Will Warburton

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVI, Issue 40, 16 February 1905, Page 6

Will Warburton

A ROMANCE o:F eeal life ' (^^^\ By GEORGE GISSING ,(Author of "Demos/ , "The Natherv - . . World," etc.)

CHAPTER IX. UNDEE HIS OWN ROOF

' Somehow Bob Anncsleigh was unable to get the memory of tbat strange woman out of his mind.

What could she know concerning the •tragedy of the old mansion, the landmark that was now gone? He puzzled over this as his train ran through the northern suburbs of New York and then among the country scenes. What did this woman mean? Bob. hated mysteries, and had been endeavouring to look upon this particu* lar enigma in which, after such an odd, blind fashion, he had become entangled, as a closed episode.

Now his mind went back to the tragic scenes of tbat night, the dramatic incidents marking- his farewell 1, to his elegant bachelor apartments; and he found himself thrilled at the reniembraaee of how even a duel had been prevented by a close shave.

Captain Elliott would continue to hate him, and yearn to be his undoing; Gregory must also cherish anything but friendly feelings for him; and as for that bold soubrette, Leola Glenwcod, whom he had once so mortally offended, and who was now. he had reason to believe, Elliott'e wife —ugh! the less he thought of her the better.

Perhaps, after all, the woman, at the statical had been, indulging in too much etrong drink. "I'm hanged if I let a drunken woman's ravings upset ine!" Bob told himself. "I won't waste another thought over it!"

It was a resolution almost as easy to keep as, to .make on this glorious October morning.

Changing at a station to a local train, he finally reached his destination among the famous Eerkshires, now aglow in all their autumn glory.

How invigorating and sweet the air seemed, compared with that of the city, wit hits many disagreeable odours!

The station agent fussed up to him with precisely the same remark that he had made on Annesleigh's last two flying visits.

"Come back for long, sir? You've chosen a seasonable time of year for your visit."

AtinesleigU laughed

"Back for good this time, Mr. Barry,"' he said. "Ah, Jerry!" to the. elderly man with ;i fresh, ruddy complexion who came up with a smile puukering his face into many wrinkles; "you're looking fit, Jerry," shaking hands vigorously.

"And you look . hearty enough, too, Master Bob," said Jerry, looking at the young man with kindling eyes. Jerry' had brought the trap to meet him.

Annesleigh jumped in and took the lines to hold the restless horse while his belongings were placed aboard. Then Jerry climbed up, and the cob started cheerfully.

The irregular village, street was soon left far behind. Bob laughed aloud in sheer boyish lightness of heart. The fresh wind from the open land met him; a turn of the road brought to his eyes the infinite sweep of brown and purple and gold, and the outline of rugged hills losing themselves in gray mist. A long, steep climb rose before "them, and the cob settled into a walk.

Jerry ransacked his memory for etary particle of news that might interest his master—Jerry, who had passed most of his life in the service of the Annesleighs, who had given young Bob his first lessons in fishing, swimming, and riding, and had been his confidant in endless boyish escapades. When Bob's parents died it had been in the natural order of things that there should be no change where Jerry and his wife, the lad's old nurse, were concerned. They were part and parcel of his home, and there they should stay for the remainder of their lives, whatever other changes there might be. At the top of the hill Bob gave his horse a breathing spell; then the road made a gradual descent, until, turning a bend guarded by a cluster of granite boulders, it brought the house in sight. It was a long, low, half-timbered building, with irregular windows and many gables,* a quaint and picturesque dwelling around which one's heart could easily cling with solicitude, even affection. A -verandah ran along one side, over which honeysuckle and climbing roses twined.

A warm welcome awaited him from the housekeeper, good old soul —Jerry's mate. A dog or two appeared from the back, and barked a salutation until he patted their heads.

How nice it was—even to the fire which crackled on the hearth; for the evening was closing in quite chilly for the season.

"Dinner will be ready in five minutes, Master Bob," she said, bustling off. "I won't be three." he sang out, iov-

Still lie was tempted to stand where she had left him, looking around the big, square hall. Somehow"~it had the air —or, at least, it pleased him to imagine so—of having been waiting for his return.

His eyes wandered around, took in every familiar object—the big, oak settle by the low hearth, where, as a boy, he had often sat upon his mother's knee, listening to stories of giants and hobgobb'ns wliile the scolding wind blustered down the wide chimney; the sporting prints that his father- had loved hanging on the dark wainscot, and the trout rods suspended by hooks from the timetoned rafters of the low ceiling. Everything had a memory and a welcome. The sense of home swept over him strongly. "Oh, but it's good to be back!" he kept saying to himself, again and again, caressingly. "It's good!" Then Annesleigh remembered Mrs Deane's injunction about five minutes of grace.

Jove! how hungry he was! He ran upstairs, three steps at a time, and into the old bedroom of his boyhood. His bags had already been placed there. So he plunged his face into a

jasin of cool w.ater, and, feeling like a :oy again, came down just as the housekeeper brought in the dishes. Everything charmed him—more flies ever before, it seemed. A spotless white cloth of drawn threadwork was laid dia-mond-shape on the old table, revealing corners of polished English oak, against which the silver and glass glittered; and a touch of colour was wrought by a low dish , of freshly-picked flowers in the centre. The two dogs took up favourite positions, one on each side of his chair.

How good it was to be home! he told himself, for the hundredth time.

When dinner waa over he strolled out into the old-fashioned garden, with the dogs at his heels, on a voyage of inspection ; then sat on the verandah and watched the stars come out in the darkening sky, while he smoked pipe after pipe, and sipped the fragrant Java decoction Jerry's good wife brought to him.

He sat staring out into the dusk.

Beyond the sloping gaTden the distant woods showed mysterious and purply dim; there came to his ears the faint sound of falling waters. Everywhere lay the hush of deep stillness; the exquisite sense of peace swept over him. He was wondering at his own faithlessness. This was his home; how could he have deserted it for so long? New York had drawn him away—Gotham and the wild oats, most men have to sow- T.at his home was here, and his true, better self was here. He had, it seemed, come back to both to-night.

Almost up to the fence on one side of his garden ran the estate Rushmore was buying—an extensive property that would keep hie hands full in managing it. He would have to work hard —doubly hard, because the late owner had neglected it; but Annesleigh contemplated the prospect cheerfully enough.

"Glad of the chance to put my back into hard work. I've been growing stale in New York," he told himself, pulling reflectively at his pipe. "Soon get into form again here, though. It was mighty nice of old Rushmore!"

Of course, he owed it to Rushmore to work his hardest. The generous offer his friend had made as to salary had drawn a protest from Annesleigh; but the elder man had insisted on having his way. How like Rushmore that was! If only the mail had come along a few weeks earlier he would not have written that letter to Enid. Annesleigh reflected. There would have been no need.

He wished he had not written it. A conviction haunted him that he had wounded Enid, and it troubled him. He would have gone over to-night, to have the matter out with her; but she had wired, in answer to his telegram, that she could not see him until to-morrow, lie would ride over directly after breakfast.

Yes, lie must in some way have ■wounded her. It coukl not be his offer to release her from their engagement. That, sue would understand, he was bound in honour to do when he found himself practically a pauper. Could it be that some thing had crept in between the lines, suggesting to her that he would not be altogether sorry if the engagement were broken? He remembered that when he wrote this possibility had seemed almost a relief. Her letters had stung him by their coldness; he had persuaded himself that she was capable of no depth of affection. Had Enid read something of his own changed feelings toward her?

"I'll never forgive myself if I've hurt Enid by giving her as much as an inkling!" he told himself, savagely. And he rose and went back into the house.

In the hall, where he usually sat, Mrs. Deane had lighted the lamps. Though the night was not cold, the crackling hickory logs on the hearth seemed pleasantly companionable. Annesleigh picked up a book, and found it dull. He pitched the offending volume across the room.

After all, even if Enid were not the woman he had once dreamed of—his thoughts persistently Tunning in the same groove—was he ever likely to find his ideal, to find a woman who would approach it more nearly that Enid? Only fools hoped to find perfection, he told himself, with the feeling of one who had struck out a new and original truth. Enid was a well-bred, beautiful, and clever woman. . Only that morning Rushmore had said that lots of men would envy him.

This was his home, and he loved it; but in it one thing was lacking, something it had missed since his mother died years ago —the subtle, feminine atmosphere with which a woman's presence invests a home. Annesleigh. told himself that he would be a .lucky man if to-morrow Enid decreed that their engagement should continue—a very lucky man!

He walked across to the open window; the wind rustled through the pines outside, and stirred the muslin curtains gently. He stared out into the dark. Enid was over yonder, not more than eight miles away. Was she thinking of him now? Was she glad or indifferent that he was so near? His mind could picture her—graceful, proud, beautiful —as plainly as though she stood before him. Yes, he would be a lucky man if to-morrow she bade him stay.

AiTVesleigh turned away from the window, and filled his pipe again; then discovered he had used his last match. He picked up a newspaper lying on one of the tables, and began to tear off a strip from the front page to make a lighter, almost mechanically looking at the date as he did so.

It was a New York "Herald," about two months old. Probably Mrs. Deane had been reading it. It was always immaterial to her whether a newspaper was of yesterday's date or last* month's. "News was news, just the same," she would say. As he glanced at the date, his attention was arrested by something in the personal column almost immediately below. Two initials leaped out from the print—they were his own—and drew his eye to a paragraph he might not otherwise have seen.

"R. A. Night of "he read. And the date given was that of the night when he had stumbled upon the tragedy in the empty house near . MorningsideHeights. "The woman who left you in the fog would not have you think her ungrateful."

Annesleigh stared at the paper. That he was the "R. A." referred to he could not doubt. The brief, strange message could.be intended for no one but himself. The second echo An one day of that unsolved mystery! " Yes, he had thought it ungracious that the, girl with the auburn locks he had sayjrl should slip'away without a word. It had wounded him a, little,

though he scarcely admitted it to himself. And she had divined that he might feel hurt, and had been at pains to send him this message.

Why she bad not written to him direct at his old address, which clearly she knew, he had no weans of guessiiJg. Perhaps >she had heard that he had given up the flat, and feared a note might fall into other hands.

He stared at the brief message. No reason was given why she had chosen to leave him so abruptly. But, after all, that was her own affair, he recognised. She "would not have him think her ungrateful." Somehow the words touched him strangely—the words and ithe womanly impulse that had prompted them. The advertisement had appeared only two days after the event. It was odd that it should have been left for the first night of his return to the Berkshires—to his horne —to receive this reminder of that unknown and mysterious girl who had come into his life for a moment out of the dark.

He had seen her face for the first time on that awful night; yet it was a quite easy to recall, with its wisttul beauty that was the extreme contrast of Enid's.

Such a face he thought Greuze might have painted. How vividly it recurred in his memory! That wonderful glory of dark hair that had the red of autumn in it—it made him think of the sunsets on the mountains. And like the wind that sighed among the hills of his home had seemed her voice, with its note of fear and pain.

"A face that a man might dream of," he said softly to himself, thinking of his own old dream; and, thinking thus, he fell asleep, perchance to gaze upon the same face again in fancy. i (To be continued Caily.)