MY LOVE'S BUT A LASSIE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3292, 18 April 1917, Page 48

MY LOVE'S BUT A LASSIE.

c THE OTOV-ELIST.

By KATHARINE TYNAN. Author of "The Squire's Sweetheart," "Since First I Saw Your Face," "Kit," etc., etc. [All Rights Reserved.] CHAPTER VII.—THE HEART OF A FATHER. That summer the Judge saw much less than he desired of the three people he loved best in the world. He had an unusual amount of work as one of the Assize Judges on the Northern Circuit. One or two flying visits to Holmehurst in its full beauty—a day or two now and again in town. For the he was kept fully occupied till the Long Vacation brought a welcome relief. His word to Scotland Yard about the "Hen and Chickens" had had no result. Communication with the county constabulary brought word that the house had been vacated, no one could tell at what time —nor where the Skerretts and their property had vanished to. Skerrett had disposed of his live stock a little while previously. On examination the house revealed nothing very suspicious. The couple of mongrel dogs, lean and halfstarvedj lay dead in their kennels—poisoned. It was known that Skerret* has bought arsenic some time previously for poisoning rats with which the place was infested.

Some of the unimportant furniture remained in the house. The good things had all been taken. The "Hen-and-Chickens" had had a covered waggon belonging to the times when Skerrett's uncle had grown strawberries and raspberries and cherries for the London market. He had a stout horse to draw it. Someone had met a waggon which might have been Skerrett's in the dark of tho morning just after the melting of the snow. But the scent was cold. The Skerretts and their horse and waggon had been swallowed up into space. They might come back. The furniture they had left behind in the house pointed to that possibility. There was no reason to follow them. The tale of a half-witted boy, which might be a dream or a delusion, was nothing to go upon. "Some time," said the Judge to himself, "I shall, in all probability, run up against Mrs Skerrett, She cannot always evade the clutches of the law, even with the assistance of the county constabulary." His protege, Simon —Smike, as he always called him in his own mind—had improved beyond his expectations. His poor head, which had trembled so, had become almost still. Mrs Dowie reported a character so gentle that the Judge perceived that Simon had already laid hold on her heart. To her as well as to her husband helplessness appealed. The mother-heart in Mrs Dowie, which hitherto had had to spend itself on the animal creation, was plainly opening to the half-witted boy who had begun to reveal strange flashes of cleverness. Ida Venning was presented that summer. The Judge had a glimpse of her in her snowy chiffons, and realised for the first time that the girl who had been his small tyrant and darling had grown up. For the first time he wondered how long Rupert w r ould take to find out the state of his heart towards Ida. That state the Judge never doubted. It did not occur to him as it might to one less intimately concerned that the terms on which his son and Giulia's daughter had been brought up did not conduce to a matrimonial alliance. He found Ida irresistible. She had twisted father, and son round her little finger from her enchanting babyhood onward. If the Judge had been a young fellow—well, he would have been all in a flame "for Ida. So, of course, Rupert must be in a flame. Tho Judge believed in early marriages. Old Greville at Houndsmead had put his finger on it when he said that the Judge

wanted his grandchildren. Once or twice it had come upon him as a thing threatening, appalling, that Rupert was his all.

He could not have told why these terrors should have come to him suddenly, nor from whence and where they came. "The arrow that flieth by night." He repeated tiie phrase to himse.ii while he tried to shake off the creeping, unnecessary a.arms. Mrs Venning's letters followed him as he moved about from one assize town to another. She was a correspondent of the old-fashioned, leisurely sort, and her letters were a delight. She had the feminine art of the letter-writer. She told her friends precisely the things they wanted to know concerning her; and in the ■ most trivial and everyday circumstances she found something' to impart that pleased the recipient of her letters. One beautiful June morning in Manchester, the Judge, coming down to his breakfast at the hotel, found Giulia's weekly budget on his plate. Into the crowded hotel dining room, with its throng of people incessantly coming and going, with absorbed, detached faces, the letter fell like a bunch of violets.

Manchester! The Judge hated the place. He had once given some one convicted of manslaughter an incredibly light sentence at these assizes. The prisoner had got drunk and had suddenly killed his tyrant, a grinder of the faces of the poor. He had been patient for a long time, might have continued to suffer to the end if it had not been for that drunken bout. People who were in Court still remembered the strange tableau when Sir James Beauclerk had leant forward and addressed himself to the dazed prisoner in the dock. "Stern moralists would tell you," he had said, "that drunkenness was no excuse for crime, and they would be right. But, my poor fellow, I do not blame you overmuch. Perhaps, after all, it was the shortest way out of Manchester. " The incident had annoyed the Manchester people very much, wnile it had tickled and pleased the people of other industrial centres. There had been an outcry at the time —but, after all, Beauclerk was rather an institution than a man. He did what he pleased and said what he pleased. A vague breath of country flowers came to him as he opened letter, striking its pure way through the odours of ham ana eggs and beefsteaks and sausages and all the otner thousand dishes that were being served. He could have breakfasted in his own suite of rooms with Chandler, his honourable and learned brother. He preferred the bustle, although Manchester faces seldom rewarded his curiosity about his fellow-beings. The emotions stamped on them were too much concerned Aviih business.

Giulia's letter was mainly concerned with her daughter's social triumphs. Little Ida had been one of the successes of an unusually brilliant season. She had been taken notice of by "very great persons, bhe had acted as bridesmaid, with five others of the loveliest debutantes of the year, at the wedding of the season. She was invited to the most exclusive houses. She danced at all the smart dances with inexhaustible gaiety. "It is very strange, my friend," Mrs Venning wrote, "to see your own little one rose-crowned, courted, adored. I am even courted for her sake. I sit among the chaperons night after night, losing the beauty-sleep which Ida never seems to miss. She is prettier than ever. At the Meet of the Coaching Club on Saturday we were on Lord Malvern's coach. Ida had the place of honour. Malvern admires her very much. He is to drive us to Lord's for the Eton and Harrow match. -Rupert appears in the ballrooms now and again. He was with us on Sunday, and we are to lunch with him at'the Carlton on Friday. . . ." The Judge confounded Malvern. What did he mean by admiring Ida, who was as good as hand-fasted to Rupert? He read over the paragraph again. He was very simple -where women were concerned, but he had an idea that he could read something between the lines. Was there a hint that if Rupert did not bestir himself some one else might slip in? Giulia adored Rupert. Fond as she was of her little daughter, there had been something —come implied rendering of homage to the boy—on Giulia's part. She had said once to the Judge, without any consciousness, that Rupert satisfied her need for a son. It- was something primitive in her, due perhaps to her Southern blood, this setting of the boy above the girl.

He knew that Giulia's desire for a marriage between Rupert and Ida was greater, if anything, than his own. Was there a note of warning in the words she had written? He could trust her to keep guard for Rupert as he could, trust himself. But there was a point at which r uch guardianship might prove ineffectual. The. young people might take matters into their own hands, without any consideration as to how it would affect or disappoint their elders. Malvern —the son of the Marquis of Severn, was, of course, a parti. More, he was a good-looking and agreeable boy. He was in Rupert's regiment, theColdstreams. Was it possible that Rupert was unaware that Malvern miiht be a dangerous rival.' Did he know, did he appreciate the fact that another man might step in .and carry off the lady? It was not possible—the thought came to the Judge like an electric shock —that Rupert did not care! Pie resolved to sound the bov as soon as they were together again. He was not unmindful of the fact that it was usually the safest course to let such things alone. But—he had worked himself up into something of an unreasonable state of mind—supposing Rupert was indifferent, or seemed indifferent —in his innermost heart he hardly believed it possible—would not the little girl resent it? Without giving away her child Mrs Venning had allowed him" to understand that Ida would wel-

come Rupert's suit. Supposing that, like many a girl before her, she fell in h>\ e with and chose the diligent before the laggard lover? These thoughts made the Judge very uncomfortable. Once again he was oppressed by the new unreasonable fear becouse he had all his eggs in. one basket.

For. the first time Rupert did not get leave and join his father at Holmehurst as soon as the Long Vacation came. His father had been talking of Vichy for certain 2>remonitory symptoms of gout; and Rupert, taking it as good as settled, had gone off yachting with Malvern and Gervase Pettifer, who had been his devoted fag at Eton and had followed him into the Coldstreams. It was not a very big yacht, nor very luxurious. They were going to do a good deal of the hard work themselves. She was a good sea-going yacht, and John Lewin, her skipper, a R.N.R. man, could be depended upon. They talked of running over to have a look at Heligoland, and the North Sea fishers. Well, it was satisfactory to have Malvern out of the way, but the. Judge was as nearly being vexed with Rupert as was possible. He postponed going to Vichy. Mrs Venning was taking Ida for a good rest of three or four weeks to the cottage in the Surrey hills, before going to Scotland. She suggested that the Judge should join them there for a bit. He loved the place. An old, old cottage in a tangle of flowers and fruit, a pine-wood behind it. It was quite small, but there was room to put up a visitor. A male vLitor as big as the Judge would have to sleep with his feet out of the window, Ida said. Was he prepared for that? The Judge was prepared for anything in reason so long as he could be with Ida and her mother. He had a very domestic side to his character, Mrs Venning had sometimes said, with a sigh, that he ought to have had a wife and a household of children, instead of the shadowy memory of a longdead girl and the one child she had left him. He had been only twenty-eight when his wife died. He was fifty-three now, and still splendidly vigorous. It was to be almost too faithful, she sighed in her heart. He would have been an adorable father of a girl. Dearly as he loved his son, there was something in him, some softest tenderness, as in all very masculine creatures, which only a girl child could draw forth. Much of it he expended on Ida.

The gay season had not spoilt Ida Venning. She declared. that in the Judge and her mother she had the best company in the world. The cottage was so small that they had brought only Mary, the housemaid, with them, giving the other servants a holiday. There was a certain wonderful cook, Mrs Smith by name, who could always be depended upon to come in for the time of their stay at the cottage. It was an idyllic existence. The cottage on its hill looked down an exquisite valley between mild hills. A thick yew hedge screened it from the road. The co tage, to the -gate of which one climbed several steps, was quite out of sight of anyone or anything passing, unless one had the curiosity to climb the steps and look down the rustic pergola to the cottage porch. The Judge would have been perfectly content if only Rupert had been there. The fine, hot weather persisted day after day. The centuries-old cottage, under its roof of Horsham tiles, was always cool. Mrs Venning had added on a dining-room, a bedroom, a little modern kitchen with a new kitchen range, and a bathroom; so that, as she said, one could be rustical and civilised at once.

All the meals were partaken of out of doors, at a big kitchen table, under an immensely ancient yew which made shade for the cottage on the hottest day. The table could take no harm from the weather, so it remained there all the time, and at it the Judge wrote his and read and made notes, while Mrs Venning sat and sewed, and Ida gardened. The silent, cool nights were delicious after the July heat in London. There was a golf links close at hand, wandering up hill and down dale, with an infinitesimal subscription for temporary membership. They had the links to themselves all the week, till Saturday brought the Londoners. They made expeditions. They climbed the hills and took their lunch. They explored the country round about and saw what there was to be seen; and when the weather began to make and break records the Judge chartered a motor, and they ran down to Brighton and lunched at "The Ship," returning in the cool of the evening.

The Judge was tenderer than ever to Ida. because he missed Rupert, and was a little vexed with him. Why could not the boy have postponed the yachting till the time came when this happy party must be broken up? Oddly enough, while he was so happy with *the~e two who were almost eaually dear to him, he did not forget Sylvia Trehearne. Watching Ida flitting about in the garden, the eun between the apple-leaves glinting on her dark hair and white dress, he wished that Sylvia and she might have b"en friends. He was not going to forget Sylvia in .her loneliness. He had indeed written to her, and had had a letter in return. She remembered Mrs Venning and Ida at the Beausite, and had admiredthem so much, especially Mrs Venning, whom she had seen one day in the streets of Rome leading a blind beggar across a street crowded with traffic.

Mrs Venning remembered. She had not seen Sylvia on that occasion; but the things the girl said about her touched and .pleaded her. She smiled at the Judge's quixotism which would free this Iphigenia from her Cornish rock. When they were settled aerain in London she must write to Mr Trehearne, now she had an address for him, and beg him to let his niece come

to visit her and Ida. She wrote a charming letter, and she knew it.' She might get round the Ogre. It was not possible in these days to keep a beautiful girl like Sylvia shut up against her will. "One of these days," she said, "the lover will come by and he will call to her by name, 'Rapun/.el, Rapunzel, let down your hair!' Glorious hair, by the way, your .protegee has. It was almost too heavy for her little head."

CHAPTER VIII.—ON THE FACE OF

THE WATERS. - The yacht, in those August days, went Hither and thither at the caprice of her company. They turned her head up the Channel afler leaving Southampton Water and made for the .North Sea. They met the great shipping coming down Channel, and since they.kept near shore till tiiey reached the open seas, England revealed herself to them as softly swelling downs by day, with here and there the smoke and spires and shining buildings of a town, and by night as a rain of coloured jeuels in the darkness, a giow above, a aai.ee as of fireflies below. Now and again they put into harbour and went atirore and saw what was to be seen; and presently they were free of roofs and men and tilled fields and woodlands, and were dancing along in the North Sea, before a wind, over a surface broken in the aay time to a million facets by the brilliant sun.

Tney visited the fisher fleet on the Dogger Bank, and saw the cod come in in a grey eternity of silver, endlessly slipping by. They cruised along the snores of Heligoland, and ran up against one or two German warships in the Bight. Presently, the weather, changing, . they went south again, putting into Ryde for tne regatta, and spending a few days on tne island.

After that they went on again without any very definite intention. They half thought of landing at Scilly, or they might make for the Irish coast if the weather held, before turning back to Southampton.

They had • been very lucky in the weather so far, but about the fourth day after they left Eyde the wind, which had been falling gradually, dropped, so that they made little or no progress. However, there was wind coming. The sky had that peculiar gold which is almost white. Towards the western horizon, whither the sun was tending, there was haze, a haze oi molten gold, in which the sun showed as one intolerably bright eye, which none could meet without blinking. Above it clouds began to gather of. a pecuLar yellowness. Xhey had clapped on all canvas to catch what air there was.. "In a few hours' time," said Captain Lewis, "we shad be scudding along under bare poles. Do you see how the clouds are forming themselves into lumps. Wind, and plenty of it! If it would only begin I should try to make Falmouth. Once the weather breaks we'll have maybe a week of it. Do you see the cat's-paws on the water?" Far away on the horizon went a big ship—a Norddeutscher Lloyd out from Southampton oh her way to America. A much smaller steamer was between them and the land, which was quite out of sight. The haze was spreading upwards o\ er the sky. The steep bastions of cloud behind the white sun seemed full of smouldering fire. The sun was still clear of the clouds. It looked along the water, sending a shining path of whiteness across the tossing masses of pale gold of the sea which began to be troubled. They had been waiting for some hours for a wind, and were beginning to find time hang heavily on their hands, when at last something like a low murmur began to creep over the face of the sea, and a sail clapped and filled. "The wind will be here soon," said the skipper. "She's getting way on her already. She'll haVe too much presently. Take in sail!" Malvern and little Pettifer ran to obey. They were both experienced yachtsmen, and knew exactly what to dp. Rupert was at the look-out. They had begun to go almost imperceptibly. "What's that?" he shouted, indicating a black spot coming towards them on the line of dancing and quivering light. Captain Lewin came and looked through his glass. "I shouldn't be surprised now if it was a boat," he said. "Of course it might be a bit of wreckage or a barrel. We'll know presently." The black spot, whatever it was, came 031.

"If it's a boat," said Lewin, "and anyone is in it, I would not give much for his chance. If it isn't.run down by a steamer it will be carried out into the Atlantic—unless we can help. It is a boat, I can't see if there's any one aboard. ■ I think not " The boat seemed to have been caught into a fiercely-running current, so fast it Came on. In a little while they were able to make it out. By that time the sun was going in behind the cloud-bank and the warm radiance had been succeeded bv a chill bren>h which seemed to blow off the face of the watei's. They watched the little cockleshell intently. Now it seemed to drift away from them. Again it came rearer. Captain Lewm was looking thi'ough the teV scope. The others watched with a still expectation. The yacht was rising and fa-Ming no\y on the surface of the water. Her sails began to fill. The waves seemed to race towards her. She swung round, answering to her helm as gently as a horse that has a soft mouth. "There's some one in the boat," shouted Captain Lewis suddenly. ''Some one, something, lying down." The vaeht began to go, tacking towards the path, still white but verv cold, of the veiled sun, on which the little boat was coming, sinking and rising with the waves. "By jove, it's a woman! I can see her

hair! - ' Captain Lewin said again. "It is all about her—red, sfcming hair. She is lying face downward. Get out the boat. Rupert and Malvern ran to the boat in the davits and lowered it with all possible Epeed. By the time they had got it into the water the other boat had crossed their bows and was drifting away from them. Both young men had been wet-bobs at Eton, and thev had not given up their rowing. They pulled, and the yacht's boat leaped the way they were going, bounding through the water like a greyhound. The sea was becoming momentarily rougher. Now they could see nothing but the waves cither side of them as though they were in a lock. Again they were on the summit of a wave and looking anxiously over their shoulders for the rudderless boat, drifting at nobody's will. They had been pulling hard for some minutes before a shout from the yacht reached them, thin and faint as a seagull's scream. They had run broadside against the drifting boat with a violent impact. Their boat steadied herself, and as she rose Rupert caught the other boat by "the boat hook and kept her alongside, while they got the girl aboard. When they lifted her out, her long hair fell back from her face. She was notdead, not even unconscious, but the terror of the blanched face smote Rupert's heart, which had a soft place for women and children, like his father's. Her wet hair was all about him. as he lifted her aboard, across his mouth in heavy soft sweetness, in his eyes, tangled about his hands. She clung to him. Her eyes, the fear fading out of them, looked into his. They were eyes of an intense blueness, although they were distended by fear and heavy with tears. Her cheek, wet with the sea, brushed his for a second.

"We shall have to let your boat go," he said, as he put her into the stern of his boat. ''Please, don't be frightened any more. Don't try to talk. You are safe and with friends. We shall be in Falmouth before night." A little later the girl was sitting on the deck of the yacht, buttoned up in an oilskin, with a sou'wester on her head. She had implored not to be sent down to the cabin. Fortunately her clothes were not very wet beyond her dress and the silk knitted coat she was wearing, which were now being dried in the cook-house. She had recovered sufficiently, having been given food and wine, to tell them about her adventures. She had been in the boat since morning. After bathing she had gone into the anchored boat, letting her hair hang about her to dry. She had .been reading. Lying down, with her head on a cushion, she was absorbed in her book, and had noticed nothing till she found the boat rocking up and down under her. Then she discovered that it had dragged its anchor. There were no oars. She was drifting cut to sea, and there was nobody in sight. "I was so terrified," she said. "I screamed and no one heard. There was Cam Gluze receding in the distance. .Some of the windows were open—the little narrow windows which have been put in where loopholes were. I thought I saw a face at one, the face of the German nurse who has lately come to nurse Uncle Laurence. I supioose it could not have been hers, for the face went away. I thought she was looking through a glass, but perhaps it could not have been. Just below Cam Gluze is the fishing village. I have many friends among the fishermen. They could have rowed out and rescued me. The boat was not far from shore when I thought I saw the woman at the window." Her colour had returned. Her cheeks were brilliant, her eyes shining. She was beautiful, even in the sou'wester and oilskins, and her hair, which she had twisted up under the fascinated gaze of the three young men, into a. great coil under the sou'wester, had come loose and dropped about her face. "It will have to stay," she said, with a bewitching air of asking pardon. "Yousee, I have no pins. It Avas so stupid of me." They met some very dirty weather presently, which made it difficult for them to get into Falmouth. While they tacked and jibbed and went off for a while and came back, the girl they had picked up lay on the velvet couch in the cabin, sleeping off her fatigue and terror. She had asked to stay on deck, and had been sweetly reasonable about it when the skipper thought she should go below. Captain Lewin, who was a family man, had at first watched with a certain grim amusement the three young men as they hung about the rescued girl. He had taken charge of her when she was brought aboard, being as he said, the next best thing to a woman. But he had been firm about rending her below, with a humorous aside which no one was supposed to hear, that all hands were needed in a storm and he preferred no distractions. It. was nearly breakfast-time before they made Falmouth Harbour and reached the landing-stage. The girl in the cabin had dressed and made her toilette. She had braided her shining hair into a thick, long plait, which had the effect of making her face look childishly young. She had come up from below and was standing by the side, watching the shore as the yacht came up to the landing-stage. Rupert Beauclerk stood beside her. She turned her lovely eyes upon him and there was trouble in them —as though a mist had been drawn over the blue. "I want to send a telegram as soon as possible," she said. "My uncle will be so frightened. He is very ill." "I will come with you to the nearest telegraph office. After that we shall see about breakfast and your train. We are nil going to breakfast ashore, leaving the cook in charge." "How can I ever thank you?" shs asked, looking at him in her bewildering way. "We did our best/' he returned, "ft

was not much we could do for a lady on the Seamew."

" You have saved my life," she sail simply. "I suffered when I thought I was going to die. I am so young." He thought he had never heard anything more touching. He looked away as though he found the blue of her eyes too dazzling. . . "I have a queer idea," he said, "that I could tell you your name." "Oh! Have I not told you?. I was forgetting." "You are Miss Trehearne. Cam Gluze gave me the cine. It is an odd name not easily forgotten, and not likely to be duplicated." "But how did you know?" "The world is an Inn of Strange Meetings, You were at the 'Hen-and-Chickens'—that queer hostelry—with my father, Sir James Beauclerk, last April. And you were at the Beausite in Rome with our friends, the Vennings, a little earlier." "It is quite true," she said. ±Jut it is verv strange." "You see you cannot get away from us," he went on, with an appearance ol lightness. . Her intensely blue eyes—he said to himself that they were blue fire—dwelt upon him in a soft amazement which caused Rupert to feel a certain inexplicable disturbance somewhere within him. Lord Malvern came up and shook hands and hoped she felt none the worse of her fright and the exposure in the boat, "I am going to forget all that, ' she said, with a quick shudder, not — .your braverv, your kindness." "Please don't call us brave," Malvern said plaintively. "We are not. There was no call for bravery. Call us anything else but that, Miss ." "Allow me to introduce yon to Miss Trehearne, Malvern," said Rupert. "Lord Malvern, Miss Trehearne. I've discovered, Malvern, that Miss Trehearne and her uncle are friends of my father's." He had an ' air Avhich Malvern characterised afterwards as confoundedly possessive. It was not surprising, perhaps, -that a little later when they all met at "The George" for breakfast, Rupert, who had been squiring Miss Trehearne about the town while the ethers were making themselves fit to land, announced that he proposed to leave the. yacht there and to see Miss Trehearne home.

"A very proper arrangement," Captain Lewin said, "seeing that you're a friend of the young lady s." Rupert stared challengingly at the other two young men, who refused to meet his eye. He had suspected something humorous, but Malvern's expression was a little glum as he said he was sorry that Beauclerk was going to desert the yacht, and he thought he'd go back to town himself by train and leave Lewin to get the vacht'round to Southampton when the weather was better. As for little Pettifer —he knew better than to grin. There were three hours before a train would take them on, and Rupert had not mentioned that fact when he left the three yachtsmen still at the breakfast table and went away with Sylvia Trehearne. He waited for her in a draper's shop, where she disappeared up -a staircase and came back with her hair neatly done and a hat which, if anything, added to her charm. It was a wide, shadv hat swathed with a green scarf. She had also acquired a pair of gloves. He had asked her to let him be her banker, and she had consented —till she got back to Cam Gluze. He paid at the desk for her small purchases. What was there in so simple an act to send little thrills creeping up and down him delieiously? Sonie_ one came down the stairs while they stood waiting for change—one of the shop-hands, a woman with a dark, vivacious face, obviously French even before she spoke. "I am glad madame is suited in a hat," she said. "It was my idea, the green. It is ravishing with madame's hair —do you not think so, Monsieur?" Rupert coloured under his tan. Was it possible she took them for a honeymooning couple? Oddly enough the thought had a subtle delight for him. (To be Continued.)