Copyright Story. A Desperate Measure.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue II, 14 July 1900, Page 55

Copyright Story. A Desperate Measure.

(By

EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN.)

“1 don’t care if it is! I’m a desperate woman, and desperate people are driven to desperate measures!” The speaker was a girl of extraordinary' beauty, and sylph-like in form, with a fawn-like grace of movement, wonderful eyes of vivid blue, a delieale rose-leaf colouring, and clouds of golden hair framing the perfect oval of the face. But the expression of that child-like face was at this moment almost tragic, and the blue eyes were dilated with a look that betokened at once anger, dismay and fear.

“Well, Connie,” said her elder sister not unkindly, but rather as though she were reasoning with a spoilt child, “of course 1 know that you don’t want to marry Sir Andrew, and that you do want to marry Leonard Carrington: but, after all, what we want at nineteen isn’t a matter of such importance as you fancy now. I know all about it, child. You needn't stare at me with those big reproachful eyes of yours. Do you think I didn’t go through it myself once? I can tell you I was madly in love with —no. I won't tell you his name; he's come utterly io grief this last little bit on the turf. I thank my stars 1 was stopped from making that blunder. And as for being very much in love with my old man when I married him—why, that was not even expected ot me. But father and mother had chosen him. and he wished to have me. and 1 knew he'd be Lord Vanstone before io:;g. And see me now, with everything want, a kind husband, whom I thoroughly like and respect, and who holds an exalted position, and will never give me cause to blush for him. even if he never sets the Thames on fire! That’s the kind of man to marry, my dear; and Sir Andrew will be just such another. I know he’s not very young, and not handsome or dashing, or anything to take a girl's eyes. But he’s very well off, and a kind, dependable man; and you'd better make the best of the match offered you.” “I don't believe he is a kind man!" flashed Connie. “I saw him in the Park with his dog once, and the dog wouldn’t take the water at his bidding. You should have seen his face, and how he punished him for it. I have hated him .ever since. Sometimes when he sees me shrink away from him. or refuse him something he asks. I see the shadow of that same look come into his face, and then I fear him—and hate him."

“O that's all fancy, you silly child. I never heard a word against him. You'd better make up your mind to it -as I did.”

"Yes. it’s because you did, that they all think I will!” answered Connie, stamping her foot, “but Sir Andrew isn’t like Vanstone, say what .you will. Not that I would have married to order if he had been. But he isn't, and I won’t have him; and since they are bent upon it 1 am going to appeal to Uncle Jim.”

“I can’t quite think what you think you'll get by that. Besides, when I'ncle Jim came home from South Africa with a big fortune and found that father had become a Radical, he wouldn't even look at him. or own him. or anything. Father thought he'd not care a rap about that sort of thing; but it seems the old Tory instincts are tremendously strong in him. They've never met hut once; ami that was to quarrel fearfully. I don't know that he'd see you if you presented yourself; and if he did what eould he do?"

“If Uncle Jim took up my case," said Connie sagely, “you would soon sec what would happen. It's like gall and wormwood to father and mother •bat their millionaire relation won't have anything to say to them. Of course. I'ncle Jim may turn me out. or he may lie horrid and unkind, or lie may only laugh at me. But if somebody doesn't help me I believe they'll drag me off to church nnd marry me to Sir Andrew whether I will or no; nnd if it comes to that I don't know whether I’d have the pluck to say ‘1 won’t' at the altar. Sometimes I'm afraid 1 shouldn't.”

Lady \ anstone was cogitating the matter thoughtfully, her eyes fixed on Connie’s lovely race. “Well, child," she said at last, "I’m not sure but what you might make a worse move. It seemed a desperate measure when you first spoke of it; but perhaps there is a reasonable hope that something might come of it. It would certainly l»e a great thing to be taken up by Uncle Jim.” “I don't want his money!" cried Connie almost angrily. "1 only want his help. But I know if he were to take sides with me and Leonard, it would make all the difference in the world.” “And when are you going?” “To-day—directly after lunch. It's only when I come to you that I get any liberty at all. At’ home there is somebody after me every moment of the day. I wouldn’t go from your house. Margaret, without telling you. Bu- I’m going, and when I’ve been i ll come back here, and tell von what happened.” “Do.” answered Margaret with interest. “and you shall have the carriage to take you. I don’t particularly want it this afternoon, and you are too young to drive about London in cabs by yourself.” Connie, being inspired by a desperate sort of courage, had not trembled al rny of the details of the campaign': S*i'l she admitted that it was more comfortable to have her sister’s carriage and servants in attendance, •than to have to make her way about afoot, or in hired vehicles alone—a thing she had never so far done in her sbclicred and protected young life. It was in a great palace of an hotel where her uncle had taken up his quaiiers. He could not be bothered with house and servants, he had said; and never knew where he would b tt off to next. So he had rooms in this huge building, and the porter snowed respect to the young lady who had arrived in. the eoroneted carriage, and asked for Mr Drummond. "Be is in his rooms, madam, but he seldom sees visitors.” *f?' ’’Y 1 1 ani a relation. I will go up,” said Connie, with a confidence she was far from feeling; “I don” want to be announced. I want to be shown his rooms, and Take him bv surprise.” f-he held out her card as she spok to show that her name, too, was Drummond; and the childlike frankness of her speech, together with the e'cgance and style of her appearance, produced the desired effect upon the servai. f. “Then 1 will put you iu the lift, madam, and instruct the boy. It is against his orders, but for a lelaive—” “Oh, yes, of course, relations are quite different,” answered Connie eagerly. "It will be all right. You need not be afraid. Mr Drummond is my uncle. 1 want to give him a surprise.” But Connie’s heart was lieating almost to suffocation as she stood at length before the door that had been indicated to her as the one of Mr Drummond’s sitting-room. And when she heard a gruff voice shout out “Come in” she felt much more disposed to turn tail and run away. But it was too late now, and with •the thought of her desperate situation her courage returned. She turned the handle of the door and walked boldly in. It was a pleasant enough room that she saw before her—large and lofty, with big windows looking out towards the traffic of the embankment: ami the great river. It was furnished with big easy chairs, a big writing table, everything big and massive—to match in their way the great massive figure of the occupant, which rose up to confront her as she stood hesitating just inside the threshold. "I think you have made a mistake, young lady.” spoke the big voice and a gleam of fun twinkled in the deep caverns of eyes under the hushv brows. “I am Nos. 310 to 312. What room do you want? Perhaps you are on the wrong floor.” “No. 1 came here on purpose.” answered Connie, trying to steady her voice. “I am your niece. Uncle Jim.