ROAN BARBARY.

Timaru Herald, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 12896, 6 February 1906, Page 2

ROAN BARBARY.

(Continued.)

/ I hope, Mr Treloar," Cicely said, steadily, " that- this is not the last time that we i shall meet."

" Don't," he replied, glancing at her curiously—"don't speak like that."

"Like what?"

"So formally."

"Do I speak formally? I didn't know that I did; but tlieu whv shouldn't I do so?"

"Have w§ been so formal?" he asked, reproachfully.

*' I _ hope so," she answered, almost pleadingly. " How different you are!" he remonstrated.

Different V' she repeated, with an unsuccessful assumption of not undestanding what he meant. " Different from, what—from whom?"

" From yourself."

"From myself?" " Yes; a week ago;—a day ago—you wouldn't have 6poken in the tone you do." He did not see that her whole attitude was cr,i of stiff resentment, and went heedlessly on. " I thought then—" he began.

What did you think then?" I thought," he replied, a- trifle abashed by. her manner, "that—that we had corns to 'know each other—that you—" " That I?" she prompted, as he paused. "That we were not just like a thousand and one acquaintances—that there might be something better—something that could mean more."

"And something 1:1 my manner gave you tEat impression?" she demanded, inexorably.

" No, no," he hastened to protest. "Nothing ycu said or did. But our bsing here together—our seeing each other—it seemed to make a difference."

"I don't see why it should." " Because," he continued, desperately, when two people have seen each other as much as we have, they must either come to hate each other or to like each other better and better."

" And you concluded that—l did not hate you':"

Not exactly, you know," he answered, anxiously. "I thought—" <> "Then," she interrupted, "I can only say that you were mistaken. I hate you —I hate and despise you." ' " Cicely!" lie cried, so ludicrously startled that the girl almost laughed. " You mustn't say that—you can't sav that-rfor I love you. I was going to tell you that- I could not get on without vou-—"

He paused in consternation, evidently trying to realise the situation.

Honestly ?" she asked, turning towards him.

Honestly," he. repeated, in astonishment. - "What else do you suppose I have thought—have lived for the last week You mustn t- say you hate me; you must take it back. You don't mean it * and you do take it back—don't vou?" He never knew how it happened, but he found her in. his, and he pressed it to his lip's.' Cicely, he said, and the next, instant his aim was ' about- lier. , " There !" she exclaimed, triumphantly. I knew I was right, and that Johnstone was wrong.'-' - >' • ■ ! '•]/Vv-hen?"--he asked- " When he told me that you didn't really care anything about me," she replied, comforiaoiy. " But I knew better. I was sure that you liked iue all ; the'time. And you cud—and you do. Don't you!". I wish you only knew uow much," he answered, iervently. ' ; a at s r 'ght," she said approvingly. "And cow you won't have to go away?"! t . Not- just this' instant/' he answered';' but now I know that' when I do," I can come back again." " And you will," she demanded, look-' i .-g up a: him, ■" won't you? "FSi- if you didn't, I don't believe that I should live another minute." If I couldn't come;" he answered, seriously, "if I didn't think that I had the right to do it, life wouldn't be worth the' living for me—not' for a single instant." "Really?—oh'! u • ; .'

They were sitting together under the indulgent-looking summer stars, that in' their blurred softness are so unlike the hard, " knowing" scintillations of the win-: ter-heavens, and for some moments neither had spoken. •' f

"The Musgraves have come," said Cicely, suddehiyandirrelevantly. "The Musgraves?" repeated Treloar.' "Who are the Musgraves? What are'the Musgraves■ - -s.

The rich Musgraves—the unpleasantly,' aggressively rich Musgravesl" ' V "Those Musgraves?" he exclaimed. "But what in the world are they dointr here?" ™

" They ve got a country house five from us. Didn't you know it? A hugel place where the greenhouses flash in thei sun all day, and the electric lights blaze all night, and which altogether is the most refulgent thing vpu ever beheld. There is a perfect ainfy of servants ■in the kitchens, and droves of horses in the stables, and carriages and coaches and things without -number."

"The Musgraves here?" said Treloar, in astonishment. Wlio would have imagined

"Do you know them?" asked Cicelv, "I thoughc nobody knew them."' * ' : •' 1 hat s all i>asr now. "he answered. s ."Really?"' • ; "Now they're everything they ought to be, and nothing they - oughtn't *to." ° . -Oh !•"'•• exclaimed Cicely, disappointedly. "This must be the place that they meant," continued Treloar; "I understood that' they were building something somewhere in the country.

Treloar did not state that- his information had been derived from Miss Pauline Musgrave. who had casually told him that ■there were moments when' she had come to doubt the perfect sanity of Musgrave ne:c—or words to thai effect—as, she%aid. hj; had just put a. large number of his •" hard-earned dollars" in a big country house where there was nothing but "the nbnrigines and the immemorial" hills." an d v.h'ri-e you had nothing to do but ta " v.-vestle with Nalure."' •" D<> you know them very w-ell," demanded Cicely. "Not awfully well. not. exactly intimately ; but really they are veiy generous

and good-natured, and I couldn't help it. I was always coming upon Clarence Musgrave, and then he asked me to luncheon, and then the family asked ine to dinner, and—"

"And you went," interrupted Cicely, in scandalised tone.

"It's so much easier to accept an invitation than to decline it. Igo to lots of places where I don't want to go, because ii's such a nuisance trying to get out of it."

" Do you think that is strong-minded V she demanded.

" No, I don't," he answered, promptly. " But I den't like to think that you aren't."

" I've heard," he said, " that a thing that isn't thought doesn't exist. Don't think it, I beg, and perhaps 1 may be, after all. But the Musgraves—" " I know it isn't charitable," said Cicely. " but I don't like. them. I can't, I can't. I've tried, but it's no use." " But whv?" demanded Treloar.

" Because —because—'' She hesitated. " It has always been so from the first time I called on them. I think it was because they were so assiduously kind, so actively considerate of my feelings. It wasn't patronage, nothing as crude as that, but the:a was self-depreciation in every movement- they made, and an evident, endeavour not to have me feel their magnificence in all the tones of all their voices." " Well?"

"It was very nice of them, but iv was unbearable. Oh, that call! 1 went ill state with papa. Morris brought out the old. carriage—all papa's have been sold, and this belonged to grandpapa—one of tliose closed things with an open front, and big silver S's on the sides." Trel6ar nodded.

" The varnish is cracked, and the damask linings all in rags. We drove up to the door. The butler looked at us curiously and took our cards as .if he was sorry for us. I was awfully frightened I loathed < myself for it-—and was stiff' "and awkward.. Papa—he is so;sure of himself—--119 felt that he was making an impression, and. enjoyed himself tremendously, but I am sure they were laughing at him all the time."

Oh, come, now!" interrupted Treloar. " That's hardly likely." "I oould see," she, insisted, "what they were thinking, and it was just agony. Oh, why did I ever go?" And at the memory of theinterview she reddened, while v the tears, rose in her eyes. " Papa never should have made me, but he forgot. He does not remember (that we are not as we always were."

"But—' began Treloar. ' " And when they returned the call, I was ' out,' " continued Cicely, "and that is all. Tliey were here for two months, but I never saw them, and only met them, last autumn at the Horse Show. I nev-:-r told you about the Horse Show. It was awful. The horses didn't do what we expected, (ind we spent heaps and heaps of monev, ]W»'d altogether it was a miserable' failure. I was so glad to get home, and felt that I never wanted >to go away anywhere anv nkbte." *

' "I hope you don't think that now, be cause—"

i Oh/-now,''- she said," gloriously, "of "Course it's different; but then papa" saw a number of people who didn't seem to repnember who -always.appeared W be in* a,-tremen-dous- hurry. • 1 was" so unhappy"! To be sure, and -there 'were some that wera ~nice to.us, and those were, the very nicest. jKerninghams invited us to luncheon] and the ; GLjrdekkers to . dinner, and Airs Outen asked me to come and sit in her box, and the saw ine their*, and I was . so. glad." Treloar laughed. You may despise me for it, but it was sne sweetest kind oi a revenge to have Pauline Musgrave find.me in the one place where I am sure she could not go." "And 'so Pauline was there," lanched Treloar. . ' I

"Pauline, with her invisible eyebrows, and pnly too visible ears." • ''lteaily, Pauline's quite pretty at times." . ".You don't think that?" .Cicely exclaimed, increduouslv.

.. "To be honest," he answered, "I don't. But really she isn't bad-looking, and then she is great fun."

" 1 know,", said Cicely, humbly, 1" She knows a lot "that iN'e never had a chance fit knowing—".' " "And," interrupted Treloar, "that I wouldn't have you know if you could." " "Really?" she asked, earnestly. "It sometimes seems to me that I must be fearfully monotonous and tiresome to you, and I think that I would give worlds to, i>e fast and funny, and—-"

'" I wouldn't." "Why!"' - on the whole, I think you're quite nice as you are." " And you wouldn't have me different?" "Not a bit."

"Not in.one thing!" she insisted: "beI wish you'd tell me." Not in one thing; if it's all the same to you,'please keep persistently on being ]ust what you are." " And what.is that?" she begged. " What Pauline Musgrave would call a dull little donkey ?"

B*;t ;!ic rcsf- ]::•[ was sa:-? I.lien, though important, is not essential .

Treloar lay on his back in. the shade of an old apple-tree, looking up' at the. sturdy trunk and through the. {\yisted and interlacing brandies, wondering why Cicely,.who had been summoned to the house, '.did not appear. The crack of broken twigs at length disturbed his reverie, and looking" up, he beheld Johnstone before him. "There's some, people to see you," he said, grudgingly/ People "' cried Treloar, starting up. " Visitors for you, and Miss Cicely asked me to ask you just to step up to the house."

'XBnt who are they?" demanded Treloar. getting to his feet. M r a nd Mrs Musgrave and a voung h'dy," answered Johnstone. ' As Treloar entered the big. darkened drawing-room, the state apartment of the h"i'ss—where stood The huge square p:;:nr. with the convoluted legs—he* recognised that his appearance was something" of rehef to nil except Paysant. who. being in the middle of a speech, evidently viewed it- as r.n annoyance.

'Yes," he was saying, "it has been,

if I may say so. a happy accident for u<-. and we have enjoyed h'aviug Mr TreW here very much—happy also in that are indebted -o it for seeing you once ok.re at Waverk'V."

Mrs Musgrave. without waiting for iLe end of I'aysant's speech, had risen, .-and r.ow went forwaid lo meet Tr<tSo;.r as he hobbled in.

" 03i, Mr Treloar!"' she exclaimed. "We oaly lie.ird of your accident this tuoruins. but we all of us c-auie over instantly learn how yon were and ask if trc cotiM do anything." She was a tall, Ihin person, not without a certain distinction that often belongs to marked and meagre features, And &.* she spoke she turned and glanced at a short stout ma£> and a young woman. wij<? iu appearance was very muck what she heisetf must have once been—with flhis exception: that while her own eyes were pale and uneipress:ve, the girl's shose viarkly and keenly. es." said this last, giving her band to Treloar; "you don't know what a commotion you have made in the family. It was all I could do to keep mamma freni fitting out a relief expedition.*' "And, really, you are quite well?" asked Mrs Musgrave. "We need not have d:s tressed ourselves so about- him, Pauline."

" .Speak for yourself, mamma," answered the girl; "1 never was dissreswd in. i*se least. I felt confident that Mr Trdoar was reserved for some m-re glorious fate." " And now," continued Mrs Musgrave, busily—" now that we have found you."' we •ve not going to let you go. You muat have quite worn out the good nature of your present hosts, acd really it would be shocking for to inflict yourself on them any longer. You are well ecough. I see, to be driven over to our place, and I shall send for you and your things this evening." " 5

Mrs Mnsgrave looked at Paysant,, who had risen when she did and was al.w standing, and at Cicely silting in the darkest corner of the room.

"'I have.thought," stammered Tre!oar. " that, as you say, I was staying altogether tow long, and that I ongbt to be tamed out. But Mr Paysant has been so kind—"

"That yoa mustn't try his patience any more," interrupted Mrs" Musgrave; "besides, I could not let any one take care of yon but myself. Haven't I known you long enough to Lave certain rights as" .tn old friend? I. say you must come to ns, and give Mr Paysant and Miss Paysant a rest. Am I not rich!. Mr Pavsant?" ■ *

"I assure j L answered Paysant, "that you do tis wrong. We would be only too delighted to have Mr Treloar remain. Indeed, w<s cannot consent Jto his leaving ns." " Of course you say that, so Til change my i)lan of attack. Do you think it's fair to keep him when old friend* of his want to see him veiy much?*' "Ah," replied Paysant, bowing, "if you ! put it upon that ground—" | " But," began Treloar, " I don't—" " You think it would be selfish, I a» sure,. Miss Paysant,*'. said Mrs Musgrave. " I certainly think,*' said Cicely, from her corner, " that we ought not to insi.«' upon Mr Treloar remaining here if—" •'There!''- cried Mrs Musgrave, triuir.pliantly, " Miss Paysant says she wants (c» get rid. of you. So you've got to come whether you want to do it or not. Paulire, you agree with me. Help me convince him." (To 4>e continued.)