A Short Story.

Matamata Record, Volume II, Issue 88, 27 June 1918, Page 4

A Short Story.

J (In Two Parts). / (All Rights Reserved.) THE DESIRE OE THEIR HEARTS. BY J. S. FLETCHER. Author of “Daniel Quayne,” “The Threshing Floor,” “The Harvest Moon,” “The Golden Hope,” “Bonds of Steel,” &c. PART I. For many <t long year Martin Renshaw and Richard Moore had been known to all the folk of Ashdalc as David and Jonathan. In spite of the fact that they were in a sense rivals in business, and that their respective cotton factories faced each other from opposite sides of the valley, the two men were such close and inseparable friends that not a day passed which did not find them .spending several hours in each other’s company. They journeyed to the neighbouring city together; they lunched at the same club; they were always found side by side in the smoking-room. Their friends used to tease them about their extraordinary fondness for each other, and ask them if they had any secret reason for it. The real reason was that both had similar ideas and interests. As poor lads they had been born and bred in the same village, and each had slowly and surely fought his way to fortune. Renshaw’s mill stood on one side of Ashdale; Moore’s mill faded it. Close to each grey' mass of, wall and roof and long lines of windows were the substantial mansions in which each man’s family was housed. And everybody knew that both Martin and Richard were millionaires. When these two went into the city arm-in-arm, the men on ’Change and in the clubs viewed them with friendly interest ; folk in the street, strangers who did not know them, thought what fin#, hejaity pold fellmys they were. Each, ak’Mxty, stood straight as a sapling; each was big and burly; each was grizzled of beard but clear of eye; each trod the earth with a firm and sure step. Their, faces were the faces of men who. have gone through great fights and won them all, and they had long been nicknamed the Two Kings of Ashdale.. Ashdale itself was a valley which lay twelve miles outside the city. It had once been as sylvan and solitary a haunt as any lover of the romantic could dssire, and it still possessed much of its ancient charm. But on each bank of the ?river .which ran through it there were now mills and manufactories and small villages wherein dwelt the operatives, and where once there had been nothing but heath and crag and wood -there were evidences of modern industry. And at the head of the dale, just where it syas curtained by the wide-spreading pioors, was a mighty reservoir, sixty Seres in extent, shut in by a great dam yirhich stretched across the valley like a gigantic wall built by Titans. > But there was one spot in Ashdale .which had remained untouched by all modern influences. Half-way along the Valley there stood a level stretch of greensward, embowered amongst ancient oaks and elms, one of the most historic and picturesque old houses in jthe North of England. It had originally been, an Augustinian house, and jwas still known as Ashdale Priory; but the mAastic ruins had been incorporated in a great mansion erected two centuries ago by a famous nobleman. |Who employed the finest architect of the day, and succeeded in preserving the ancient features. ©Shut in by deep iwoods from the rest of the dale, this jold-world place gave no sign of its proximity to modern industrialism; it iwas a relic of mediaeval England which folk came from far and near to Visit. Strangely enough, its present jpwner cared nothing for it—it was too low in situation—it was too near the city and the mills—it was not modern in arrangement. From time to time there were rumours that the noble owner .was anxious to sell—that he certainly would sell, at a price. And at last came a definite announcement that Ashdale Priory was on the market.

.One wild morning in a November ;which had been singularly tempestuous, Richard Moore walked on to -the platform of the little station which lay in the valley between his houses and Martin Renshaw’s. The friends usually met there and travelled into the city together. But on this occasion Renshaw was not to be seen, and Moore ,wcnt on alone. Under ordinary circumstances he would have asked the fotationmaster if he had seen Mr. Renshaw that morning; as it was, he said nothing. If anyone had shared h:..compartment they would have noticed that he seemed to be thinking deeply.

'Arrived in the city, Moore proceeded at once to the office of the solicitors who represented the owner of Ashdale Priory, and was immediately shown into the principal’s private room. After his fashion, he went bluntly to business. “I understand that Lord Grandminster will sell the Priory?” he said. “That is so, Mr. Moore,” replied the •olicitor. © “I’ll buy it,” said Moore.

The solicitor smiled enigmatically. *'l have just had your friend, Mr. Renihaw, in here, to say the same thing,” be said. ...

Richard Moore’s face grew dark. “Have you settled with him?” he demanded.

“No—we failed to agree. But he will return,” said the solicitor. “His heart is set on the place.” “And so is mine!” exclaimed Moore. “Whatever he offers, I’ll outbid!” The solicitor shuffled some papers. “You had better talk things OV' i,” he suggested. “It would be a pity that friends like you— But Moore was already out of the door. He was angry and furious; no one had ever baulked him of anything he had set his heart on, and it drove him nearly mad to hear that something which he desired in secret for so many years might possibly be torn from him just as he was about to lay hands on it. In this state he sought and found Renshaw —found him sitting- alone in the corner of the club smoking-room, where they always sat together. “So that’s what you were after, keeping out of my way this morning!” he began, angrily. “You wanted to sle,al a march on me!” Renshaw, who was a ".cnewhat milder though just as stubborn a man, looked at Mocre’:, angry face and install ly umterstoed matters. “I meant to steal no march cn v. u.” he said. “I sec where you have b cst—to Phi’brick’s office. But l have just as much right to wish for the Priory as you have, Moor’c.” “No,” said Moore. .“I started business m Ashdale before you did.” “’Exactly one year before. And that’s nothing to do with it.” “It has. Also, I’m an older man.” “You're two years older. 1 hat’s nothing to do with it, either.” “And I’m a richer man,” said Moore. “I can afford it better.” Renshaw, who was smoking a cigar, threw it away with an air of annoyance, and rose to his feet. “What I can afford,” he said, slowly, “is my own concern, and not your’s nor anyone clse’s. And since you’ve said what you have, I shall go round to Philbrick’s and settle the matter. I thought the price too much, but I’ll go it now.” “Xo!” said Moore, stepping in front of him. “I’ve told Philbrick that I’ll better any offer you make. I’ve set my heart for years on being the master of Ashdale Priory and I will be.” Renshaw looked at him steadily. “It’s been my dream ever since I was a poor lad to own Ashdale Priory,” lie said, slowly. “And now it shall be mine if I give half my fortune for it,” and he turned and 'Went out of the room. Moore followed him along the s'reet in a white heat of passion. They arrived at the solicitor’s office together. And, both being masterful men, and caring nothing for appearances, they forced themselves into his presence at the same time. The solicitor took in the situation at a glance, and before either of the two angi'y men could speak he rose. “Now, gentlemen,” he said. “I see how it is with you. And I refuse to do business with either of you at present. Go away and reconcile your differences —there is no hurry in this matter. Good morning!” Outside-, foil the first time in their lives, the two old friends indulged in bitter recrimination. Moore harped on his prior claims; Renshaw as steadily maintained their absurdity. They parted on bad terms, and while Renshaw returned to his club, Moore, who had meant to transact some important business on ’Change, but now felt that he had neither inclination nor ability for it, returned to Ashdale. He had been thrown out of sorts by the events of the morning, and was angry and displeased with Renshaw, with the solicitor, with himself. He might have managed the matter better; he might have succeeded in talking Renshaw round. Naturally a man of warm and impulsive temper, he had always prided himself in keeping it in control, and it always put him out when he realised that he had lost it. And he was accordingly in no happy mood when he reached the little wayside station in tHe valley. ©

The storm of the morning had increased in violence, and the wind wa* rushing down from the moors above the head of the dale with all the force of a tornado. Moore went into tlie sta-tion-master’s office to await the arrival of his brougham, for which he had telephoned from the city. And there he found the stationmaster talking to a man whom he recognised as a small manufacturer who rented a low-lying mill higher up the valley, and their conversation seemed to be very earnest. “Here’s Mr. Moore. He might' Know more what to do,” said the stationmaster, as Moore entered. “To do about what?” said Moore, sharply. “Haven’t you heard, Mr. Moore ?”- replied the stationmaster. '“There’s an ugly rumour about the dam, sir. Some say there’s a crack, and there’s been a lot of talk of an uncomfortable sort coming down the dale this morning.” “It’s said that there’s no doubt whatever about the crack,” remarked the other man. “There’s been a slight crack for some time, and it’s not been attended to as it should have been. That’s what the talk has been about, higher up.” “Poon—nonsense!’’ snapped out Moore, who was in the mood to contradict anybody and anything'. “There’s been lots of talk and scores of rumours about the dam for years' and years. It’s as safe as my house is—l reckon nothing of your rumour I* > (To .be Continued,] \