QUEEN OF A DAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3215, 27 October 1915, Page 65

QUEEN OF A DAY.

Bt STELLA M. DURING,

THE lOYELIST.

(Published by Special Arrangement.]

Author of ‘‘Love’s Privilege,” “The End of the Rainbow,” ‘‘Faery Gold,” “Deringham’s Daughter,” “In Search of Herself,” ‘‘Malicious Fortune,” “Seedtime and Harvest,” etc., etc.

(Copyright.)

CHAPTER XII. HOOKE went back to Oxford depressed, indignant, and for 1 the first time in his life actively and consciously unhappy. His father, he told himself bitterly, had only one standard of value. If a thing had “money in it” it was good; if it had “no money in it ” it was bad. Wonderi'ugiy ne icfllised that up to the day when he met Kathleen his own standard had been the same. He had never troubled to distinguish himself at school, not even in cricket. Why should he? It was “too much fag.” Let others distinguish themselves whose future demanded it ; his was assured. He was idling through his terms at college, indifferent to everything brat his own pleasure. A pass degree was as much as he could hope for, and why should he trouble if he did not even get that. Let others trouble —poor devils who were going into the Church, or, worse still, into schools. Their future depended upon it; his was assured. Money, the money by which his father set such store had for Brooke killed ambition and emasculated effort. Why should he trouble to attain when he had everything in the world that mattered already? And then he had met Kathleen, a girl whose scheme of life practically eliminated money. He had realised from the first that his possession of it would be a hindrance to his wooing—that if her shv and timid interest in him were ever to deepen ini-' omething warmer it would be in sr> 'i and not because of his money. To itlileen all the things in the world thai mattered had nothing to do with money. And Brooke was at least beginning to appreciate her point of view. “ If they would have let me have Kathleen,” he toid himself with a little catch in his breath that was almost a fob, “ I should have ended by being worth something.” and the “worth” of which lie was thinking, to his own rather pathetic surprise, had nothing to do with money. For, of course, his father did not expect him to take her—and accept the altered circumstances of his life that the taking would involve. All that about his willingness to receive a daughter for whom Brooke would have been ready to work was hypocrisy pure and simple. He had known that Brooke would not be willing to work—for anybody. He had known that if it were a question of giving up either his present comfortable income or Kathleen he would give up Kathleen, of course ! Xot entirely ; there was no necessity for that. Ele could still see her constantly, tell of his undying love, slake the thirst of his soul in the assurance of her unchanging devotion. Only once—he remembered it with satisfaction—had he mentioned marriage, and then Kathleen had refused almost with horror to consider it at all. Leave her grandfather to the tender mercies of Marie and Achille 1 It was unthinkable. Brooke was a little ashamed to realise that he was glad. So he cycled cr.it to Windlesham almost every day, and sat with Kathleen in the old willow, and wandered with her over flower-filled meadows, under hedges clad in scented white like a maiden for her bridal. Sometimes he went up to the house to see old Gregory’. Occasionally 7 he shared their evening meal of milk and bread and honey 7, varied sometimes by weird and wonderful dishes concocted of eggs and cheese and vegetables which Marie knew well how to make both appetising and satisfying. And every day he worshipped Kathleen more, though whether it was for her angel face or her spotless soul he could pot ha,ve told. But he did not any longer want to marry her, as a conversation, an illuminating, scarifying conversation, with her grandfather showed him. One evening, when he had stayed and eaten with them, the old man, with his usual peremptory gentleness, sent Kathleen away 7. They had supped in the garden among the tender lights of a May 7 evening, while even the forlorn and derelict little corner of the world where they hid had decked itself with flowers at the call of the spring. The May moon was hanging in a rosy sky—large, transparent, iridescent like a gigantic soap bubble, —when on some pretext or another—Brooke never could remember what—old Gregory sent Kathleen away. Then ho turned to Brooke. “Young man,” he said with a touch of reproach, “I am waiting.” Brooke stared. “For what, sir?” he asked. He was particular about the “ sir ” ; Glenconncr liked the little formalities of bygone days. “ For what you should have said to me —before now. I am old, very, very old,

but I am not blind. I see how it is—with you and the child. Have you nothing to say to me?” For a moment Brooke sat stunned and silent. Then his better self stirred. ‘‘l love her,” he said very low. “I love her with all my heart and eoua.” The old man nodded, and his keen eyes, deep-set under their shaggy brows, were satisfied. His ears were old, but they were not yet dulled. He knew the note of sincerity when he heard it. ‘‘l saw it,” he said almost solemnly. ‘ I saw it—and was glad. For I am old and frull of days. Not long can the child look to me, not long. But now I can die —happily. The gods have provided.” And Irom his claw-like hand, cream-white like old ivory, he drew a ring—a large and flawless sapphire set in tiny brilliant®, ‘‘Wear it,” he said quickly, ‘‘she will understand 1” and slipped it himself on Brooke’s reluctant finger, and silenced every word he tried to say. Kathleen was coming back. After which, with much burning of heart and sickening of soul, Brooke set himself seriously to face his position. Practically he had accepted the responsibility of Kathleen’s future. Now there is only one way in which a young man of twenty-two can adequately safeguard the future of a girl of nineteen, and that is by marrying her. Both Kathleen and her grandfather believed unquestioning!/: that he intended to marry her. Did he; It was a point that required consideration. If marrying Kathleen meant entering his father’s office at a salary of m hundred and fifty a year and working fop her, most certainly he did not. But did it? Need it? Would it not b® possible to marry Kathleen ami say nothing about it? He shook his head aa the suggestion sought to clothe itself in detail. His father could not be kept in the dark for ever 1 . He would find him out in the end, and condign punishment would fail upon him—and the longer bo succeeded in evading it the heavier it would be when it came. No, as things were, he did not see that it would be in any way possible to marry Kathleen. And that being so, perhaps it would be as well if he sought to make bis relationship towards her just a little less definite. He glanced at the sapphire on his hand as he asked himself the question. He always wore it when he went to Windlesham, since not to do so would occasion remark. But he had worn it from the first with a touch of embarrassment. When he was not in Windlesham he did not wear it at all. Gradually and by degree he began to be a little less at Windlesham. Two days, three days would go by between bis visits, and he would excuse'himself to Kathleen by reminding her that this was the gayest, merriest time of all the Oxford year. He let Commemoration pass without a visit of any kind. At the end of it, when a day or two would see him far away for many a long week, he found himself considering, seriously considering, whether he should bid good-bye to Kathleen or not. It was whilst he faced the question, still undecided, that he leceived her first letter. It could hardly have been shorter, for it contained only three words: "Please come.—Kathleen.” It put an end to his indecision. Go he must, now. Was it only fancy on his part, or did the old house look more derelict than ever? he asked himself as lie turned in at the rusty gates and cycled up the mossy dtive. No, it was not fancy. The study blinds were all down, straw was on the front door steps, furniture, roughly packed, bedding tied in ungainly bundles, stood in the dark and cheerless hall. He set the boll clanging in the echoing passages, and at sound of it came a flying little figure in blue. “ Oh, Brooke, he is dead, he is dead I” she availed, and threw herself, into his arms. Her passionate distress touched him—• he would hardly have been human if it had not; —but even while he soothed and kissed her and promised all the help she so sorely needed, his innate selfishness was whispering at the back of his mind that it was very awkward, very awkward indeed for him. He led her out into the sunshine, for the house afflicted him with mortal chill. In a dusty arbour, overgrown with montana, now a sweeping veil of scented, white stars, the two sat down side by side. ‘‘When did it happen?” he asked. “ Day before yesterday, in the night. Marie found him in the morning, lying across his writing table, cold and stiff. She fetched Dr Waylett.” ‘‘And what does Waylett say?” ‘‘ He says it has been imminent for some time: that he would not suffer; that he would hardly know. Oh, but he would, he would ! He would know I was not with him. He would coll for me—and I never heard ! ’ ’ ‘ No, dearest, no!” Brooke held the little sobbing figure close, and over her head stared at the scattered straw' and the cut-up gravel. ‘‘Then —are you moving, darling? What does all this mean?” he asked, and pointed, puzzled. “ That! That is Marie and Achilie. They are selling things—and taking others. They say grandfather ow r es them money—■ that he has paid them nothing at all the last three years. I don’t believe it, oh, I don’t; but I can’t find anything to prove them wrong. Achilie says the cows are his ; he sold them all three this morning. He has a paper that grandfather signed, and Dr Waylett says he is nuito w'ithin his rights. But he has no right to take the furniture. I don’t know what he has sent away already.” “ He shan’t take any more,” said Brooke fiercely, “ not another stick. I’d like to sec him try it on with me, that’s all. Why, those two have made a small fortune whilst they have been here—they’ve sold every scrap of produce, and never accounted to anyone for a nenny. Did Mr Glenconner ever quest ion them?” “ Never. So long as w r e had what we required to keep alive ho never troubled further. But Achilie certainly had his per-

mission to sell the cows, so Dr \\aylctt says. Oh, hero is Dr M aylctt. -Ie said he would bring Mrs Waylett; that they would take me to their house for a few days after —after —but she hasn t come ; I don’t think she wants to conic. On, Brooke, I needn’t go, need I.' Xot now! Could any man have been brute enough to loosen the clinging hands, to disappoint those imploring, trustful eyes? Xot Brooke. He kissed her, though Dr V\ aylett’s comfortable cob was ambling up the drive, ami Dr Waylett himself was shrewdly regarding him between his horse’s ears, ’the doctor got down when he reached the front door, threw the reins on his perfectly trustworthy horse’s back, and came to meet the two young “You here,” he said to Brooke witn satisfaction, and it was evident he knew who he was. “I’m glad of that. I haven’t liked to do much on my own responsibility; but someone ought to do something. That rascally couple in there will clear the place il no one stops them. And who is to?” “I would —if I knew how,’ returned Brooke fiercely. “ The mischief is l oan t stay. I’ve got to be back by nine. The doctor nodded. “All the same —if you care to move in the matter—and after all you are the one who should ! Y ill you come into the study with me and talk things over. I shall be glad to consult somebody. Xo, my dear, not you ” —to Kathleen. “ 1 would like a few moments alone with Brooke handed him a card. “ Brooke Ferber,” it bore, with “Worcester College, Oxford,” quite small in one corner, and “27 Craven Gardens, W.,” quite small in the other. The doctor put it carefully away in his pocket-book. “ It’s an awkward position, Mr Ferber,” he said, as he closed the study door. “ There seems to me to be no provision of any sort for that poor child. This place is mortgaged to the last penny. The furniture will hardly pay the old man’s debts—if there is any furniture left by this time to-morrow —and books ! Well, you know, books, when you want to sell them, arc just so much waste-paper. ■lt seems Mr Glenconner had at one time insured his life in the girl’s favour; but as far as I can make out it is more than two years since any premiums were paid. I don’t know what she is to do, I’m sure. She seems peculiarly ill-fitted to face the world. I did speak of taking her over to Mrs Waylett for a few days, but —but “Pray don’t trouble to do that,” interrupted Brooke quickly. “ Miss Glenconner’s future is my affair.” “So I understood!” Dr Waylett’s sigh of relief was almost pathetic. “ I can’t deny that I am glad to be relieved of responsibility, though after all—after all ” “ Oh, please don’t feel any,” begged Brooke a little stiffly. “ I assure you Miss Glenconner will be well cared for.” “Who will care for her?” he asked. “I will.” “ May I ask, then ” —for pleasant as the face he studied was, it was not one to inspire unlimited confidence, and it was very young—“ May I ask what arrangements you propose to make for her?” “ I intend to take her straight to my sister in London as soon as the funeral is over!” —and at the moment he did. “ She is a girl of about her own age. She will be glad to ree her—and will certainly help her.” “I’m delighted to hear it,” returned the doctor’a little grimly, “and more relieved than I can say. And now—about the funeral. I haven’t givon any order —I daren’t, till I knew who was—responsible.” “I am,” said Brooke with decision. “If you will kindly see to all that is necessary being put in train ” “You will undertake?” “ The whole thing,” with decision. “ There is only one difficulty that I don’t quite know bow to handle—those two cunning scoundrels!” He jerked his head kitchcnwards. “ Put a man in possession,” airged the doctor crisply—it was all quite simple if someone else was going to pay for it. “I’ll send up Taylor, the parish clerk; he’s used to that sort of thing. Theaten them that, if they move a single stick, they’ll see the inside of Oxford Gaol. That’ll stop it.” “ Do anything you think best,” said Brooke —“anything at all.” “ And you will be—responsible.” It was well to make quite sure. “For everything,” agreed Brooke quietly. (To be continued.)