LOVE AND A SHOP GIEL.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LXII, Issue 144358, 24 March 1914, Page 5

LOVE AND A SHOP GIEL.

ATTRACTIVE LOVE STORY OF DOMESTIC INTEREST.

M. C. K. BAKER, Author of “The Sin of Carine,” “One Guilty Deed/’ “The Wooing of Wendy,” “The Power ox Love,” “Sir "Geoffrey Dacre,” etc. etc.

CHAPTER XXXVll.—Continued. “Then you think—it’s not too late— I mean, perhaps she doesn’t want to marry this man you speak of, and this is what is troubling her?” “That’s what I’m thinning, sir. Whether I’m right or not I can't say at present. But—if ye’ll pardon the words from an old soldier” —he paused and winked slowly—"the battle’s never lost tiil it’s won by the enemy—the colleen’s not married yet—and if yor honour ”

In spite of bis anxiety and grief. Sir Clive could not repress a smile. "You sly old fox, Sergeant. You’ve guessed then?” “ ’Twas mostly guesswork that won me me shtripcs, sir!” Daddy Doyle’s eyes twinkled merrily.

“Give me that pen over there and some nntepaper!” commanded the recumbent man, eagerly. "Now, lift me up a hit—easy—that’ll do!” Whilst the pen scratched busily over the rough notepapor. Sergeant Doyle finished his whisky with conspicuous zest.

"The decanter’s on the table. Sergeant!” announced Sir Clive, without looking up. Sergeant Doyle took tho hint.

"I’m putting myself absolutely in your hands.” Sir Clive smoothed down the- flap of the envelope and handed it over. "You can read it to Miss Templeton or not, as you think fit. But whatever her answer—l trust you implicitly to say nothing to anyone but me—tor—in this letter I have asked Miss Templeton to be my wife.” The sergeant rose to bis feel. His heels clicked together as he saluted. "An’ your wife sho shall he, sir, even if I have to take that mean little rabbit in my two hands and stretch the neck av him. Good-day, sir, and good luck to yc!” "Let me know her answer at once—don’t keep mo waiting 1” was Sir Clive’s final admonition as he stretched out his hand. Sergeant Doyle look it in a close grip. His own massive palm did not come away empty. “Ye shall know at once, sort—an ranch obliged to ye, I’m sure! ’ He slipped tho sovereign into his pocket, saluted again, and turned rightabout.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE FAMILIAR FACE.

Cyril Strangways returned to ’Witfey a prey to various emotions, tho most poignant of all of which tho sensation of powcrlossncss,-of enforced inactivity, where he wished to ho up and doing. May Mallister had , pulled down his cast-lo.’about hisr.oa.rs, and,he groped .amid’ the ruins, downcast and oppressed. The sarcasm in her voice'in alluding'to the chances of a marriage between Sir Clive Dormer and flics shop-girl grated upon him, for, now with painful', clearness ho saw'how preposterous tho idea was when regarded .in the cold light of reason. ,' Even if the girl happened• to be-eli-igible to marry a baronet-of suoh.emiu--‘once as'Sir Clive, he-himsolf was little better'than a stranger to both of them and so powerless to-promote the union. How could he mix himself up in-Sir Olive’s private affairs. And loud above all rang out the haunting, taunting words of the woman he loved; “Come to mo again when Sir Clivo is married.”

Chafing beneath his impotence, the young doctor returned to his village practice. An epidemic of measles bad broken out amongst the ichildretMof the village and ho was'kept hard at-work for some days. Tho following week there came a message from Kilmington Towers—her ladyship’s compliments, and would Dr. Strangways call upon her on Friday afternoon. Having replied toMho notot delivered by the groom, Cyril entered up the appointment with that mechanical, attention to detail of which tho trained'mind alone is capable. Ho turned to bis Ijiooks to see the date of his last visit to the baroness sand to refresh his. mind on the subject of her trivial .ailment. It was some time,, he saw.-, since he had been summoned professionally by his'most important, most distinguished, and most remunerative-client,, although he had dined at the Towers-quite recently. The Dowager Baroness Kilmington ‘was the relict of the long-deceased Bight Honourable Baron Kilmington of Kilmington, tho wealthy and wonderfully successful diplomat, whose tactful yet firm representation of his country in the Chancelleries of Europe had won for him tho highest distinctions at home and abroad during a brilliant and energetic career. So far as Cyril Strangways knew, the dowager was now the sole survivor by marriage of this ancient and historically renowned barony of Kilmington. There had been one child—a daughter—according to Debrett, but sho had died many years ago. Living alone in stately grandeur, clinging almost pathetically in these days of rush and hustle to the traditions and manners of the mid-Victoria era, the baroness was tho unrivalled celebrity before whom fall other rich “parvenus” round and about Witley paled into insignificance. From the quiet, undisturbed retreat of her beautiful old country seat, nestling cosily amid a forest of pines and firs, and approached by a two-mile drive through one of the most exquisite parks in England, Lady Kilmington distributed a bountiful charity far and wide.

The crest-emblazoned landau, with the magnificent chestnut pair, and the quaint, silver-haired black-horme.ted little figure sitting in state, with her secretary and companion on the seat opposite to her, was a familiar sight in tho village, bringing tho women and children of "Witley to their doors all bobbing and curtseying as tho highstepping horses clattered by. The “li’l ole lady,” as they called her, would spot something from afar with her sharp eye, and, with a flourish, the stout, imperturbable coachman would pull his pair to a standstill outside a cottage door. “Mrs. Crombie, what’s that rash on yonr child’s face?” “ ’Tis nowt but the nettle-rash, m’lady.” “H-m-m. I think I recognise the measles when I see them. Have you had the doctor in ”

“No, m’lady. My man, he says ” “Something foohnh, I’ll be bound. Here, take this.” and My Lady Bountiful, having written an order to Dr. Htrangways, on her tablets, WQuiihand

over the scrap of paper and wave the coachman to drive on.

This is but a trifling, yet. perhaps, sufficiently illustrative example of the minute interest taken by Lady Kilmington in the affairs of her subjects; since, without exception, every man, woman, and child of the poorer classes in the neighbourhood partook at some time or other of her bounty and held her in such awe, veneration, and vast esteem as only a beloved sovereign might command.

Something of the same dependence Cyril Strangways felt towards her, too, more especially when his professional rounds included a visit to Kilmington Towers, as they did this bright wintry afternoon.

His neat little brougham buzzed its way cheerily up the winding, firdecUed drive and came to a stop before the marble stops, with their broad white balustrades, leading up to the main entrance of this noblo Tudor mansion.

Flicking a speck of dust from his coat, the young doctor sprang Tip the stops and grasped the old-fashioned wrought-iron hell-pull that hung on one side, of the massive double doors of ancient oak. A venerable butler escorted him to a side room and departed to make his arrival known to her ladyship. Cyril Strangways was well acquainted with this room in which ho now found himself. Her ladyship sometimes kept him waiting for a lew minutes and he generally amused himself with a magazine or a paper, ol which a surprising variety was always laid out on the polished table in the middle of the . o-uu —silent testimony of the old lady’s catholic tastes. This afternoon, however, he was conscious of some unusual sensation. He had picked up a copy of Bunch, but- now threw it down again. He ielt just as though someone were in the room with him—someone ho knew. lot the idea was absurd—ho could see all around him, and it was ridiculous to suppose that anyone was conceded. But, in spite of himself, the idea persisted. Ho walked up and down the thick Brussels carpet, and his eyes glanced uneasily from side to side. Approaching the wide, old English hearth at the further end of the room, with its ingle nook and heavy iron "dogs.” the sensation increased dwithin hint. Some strange, sub-eonscious force compelled him to raise his eyes to tho oak mantelshelf with its valuable collection of old "Toby” jugs and brown glazed pottery. And he gasped For he know at last what had been causing him this weird, creepy leeling as his eves emne to rest upon a picture above the mantelshelf. It was a splendid, three-quarter-length portrait of a typical English girl—goldenhaired, blue-eyed, pink-choekcd, smiling sweetly in the half-shy. half-hold knowledge of her own striking beauty, it tttemed. The artist had imparted something wilful to those blue eyes so that they spoke of strong, self-willed determination. with a power to love and love recklessly, madly, when tho timo lor love should come. And yet he had succeeded in-picturing the hud that had not yet burst into lull bloom. The spirit of elfin girlhood was unmistakably conveyed in every touch of tho skilful brush, But Cyril Strangways felt nothing of this. He was staring'and staring with wide, unblinking eyes. Ho did not hoar the door of the room open sis the; hutler came back to summon him to. Lady Kilmington V-prosonoe. How many times had he seen this picture and admired-;the splendid, vigorous beauty of tho subject? Perhaps half-a-dozen times. And now, for the first time, he saw it in a now light—a light Unit puzzled even as it fascinated' and magnetised him—rooting him -to the hearthrug with.his bead forced back and his lips, parted in amazement. For in ihis portrait he had found the solution to tho.problem that had been mystifying him ever since the night of the motor accident 10 Sir Clivo Dormer.

Ho knew now why it was that Erica Templeton’s face had seemed so familiar to him. It was her face and no other that now smiled down at him from the gold-framed canvas on tho wall above the mentelsholf! (To be continued.)