The Red Plume.

Southern Cross, Volume 9, Issue 51, 8 March 1902, Page 13

The Red Plume.

By HAROLD CHILD. Author of “ Beautiful Rohilla,” “ Driven by Bate,” &c., &c.

COPYRIGH T.

SYNOPSIS OP PREVIOUS CHAPTERS Chapters I. and ll.—Ayoune; man .Hubert Annandale, son of Sir John Annandale, a country squire, is returning home at Christmas, when he hears a man and woman quarrelling. The woman is saying to her companion, ‘ Oh! I could kill you !’ Hubert lights a match in the winter darkness and observes a tall swarthy man and a woman with golden hair talking to him. Hubert passes into his home. A few minutes later a group of youthful noisy skaters discover the body of a man whom they suppose to be drunk. They take it some distance and then are horrified on striking a light to find the man murdered. They decide to place the body in a ditch. CHAPTER 111. Desperate Measures. Meanwhile the girl had walked quickly on, keeping as close as possible to the hedge, though there was no one in sight. Suddenly, when she had come to within a mile and a half of Rodney, there broke on her ear the sound of a man’s voice, laughing and talking. She stopped dead, and appeared to contemplate climbing a gate that led into a field a few yards in front of her; but then changed her mind and walked swiftly and firmly on. A dozen paces brought the man into sight. He was alone. He reeled to and fro about the road, waving his arms. He was talking to himself and breaking every now and then into a shout of wild laughter. Wondering in terror whether he •was mad or, even worse, drunk, the girl stopped again and began to look nervously about her. There was no escape. She had left the gate behind her. and something warned her that if the man were to see her retreating from him it would only be likely to draw him on to molest her. Besides, she was in a hurry. She drew a long breath and started walking rapidly forward.

To her surprise and relief, the man appeared not to notice her. He almost touched her sleeve as he reeled by, but he neither looked at her nor spoke to her. He was talking loud ; and the words that she heard seemed to be but a jumble of unintelligible nonsense, interspersed with shouts of sudden laughter, and as full of fearful oaths as speech could be. ‘Gold! Solid gold ! And jewels ! The matches ! What luck ! Drunkard! Bich ! Young fools ! Money ! Money !’ The words tumbled out one upon another without connection ; the voice grew fainter and fainter, and at last died away. And the girl still hurried on.

A little way outside the town of Rodney, surrounded by a high wall of brick, there stood a large and gloomy square house; one of those flrt-faced, many-windowed dwellings that can be extremely comfortable and home-like within, but appear from the outside, even when in the full sunlight or blazing with lamps and candles, to frown upon all who psss. On this particular night the whole face of it was as dark as if it -were uninhabited. The great square rose block rose grim and forbidding above the wall, without a tree or bush to temper its severity, and every window was as black as the night without.

On her approaching this house, the girl’s haste seemed to leave her. Her steps grew slower and slower. She appeared to be looking anxiously at every window; and, strange to say, something like a sigh of relief escaped her lips when she saw that all was in darkness. Once more walking quickly, she left the road and turned to the left under the high wall, till she came to a little door. Then, taking a key from her pocket, she unlocked it, closed it noiselessly behind her and hurried across a strip of garden

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to a French window that opened a foot above the ground. She held her breath in anxiety as she tried it. It was unfastened. She pushed it ©pen, slipped into a dark room and closed the window behind her. For a long moment she stood crouching behind the curtains listening. There was no sound in the house. On tiptoe she crept across the room. Hot far from the fireplace stood a little bureau. Groping for it, she opened a drawer and slipped into it the key with which she had let herself into the garden. Then she crept out into the hall. There was a dim light there, for a gas jet was burning at the head of the stairs. As she put her foot on the lowest stair there came from the servants’ quarters a sound of sudden laughter and of voices talking. For an instant she hesitated, trembling with fright. Then, gathering her skirts in her hand, she fled upstairs and tiptoed rapidly along a passage till she reached the door of a room at the far end. That door, too, was locked. Again she took a key from her pocket and let herself in without a sound.

Fumbling in the dark she locked the door and closed and barred the shutters, for curtains there were none. Then with trembling hands she lit the candle on the chest of drawers. The room was bare and cold and poorly furnished. In striking contrast to the luxurious softness of the carpets on the stairs and landing over which the girl had just hurried, the boards of this, her bedroom, were bare, save for a strip of matting that ran along the side of the little iron bedstead in the corner. There was not a single ornament on the dingy mantelpiece, not a picture on the walls; the paper was stained with damp and in some places actually peeling off. The ceiling was cracked and dirty, and the furniture as mean as the room. In the little grate were sticks and coal and paper. She put a match to the paper, and in spite of the reluctance of an unused chimney to do its duty she succeeded after several minutes of hard work in raising a small and grudging flame. Once the fire was fairly alight she set to work in the silent and feverish baste that marked all her movements to tear off her dress and slip on a dressing-gown. For a moment she stood still, listening anxiously for any sound in the house. There was none. She snatched up a pair of scissors, and proceeded with trembling hands to cut up and rend the skirt, which she had just taken off, into long strips. She poked the fire till it burned high, and then,'" taking one of the strips, she cast it on the coals, and rammed it down with the poker. It was sopping wet. The fire splattered and hissed in protest, and it seemed as though the damp cloth would never be consumed; but in time it curled and shrivelled. Immediately another strip was pushed into into its place; then another and another, until the whole skirt was consumed, and nothing but white ash remained to show what had been done. The wet stockings were burned last of all, and the sodden boots slipped out of sight under the bed. When all was finished, the girl opened the shutters again, threw up the window, and taking the candle in her hand, made her way along the passage to the bath room. A quarter of an hour later, moving as noiselessly and as swiftly as ever, she slipped baek to her room. No sooner had she opened the door than she cried out in alarm, and almost dropped the candle. ‘ Aunt Agnes !’ she gasped.

She had heard no carriage wheels, for the bath-room looked oat on the side of the house. She had heard no one come along the passage ; the carpets, indeed, were too thick for any footfalls to be audible ; and though, perhaps, at ordinary moments she would have found nothing alarming in the unexpected presence of her aunt, the state of her nerves on that evening turned the least surprise into a severe shock. She sank on to the edge of the bed, and stared at her visitor in terrified silence. Mrs Bronson was a tall, gaunt woman, whose fashionable and rich attire only caused her to look the more unattractive and forbidding. Her furs, her satin, and her jewels were in striking contrast to the bareness of the girl’s room ; her face had never been handsome, its sour expression robbed it of all chance of being even pleasant, and as she stood in front of the struggling fire, the light of the candle falling on her close-set eyes, her high-bridged nose and forbidding frown gave her the air of some evil bird of prey, whose rich plumage only throws into relief the wickedness of its expression. ‘ Angela,’ she said, ‘ where have you been ?’ ‘ Been ?’ gasped the girl, growing deadly pale. ‘ Where have you been ? Your room was empty when 1 came in.’ ‘ I’ve been having a bath, Aunt Agnes, said the girl, with a look of relief on her face. ‘ I thought it might be good for my —my headache.’ ‘ Tsh ! And what does this mean ?’ ‘ What, Aunt Agnes ?’ said the girl timidly ? ‘ This !’ said Mrs Bronson, pointing to the fire. ‘ Had you my permission to light your fire ?’ ‘ No; but—but it was so cold in here. I—l thought you wouldn’t mind for once.’

* Cold ! What right has a healthy girl like you to be cold F If you were delicate like Magdalen, there might be some excuse ; but for you, with your health and strength, there is none. Where will your extravagance end, I wonder ? You seem to forget that I might have out you adrift and left you to starve or earn your living as best you could.” i Oh ! Aunt Agnes,’ she protested, ‘ you know how often I have begged you to let me go and earn my own living. I had far rather; indeed I wish I might. I should be far happier if I need be a burden to you no longer.’ ‘ Girl !’ cried Mrs Bronson. ‘ After all I have done for you, do you dare to say you would be far happier elsewhere ? Such ingratitude I never dreamed of ! Why is the window open ?’ ‘I—I thought it was stuffy in here, Aunt Agnes,’ the girl stammered, once more becoming deadly pale. ‘ Stuffy ! First it’s cold, and then it’s stuffy! I should think it was stuffy with a fire blazing like this ! Are there not enough clothes on the bed for you F I am sure two blankets ought to be plenty for any healthy young girl. And you ought <o know by now that a sick headache is not to be cured by roasting yourself alive and then filling the house with cold by opening the window. Shut it at once !’ The girl hesitated and looked round her in alarm. ‘ Do you hear me F’ said Mrs Bronson. ‘ Shut it!’ She did so, but in great trepidation. Her alarm was justified, for in a moment Mrs Bronson went on sharply, ‘ What is this curious smell ?’ The girl sank on to the edge of the bed and gasped in horror-stricken silence. ‘ You have been burning something in here.’ ‘ Burning, Aunt Agnes F’ she faltered, ‘ Indeed, I—l ’ ‘ I say you have been burning something, Cloth, I should say. I can smell it strongly.’ ‘ Indeed, I—l—really—’ She stopped in despair ; for Mrs Bronson had turned to the fireplace, and was raking among the ashes in

the grate with the poker. In a moment she turned without a word and held up a -fragment of stuff, of which a portion about an inch in length had escaped the flames. In silence she held it up glaring at the girls who no sooner caught sight of it than she buried her head between her hands and burst into a passionate fit of weeping. ‘ So,’ said Mrs Bronson. ‘ You have been lying to me, have you ? You pretended that you had not been burning anything, and 1 find this. What is it ? £ It is—oh please don’t ask me !’ £ I won’t ask you. I will tell you. This is a piece of your blue serge dresrS. I recognise the stuff.’ £ Indeed, I—I — 5 ‘ Will you kindly show me that dress P I see the coat on the door. Where is the skirt p’ ‘ I —l don’t know. Oh ! Aunt Agnes —please —’ £ And this is the way you treat my gifts. You have not had that dress for two years. It was practically new —for a girl in your station. And yet, because I refused to listen to some absurd story of its not fitting or being shabby, because I refused to encourage your wicked habits of extravagance, you do this. You burn it! Actually burn it ! You pretend to have a sick headache in order that you may stay at home while I am out, to burn your dresses.’

Strangely enough, on hearing her aunt’s reproaches, the girl seemed to be seized with a sudden feeling of relief. She ceased to cry; she took her hands from her face, and looked up with an expression of patience, almost of happiness. ‘ Listen to me !’ said Mrs Bronson. ‘lf you imagine that you can coerce rue into giving you new dresses by destroying those you have, you are ■yery much mistaken. On the contrary, I shall begin to consider that you have too many already, if you can bring yourself to treat them so. What other girl in your position, a penniless dependent, has the privilege of two day dresses ? For the future you will have to do with one. Out of the kindness of my heart I spoil you and pamper you till you are quite unfit for the sort of life which is yours by right, and this is your gratitude ! You have stayed in your room to-day under false pretences; you will stay in it now until I give you permission to leave it. And we will see what bread and water can do to tame your rebellious spirit.” She swept from the room and shut the door behind her. Ho sooner was the girl alone than, so far from showing any signs of grief or fear, she sank on her knees by the bedside and clasped her hands, saying again and again ; ‘She does not suspect! Oh ! thank God ! thank God !’

Her solitary confinement did not appear to weigh upon her spirits. On the contrary, with a bright and cheerful air, she rose from her knees, raked together the little fire, so as to make as much of what was left as possible, and took from a drawer a little, shabby-covered book, the appearance of which proved that it was often in her hands. Then, with a happy sigh, she stretched herself on the narrow bed, pulled the counterpane over her feet, and settled down to read in peace. There was no longer any haste or nervousness in her movements. Her calmness and confidence were those of one who has just escaped a fearful danger, and welcomes security with double joy.

For an hour an hour or more she read on in uninterrupted quiet, until her brisk walk in the cold evening and the excitement of her secret return, and the interview with her aunt, began to tell upon her. She dropped the book. Her drowsy lids drooped over her eyes. With a sleepy gesture she raised a hand to her head and unfastened all her wealth of hair; and then, wtth a sigh like that of a tired child, she turned over and dropped asleep.

If Hubert Annandale could have seen her then he would have found fresh reason to marvel at that beauty which had struck home to his heart

during the short instant during which the burning match in the hand of the long-haired foreigner had lit up her face in his father’s park. Her cheek was a little thin, but perfectly moulded, the straight nose and delicately carved nostril, the full curve of the eye with its long dark lashes, the broad low brow and sweet sensitive mouth, all made a worthy picture for the brilliant frame of red gold hair strewn abroad on the white pillow. It was a passionate face, and yet a patient face ; it spoke at once of high spirit and habitual selfrepression : of a sweet and full young life shackled by grievous bonds. She woke with a start and a ghudder as a voice forced its way into her dreams, crying sharply, £ Angela ! Angela !’ She sat erect ; to see before her a tall girl muffled in furs. Magdalen Bronson was strikingly like her mother, save that the features were less pronounced, and the expression, except for a certain impatience, far more pleasant. £ Angela !’ she cried again. £ Wake up —do !’ £ Is that you, Magdalen ?’ £ Yes. Who else should it be?’ said Magdalen, seating herself on the edye of the bed. 4 Mother says you’re in disgrace again. I never knew such a girl ! But look here, since yon can’t go out to-night, I want to borrow your skates. JDo lend them to me.’

Angela gasped. ‘My skates !’ she said, looking nervously at her cousin ■with wide and terrified eyes. ‘Yes. 1 broke one of mine this afternoon, and I’m going up again tonight after dinner. The Mortlocks are giving a sort of ‘ at home ’ on the Daunton Park lake. They’re going to have Chinese lanterns and the town band, and all sorts of things ; and they say that Sir John and Mr Annandale are coming. Mr Annandale only arrived to-night. I’m longing to see him. Everybody says he’s awfully handsome. Don’t you wish you were coming ?’

‘ I ?’ laughed Angela, bitterly. ‘ Oh, of course ! I forgot you were in disgrace. Have you really got a headache, or are you only pretending ?’ ‘ I had, really. It’s much better now.’

‘ Then you’ll lend me the skates, won’t you P I asked Turton for them, but he said you had had them brought up here.’ ‘ But but Magdalen, you you can’t wear my skates,’ said Angela, now deadly pale and trembling like a leaf. ‘ Why not ?’

‘ They’re too small.’ ‘ But I can alter the nuts, can’t I P Book here, Angela. Don’t keep me waiting all night. It’s close on dinner-time, and I must be off. Just give me the skates.’ ‘ I—l can’t. I don’t know where they are.’ ‘ Oh, nonsense ! Turton says you sent for them this morning because you wanted to alter the straps. Is that true ?’

‘ Y-yes.’ ‘ Then, where are they now ?’ ‘ I—l can’t tell you, Magdalen. Really I can’t.’ ‘ Oh, this is just selfishness, Angela—nasty, mean selfishness !’ ‘ It isn’t that, really, Magdalen.’ 1 Yes, it is ! —nasty dog -in - the manger selfishness ! Because you can’t go yourself, you want to prevent me from going. I do think, when I’ve been kind enough to give you a pair of skates out of my own money, you might lend them to me just for once, when you can’t use them yourself. I “shall tell mother how selfish and unkind you are. And if you think it’ll prevent ray going to-night, you’re wrong. I shall go all the same, whether I can skate or not.’

So saying, Miss Bronson bounced out of the room and slammed the door behind her. And Angela turned her face to the wall, and began to cry softly. ‘ Oh T she moaned, * they’ll find

out! I know they’ll find out! And then ’

CHAPTER IV. A Poor Relation. ‘Hullo!’ said Hubert .Annandale, ‘ what’s the meaning of this, dad p You write and tell me you’ve had gas laid on all over the house and stables, and I arrive to find the whole place in Stygian darkness, and you trying to read the Field by the light of candles ! What does it mean ?’ ‘Mean ?’ growled Sir John. ‘lt means that those rascally thieves that call themselves the Rodney Gas Company, Limited, have robbed me — robbed me, Hubert, of millions ! That’s what it means ! I go to the expense of having the main .run right away from Rodney to Daunton, a matter of two miles and more of pipes, and the very first thing that happens is that the idiots who call themselves the Parish Council go and hire the biggest steam roller they can find in all Bristol, which has broken the pipes. Of course it did, when the fools had laid them about an inch below the surface of the road ! And then comes the snow, and they can only patch them up, they say, and cut us off till the ground’s soft again.’ ‘ Where’s the breakage ?’ ‘ A little way outside the last lamp post of the town ; where the pipes cross the road.’ ‘ I told yon in my letter how it would be,’ said Hubert serenely. ‘ What on earth made you do it, dad ?’ ‘ Well —well —’ Sir John hemmed and hawed and fidgeted in his chair as if he had some terrible confession to make. ‘ You see, I heard so many stories of the distress there’s been in the neighbourhood this year, and I thought the work might employ a good many poor wretches that would otherwise be starving, and so I—confound ’em—l said I’d have it done. And this is the result. Ho gas, no oil in the house, and nothing but a few miserable candles to see by. Gad, Hubert, if ever I lift a finger again to help anyone in the place, you may — There ! Just listen to that ! It was just at that moment that the band of youths on their way home from the lake were nearing the house; and their cries and laughter could be plainly heard inside the library. ‘Bless my soul! Just listen to ’em !’ cried Sir John, starting from his chair. ‘ There, that’s the sort of way they behave because our fool of an ancestor gave ’em the right to walk across the park. That’s the public, my boy, the public that can come and howl and shriek on my very doorstep ; the public that has robbed me over this gas business ; the public that comes and skates on my lake, and turns the whole place into Pandemonium. ‘ Come, come, dad. You can’t blame them for skating on your lake, when you not only gave them leave without their asking for it, but go and pay a lot of people to make them comfortable into the bargain !’ ‘ Tsh ! Tsh ! Tsh !’ said Sir John. ‘ You know well enough,’ Hubert went on unfeelingly, ‘ that you enjoy seeing them there ; and that though j you don’t skate yourself, you go and \ spend nearly all day watching them, and making them at home.’ ‘ Rothing of the kind, Hubert! I go to see if my presence will restrain them a little from ruining the whole blessed place. If I wasn’t there to keep order they’d tear up every tree in the park to make hockey sticks ! But there, let’s telk of something pleasanter. How are you getting on in town P’ ‘ Capitally ! I can’t imagine why. but I’m getting any amount of briefs now.’ ‘ I wish you’d give it up, and come home to look after your poor cripple of a father. I’m getting on, Hubert; I’m an old man, and my constitution’s breaking up. I shan’t last long, and I feel that I want someone —What the devil are you laughing at P’ For Hubert, after a noble effort to keep his countenance, had given it up as hopeless, and was lying back in

his chair shouting with laughter. ‘No, no, dad !’ said he, ‘ that, won’t do at all. An old man F No one would take you for a day over fifty ; and as for your constitution breaking up, let’s wait till the frost goes, and I can see you in the saddle again. You’ll be giving me a lead yet, if I’m not mistaken. No, dad !’ be went on more seriously ; ‘ you’re not in need of me vet; and you know whatl think about my work. X hate being idle, and idle I should be down here with you, as active as you are. And if ever the day comes, which please God it won’t for many years yet, when I have to take your f place, I shall be far fitter to follow in your footsteps for having Isome knowledge of the law and of human nature in general.’ 4 That’s all very well, my hoy, but ——’ * Let’s say no more about it, dad. I’m thoroughly in love with my work now. And I’ve been very lucky. You remember the Blake will case, wbich I won ? Mrs Blake sent me this when it was all over. He handed to his father a massive gold watch, considerably larger than those now in vogue, but of exquisite workmanship. The face was of gold, and beautifully chased ; the back enamelled in the daintiest of colours with a picture of a nymph and a shepherd in an Arcadian grove ; and all round the edge ran a complete row of small pearls, with two rather larger than the rest, let into the rim opposite the 9 and the 3 of the dial. _ That’s a beautiful toy,’ said Sir John. ‘ How do you open it F’ 4 In the usual way.’ < Goodness ! It’s a mass of jewels.’

i Yes. Mrs Blake told me it was of Italian make, and of a very rare kind. Old Blake picked it up somewhere on his travels. But you haven’t exhausted its attractions yet, by any means. To begin with, it strikes and is a repeater; then, again, you’ll notice another fine enamel on the inside of tne back. And last of all, there’s a trick about it that you could never guess, unless you were in the secret. ‘ What’s that ?’

* See 1’ He took the watch in his hand, and held it up with the enamelled back towards his father. ‘ Now. Are you ready ?’_ There was no sign of his having touched any spring, or moved hts fingers at all, but the back fell open and disclosed, not the jewelled works that lay behind that, but a little circular frame, set all round with small diamonds. , ‘ There,’ said Hubert, it s a neat contrivance, isn’t it P’ ‘ Yes. But how does it work P ‘Very simply. You merely press these two larger pearls in the row of smaller ones in the rim, and it falls open. I presume the diamond frame was meant to hold the miniature of the owner’s lady-love.’ ‘ Ah !’ said Sir John, with a twinkle in bis eye. ‘ And it’s still empty ?’ ‘ Yes. And I’m sorry to say (sorry for your sake, dad, not my own) that it seems likely to remain so.’ ‘No trouble, I hope ?’ ‘ No. Merely that I am too busy to think about falling in love. I meet heaps of nice women, but there’s not '■one I care twopence about. I’ve never seen the woman yet that And here he stopped suddenly, and flushed all over his handsome face like a schoolboy who has been found out in transgression. But Sir John was looking at the portrait of his dead wife over the mantelpiece, and noticed nothing. . T ‘ You were born, he said, when 1 was thirty-one. I should like to see you the father of a son at the same age. You’ve got to marry, you know, Hubert. We can’t have Daunton in the bands of strangers, and if yon can’t find a wife for yourself, I shall have to turn matchmaker and find one for you.’ ~ TT , , ‘ Thank you dad ! said Hubert with a laugh. ‘But in that sort of thing I wouldn’t trust even your taste.’ ‘ Well, you wait and see. There are some new people come to the Ailand’s old house—ugly, gloomy place it is, too—a Mrs Bronson and

her daughter. They’re rich ; at any rate they live in very good style. And the girl’s not ill-looking. A trifle beaky perhaps, like her mother, but they’re both very fine women. I hardly know them myself, but Miss Bronson rides well to hounds, and seems to be very popular with the young men about here. They’ve got a kind of poor relation living with them, too. They keep her very dark, but I’ve seen her once, and—er—h’m —l’m bound to confess it was in church, Hubert —and ’pon ray word, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I actually kept awake all through one of Simkin’s longest and dullest sermons, just to look at her. I never saw such a lovely face —except one. 4 What’s she like F’ said Hubert. 4 Gad ! She’s like Venus and Helen and all the rest of ’em. rolled into one, She’s rather pale, with great big dark eyes ; and her hair—by Jove, Hubert, its red! It’s just red. And you know what a sensible man thinks about red hair. Nothing can touch it.’ 4 When it’s natural !’ laughed Hubert. But the laugh was a little uneasy. 4 It’s a bit too fashionable in town for my taste.’ 4 Oh ! this girl’s is natural enough. Not a doubt of that ! She’s very simply, almost plainly, dressed. Quite different from the Bronsons. They’re a bit showy in their clothes.’ 4 What’s her name ?’ said Hubert, trying to appear as if he cared little. 4 ’Pon my word I don’t know !’ said Sir John. 4 Ive never been introduced.’ ■ Ye s, but look here, dad ; which of the two do you destine for me P Miss Bronson, or the red-beaded girl F’ ‘Well, well,’ said Sir John, 4 I hardly know about the red-headed girl. A poor relation, you know ; and the Annandales have always It’s a pity, in many ways. You’re bound to admire her, and she’d grace a big house better than Miss Bronson. But come ; It’s time we dressed for dinner. I’ve got up a bottle of the ’47, Hubert. We shall have comfortable time to finish it, before we go to this confounded skating party of Mrs Mortlock’s. Just people’s way ! They give parties on my lake, and I have to pay for the roping off of a reserved corner.’ And with this final grumble the old gentleman went upstairs to dress. Hubert did not follow him immediately. For ten minutes more he lay in his chair, with a half-smoked cigar in his band, looking thoug’htfully at the fire. She was a poor relation, then ! That strange girl with the beautiful face and the gorgeous hair (for there could not be two such people in the neighbourhood of Rodney), the girl who had been quarrelling with the dark foreigner outside his father’s house, was nameless —a poor relation; kept in the background, doubtless lest her beauty should throw into the shade the richer but plainer Miss Bronson. Who was she F he wondered. What was the connection between her and the dark man with the long hair and the evil face F And who was he F (To be continued.)