FOR THE HOUSEWIFE

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 546, 26 December 1928, Page 5

FOR THE HOUSEWIFE

OVERHAULING LINEN Now is the time to overhaul the household linen cupboard. Go through bed, table and bath linen first, including blankets. Mend the sheets which are worth while; those beyond repair may be used for rubbers and' dusters, while the very worn parts should be cut and rolled neatly into bandages. When marking linen, first write the name with an ordinary lead pencil, then go over it with your own particular brand of marking ink. The pencil will prevent the ink from running. Excellent coloured linen, 36 inches wide, may be purchased for a couple of shillings a yard. This makes beautiful bed-spreads if the necessary widths are faggotted together, or joined with wide linen lace. A fag-got-stitched hem all round the spread the nearness of death, smiling contemptuously after him. “Set my house in order,” repeated John Thorne. “Perhaps for once he is right.” . , He dragged himself to his feet with an effort, his face turning a ghastly grey, and walked slowly to the wide window looking out over the lake, which lay shimmering in the sunshine of the late spring. Beyond the lake rose a barrier of mountains, all his, as far as he could see, and which he loved more than anything else, and yet he must probably leave it soon, and go forth into the great void of the unknown beyond. Some one else would fill his place as master of Island’s Thorne, some one else rule where he had ruled for so long, and that someone might be Hugh Ormandy, his nephew, if he willed it so. Hugh loved Thornes and all the valley with a great and abiding love. But the thought struck the old man like a sharp knife, Hugh was not a Thorne of Island’s Thorne. For 800 years there had been a Thorne of Island's Thorne in direct succession, but now at last this record must be broken; it was one of the hardest facts that he had ever had to face, and his grim face hardened as he gazed out over the great possessions that were his, and he turned with a groan to his chair and sat down again. He picked up “The Times,” scanning it at first with eyes that were unseeing: then a short paragraph caught his attention, and he read and n-read it, as though his brain would not grasp the words. Again he struggled to his feet and, going to his writing-table, began to write, but sheet after sheet of paper was torn up and thrown into the waste-paper basket before he was satisfied with his composition. When it was done it was only a short document of a few lines, but he sealed it with great care and addressed it, then rang for a servant. An elderly footman answered the summons, and Mr. Thorne gave the letter to him, with instructions that it was to be posted at once. “Now,” said Mr. Thorne to himself, as the man went on his errand, “comes the hardest part—waiting. I always did loathe waiting for anything, but now it seems I cannot help myself. I wonder—l wonder ” He sighed deeply, and sank down exhausted. He was once more a sick old man sitting in his big chair by the fire, striving to keep warm. Behind him lay his wasted empty life, before him, what? CHAPTER 11. HUGH ORMANDY RECEIVES A BLOW. Hugh Ormandy slowly entered his uncle’s room a fortnight later. He was a tall, thin man, carrying his 35 years lightly, with a fair, delicate face, a small golden moustache, fine, straw-coloured hair, and rather wistful blue eyes. Greatly to his own distress his uncle had not allowed

lends an effective finish. Toilet, covers, small table covers, -window curtains and table-mats of coloured linen save much washing and always look well. After a blanket has been washed and dried, peg it ont on the line and beat it with a carpet beater. You will be surprised to see how beautifully soft and fluffy it will become. To increase the size of blankets which have shrunk, herringbone on to the sides —or all round if necessary—strips of linen or flannelette. These will do for tucking in, and will make a smallish blanket fit a double bed. Soak a cauliflower, prior to cooking, in unsalted water. This draws out the insects. If the water is salted the insects are killed, but remain in the vegetable. Put all your metal spoons, forks and knives into a saucepan when you finish using them. Fill the saucepan with water and let it come to the boil. This cleans your things and saves both time and trouble. him to serve with the army in tfie war, saying with some truth that he could not be spared from the estate, but the fact that there was a remnant of truth in the excuse had not made it the- less bitter for Hugh. So, chafing inwardly, he had remained at home in comfort and safety, while other men of his age and position gave all they had to give for thencountry. He was in a way fond of the harsh old man who had done so much for him, but always at the back of his mind there lurked a deep sense of fear which he could never shake off, and which he would never acknowledge even to himself, but, in spite of all, existed. Thorne was his existence; his devotion to the place was partly inherited, for his dead mother had been Margaret of Island’s Thorne, and she, like her nephew Sydney, had brought disgrace upon herself and become, as it were, outcast from the sacred precincts by making the marriage of her choice. True, George Ormandy had been a scholar and a gentleman, but he was poor, a quite unforgivable sin in anyone who aspired to mate with the house of Thorne, and he had been no fit match for the beautiful daughter of old Sydney Thorne, or so all her relations thought. She had followed the dictates of her own heart, and left the old home, but she had imbued her only child with a love and respect for it which nothing could eradicate. Mr. Thorne sat in his chair by the fire; he was holding a letter in his hand, and Hugh noticed that there was a dull flush of excitement on his uncle’s usually leaden cheeks. The old man held out the letter; his withered hands, with the blue veins showing so prominently, were shaking, and there was a curious new expression in the stern grey eyes. Hugh took the letter. No word was spoken. He read the missive, the fresh colour ebbing from his sunburnt face and an anxious look slowly dawning in his blue eyes. This is what the letter told him;— 23 Church Road, Highgate, N. May 26th, 19—. Sir, —My attention has been drawn to your advertisement in “The Times” of May 15. I beg to inform you that I am the only surviving child of the late Sydney Ismay Thorne. My mother’s maiden name was Dinah Fletcher, of Parkhead Farm, Thorne, Cumberland. I can produce documentary evidence in proof of my identity. I am, sir, yours faithfully, Sydney Ismay Thorne. Hugh read the letter through twice, then gave it back to his uncle. “What does this mean?” he asked with parched lips. “It means,” replied the old man, “that I was told a short time ago that I am suffering from a serious form of disease of the heart. I was warned that it behoved me to put my affairs in order, and the sooner the better. As a first step I inserted an advertisement in ‘The Times,’ asking for information as to the whereabouts of my son, Sydney, or his children, if there were any. The advertisement has been appearing daily for the last fortnight, and now here is the answer.” “Well?” questioned Hugh, after a pause, during which he waited for further explanations which were not forthcoming. “What are you going to do now?” “I have sent a reply paid telegram to this young man,” answered his uncle. “I have told him to come here as soon as possible, and to wire me the day and time at which we may expect him. Till I see what he is like I do not wish to have him here in the

house; he may be quite impossible, or he may be like his mother, in which case I wash my hands ol him. That letter tells nothing; the writing is good, though rather of the commercial type. At any rate I think it is wiser to see first before 1 commit myself in any way. l wish you to get rooms for him in the village. Mrs. Fraser, the keeper’s wife, lets rooms, doesn’t she. She is a reliable sort of person, I believe; he can go to her, so take her rooms for me.” “Very well, sir,” said Hugh dully; the shock of the sudden knowledge that this unknown cousin existed had shaken him, and immediately he saw in him a rival who might even come to oust him from all that he had grown to look upon as his. He felt dazed and stunned; his brain almost refused to act, and he spoke like a hypnotised man in a trance. John Thorne watche— him curiously, a grin of malicious pleasure on his cruel old face; his nephew's discomhim, for he could read

what was passing in the young man’s mind as clearly as though it had been an open book. He had wondered how Hugh would take the news of Sydney’s existence, and had purposely given him no warning of the steps he had taken, and no previous intimation of his intentions. As Hugh stood there in awkward silence, Charles, the footman, entered the room with a telegram on a massive salver. A gleam of something like triumph flashed into John Thorne’s eyes as he took the small orange envelope and eagerly tore it open. He scanned the flimsy paper bearing the message, and then read the contents aloud to the motionless man, standing rigid and erect before him, almost as if waiting to hear his death sentence. “Arrive day after to-morrow. 7.30 train.” “So he is coming,” he said with satisfaction. “The 7.30 is the evening train. You must meet him at the station, Hugh, and take him to Mrs. Fraser’s. He will be a stranger here, and you must look after him and see that he’s all right, then I will see him the following morning.” “Very well, sir,” Hugh uttered the words mechanically. “I had better go and see Mrs. Fraser at once and arrange with her about the rooms.” He picked up his cap and left the room with dragging, heavy steps. John Thorne’s evil smile deepened; he took up the letter and read it over again, then he gloated over the telegram, and finally locked them both away in a drawer in his writing table, with a chuckle of deep import. “Sydney’s dead,” he said. “I told him he should never inherit Island’s Thorne, and my words have come true, but I did not say anything about Sydney’s boy.”

He spent the rest of the morning dreaming silently in the big chair in front of the blazing fire, and murmuring to himself from time to time: “A Thorne of Island’s Thorne! A Thorne of Island’s Thorne!” (To be continued.)