CHAPTER III.

Waikato Times, Volume XIX, Issue 1634, 23 December 1882, Page 3 (Supplement)

CHAPTER 111.

TRUE. Let us now return to Hector Bertram whom we last parted with on the shoulder of the range between Arrandoon and the Otira Gorge. Giving one lingering look at the well-known valley, which contained one he held so dear, and at the rapidly-retreating figure of the giant, he struck into the rugged track, and skirting the timber, arrived before nightfall at the well-known and comfortable hotel at the foot of the pass. There he remained until next day, catching the upcoach to Christchurch. It was a lovely day, but the exquisite beauty of that most romantic and picturesque of mountain passes, scarcely attracted his attention. The lofty waterfall by the side of the road, said to be second only to the celebrated fall of Staubbach, which, under other circumstances, would have been regarded by him with ecstatic delight, was passed without a second look, and the rushing Otira river, tumbling over its boulder bed in a clear dark-green mass, under the pretty white bridge, was not vouchsafed a glance. Even that marvellous piece of engineering, the winding road up the pass, cut into the solid perpendicular cliff, a road that makes even strong-nerved men tremble to contemplate, although the drivers make nothing of it, failed to arouse his notice. The time had been when the grand scenery of this wonderful region, the ever-changing panorama of purple and snow-clad peaks, of rapid rivers, of mountain tarns, of dangerous sidings,swhere a slight mistake of the driver would l|||rliurled coach, horses, and passengers, iri^i^^ctricable smash, if 'not pulp, would ft|iiiiP ea^ to *" s poet^ic'afid artistic instiijcl il]||( not so now « TT e 'dfc'n'ge'rs of the Bellj^Md the savage grandeur of the spreadi! jfl|si;makariri, rivers, the fascinating loneline »||Phe Oass, andr'of Lake Coleridge, the peri |ra|fporter'd pass, and the vast expanse Iroe^Oanterbui'y plains were passed by hip|®iif man * n a dream, and he arrived in th'jj WmSfcd °i*y °* Christchurch, by far the H S \ I i|| town in the Australias, with scarce J I sS r^ °* comment. EvJ||||||f attentions of Captain Muir, chee]l H fig' skippers, , failed to' rouse him fromS I |m|lancholy, and he landed^ in Melbdurfjjji|||| drizzly evening in April, in a frameopnlnd as dismal as the weather. rattled down to his father's h r 6™KglSt. KildaVbufc the old gentleman was' ouMßrane^h'ad 'therefore a nights respite frdffl^b;attle'thafhe felt had to' be v fought

M^ifiSj'ilinot-jwop&'snfig looks,' attd that the ' h6tt& : i&iwa4b\ie% laf state i of 'unrest and ',fie,Venfearl3r'to J bed, ! feut with theiiriornmjs'&urfe A w6iiderf ul and 'startling revelation. The wealthy 'arid influential firm of Bertram, Tilbury an'd Co., w»s no more. The head of the house, his own father, the respectable and all -potent Mr. Bertram, had been for years a liringlie — either that, or a weak-minded fool. Bertram and Tilbury, whose bills had been looked upon as good as bank notes, was practically defunct, and its paper was not worth the paper it was written on. Tilbury, the London partner, had been carrying on a fine game, overbuying, underselling, raising money in all sorts of crooked ways,' and Bertram had, so it was said, connived at the -fraud, and, had, although not directly implicated; been speculating madly in all kinds of ventures. A confidential clerk had meant while been feathering his own nest, and being a prominent member of a fashionable church, had gone away to Oallao, or elsewhere, with another man's wife. Take it altogether, it w&a aa pretty a kettle of fish as any young artist-poet need wish for. All this was told him by the old housekeeper as a kind of appetiser for his breakfast, she being the only servant who had remained, the rest having disappeared during the night, carrying with them, probably, such light portable property as they could take. Even while she spoke a couple of shabbylooking men came up in a cab to take an inventory of the furniture, having been instructed to that end, by the respectable firm of Dodson and Fogg, solicitors, who held protested bills, and who, sharp practitioners as they were, had lost no time in protecting the interests of their clients. For poor Hector this was an overwhelming blow. Not the poverty, but the disgrace. His Jessie was now further off from him than ever, for Geordie Elliott, who might have over-looked the one would never overlook the other. Hector could eat no breakfast. He had no right to eat of the creditors' substance, he had no right in the house. The bailiffs were civil enough, but they gave him to understand that he wasn't wanted there. He had absolutely no home, and but very little money. It was a bitter shock, but it made a man of him. He had hitherto been a purposeless dreamer, now he must be a worker. He went to the office, determined to know the worst. He found it closed, and in possession of the officers of the law. They were not unkind to him, but they too made him speedily comprehend that he had no business there. They, however, handed him a letter which had already been opened. It was from his father, and was brief and to the point. It ran thus : — " My dear Hector, when or where, or whether you will get this Ido not know. I have been mad, perhaps criminal, a gambler and loorse. Igo to seek a place of refuge, perhaps in the river or elsewhere. God knaios. I cannot face those I have wronged, you amongst others. Forgive and pity your broken-hearted father if you can. God btess you and farewell. Matthew Bertram. Nothing more. No clue except perhaps — he shuddered to think of it, and turned away with dry eyes, but with his brain in a whirl. Three years have come and gone, and ! Hector Bertram is a man of mark. His pictures, especially those of New Zealand scenery, have created a furore in London. He has acquired fame, and what neoessarily follows, wealth. The fashionable and artistic world has taken up the pensive and handsome young painter, and his pictures are eagerly sought after. What then ? Why this. In a rude yet comfortable slab hut, of none too many rooms, in the Arrandoon Valley, sit five persons. One an old man, more grey and haggared than when we saw him last, one young giant with straw coloured hair, and a black cutty pipe, one other young giant rather blackavised, one young maiden in the blush and beauty of womanhood, and the artistpoet. What are they taking off ? What matter ? But Geordie Elliott says, and we must listen to him :—": — " Eh laddie, its a wondrous, and a piteous story, and I canna yefc wee! mak it a' oot. We thockt never to hae heerd o' ye again, but my Jess wadno lippen to that. Ye've won her my lad, and lang may | ye wear her. God bless ye my lad, baith you and my bonnie Jess, and may — " but his voice faltered, and the rest was a whispered prayer. More need not be told, except that Hector Bertram finished by saying, " And please God we'll have the old homestead rebuilt in the same spot and — nay, I'll take no denial, for I've said it, and I'm now halE an Elliott, and ye ken " we Elliotts are aye faithful — faithful till death."