CHARLEY.

Otago Witness, Issue 2862, 20 January 1909, Page 95

CHARLEY.

j By E. Btjkrowes. Miss Sackville. having been saddled from her birth with the name of Charlotte — her parents had christened her after a rich maiden aunt, who had justified their highest expectations by leaving Chailotte Sa-ckville the very respectable sum of twenty thousand pounds at her dtath,— mitigated this misfortune as far as possible, by an abbreviation -which her friends considered most delightfully unsuitable to her fragile beauty. To think of the exquisitely dignified Miss Sackvill-?, of the Old Lodge, as Charley, seemed almost an impertinence, yet that was what i 6he had always been called, and the had I almost forgotten that her name was Char- ' Jotte at all, so used was the to her masculine nick -name. Her intimates declared that the name really suited her— ."he was so delightfully gay of heart, despite her dignity — and there was an almost boyish sense of fun hidden away which now and then came to light, and was only one of the many charms which hung round Miss Sackville. She was getting middle-aged now, but feomehow youth had not left her for all that, perhaps because she loved to surround herself with young people, and made herself the confidante of many a young couple starting away gaily on the sea of life in that frail little craft called | matrimony. Several she had ju&t saved I from wreckage on unexpected rocks and , sandbanks, and with them all she had complete sympathy and understanding. I Having miesed the best thing in life, she ! was accustomed, so she told 'her friends. to look at happiness now through other people's eyes, and it was the next best thino- to knowing it herself. When one has lost the best, it is as well to know how to make oneself happy and contented with the second best!* That was Mise 1 Sackville "is sentiment, at any rate. The Old Lodge was a charming place, situated on a gentle slope overlooking the valley, through which a stream -wound away to the sea ; on ejther side of the valley ths village climbed in terraces, culminating in the church with its slender spire pointing like a finger to heaven, pnd the Rectory house nestling in a fir plantation near by. It wee a pretty spot ; artists raved about it — and would have raved still more had they been able to see the garden in, which Miss Sackville was walking one sultry August day. But that particular bit of garden was very private ground, and only intimate friends were admitted there. Bushes of lavender filled the warm air with perfume, a tangle ot large pink roses •covered the wall on. one side, while to the right the view opened through a thick privet hedge, and a line of blue sea could be seen glimmering in the distance. Into the privet hedge a seat was set, making a. sort of arbour, where Miss Sackville loved to sit with a book, absolutely secluded, and able to look away right over the villagie at the wonderful panorama of country which lay beyond it. Tall hollyhocks stood like sentinels along the narrow walk, and great clumps of white lilies gave much occupation to the murmurous bees. It was a spot of heavenly peace, bm> there was a distinctly worried wrinkle on Miss Sackville's white forehead ae. she looked for the third tim& at least at the letteT which th-e afternoon post had just brought her. Was it possible that Hilda, of all people in the world, had found a crumplea rose l<*f in her happy life? Well, crumpled rose leaves must come to everybody, and they were things easily got over with tact and patience ; but youth has little of these two things sometimes, and Hilda Le6trange was apt to be hasty with her tongue — and who knows how much harm that may not do? Still, Mise Sackville owned to a sneaking fondness for pretty Hilda, as well as a great affection for Hilda's husband, big George Le»trange, the most popular man in his roighbourhood, and she had looked upon their union, which was one of heart, as one of the happiest marriages among her friends. And now had come thus letter from Hilda like a bolt out of the blue ! Dearest Charley, — May I come down to you for a few days — just to be able to think quietly? Things have gone horribly wrong with us, and 1 must get away — I shall never be able to decide what is best to do if I stay here, a.nd I know you will advise me for the best. I want to como at onee — X ahall go out of my mind it this goes on — and Gecrqe doesn't want me. That's the whole naked truth. — Your loving HjLDA. P.S. — I can t wait for your answer — I ! shall be with you soon after this letter, j for 1 know you won't turn me out ! I Miss Sackville smiled. That postscript •nas to like impulsive Hilda. Ten to one her trouble would prove to be the u&ual mountain manufactured out of a molehill, and Miss Sackville got up and went into ' th& house to give orders about the recvption of her unexpected visitor, while at the same mon.ent the 'olitaiy station fly was laboriously cradling up the steep | hill to the Old * Lodge, bearing in it Hilda Lestrange and her hastily-packed I ortma-nteau. She had taken a huriied and a disagreeable journey ; none of the trains to fit, and she was tiied to death of waiting at jurtcticn*. Ihe t>ight of the Old Lodge in ite .sheltering trees wao vfjiy comforting, and she heaved a sigh of ! relief « hen at last the cab diew up at ' the open hall door and Miss Sackville herself appeared on the steps, a gracious j welcoming figuie. j "My dear Hilda, how tiied and hot you must be ! Come in — Mary w ill s-ee t> your luggage. I only leceived your ' letted' half an hour ago."' 1 "But you are always a good Samaritan, Charley — you're not going to turn me viit ? How ddieiously peaceful this place

"Your own home is lovely enough, my dear." Hilda Lestrange shrugg&d her shoulders, and looked out at the incomparable view which stretched before the Old Lodge. She was t-tll and slender, with a wealth of soft dark hair and pietty hazel eyes : the sweetness of her face had caught at bi.r George Lestran-ge's heurtsiiings when lie" first saw her. But — there -nais a hint of impatk-nt temper in those pretty eyes, ail the same, and Mis- Sackvilie knew that Hilda's iaipu!*we tongue had landed l<ei in difficulties befoio now ; perhaps this c.i*e was something of the kind — something which would soon blow ovei — o^ly the merest passing cloud*. But the girl* word.-, speedily undeceived' her. •'Would you think this place lovely, Charley,'' she said with such a scorn of bitterness in her voice that Miss Sackvillc started, "if you had to share it with a person who didn't trust you — and whom you could not trust? A person who had utterly changed':" "rhkl.i — iay dear girl " "Oh ! I mean at ! It's not fancy on my part. I've tried to bear it, but I can't. I simply had to come to you, and if you can't help ma I don't know what I shall do. George 15 utterly changed — we are miserable, he and. I — miserable."' "But what is your grievance? Tell me the whole thing clearly if you can, Hilda — you know one is so apt to exaggerate things — they look so bad if you brood over them. I looked upon you and George as the happiest couple in Christendom. " , "So we were — until Belinda came be- . tw«en us !"' I "And who is Belinda?" Mrs Lestrauge whirled round, her pretty face was flushed — tears trembled on her dark lashes. ! "I don't know !" she said tragically ; "that is the horrible part of it." "You don't know? Then " "I'll tell you all I know, Charley, and then you can judge for yoiuself whether, if 3'ou were in my shoes, you would not have acted just as I have. It's beengoing on for a month or more — and 1 know nothing except that George has utterly changed. It began by a telegram which I opened as George was out — all it said was, 'Come at once if you want to sea Belinda.' I asked him what it meant, and he only got furiously red, and muttered something unintelligible and stuffed the telegram into his pocket. Then a post-card came a couple of days later, also referring to Belinda as looking splendid, and George took to going 1 off for a day t and never telliag me where he was going. 1 I asked no questions — and so a breach grew between vis : it 'has widened now so that it seems dmpo^isible to bridge it over. To- make things worse George has chosen to be jealous of Charlie Tena•pest, a cousin of mine who is home on leave from India. He ie such a nice fellow, and I own I was very glad of his company when George wouldn't go out with me. And' so — and so things have gone from bad) to worse. Yesterday George went off again — I suppose to the mysterious Belinda, — and I made up my mind I would not stand, it aaiy longer, bo I left a little note to say I was coming to you and — here I am. And now, Charley, what am I to do V Miss Sackville was eilent for a moment. She realised' that a crucial moment had come in the life of young Mr* Lestraaige j — one false step might prove fatal to all the happine«& of the years to come. I She knew George Leatrange almost too well to entertain any serious doubts about him, and yet ! "Why not have spoken openly to him?" she said after a pauee. "There's only one way, my dear Hilda, to meet suspicion and doubt, and that is with frankness." j "I know, but I couldn't, Chailey. I I felt as if I were struck dumb on that ' subject." j "And what is- that but pride? And would you let pride spoil your life and future — and George's ?'' Mrs Lestrauge's eyes looked mutinous. '"One mufrt have a little proper pride," she said sullenly. Miss Suckville laughed, then sighed. '■Oh ! Hildti. ! ifc makes one amused and sad by turns to see you two — little more than children, both of you — quarrelling about nothing.' "Nothing! You call Belinda nothing?"' "I do until she takes a more tangible form," said Mi*s SackviJle cheerfully. 'I beliew it** a ca.-e of the molehilJ being turned into a mountain — helped thereto , by proper piide, and other things. And now, my dear, let us «o round the garden befoie it is tc-o dark and dismiss all unpleasant thing-, from our minds. You shalj] stay as long a.s you like, and somehow things will right 'themselves. Of that I am quite suie. But by the evening of the next day i Mr& Lestrange's spirits were lower than \ ever. There wai> nothing for it but separation, and she drew a moving and lurid picture of what tlie future held for her — nothing but loneliness and misery. By the time .-he had imagined a thousand \ terrible po-6ibiluito Miss Sat kville giew weaiy of the subject, and sent her out | for a Auilk up towards the moor. The ' air might dear tome of the cobwebs from | her mind, and in any ca«e theie was noj thing wois-e for her than to Mt and brood L over her wrongs, which weie more fancied • ' than real, to Mi.-s Sackville considered. , 1 It seemed to her so ridiculous that two ■ people who hud vowed to love each other , j ioi^ver should find it possible to quarrel , about nothing, or, at any rate, to allow , entrance to a quarrel, as William Shake-- | peare put- it, without making an effort to , set things .-tiaight. A little plain speak- : ing would clear up matters surely, and if • that failed — Miss Sackville looked up fiom her woik with a stait as the door opened and the parlourmaid announced "Mr Leatrange!" I George Le-tran.ge came striding in. Hi> I big figme seemed to fill up the charm-

ing, low-ceilinged room entirely, and his face was as red as the proverbial peony. He looked hot and tired and worried — no doubt he felt all three v acutely. "My dear George ! I am so glad to see you, but " > "I hadn't time to write or wire, Charley," be c-aid, wringing her hand with painful fervour, and throwing him-^elf into a chair near the window. "I simply ■dashed off to you hot-foot, for if anyone can put things straight and help me you can."' I Miss Sackville sighed. So George was I going to appeal to her. too ! She would bf asked to* undertake that nTost thankless of tasks — interfering in other people's quarrels! But if George had hunied | hot-foot after Hilda perhaps he was consumed with a desire to clear things up and — m ake friends. His next words dispelled that hope, however. ! -Hilda has lelt me. That's the bald truth. Wait ; don't speak till I've I finished. This isn't rumour, or anything ; it's plain fact. Look at this note ! Bui, fii-st I'd better explain — you'll hardly believe me when I tell you, Charley, tliat Hilda and I have been on bad terms for moie than a month. Heaven knows how it began! I don't. At least — well, that's another story. We have steadily gone from bad to worse; I dai-esay it was my fault as well as hers. I know you'll take her part; but all the same — perhaps you've heard her' speak of Charlie Tempest, her cousin — confoundedly good-looking fellow in the Gunners, home on leave from India? Well, they gob very thick ; I Mas busy, and so on, and Hilda got a bit more chummy with him than I liked. I spoke tc her about it — quite quietly — but she didn't take it well. And then other things went wrong — and lately it'e been awful. Simply awful ! And then yesteiday, when. I got back from a long day's work, I was , greeted with the news that the mistress ( had left town by the early train, and — . this note." I He flung a little note on the table be- , for© Miss Saokville. On it were a few lines in Hilda's pretty, dashing hand. It ran as follows : Dear George, — I simply can't stand it any longer. I am miserable — and wretched — I am going to Charley. It j will be useless for you to follow me, or . to try to induce me to come back. You will no doubt be happier without me. — Hilda. Miss Sackville read this precious effusion twice— then looked up. "Well?" she said calmly. l George bounced up from his chair. He j looked very big, and red, and angry- 1 "Is that all you say?" he said bitterly — "well? Isn't it enough to make any j man curse the day lie " I "Be quiet, G«oige — you needn't storm, at any rate. And you are forgetting yourself." ' "I say, Charley, I'm awfully sorry; but you'll forgive me. I hardly know what I am saying or doing. But 100k — you see for yourself. Hilda has left me and gone . to that fellow Tempest." Miss Sackville st-aa-ted. "Do you mean, to tell me, George, that you really believe that of Hilda?" "What else am I to believe?" "Then I don't think much of your love for her! Look at the note again— just I think for a minute — aren't you making a mistake ?" i "1 'don't see what you can make out of the note except its plain sense," said j George ; "she's gone to Charley. Isn't j that enough?" j "Quite. Hilda is with me, George; she arrived last night." There was a moment's dead silence. Then George drew a long breath. "Hilda is with you!" "Yes. If you had thought it over quietly, George, you need not have insulted Hilda and yourself, too, by sup- j posing that she coi^l have gone to Charlie ; Tempest. She came to me because tilings were wrong, and she wanted time to think over what she and you should do in the future. She has gone up on the moor now, but will be back soon. What are you going to -do, George? Can't you set things right?" " I would if I could, but ' "Be frank with her, George — nothing hurts a woman so much as the feeling that her husband has secrets from her. Tell her frankly who Belinda is, and — she will be quite ready to forgive and forget." "Belinda ! Then she told you — you know " "I know that you're both making mountains out of molehill", George. And it's not worth it. You've youth and love and years before you ; ij-. it worth while to embitter your "lives by silly quarrel? and nxLrund-er&tandings? You say you came to me to help you ; all the help I can .tjive you L= thih ad\ice. George, made a clean brea«t of the Belinda affair, whatever it it, to Hilda ; truth does away with suspicion and all other base things. And, above all, never let Hilda suspect for a moment that you thought -he had flown anywhere than to me." "I know you're light, Charley! I wonder what we should do without you? Aid if Hilda " He stopped bhoit, for the door unclosed, and Hilda came in. She drew back at sight of her husband, and a painful colour io 8 * to her face. It was an awkward moment, but Mis.s Saokville saved the situation. "You see, George can't do without you, my dear," &lie sakl ; "he has not lost much time in ninnuig after you, has he? I suppose you are both ready for tea? I will tell Mary to get it at once." When the door had closed behind her George Le>t range made a step forward. "Do you think you need haro run away, Hilda?"' he saidC The girl flushed scailet. "You didn't want me. Yon had — Belinda !"' All the jealous suspicion of a month and more "wa^- in the one word. Perhaps it open.cl George'^ eyes to hL> folly in keeping a seatt from his wife.

T "But I -want you, too," he persisted, a. twinkle in his nice eyes ; '"I want you much, much more, Hilda. Look! I'll show you a photo of Belinda, and then you'll understand."' , He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to his wife. She stared foi % a minute at the photo of a handsome racehorse, with a small^ high-l ..- J. head avcl pretty ears. G-eorgq himse«i v ~ piet ure<§ btanding at hen- head. -_ "Is thib — Belinda?" she .isW J iv % faint sort of voice. ( "That is Belinda, my new U>y 1 ujeant to keep it a secret from you, Hilda, til} she won the big race she's tia.ning ror. I'd planned all sorts of surprises ior you with her, but "' ' "And I spoilt it all b\ my stupid jealousy," cried Hilda. \_)u! George, what a goose I've been ! I - impose you'll I never forgive me?" I "You weren't the only - " said 1 George into hei ear, very low, but she did not heed his words. -vas in his arms — the cloud had rolled i'iaji — nothing else mattered. And when Charley Sa<&viiie came back it was to find a radiant and rather humble couple sitting very close together, looting at the portrait of — Belinda. • • • « • Belinda won her big race a month or so later, and all the wonderful things which George had planned for his wife came about. But what she* values more than ths diamond ring and the sable coat he gave her to commemorate Belinda's big race is the new trust and confidence which reigns between them. — M.A.P.