A STEPMOTHER TO THE RESCUE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVIII, Issue XXI, 24 May 1902, Page 1003

A STEPMOTHER TO THE RESCUE

(By

Evelyn Glover.)

“I won’t,” said Pamela, “so there! Haven'* I told you heaps of times that I don’t intend to marry?” “Oh, I know that, dear. But Hugh is a good fellow. I, his stepmother, say so. Is it possible you are going to be so—so pig-headed as not to let me tell Hugh that there's nothing between you and this Mr. Darwell?”

“Yes I am!” said Pamela. “If I come to stay with you and I’m taken to a dance, and I meet a friend there, aud your stepson chooses to imagine things because I sit out two dances ”

“Two? When I asked Frank how you’d got on he mentioned four or five.”

“Well, I never was good at figures. Moreover, I don’t mind telling you—only it mustn’t go further —that Leonard Harwell's just engaged to a girl at home; but it isn’t out because they’re so poor. She was to come yesterday to stay with some people here, and I was giving him the latest news of her.”

“Oh, Pamela! And you won’t even let me say that ”

“No, I wont; it’s too silly! And if you bother me any more, Molly, I shall just tell them to wire for me from home.”

Now, considering that my guest had sought me out with an indignant inquiry us to why my eldest stepson was “going on like an idiot,” and I, seeing further than either individual concerned, had essayed explanation, I felt injured. I didn’t like it, especially as I was certain that Pamela’s indifference was a brave, neat little piece of feigning.

“You come to tea, and don’t be a goose!” 1 said. “I’m going for a tramp,” said Pamela firmly—“to walk things off.” When I went to tea it was to find Hugh staring at the fire disconsolately-

“Where’s Pam—Miss Holt?”

“She’s out. Gone for a long walk.” Hugh stood at my side in silence, while 1 supplied his material wants from a tea-table.

Then he said: “Do you know, Mol-ly,-I—l sometimes think I’ll volunteer.”

I bit my lip. “Why, dear?” “I don’t know. I’m a bit sick of things.” And then we fell into a cheery halfhour’s conversation about useless lives, anti people who weren’t wanted, and soldiers’ graves. Till at last I jumped up in desperation.

“Well, I want to go down to Frognail’s to change my book. Come with me if you’ve nothing better to do.” Now our shortest way into the town lay through a small public park, laid out with banks and gravel walks, and neat, regimental flower-beds.

As we were hurrying in the gathering twilight along one of its lower paths A I looked up suddenly at the sound of footsteps above. A a tall, thin young man was walking in our direction on a raised edition of our own gravelled thoroughfare. Hugh had glanced up too.

“There’s that chuckle-headed ass Darwell!” he exclaimed, as if in spite of himself.

Then he added hastily: “As I was saying, Molly, if I were lucky enough to sail next month - ”

Suddenly I felt that the figure above us had come to a standstill and was peering down through the leafless trees. And with the realisation Pamela’s description came back to me with a flash. “Your double. ’Member my telling you I’d rushed upon a girl in a bootshop?” "Hugh, dear, don’t go!" I said very audibly. And I ben? forward and kissed him. I heard the quick cracking of a dry branch above.

“What on earth's the matter?” naked Hugh. “Oh, nothing’* the matter,” I said. “I’m tired and worried, and you haven't been particularly enlivening this afternoon. I think, after all, I won’t go on to Frognail's. If you want to be an angel you might change this book for me, and I’ll walk slowly home. Ask for ‘The Comments of a Countess.”

I pressed the book into his hand and waited. For a moment there was no sound from the bank behind us. But as Hugh turned and left me I saw Leonard Darwell swing round and set off at a brisk pace in the same direction.

It was some hours later, and I sat before my looking glass, my hair down my back, and waving irons in my hand. Suddenly a hammering upon my door nearly made me jump out of my chair. With one rush Hugh was behind me and a hasty, awkward kiss was shot, so to speak, on to my forehead. “Look here!” I said, springing to my feet and turning round before he had time to speak, “I don’t mean to be rude, but you know I can’t stand gush, Hugh!” “You—you fraud!” gasped Hugh, incoherent with laughter aud excitement. “Do you know- what’s happened ?”

“I can’t think,” I said. "Why, that ass Darwell”—Hugh grasped both my hands and tumbled into explanation—“he’s a really good sort, after all! He—he thought w-hen he saw you kiss me the other day that you w’ere his girl; and he’s not engaged to Pamela!” “Oh, dear me, no!” I said. “He's not engaged to Pamela-” “Well, but I thought they were! And he was going to meet his girl—she’s staying with some people here — at the park gates this very afternoon, and when he saw us ,he thought you were her—don’t you see?—because you’re her very double, and he came after me, and offered to brain me like a gentleman, and I only waited to shake hands with him, and then 1 bolted home and met Pamela half way, and it’s all right, and we’re engaged!” “Hurrah!” I said, brandishing the wavers.

“And, Molly—tell me—Pamela says you knew I was down ta the mouth, and you knew she was awfully like

you—Darrell’s girl, I mean—and she’d forbidden you to name the »ut> ject to me. Pamela, I—was that why —I mean did you?”

“Of course I did!” “You thought of it all in a mil*, ute?” , -.J.

“In the twinkling of an eye,” I said, solemnly. “I didn’t know who he waa till you recognised him.” Hugh raised my hand suddenly to his lips. | “It was just uncommonly clever! I never, never should have—” “No,” said a sudden voice behind us, “you wouldn’t. You’d just hav6 hugged conclusions of your own. and taken boafi for South Africa, and little things like that, wouldn’t you?” And Pamela—a blushing, mirthful repentant Pamela—found her way into my arms.