THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3244, 17 May 1916, Page 63

THE NOVELIST.

THE TEMPTATION OF MARY LISTER.

(PUBLISIJRD BY SPECIAL AnRANQEMBNT. J

By E. EVERETT-GREEN. Author of "Adventurous Anne," "A Queen of Hearts," "Defiant Diana," "The Lady of the Bungalow," etc., etc. [Copyright.] CHAPTER XV.—MARY'S VISIT.

ILL, Mary, I see that you are bent upon it; but if harm comes to you from this visit, do not say you were not warned." "Certainly I will not, Aunt Ada. You have been trying hard to hold me back from making friends with the Lorimers

—yon and Uncle George. But what harm you think can come from our friendship I fail to see. You have dropped some quite outrageous hints; but even you scarcely dare to put your evil thoughts into plain words. I am going—to my best friends." "Very good, Mary. And you will see what comes of it. You are the kind of girl to go upon your headlong, self-assured way. But perhaps a time will come when you may wish you had been less headstrong. Whatever silly Lady Lucy may be, her son has it in him to be a dangerous man." And with these cryptic words Mrs Hart swept out of Mary's pleasant sitting room, leaving the -girl gazing out through the window with an expression on her face half startled, half conscience-stricken, and more than a little bewildered and dismayed. It was impossible to believe that anybody suspected her ; yet the horrible question would assert itself from time to time Had anybody an idea of things being other than they seemed? What evil result could follow uporf her visit to The Eookery, to which sho was looking forward with such eager delight. To bo under Lady Lucy's roof—how charming! Sho loved Lady Lucy, and

was loved by her; whilst here in her own house she felt herself an alien, and regarded with hostility by those who counted as her next of kin. And how well she knew what would be their delight should any cataclysm befall which should fling her headlong from her proud position ! How they would rejoice over her 1 How they would hound her to death! What an unspeakable thing it would be now for discovery to overtake her, for exposure to follow! No, no, come what might she would fight for her hand—and for Molly's heritage willed to her. Nobody should wrest it from her now! Last thing that night Margot came to her in her room. Mary always felt a faint creeping sensation of shivering distaste at the malign gaze of Margot's dark eyes, which she often met levelled upon her with hostile intent. "So you are going, Mary, going tomorrow to The Rookery for a week." "Yes, Margot. And at the end of the week will be the ball. You will be there, of course, and Jos and Uncle and Aunt Hart?" "Oh, yes, we shall all be there. And I am to come for two nights. Aunt Lucy asked me. She thought it would be pleasant for us all. So, Mary, when I come I shall see how you have been behaving." "Really Margot, you use very odd expressions in speaking to me !" "Oh, I dare say you are not used to plain speaking! You think your position raises you above criticism. I dare say you do not even see yourself in the light of a designing woman, clutching at everything you can get either by fair means or foul! I dare say you have never looked at yourself in that light." Mary was silent, struck dumb by some dread misgiving which she would seek to visualise. Margot took her stony silence for dire offence. "But you are like that —you are! I don't care if I do say it—if I do make an enemy of you. You have got everything else—house, lands, position, prestige —and now you are bent on getting Giles Lorimer also. And I tell you, you shall •not! I will stop it! By hook or by crook I will beat you there! You had better listen to me now. You had better not drive me to fury. I am not one whose hatred is negligible. If you take Giles from me you shall never have him yourself! I will stop that! Do you hear? I will find the means. Most people have something in their back records that will not bear the light of day! Who knows anything about you? I will make it my business to find out who and what you are ! You be careful, Mary Lister! You leave Giles Lorimer alone, if you want to be let alone yourself. If you don't—well, you may live to be sorry, that is all. And you need not say I did not warn you—or that I am acting on the sly. Can you say the same of yourself?" And with this last taunt, her face suddenly thrust out towards Mary's, Margot wheeled round and made her exit. Mary was left alone, almost gasping. She was pretty well certain that there was no real double entendre in Margot's words —that she spoke at random, obsessed by some fury of jealousy. But it was impossible not" to shrink from such intensity of hatred, impossible not to wince at the sting- of those barbed shafts, pointed by a truth never guessed at by the sneaker. yt-,.,- passed a restless night. She was tha i l*ul to be leaving Haxtshill on the m0n0..-. The early hours of the day were busy ones, setting affairs in order for her week of absence. Mrs Blossom was set in absolute charge of the household. The Harts were only as guests now in the place where they had ruled so long. She gave her orders within and without, duly regarding their comfort and convenience; but holding all reins of government in her own hands. Then, immediately after lunch, she ordered the carriage, took a long and delightful country drive, returning a few calls', and arrived at The Rookery in ample time to settle herself in her comfortable quarters before joining Lady Lucy at her delightful tea in the shelter of the Italian loggia at the south-west angle of the pleasant house. The loggia was an incongruity devised by Lady Lucy herself; but nobody ever fell foul of it, for it was the most "charming place for sitting out in during a great part of the year. "Mary, darling, it is so good to have you here all to myself! What a happy week we are going to have together! It seems almost like having a daughter of my own here. I always longed for a girl. But all I got was my long-legged laddie!" "Whom you would not change for all the daughters in creation —I know!" Lady Lucy laughed sweetly, patting Mary's hand in her fond fashion. "Ah, well, you see I have got used to a man about the house —and it does bring interest into life. You can never reckon upon what a man creature is going to say or do! And then, of course, I live in hopes of my Giles bringing me home a daughter one of these days." She swept very loving look, at sight of which the 'girl's bright colour flew up. "And if he will only bring me one after my own heart, how happy we shall all be together !'' "Has he never threatened you with one, Aunt Lucy? Giles is thirty, is he not? Surely he" must have been through some phases of calf-love—if nothing more serious! Jos said something about Margot and him once." "Ah, Margot! Mary, what do you think of Margot? Time was once when I was rather sorry for., that girl. So was Giles. She seemed restless and unhappy at home; but you could never get at her, so to speak. Do you know what I mean?" "Yes. very well. She puzzles me. But I thought that she and Giles seemed to be friends—to have a good deal in common. And she likes him, I am sure." "Yes, yes—sometimes I think she likes him too much for her own peace of mind. You see, Giles saved her life once—that makes a rather strong tie." "Did he? She never told me that! Please let me hear about it now." "It happened about Christmas time seven years ago, when Giles was twenty-

three and she eighteen. The Jake was frozen and we had a skating party. But one end is never safe, because a warm spring rises there, and we keep that end roped oft'. Somehow .a rope was wanted elsewhere, and this one had been fetched away, and Margot, forgetting ail about the warning y v -e give to skaters, darted upon the thin ice, and it cracked and splintered—and she was in." • "And Giles risked his life to save her! That is what you mean!" "Well he did, though he will never allow it, as he is a strong swimmer. But we all know that, with broken ico in the question, strong swimmers can go under and be lost. However, he got her out, and the chill made her ill for a. few days, and she stopped with us here all through Giles's last vacation. He went back once more to Oxford to finish his honours course. But during those days he and Margot were much together, and for a long time afterwards there seemed to b<* a. tie between them —and I used to won der " "Yes, I understand. You thought K. might be Margot who might be the daugh. ter you wanted so much!" "Yes—but I n«ver wanted her, Mary. That was the trouble of it. I tried to be kind to the poor girl, to get at her, to win her confidence; but I never got much nearer, even though I was Giles's mother, and I have always thought that- such affection as her nature is capable of is centred in Giles." "I think she likes him very much," said Mary, resolved not to give away the secret of another woman, even though that woman had declared herself capable of bitter and malicious enmity. 'But what about Giles? Does he c?re for her?" "Ah, that is a question I am constantly asking myself; but as yet I have not found the answer. If he cares for her, why is not the matter settled?" "Perhaps he knows that you would not like it, Aunt Lucv." "I have thought of that. But I think my Giles knows me well enough to be assured of my welcome to the woman ha loves. His happiness is my great and chief concern, and it is time that my b»y married. I begin to long to have h& children trotting about the house and lisping their baby confidences to their old granny." A very lovely light dawned in Lady * Lucy's eyes, and stealing forth a jewelled white hand, she possessed herself of Mary's slim fingers. "Darling," she softly breathed, "I want a dear daughter. I want a sweet wife for my son. I want the baby-gurgles and laughter, the patter of little feet, the lisping of baby voices. Mary, Mary, my very dear child —Norah'a little girl—do you not understand the thing upon which my heart is set?" And Mary suddenly slid to her knees and was gathered into La<jy Lucy's embrace, feeling the beating of a tender mother heart, and feeling how exquisite a thing it would be to be taken, into the sanctuary of this home-life, to be daughter to this delightful, tender creature, and the wife of a strong and tender man. Could life itself have more to offer? And why not? Why not? The sound of a footfall made the women start apart, and before Giles rounded the angle of the loggie, they were seated as before, though possibly something in Mary's flushed cheeks and his mother's bright eyes might suggest to Giles the thought of confidence interrupted. "Ah, Mary, so you have come ! Mother, I hope that you are happy now ycu havo got her." Giles took Mary's hand and looked down at her with that friendly, vet enigmatic, gaze which she found at once enthralling and disquieting. "I am very happy, Giles. Mary and I understand one another. She is sympatica. I suppose our auras correspond, or something. One hears such queer reason;* given now for instinctive likings or dislikings " "Yes, the good old Dr Fell reasoning is out of date. We have to explain everything now by chapter and verse. So, Mary, you are coming to grace our ball next week, and be the great draw. It will be quite a small excitement for tho neighbourhood—to see Joshua ( Hart's granddaughter and Norah Lister's girl! Peoplo remember that runaway marriage very well still, I find. You will be quito a little lioness in our world when you appear." "But we are going to have her to ourselves for a week first, Giles. Won't that be charming? People won't come near us, because they are all invited for the ball. We shall be quite to ourselves these days, Mary and I; and I am going to enjoy every hour of it." "You mostly do, mother/ spoke Giles with his queer, humorous smile. "You will have a real high old time- with Mary, grubbin"- up familv papers, and I do not know what all. Mary, are you-prepared for a most fearsome catechism as to past, present, and future? For once let my mother get you into her toils, and there will be no escape till you have paid tha uttermost farthing!" CHAPTER XVI.—ROCKS AHEAD! "Will you ride early with me, Mary? Mother's'old horse carries a lady as if in a cradle. I generally take a round of some of the farms and crops before breakfast in this weather. Would you like to come?" "I should love it, Giles, if I shall not be in your way." Lady Lucy beamed at them. Giles waa giving Mary her bedroom candlestick. Old fashions prevailed at The Pookery. Earlv hours and bedroom candlesticks, and early rising in the sweet early summer days. Mary went to bed with wide-open

•windows and the nightingale's song in her ears. Sh»3 seemed to see Lady Lucy's sweet smile and to feel the pressure of her tender hands. The whispering breezes and the nightingale's song seemed to set themselves to words which had been spoken only an hour or two before, "I want you for my daughter, Mary, thirling. I would love to have Norah's child for my very own!" Mary heard these words again and again, as she lay gazing out through the open window into the moonlit night. "Norah's child —Norman and Norah Lister's daughter—that is the wife she wants for her son. What would she say if she knew the truth?" It was an agonising question for Mary. For her heart had been absolutely won by Lady Lucy's sweetness. More than this. Giles Lorimer's personality had taken such a grip upon her that the very fact of sleeping here beneath his roof made for a wonder of tumultuous joy in her heart. She cared for him! —did she not even love him? It was a question she scarcely dared to ask. She most certainly dared not seek to answer it. But she lay wakeful on her bed thinking of him, of the look in his eyes, of the words he had spoken, of the proposed ride upon the morrow. And at the bare thought of this she thrilled. "He must like me, or he would not have asked me. But what if he knew? What if he knew? Yet sometimes I feel as though he read me like an open book, as though my secret was his also. And yet he does not hate me. He receives me to his house, he treats me as a friend —a cousin." And Mary slept, dreaming strange dreams of Giles Lorimer; awaking to a golden morning of glamour and misty jewelled marvels of dew and sunshine. And before the magic and mystery had taken to itself wings, she was in the saddle, and riding beside Giles across the bracken of the park, where startled deer rose and scampered before them, and the cuckoo shouted a greeting and rabbits scuttled and Avhisked along the green glades.

Mary had been riding at Hartshill to regain confidence, for in Australia it was only as a child that she had been on horseback. Her life in Sydney had given her scant opportunities for this "pleasant exercise. But she was well habited, and had a graceful seat, and Lady Lucy's old horse carried her in the easiest and gentlest way possible. Giles watched her with sideway glances, assuring himself of her ability to control her mount; and then they enjoyed several delightful canters across stretches of turf and along green glades. "You have a beautiful place here, Giles," said Mary. "I do not wonder that your mother was not disappointed for you not to come into Hartshill." "Did she tell you that?" "Yes. I suppose Hartshill may be rather larger; but I call this more beautiful, more attractive. I should not carp to change." "Nor I. I never expected Hartshill for a moment. The terms of your grandfather's will took me quite by surprise. I am only his wife's nephew. I have no sort of claim. And I do not want Hartshill, as it happens." Mary's heart leaped joyously, she scarcely knew why. "But suppose it had come to you? Suppose that other Mary Lister whom we buried at sea had been Joshua Hart's granddaughter, and you had come into itall —what then, Giles?" "I almost think in that case I should have sold it. If not, it would have been let for a long term of years. I should never wish to live anywhere but at The Rookery, the Lorimers' place. And in these days large landed estates are likely to be more of a nuisance than a joy. I think I should have sold Hartshill. What do you think, Mary? Is not one house and estate enough for one man—for man and wife when he gets one?" Her colour flew up, she knew not why. She dared not look at him. She sought to speak with detachment and ease. "I think that is how I should feel in your place, Giles. You have so much already. You do not need more. It would not add to your happiness." Was there a tiny note of appeal in her voice? He could not say; and she did not know how it had sounded there. She was startled into watchfulness by his next remark. "So your cabin companion who died on the voyage was a namesake of yours — another Mary Lister?" "Yes; I thought I had told you so at dinner a week or two ago." "I gathered that she was a Lister connection of that name. I did not know she was a Mary also. That must have made a link." "I think it did. It was the coincidence of name that made the stewardess bring her to my cabin to look after me when I was rather badly sea-sick. It was very nice for me having her; for I had a big cabin, and there was plcntv of room, and we made great friends. But I try not to think too much about that voyage now. It ended so sadly. She did not mind dying so very much, because she felt she had not much to live for: and she had that curious wish to be buried at sea—l told you, did I not? T sometimes fancy she had a presentiment about herself. You see there was something rather badly wrong with her heart. She might have found life hard." '' So you were going to charge yourself with her future, Mary?" " I thought of our being together at Hartshill. But you sec it uame to nothing. And she had no friends over here whom she was.going to. That was the sad part of it. There was nobody to write to or to tell." " That seems unusual, does it not?" " I think not quite so much for a girl coming out from the Antipodes. Her parents had cut adrift from old ties, and her father had failed, and her mother had died long before. She had been a waif and stray even over there, but thought perhaps she might find a niche over here. However "

" Perhaps that was a happy solution," said Giles, who was watching her face with some attention: "'but it was a sad thing for you, Mary. It must have laid a burden upon your life." "A burden!" she repeated, a little startled.

" Perhaps I should have said a shadow," was his composed reply. " You had planned something different, and this death of hers disconcerted everything." Mary flicked her horse with her whip, and they started at a brisk canter. She felt gripped by an extraordinary fear. It was as though Giles were reading her guarded secret as from the page of an open book. She dared not let him see her face. She kept a little ahead till she felt she could control her features, and whan they drew to a Wb Ik and were level again, he made no further allusion to the Mary Lister who had died and had been buried at sea.

With Lady Lucy, however, all Mary's anxieties and fears abated. She was sweetne ; s herself, and made perpetual claims upon her guest, whom she insisted upon treating rather as a daughter than as a mere visitor to her house. Mary was shown everything upstairs and down. Mary's opinion was asked, her taste consulted. She could not be too much at Lady Lucy's beck and call. Giles, coming from time to time in search of them, would stand watching the pair, his hands in his pockets, a pleasant if slightly ironic light in his eyes. "Giles," his mother would say, "I am finding how delightful it is to have a daughter all my own. You men things are wonderful crentures in your way; but a woman wants one of her own kind about. And Mary makes an ideal daughter. Your old mother is having the time of her life." For she was displaying old brocades and family heirlooms and treasures. And she claimed the right to dress Mary up in some of these delicate fabrics,' and bring her down to dinner, looking as though she had stepped out of some old master's canvas. And she loved to watch Giles's face as he made his grave inspec tion. For it began to be borne in upon her mother-heart that, after all, she was going to achieve the desire of her heart, and that her boy was going to fall in love with Mary Lister. "Darling," she said one soft: hot even ing, as they paced the terrace together after dinner, " I simply shall not know how to let yon go when the ball is over Mary, dear, when will you come to me again?" " Dear Lady Lucy, I simply love being here. I am much happier than at Harts hill; but I suppose my place is there. 1 am learning how to look after things, and Giles is so kind in helping me. I have learnt a great deal from him these last days, and I hope he will let me come to him for advice " "Of couT.se, he will. That is what men and brothers and cousins are for. Dear me!—if I had that big place, I should be inclined to sell it. I do think. But then. I don't know anything about business. I have always had a husband and a son to do things for me. You will want a husband, Mary dear, one of these days." and Lady Lucy's hand on Mary's arm clasped it with significant pressure. " I trust and hope, darling, that when you find a husband he will be as true and good a man as I have in my big son." This was to. be the last evening alone. Upon the next _ day Margot would be there, and the following evening the big ball was to take place, on the morrow' of which Mary's week would be up. As thev passed indoors through the window, Lady Lucy suddenly exclaimed : " Oh, that packet of letters! I meant to go through them all with vou, Mary, darling. There must be so many interest ing things that you could tell "me about them. I wonder, now, where have I kept them all this while?" " Dear Aunt Lucy, what letters are vou talking about?" " Letters from your mother, darling—written after her marriage, before our correspondence dwindled and died. I have them somewhere, though I have not thought of them for years. But lam sure there were photographs of persons and places that you would know about, and you could tell me a lot of interesting little things one always wants to know. Perhaps the.-e would be a snapshot of you Mary, as a little girl.' There is no knowing. T must get them out, and we will go through them together. Why have I forgotten all this while?" "Well, do not trouble to-night. Aunt Lucv, for I am getting sleepy, and I can see you do not remember where the letters are. Let us wait till after the ball, when things will be quiet again " "Ah, yes, and you shall come and spend another week with me quite soon, and I will find those papers, and then we will have a cosy talk over them together." Marv went up to her room, but almost she felt as though her heart had stopped beating. A packet of old letters 'and papers, full of allusions, doubtless, many of which she would be exnected to understand and explain. And perhaps Giles would he there, too—his eyes upon her as she hesitated, pretended to be searching her memory, contradicting herself or saving things suspiciouslv inaccurate. Mary's hand went up to her throat, pulling at the laces round it.

" I must get those papers. T must go through them first alone. I dare not meet his eve--—her questions—unprepared. By hook or hv erook, T must have tho=e panors—if T nave to burgle for them. But where are they? And how can I set them?"

(To he continued.)

Ho : "Toll me. mv sweet, are yon superstitious?" She: "What a strange nnostion ! Why do yon want to know?" Ho mo first." She: "Well. T am ?iOMn the least superstitious." Ho: '"Then 1 don't, mind telling you—yon are my thirteenth sweetheart." No lady should be without Martin's Apiol and Steel Pills. Sold by all chemists and stores throughout Australasia. —(Advt.)