THE ROMANCE OF A MIDSUMMER NIGHT.

Otago Witness, Issue 3802, 25 January 1927, Page 81

THE ROMANCE OF A MIDSUMMER NIGHT.

By

Charles D. Leslie.

(Copyright.—For the Witness.) Jim found his chance acquaintance, who had introduced himself as Mr Mark Meredith, a most entertaining companion. Certainly he did not appear so, indeed at a casual glance in his black clothes and clerical collar he looked like an undertaker, but as a guest who had shared the tough chops and tasteless cheese which was all the culinary resources of the Duke of Wellington could run for supper, one could not ask for a rtore agreeable fellow traveller, the two men were seated in the verandah smoking their pipes and watching the lights of the vehicles passing up and down the Great North road not 30 yards away The hour was 10, one of the few hue days of last summer was drawin" to its close. °

. The motive of Mr Meredith in coming down to Great Thatchington was no secret indeed, he had been voluble in his denunciation of Lord Fordway, one of the new nobility, in denying reporters and strangers generally access to Thatchington Hall to see the latest discovery in the literary world. Tennyson had stayed at the. hall 60 years earlier, but it had only just been published to the woild that in the library was a window on which, with a diamond, the poet had written a line from “ Maud.” “ I am here in the garden, alone.” Jim, I regret to say, cared nothing for Tennyson; he wa_ wholly and solely concerned in one of the guests of Lord Fordway’s Louse party, but he had good reason for hating the hall’s owner, and listened with approval to Meredith. This man, sir, this war-enriched financier, is only a custodian of the hall. The noble pile of which he is the unworthy temporary possessor will outlive him; it is part of the imperishable architectural glories of England. Tennvson and Thatehington Hall are alike immortal. He ” “He’s a thief,” said Jim; “Idenow, no one b"tter.” If anyone had told Jim earlier in the day that he would ere he went to bed be telling his tangled love affair to a total stranger he would have laughed. But this was exactly what he proceeded to do. Meredith was so sympathetic, so artful in his casual comments and questions, that, except for Billy’s surname and his own, Jim told the whole story. The course of true love, as the poet says, never did run smooth, and so Wilhelmina Barclay and Jim Protheroe had found it. Their respective fathers had been friends and neighbours once, but when six months before this midsummer night the two young people discovered a mutual passion for each other they overlooked the fact that financial circumstances had changed. Mr Protheroe, sen., had died penniless; Mr Barclay became a wealthy knight. Jim, a temporary civil service clerk, all the warexhausted country he had fought for offered him on demobilisation, drew a weekly salary inferior to that of a municipal dustman. They were, of course, a pair of fools, Jim could not but acknowledge it. “But I’m not a penniless clerk,” he told Meredith. “I’m worth £lO,OOO. That’s the amount my father just before his death entrusted to Lord Fordway, but he held no receipt for the money, and the swine swears lie never had it. Legally I’ve no case; morally, for I have my father’s word, I know I’m right. And Billy’s father, instead of backing me up, is friends with Fordway, has brought Billy down to stay at the Hall, and is trying to get her to marry Fordway’s cad of a son, Percy.” “But why are you down here?” queried Meredith. “Wouldn’t it be easier to meet your lady love in London?” “Berkeley square is taboo, we’re on honour not to meet or communicate in town. But Billy was so mad at being brought down to stay at the Hall this week-end that she wrote to me saying she’d meet me if I came down. And when I arrived here this afternoon -there, was a note bidding me be at t’.e fountain at the end of the trellis walk at 11.10 p.m. There’s a cinema show being given in the dance hall beginning at eleven, and she intends to slip away.” “But, my dear sir, how do you intend to keep your tryst? Are jou aware the park is patrolled after sundown by armed gamekeepers?” “Is that so?” “I assure you it is so. The ladies of the house party possess jewels worth over £lOO,OOO, and there are rumours that jewel thieves arc hovering in the vicinity.” “I was going to nip over the park fence.” “You will certainly not reach the fountain unchallenged. And I assume an interview with Lord Fordway in the guise of a tresspasser is the last thing you desire.” Jim sat aghast. He had given no thought as to how to keep the tryst, trust-

ing, iu fact, on the Providence which is‘ said —often, one fears erroneously— to wait on lovers. And Meredith’s voice fell pleasantly on his ear:

“I have a suggestion to make. I intend to gain access to the library tonight,. for I am determined to read Tennyson’s inscription on the window with my own eyes. In the guise of a special reporter I have been repulsed. I am going to-night as an emissary from the 8.8. C. There is a wireless set in the library. If you like to accompany me as my assistant ” “But how will that help? I don’t want to get into the house.” “You need not enter. As 8.8. C. experts we pass the lodge gates and traverse the park.. At the front door you can slip away, gain the rose garden,, anti the trellis walk, and the fountain, and the rendezvous.” The moon was near the full, but drifting clouds were playing hide and seek with it as the two men set out for their common goal. The house, one of the Stately Homes of England,” was surrounded by a deer park and access gained by no less thaij. three lodges and approaches. From the village inn to the nearest lodge was a walk of little more than a mile. As they went along it occurred to Jim that his talkative companion had-really said very little about himself; that the man was rather a mvstery.

Have you really come down here simply to see a poet’s scratches on a window pane?” asked the younger man. I am a poet myself,” gravely renlied the other.

“Do you make your living at it?” “My dear friend, no man makes a living by poetry these days. lam a dealer by profession—prosaic word—• but a dealer in beautiful things, bric-a-brac and jewels. I love beautiful things: the worship of beauty is my Hobby, my passion. By dealing in them I am able to live, as it were, more or less among them. I wander about the country seeking curios. I love jewels. But, alas! though many valuable gems have passed through my hands I cannot afford to keep them. Once recently I was the temporary possessor of the Duchess of Brauishott’s diamond necklace.” The name struck a chord of memory. “ Wasn’t it nearly stolen a few weeks ago?” asked Jim, recalling vaguely a newspaper story of a masked burglar caught in the duchess’s dressing room with the necklace in his hands; abandoning his booty the man had fled, making a miraculous escape. “ I believe it was,” returned Mr Meredith carelessly. Surely, thought Jim, the necklace was a family heirloom; how could Meredith have been concerned in any secret sale of it? But he was a lover, and therefore an egoist,, and the knowledge that if the fates were kind he would soon hold Billy’s hand again and couch her lips drove his passing interest in his companion completely away—indeed, as soon as they parted a few minutes later he forgot Meredith altogether. Successfully they had passed by the lodge and up the gravel walk, spying on their way no fewer than three gamekeepers patrolling the park, guns in hand; they had gained the front door of the big Elizabethan mansion, with modern additions, in which the new-made lord was entertaining his friends; the whole pile was a blaze of .iglits that mocked the velvety darkness and the wan moon peeping fitfully through the clouds. That the trellis walk and fountain were behind the south wing of the mansion Jim knew; skirting that side of the building he found the former, and passing through it unchallenged gained the fountain; over it a stone Pan piped. It was now 11 o’clock.

“ Never,” remarked Swinburne, a writer by the way who made little appeal to Jim; “the time and the place and the loved one together.” Wherein he was wrong, for- ere 10 minutes had ■passed a young woman in a scanty white frock with a flimsy wrap round her fair hair came tripping down the path preceded by her shadow. As she approached, another shadow converged towards her. The moon saw two blend into one, and the moon, and the moon alone, witnessed their greeting. ’ “Jim, darling!” “ Billy, my own.” “You dear, dear hoy. Oh, Jim. I’ve been wearying for you.” “Billy, sweetheart, it’s been absolutely rotten not seeing you all these weeks.” They did not, it will be noticed, talk like Romeo and Juliet, and they kissed each other with an enthusiasm seldom if ever seen on the stage; but they reached the ecstatic and emotional heights of Shakespeare’s lovers, and were as profoundly happy as two young people in similar circumstances could be.

They sat down on the edge of the fountain basin and proceeded by dint of direct questions to satisfy themselves that all was well with the other, at. least, as well as it could he when they were parted. Presently Jim, impelled by tho nobility which always ought to actuate heroes, told his sweetheart that his efforts to get a better job were still unavailing, and that he really must give Billy back her freedom, for he could see no prospect of their ever being married. The girl did not reply immediately, and for the moment a horrible fear of being taken at his word assailed Jim, but - Billy’s eyes banished this unworthy suspicion. “Jim,” she said gravely, “do you know I believe there’s an outside chance of the receipt being still in existence. I’ve .been talking to Jordan, one of the maids here,

she used to be with us, and she comes from Frisby, our village, you know. It’s only servants’ hall gossip, but ” “Yes?” “It’s just two years ago since your father died after entrusting Lord Fordway with £IO,OOO for investment. Well, suppose Lord Fordway wrote a receipt and gave it to his secretary to post, and suppose the secretary never posted it; suppose he hid it?” “Wasn’t he killed in a motor accident about the same time dad died?” Billy nodded. “I don’t believe Lord Fordway meant originally to swindle your father, but when he found he had the money and the other side could produce no evidence that he bad it, the temptation ?o stick to it was too much for him.” Jim sat turning over this theory in his mind, staring thoughtfully in front of him . . . and suddenly cried out: “Look!” “Oh!” gasped Billy, “the lights have gone out.” The many shining windows had suddenly vanished, and the huge pile stood black against the night. “Something's gone wrong with one of the dynamos in the power house,” commented Jim. “Look here,” said Jim, suddenly remembering, “I ought to get away now. The park's patrolled by gamekeeper’s. Do you think you could meet me to-morrow, Billy? Stroll down to the village after lunch?” But it was hard to part, and he walked hack with her' right up to the house. They heard voices, snatches of confused talk in the darkness. “CT,” whispered the girl, “they say someone has been robbed. A thief . . . what’s that? “Lady Fordway's historic ruby necklace that her husband bought last year. . . .’ ” “Dash,” groaned Jim, “it’ll make it harder for me to get away. I must go.” He drew Billy to him, imprinted a last and fervent kiss on her lips, and made off.

But he never reached the park, whistles were sounding, a ring of men converging upon that side. To avoid being seen and challenged Jim was driven back right up to the house. Picking his way with the electric torch he had had the forethought to bring, he made for the north wing, following the path paved with stones. “Hid—lo,” he whispered softly. He had come upon a man lying prone on the paving stones; blood oozed from his scalp. Had he been struck down, or had he jumped from the adjacent open window, and fallen on his head? And x wasn’t there something familiar in that black suit—Meredith! And then as Jim passed sympathetic hands over the unconscious man, feeling for broken bones fie came upon a handful of glittering stones —rubies! Jim shut off his torch, and did some hard thinking. That Meredith was the thief was clear, and he hadn’t entered the house- by the front door: probably he 11til one or more confederates. The ex--tinction of the electric light pointed to collusion. But more to the point was it that he (Jim) stood in peril of capture; again he heard whistles and shouts and footsteps coming nearer, left and right and front through the darkness. t> Three alternatives were open to him. To stand still and play the melodramatic role of the falsely accused hero. To try to bolt through the converging cordon; or to take refuge in the house itself via the open window through which Meredith had jumped. Jim chose the last, caught the projecting sill, swung himself up, entered, and closed the window. Only just in time. Hardly had he pulled down the sash ere a shout below told him Meredith’s body had been discovered. He listened a minute to the ' commotion that ensued before turning away. He stood, as far as he could see in the dim light, in a sitting room or study; bookshelves lined one side of it, solid tomes in serried rows. “T ought to have left it,” he soliloquised, fingering the necklace. — The simplest course, the best way to escane. he saw, was to throw away the necklace, conceal his hat, open the door, and join the house party, trusting to his well-cut grey flannel suit—he patronised a taiior above his means —to pass for one of them wlp for some reason was not in evening kit. But he had, though partly by accident, recovered the stolen necklace, and could not bear tamely to throw away his prize. No, he would conceal it, tell Billy where it was hidden, and leave to her its restoration to Lady Fordway. Suppose he hid the necklace in one of the hook-eases? They had, even in the dim light, an air of disuse. Opening the nearest glass front, he drew out a volume, but dropped it on the floor, and, unable to see what he was doing, turned on his torch. A volume of Gibbon’s History lav open before him, but he saw it not. The light fell on a sheet of paper which had fluttered out of it. -

“Received of James Mills Protheroe, ten thousand pounds—” So the story Billy had told him was true. With the paper before him, it was possible to make a shrewd guess at what had really happened. The formal receipt entrusted to the secretary to despatch had been delayed, either by accident or design, and then his father’s sudden death had led Hallowcs, the secretary, to hide it deliberately. What he had intended to do' was doubtful, but death had cut short . his mortal coil. Probably Fordway was partly privy to the plot; at all events he had denied the money was a loan, producing documents proving it to be a •©payment. With the receipt safely

hidden, though he knew not where, or destroyed, he imagined himself safe in sticking to the money. But Jim would disillusion him—• Voices outside the door, voices and footsteps. Jim’s heart was thumping like a piston; mechanically he concealed his discovery and faced the door as it opened and men bearing lights invaded the room. “Who’s this?” challenged the leader, flashing the hurricane lanip he carried on the tall figure in his path. It was an odd—an incongruous scene; some of the men were guests, some servants; the illuminants they carried were equally diverse; lanterns, lamps, even naked candles were waved at Jim. “I’ve called to see Lord Fordway,” he announced. “Eh, what’s this?” growled a voice. A grey, elderly man-came forward peering, trying to recognise a face vaguely familiar. Behind him Jim picked out the Honourable Percy, looking more vacant than usual; Sir Simon Barclay, frowning savagely; and, yes, a glimpse of Billy behind her father. “My young friend, explain this intrusion. ' Protheroe’s your name, isn’t it?” Lord Fordway’s voice was unpleasantly grim. “I tu.ee exception to the word intrusion, my lord. But let that pass. My first duty is to restore this necklace, your wife’s property, I believe, which I found outside the house.. The thief ” ,Yes, ye ve found that one. And now ) ve ve found you ' You’re wise to return it Though whether the judge will take that view into account in passing sentence ’ . Jimmy isn’t a thief,” cried Billy, pushing herself forward. “He came to’see me. He was with me in the garden when the. light went out.” “Silence, Wilhelmina !” Sir Simon blustered. “I’ve come for my money,” said Jim in a quick, low whisper to Lord Fordway, and he flashed t,he receipt under his eyes, ‘read this. Treat me civilly, you fraudulent trustee, or you’ll go to gaol vourself.” Whether the law would ever have agreed to enforce his threat had Lord Fordway continued uncivil remains, perhaps fortunately, in doubt, for the unexpected sight of the scrap of paper which his lordship fondly imagined was lost for good, had all the effect on him that sticking a pin has upon a bladder. In a word he collapsed. A bewildered crowd of guests and servants were bidden to depart, and Jim Lord Fordway, and a lantern, held a brief conference, the full hitory of which not even Billy ever learned subsequently. But, when a few minutes later' they rejoined the house party, an event happily coinciding with the 'restoration of the electric light, the conference bad happily ended in an agreement. A little speech by Lord Ford way followed. In the handsomest manner all imputations against Mr Protheroe were withdrawn, and that gentleman thanked for the restoration of the necklace. Mr Protheroe, on his part, to show he bore no ill feeling, consented to sleep that night under Lord Fordway’s hospitable roof, a servitor being despatched to “The Duke of Wellington” for his suitcase. Not long after Mr Protheroe joined the house party it broke up for the night, but not before that gentleman had enjoyed a brief tete-a-tete with Miss Barclay. “Of course, my dear Billy,” he said airily, “Ten thousand pounds is a com. paratively small sum nowadays, but backed by my noble friend. Lord Fordway, I think I can find opportunities to increase it. In a word, angel girl, your dad hasn’t a. shadow of an excuse to veto our marriage. and I shall take an early opportunity of telling him so;”