The Awakening of Theodore Wrenn,

Wairarapa Daily Times, 14 March 1935, Page 7

The Awakening of Theodore Wrenn,

(COPYRIGHT.) PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BY JAMES RONALD, rAuthor of “The Secret of Hunter’s Keep,” “The White Card,” v “The Monocled Man,” etc.) a

CHAPTER XXV. “If you stand up here, sir, on this hit of a rise, and look over there, to the left a bit, you’ll see the steeple of the parish church of Little Monkton. Just there’o the south boundary of the estate, Sir Theodore.” Beale, the bailiff, a little man in riding breeches, with mouse-coloured hair and wrinkled, weather-beaten features, was speaking. He pointed a thick ash stick towards a tall spire half a mile away. Sir Theodore Wrenn, very countrified in a suit of shaggy brown tweeds, looked in the direction of the pointing stick, and felt a thrill of pride as his eye travelled over the broad acres which were his, to the church steeple which identified the boundary of his domains. These fields, laid out like neat pocket handkerchiefs in various shades of green and gold and putty, were his — his! It was wonderful, this first taste of proprietorship of good, honest soil. Anne had gone the day before to spend a few weeks -with some friends in Cornwall, leaving Theodore at a loose end in London. She had suggested that the time was ripe for him to go down to Gay Ladies and inspect the estate which he had inherited. He had been none too eager to return to the place which held so many unpleasant memories for him, but it was remarkable how enthuiastie ho was now that he actually stood upon his own solid earth.

“That’s a neat little steading over yonder.” Theodore pointed to a farmhouse in the valley, surrounded by wellfenced fields in which sleek cows were browsing. Beale nodded.

“You’re right, Sir Theodore, a neat little property it is, ’ ’ he replied. ‘ ‘ Been in one family for 80 years, too. Pity we ’ll have to be seeking a new tenant soon. Old farmer wants to retire.”

“By the way, Beale,” said Theodore reflectively. “Do you remember an Esther White, whoso father was a labourer on one of the farms about here?” The bailiff, looked at his new master oddly. “Now it’s funny that you should ask that, Sir Theodore,” he commented. “For that very farm was the one Old White worked'on for the best'part of his life. A stone’s throw from the farm-house you can see the cottage he lived in with Esther, his daughter. A decent, nice girl she was, if. a little inclined to keep herself to herself, which didn’t please everybody around her, if you understand me, Sir Theodore. She hasn’t been in these parts since her father died a few years ago. Went to London, so some said.” Theodore nodded, and looked again at the well-kept farmstead where Mrs Hargreaves had spent her girlhood. An idea was beginning to take shape in his mind.

He spent a happy weelc-end at Gay Ladies, and went up te London filled with pride about his new possessions. The first morning he was back he met a client of Gentry, Green, and Gentry while walking down the Strand. That worthy submitted him to a searching scrutiny. “You’re looking well, Mr Wrenn — Sir Theodore, I should say. Heard about your stroke of luck. Congratulations. You deserved it.” With a quizzical glance, he added: “The old firm’s going a bit to the dogs. Still for sale, I hear. I’m withdrawing my business of course. Traid Gentry, Green, and Gentry are just about at their last gasp. Pity!”

With a pang of remorse, Theodore realised how ho had deserted the firm for which he had worked for a dozen years, and which had meant so much in his life. When he left his friend, he went straight to Chancery Lane. He stopped outside the dingy, two-storeyed building, sandwiched between its taller, more imposing neighbours, and surveyed the .worn brass plate, which had evidently not been polished for weeks. The building had a more dilapidated air than over before. It was almost as though it realised that it had been deserted.

Clenching his fists, Theodore ran lightly up the stairs, past the first landing and on to the second storey, where the caretaker had his room. The caretaker was in, and sitting in an old armchair with his feet on the mantelpiece and a pipe in his mouth. He looked up with a ridiculous expression of amazement on his features.

; “The plate downstairs hasn’t been polished for weeks,” said Theodore tersely. “Do it at once—and see that you make a job of it.” He walked to the window, and drew a circle on the grime which almost rendered the glass opaque. “Phone the window-cleaners, and tell them to come over at once. And give the stairs and landings a good scrubbing to-night. No more slacking in future* if you want to keep your job.” He Avent downstairs and into the main office. There Avas a dead hush as ho came in. Then Miss Maudesly sprang up Avith a startled cry: “Mr Wrenn! ”

Theodore looked round the room, noting the depressed, beaten look on all of the faces. He was touched to see hoAv pathetically broken both Gifford and Miss Maudesly looked. “Yes, I’m back,” he said in a kindly tone. “Back for good. I just Avanted to tell you all, that Ave’re going to give Gentry, Green and Gentry a neAV lease of life. The old firm is good for another hundred years. Someone said to me a little Avliile ago that it is going to the dogs. Well, Avo’re all going to put our backs into the job of showing that Avorld that it isn’t.” With a little lump in liis throat, he went into his old room and sat at the dusty desk. He telephoned to Millar.

“It’s Wrenn,” he said Avlien he heard his friend’s voice.

“Wrenn —Theodore! It’s good to hear your voice again. I heard about your good fortune. Congratulations, old boy. I Avish it Avas a million.” “Millar, old man,” said Theodore huskily. “I Avant you to come round here at once. To Chancery-lane. Yes, I’m back, and you and I are going to bo partners 1 after all. Will you come?” There was an excited gasp from the other end of the Avire.

“Will I come?” repeated Millar. “Will I? In ten minutes I’ll bo Avith you. ’ ’ The executors of the late Daniel

Gentry got the surprise of their lives when Sir Theodore Wrenn telephoned them and announced that he and liis partner, Mr Millar, would buy the business of Gentry, Green, and Gentry, after all, at the price agreed upon at their last meeting. A conference was quickly arranged for® the follorving morning. Then Theodore ’phoned a firm of builders and decorators, and made arrangements for the building to be redecorated inside and out. The old firm was to have a new lease of life with a vengeance! ; !i Ho had a scheme for turning some of the cottages on his property into week-end houses for his employees, and eventually retiring the oldest (if they could be persuaded to retire) to spend their last .years in comfort and peace in the country. Late that afternoon, Theodore took a taxi to the quiet, working-class suburb in which Mrs Hargreaves lived. Mrs Hargreaves, cheerful and tidy as before, was weeding her front garden path when Theodore arrived. Her plump, rosy little baby boy was basking in the sun upon the tiny lawn. Mrs Hargreaves flushed with pleasure as she recognised Theodore. “I’m delighted to see you, Mr Wrenn, sir,” she exclaimed, offering her hand diffidently (Theodore wrung it with warmth). “Billy,” she called to the child, “come and shake hands with Mr Wrenn. Oh, I’m sorry, sir, it’s Sir Theodore now, isn’t it? I read about Sir Anthony’s death in the paper. I won’t say I’m sorry, for I’m not, but I’m real pleased that you’ve inherited his estate. You’ll be a good squire I’m sure. Better than him in a hundred ways. Excuse me for running on like this, sir, only I do know you’ll love Gay Ladies, and the land about it.” “I love it already,” said Theodore, “and I know that you love it,-too. That is why what I have to say will probably interest you. By the way, have you found an investment for your five hundred pounds yet? That legacy from your uncle in Australia, I mean?” Mrs Hargreaves shook her head. “Not yet, sir. It isn’t very easy to decide. We want something safe, you see, and yet, we want to get on in life, does Bill and me—mostly for the sake of little Billy, here. First we thought of a newsagent’s business, but neither of us knows anything about the trade. And we’ve thought of poultryfarming, and going in for pigs, and, and —but it isn’t easy to decide.” Theodore looked down at the gravel path. “The farm on which you spent your girlhood will shortly be tenantless,” ho said. “I wonder if j-ou’d care to consider it?”

He heard a gasp of delighted amazement, then his hand was seized in a warm clasp. “Oh, sir, do you really mean it? Why that rvould be paradise for Bill and me, and the youngster. Oh, it does sound too good to be true. We’d never dared to set our hopes as high as that!”

“Then in that case,” said Theodore, Avith a little cough, “the place is yours. It Avon’t be empty for three months, but if you like, I ’ll lend you a cottage in the neighbourhood meantime, so that you can get accustomed again to the district.” He left, very much embarrassed, Avith the praises of the good woman ringing in his ears. Ho Avrote a long letter to Anne that night, telling her all about his hopes and plans, and hinting (though he didn’t dare voice the hope too plainly) that he Avanted her to share them Avith him. Por the next feAv days ho Avas very busy Avith the Avork of rehabilitating the firm of Gentry, Green and Gentry. One morning, on arrHing at the office, he found a letter aAvaiting him from Anne. A letter Avhich brought his castles crashing about him. CHAPTEB XXVI. “Dear Theodore, “I am delighted to hear lioav you are rebuilding the lives of other people, and incidentally your orvn. You seem to have found your feet, and your place in the Avorld. I had hoped that money Avould not make you forget your old ambitions, and I am pleased to see that it has not. “There isn’t enough money in the world, my dear, to make it Avofth Avliile for a real man to be idle. With idleness comes indigestion and gout and mental degeneration. Work is one of the most vital factors for health that exists. “I, too, am Avorking again. By the time you read this letter, I shall be on my Avay to Scotland to fulfil a commission. After that, I am going abroad, so you see, Ave may not meet for quite a long time. But I Avill remember you —and I hope that you Avill remember me. “In our day-dreams Avlien I was recovering from my illness, avo talked as though Ave should never be parted again, as though we were going to be companions through life. It was a IoA-ely dream, but it was only a dream, and dreams don’t come true in real life. Let’s be frank; although avo never mentioned it, our dream included marriage, and I can never marry you, my dear. NeA r er. (To be Continued).