OUR SERIAL STORY

Taranaki Daily News, 4 September 1926, Page 11

OUR SERIAL STORY

“ of the s£ovies

(By

ERIC LEACROFT.)

(Chapter XVI Continued.) “Yes, but—well, I didn’t think you were interested in horses.’ “I'm not,” said the old man bluntly. “But I’m interested in money. Horses, you see, are assets.” Janet started. ■ That was the lass light in which horses were regarded at Thorpe. She had sudden impulse to probe him further, to e«e just how he did look at a transaction that meant so much to her and hers. Only thus, she thought, could she decide whether she ought to like or hate this elderly recluse, whose success had brought him so little contact with the world to which he nominally belonged. It would help her to understand how he could be, as Mr, Jonah had been, at the same time her enemy and her friend —for, more and more, in spite of the gulf between them, she felt that he was her friend. She plunged into the middle of the thing. “By the way, when are you going to turn us out of Thorpe?’ “Eli?” said Lord Heseltine, Janet repeated her question, not perhaps with the same fine carelessness that she had achieved in asking it for the first time. Lord Heseltine looked at her doubtfully. It didn't quite square with his notion of a pleasant little dinner for two that he should be invited to talk business. “I’m naturally rather interested,' Janet explained, “I see. Yes, of course. I suppose you would be. As a matter of fact, I haven’t decided. It’s—er—purely a matter of business." Janet agreed. There was nothing more to be said—or at iDast she couldn’t think of anything more to say. She had learned from Jonah that business was a matter in which young ladies interfered at their own risk. But her question seemed to have set him thinking, and a moment later lie expanded his answer. “You see,” said his lordship. "Its like this. It don’t mean finch to me, one way or the other. When her ladyship was alive she never really took to this house. I could never quite understand why,” Janet credited the memory of Lady Heseltine with an unsuspected sensibility, but said nothing. “So she naturally cast her eyes round for somewhere that fitted in more than -her ideas,” pursued LordHeseltine. “And it turned out tbjt there was no place she thought would suit her quite as well as Thorpe. Janet fixed a resolute eye on her plate and tried not to laugh. It was much as if a provincial matron, looking round for a residence in London, had taken a fancy to St. James’ Palace. And yet as her host's next words showed her, the thing hadn’t after all. been quite absurd. “You know what ladies are”—he bowed slightly to mitigate the summary of her sex —“when they take a fancy to a place. They aren’t happy till they get it. So I went to your father, and offered him a liberal figure for the place —I think I might say a more than liberal figure. He wasn’t inclined to sell.” This was to put it mildly. Janet well remembered the shock of horror and indignation that had shaken Thorpe when Sir Joshua had called with more than liberal offer. “He didn't take it very well,” his lordship went on reflectively. “Seemed to have a kind of sentimental attachment to the place. That’s understandable of course.” “I'm glad you understood," murmured Janet. Oh, 1 did. Bui naturally Susan wasn’t satisfied. She’d grown accustomed to getting what she wanted, cost what it might. So I told him to name his own price. He refused again. I’m not blaming him, mind you. A man’s place is his own to keep or sell as he thinks fit. But Lady Heseltine had set her heart on living at Thorpe, and —ah well' it wasn’t to be.” His lordship permitted himself the faintest of sighs. “AU the same/’ he added, “I got what I wanted. If poor Susan was alive to day, she coil'd walk into the place next week. Though I always said that it didnt strike me as healthy, being right down in that hollow under the moors.” Janet felt curiously near to tears —not at the pathos of Lady Hcseltine’s wishes being frustrated by death, hut at the thought that anybody could look on Thorpe, as a place to be schemed for by someone to whom it could have no real meaning. To this kindly edd gentleman on the other side of the table there was no tragedy in the thing, except the tragedy of unfulfilled hopes. He had merely sought to gratify his wife’s fad, and even now it had not occurred to him that ho was seeking to commit a kind of sacrilege. “And so," she forced herself to ask, “you no longer want Thorpe.” “Not for myself,” said Lord Heseltine mournfully. “Corby Castle is good enough for me. I’ve no sentiment about it now, you see. It's just a matter of business.” And at last Janet thought she began to understand how this man could, be both friend and enemy. Again it was just a matter of business. Mr. Jonali had complained of the way in which his clients abused him because he insisted on their standing to a bargain that they were presumed to have understood when they made it. In the same way, she realised, Lord Heseltine would hardly understand -her if site spoke of her father's resentment at the way in which he had been treated. He had dealt with’ Mr. Thorpe as one man of business deals with another. That was the extent of In's enmity. Then suddenly, with a catch of the breath, she saw, too, quite clearly the extent qf his friendship. She. knew that; *(’ hadfgriAvn, In a way.' - ■

She had brought youth and companionship to a house of loneliness, and there was ft bond of sympathy between them. It came to her, with the force of certainty, that she had. only to ask and he would, give—at any rate delay. And it was delay,’only delay, that she had. been fighting for. She glanced a little wildly round the vast room with its lavish and depressing decorations; then hastily began to talk of something ’else. CHAPTER XVII. On Janet’s last morning at Corby Castle —even Lord Heseltine had failed to find a pretext for keeping her any longer—she was walking on the famous terrace, when someone hailed her from the garden below. She supposed for a moment that it must be the gardener. She had found her way to his heart by admiring his roses, and lie had formed an embarrassing habit of seeking her out every morning with a bunch of his choicest specimens. But it was not that now familiar figure that she saw waving to her from .the other side of the sunk fence that divided the lawn from the rose garden, though she felt vaguely, even at his distance, that it was somebody she knew. “May I come up?” shouted the intruder; and • taking her consent for granted, lie jumped the haha and advanced to tiie foot of the terrace. “So it’s you,” said Janet coolly. “Aren't you trespassing?” “Possibly,” he panted, drawing his legs after him over the stone balustrade and perching there. “In fact, probably; 'but Janet—” “But what?” said Miss Thorpe. “Oh, I can't help it. I repeat ’Janet.’ ’’ “Really—er—Kiclrard—” “Really—cr—{Richard ’ “If you only knew how I'd missed you,” cried Covendale. “But I’ve had extraordinary luck. I heard at the station of your accident, and. the first man I met on the moor happened to have heard that.you were staying here, so I came straight on. Isn't that Providence ?” “I really don’t, know,” said 'Janet. “It depends on why you wanted to find me. But I wish you'd sit in a chair, and stop swinging your legs.” He complied with alacrity. The chair was nearer to her than the balustrade. “Why did I come? Well, first of all, I can't live without you.” “Am illusion,” said Janet. “'You could, really, you know.” He shook his head with a gesture that combined Denial with an effect of shaking off a dash of cold water. “Still,” pursued Janet, “since we’re on the subject, you may as well tell me when you began to think you couldn’t.” “Oh, when you dXappcared. No, that’s not true. I suppose it was when I left you that first night at Capoula'de's. No, hang it, that no true either. D’you know,” he went on wonderingly, “I believe it was that day when we sat in the heather over Thorpe after rounding up the ponies, and when you——” “Why, you’re sillier than I thought,” .interrupted Janet quickly. He hung his head; and there was something so boyish in the gesture that Janet’s thoughts flew back in spite of herself to that other time when he had hung his head while se waited, nose in aire, for an answer to a peremptory invitation. “'lf I hadn’t been ordered to avoid excitement, I should probably order you off the terrace,” she went on. “You might at least have come to the front door. Unfortunately I’m not strong enough to quarrel with you, so you may as well go on—no, do sit still—and tell me all the news about Miriam and Van Quieten and my dear Mr. Jonah. I’m afraid I’va treated them badly, but you see all my plans have been spoilt by that wretched donkey.” “Lohr Heseltine ?” “No, of course not.” Then she had to tell him the whole story, laying spe■cial stress on the kindness of har host. Henceforth she was prepared to champion Lord Heseltine in the face of the world. “They say he’s a hard customer,” commented Dick, “but I never heard of his doing anything underhand.” “He never did,” declared Jane, with conviction. “I wish I could say the same of , but never mind that. So you want news of Millennium? Well, the chief item is that they've lost the services of of a brilliant young author and assistant producer.” “Oil, I’m sorry,’ cried Janet, impursively. “Then I don’t care,” replied Dick. “I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a little disappointment. Perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you until you’re better.” It will be seen that the young man’s knowledge of the feminine mind was less than an author’s should be. Janet promptly declared that she had never felt better in her life. “You see, Van Quisten got tired of waiting to hear from you. I rather fancy that Jonah stood out as long as he could, but the whole thing was rather hung up, and so ” He paused. “Oh, go on,” cried Janet, fighting down a growing dismay. “He decided that it was no use waiting to get hold of Thorpe, and told Van Quisten he could take his precious villa in Surrey and go ahead." “I see. Then—then I’ll have to go to Surrev.” “I’m afraid not. You see, he hadn’t heard from you.” “But of course not," cried. Janet. “What was the use of luy writing to him when I hadn’t- even began to do ti e thing I «ame to (To La?Csntiuued.)^. j ■'