CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued.)

Otago Witness, Issue 2572, 1 July 1903, Page 72

CHAPTER Vll.— (Continued.)

FELT that the toughest job ot all now lay ahead of me. I confers it in all humility, I dreaded to face my Aunt Maria. Here was an ordeal I must go through alone — Mortimer could be of no assistance to me in this, so I set my teeth grimly, prepared for v hatever might befall. I gave Gregory minute instructions as to "what he must do in the unlikely case of the Jorkins people turning up during my absence. I also took Helen aside and put her on her guard against possible surprises, and then I j-et forth on my momentous journey to Putney — for iuch. indeed;, it pro\ed to be.

Mortimer, who was on his way to town, said good-bye to me at the station, wishing me good luck, and at the same time saying how foolish it was for a man to be afraid of a woman, especially an aunt.

That was all very well, but he hadn't an Aunt Maria, or ,he wouldn't have spoken in such a spirit of levity. Still, it is not for me now to say anything unkind of that poor woman ; rather do I bow my head in grief at the thought of the cruel thing that was soon to befall her. All the same, I am bound to truthfully record the impressions I had at that time, and I remember as distinctly as though it were yesterday that it was with no little trepidation, for such a big man, that I turned my face in the direction of my aunt's abode on that bleak December day. She lived just on. the outskirts of the town, in an oid-fasmoned red-brick house, surrounded by half an acre or so of walled garden. On one of the piers of the gate one read " The Chestnuts, in great black letters. Beneath this was a bra^s- 'bell-pull. The 'bell made a great noise when I rang it, and I very soon heard footsteps on the gravel path inside ; then the gate was unbolted and thrown open, and I found myself face to face with Hephzibah, a servant who had grown old and gre}' in my aunt's service, and by constant association had become almost as prim and precise as her mistress. She had known me from a boy and therefore felt herself privileged to address me always in the old familiar manner.

"Oh! it's you, is it?'' she said. "Yon, at,, last? Miss Donaldson expected you before, and is in a nice ado about it. Come in." And she led the way at once into the house.

It was not a cheerful interior, and was always pervaded with that peculiar odour which seems insepanble fro.n horsehair furniture and old carpets. The hall as I entered was bleak and cold, and saying that the fire had not yet been lighted iv the drawing room, Hsphzibah showed me into the dining room — a. sepulchral apartment with heavy mahogany furniture and an array of Scriptural prints in black frames upon the walL?. The fire, however, was cheerful, and as I sat beside it, warming my hands and wondering how I could manage to broach the subject of Marcella. in a palatable form to my aunt, the door suddenly opened and closed again, and as I turned to look there she stood. Now, Miss Donaldson was no beauty. She never could have been a beauty at any period in her existence. To tell the painful truth, she was tall, big-boned, and angular — with a face like a horse and a stony eye, one glance of which would have frightened Cupid away from her presence like a shot. Then, too, she affected bombazine, cut and fitted in the severest fashion, and wore her ""hair smoothed down on each side of an abnormally high forehead. Take her all in all, she.- was not quite the sort of woman to ask to a children's party. Yet, despite this somewhat forbidrling exterior, she had the kindliest disposition possible — when it was humoured ; — but you had 16 humour it to get on with her at all, and that was nob always an easy matter, and I saw at a glance that her mood was far from being a kindly one as I rose to greef her.

"Edward," said she in a decidedly icy tone, "I am surprised that you have not been to see me before."

"Yes — cr — just so," I answered, as I placed a chair for her beside the fire. " I wanted to see you badly yesterday, but I was obliged to run up to London." "Of course, it would have been quite impossible for you to stop at Putney on your war back."

"Impossible? No," I said. "But, you see. mv friend Mortimer was with me. and I didn't exactly know how to manage it. Then, this morning I had to attend an inquest — a most unfortunate affair." "Very for you. I know all about it."

"I daresay," I answered. "I naturally thought you would hear of it. and a very disagreeable business indeed it is. Shall I tell you all the circumstances 'C

I then practically repeated the evidence I gave at the inquiry, barring all allusions to Marcella. Time enough for that, I thought. She listened, sitting bolt upright in her chair the uhile until I had done.

"It is a veiv serious business, Edward," snid she sternly ; "a, very serious business indeed."

It nettled me to be called Edward. She never did it except when sh<> wis-hed to show her displeasure at s.om<»thing. "Rather serious for the boy." I said, "and disagreeable, ns I have said, to me; but not serious. Why should it be?"

"I think so, and I have. I believe, a perfect right to do so. But let that pass for the present. And now," she added, fixing her stony eyes unon mine, "look me .straight in the face and tell me the truth. Who is this strange woman you have in your house?" I had felt 5n mv bones that it was coming, but she "rained it into me" — as the locution goes — with such startling abruptness that, for an instmt. I was all at sea for an answer that I thought would be suitable to the occasion. Then, after clearing my throat, I said: "That, Aunt Miria, is just what brought me down here this afternoon. I to talk to yon oif that very subject."

"The 'subject of this strange young woman?"

"Tf you care fo put it that Tray— yes. You .seem to know something about it." •'There are kind friends in Putney who take in evening papers," said she. "The opportunity of wounding ths feelings of an inoffensive old -woman was too good to be missed. I had half a dozen caTls last evenin? from women who liad not been inside this house for six monfhs. It was pleasant. T enjoyed it immensely. For the first time I understood the advances rf having a nephew in whom one could repose implicit confidence." This exasperated me somewhat. My conduct might be a subject for friendly discussion between us, but I felt that she wa<? overstepping the bounds of legitimate oriticism at the very outset. Still, I held my peace i and she went oni]

"Will you now be good enough to explain to me the meaning of this dreadful scandal?"

This was getting worse and worse, and my irritation increased. I was conscious of growing very red in the face as I answered.

'•Scandal? I don't understand you. The only scandalous thing I know of is the paragraph you so plainly refer to." "Do yon deny," said* she, "that you have a strange woman in the house?' 1 "Certainly not." "Do you know anything about her?" "No, except that she is a lady." ''How do you know that she is a lady?" '.'How do you know a gentleman when you meet him? By some subtle instinct, of course. I can't — I don't profess to d-efine it. I simply say. that she is a, lady. You would be the first to say so, too, were you to see her."

"I have no desire to see her. Runaway wives do not interest me." 1

"Runaway fiddlesticks!" I exclaimed, my courage mounting high. "No more than you are." "Edward !" she said. "How dare you make such comparisons !" "I am not making comparisons. You read a lob of rubbish in a paper and swallow it as though it were all Gospel truth." "There must be soire truth in it," she persisted, "else they would never dare publish it. Had she any money in her possession?"

"Yes." "Then that was not a lip Much?" "Considerable. Yes." "Where is it?" "Locked up in the vaults of the SafetyDeposit Company." "And is at her disposal?" " Certainly." " How did' she come by it? " * "I don't know. I was not rude enough to inquire."

" Are you quite certain that you are not harbouring a thief?" , I sprang from my chair, burning wrtk irdignation. "What do you mean?" I exclaimed. "' 1 spoke plainly enough. Shall I re» peat tbe question?" — This was becoming intolerable. " Xo," I said. ''1 will not listen to such a buse calumny, even by inference, on a. defenceless woman. It is simply monstrous."

" You seem to take a great interest in the woman."

" I won't deny it. I do," I answered, Jiotly ; "and I shall be proud to render her any service within my power."

"That is quite enough," said my aunt, in a- tone of decision. "I must stop such goings on as these at once. It is shameful that they should occur in the house of any respectable doctor, and I can't for the lite of me imagine what a. pure-minded girl like Helen is thinking about to encourage you in such madness."

" What has her pure mind to do with it?" I asked. " She has a heart and bowels of compassion — which, you don't s-esm to possess." "For shame' This to me, Edward?" I was fast losing my head. "Yes, to you!" I exclaimed. "I am no longer a child, and it is intoleiab I.©1 .© that you should talk to me in this ■way." '•Edu.ud," said she, catching fire in turn, "that woman leaves your house to-morrow." " She will do nothing of the kind." "Be careful to whom you are talking. Hemember that I am your mother's sister, and to me you are indebted for everything." " Which you are always throwing in my face. lam getting heartily Bick of it." " Oh. very well, then ; bub look here, Edward Williams, you must listen to me just once more. For all your father cared you might hdve perished in the gutter. I brought you up, educated you, gave you an ""excellent start in life, and the least yon can do in return is to respect my -wishes. I tell you once again that woman must leave your house." " And I say she shall not." "Is this defiance?' 1

'" Call it what you like. That is the stand I have taken, and I shall not budge an inch from it."

'• Very well, you will bitterly rue those words, sir. I shall make a new will, and cut you off without even a shilling."

"As you plea&e," I cried. "Good-bye," and I seized my hat and rushed towarda the door— and lo ! there stood Hephzibah, a witness to our quairel. "Oh, rMi«-s Donaldson," the exclaimed, "whatever is the mattei? What has he been doing to upset you so?" " He has been guilty of the ba«eet ingratitude," said my aunt. '"I cut him off without a penny. " He is no longer a nephew of mine."

I burst out of the door, mad fool that I was, and heard no more.