THE IVORY GOD.

Otago Witness, Issue 3395, 9 April 1919, Page 48

THE IVORY GOD.

THE NOVELIST.

[Published by Special Abbangement.]

By ANNIE S. SWAN (Author of "Aldersyde," "Gates of Eden," etc.).

[Copyright.]

SYNOPSIS OF INSTALMENTS I-Y.— Geoffrey Faussit, sou of a rich colliery proprietor, is often in trouble on ao:?HiV6 of his various escapades. At last his farther tell« him he roust leave Branethorpe and earn his own living. Geoffrey had been engaged to Clare Anerley, but tbe eng&gement had been suddenly broken off. Brian Pausait, Geoffrey's brother, is in love with Clare. Clare visit* Branttiorpe Hall, and during tbe night hears a noise in the drawing room. She discovers Geoffrey in the act of robbing his father's priceless collection of curios. Her prayers, however, prevail, and Geoffrey leaves his home with her connivance and help. Clare's father tells her that he is going to marry Lady Gresley. On her way to Braaiethorpe Clare encounters Annie -Fletcher, who asks her to persuade Mr Faussit not to dismiss her father. CHAPTER VI.—SISTER CLARE. The Rev. Claude Armstrong, Vicar of St. Anne's the Less and Warden of the Hostel of St. Anne's, one of the most important of all the 1 Christian agencies at work-'among the London poor sat in his study at the close of a very tiring day. He was a tall, spare man with a clear-cut, ascetic face, thin grey hair and deep-set wonderful eyes which seemed to have the faculty of probing the depths of the human soul.

He was a man who, in his early life, had suffered irrach, his wife and two children had been carried off within the space of a week, by a swift epidemic, and thus bereft, he had found life in a quiet country parish intolerable. It was a rich living in the gift of his wife's family, and he had* expected to occupy it all his life, and to do good work in his own county and neighbourhood. But the place was so' memory-haunted, so hedged about by poignant regret, that he had been unable to continue his ministry for more than six months after sorrow had so engulfed him. He succeeded in obtaining a transfer—in fact, he had exchanged livings with an old college friend, who, after several years of strenuous life in the East End, was on the verge of a break-down, and who required immediate change of scene for himself and his family, all of whom had been born, in St. Anne's Vicarage. The exchange had been admirable and beneficial for both 5 the East End vicar obtained health and fresh courage in the country parish, to which his ripe experience and wide sympathies were invaluable, while Claude Armstrong, cast into the seething midst of poverty and stress of among the lowest strata of society, found himself clean lifted above all his personal sorrows. Twenty years now had he been vicar and warden of St. Anne's. Without personal ties he had been able to throw himself heart and soul into the work. He had now a vast family, which strained all his efforts and resources, and was at once the best-loved and the besthated man in the district. Loved by all who were in sorrow and who needed him, he was feared by the evil-doers and the slackers, who could not escape his"" vigilance, tne work had grown under his hand until it had become a gigantic force for the uplift and the healing of the sorrow of the world.

But at times he was so weary that he did not know where to turn. Holidays he took none, though sometimes he went forth on preaching missions which had a double purpose; to awaken the souls of indifferent, who could help, and did not, and to raise funds for the continuance of his hydra-headed work. He had had an exceptionally tiring day, and for the first time in fifteen weeks had no evening meeting at which his own personal presence was imperative. He was too tired to read, too tired even to think consecutively, so he found his wandering- thoughts straying with an odd persistence to his kindred at Felcote, with whom he kept up an affectionate correspondence. He was thinking of them at the moment when there came a light tap to the door, and somebody entered quickly with aswift swish of garments like silk, and a little low laugh. "It's me, Uncle Claude, Clare. There wasn't time to write, and I didn't want to worry you with a wire, so I just came."

"You jjust came," he repeated as he took her in his "arms and kissed hsr warmly. "And pray what have you just come for?"

His tone vibrated with tenderness. She was the only live woman thing in all his family oonnscikei, the daughter of his dear dead sister, and he loved her mightily. "Oh, something very big, beginning with your help and sympathy.' I'm just one of them, don't you know, a unit in the great big lot who come to St. Anne's to be helped and lifted up." "Ah, well, in the meantime Ave must get you disposed of. It might have been awkward and necessitated my sleeping on the sofa there, while you usurped my room 5 but, as it happens, one of our Sisters Is away 011 sick leave, and her room is empty." "Oh, which one?" asked dare inter estedlv.

"Sister Ursula, and it Is extremely doubtful if she will ever be able to come back."

"I am sorry," said Clare. "But I can go anywhere, dear Uncle Claude, you know that."

"You ought to have stopped In your hotel, my dear, and sent for me in the

proper manner. I suppose your father is not in town with you/" "Ne, and nothing would have induced me to stop at an hotel, and you down here; I'd sleep on a settle in the hall first.''

"Unconventional young woman! Well, come and I'll show' you your room, and there will be no dinner; we've had our cold meat and coffee already; there are none of the flesh-pots of Egypt here, Clare."

"Well, I daresay there will be enough scraps left to make me a sandwich, and I should like a cup of tea," answered Clare delightedly, as she prepared to-fol-low her uncle to the room. It was a very small place, but prettily furnished, for Sister Ursula, who had occupied it for the last four years,-was a person of considerable taste, and had had some private means. Everything was simple, but attractive to the eye, and Clare looked round it with a sigh of content. To call such a room her very own in the Hostel of St. Anne's was her secret ambition, which she was going to utter out loud presently, for her uncle's benefit. "I'll send the matron to you, and you'll find me in the study when you are ready to come down."

He was unfeignedly glad to see her under any pretext whatever, and waited her coming with a lively sense of expectation.

She did not keep him waiting long, having taken time only to wash, and brush her beautiful hair. In her neat serge skirt and silk blouse trimly belted at the waist, her black tie kept in place with a diamond pin, she made a pleasant picture for any man's eyes to rest on. "I've had a wood fire lit for you, dear," he said as he pulled the moot restful chair forward. "It isn't cold, but I find it gives a sense of companionship, and somehow helps one. It is always laid here, and I have sometimes lighted it at midnight just for oompany's sake."

"Poor dear uncle !"%she said as she stood a moment by the dark oak mantelpiece, and looked round the place which epitomised all the home he had. It was not a > large room, and the bcoks lining the walls took several feet off the space. But there were no superfluous articles in it, and it bore' the individual touch from the highest bookshelf down to the old grey and pink Persian rug across the stained wood of the floor.

"How is your father?" "Oh, father is—is jolly," answered Clare with a little uncertain smile as she dropped with the utmost content into the waiting chair. "I have just heaps and heaps of things to tell you that positively couldn't be written to' you. But I'll begin with papa I think. Have you had a letter from him this week?" "Not this week."

"It is coming. He said he must write immediately. I wonder whether you will be very much surprised to hear that he is going to marry again." The Vicar's face changed rather quickly, and a sort of defensive expression came into it. But the perfect serenity of the girl's face reassured him. "I am afraid I should be very much surprised now, though I urged it upon him about two years after your mother died, when I saw that he was troubled with his domestic affairs."

"I am glad he did not marry then. I have had him all these years, I would not have missed them for anything," said Clare simply. The Warden's eyes were stung by an unusual and unaccountable moisture.

"Who is the lady?" he asked rather abruptly. "Lady Gresley. I was trying to remember whether you have ever met her. It seems absurd not to know; she has been so long a plea-sant part of our lives."

"I have at last heard of her," he answered. "Then you are not displeased?" ■ no I am glad, sincerely glad for papa's sake. I love her and she will make him very happy. But she will never seek to shut any of us out. She has invited us all to her brother's villa at Nice, and I "expect to travel with her next Tuesday."

"Ah that will be very pleasant. Your father is a fortunate man, Clare, for there are very few \vho are able to accomplish such a drastic change so comfortably. You have seen the trouble of second marriages I don't doubt. In most cases it becomes a man's duty to sacrifice what may be his personal happiness for the children of his first marriage."

"I am glad papa has not to do that," said Clare soberly. "It would be very ungrateful and unnecessary in our case. It happens at a time when I shall be glad to be relieved. You know how I love this place, Uncle Claude, and my errand to-day is to ask you to make a niche for me in it."

The Warden's face flushed and his eyes shone. It was an alluring picture. Clare was of the stuff the successful worker of the highest type is made of. But to bury her incomparable charm in the depths of the East End, to sacrifice her young life to service for others, as they knew it at St. Anne's, might well make him hesitate.

"Dear, it would indeed make me happy to have you here with me. It would in part relieve the loneliness of spirit that grows on a man in my position as the years go by; but this is a very serious question. What does your father think?" "Oh, papa would not object, neither would his wife, I think they are the most understanding people I know. Besides there is Geoffrey Faussit, I do want to get -away, Uncle Claude. Just lately is has seemed to be a little harder." "But you have not been obliged to see him have you?" "Just ©lately I have," she answered trembling a little, then without a word further she slid down on the beside her uncle's chair and faltered out the whole story of that sad night's adventure.

He listened in silence with, his hand oa her hair.

"You poor child, you have suffered much. That was an 'ordeal indeed ajid you came out of it splendidly. Don't-" think that effort will be lost, Clare, nothing ever is. The day will come when it will be restored to you sevenfold."

"Do you think there is a chance for him even yet?" ''Chance'/ Why, yes; with God all things are possible." "He is far down, Uncle Claude; he seems to have lost the sense of proportion, even I fear the moral sense." "Here in St. Anne's we don't admit the possibility of such loss being final, and we are seldom disappointed. Geoffrey will come home yet, and it may be that you will be the instrument. I almost wish I could keep you now. How long do you propose or expect to be in the South of France?"

"About three weeks; but it is not the least imperative that I go, Uncle Claude," said the girl eagerly, for she imagined something behind his expressed regret. "Sister Ursula will not come back; we are looking out for someone to fill her place; but we can hardly wait for three weeks, I am afraid, unless we are fortunate enough to get someone to come temporarily." "Oh, Uncle Claude," cried Clare breathlessly. "Do you think I would be fit to take Sister Ursula's place?"

"I do, and you will have to make a beginning somewhere." "Then let me come," cried Clare eagerly. "Let me just go home to-morrow and wind things up and bring my belongings. Then, instead of- going on with Lady Gresley on Tuesday, I will just conje straight here." "But to deprive you of your holiday?" "I don't need it. What is my life but a holiday?", she cried. "When papa has somebody to care for him he wUl**nofc need me. Let me take this chance; I believe it has been made for me."

The Warden did not say her nay. "The work is hard, Clare, and oftentimes depressing. Sister Ursula broke down under the strain."

"But I am strong, I shall not break down; I want to come, I am coming," she cried as she sprang up all aglow with a new purpose. When Clare near midnight closed the " door of Sister Ursula's room and looked round it, it was with a little thrill of mysterious awe. Here henceforth would be her shrine, to which she would retire for rest and refreshment in the midst of arduous duty. A sudden sense of the nobleness of life, of the way in which its happenings fitted . like fine mosaic into one another crept over her, stilling all hervunrest, Clare Anerly had come home. Next day all the details were settled, and about nine o'clock, just as all the seeking ones, hopeless men and wan-faced women, were beginning to pass through the hostel gates y seeking the help which seldom failed them Clare drove back to King's Cross to catch her home-going train, one had only a three days' interval, so that she could not afford to linger now, greatly though she was tempted. The Warden accompanied her to the station, and just at the moment of starting one of the -Jate passengers came hastily up the platform, looking for a seat.

"Why, there is Brian Faussit ; Uncle Claude. He might as well come in here, mightn't he? Yes, Brian, there is room; I'm quite alone." She was in a first-class carriage, and Brian, never extravagant In h.is personal tastes, had only a third-class ticket; but such a chance was" not to be foregone. He sprang, breathless, into the carriage, had only time to salute the Warden, when the train began to move slowly out, "This is a piece of uncommon luck, Clare," he said in tones of deep satisfaction. "How comes it that you are here?" "I put the same question," she answered brightly. "But I would advise you to sit down quietly for a minute and recover yourself. " I am surprised that a sensible person like you, Brian Faussit, should commit the folly of tearing to a train like this."

"I couldn't help myself in this instance," he answered as he tossed.his cap to the rack and wiped his forehead. "I was comfortably in my bed at the Inns of Court Hotel when I got a wire from my father asking me to catch this train if possible. Something's happening among the men, it seems—the first dissatisfaction we've ever had for years,—and he says he needs me urgently."

Clare's face betrayed the utmost concern.

"Oh, lam sorry. We have prided ourselves on being immune from industrial strife in our particular district, haven't we?"

"Yes, but this is a little out of the common. It's a personal matter," answered Brian,. and immediately regretted the words. For Clare's face changed, and its brightness of the morning left it. "Tell me what it is, won't you, Brian?" "I I must now, or you will be imagining things; but I was an ass to mention it. It arises out of my father's dismissal of one of the underground managers."' • "Aaron Fletcher?" she said quickly. Brian looked surprised. "Right; but how or what do vou know about it?" "Well, as It happens, I do know a little. Fletcher's daughter spoke to me about it. Let me see, it was on Wednesday afternoon." "Fletcher's daughter spoke to you about it?" he repeated in a puzzled voice. " I didn't even know that you knew he had a daughter.'*

"Oh, but I do, and I -was so bold aa to go right up to the offices on the spur of the moment and speak to your father about it. I hadn't a scrap of right, but I did it, Brian." "Arid -what did he say?" inquired Brian intensely interested. "He refused. No, he -was not cross at all 5 he was quite kind and courteous, but firm, firm as a rock. He went out of his ■way to explain things to me a little, and I had no idea before what wheels within wheels there can be in what look like the simplest' things. He assured me that it was necessary for everybody's well-being that Fletcher should go." "dare, you are a brick," said Brian with such open admiration in his eyes that dare's colour slightly rose. "Never mind me, tell me more. What has actually happened about Fletcher?" "I haven't full details or any details, indeed. • I only came up yesterday morning, and I was not due home till Monday. I think, however, I am right in saying that the men who have a great respectthat is, some of them—for Fletcher are resenting his dismissal, and making a point of his being "reinstated. ■ But I shan't know till I get home." "It's rather fine of them, isn't it, Brian?"

Brian laughed shortly. "I don't know exactly] but I must say our chaps are very loyal to one another. I thought Aaron's dismissal a mistake. and told father so; but he did not see it like that, and, of course, he is the master."

"Yes, of course," assented Clare, and a shadow crept all over her face. "Don't you think life is full of rather difficult things?" she asked rather wistfully. "Seven shadders to one sunshine, as good old Twain has it. Well, I don't know; I suppose we need 'em, though ft is very difficult to understand why everything shouldn't go smoothly with you, Clare." He spoke -with an affectionate significance, having no particular reason to hide or even disguise his feelings. "Why should. I be exempt from' the common lot?" she asked lightly. "You're not asking roe what I am doing rushing to and fro on the earth, Brian, yet I'm full of all sorts of exciting news." "It it'll do you any good, please unload," he remarked with his boyish smile. "Or, if you like it better, Til catechise you. What have you been doing in London??' "I've been to see Uncle Claude at Hoxton." "Well, and what else?" "Papa is going to marry Lady Gresley." Brian started in complete astonishment, which Clare very thoroughly enjoyed. "You don't say soj why, nobody ever thought he would marry again. You speak as if you didn't mind much, Clare." "I don't, I shan't lose papa ever, Brian, and I happen to love Lady Gresley. It's happened just right. It will let me get clean away from Felcote which I have been wanting for ever so long." "Oh, bui^" Brian's face fell an inch or two. . "Yes, the time has come, I've fulfilled my destiny at Felcote, and now the next stage has arrived, I become Sister Clare at St. Anne's Hostel."

lOnce more Brian sprang up. I'You don't, Clare, not a hit of it. It isn't the thing for you at all, nobody will allow it, we simply can't, you know. ' . "I am of full age, dear boy," she reminded him, "and I am going to please myself. But Papa has given his "And you will get yourself rigged out in a long cloak and a bonnet or worse still a sisterhood-cap. It's unthinkable, Clare, you ara not that sort of woman. We shan't let you do it."

"I'm sorry to hear you say I'm not that sort of woman," said Clare rather Boberly. "I rather thought I was, and I'm going to go on thinking it. Anyway Uncle Claude has taken me, and. I go into residence on Tuesday instead of travelling to Nice with Lady Gresley." "Oh," said Brian with a groan. "Go to Nice first and perhaps it'll make you change your mind." • Clare shook her head.

"Nothing will make me change my mind, Brian. I'm nearly sure I've found my vociation." "Your vocation for life you mean?" said Brian leaning forward a little. "Yes, I shouldn't ask anything better." "God forbid," said Brian in a tone so full of passion that Clare was startled. At the moment their eyes met, and somethins; was revealed to Clare which sent the blood coursing in her veins and the colour to her cheek.

They were very silent for a full minute, then Brian rose up and said he would go and have a smoke and Clare was left. She drew up Into the far corner, and looked out upon the speeding landscape all green with the joy of spring. But no order would come out of the chaos of her thoughts. (To be Continued.)