and the skaters enjoyed it. It made them white and picturesque, It dulled the sharp ring of their skates into a muffled rumble as they sped over the fast-coating ice. It clung in delightful little frosty filaments to the eyelashes of the girls and whitened the moustaches of the men. It was grand. Then the Snow King changed his mind suddenly. He sent forth his tempest in a moment. The little fleecy fhktlcU wi ra followed by blinding di iit-n Darkness covered the land and an impenetrable snowfall the skaters. Racing blindly for tho lake shore, thoy foui d Lank here and there in detached groups —sometimes three or four together, hand in hand; often one by one, blinded, dazed, demoralised, 1 he s cretary sat on a tie.--''amp by the bank and watched, o.iickss of his snowy jacket, The thing interested him—nothing mote. He told himself that he did not care a straw if the whole party, man, woman and child, perished in the drifts. Still he waited persistently. He did not tell himself for what. At hut ho arose. Just then the mulllid hum of a pair of .-kates sounded far out on the ice. 'Die sound waxed louder and fainter alternately. Like the traveller in a primeval fo.est who had lost his way, this skater was moving in a circle. Let him circle 11 ere till he perished. Kb: must be now well on the way to the Castle But—duty ! Wanington put his two hands to his mouth and sent a deafening shout across the ice. A faint cry answer, d back. He shouted again to indicate the diiectioii. Then he heard the sound of skates ploughing through the deepening snow straight for him. The sound swerved to the rigid;. 'This way,' Warrington roared from the shore. ' This way—hang you !' In ten seconds Miss Howard fell exhausted into his arms. He could only wait until she had recovered breath, and then, without a word of apology, he took her up in his arms and carried her into the partial shelter of a belt of underwood. The cold became intense, Warrington soon saw that before she had even recovered strength the girl's circulation was running down. She must be kept moving or she would freeze to death. She was already half asleep. Fortunately he had a small flask of brandy that tho housekeeper at the Castle, who took pity on him, ' he seemed so louesome,'

had pressed upon him when he started. He forced some drops into tho girl's lips, and, when she partly revived, said sharply

' Now then ! March !' ' I cannot move a step. lam faint. I can not breathe ! This awful snow !'

He shook her roughly. She would not stir. He hardened his heart and struck her in the face with his open hand. tShe only moaned and hid her head upon his shoulder, lie tried to cover her from the awful downfall, which momentarily increased. Then, failing in this, he hurst out passionately 'Listen to me! Whore are your fii-nds gone? Why have they deserted you'.' (They had not really mi-sed her.) Do you hear me ? lam going to stand by you. And won't you even try to move ':' 'I cannot. Save yourself,'she moaned. 'No ; lam not that sort. Now , then !'

He raised her in his arms and stolidly plodded through the snow. He had tramped th.it pathway often, ami knew it well. But the snow was terrible. Down it came, thickening every minute. It beat him down. He was knee-deep in it—and he was off the track. When he discovered this, by the uneven footing underneath the deep coating, he stopped. Wanington was no coward; but his heart failed him. He was plty.-ic.illy incapable of carrying the girl further. No shelter was near. The girl hu elf was absolutely exhausted. He appealed to her again 'Could you not try to walk a bit—just to rest me ? I can do no more. Do try.' ' What's the good of trying?' she answered, feebly, 'lt is impossible. Why don't you leaye me ? I want to sleep —I want to die.' ' That's where the trouble is -I don't want you to die.'

He drauk some brandy. The snowfall oidy changed for the worse. It curie down with a force that had actual weight in it. He staggered doggedly on. Once he fell heavily. The relief from the cutting wind was delightful. The snow was soft ; it was a downy pillow—and to rest just for a single moment ! He struggled to Ids feet and clinched his teeth in desperation, Again he struggled forward. Some shelter must be at hind; some help mint be ne»r. If neither one nor other — well, hoc mid take a leaf from the hook of the dainty little patrician he carried in his weary democratic anus, lie, too, could die game. And so, forward! The enow was worse t.ian ever.

The girl, by a great effort, aroused herself and said—

1 You have done en> ugh—too much, I am sony I have not quite understood you, I know you now. (lot bbss you. Save yourself. 1 a-ked yon bef re' 'Twill not save myself,' he ciied, hysterically. ' 1 will not leave you. I will tight on.' But he was dead beat. The girl flung herself fiom his arms, saying, 'Together then.' Hampered by her dress, the exertion of foicing her way through the drifts was terrible. His courage gave her strength. The end came soon. They faced each other silently, each waiting for the other to speak. Then the man said quietly—'The snmv must be clearing off, or we are in the lee of something—some shelter.' ' God grant it,' said tho woman. ' I noticed it but feared it might not bo true.'

They could not see a yard ahead. Another effort then ! After a few steps they were brought up by a wall. It must be an outbuilding of some farm. They found the door; they were saved—for the moment. The house, a mere cattle shelter, was fortunately nearly full of hay. He twisted a firm wisp and brushed her skirt, boots and stockings clear of snow. She must have peiished if the thick coating had been allowed to thaw and drench her. He wrapped her up in a heap of hay and induced her to swallow a few mors drops of the brandy. Then he incontinently finished the flask himself; he needed it. C ling to the open doorway of the shelter he stood on guard. As the night wore away the snow gradually ceased. Tho moon at last shone out. To his surprise Warrington recognised the locality—a hillside half-way between the Castle and the rectory where Miss Howard's married sister lived. She was asleep when he went to her. He awoke her gently. She was inw well rested and almost strong. ' So we can get back to the Castle before daybreak?' she asked, anxiously.

'No,' he answered. 'We can make the rectory—not the Castle.' 1 Why not the Castle V ' There are various reasons,' he said quietly,

She would not argue with him ; he had saved her life. They started for the rectory, and now that they had sufficient light to avoid the deeper drifts, reached their destination without much difficulty, They rarely spoke during the journey. 'Not that way,' Wanington interposed sharply, (is Miss Howard was making for the hall door of the rectory. He wrapped his handkerchief round his right hand ami broke the glass of a ground floor window, 'This will serve better,' he said, as he unfastened the clasp and threw up the sash. ' Let me help you.' He took the girl up in his strong arms and set her in the room. The wind was rising ; the fitful moonlight failed ; snow began to fall again.

'Good night,' he said softly, 'and I hope you won't be anything the wois: ' She seized his outstretched hand ami held it fast.

' Where are jou going?' ' G dug ! O, going, in the fust \ lace, to lose myself in the snow again.' ' For wh it purpose ?'

' So—that —diti'i you see '.'—wh.-n 1 find my way agon 1 will be :-t the Castle, you here. That—that cattle-shelter limine--* is all a myth. I say so who should Know. You see now ?'

There was a pause, ami then the girl said with a slight sob—

' Vou are huic you will find your way to the Cattle?'

' O, yes, sure enough, and not very particu lar whether 1 do or not.'

' Von must be not only particular, but Certain, Else ' 'Else what.''

'L go with you. I know what it moans, but I will go - unless you promise to find your way to the Castle and——-' ' How much more ?' ' d'o come back to-morrow for '

She kissed him on the lips. He forgot the piercing cold, the merciless snow, lie took Iter little perished face in his benumbed hands and drew it close to him again. 1 i)o you mean it?' he asked, in a trembling voic.

' Yes, with all my heart,' ' Then I promise.' He turned from her and set his face against tho storm. Soon he passed out of her sight into the snow. 'He will come to-morrow,' she said, in a low, happy voice.— Black and While,