THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 2939, 13 July 1910, Page 70

THE NOVELIST.

THE CLUTCH OF CIRCUMSTANCE; OR A CHANGED HORIZON. By Ethel Turner. [All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER XXV.—THE LAST STRAND. Ay me! While thee the seas and sounding shores < Wash far away. —Lycidas. HERE Vv'as no longer a trace of wattle on West Slope; things of richer hue had taken its place. Orange Christmas hells flamed in the bush fastnesses, warntahs lit th© grey greenness here and there with scarlet, points of flame. No longer were the swelling hills* clothed in tended green. Summer was here, and her hot breath had scorched nearly all the fand into a weary tint of brown. “Miss lues,” said Hyacinth, “I’ve been thinking about my new frock as you said I could have, and I've picked on green. The girl next door got one, an’ it looks that cool you can’t think.” She wiped her perspiring face as she spoke. Ines was standing on the verandah looking actoss at the horizon lines. She did not seem to hear Hyacinth’s remark. But Hyacinth was not easily refused. “That new dress as you said I could have, Miss lues,’’ she said patiently. “How do you like the notion of green — pale, mind you,—and just p’r’aps a pink bow in me hair to relief it.” “Yes,” said lues, “very well. If you like ” “There’s one at sevcnpence at Jav’s,” continued Hyacinth, undaunted, "only it mightn’t wash-. Sevenpence is cheap, isn’t it? If you go to ninepence, now, there’s one as has got pink rosebuds on, and nd wash lovely, the man says.” “Very well, verv well.” said Ines. Hyacinth picked a few more bits of fluff off the door mat. “At ’levenpence ha’penny there’s one just ravenously lovely, Miss Ines. Maidenhair fern sort of pattern and. poppies. Like a real garden. Takes your breath, it’s that pretty. S’pose you wouldn’t' igo to ’levenpence ha’penny, Miss Sines?” Ines drew her blows together. “That mat is quite clean enough, Hyacinth,” she said. “Go and get on with voor work You can get the frock I promised, though you reallv have a great ma.ny. Sevenpence is unite enough for a print. I won’t give more.” Hyacinth drooped and went inside. Mrs Shore came out—Mrs Shore, with her head hanging a little. “An’ I’m really to go, Miss Ines?” she said. “I gave you fair warning,” said Ines. “I said if yon relapsed again I could not have you here.” “If wasn't as bad as time before. Miss Ines,” said the old woman “Only one night away, and able to do me. washing same as ever next dov. You mustn’t bo too hard on a little thing like that.” “I should never know when to depend on you again.” said Ines sadlv. “I will do as I said —try to find you work somewhere till your cotta % is erjmty. Rut I won’t break my word.” The last words Mere delivered quite sharplv. The old woman went inside again timidly, and Ines left fhe horizon line alone, and stared at the garden Spring had gone out of that. too. The jonquils, the daffodils, the violets, the anemones, all were gone. Portulacca blazed on the stone wall, crude sunflowers and gaillardia made masses of colour here and there, but the soul of the once sweet place was departed It might have been anyone’s garden to-dax. Ines was honestly trying to find something to do with the long day stretching before her Three months of her lease had still to run. and she felt too spiritless to make new plans or do anything but stax just as she was. She told herself that when the. cool autumn came she would fee! more, energy more inclination to take ar- interest m her own life, but until then she /ranted to stay quiet and undisturbed There were days when she nevei >,ver.«rd her lips from morning till night except for some necessary word to Hyacinth or Vl >’s Shore.

Days when she slipped away and hid in the bush - "whenever she saw a Wharton vehicle creeping \vp the road, or the yellow sulky or anyone from the outer world. Why was there no piacc in the world where anyone with a hurt" like .hers-eould creep and be free frorc sight and sound of other people? Where had .gone all the kindly impulses that had once warmed her blood? What was this cruelly sharp .light in which she now saw her little world? Hyacinth she found nothing but a tiresome, common girl with a distorted love of colour. Mrs Shore, a weak, miserable old woman, hardly worth the effort of keeping from her besetting gin. Oh, probably ehe would giva hei just one more trial, but she did no' fee? greatly interested in the result Mrs Beattie she could hardly bear to see and speak to. It was not that they were not reconciled after their quarrel. 'When the news came that Scott had sailed for England Mrs Beattie went up quite humbly to the cottage and asked Ines's forgiveness for her fit of bad temper. And Ines had forgiven her quite freely—even given her a brass tray and a stencilled table cloth, when asked, for the bazaar for reducing the church debt. But' she found herself nowadavs continually irritated almost beyond endurance by the woman's ill fitting clothes, by the extreme dowdiness of her bonnets, by her parochial chatter, by the very sight of Currant and the sulky. The salt of life had' lost its savour, and wherewithal might it be 6alted? She had expected that the knowledge that she had done tne right thing would keep .her up, exalt the days for her. But such was not the case. Scott had gone. She had waved farewell to him; by this time he must be in England. Soon he would write to her, aa they had agreed, would tell her of his marriage. But at present all was silence, and once the letter had come all would be silence again till eternity. The morning dew and verdure had gone from her life as they had gone from the Wyama hills. Some scorching breath had taken both together. She had waved to Scott. That was the only memory she cherished just at present. When the time of his sailing was known to her—a Wednesday at noon—she packeu a small bag on the day before and told Mrs Shore that she was going away foi a day or two. All the two hundred miles to Sydney she travelled, and stayed the night at the house of a one-time friend. Mrs Beattie imagined her gone, as she had gone two or three times before, tc arrange matters connected with her metax work. Nor till the gangways were taken away did tho girl show herself on the wharf, for deep in her heart she new that neither of them was a.s strong as they imagined. But she could not —ah. she could not lei; him go without a farewell look ! The great linei was moving imperceptibly ; countless strands of coloured ribbon fluttered in the wind, one end held in the hands on board, one by- those left behinu on the wharf. Women waved gay or sad farewells from behind great baskets and bouquets of flowers and parting trophies. But Scott stood apart from all this, quite alcne ; .perhaps almost the only sou* on board with no one to call good-bye—-good-bye. Then, a little back from the concourse of people on the wharf, he saw her, in her white 4ress, with the black ribbon at her waist and the black hat framing her white face. k There was nothing that tney might do but wave and gaze at each other —gaze at each other and wave. But it comforted them both in some subtle manner, warmed their poor young hearts though it blinded their eyes. The last strand of ribbon snapped. The crowd broke up, and the girl's figure was lost in it. On deck tho solitary figure near the funnel became a blur that faded an disappeared. Scott had gone. Ines had gone. But the world rolled steadily as ever; steadily as ever .shone the sun. It was no more to that world, that sun, Tnes whispered, to herself, than the crushing of life of two ants, the breaking of two butterflies' wings, the sudden fab to earth of two birds.

CHAPTER XXVI. No, when the fi.eht be«ins within himself A man's worth something. —Browning. In London Scott made straight for his mother's liou.se. He found her altered, less fluffy, carefully dressed ; lines of care were on her face, shadows under her eyes ; there seemed a new sincerity about her—something had been born in her amid her troubles that had deepened her nature. She put her arms round her lost «on's neck, but the action was a timid one; she expected repulse. Yet the love shining in her eyes was verj deep—deeper than it had ever been. Scott thrilled as he realised it She had sacrificed him, but she loved him after all, and she was hie mother. He stooped bis head ana kissed her tenderly again and again complete forgiveness in every kisf. Tint she told him her news, haltingly, and with tears, but with no comments, r.o lamentations for herself. Cecil had had an illness o year ago that had brought hira to the verge 01 death. Iris had helped to nurse him back to convalescence, and had obtained a great influence over him. which she used in the wisest way, strengthening his character in a manner thai even bis mother | could scarcely believe There came a day | when the unhappy boy unburdened him- i self to the girl of hir; miserable crime and j his still more miseraV.de conduct in lei ting I h.ir- brother bear his guilt ; And now Iris took his life into kqx

hands as if it had been a piece of plastic clay and she the potter. There had been a flaw in the first making of him she allowed, but he was to rise from this illness an absolutely new man, and a happy man. Cecil mournfully asked how that might be; what happiness might he ever reach to'across the ruined life of a brother? Iris turned her clear eyes on him. "Of course you must retrieve that first, of all," she said, "The first day that you are really strong we will go to youi uncle and tell ham everything." Cecil lay back among the cushions 01 his sofa and trembled exceedingly for a minute or two. .Then he rose suddenly to his feet, a great, gaunt boy with bus hollow eyes. "I'm strong enough this moment," he said. "If I wait till I'm stronger I shaii be too weak." And indeed he knew himself. Iris sent for a cab. then hastily ran to Lady Barnsley's room and acquainted her with her son's decision. The fragile-looking girl carried everything before her, as she had a habit oi doing; though, indeed, on this one occasion she had not to plead very long. "It will kill him," the mother said. "No," said Iris, "it is the not telling that is killing him. Can't you see it? It is that that lias caused this break down. It is sapping his life, and you know it," Yes, the mother did know it." Indeed, it was sapping her own life too. The sacrifice she had demanded in an hour of sheer insanity of" grief had become a thing almost too monstrous for her to buar the thought of. She had grown pale, large-eyed, had withdrawn herself from the world, lived in an atmosphere of unceasing reproach, ever since the event. And not the least bitter part of her knowledge was that the sacrifice had availed little: Cecil was eating his heart out more' ismrely even than he would have done had he gone through with his punishment himself. So Iris carried the day, and the mother sat back in her chair, shaken to the soul, bub almost thankful that someone had given him courage to make the right stand at last. The cabman pulled up at the _ address given to him. the old merchant's office, whose dingy steps both Scott and Cecil had trodden so often. "Wait for us," Iris said. The cabman's eye was on Cecil. "Will I lend him a hand?" he said. Iris turned her eyes to Cecil. "No, thank you," she said; "he is quite strong enough." Cecil pulled himself together and followed her. At the door of the merchant's own room, however, he quailed again. And now the girl gave him a little sympathetic pressure on his arm. "That's all risrht." she *nid. "I'll tell." But when they got inside and the pl<3 merchant wan frowning heavilv at the interruption and the sight of petticoats in business hours, he recovered ai<zain and took the matter into his own hahd^ "I've been a coward and a rogue, sir," he said "But he is ill and very sorry, Mr Brady," supplemented Iris, with cheeks as white as 'his own. Brady shot a glance at her. "He seems able to speak, madam," he said. Iris swallowetT hard. "You are quite right." she >aid. "I oughtn't to interrupt. Only to say this—he "is just out of a sick bed; make him sit down." "Sit down." said Brady, quite without emotion. Then he saw that the onlv chair was set hack against the wall, half the length of the room from' his desk. He could not let a. slip of a girl go and get them, and his nephew was clearly incapable of the task, ro ho strode across the carpet and brought the seats himself. "Now then," he sa:d grimly* "I've been a coward and a scoundrel for five years." repeated Cecil, "and I'm sick of it. I haven't con:.? to ask you to forgive me —I don't want to be forgiven. Onlv I've got to tell you. of course." The telling took five minutes at most. Five years of and crime that had infected so many lmnlth<- lives, and the tale of it took five •<•!• t--s! At the end of it the mercha«i -.ilrnt for a long r.pace of time. Hi* t.',f u.hts had gone to the scapegoat, "Where is he now-your brother?" he asked at last "Australia," said Cecil. "Doing anything?" "Not much." "Had to give up medicine, I sunpose?'* "Yes." Silence again. Just the sharp eyes glancing to and fro from under the shaggy eyebrows. Then he spoke again. "What, do you propose to do?" "As right a thing as I can, at this late hour," Cecil said. "Give myself up to the authorities and do what I can to clear his name." "H'm. to go straight on with it?" "This afternoon.'" "H'm." Brady got up and took a couple of turns up and down his room. Then ho pulled up. "Go liome now," he said, "and come and see me again in the morning. I've got to think this over." Then he looked at T.ris. "Mav I ask what you have to do with I'is?" he said. Cecil looked at her with kindling eve's. "Trying to show a cur that he needn't be n cur always." he said. The old man shook hands with her.

"Bring him to see me to-morrow, my ; dear," he said. He held his hand out to Cecil. "It's the first time I've liked you in vour life, lad," he said. They went again on the.morrow, and the old man laid before them his intentions. They found that thinking it all over had left him ,merciful ; he found himself grown too old for schemes of vengeance. Sheldon had paid the price for the crime; it must not be charged for again. j "See here," he said, "I made my will some months ago, and little as I liked you, you got your share with the rest of the family—five hundred a year, to be exact. I gave myself the pleasure lastnight of crossing your name out and putting Sheldon's in your place." "Thank you, sir," said Cecil, and meant it honestly. "He won't wait for it either till I'm dead," continued Brady ; "his income starts to-day." "Thank you," said Cecil again, his mind hugely relieved to know that Scott might tit once go on with his course. "For you," said Brady, "the best thing you can do is to make and sign a full confession, slip off to Canada and change your name. Make a fresh start, my lad. Here's a bit of paper tx> help it." The bit of paper was for two thousand pounds. "But!" gasped Cecil, "my punishment ■—l want to take it, don't you understand ?" "You've taken it, I haven't a doubt," said Brady. "The thing now is to get a move on you. You've been sitting with your feet in the gutter long enough." Cecil stumbled blindly back to his cab. CHAPTER XXVII.—IRIS SMOOTHS j OUT THE SCROLL. If you loved only what were worth your love Love were clear gain and wholly well for you. —Browning. And so Scott came home to find the papers devoting quite a paragraph each to his name. Fear seized him for Cecil's safely; it were intolerable that the sacrifice should have been in vain after all. But the law stretched but a feeble arm after the real culprit, who, it was discovered, had left the country. It had had an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, and even when it found that it had not been quite the right eye. precisely the right tooth, it felt it had had a glut of the affair, and it made merely a perfunctory effort to reach the real offender. The brothers did not meet. Before Scott's ship came up the Thames Cecil was on Canadian soil, the light in his eyes more hopeful, more purposeful, than any that had shone there since he was an ambitious schoolboy. It was arranged that Lady Barnsley was to follow him, leaving her name and title behind her, and taking the name that Cecil had chosen for his future one in the new land. There was nothing to delay the marriage of Iris and Scott. Brady's munificent reparation making it, possible for the medical career to be resumed, at any moment. Only the girl was anxiously captious now. She seemed frailer and paler than ever; instead of welcoming Scott with eagerness she shrank from him plainly in dismay. He feared that bis manner had lacked the warmth and eagerness of the gladlyreturned lover, and began, to urge as strongly as he could that the marriage be celebrated almost immediately. "Will you let it be next month?" he begged. j "Ah! not as soon as that." "Six weeks?" he said ; "why delay any j longer?" She finally agreed to six weeks, looking ; like some particularly forlorn but determined martyr as she did so. He went away perplexed, only to be recalled by a messenger just as he gained his hotel. When he went back the girl looked whiter than ever, her face seemed nothing but eyes—big, tragic eyes. "I'm not going to break my word, Scott," she said. "I promised to marry you, and I will. But I feel I must not in honesty to you let you marry me till I have told you the real state of my feelings." "Yes," said Scott, absolutely at sea. He tried to take her hand as a lover . thould. but she shivered away from him. ; "I have come to—care for Cecil," she whispered. It was out—the frightful secret that had . been gnawing at her for the last few months. She had come to care for Cecil ! Of course she had come to care for Cecil. | Was not he the maimed creature now? The praise of Scott was in everyone's mouth; Scott was strong and well, was passing rich, able to pursue the profession he loved. But Cecil was broken in health, in spirit, in reputation ; the finger of scorn pointed at him ; he had fled | from the land of his birth, and was alone in a far-away land. Of course she had come to care for Cecil. But why was Scott lauehing? Was ever tragedy met before like this with smiles? "Forgive me," he said ; "I'm laughing 'because I'm sure the Fates are laughing at us. We have both been so industriously attempting to manage our own lives, and all the time they have been so much better managed for us." And he told her of Ines and the tale of his life in Wyama. Mrs Bassett was amazed when they came out of the drawing room half an hour kit?:-, hand in hand and laughing like two children, for she knew of the im2>ossible tragic part Iris had set herself to play—to marry this one man while she cared "for another. Could it be that after all she cared for this one best ? But the girl ilung a loving arm round her waist. "Come and pack up, darling," she said.

"We are going to Canada to Cecil at onceScott. I wonder, couldn't we manage to have the same wedding day after all — only four people in it instead of two?" Scott said that he would hasten to do his part in the matter; that he purposed starting for Marseilles in a couple of hours, there to catch up the week's liner that had already started on its journey to Australia. CHAPTER XXVIII.—ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD. And there they were in each other's arms ag if the Long years had never b?en. —Wb. Morris, " The Sundering Flood." She was trying to start the stone wall into beautv once again, when he came. The summer lay dead, and autumn was bursting into its warm and lovely life—the Australian autumn that is like another spring. The very wattle was deceived, and bloomed again—not in the riotous manner of its spring blooming, perhaps, but it tipped the bush with golden lights and made golden once again the girdle on West Slope. Scott had sent no word of his coming. A cable could not explain, and he was travelling as fast as any letter might. He saw her moving up and down the long wall as he came up the slope. She was in white, and there was a black ribbon at her waist, just as on the day when she had faded from his eyes, as he thought for ever. But there was a red carnation stuck in the waist ribbon. "She's getting over it," Hyacinth had said joyfully, noting the return to her old habit of wearing flowers. "She's getting Just like herself again. Made me ar pincushion for my room and some new musling collars. ' "She's getting over it—improving n lot," Mts Beattie had said with satisfaction. "I am sure Charlie coming back from sea has done her a lot of good—she is always asking .him up to spend evenings with her, and he says she plays games with him and sings and is as gay as anything." "She's getting over it," Cade Wharton said. "She has hired a horse for a couple of hours a day, and rides all round the country side. I shouldn't wonder if there mightn't be a chance far you yet, Douglas." But Douglas knew that his answer had been a final one. "She isn't getting over it a bit," said Mrs Shore, whose old eyes had clearer vision than most: "she's just trying to be cheerful so a.s to keep 03 cScerfnl. I don't believe she'll ever get over it. Some things you can't. Look at me : I'll never get over losing my man. not if the Lord goer, forgetting me and leaves me to live to be a 'undred. But I've got up to knov.'in' you can't q-o round with a long lip all the time. I'm cheerful enough, I hope." Hyacinth could not resist such a fine opportunity. "Bit too cheerful now'and again,. c!h, Mrs Shore?" she said. Ines set her plants—tiny promise of all the colours of the sunset and the dawn. She tried to look ahead —the five or six months that must pass before their blossoming. She would be—where would she be? It seemed as if some shutter fell in her brain every time she tried to make plans for the future. She felt as if here was the only niche in the world that would not be absolutely intolerable just yet, and she stayed on. paying for the cottage month by month, much to David's content. Some day. of course, she must strike out into the sea. but just for a little longer this quiet backwater. She had a trowel full of nemophylla in her hand; the spring, before the top of the wall had been starred all over with the intense blue of the eager little flower. "It's like a handsful of heaven." Scott had said when she called him to admire. "I hone you are'properly grateful to me For reaching it down," she returned. "I —am properly grateful." he said, and looked across. Ah! she remembered even now how he looked across. A sudden sense, almost of sickness, assailed her. How could fhe grow "handsful of heaven" ever actain? It must be something else—something plain and bright and matter-of-fact —portulncca, for instance. But first she must put. the nemophylla away. She due a hole in the ground at her feet, laid in the little plants—leaves and roots and all. —and covered them over with the moist earth. A blinding tear fell on the little giave. Footsteps came up the quiet path—she moved hurriedly to tret away from them, fearful of lifting eyes aswim to a visitor. Then they w%re in each other's arms, and there was no woe anv longer for them in all the world : nor had there ever been any, nor would there be any more until the end of time. (The End.)