LADIES' COLUMN.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7232, 19 October 1901, Page 3

LADIES' COLUMN.

THE FORTUNE - HUNTERS. (By GILBERT DAYLE.) It was a magnificently hot morning in August, but there was shade in the Park, and I was sitting there, deep in my reflections. These had been made interesting' by a chance call I had paid on a young mam of my acquaintance, who* rented some rooms in Piccadilly. He had been good enough to confide in me. and had even asked my advice in the composition of a letter of weighty import. . This I willingly gave, and it." liad ended in my taking the epistle away with nic under a solemn pfomiso to post. " Of course, it*s altogether ridiculous and unnecessary !" I murmured to myself as I lighted a cigarette. "But, 'pen my word, I like him for if; it's refreshing!" . I placed the letter beside me on the seat so that I should not forget it, then gave myself up to the ■enjoyment of the moment. I had just lazily come to the conclusion that the Park in August, with, bulb the remotest chunca of meeting anybody you knew, was really a. meat charming place, when tlie . quite nnexepected' happened ; I caught sight of somebody I knew quite vfcJl, aDd afiotbe* person -vrirom I wished I didn't know at all. They were walking together, -and he was talking eagerly to her. He was admittedly handsome in a certain way, but it wasn't my waj- — and his hair was infamously long. I knew him casually as Bernard Maurel, a young artist supposed to be " rising," more particularly by himself. Ineide'ntally,. I knew he held somewhat gorgeous views on tlie true beauties of life, and from tihe •'learn in his eye, I guessed he was €X-'mundhig.-these now to the more than inWrtsted young person by hvs side. They were passing within a yard or so of my seat, and my stick slipped to tb? ground. Marjory — she was a pretty young cousin of mine— -turned her head and saw me. I raised my hat, and had the satisfaction of seeing a little wave of colour sweep over her cheek as she gave me a smiling nod in return. They: walked a few yards further, then she stopped, and, after a few mbmeffhs more conversation, held out her haad to Maurel. I heard him say "Au.revqir, then, until this afternoon," and was much pleased to see him take his departure. I hastily slipped the letter in my p'ecket as Marjory turned and came tripping over the grass to me. "Of course, -I must run against you the first thing !" she eaid, with a smiling littie potffc. "Why on earth don't you leave town like everybody else?" I caught a glimpse of 'her face ; there was a little look there jwhich I knew of old. Something had 1 (happened.; I ihad to be careful— that's what it meant. "Let me see," I began, puffing my cigarette. "A fortneglit ago you retired with your uncle and aunt to Dorington to recuperate after the season. * Now," with, the town house shut up, I find you strolling in the Park with that charming young genius, Bernard Manrel. Ah, you came up for some dropping, and met him. by chance?" She turned' to me vtitk a: little gesture of. impatience. "I never beat about the bush with you, Julian!" she cried ; "the fact is. I'm- a" girl no longer— l've left Dorington, and I'm going to lead my own -life — not be -forced, to 5 marry a man with a "title and. wo- money — ' the first fortune-hunter (that conies along !" "Oh, Reds+oke's the 'trouble 1" I exclaimed softly. . Gradually the whole story came out. Now that sihe was twenty-one and h?id come into 3ier fortune, her uncle 'and aunt only desired that she should, marry well, 1 and that they should) be free of the responsi'b.Hty of looking after her, a motive •which '1,, knowing 'her, coitd fully appreciate. 'Young Lord Redstoke had struck the worthy pair as being particularly eligible, and they had somewhat unwisely forced the pace to an extent which, had. made Marjory settle the matter in her own way. " Just think, Julian— he was invited down to Dorington .and accepted. I was to b*e made Lady Redeto-ko forthwith, whether I Eked it or ano !" ' • " Seems rather a pity you didn't, doesn't it?'' I suggested. . : Her eyes flashed. .., "I can't express tihe; contempt I feel for a man 'who would marry a girl — not loving her— but just for ier money!" she cried.---"I left eady this morning without saying 'good-bye' to anyone— but directly I got to town posted a note to aunt telling her of the step I had taken." " You haven't quite defined its exact nature?" I began. . "I am going to live with Adele Saimtsbnry, and become an artist!" she said, ■with an air of decision. "She's delighted.". "I sluould'thinik so!" I rejoined.'- "You will be able to pay the rent of !ber studio — and make life pleasanter all^round for her. Anything else in the new life?" She rose from the seat and stood- in front of me. .-."-■ "I'm going to be absolutely free-^-live amongst the only real people, -wfao live not for the appearances but the beauties of | life !" She paused. " And when the time c.omes, I shall marry tihe man I love — not a mere fortune-hunter with a "title--!" I rose too, arid we strolled along together. "It sounds perfectly heavenly!" I observed. As we walked to the gates, she explained the new arrangement to me frankly, and I was much impressed. We came to the point where she said she must part from me for the present, and held out her band. ' "Thank you, dear Marjory, for your confidence!" I said as I grasped it. "This Maurel must certainly be a most fascinating young man, and I should like to kntow him better. By the way, Adele 'has often invited me to her tea-parties ; I'll make a point of coming along this afternoon, as he'll be there. You don't mind, do you?" " I never mind you, Julian dear !" she replied with a bright smile. "You never argue about things when you see my mind's made vp — you're so understandy ! I'll tell Adele— good-bye !" She left me, and I immediately began to ponder over the thing that had happened. As a result of this meditation, I presently made my way to a certain literary club, where I had the good luck to run across the man I was in search of — Markhaan, the novelist, to wit. I was quite frank with him. "You know that painter chap, Maurel, who talks a lot?" He nodded. "Well, he's making a foci -of a. nice little cousin of mine. I remember you once saying you didn't care much for him." "I should think vot — he owes me fifty I pounds !" replied Markham. " I can gneoa the sort of game lie's trying to play. He isnt a man's man — just a creature who talks to women and humbugs them with has art chow. I suppose your cousin is fairly well off?" " Yes — a few thousands a year," I said thoughtfully. "I rather think he ought to be stopped, you know! Will you g"ive me a hand?" "Delighted!" he replied promptly. "Let's think out something !" So it happened that, accompanied by the obliging Markham, I had tea that afternoon with Adele Saintsbury, and was introduced to the world of genius. This particutw world, by the way, was very fond of filking, so I sat quietly in a corner and listened. Presently — it was after tea — I noticed Markham and Maurel stroll away together ; everybody roamed about at their own sweet will and did just as they felt inclined. I sidled up to Marjory. " I jugb want- to congratulate you on your entree to this wonderful circle!"' I whispered. "Let's go andi sit on the gtai.Tß !" She assented with a smile, and we wandered out. I selected a seat wliacn was near the half-closed door of the studio "Now you can see why I've severed my fetters and escaped from tire uld stiff ex-

istenoe!" she began. "Here no one cares whether one has a penny in the world or not." " High-soulcd creatures!" I murmured, with a^glanoe at- the studio door. Then, to my great relief, I heard Markham's voice speaking rather loudly. "Look here, Maurel, you keep on. hinting that you will soon be a ble to pay me the fifty pounds — and the. hundred and one other debt.? you have incurred. But let me have something definite! Who.b is it. you've got up your pleeve — out with, it !"' Then came Maurel's reply in his smooth tones-. "Very well, my dear Markham, quite between ourselves, you understand ! I think ifc more than probable I shall marry the little Ingram girl wit-bin a, week or so — what <lo yon think of that for luck?" I nearly purred with delight at the success of my scheme. The "little Ingram girl" rose to her feet hurriedly. " Let us get out of -thie, Julian," she said in a low lone. But Markha>m was too quick. He came out followed by Maurel. who had the satisfaction of grasping the fact that he had be?n overheard. I was well repaid for all my trouble by one look Marjory flashed at him. 1 suggested that she should spare half-an-hour from her artistic studies and stroll with me in the Park. So hi a few minutes ire were in ««r <ikl sea* again. On the. way she hardly spoke a word. "Having done with one fortune-hunter," I. observed, as I seated myself comfortably, "shall we turn our attention to the "Other for a. moment?" "Lord Redstroke?' 1 she said shortly. I nodded, and pulled out the letter from my pocket. "He gave me thig to post to you this morning, but I quite forgot it. You see, he didn't go down to Dorington after all." Her eyes opened wide in surprise as she broke the seal. "Xo ; don't trouble to read it. I know what's in it, and will tell you!" I lighted a cigarette, and she waited for me, astonishment writ large on her pretty face. "Strange as it may seem," I continued, "I happen to know that Archie Redstoke is very much in, love with you ; but he has some unaccountable dislike to being thought a fortune-hunter. So, briefly, his ide:i is this : "He has, of course, a little money. Well, not long ago. a unique chance turned up; Ifc meant that by sinking all 'his capital in a- scheme to develop T>art of the new Tom Tiddler's ground in West Africa and working hard 'himself for a year or fo, there was almost a certainty of his being able to turn his hundreds into thousands. The letter is to explain that he has decided to do this, and that he won't come to Dorington unless " I paused and glanced at her. "Unless what:"' she said in- a very quiet voice, "Unless you are prepared to return his love, and wait a year or so until lie pulls the tiling through. In which case he'd like to spend a few days with you before sailing." "Is" he really that kind of man?" she said with a little gasp. "Yes, and a "ood deal more! He's idiotically in love with you, and wouldn't care a, rap if ( you threw away evei.v penny ydu had. — so long as you waited* for Him to make some more for you." I paused. "Now, what do you think?"' There was -a very, long pause. Then at length she raised her ihead and' glanced at me timidly. . " Is there a train back to Dorington tonight, Julian?'' she almost whispered. I rose to my feet with alacrity. " Jove, I shall have a busy evening .'" I said briskly. "I have to drive you to Paddington first, then call on Adele and explain that af ten all the old miserable life will jiave to do for you, and finally I must go arid have a whisky-and-soda with Red*stoke!" A week later I was walking with fier in the garden at Dorington. Something bright was glistening: on her finger, and she looked absurdly happy. I "Dear old Julian!" she was saying. ' "I'm tremendously grateful, really! It was just like you to know what was best for me — you're the cleverest person I know V "Your appreciation is as pleasant as itis just," I replied. "He doesn't talk much ! about the beauties of life, and his hair's quite short, but on the whole I'm inclined to think he's rather a decent kind of for-tune-hunter."