THE LUCK OF THE LINDSAYS

New Zealand Times, Volume LIII, Issue 12621, 4 December 1926, Page 19

THE LUCK OF THE LINDSAYS

(PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.)

BY MARGARET TYNDALE. IC O P Y R I G H T.I

CHAPTER XXV.—Continued. So it came about that when “the auid countrie” was just beginning to realise that summer had actually arrived, though not without a somewhat unnecessary delay, the Lindsays and Julia took up their abode onto mare ni the Priory, and as the hours passed the knowledge became more firmly implanted in tho girl’s heart that she was only waiting—waiting—for the j:>v that was even now on its wav to greet her after the days of sorrow had been fully accomplished wherein she had known it not. Donald had entered the Army but. a short while after the Lindsays had left England, and had acquitted himself in a manner entirely satisfactory to his superiors: so that when his father returned there was a surprise in store for him, .so far at lca6t as his son was concerned, for he was now a man who, as it is ever given to the strong, held Jus own destiny between his hands and was moulding it in a fashion of which reaping his after life should in eloquent tones. Julia knew full well whose influetwe had been at work, but she did not dare utter the name which was first in her heart, for she found that she had become curiously shy on a certain topic, and although she greatly yearned to have news of Edward t'onyngnam. sho was unable to make mention of him even to Donald. It was on the third day alter their return, and Julia and her brother—who had obtained a short leave in order to welcome his people home again « —were walking through the home park on their way to u tennis-partv in the neighbourhood. This was a goJdpn opportunity for which the girl had impatiently waited, thinking that she might perhaps summon up the courage to speak of Edward Conyngham, since the subject had net been intimately broached between them, although the boy had often spoken in the presence of his sister in high praise of the man who was now his friend, just as in the past he had been hers. “The change in you is just wonderful, Donald,” remarked Julia, tin ' • at last that she must perforce lead tho subject round by devious paths to the central thought of her life, since even now she could not speak of the man she loved without an embarrassment 1 which would at once call forth question on the part of her brother. “Really I am quite proud of vou, and I can’t help saying so either.” “Thanks,” replied Donald. s)j r sarcastic. “You seem miglitlv interested in me, but you surely might share a thought for the man who lias brought this jolly change in my life, in vours, and in—in the others.

<f You mean by ‘the others’—father and mother. T suppose?” replied Julia, ignoring the real import of her brother’s words. • “I mean "Edward Conyngham,ii ®ad you knorw it,” retorted Donald a trifle fiercely. “Oh—l —you didn’t say you were talking of him,” said the girl, getting

more and more brusque as her embarrassment increased. “Well, you talk drivel, anyway,” ho declared; “and 1 shan’t say another word to you until we get to the Beechfield's.” “Norah Beechficld is au awfully pretty girl,” said Julia, suddenly adopting a method of attack that was unliko her brother's, although it agreed in essentials. “I know that,” he answered, flicking at the hedge with liis racquet. “So’s Edward Conyngham.” A peal of iaughter from Julia caused him to realise the ambiguity of his remark, and his savagery with racquet and hedge increased with every step. Suddenly lie paused as they out into the lane, and facing Julia squarely he declared: “Look here, you’re sweet on Teddy Conyngham. aren’t you?” The unexpectedness of this truthful statement took Julia’s breath away for a moment; then in tho same unguarded way in which he had spoken* she retorted; “Well, if I am, you are in love with Norah Beechfield, and I won’t believe you’re not, whatever you may say!” “Hello, you two —quarrelling!” Over the girl’s face swept a Hoodtide of colour, for there at the crossroads stood Edward Conyngham, in immaculate flannels, and armed as they were with racket and dangling tennis shoes. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the colour ebbed from Julia’s cheeks, tor she realised that he must have heard the statement she had just made regarding him, and a feeling of acute misery took possession of her as she began to ask herself wluit could bo his opinion of a girl who .so openly declared her love when she had not even been asked tor it. From the direction he was taking, she realised that he too must be on his way to the Bccehficlds*; what if he too were in love with that beautiful Norah, who had* already set Donald’s heart aflame? The thought was so intolerable, that it held her speechless as Conyngham came forward and took her hand. • “I am glad to welcome you home again, Mrs Gordon,” he was saying, liis eyes fixed upon her face with a look which, had Julia but been able to read it aright, would have put an end to the doubts that gnawed at her heart.. “I—l—-did not knfcw you were in the neighbourhood, Sir Edward,” she stammered, utterly at a less to know what to say to the man she loved more than the whole world beside, now that she had met him again and under such seemingly adverse circumstances. “I am staying with some friends quite near,” he answered. “I only came down last night, and Miss Beechfield came over this morning and said you had promised to have tea with her this afternoon, so of course I insisted upon being invited, too.” “Of course you are coming along to ,see us, aren’t you, old man?” demanded Donald, whose face had lighted up with pleasure at the encounter. "T intended to pay you a visit of decorum } to-morrow,” replied Conyng-

ham, laughing. “By the way, Don, I ‘ believe Miss Beechfield spoke of coming along to meet us; don’t you think you had better hurry up and say that \ve are coining on through Burton Woods ?” “But that’s the longest wa y round?” demurred Julia, not quite sure what to think of this unforeseen proposal. “1 think it would prove the shortest way in tho end,” declared Conyngham, with a smile whose significance it was impossible to misunderstand. “All right,” laughed Donald; “you needn’t think I haven’t learnt before now that ‘two’s company and three’s a crowd.’ You wait till I meet Norah !” Conyngham stood and watched him go, while Julia, with a heart beating almost to suffocation, wondered what would come next. **l—l am sorry,” said Conyngham at last; “it has just struck me what a verv tactless brute I must seem to you, taking matters for granted like this; but as soon as I saw you again, I knew that I must speak to you at once, and tell you what has been hidden away in my heart for you for so long—l simnly couldn’t have endured the* whole afternoon if I had not had one word with you alone —oh, I put it so badly, but surely you will take pity on me, Julia, and just understand that because it is hard for me to put iny great love for you into words, it is none the loss great —no. it is far higher, deeper, truer, for its very inability to express itself. Julia, you know all this —you have known it all along But here he came to a sudden pause, for his eloquence was quenched by the sight of the unmistakable misery upon the girl’s face. “What is it?” he demanded hoarsely “What have I said? For heaven’s sake tell mo that I am not onoo more —too late!” ~, , ~ “Oh, you are very good,” she said, when at last she could speak, “but don’t vou think that I know? Do you think I don’t understand^ only too well what this really means? You have been verv good to me and to my brother yon have shown how ti e a heart you h avo —and how—how compassionate! You heard just a moment ago what I id to Donald—tho rash statement 1 made then, and so you made up your mind to extend your kindness to me yet further, and relieve the misery you knew I must be enduring by pretending au affection that you do not canned havo for me.” . , , “Dearest and most foolish little woman.” said Conyngham softly, as he tenderly drew her into the. shelter or his arms, ‘T am not denying that I heard that- ‘rash statement,’ as you call it. but as a matter of fact it was that which decided me to speak to you at once. I couldn’t wait a moment longer when I knew that my love was nor so utterly hopeless as I had feared. Oh, dear heart, even Tien I could not believe it was true—l imagined it was some game vou were playing with Donrid. I couldn’t believe it, it was far too wood a thing ever to happen to me—and I shan’t be able to believe it either until you give me a straightforward answer to a straightforward question: 'Will you be my wife, heart’s beloved?” Her lips moved, yet there came no , word ; but silently, eloquently, her eyes spoke tile answer for which he. had waited with such unwearied patience through the long dark hours of probation, until now the dawn of hone had become the day of happy realisation. (To be continued.)