ELSIE DENHAM’S REVENGE

Otago Witness, Issue 3097, 23 July 1913, Page 81

ELSIE DENHAM’S REVENGE

By Charles Hexky, author of ‘Her Prince in Disguise,” “Phineas Trooper” Stories, etc.

[Alt. Rights Risekted.]

I. “I’m tired—tired to death of this,” murmured Elsie Denham to herself. Wearily she looked from her window in the high, grimy warehouse, down the length of the sun-scorched, dirty, untidy yard of the great tool factory of Messrs Granbourn and Co., in which she worked “warehouse girl.” “I m so tired of this,” Elsie murmured again, letting her chin sink upon her hands and resting her elbows on the flat, paper-covered bench that ran beneath the wretched little windows the full length of the small warehouse in which she handled a special line of goods. Her deftness and trustworthiness had brought her this privilege. It suited her, in so much that she had her own domain. I lie heaps of bright, piled tools lay about her waiting to be neatly wrapped up. But Elsie Denham’s eyes had turned wearily from them and gazed abstracted!v through the open winoow. Those eyes were hazel, and could shine as brightly a-s gems, dull as they were now. Like her eyes, her whole face and form were beautiful. These surroundings—her work-a-day garb—accentuated her beauty. It was a beauty not merely of form and colour—it bespoke quality and purity, it expressed a line nature, and revealed high talents. Some proofs of what gifts she possessed lay now on the bench before her, neglected for a moment as she dreamed, looking beyond her ugly surroundings. These proofs were two hasty sketches, done on torn pieces of rough brown packing paper, with the crayons she always carried to gratify her passion for drawing. Though obviously quickly done, they were strikingly true and good. One was an impression of a stream and a hank of ferns and flowers, and gave a vivid sense of real scene. The other was the head ot a young man; it revealed a handsome face, line and cl'ear-cut, a mass oi dark, tumbled hair falling over a wide forehead. To tell the truth, she had left tlie latter sketch unfinished—to fall dreaming. Perhaps she was thinking of those line grey eyes rather than the great factory, with its clamour of machines and men and her duties in her corner of it. Down below her - window a motor car shot into the yard through the shadow of the great archway that gave entrance from the street, and added a new vibrant not-e to the din of the factory. Elsie started, and her eyes gleamed strangely. Was that note the cause? A barely perceptible flush on her cheeksshe sprang up suddenly, and hastened the length of the bench to the work that awaited her there. The engine of the car was stopped, and its driver, a young man, jumped out lightly. He was “young Arthur.’ His face wore a pleasant smile. His" grey eves beamed on everybody within their range. Despite the heat, he ran up the office steps. It was not long after that the door of Elsie’s own little warehouse hurst open, and Arthur Granbourn entered. He gave Elsie a polite greeting, not noticing her slight start. Elsie returned the greeting, but kept her eyes down on the tools she was handling. But struck by and bye by his profound silence she looked up and saw that he held, her forgotten brownpaper sketches, one in each hand, and was looking at them intently. She flushed again and stood embarrassed. “Ah.” lie said at length, a note of startled, genuine admiration in his voice. “These are ripping! Me. too! Jove! it’s well done. Have you really done it? It’s a splendid compliment. Miss Denham, anyhow. ” Then he looked up and caught sight cf her flushed face, and flushed in sympathy. Fie took a step nearer to her, his eyes on her lovely, confused face. He put down the sketches on the bench. He felt a strong, strange desire to raise Ids hand and touch the reddened cheek opposed to him. Speaking in tones that were more subdued' than usual he repeated ; “] say. they’re ripping tilings. How do you do them?” She remained silent, and he watched her, silent also, and then lie said pondering, “Why, 1 say, it's too had you being cooped up here doing this,” lie waved his hand vaguely. “Oh, you ought to be out in the country, amid beautiful scenes like this one you’ve done, painting—to your heart’s content.” “I should like to be,” she said, ambiguously, with honest imagination at the aWryness of things. “I should think you get sick of all this,” he waved his hand comprehensively again, “you, with the instincts of an artist.” Elsie gave a short and hesitating answer: “1 do get—sick.” Y’et so soon as she had said it she knew she had said too much. The proof that she had said too much came in the fact that he bent his head still nearer to her lowered face. His sympathy was intensified. Evidently' her remark had set his mind working. An inspiration seemed to- come to him, and lie said, with a rush : “I say, though, you shall go out. I'll take you myself, it’s only doing a fair thing. Listen to me, I’ll arrange it. Slip away ten minutes before half-past five, and I’ll he waiting for you in the car just round in the side street, and we'll be far away before the rest come out. It’s sheer luck, Elsie, but I have a big veil of rny sister’s in the car. It will disguise you effectually.” Elsie knew the plan would he quite, easy to carry out. But the thing that 1 struck her was that in his eagerness he I had called her “Elsie.” She was warned I but tempted too. Her heart bounded 1

confusingly. So she hesit.riea doubtfully. ‘‘We shan't be caught.” he said, impetuously, with a boyish interpretation of her hesitation. “Do come. You ought, you know. I’ll keep guard while you draw wonderful things.” Her head dropped a little more, but he caught a muffled reply: “I will come.” And then she looked up at him, a gleam showing through the trouble and doubt of her face. “That’s right. It will be ripping.” But even then Elsie knew she would have to pay. It was with a guilty sense that Elsie hurried round the corner of the factory into the quiet side street. Her arm was caught, and she was bustled into the throbbing motor car.; Now for the first time she experienced the thrill of the swift passage-vterribly swift it seemed to her—along the country road. At first it felt the more terrible to her because somehow, to her simple and piously-trained mind, it was like the swift run to destruction. It seemed significant her face was hidden in such an unaccustomed manner. Their road, of course, was an out-of-the-way one, and at the end of half an hour they were seated together in a green, wooded dell, traversed by a purling stream, which was one of many secluded beauty-spots Arthur Granbourn seemed to know. The evening was lovely, the place beautiful and calm. Under their influence Elsie lost some of the disturbing sense of guilt and fear. Arthur Granbourn was all consideration and respect. With repeated expressions of admiration he urged her to sketch, to show her talent. She made the attempt. She was soon engrossed in it, and found as she pro- - ceeded a growing gladness in her environment. She began to glance with fi , and pleasure back into the grey eyes that gazed upon her and her work with more and more warmth of admiration. So such clandestine excursions began. Other opportunities seemed to come leadily. On some occasions 'Elsie was troubled, and felt that she would gladly put an end to them, but found that something within her urged her on, A number of times, therefore, they dashed off to places of beauty, and deep seclusion. And gradually strong tides of feeling that they hardly realised the force of swept them nearer to each other and impending fate. One evening as Elsie, with a skilful hand, finished off a delightful sketch in water colours, Arthur Granbourn suddenly seized the hand that worked in a tingling grip. “What a dear, clever hand,” he cried, vehemently. “I love it!” He paused, realising that the die was cast, and then, looking passionately into her startled eyes, i went on, “Elsie, I love you !” A deep alarm shook Elsie at first, an alarm that urged her to take flight; but then a stronger impulse, a glowing response, awoke in her. She loved him as deeply, as passionately, as be loved her. So she listened enchained, and submitted to his ardent caresses. Her forebodings were swamped in a deep delight. It grew dusk as they ran swiftly home. Arthur Granbourn was in high spirits, and drove fast: the car shot forward, the dust whirled behind it. They approached a sharp turn of the road. A bridge spanned a river hero. Almost as they were on it a low, slowgoing lady’s gig turned out from between the )>arapets of the bridge. The hurtling car almost over-ran it. but. a.s he saw it, Arthur Granbourn. shouting, spun his steering-wheel madly. Elsie cowered. ITe car missed the gig by a hair’s breadth. Its startled lady occupant was just saved, but the turn of the car was too severe! A wheel caught a low buttress of the stone bridge, and the car was doomed. It smashed itself upon the stone barrier. Its riders were hurled from their seats and thrown over the parapet of the bridge, u]>on the banks of the stream below, which it chanced were covered thickly with bracken and shrubs. They were hot h plunged into the matted growths and lay. not, dead, but unconscious, queerly huddled and still, looking like crumpled up wax figures. The terrified old lady in the gig could only scream helplessly. The deep hum of another motor car sounded along the road, and in a minute it sped forward out of the dusk and stopned before the wreckage. Out of it hastily stepped the chauffeur and a tall, fine looking gentleman The gentleman’s eyes had a specially intense look of horror in them, and they were fixed at first on the plainly visible number of the wrecked car. He was Mr Granbourn, Arthur’s father, brought by the strange ways of the presiding Fates to the: disaster of his own son. He was also Elsie’s master. Hurriedly, anxiously, they descended the bank, and. wasting no time, toiled up again bearing first the inert body of the young man—the son—and then that of the girl, ihc stranger. “Home,” said Mr Granbourn. curtly, and with its burden of injured the car flew at full speed to his own residence. So Elsie was carried behind Arthur into the spacious house that was the home of j both her employer and of her lover. Neither of them knew at that time how their secret was out. It soon became apparent that Elsie was not so badly hurt ; indeed, site was merely stunned, arid came round before the doctor. summoned post-haste, arrived. The eyes that first met hers were not entirely sympathetic. Yet a nurse was set to tend her, and did so kindly. In a day or two she up. shaky and weak, hut otherwise uo worse bodily. But her mind and heart were full of regrets, forebodings. and agitation. She anticipated the visit and the interview that came. Une afternoon, as she sat in a luxurious “Dryad” chair, a ladv came into the pleasant room. She had never hern told that this ladv was Arthur’s mother, hut she knew it. The lady’s face was grave, her manner was

disturbed. Though she had been expecting the visit, Elsie’s heart sank. Mrs Gran bourn began to speak in tones of mild regret, almost of kindness, yet they managed to convey to Elsie the implacable hostility the speaker entertained towards herself. Arthur was her darling son, she said so much. “It will really be kindest to be plain,” she went on. ,l of course, this—this acquaintanceship must end ” “Acquaintanceship!” The echo wa» wrung from Elsie. A sudden vision of Arthur’s face as ht bent to her, his warm words of love, a sudden remembrance of his embraces, came between her and the speaker. Ihe sound of the steady flow of cruel, calculated words wa-s muffled as in a fog. So she sat in silence, listening apathetically, it seemed, . The elegant, anxious mother began to think that this girl was obstinate and non-compliant. A keener acidity came into her tones, and something like threatening into her speech. Then Elsie interrupted her. “You need not go on,” she said tyith a mild, bub resolute, pride and dignity ; "I quite understand, Mrs Granboum. I have done wrong, but I will atone. I will go right away, and then”—she faltered a little, and then hurried on, firmly—“. Arthur will soon forget me. I shall read the papers to learn when he marries the fine lady who will be bis true mate. He is sure to marry well!” "Spoken like a good, sensible girl,” cried Mrs Granboum, enthusiastically. In her relief and gratitude, Mrs Granbourn offered Elsie' money —such cruel strokes can mothers deni. “No, no.” cried Elsie. In the same hour she left the house. She trod softly because "Mr Arthur” was still so ill. ‘ As site passed his door she heard him mutter, perliap* her name, and she hastened. Putting aside all thought of consequences to herself, she went right away—she and her mother, her sole friend as well as relative—to London, the place that somehow 'swallow,- up all the tin desired and undesirable people. 11. “You seem well pleased to-day, my good patron. What is it?” "Good news, good news,” replied the stout, middle-aged financier, who dealt in art in particular and finance in general, and eyed his beautiful visitor with a glow of appreciation. “Ah ! what sort of news—more monev?” “No, no; better than that, mv dear Miss Denham—better than that. Getting my own back, in fact—revenge! I am experiencing the truth tliat revenge is sweet. It is a truth. Haven’t you ever tried it and found it so?” “Ah!”—the "ah!” was long-drawn—-“no." “Well, my dear girl, yon have a joy yet to taste. If such a clever and prosperous young lady has any taste •oft for joy.” "No compliments, Mr Brediin,”' Elsie Denham said, shaking her head half-seri-ously at him. “You will be proposing again, and thyt, dear friend, I don't liktf. I fear I shall be giving way yet.” “All! then I will propose. Why nob marry me. dear Elsie?” he said, his tono suddenly importunate. “I love von better than anv poor stripling could. I have wealth ; I can give you ” “Oh, stop, please.” There was a note of pain in the sweet, cultured voice of cho voting ladv. “Tell me what is the pleasing news?” “Ob, you won’t know or understand if I tell you. But here it is. Ah old-enemy of mine, a pompon« manufacturer in the North, has fallen like a fine peach into

my hands. For years I have stretched stealthily a long arm into his muddled and mismanaged business—Granbourn and Co. he styles the firm, —and now, at last, 1 can bring him to ruin. W hy, dear gnl, what’s the matter’’" “Granbournl” Elsie stammered. 'Uh. She went white, and trembled and sank into a chair; she made an effort, as he came over to her in deep concern, and sat up stiffly. , “Nothing,” she said, in reply t»_ her reiterated question, “nothing. Never mind, I am all right. 1 came to see what you sold those, last sketches of mine for?” Mr Bredun looked at her in deep anxiety, for his love was real and deep, but he accepted her disclaimer. “Why, you lucky creature,” he said, “Lord \\ ornage gave me a hundred guineas for them. Your fortune’s made now. But you deserve it all, Miss Denham—you have the gift, and von have worked like a Trojan. In fact, when you first came to me you were killing yourself with the regulation weapons —starvation and work. I saw it at once. ' “And you save me by your generosity. I shall never forget'it.” Mr Bredun shook his head, somewhat embarrassed by a praise seldom bestowed on him and as seldom merited. Then suddenly he stared in astonishment at the behaviour of his companion. She had fallen on her knees at his feet. Her evident agitation had come to a head in this manner. In bewilderment he waited her explanation. j “Dear friend,” she said, in a shamed and yet sweet appeal, “do me one more favour—-a greater onep perhaps—and I will ever be grateful. please, do not, ruin the Granbourns! » Bredun’s sharp little eyes glittered and blinked and searched her face with keen questioning. “Why, Miss Denham why, ’ dear Elsie, what is this? What are the Granbourns to you?” He stopped, dazzling flashes illumining his mind, and instantaneously savage little stabs of jealousy went home in spots of uninspected sensitiveness in his heart. He continued. “I see, there’s a young Granbourn, is there?” He knitted his brows fiercely. “Let me think—you came to London m a hurry, friendless and forlorn. Yes, it is getting clear. On the past you kept a closed mouth. Ah! your face tells me I’ve hit on the truth. There is a young Granbourn—the young scoundrel. Like father, like son.” Bredun’s face was pulled and red. Elsie shook her' head, smiling sadly through her distress, and was about to add to her appeal. “No, dear,” cried Bredun, explosively, “let them be smashed, the whole treacherous lot! Forget your love • learn my lesson that revenge is sweet. I will make their ruin more bitter.” Again Elsie shook her head. “Listen, deal” friend,” she said, softly pleading; “don’t say any more. Save them, and 1 —I will do as you wish.” Gradually, as it were, lircdun heard and understood" this last statement, and his face reflected a curious shifting of emotion. “You’re a queer girl,” he said at last,.slowly. “Out of my reckoning; but I can’t refuse a bargain like that.” A little later they came down the office stairs together. Elsie Denham, line though her appearance was, bore slight traces of tears; her almost regal carriage showed a little droop. For her present experience of pain, of grief, she could scarcely account even to herself, but in her heart of Tiearts she felt dimly that the keenest pain arose not because of tie news of what had befallen Arthur Gianhourn and its remainder of the sacrifice of herself in years gone by, but because she had finally given him up. Not until now had she ‘realised what unfathomable hopes she had cherished, to abandon utterly. , Brednn’s face told also that lie was moody, subdued, and sympathetic. A tall and stalwart man darkened the narrow doorwav at the foot of the stairs, up which he ‘began to stumble in hot haste. Unaccountably, Elsie felt a queer thrill The man raised his head as he caught sight of the two descending. Without thought, Elsie and he cried out together. ' “Elsie!” “Arthur !” Thev had looked into each other s eyes—just one glance —and had forgotten the intervening vears. everything that stood between that last ride and this meeting. Thev caught each other’s hands, and, still without any other thought than that of meeting, held them long. Bredun. standing a little above them, scowled down on them, disturbed and oppressed with vague anxieties. “Tell me. Elsie,” said Arthur Oranbnurn, “what happened, why you left me?” He was bigger, sunburnt; his voice was dapper, find rang musically and storrnilv in Elsie’s ears. Elsie did not reply directly. Instead, she asked a question. His question throbbed with a matter and a message more vita] than that it put. on which her heart demanded reassurance. “Then von didn't want me to go—not then—nor after then?” she faltered, in eagerness. “No. not at the time or over. And because thev had sundered ns. I left them all. I sought yon everywhere at first. .A lone time I sought, until I gave up hope and wont out there.” H" did not sav where “out there” was. “Then abroad.” he hurried on with his explanation. “I heard things wore going wrong at homo. Some unscrupulous financier had laid his hands on the business, and was disclosing sinister designs. T felt T must rescue my own father. _mv own family, and burned here to sot things right if T could. And that reminds me — it is here I exnect to confront this rogue. This is his office. Why. Elsie, are yon ill? How white von are!” A sudden instinct made him look from Elsie to the hitherto unnoted figure that had stood in stiff stillness and deep silence above them both. NTo, Arthur. I am all right-not ill. Don’t look so, don’t misunderstand. He

is my bpneffrjtor—your father’s too. All is right now. I forgot to introduce you. Mr Bredun. You see, I am engaged to him.” Arthur listened, pale, frowning, doubtful. ‘‘Cone upstairs,” interjected Bredun gruffly. “We can’t talk here.” Seated in the office, the tables were turned. Bredun was obviously struggling for composure. He was tongue-tied now. yet anxious to give expression to some deep matter. It was strange to see such a man confused, undergoing a severe mental struggle. His broad, hard, red face glistened with the sweat of the strain. “We’re all fools at one time or another.” he said at length, huskily, “and I’m one now. You’re too much for me, Elsie; I want to see you happy—l can't stand misery in you. I give up revenge; I —l give up selfishness. She’s yours, boy—take her. She’s taught me the best revenge, and something more. I love her sufficiently well to give up revenge—and her too.” Elsie went up to him in the intense silence that fell as he came to an abrupt end of his broken speech and kissed his broad face. They were her tears that ran down his cheeks.