Novel

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 370, 11 June 1903, Page 2

Novel

CHAPTER VlL— (Contained) 'You{might tell ma {everything' said D-iris, with fond reproach. 'You know you can triEt me.' Tl e man beside her—lover though he was—did net feel bo sure. However, he replied in a way that fee knew would silence her.

' It's a very painful subject to me, Doris. You would oblige me by not mentioning it, unless yon are obliged. She cast a startled glance at him. •Then it ia true V

'There may ba some truth in it—a par tial truth. Hedworth had«ffen ded his father very bitterly/ 'He might do that without it being anything really bad,' said Doris quickly. * Fathers, you know, are—sometimes—unreasonable.'

'My father was not unreasonable,' said Gilbert. 'He was perfedtly justified—how. ver, I would rather not say any more about it, if you please, my darling. Don's speak tome of Hedworth; I wish I could forget his very name!' Dora was startled by the vehemence ef bie tone, and inferred from it, of course, the gravity of Hedworth's transgressions. She resolved, most earnestly, to conceal her knowledge of the state of affairs; but she was a bad dissembler, and was by no means able to toedwirk her friends, and family when the was interrogated as to Hedworth's disappearance and disgrace. Gilbert excused himself early that evening. He did not feel well enough, he eaid, to go to church. He had a headache. And indeed be looked pale enough to justfy his leave-taking, and even Doris felt nothing but anxiety un his account when he took his leave. But if he had a headache at all, it was merely the ache that cones cf worry and dissatisfaction with oneself. He knew that he had 'given Heddy away' again, as he phrased ittoLimeelf; yet, wbat else could he do, _ without taking a certain amount of blame *on himself. Acd Gilbert had nevei yet seen the advisability of suffering for other people. The selfishness cf the spoilt child clung round him still. If he did not let it be suspected that Hedworth had done something bad, he would be blamed on all sides for not rectifying the, wrong which Matthew Pollard had done his elder son. His own quiescence and his mother's significant silence told more than he knew; and his half-admission cf the truth to Doris might wcik even more important results. 'lf only I could'be kt alone! 1 don't want to say things that are false; I don't wish to tell the truth, which looks bo black for Hedworth; but upon my soul, I dont see what else to do,' said Gilbert, striding homeward wrathfully. 'I have to bear the brunt of it almost as though I were to blame!' And itdid not occur to him tbat in one ox two particulars, his own conduct had be« n as blameworthy as that of Hedworth himself. He went round to the mill instead cf entering the louse—now and then he felt as though he wanted to be quite alone. He opened tte doors with a pass-key, enter d the office, and turned up the gas. The night was cold, but he was irritable, too ec re at heart eo feel the chill of the deserted room. He walked about restlessly, pulled down the blind, opened hiß desk— sll by way of occupying himself, and with no particular objt-ct in view, e zcept that of distracting his thoughts. A sudden rush and Ecutter of fljisg feet serosa tte floor arrested his attention. ' These rats!' he said, looking towards the side of the rooom where they seemed to have disappeared. 'I must get Legge's terrier here some day. They seem to have got into this cupboard now.* The whole of one side of tte office was occupied by a great wcoden bureau, full of shelves and pigeon-holes on toe upper pa; t, with a roomy cupboard below, where GLbert usually kept files < f ucueed papers asd other not very valuable things. He cazeleeßly opened the doors, which were not kept locked, and was rewarded by the tight of some email, dark flying creatures wbcm he had evidently distui b:d. ' They got at the papers,' Gilbert Eaid, kneeling on one knee, asd looking into the si midarkness of the big shelves. 'Ah, newspapers torn and eaten—well, if they have net done more mischief than that, i shall not mind! It is a nest in tbat corner P His hand, poshing aside a pile of dusty papers, came in contact with somethiEg sticking up between the boards. He pulled it out and was en-prised to see that it did not tear as be pulied it—certainly it was something pretty stiff, for it rustled almost like silk when he brought it by his finger tips to tte light. It was a bank note. The rats had evidently found it adaptable for nest-making purposes. Th. yhf d eaten some of it, and tcrr, acd mauled the rest; but the number ot the note was quite distinguishable, and also the amount. And with a heart turned to stone, and a brain on fire, Gilbert perceived tat this wes tie note which re had seemed Hedworth of stealing, and that his silence concerning hiß father's

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ABBANGEMENT.] THF Conscienceof Gilbert Pollard

By Adeline Sabgeant.

COPYRIGHT.

gift had been absolutely without justification. Hedworth, was perfectly innocent; and it was Gilbert who had defrauded i im of five thousand pounds. ■ So for a time, Gdbert saw himself as God saw him, and knew that he—he. and not Hedworth—was at heart the thief. It is in theße moments of entire selfrevelation that we unconsciously determine what manner of life we mean to live, what manner of man we mean to beGilbert made his choice.

PAST 11.

CHAPTER VIII.—EUPHRASIA.

*lt is time! It is time ! Mademoiselles, come away from ze boat} you will be left behind—bon voyage, chew Mademoiselle Euphraieie; y u will come back again!' ' Good-bye, , dear madame; good-bye, Lucie, Charlotte, Molly—there iB plenty of time, Molly ,• I must just send one message—' 'Not another moment!' said madame, speaking French this time, and speaking it much rapidly than she spoke English. • Young latliesi I will conduct you again to your friends. Adieu, ma cherie, ma pauvre Euphraieie!' •Why 'pauvre,'madame?'- said :one of the girls, a tall English maiden of seventeen, who had just taken leave very reluctantly of an old Echoolfellow. with whom she had lived in intimate relationship fcr seme, ten years or so. 'She seemed pleased when she was asked to go to her coußin'B bouse to live, although I'm afraid she is only going to be a sort of nursery governess."

' It is just so,' sighed madame, a plump little Frenchwoman with the kindest Jieait in the world. 'I fear that her friindsdonot appreciate our dear child, ; and that she may be less happy with them than with us.'

'Then she will perhaps come back again,' said her pupil, ' and we shall have with us. Even dear Sainte Eulalie will not Eeem like itself without Effie Morrison.'

She sighed as sh" spoke, and madame openly wiped the tears from her eyes, and tte two younger girls alternately cried and waved their damp handkerchiefs to the.schocl.girl who was returning to her native land, after a sojourn of nearly ten years at ' Sainte Eulalie,' a very 'celebrated and successful school in the neighbourhood of Boulogne. She had become so great a favourite with pupils and teachers alike, that when, she was summoned btck to England by her guardian, the whole school was disorganised. It waß almost a wonder tbat all her schoolfellows did not'follow madame to the quay to see the last of Euphrasie, as she had been generally called; but madame was wise enough to oblige most of the farewells to be said in private, and permitted only Miss Morrison's three most devoted, friends to accompany her to the boat. • Effie Morrison—or Euphrasia, to give her the full name bestowed on her by a Scotch grandmother—hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry when Gilbert Pollard wrote, bidding her BBy gootf-bye to Sainte Eulalie and Madame Peiron's tutors, and ccme back to the Firs, which—he was good enough to add—must now be looked upon as ber permanent home. It had not been much of a heme to her Mtherto. At first she had been allowed to spend her summer holiday at Fareham; then it waß decreed that she should meet Mrs. Gilbert Pollard and the children for a month at the seaside (and talk French to the childret); and for the last three yearß she had not been to England at all. She had been soiry at first when she found that ste was to remain at Sainte Eulalie all the Eummer; but madame had been eo kind, and 6he bad received eo many invitations from ht:r school friends, and had even once been taken to Paris to see the sights, that Bhe never felt any regret when holiday time came round*. Now and then there had been a little yearning for the scenes of ker childhood, for the old mill itself, or for her favourite corners in the orchard and the wood; then there was her budding affection for Consin Doriß's children, who were as charming and unruly as Doris's children were likely to be; but her life at Siint Eulalie had become more real and more dear to her than any of theße earlier associations ; and it was a great wrench to tear herself away from her teachers and friends, and to go out into what seemed to her almost an unknown world. '

Still, it was nice to have an English home, and to know that she had net been forgotten all these years. Her Cousin Gilbert's letter had been a little cold and formal, but it held out a prospect of usefulness in which her soul delighted. ' As I daresay ytuknow,' wrote Gilbert, 'my wife leada almost the life of an invalid, and has not the strength to cope with the' children, especially as we have not a competent nurse just now. It has occurred to me, tberetore, that as the time approaches for the completion of your studies, you might find it a pleasant cLange to stay with us permanently, undertaking such duties as might fall to the children's elder sister oz aunt. As

Chirlie; 'Have you ever really loved before ?' Rose: 'No, dearie—l have often admired men for their- strength, curage, beauty, intelligence, or something like that; but with you, Charlie, it is all love —nothing else 1' . ' I am sorry, doctor, you were not ahle to attend tVe church supper last night; it would have done you good to be there.' 'lt has already done me good, madam • I have just prescribad for three of the participants.'