LEAVES OF DESTINY

New Zealand Times, Volume LIII, Issue 12403, 24 March 1926, Page 4

LEAVES OF DESTINY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

DOROTHEA CORBOULD.

Author of “A Fatal Friendship/' “His Fair Enemy," “Held in Bondage," Etc., Etc, COPYRIGHT,

CHAPTER VIII. Collingham Hj\ll had been in the possession of the Anstruthers for over 300 years, the estates descending from father to son with scarcely a break since the year 1574, when they were conferred by Queen Elizabeth upon one Thomas Anstruther, “for signal services rendered to the Crown/' as set forth in the family archives. The Hall itself was a fine old mansion of grey stone, with a battlenientcd roof, deep mullioned windows, and a wonderful porch over a nail-studded oak door bearing the Anstruther coat-of-arms, and the date 1574. There were marble terraces leading by broad flights of stops to the pleasure gardens below, the house being approached by one of the features of the place, a beautiful .avenue of chestnuts winding through the park from the principal lodge gates. The present owner of the property had little or no sympathy with picturesque discomfort and had introduced every up-to-date invention for the house which, could be thought of. He was a man with taste, however, and fortunately his wife agreed with him in his endeavour to let nothing disturb the old world aspect of the interior or the beauty of the outside surroundings. Therefore, the electric light was carefully arranged, a lift to the upper floors cunningly concealed behind the oak panelling of the hall, and the decorations strictly in harmony with the beautiful old furniture and priceless

“ofcfcts d'Art" with -which the mansion abounded. *

Mr Anstruther himself was a typical English squire—hale and hearty at 65 and caring for little outside his own particular world of sport, and agriculture in which his soul delighted. That his only son Donald did not take the same interest in the cultivation of the extensive farm lands belonging to Collingham, and the breeding of live stock, was somewhat of a disappointment to him. He called the young man's artistic talent a decided mistake, and the cultivation of it waste of time. But Donald was a good shot, a keen rider to hounds, and on his return from the war, during his brief visits to his home, father and son had taken up golf with the utmost enthusiasm, spending long days together on the golf links in friendly warfare for supremacy as players. Airs Anstruther, daughter of a Scotch laird “wi’ a long pedigree," was a handsome woman carrying her 60 years with all the grave and vigour of her youth, and regarded as the great lady of the neighbourhood by reason of her commanding presence and her connection with most leading members of the old Scotch aristocracy. With the blue blood of the Mclntyres in her veins, she held birth above everything, and it was her one desire that her son should marry into some titled family and thus keep the Anstruther name untarnished by contact with the lower ranks of pre-sent-day democracy as represented by Trade and Commerce united to rank and position. “Donald will not want money with his wife," she would say, “therefore ho can ally himself with one of the best families in England, and Ida Cravenshaw would accept him to-morrow. The Anstruthers shave always been shining lights in the-politcal world, and Donald ought to get into Parliament and make a name for himself/’ upon which Mr Anstruther would start a long tirade against the Government, thanking heaven that he had never mixed himself up' in politics, and trusting that his son would keep out of them as his forbears had done—this being the sole point on which he and his wife never agreed.

Donald Anstruther had been at home for nearly a month before he could bring himself to burst upon his parents the 6tory of his marriage.

But November was passing away, and the time drawing near when he had arranged to go again to London and fetch Reggie from his present surroundings to take his proper place in the home of his ancestors. Could he possibly induce his mother to allow Barbara Denning to accompany his son, and give the girl a good time at Christmas? He doubted it, more especially as he knew l hat Lady Ida Cravenshaw was to make one of a small house party at Collingliam Hall for the festive season, and Mrs Anstruther’s reason for inviting her. Still, he must make the attempt, and a fhance remark of his mother's one afternoon as they eat at tea before

the fire in her cosy boudoir—his father having gone over to a neighbouring town to attend a cattle show—induced him to screw up his courage and launch the bolt from tho blue. “You sec, Donald," Mrs Anstruther was saying, as she stirred her tea, “both your father and I think it time you settled down and gave up your wandering habits—you must marry, dear, and* let us see our grandchildren round us before we die." “Oh well, time enough for that mater —you and the Dad are still young and hearty," was tho reply, “and besides —" Donald paused a moment, set down his tea cup and added, “I have been trying ever since I came home from the war, to tell you what will be rather a shock to you—l was married some years ago!" “Donald!* the exclamation came almost in a shriek as Mrs Anstruther leaned forward in her chair to look at him. “You cannot mean it? What will your father say?" “Well, I'm almost more afraid of what you will say," with a self-conscious laugh, “however, I may tell you that my wife is dead."

“Thank heaven!" breathed his mother, and sank back again in her chair. “Who was she?" / “A girl I met during my wandering in search of material for my sketches of English scenery. I was only twentyfour and foolish. I induced her tc leave her home and marry me secretly in London. Her name doesn't matter jiow, she is dead, and that episode in my life is ended. Aboxit a year and a half after our marriage, during which time I was, as you know, studying in the Art Schools, war, broke out, and I had to leave my wife to make her peace with her people, which she promised to do before our child was born, so that she could make her home with them in my absence. In the meantime I was to address my letters to her at our London lodgings till it was safe to write to. her nt her home. Well, suddenly her letters ceased. I dared not write co her at her parents’ home for fear of making trouble, and when I returned to England after the Armistice and went down to make inquiries, I fould she had never been near the place at all! My casual mention of her to her father, whom I met by chance one day, disclosed the fact that suspecting nothing of my share in his daughter’s flight, and believing her to have gone to America to join a former lover, he had cast her off and forbidden her name to be mentioned —a fortunate enreumstnnee by the way, as I have no fear of her family coming forward with inquiries for her now or at any future period.

“Well. I went back to London and searched every corner of it—and at last, when I had nearly given up in despair, and was following a vlue which turned out to be a wrong one, quite by chance I came across a girl who had known my wife, and was with her when she died in .hospital .as the result of a street accident, leaving a child—my son.'' There was a pause. Mrs Anstruther murmured: “How awful! I can’t believe it!" “This young lady," continued Donald, “had taken charge of the boy, and he was living with her —he is a dear little chap, ana we have become great pals, though he does not know I am his father—yet!" “And this girl—who and what ia she?" Mrs Anstruther's voice had the stern, sarcastic tone in it which was always there when she questioned the social statU9 of any strarigers who presumed to Romo ■ and resido in the neighbourhood. “She is the daughter of a clergyman, a very nice girl. You would like her, mater, and she has been so good to the boy. Without her kindness in coming forward at the time of his mother’s death, Reggie would have had to go to the workhouse—for my poor wife fell on evil days, not being able to earn enough to'“support herself and the child, and thoroughly crushed by seeing my name among those killed at Ypres—however, I won’t dwell upon that—probably I should never have told you of my marriage; in fact I am sure I shouldn’t, only there is my son’s position to consider, and I must, of course, acknowledge him, and give him a home with me. ' Will you let him come here, mother—and receive him as your grandchild till I can take him to a home of my own?" (To be continued.)