“The Heirs of Heritage,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 19 July 1934, Page 7

“The Heirs of Heritage,”

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

CHAPTER II. —Continued. Pushing tlieir machines, they walked down the winding hill through a straggling village of the characteristic Cotswold type. “Hullo, there’s ado on here. Village cricket match. Looks awfully jolly, don’t it? Regular picture,” exclaimed Tim. At the foot of the hill, and the end of the village, mftst of the population seemed assembled in a long meadow, the only level stretch of ground they had seen since they left the high plateau. The centre was a very wellkept cricket pitch, the rest laid for hay. A match was just finished, and players and spectators were chatting in groups, or moving homewards. As Tony and Tim neared the gate a little group came through it, a man in an invalid’s wheeled chair, pushed by a very pretty girl, another girl, tall and slender, and a jolly-looking elderly woman walking alongside. Someone in the field—a middle-aged clergyman, attired in grey flannels, white sweater, and clerical collar—hailed and hurried after them.

“Miss Heritage! Miss Forde! Half a minute!”

The tall girl and the elder woman turned and re-entered the field. The girl pushing the chair halted. Tony and Tim exchanged glances. “Did you hear that? Miss Heritage . . . one of your cousins!”

“Perhaps. After all, I’ve only that old man’s word for it. Come on, Tim. How far have we got to go? I don’t know what you are, but I’m ravenous! ”

They mounted and rode on, to Chadwick, where Tim’s “jolly 'old inn ’ ’ proved to be a small well-appoint-ed hotel. After an excellent meal, they adjourned to the comfortable little lounge, behind the saloon bar, where, in a quiet corner, Tony began a letter to his mother, while Tim was soon deep in talk with a couple of American tourists, one of whom noticed a wireless set, and switched it on to hear the nine o ’clock news.

Tony paused and ’ glanced up involuntarily, as, through the sudden hush that fell on the little room, the announcer’s mellow' voice v T as heard: “This is the National programme from London, and before I give the news I have an S.O.S. Will Mr Anthony Hylton of Motcomb-st., London, S.W., who is on a motor-cycle tour in Gloucestershire, return to London at once and go to St. George’s Hospital, where liis mother, Mrs Marian Hylton, is lying dangerously ill—as the result of an accident.”

CHAPTER 111. —A LAST MESSAGE. For a few- seconds Tony and Tim stared at each other in silent consternation, then, with a common impulse moved to the door.

‘ ‘ Get into your togs, old thing, while I see to the bike and bring it round,” said Tim.

Tony dashed up the stairs, and hastily donned his kit, his heart beating wildly, liis hands trembling, his brain in a whirl. Hurrying down and out into the yard, he found the cycle ready, with the landlord beside it, concerned and sympathetic, and two or three others standing by, all anxious to help. But no Tim.

“Your friend asked me to ring up the ’ospital, sir,” explained the landlord. “The call’s just come through, and he’s taking it. Let’s hope it will be good news.” “Thanks. Where’s the ’phone?” “In my office, sir, this way.” They hurried in, and Tim, in the act of replacing the receiver, turned with a gallant assumption of cheerful confidence.” , , “All going well, so far. She s fairly comfortable,, and very anxious for you to come.” “What happened?” “Her horse threw her in the Park this morning. It must have been soon after we left.” “Is she —much hurt?”

“ ’Fraid so. . Shock, and all that, you know. But the nurse who spoke didn’t give any particulars, only that she was conscious, fairly comfortable, and waiting for you, as I said. So we must just hope for the best.” They hurried oiit again, Tim giving him directions for the quickest route. “It’s a lovely night, and you should have good going. Good-bye, old man, and good luck. Give my love to the dear mater. I shan’t be long after you.” Tony jlidn’t hear or heed the last words, as he pushed off, and settled down to a steady speed. Ever afterwards the remembrance of that night ride was vague as a dream, haunted by the one tragic conviction that his mother was dying, perhaps was already dead, without one parting word. Was that the explanation of the uncanny idea that she was somewhere close at hand, that had been so strongly in his mind all day? In some mvsterious way had her mind, her will, guided him to’Heritage? Unanswerable conjectures! Fortunately, as Tim had said, the going was good; very few motors on his side of the road, and those, he passed. His speedometer would have told a tale, if he had been challenged, but he was not, and as Big Ben chimed midnight he reached Hyde Park Corner, propped his machine against the rails, hastily asked a constable on point duty to keep an eye on it, and staggered into the hospital. The sympathetic night porter helped him shed his grimy overalls, and conducted him along to the ward, where the sister in charge came out to him.

His heart sank as he met her compassionate gaze. “I am glad you have come,” she said. “Sooner than avc dared to expect. She is waiting for you, Mr Hylton.” “Thank God! Is she—is she very much hurt?”

“I’m afraid so. The horse fell and rolled on her. But she is quite conscious and not in much pain now. She was so thankful to know that the wireless message reached you, and to have both the telephone messages.” “Both messages?” “Yes. You didn’t know, of course, but soon after your friend telephoned a lady rang up from the Manor Farm, Heritage. Miss Ford, an old friend of your mother. I wrote down her message and her number, as she wants you to ring her up at ton o’clock to-mor-row. Here it is. Perhaps you had bet-

BY JOHN IRONSIDE. (Author of “Lady Pamela’s Pearls,” “The Crime and the Casket,” “The Black Shadow,” etc).

“You went to Heritage? How, and why? Tell me ”

Briefly, brokenly, he told her of the impulse that had come to him; of the church and the tomb, and of his meeting with Dudfield. Abel still there! He must be quite old. And he remembers me —though, of course, he w r ould—dear, faithful soul! And Lucy Forde, too —she telephoned to-night, just after Tim. Did Sister tell you? It’s wonderful to be loved and remembered after all these long years! You didn’t go to the house? Or see my father —your grandfather?”

“No. We meant to go over to-mor-row morning to Dudfield’s. I doubt if I should have seen—my grandfather. Or if he would wish to see me.”

“I w r ant you to go to him, Tony. I have been thinking of so many things these last hours. I’m sorry now I did not try again to be reconciled to him. Not that I want anything from him for either of us. I don’t. And I’ve never repented of my disobedience to him. I was right, and he was wrong. You see, darling, he was furious when your father and I told him openly that we loved each other. He had set his heart on my marriage to my cousin, Dick Heritage, to keep the estates in the old name. And my Tony was a nobody in his eyes—‘an artist fellow,’ whom he looked upon as a sort of mountebank. Poor father! I wonder if he’s still as absurd and narrow-minded in his old age! He made a dreadful scene, ordered Tony out of his sight, and me to my room. Tried to make me promise never to see or write to him. I wouldn’t, of course, and a week later I ran away to Southampton, where Tony wall waiting, and we were married at once, and went off to Corsica.”

Though she still spoke in a hushed tone, for his ear alone, it was with such vivacity, her eyes were so brilliant, her face so animated, that it was difficult to think of her as a dying woman. He listened enthralled, and, for the moment, reassured. On the other side of the bed the Sister stood, watching, ready to intervene if necessary. ‘‘ I never repented or regretted. Why should I?” she continued. “It says in the Bible than a man must leave liis father and mother and cleave to his wife, and it’s the same for a woman, of course. Though I did write to my father, from Corsica. And he sent the letter back without a word. So I never wrote to him again, nor to anyone else at Heritage, not even when your father died and all my world went dark but for you, beloved, my one comfort. We have been very happy, haven’t we, Tony?” “God knows we have, darling!” lie said again. “And you’ve never minded not having any kinsfolk? You’ve never missed them?” “Never! Never! And we’re going to be happy again, Mother, for years. You are going to get better ” “No, I’m going to your father, Tony. I’m perfectly certain of that. And I am glad, so glad, except for leaving you alone. I’d like you to take me—all that’s left of me —down to Heritage. Not to be in the vault, even if my father were willing, which I doubt, but just in the little old churchyard. ‘To rest beneath the clover sod, that takes the sunshine and the rains,’ you know. I am sure the vicar would fix it up, even if he is a stranger. I expect Lucy Fordo’s dear old father went long ago. You’ll do that, Tony?” “I’ll do anything—everything you wish, Mother.” “My own boy! And then go to my father. Make peace with him if you can. Life’s too short for enmity. You needn’t ask him to forgive me—l don’t acknowledge, and I never shall, that lie had anything to forgive. It was the other way about. But give him my love tell him I’m sorry now I didn’t write to him again when I came back to England. ’ ’ She paused, and the Sister bent over her.

*‘l don’t think you should talk any more at present, Mrs Hylton. Drink this and lie quiet for a. time.” She obediently drank from the medicine glass and smiled her thanks. “It’s all right, Sister. And you’re not going to send him away yet, are you ? ’’ “Not yet. Though he wants rest, you know, and so do you.” She turned her eyes again to her son’s haggard, anxious young face.

“Yes. You must go, Tony. Go and vest—you’re just about worn out. And come back in the morning.” (To be Continued).

ter take charge of it now.” She handed him a slip of paper, which he folded and put into his pocket, without attempting to read it, and followed her softly into the ward, which loomed dim, silent and mysterious at this hour.

They passed behind the screens surrounding the bed nearest the door, where Marian Hylton lay, pale and still, under the subdued light of the shaded electric lamp at the head of the bed.

Paralysed from the waist downwards, she lay motionless, and only her eyes, wide, brilliant, eager, seemed alive. She turned them on Tony and smiled a greeting. He bent and kissed her, and took her cold, limp hand in both of his, but could not trust himself to speak for the moment.

She was quite composed, and her voice, though subdued almost to a whisper, was clear and steady. “You must have scorched to get here so soon, my son. Such a weary boy he must be! But I’m glad—so glad you have come, for there’s so much to say, and such a very little time.” “Mother! Oh, Mother, darling! Why did I leave you?” “"it would have been all the same if you hadn’t, dearest. It was all my own fault. I’d gone alone for a canter, and was off guard. Thinking of something else—of you, and of my old home — when a bugle band blared out and startled Kitty, and she bolted. That’s all. But it’s better so, really. We’ve all got to go some day, and I’ve always hoped that I should go swiftly. And we’ve been happy—so happy all these years, haven’t we?” “God knows we have, darling!”

“You’ll never forget that,. I know, mv son. And you mustn’t grieve! Listen, Tony. I’ve been away all day in spirit, back in my old home —Heritage.” “So have I, Mother. And somehow I felt you were there, too! But I never dreamed of—this!”