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Otago Witness, Issue 2813, 12 February 1908, Page 71

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By HEAD OX HILL. •Author of "The Kiss of the Enemy," "The Sentence of the Court," "The Ocean King Mystery," "Millions of Mischief," "The One Who Saw," etc., etc. [CorTßremT.] CHAPTER I.— AT THE BLYT3E ARMS. It was a balmy spring evening towards the close of April, when the month >i smiles and tears seemed to have outgrown its earlier fickleness and to have settled down into n spell of open weather. The good folk in the pastoral village of Monkswood believed in the adage of "early to bed and early to rise" — of necessity, for the most part. By the time the church dock began to v h&eze and croak, preparatory to striking the hour of 10, &uch lights as remained in the cottage window s shone from the upper floors. The exception was the inn, the ancient and comfortable hostelry, which occupied a post of vantage abutting- on the high Toad that skirted the village green, and whose tall sign-post with its swinging shield was a landmark to weary wayfarers and convivial neighbours alike. From the open door of the Blythe Arms there streamed a shaft of yellow light as far as the old stone horse -trougih across the road, wh-le on either hand the bar-parlour and t<he tap-room dhed a more dhastened gleam from behind their Ted-curtained windows. The night, though still and fine, was moonless, and in the dark shadows of a clump of poplars on a waste patch at the oadside, fifty yards beyond the inn, a man was standing. That he (had selected the position with a view to concealment was evident from his attitude ; yet there was nothing in it suggesting fear or a sense of guilt. There was no hint of an intention to take to flight in case of disoo'very. It was as though the man had planted himself there for the purpose of, himself unseen, watching the inn door on wihich his straining gaze \t-as steadily fixed. The premonitory whesz'ngs in the churdli belfry across the green ended in the first mellow note of the clock as it s>egan to boom out the hour. ''If old John is as strict as he used to be they'll soon come tumbling out," the watcher told himself- with an expectant smile. And, verifying his prediction, before the fifth stroke of the clock had pulsed on the quiet air a figure emerged from the mm doorway, and anoMier and another followed, till a group of seven or eight persons was clustered in the shaft of light, only to be dissolved a minute Later amid a chorus of "good-nighte" as its component parts separated on their homeward fray. One more minute passed, and yet another figure appeared in the doorway — the portly figure of a man who did not come beyond the threshold, but stood there as though enjoying the sweet scent of the hyacinths and wallflowers, while listening to the receding footsteps of the departing customers. At last he took a step backwards, and began to close the heavy oak door, but before he had got it shut tne ■watcher from the trees had come running up. __ ''Now, then, off with you '" said the innkeeper, not troubling to look o.t him, and continuing to ipush the door to. "It's past closing ■time." But the other had deftly inserted his foot in the aperture. "Is that the way you welcome a Blythe to the Blythe Arms John?" he laughed quietly. The door was slid open, and John Benjafield, after one swift scrutiny of him who sought admission, flung it wider still. ''Mr Norman !" he exclaimed in an awestruck whisper. "Whv — why, 6ir, I thought you were at the other side of •the world." Norman Blytbe stepped into- the pasage, and helped the inn-keeper shut and bar the door. "So I was till a month ago, John," he replied cheerily. "I only reached London yest&rday, and. though I parted from my father in anger, I could not keep away from Monkswood. I have come to you first, to learn bow things are st the 'Chase' — whether there is any chance of peace there. I want nothing else from my kin, John. In two years, more by luck than judgment, I have made over a "million of money." The inn-keeper's broad countenance worked strangely, "but he rrnade no reply till he had ushered his visitor into the snug bar-parlour to the left of the passage. And even then he was not quick to speak, for he had to let his eyes feast on the young man's handsome sun -burned face and well-knit frame t' glances of affectionate approval. "You have altered. Master Norman, so that no one who didn't love you would know you," he said at last. "I can't promise you much of a greeting up at tihe 'Chase,' but I'm main grateful to you for seeking me first. It was but fitting that you should come to your old fosterfather for the news." "Which reminds me that I have been a bruite not to ask after my dear fostermother," said the returned wanderer. "How is the good wife, Jdhn, and why isn't she sitting in the anmohair by the fire yonder, totting up i»he dlay's receipts, as she always used to when you had cleared out the customers?" For amswer John Benjafield pointed to a framed photograph over the mantelpiece, representing a newly-made grave smothered in floral wreaths and croEses. "My Marion died eighteen monthe ago, and thte* was took the day after the funeral," he replied, proudly, yet with streaming eyes. "Hardly room there was, as you Gee, sir, for all the flowers the •eighboure sent to givs Jier God-*»asd."

Norman Blvthe was genuinely grieved at tihe news, and for a while the two sought comfort in talking of the kindly, comely woman who was gone and of the manner of her going- into the great Unknown. It was a simple story enough of a clean and tender life lived unselfishly for the good of these she loved, and truly though her husband had mourned her the grief of the younger mam was quite as poignant and sincere.

Six-and-twenty years had passed since Martiha Benjafield, bereaved of her own child, had taken to her bo&om the hourold infant of Sir Bevys Blythe, of Monkswood Ohase, and had assuaged her sorrow by lavishing upon the motherless little heir a wealth of affection that hnd gone down with her to the grave. All through his none too happy childhood Norman had brought Iris troubles to the innkeeper's wife, and in his demands upon her love and sympathy had never been sent empty away. The bar-parlour at the Blvthe Arms had been to him a haven, w here he had found soJ ice for the n-e^'eot thai had been his lot mnid his father's riotous excesses a<t the "Chase."

And then there had come a still darker time, when neglect had became active dislike, and Sir Bevys. marrying asrain, had treated his dead v-ife's child with harshness often amounting to cruelty. Then more thin ever had the boy clung to his foster-mother, seeking for comfort that never failed, and by ■force of contrast learning tt nate the father who burdened his young life with misery. John Benjafield, too, had backed has wife's efforts to smooth the path of the lonely waif from the great house, and held second place in the young heart 2raving only for kindness.

Norman Blythe was heir legally to nothing but the empty title, the entail of vhe estates having been cut off in the last generation, and the new mistress ot the "Chase" had soon succeeded in alienating bir Bevys's lingering regard for his eldest son in favour of her own children. Of these there were two — a boy and a girl, born at a considerable interval, and there had come a day shortly after Norman's twenty-third birthday when his father had stormed at him, bidding him go forth into the world penniless, and vowing that he would leave the "Chase" to his younger sou, Paiul.

"But this ia good hearing about your being so rich, 6ir," said Benjafield at last, when they had talked to their fill of the dead woman. "If only my poor Martha were here to listen to you tell of it ! She as good as prophesied as much that evil morning when you came down to say good-bye. Don't you mind how she heartened you with the promise that you'd find a gold mine in Australia, and come back and marry your sweetheart under your father's very nose?"

Norman laughed gaily. "My dear fos-ter-mother was wrong and she was right," he responded. "I did not make my money in Australia out of gold, but at the Cape out of diamonds. There is no mistake about her second shot, though. If Mildred Harden is still in the same mind I shall most certainly marry her, John, before many weeks are past, as near to my father's nose as Monkswood Church across 1 the green there. And, what is more, unless there is a reconciliation the bride shall start for the oexemony from the Blythe Arms.''

"She shall do that," assented the landlord, cordially. "Though," he added, his kindly face clouding, "I misdoubt me if that pleasure won't be denied. Sir Bevys will warm towards you, Mr Norman, when he learns that you will be wealthy without his leavings. It was that mad worn.an up at the 'Chase' that e et him on to disinheriting you, sir — for the sake of her own brat."

But Norman, enlightened by a fuller knowledge, shook his head. A certain loyalty to the family name, if not to the chief holder of it, had prevented him fro-m disclosing, even to his tried friends at the inn, the true reason that had led to his exile. His quarrel with his father had been that the elderly rake had in his cups insulted the beautiful girl who by the misfortune of poverty was governess to his half-sister, Katie. If the vile words that had escaped Sir Bevys meant anything they meant that he would view with jealous spite any wooer, be he son or stranger, who wop Hardens favour.

"I have no- great hopes of making peace with my father," Norman answered. "But why do you call Lady Blythe a mad woman, John? Is that a figure of speech or sober fact?"'

"It's true enough, though there's nothing very sober about it." the innkeeper laughed grimly. "Her ladyship is just a raving lunatic, confined to her rooms, with a brace of qualified attendants to look aftef her."

"That is news indeed, though on the whole I am not surprised." said Norman thoughtfully. His stepmother's excitable eccentricities had been the talk of the countryside long before his departure. "Tell me some more," he- added. '"How are things going at the 'Chase' generally, and, above all. is Miss Harden there still? I have come back as nothing if not an expectant lover, John."

Yes. Benjafield was able to assure him that Mildred Harden was still the scuide of Katie Blythe's erratic footsteps, though, as that unruly hoyden was past 17, a governess would not be much longer required at Monkswood Chase. For the rest, the picture which the landlord of the Blythe Arms drew of affairs at the great house was not a pretty one. Sir Bevys had not learned wisdom with advancing years, but drank as heavily as ever, never incapacitating himself, yet making himself a terror to his household and his tenants. Paul, his. favourite son, now 22, was taking after him, and though they were boon companions, village gossip spoke of outrageous scenes when they did not see eye to eye.

"And Mildred — is she well treated and happy amid all the racket of that infernal Jps^*" -sked Norman bitterly.

"She is a brave lass, sir, and holds her head high," Benjafield replied. "But" — and alone as they were he loweied his voice — "they do say that she is sore pestered by Mr Paul."

During their converse Norman had seated himself in a chair by the table, but he now rose abruptly and looked at his watch. "Half-past 10,"' he murmured, frowning at the dial. "I shall go up to the 'Chase' and have it out to-night, John," he added in a tone of quiet determination. "Sir Bevys is sure to be sitting late over his wine. At any rate, they shall know that the defenceless girl under their roof has a protector who, in as short a time as it takes to procure a marriage license, will be a lawful one."

He made for the door, but John Benjafield planted himself before it. "Master Noiman — my boy, Norman!"' he pleaded. "Think how violent your father is when the liquor is on him. Let it bide till to-morrow, there's a dear lad."

But the younger man gently and firmly removed the wouM-be obstrnctor from his path. "After what yon have hinted it is impossible that I -should wait a single minute.'" he sa,id. "It takes two to make a quairel. and you may rest a-ssured that I shall" curb my temper. Sit up for me, like the good soul you are, for I ought to be back in less than two hours to claim your hospitality for the night."

Seeing that nothing; would turn him from his errand, Benjafield unbolted the house door and watched the stalwart figure stride off into the darkness. Then, on his wav back to the parlour he paused and st/>od for a moment irresolute. In the ordinary course he would have called \-.j> the stairs to bid one of his two maids, who had already retired, rise and prepare a bed-chamber for the unexpected guest. But some prescience of coming evil gripped him, instilling the vague advice that for the present Norman's visit were best disclosed to none besides himself.

"II will be time enough to see about th© room when he comes back," the old man muttered as he turned into the parlour.

Imbued with the same mystic yearning for secrecy, he turned out the lamp, lest the constable on his rounds should wonder why late hours were being kept at the Blvthe Arms that night. Then he pat dovn in the trig leather arm chair to wait, 'mid dozing and waking, till Norman's knock on the inn-door should summon him.

But the <dawn-light, stealing through the crimson blinds six hours later, found him still sitting there, a wide-awake and very frightened man, waiting for the summons that had not come.