THE LUCK OF THE LINDSAYS

New Zealand Times, Volume LIII, Issue 12617, 30 November 1926, Page 4

THE LUCK OF THE LINDSAYS

(PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.)

BY

MARGARET TYNDALE.

[COPYRIGHT.]

CHAPTER XXIII.—SORROWS AND JOYS. Recalled to the Priory by the telegram announcing her aunt’s death, Adela was almost prostrate with grief. The end had oome so unexpectedly that .-he was totally unprepared for the Mow, and even a letter addressed to her, which she found among her aunt’s papers, could not lessen the sorrow. My dearest (she read), —The doctorts' tell me that my heart is affected, and that I must be prepared. I am not telling you this, because l do not wish to give you increased sorrow and anxiety. I had hoped to have lived to see you reunited to your husband, but something tells me that in spite of all my prayers, I never shall. Nevertheless, I feel sure that up there—in the place which we rail heaven—l shall know of the happiness which I fully believe it is God’s will that you should realise, after the many' days of suffering through which you have passed. L hope you will not grieve far me, for I shall have gained that “porte after storme cease” which God has prepared for them that truly trust in Him, as indeed I con soy with my whole heart that I most faithfully do. God bless you, my dearest, and give you your heart’s desire—that is the fervent prayer of your over-laving. —Aunt Beesie. The letter was dated the day of Adeia’s departure for London, and as she recalled that tenderness with which her aunt had kissed her good-bye, her tears began to flow afresh. Miss Gunning had been held in affection by the entire household, and the silent sympathy Adela received, tinged the bitter sorrow that was hers with its only ray of comfort. The birds in the Priory trees sang lustily as the funeral cortege passed through the grounds and into the road beyond. Adela heard them with a heavy heart, for their joyousness seemed only to remind her all the more of her great loss. She hardly heard the wards of the solemn burial service, uttered in unemotional tones by the rector of the old parish church. She felt like one suddenly turned to stone. One or two of the servants from the Priory wept copiously, but Adela felt that ner own grief had for ever auenched her tears by its limitless deptn. She was glad that no member of her ow n family was present; she had been too sorrowstricken to write and tell Donald or

his sibter, but had simply sent a message* to the latter from her hotel informing Julia that she had to return suddenly to the Priory. “Comfort us again now after the time that Thou has plagued us; and for the years wherein we have suffered adversity.” The beautiful words of the apneal that has been uttered by grief-stricken hearts throughout the ages seemed to recall Adela to the present, and suddenly she took her eyes from the stained east window at the altar and lot them rest longingly upon the flow-or-decked coffin in front of her. Aunt Bessie’s death had left- her so uttorlv desolate that she envied her the rest her tired spirit had found at last. It all seemed so impossible, so terribly unreal that even now Adela thought she must ho dreaming, p’'<l with the same feeling of unreality she went slowly out into the churchyard where the last rites were to be oerformed. She looked so changed, and yet so pathetically beautiful, that a man who stood unnoticed just inside the church porch could hardly realise that this ethereal-looking woman was his wife: she seemed to belong to another world. One or two of the mourners, chancing to look up, recognised him for their master, but they wiselv deemed it unfitting to make any outward sign at that particular moment. Adela did not appear to have seen him. Lindsay could not remain unnoticed for long, however, and he quietly took his place iust behind his wife ns the little grouparranged themselves hy the erravc-M--' But Adela had seen him. and whatever doubts she might have had were brushed aside b*- the sound of his voice as he joined in the response, hut she gaye no sign of recognition. Indeed. she feared that her emotions would get beyond control shouM she even turn her head to look at him. The final words of the service came at last, and Adela heard them with a fast-beating heart, her thoughts so confused that she hardly knew what to do. Then suddenly she felt her husband’s hand upon her arm, and with the blood instantly suffusing her erstwhile pallid face, she turned and met him face to face. He said no word of greeting; it was just a natural act that he would have performed in perfectly natural circumstances, and Adela felt grateful to him for his thought of her. He smiled kindly at the surprised servants as he

assisted her into the carriage, # and the** respecting his unspoken wishes, made no attempt to welcome him home again. “Aunt Bessie is dead, you know,” said Adela at last, when she could bear the silence no longer. “I know, dear,” was the gentle answer. “They told me at the house. Ah, 1 can see that you are curious to know why I have returned in this unexpected fashion!’’ he went on. as she looked up at him in surprise. “I will tell you. It was due to a letter Donald wrote me, and also one which his friend, Edward Conyngham, sent with it.” And then he proceeded to give at some length the nature of the contents of the two letters which had been the means of bringing him back to England. “And now you have told me everything. I will explain matters which affect' us two more personally. Alec,” said Adela when he had finished. “It was true that 1 wrote those letters to Stanley Gordon, but the one you read to me was written a few hours after my lather’s terrible death. You can imagine how I lelt, and perhaps I said things in it which at the time I hardly realised, and which in other circumstances I should never have uttered. It was not tfrue that I jilted Gordon, for directly he knew that I was penniless he wrote giving me ray liberty—a polite way of telling me that now I was poor I had no attraction for him. At the time I was broken-heart-ed, but afterwards when I came to lave vau, I realised how much I should liavo lost had I married Gordon. I could not tell you about the matter, lor l couldn’t bear to think of it. since it recalled such bitter, bitter hours of suffering that I had endured. And when you asked me to marry you I had learnt almost to forget it; and somehow the fact that you were marrying me without having any real love for me, seemed to place an indefinable barrier in the way of confidences.” “But I did love you. Adela —I have always loved you,” said her husband softly, “though perhaps my upbringing prevented me from saying so.” “I didn’t realise that,” was the shy answer, “especially when you preferred to takv Rogei Ivianu. *...»,•* before mine. Of course, I know that I was to blame for even consenting to meet Gordon, but, believe me. it was only my great desire to end the matter without causing you trouble and anxiety thav led me info such rashness. Somehow when you refused to lake m.y warning against Roger Main.waring. I felt that I could not come to you and tell you things which, ten chances to one, your brother-in-law would have entirely misconstrued to you; and it was while I was hesitating as to the right step I should take — since I had unwisely agreed to do nothing in the matter for a week—that Gordon persuaded Julia to run away, after having given me his word of honour that lie would not see her during that time. You understand now, dear, don’t you, in what a difficult position I found myself? But oh, Alec,” she went on passionately, “I have longed to teli you all these things to* months, and sometimes in those terrible hours of darkness that followed mv illness I felt I could not go on. and if it hadn’t been for —her —I should have failed utterly. I am telling you all this, Alec,

because it will show you that I was anxious to make amends for the harm I had unconsciously caused. I went in search of you thfit day in order to beg you to listen to my explanation, but you had gone.” (To be continued.)