Love's Reward.

Thames Star, Volume LVII, Issue 15113, 23 December 1921, Page 7

Love's Reward.

j[All Rights Reserved.]

By PAUL CRQUHART, S.:tXor of " The Wcby " The Eagles," " The Shadow," " The Blackmailer;' " The Sign of the Good Intent" &c

rUBLTSTIED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

CHAPTER IV.— {Continued.) "Madam," lie said, holding out his band and_addressing his wife, "I need not detain you any longer. I am much obliged for the service you have rendered me. I trust you will be happy in your now circumstances." .She took no notice of nTs outstretched hand. He held the door open for her as she passed out. But even then she never looked at her husband, or uttered one word of farewell.

As sbe sat in the train half an hour later, with Martha, by her side, sbe removed her glove, looked for a moment at the ring on her finger, and then took it off. The line, passing the foot of the Cbevin Hill, wound its way towards Guisely and Bradford, skirting a burial-ground. She moved to the window, and, leanin g far forward, threw the pledge of her strange marriage among the gravestones of God's Acre. . vvi' CHAPTER V. V It was after seven in the evening when the train drew up at Newton Abbott Station. The wearisome cross-co«Qtry journey from Yorkshire to Devonshire had proved too much for Martha, and all the way from Bristol she had slept soundly. "I thought I was back in the kitchen, Jane," she said, rubbing her eyes as her companion shook her into wakefulness. "It seems all so funny like. Here, young man, leave my box alone."

The last remark was addressed to a porter whom "Iris had summoned. He had stared wonderingly at the poorly-clad girls as they stepped out of a first-class carriage, and his surprise was even greater when he heard Martha speak. "You ain't no business here, travelling in a first-class carriage with a third-class ticket," he said, roughly. "You'll pay the difference."

'' You will kindly take our boxes to the cloak-room. Here are our tickets, if you wish to see tfieni." Iris's tone was frigidly polite. The man grew crimson, and half raised his hand to touch his hat; then, catching sight again of the palpable servant's dresses that the girls wore, compromised hi§ apology with a muttered "Beg pardon." At a # neighbouring postirighonse Iris secured a trap, and, having returned for their luggage, the two girls set out on the eight-mile drive to Dainton.

The sun was setting, and the f.o;\s and heights of Dartmoor fretted the glorious crimson of the sky. Iris was ill inclined to talk, and her evident wish foi silence soon stayed Martha's (somewhat g.'il'rtilous tongue. Iris was thinking of the last time she had passed over this familiar ground. Scarcely more than a year had elapsed since then ; but how much had happened ! Then she was setting out from the shipwreck of her family fortunes to make her way in London, little dreaming of what fate had in store for her wiffnn" so. short a space of time. She remembered how she 'Had bidden good-bye to her father, Vow both of them had struggled _ to keep back the tears that had sprung into their eyes at this cruel parting. It had been terrible, that separat'on; and it had seemed to her, as she looked back on the familiar figure as she was rolled away from Psi niton, that the end of all things had come. Then her' thoughts •v, mh; 1 to the. long series of mis- •' •r'.r.nes that had overtaken

'?• ahheote Burnaby, and she reu-. hioned in lier mind the whole sad story. Her father had once been a typical. Devonshire Squire, hearty and brusque, a man with a simple code of morals, the simplest.and the best code —to fear God and love his neighbour. Heatheote Burnaby, of Dainton Court, had never wittingly done ill to any man. The ample fortune and estates which he had inherited from hi.; father had lever been used selfish Ij. The interest of his tennuts he had made his own. Iris eould remember how one day he ':ti>.\ come to her, with the tears •Livaming down his sunburnt He had just been perus:i!r the report of a Parliamentary V-nmittee on Kural Hoiisl&g, and lie ,-talements which it contained :.-;d plunged him in an agoriy of m.Ji'.se. He had actually eonnc.'d himself that at any mo.luunt His own tenants might die ■■■>if like flies. There and'then, at

immense cost, and to the consider able indignation of his tenants, who did not mind in the unsanitaiy conditions to which their fathers had been acclimatised for long as they could be comfortable, he had set about pulling down .arid rebuilding his houses. By way of penance to himself, for what he called his criminal neglect, he refused to listen to the suggestion of his steward that he should increase his rents to meet the eost of these improvements. IThen Iris remembered how Jt mi Fothersgill—now Sir John, a Baronet —had come into the district from London prospecting for china clay; how he had induced her simple old father to take part in his schemes; how, when Heathcote Burnaby discovered at a directors' meeting that the interests of the directors were the only interests considered, and that it was proposed to rob the shareholders of the money they had subscribed by a process of legal chicanery, he had risen in his seat and tempestuously denounced John Fothersgill as a scoundrel and a thief; how Fothersgill had. pretended to be sorry for his defence; hoAv he had pretended to make it up with her father, and after waiting two er three years had trapped nim into a series of ruinous speculations which involved the loss of all hio estates and all his money. She recalled that last stormy scene before the Burnabys went out of the house which had been theirs and their forebears for more than four hundred years. Her father had grown ah old man in a night, but still held himself erect and dignified before the London financier who had been the cause of his downfall.

"Heathcote Burnaby," said Fothersgill, addressing the- late master of Dainton Court in the old familiar hall, "you once denounced me in public as a scoundrel and a thief. To show that I am a charitable man—that I am not vindictive and can forgive—l have placed at your disposal a cottage on my estate. I should be sorry to see you and your wife and your daughter die on the road.'"

Sir John Fothersgill deliberately chose his words. He left notfiing Tmsaid_that could mortify and arouse the passions of the old Squire. He accentuated his victim's misfortunes by speaking continually of "my estate" and "my house" in referring to Dainton Court. And all he said he said .'with a sneering patronage that alone was galling enough.

For a second Heatheote Burnaby hesitated about accepting his offer; then he looked at his wife and at Iris, and answered, in a steady voice, gazing bravely at the man who had_robbed him of his home: "For the sake of my wife and child, I accept your offer." For a moment his emotions almost overcame him; but. controlling himself with an effort, he went on: "Let God judge between you and me. Sir John Fothersgill." Then he had gone out of Dainton Court, leaving it to its new master. The little cottage that now became their home contained simply four rooms, and stood in a* small garden. Here, without a pen.ny, the old Squire of Dainton must have perished had not the good deeds he had done in the past, in those days of his prosperity, now come home to roost. Jlis old tenants gathered rouncT_to support him. When he refused to accept the money that had" been collected on his behalf, they had resource to various means to'help him to sustain life. Thsy invented debti which they said they owed him, and paid,thum in kind. Every day someone Mould come to the door, and, after curtseying to "my lady/' Tf'ouid deliver himself of some preposterous story which necessitated the leaving of a fowl or a ham or a dozen eggs. Labourers came in the depth of night and dug his garden, and planted it with Cabbages and potatoes. One moiling he woke up to find in his garden a brand-new henhouse with a dozen hems* and a run carefully hemmed in with wired netting.

As the whole story came back vividly before her, the tears sprang up into Iris's eyes. She had left the brave, courageous old man, who had stifled his pride for her saTce and* her mother's sake, and consented to accept the charity of his enemy, to try and make, her own way in the world.

Uer rathe: oad w: *;.:;l it; i~ „; the situation had become impossible. Not content with the evil he had already done, ro' -extent with the ignominies t: y ..:i he had forced his victims lo submit, Sir John Fothersgill, by the beauty of her face, L«d •- ' ually dared to ask for her hand h marriage. He made the proposal to her father in person, and Heathcotc Burnaby, for his family's sake, still keeping master of his temper, had' told him in a broken voice, thai Iria albu<? could give him his answer. Thei-rf and then he had sought he* attt, and asked her to be his wife, ,but dwelling but slightly on his affection for her, but dwelling in glowing words on the advantages attaching to such a splendid position.

Iris had given her answer with flashing eyes and pallid cheeks: "I would rather die th?n marry a man like you, Sir John Fothersgill." These had been her words, and she had seen the man turn white with rage, and suddenly jump on his horse and furiously ride away, with a threat upon his lips. "A year of this pauper's life, and perhaps you'll think differently, my fine lady." The very next day she had left for London, accepting the invitation of an old servant. And now she was coming bark rich and prosperous. Her heart beat faster as the trap rolled swiftly up and down the deep Devonshire lanes towards the little upland village. At last she era, over, the tali treetops, the smoSe tla&t curled lax. ly from the chimney-pots of Dainton Court. The,sight of her old home and the memiory of all she had gone through overcame her, and the tears coursed freely down her cheeks.

The trap turned into a by-lane, a short cut to the upper part of the village where their cottage lay. It was. a very narrow lane, and hearing in the distance the sound of a horse approaching the driver drew into a cutting to allow the rider to pass. A man on horseback cantered by. Casting hi* eyes on the occupants of the trsp, with a vicious jerk of the reims he pulled his animal to a stand-still, and raised his hat. A flood of hate and loathing wetted ap in Iris's heart, as she recognised, in the pink-and-white complexion and carefully-preserved features of the man on horseback, Sir John Fothersgill. "So you have come back. Miss Burnaby. Thought better of it, eh_?" .

oh, please,'' Iris «aid to tim man holding the reins. Sir John dexterously pulled his horse across the lane, blocking the passage. "A I beg of you," he said, "for I suppose .your return implies that you have at last consented to act according to your father's wishes, and save him from the workhouse by marrying me. You can surely spare me a few moments for conversation." A dark flush crimsoned Iris's face. "My father has never expressed any such wishes in his letters. I fail to understand what you mean. Kindly allow us to proceed."

The man leant forward over the saddle. "Do you mean to say that Heatheote Burnaby never wrote and told you that unless yon cousented to marry me I should turn him out of his cottage?" "My father never expressed any such wish," the girl retorted, with the same haughty coldness. "The old liar! Hiave only this moment left him, and he assured me than he had written to you. and that he had no doubt that you would accept, and that he had put the matter plainly beforeyou." Iris whispered to the driver. The man—a rough, brawny Devonshire yokel—took a . firm grip of the reins, and reached for his whip. "Get thou horse out of the way, or I will drive through 'ee." He caught Sir John's horse a crack on the hindquarters. The animal reared and turned, and, whipping up his own horse, the driver got by. "I will turn you paupers into the workhouse , to-morrow!" shouted the infuriated Squire of Dainton Court. A smile of calm triumph settled on Iris's lips.

To be Continued. L.R. 4.