Flotsam

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 93, 11 July 1927, Page 7

Flotsam

By

Coralie Stanton and Heath Hosken.

To have Flotsam, i.e., goods floating on the water; Jetsam, i.e., goods cast out of a ship during a storm, and Wilsam, i.e., goods driven ashore when ships are wrecked. These wrecks were called by the vulgar, Goods of God’s mercy. (Ancient Charter of Dover.) SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.—John Bolton kneels on the shingle beside the animate form of a lad who has just been rescued from drowning. The sailor who has brought the boy from the sliipwreck can give no information about him. Later, inquiries proving futile, John Bolton carries the lad to his motor, covers him with rugs, and drives off. The boy refuses the stimulating drink that John offers, and wants to go. This request is refused. Questioned the lad states that he is Jack King. He and his father were bound for South America. Complains of feeling sick and collapses. Arrived at Saye Castle, John Bolton’s home, Mrs. Manton, the housekeeper, undertakes to get the boy to bed, but he fights, kicks, bites, struggles, and makes off. John Bolton catches him and he capitulates by fainting. He is got to bed and Dr. Goring is sent fur. About six in the evening Mrs. Manton seeks her master and informs him that Jack King is a girl—a young woman about eighteen. Dr. Goring says the patient must be kept perfectly quiet for a few days. John Bolton communicates with the steamship offices in London, Scotland Yard tells a sordid story. The girl’s father is really Michael Dennis Croft, company promoter, whose gigantic failure has engulfed the savings of millions of hard workers. His daughter, Jacqueline, is penniless. CHAPTER 111. Although Maud did not say so, she was inclined to agree with Mrs. Manton in more ways than one. “What time is lunch?” she asked abruptly, by way of ending the conversation. “At any time your ladyship wishes,” said Mrs. Manton, fully comprehending. “Oh, but I want to fall in with the existing arrangements. There is no on© else here, I suppose, besides Miss Jack ?” “No, my lady. Miss Jack always lunches at one.” “So will I then. There is just time to walk round the garden. How positively lovely it is just now. Just look at that blazing flame of roses! And have you ever seen anything to equal those hollyhocks and red-hot pokers!” “The gardens are certainly looking very beautiful, my lady, but the blues are going fast —the anchusa and the antirrhinums. I always think August is the beginning of the end. You’ll

Authorb of " The Real Mrt. Dare, " The Man She Never Married,” “ Sword and Plough,” &c., £rc.

find Miss Jack somewhere about. She’s most probably cutting sweet peas in the Wardens Walk. She’s a rare one for flowers, is Miss Jack. Never tired of cutting and arranging them. The house is like a horticultural flower show, it is really. And Mr. Bolton is so fond of cut flowers in the house, too. But, law, by lady, they do take a lot of looking after. And the mess and litter they make! For my part, I don’t see any sense of filling the house with flowers at this time of the year when you’ve got them all in the garden. In the winter it’s different. Of course they have to be cut; but why not send them to the London hospitals where there aren’t any gardens. That’s what I say. But Miss Jack is as greedy of sweet peas and roses as if they were diamonds. I tell you, my lady, she and the master are certainly alike in some things. They do love flowers they do, both of them.” Y r es, thought Maud. It was certainly just as well that she had acted on her first impulse and returned as soon as she had. Maud wandered around the gardens seemingly aimlessly, though she was really searching for Jacqueline, half fearing to meet her, yet knowing that a meeting was inevitable, that indeed, it was for this purpose she had come. She foiind her on one of the grass lawn tennis courts practising slashing services at a small boy whose mission in life seemed to be to avoid mortal injury and then meekly throw back the balls. The lad was obviously a villager or the son of one of the servants. “Hullo!” said Maud. “Are you Miss Jack?” As she spoke it occurred to her that it was an odd way for a mother to greet her child after so many years. Miss Jack swung round and dropped the three balls she held in her left hand which bounced about around her, and stared like an affrighted nymph at the intruder. “Yes,” she murmured. “I’m Maud Genge,” said Maud, “I suppose you’ve heard of me. I didn’t know John had gone to town. I've just got back from Switzerland and I’m staying to lunch. How do you do?” Sho held out her hand in a natural, friendly manner. And Miss Jacqueline Croft* shook her shingled head of yellow hair like a terrier emerging from a swim, rubbed smoothed down her skimpy skirt, rubbed her hands, and suddenly became the hostess. Maud noticed the proprietary way in which the girl welcomed her, just as if she were the chatelaine of Saye Castle. She was conscious of the girl’s close scrutiny and wondered how she was

looking. On her part slie_was devouring the girl, taking in every detail, analysing her, dissecting her. She was very like her father, she decided —uncommonly like Michael Croft, the hair, the eyes, the little twitch of the nostrils—even her voice, with its sharp, precise tone and slight huskiness. And she was undeniably pretty. No getting away from that. And she looked so mature, so complete; a grown-up woman. Heavens! how the years had raced away. How that cream-white face and those heavy black wing-like eyebrows brought the memory of Michael back to her. Then a sudden horror seized her as she realised that she was the mother of this grown-up girl, this woman, who in every way seemed to be her contemporary. They wandered about the garden, making conventional small talk. Jacqueline was a little shy and awkward and obviously overawed by the elder woman. Every now and then a look of panic came into her eyes and she appeared as if she wanted to make a sudden bolt from a situation that had got beyond her. Maud was tactful. She did not question the girl on the recent tragic happenings. She made no reference to the reason of her being here at Saye. She just accepted it and the girl showed no sign of being communicative. She was grimly reticent. For all that Maud knew, the girl herself might be ignorant of her own position in regard to John Bolton. She had politely accepted Maud’s self introduction—“l’m Maud Genge. I suppose you’ve heard of me?” but she had said nothing else on the subject. As a matter of fact the girl said very little at all. It was Maud who did all the talking; and Maud could talk nineteen to the dozen about any subject on earth or on nothing at all. She just babbled on merrily, afraid to stop lest the girl should say something, lest she herself should become tongue-tied and in desperation say something that she would regret. (To be Continued.)