SERIAL STORY.

New Zealand Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 6362, 9 November 1907, Page 2

SERIAL STORY.

“RODERICK STUTELEY’3 TRUST,” 08. THE SQUIRE OF "WESTHAM.

By EDITH C. KENTON. Author of "The 'Hero of the Blaca Shale Mine," " Sir Claude Mannerley." "Love's Golden Thread," Etc., etc. CHAPTER IX. On his way back to America as a secondclass passenger in the good eteamcr -tor" tesque, John mad© a friendship which was to influence his whole life. An artist, by name Henry Beckett, was travelling second-class by way of economising. Ho was not at alb strong, and about half-way across the Atlantic fell ill of pneumonia. John, who had been greatly attracted by the artist's talk, begged leave to nurse him, and, permission being granted, devoted himself to him by day and night. With unwearied scare and rare skill in a man so young, he nursed the artist until at length the oh ip s doctor declared that h© (John) had, with God s help, saved his life. , • Henry Beckett was not 'ungrateful. Ab he lay, during long hours of convalescence, watching the youth's refined features and noble aristocratic bearing, ; ho marvelled moro and more at the; humbleness of his position. During tho long hours of tho night, when sleep would not come to the hapless invalid, . John talked much to him of his espori- . ences in England, and, before that, in America, thinking thereby to interest I and amase him. Beckett knew all about ! his mother's lodging-house in Bowden, • the strange words sue and her mother ; had let fail about his father, his fruit- | loss expedition to England, in search of the latter, or at any rate of nows • relating to him, his humble employment , there as a gardener, tho brief .ternuna- > tion of his new work in the house, the singular episode of the master's sudden, indisposition, and the old butler's anxiety that very night to despatch a box tu America. It was all very strange, thought Beckett, and he had no -doubt in his own'mind that the rich man at j Westham had reasons of his own for : hating the sight of the hau l seme lad. I Could it be that he feared m entanglement of some kind between him and; his pretty daughter? Bor John had art- 1 iessiy disclosed .his feelings for that | young lady. Or was it possible that ■ John himself was an unacknowledged son of the, master of Westham Hall? Well, whatever ho was, there was no doubt about it ho wan a good fellow—a very good fellow. And ho loved art. He had some very presentable sketches in the sketchbook h© timidly drew out, one day, when he was talking about the old ruined Castle of Pevensey and its historical associations. Both tho drawing and tho knowledge of history he displayed astonished the artist. The [ lad was quite animated when ho related i how Julius Caesar was supposed to have | landed on that spot, and later, ‘William ! the Conqueror, who afterwards' made it; his point of embarkation when he went , to his Norman territories. "Where did you. learn history?" ask-' ed Beckett. "Oh when I was* a small boy, at school," answered John 1 "And where did you learn drawing?"! "Oh,-at school, too. We had a pretty good master. Ho taught mo perspective . and all that. I've never tried colours. I I wish—" ' "Well?", said the artist, encoruagingly, as he hesitated. *‘i wish 1 could learn to (paint. I'd love above all things to put bits of the—as it is seei—and bits of lovely scenery down on paper, or canvas, so that 1 might never lose sl o ht of them. But no, that's impossible. I never could." He sighed deeply. “ Why not?" _ t "Oh, I'm poor. No one would teach me without lots of money—and I haven't it to give." "iou can get lessons for very little in these days." | John shook his head. What seemed little to the artist was much to him. ’ “Then I haven't time for it, you know," he went on. "I have to support ; myself by the labour of my hands. Mv ; time has to bo given to that." "How would it be if you were to combine the two? There have been artiste who have begun by serving humbly in studios, doing the so-called menial work, waiting upon artists, and so on. Whilst m tho studios they used their eyes and ears, and &o In time became pupils, and ultimately artiste too." *-*lh," cried John, "if I could only do that. Do you think I could get such a place?'' ‘*H is possible. I have a studio in' New lork, I generally keep a man, or a boy, to wait upon m© and look after it. Ihen when I travel about the country : on sketching tours, he goes with me to carry my easel and all that sort of thing. . Happy follow 1" cried John, enviously- 1 wish I were he," You?" The artist looked at him keenly. TTou —serve me?" "Tea.' Why not?" "We have been friends on board thie vessel. How could I treat you as a servant?" I have learnt how to obey." f Give me that book, quick. Now take my boots out of the cabin. They ought to have been cleaned. Shut the door after you. Make haste back." . John disappeared with the boots, and jn.a few moments reappeared with them bright and shining, and with a cheerful countenance, which the other scrutimsed closely. • "S 01 ! y° n hke being ordered about m that way?" he demanded. Qk, I don't mind you speaking to-me like that Not a bit." T if J Oll yon tan stand it, I don t mind giving you a trial. X don t give big wages, though." ‘1 don't want them." "I gathered ffom what yon told me before that you want to be rich." 'Knowledge is power." said John, sententiously. "Tho first thing I have to do is to learn." “You must not expect me to be always teaching you." “No. X must do as those others did—use iny eyca and ears." "Then that is settled," "Js itf Oh, thank you. Thank you." Henry Beckett was tired, and leaned

back on his cushions with closed eyes. But ho could not sleep. He was pictur-ing-the future, with this young man in it as his servant. Servant? Why, anyone seeing them together would do at a loss to know which was servant and which was master. The lad had already quite a presence. Ho would turn out a very handsome man. With refined surroundings he would look every inch a gentleman. "He’ll make a capital model, thought the artist. "I’ve a good mind to paint him life size. He’d do for a young god. Adonis—or—by Jingo ! I could put him in almost anything. Tho way his head is set on his shoulders. I ‘should like to practise that/' His thoughts went suddenly off on another line. From what he "bad heard, and from the appearance of tho lad, he felt convinced that his father was a gentleman by birth. The suspicions awakened by John’s account of the way in. which lie was hurried off frem Westham returned to him.

"John," ho said at last, opening hie eyes and seeing his faithful attendant still sitting near, “didn't you think it rather queer that, directly after the right of you had upset the master of the house, his old servant should set to work to persuade you to leave the country?" "But then he wanted the box taken," said John, simply. "Bid he?" "Yes,, very much.", ‘‘Where is the box?"

"I keep it near me—tinder my pillow at nights. It’s not verv big, vou know, bnf very heavy for its size. Hates hint, cd that it wa;, full of very valuable papers.'

"Would yon mind fetching it?" "I’ll fetch it." John looked surprised at tho request. but instantly went for the box. It was a email rosewood one about the size of a large old-fashioned work)K>x. It was simply locked, and appeared to have no further fastening. Beckett locked at it curiously. The address was to "Mrs Rrackenbury, 10, Dr.verot Lane, Chicago. "It seems queer that address/’ eaid Beckett. "I never heard of a Dovecot ; .Lane before. However, Chicago is a big place, a very big place indeed." "That’s so. I told Bates it wcq not sufficiently directed. But *he eaid anyone would tell mo where it was when I got to Chicago. Of course I knew Chicago piefty well, hating lived so near it, but for all that I never heard of Dovecot Lane. However, as you say, it may be there for all that." "It seems heavy," said Beckett, his fcbrnijMie intent on tho box. ■ "Yet, it is very heavy." "Put it down there. It mav aa well remain in my cabin/' Tho artist’s tones sharp. He- viewed tho box with no little suspicion. <- /they began to talk about tho future; Beckett foimally engaging John to bo his servant, with a wage of twenty pounds a year and all found, as woll as travelling expenses whon acoompajiyiug him on tours. John was to leave him at New York, prrtoeed by train to Chio-go. hand over the box to Mrs Braokenbury, visit his mother at Bowden. and then return to New York to serve Beckett.

riie youth -was full of delight at the project. The future wore for him the most roseate hues. Boy-like, ho had taken Henry Beckett for his hero. Ho idealised him in his thoughts, imagining so groat on artist, so good a man, had seklwn lived He fancied that morely serving him would be a joy. He would ho amongst artists and their work. Ho wruid learn how to paint. He would ]Joint something which would astonish everybody with its rare beauty, its esemisite grace. Then ho would become fam-ius The great ones of earth would e*ue for his paintbtgs. ■ And then, then when his fame was at its height, ho would leave his work, his fiiouils. the city which adored him, and would cross the Atlantic once more. At Westham he would find the girl he Loved, a. little, lonely, dreaming porchanco of a fail haired boy with whom she had once talked peclry in the garden, or more probably, of a possible golden, haired Prince coming to woo and win her "My doling/* he would say, kneeling down. l>efor-» her, "you have inspired my life. ..llichee, fame, I bring them nil to you, and lav them at your feet. Complete the work yon have begun fid long ago. Be my wife, my.darling, and together wo will enjoy all that I- have won/' Then of course she wr/uld lay her hand m Ids and, raising him gently, whisper that slia had waited for that hour, cfoo hod longed for his coming, eho would bo dus'•wife.

■)h, for the joyous imaginings, the un'warrantable expectations, the illogical Kifnlnhuness of youth I There is nothing Uke it all our after life. Poetry ran wild, that is youth.’ Prose walkber along soberly, advancing slowly, inch by inch, that Is middle and old ogc. (To be continued in Monday’s issue.)