V. WILL ORPINGTON.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 354, 27 March 1889, Page 6

Y. WILL ORPINGTON.

' Polly, dear, just run out and look at the public-house clock, will you ? I'm getting worried about father. It must be half-past six if it's a minute.' Polly Orpington, a tall, pretty girl of fifteen, who was working at her sewing machine, and singing as she worked, left oft' for a minute, and looked at her elder sister. 1 What a fidget you are, Li-i,' she said. ' You're always imagining something's happened. Father will be home directly. And I'm sure it's not half-an-hour sinco the J clock struck six.' Lizzie Orpington confessed that she was a fidget ; but it had always been a habit of hers to fidget about father. In the days gone by she had good reason to grow anxious, poor girl, when her father was late home.; for it generally meant that he had stopped at a public-house and taken his • tea ' there, instead of coming home to it ; and she know what tint would mean. For ten years the Orpingtons had lired in the little back street in South London in the three rooms which they now occupied. The locality was what is commonly called a 'slum;' but their house was one of the best, and their three rooms were perhaps the neatest and tidiest rooms in the whole neighbourhood. The history of the family was a strange one, but by no means an uncommon one. The slums of London are full of family romances. The cheap tenement houses and the back streets and the low lodginghouses of the great city are not inhabited solely by struggling artisans and the poor earning precarious livelihoods. Mixed up with the people if ho have inherited poverty for generations are man and women who have seen better days, the human wreckage of some great storm which has swept the ocean of their life. Here you may find the broken -down professional man, who has drifted to bsgging-lefcter writing, the bankrupt ttrader who has cometocostermongering, the ex-military man of good family who, having worn out all his friends by his evil ways and improvidence, has an last to go to the docks and the waterside in search of a day's work in order that he may have 'a crust to eat, a rag to his back, and a roof to cover him. I have known a clergyman and his wife living in one room in the slums ; the man earning a living by making penny toys for sale in the street, while the woman went out charing and doing odd jobs for the small shopkeepers in the neighbourhood. This clergyman's brother 'was at the time a high dignitary of the Church, and the woman's relatives moved in the best society. People of this class do not come to the slums all at once. They drifb there by degrees, having at last cub themselves off from all assistance on the part of their friends by their bad conduct. Io is useless to keep on giving money to men and women, even though they be your relatives, if it all goes to the publican. This is the history of nine-tenths of the 'wreckage' one'meets with iv poor neighbourhoods. John Orpington, the father of the two girls who are now waiting anxiously for him to come home to tea, belong to the ' wreckage class.' Twenty years ago he inherited from his father a" large fortune, which was invested in a big manufacturing business of which John, on his father's death, became the head. John Orpington married a beautiful and amiable girl, rather below him in social position, but as staunch and true and brave a little wife as ever a man was blessed with. In spite of this good influence young Orpington ' went wrong.' He was a born gambler, and in addition to a love for the turf be was a great card player. He neglected his business, he gambled away enormous sums of money, and he became a victim of that most terrible of all curses, intemperance. In a few years the business was ruined and the fortune spent. He was made a bankrupt, and his home had to go. Instead of putting nis shoulder to the wheel to retrieve the pasfc, Orpington endeavoured to drown his sorrow and remorse in deeper rjotntions than ever, with the result that he lost the situation in a commercial house which friends of his late father obtained for him, acquired a character for being ' a bad eggS and was at last abandoned to his own resources. Penniless and broken in health, with a delicate and heart-broken wife and three children — a boy and two girls — he eventually drifted to the great city, and after enduring the most terrible privation, at last succeeded in obtaining employment as a labourer at a wharf on the Thames. The poor wife died shortly afterwards. The trouble and the priVation had been too much for her. Kneeling by her bedside and holding her wasted hand in his, John Orpington took a solemn oath never to touch • the drink ' again. They were the last words, that fell upon the dying woman's ears, and her face brightened as she heard them. There was hope in her heart at that supreme moment for her husband and for the child i en. John Orpington kept; his oath, but he was too proud to go back as a reformed charac- i ter and ask help again of those who had been so cruelly deceived by him. They might have helped him — probably they ! would not have done bo, for he had tried their faith in him too severely in the past. After his wife's death he lived on in the same three rooms Avith his children, going to his work in the, morning and returning at night ; some kindly women among the neighbours looking after the youngest child whilst the others were away at the Board school. As the children grew older, Lizzie, the elder girl, became father's little housekeeper, and Willie, the boy, by his cleverness at his book?, earned the reputation of being 'quite a scholar.' Polly, the younger, was still • the baby,' and was the pet of the family. The wages of a waterside labourer are not large, but they enabled John to pay his rent and keep his children decently. When Willie was twelve, and had by his cleverness attracted 'the attention of the school authorities, a stroke of good fortune befell the boy. A gentleman offered to give him the opportunity of emigrating to Canada, where it was believed he would have a chance of doing well. The boy was wild to go, and John yielded to his wish. There was very little hope for him in the i Blums; ab best he could bub be an errand boy. So it came about that wniie Orpington , emigrated and did well. His letters home were full of .glowing descriptions of how well.he was treated on the farm where he was employed, and in time, being a ] ••sch«lar> 5 he -obtained a better position, ! keeping the farmer's accounts, writing his ' letters, and managing his commercial transactions. Willie sent money: home occasionally, which was of great help to the

family in tho hard winter times when fre-. quently the head of it was out of work. And bo things went on" for nine years, when at the time this story opens Willie was 21 nnd stilt in Canada, Lizzie was 18, and Polly 16, and John Orpington was still a Waterside labourer. i The evening that Lizzie grew so fidgety because her lather was a little late in coming home to tea proved to be an eventful one for tho family. Father arrired at lnst and was heartily welcomed by hjs two daughters, and was soon esconced in his chair by the fire, and the table was pulled op close to his elbow and his tea poured out, and his thick bread and butter was temptingly displayed on the one good plato that was a remnant of the former prosper ity. John Orpington had soon finished his tea, then ho lit his pipe and prepared to spend a happy domestic Evening:, talking to his two girls while they sat beside him and did their needlework. Somehow or other the conversation wandered that ovening back to the old times. Folly was never tired of hearing of the big house in which her father and mother had once lived. To her the story of that past prosperity was like a fairy tale, and she declared it did her good to think that they had been ' somebody ' once. While they were talking a knock came at the kitchen dooi — the kitchen and Fitting-room of the slums aro ono — and Polly, thinking it was one of their follow lodgers come to boirow a saucepan or to gossip, said ( Come in. ' To the astonishment of the family, when the door was pushed open, there entered a tall, thin young man who was a stranger to them. 1 1 beg your pardon if I'm mistaken,' he said, raising his hat, ' but a man I met at the front door told me these were the rooms occupied by a Mr John Orpington.' 1 Quite right, sir," said Orpington, rising:. 'I am John Orpington —what do you want with me ?' x Only to ask you a few questions if you will bo so good as te answer them. May I — ah — sit down?' Polly placed a chair for the young man, and he sat down on tho extreme edge of it, and putting his hand in his coat pocket ciiew out a bundle of papers. Instantly an idea flashed across Polly's brain. She read the ' Young Ladies' Journal' in her spare time, and she was sure this wus some one come to tell them that they had come into a fortune — perhaps — who knows ? — into a tirle. ' Your name, sir, is> John Orpington. I have had some difficulty in tracing \ou, but I believe that you are the Mr John Orpington who was formerly in business in theNoithof England, trading as Orpington and Co. ?' ' That is quite right, sir.' ' And— cr — you are the son of John Orpington who manied— er— will you kindly tell me your mother's name?' 'My mother was a Miss Ashworth — Elizabeth Ann Ashworth. 1 'Good — that settles it. lam not mistaken. Mr Orpington, I congratulate you, sir. ' - ' On what V 'On what, sir? On the fact that under the will of the late Simeon Ashworth — your mother's only brother, who has lately died —you inherit the whole of his property, which is worth considerably over one hundred thousand pounds !' 'I knew it,' screamed Polly. 'Oh, father, I knew it when he first came in.' Liz/.ie let her work fall into her lap and could only btare open-mouthed at the stranger. John Orpington uttered a little cry : then the tears rushed to his eyes and he exclaimed, •At last. I thank God for my dear children's sake, but oh, if t>he could but have lived to see this day !' He was thinking of the brave loving heart that had parsed away in the daik night of his misfortune, and on whose head even this sudden burst of sunshine could never fall now. It was quite true. The facts were beyond dispute. The firm of lawyers, whose clerk the young man was, soon convinced John Orpington that fortune bad smiled upon him asrain at last, and that he had only to go through certain formalities and then take possession of his wealth. The Orpingtons were soon established in then new horne — Uncle Simeon's pretty little country house. Polly was almost mad with delight, and Liz/cie,*who took things more quietly, was happy as one Ls happy in a beautiful dream. She hadn't quite convinced herself yet that she wouldn't suddenly wake up and find herself back agaiu in the little kitchen l in the Londoni slum, with her work in her lap and Polly laughing at her for dropping off to sleep in her chair. As soon as the new was confirmed a letter wa* tent to Willie, asking him to come home. His position was a veiy diH'erent one to what it had been. He was a youn£ gentleman, the only son of a man' with a large foitune, and he must come home to take his place in the new sphere in which they moved. The girls were as delighted at the idea of having their brother back as they were at their altered circumstances. When Willie went away Lizzie was only nine and Polly was only seven ; nine years is a long time, and they could only just remember him. Mr John Orpington — 'John Orpington, Esq.,' as he now was — soon settled down to his new condition. When one has once been rich and lived a life of case, it is not very hard to go back to one's old habits. But the lesson of the bitter past had not been thrown away, and Mr Orpington rlctei mined that he would make the most of his sudden good fortune, and cake the rest and peace that had come to him in his middle age philosophically. He rested all his. hopes upon his boy now. The girls would got sweelheaits and make good marriages, and Will would come back and be his right hand, and take his place when he died. How proud his poor wife would ha^e been to see her de^r ones happy and prosperous again. As he sat in his beautiful dining-room in the evening, and femoked his cigar, John's eyes rested lovingly on his two pretty daughters, but they^would now and then wander to the chair opposite him in which his poor wife would have sat had God spared her to him. The girls had lone: ago calculated how soon their brother Willie would arrive. They got a room ready tor him, which was called Willies room, and they made it as pretty as hands and money could make it, while their father looked on happy and proud, and full of delight at seeing his boy home again — the ' young master,' and the heir to all the wealth and comfort around him. ; It was iust about the time they had cal- ' culated Willie would be due that they re- i e'eived a telegram from Liverpool : ' Ar- j rived safely ; with you to-morrow. Will.' i • , And on the morrow a fly drove ,up to the house, laden with luggage, and a handsome young fellow stepped out of it. The girls and their father were out in the grounds in a moment. 'My boy !' exclaimed Mr Orrington. | His arms were held out; but suddenly he paused. * How you have changed, Will,' ho exclaimed. « Why, I {shouldn't have known you.'

I • Yes, clad, I have,' exclaimed the young fellow, with a laugh. 'ftoughing it, out yonder does alter a fellow, ( and nine years makes a difference.' He kissed his father heartily, and then turned to the girls. 1 Why, Lizzie,' he said, ' how you've grown ; and\you too, Polly. Good gracious me, it seems hardly possible that you're the two little girls £ can remember.' Taking Lizzie's hand ho stooped to kiss her. Almost instinctively the girl shrank back, and a deep blush covered her cheeks. It seemed so odd for this handsome young follow to be kissing her. * But she laughed and held her cheek to him, and then kissed him in return. 'It seem& odd at first, Will, dear,' she paid. 'We arc really almost strangers, but you are my brother, and I suppose I I shall understand that you aie by-and-by.' [ 'I hope so, Liz,' said Will, and then he ' turned to Polly. \ Polly was less bashful, and she put her arms about her brother's neck and gave him a real sisterly hug. And then father and son and the two sisteis all went into the houso together and were soon at their ease and talking about old times. j Will had forgotten, in that long nine years in a new country, much of the old days, but things came back to him as they I reminded him of them, and before the day was over tho littlo feeling of strangeness had worn off and they were all in the highest spirits and full of plans for the future, and the young gentleman from Canada was fully established in the house as the young master. That night, when the girl went to bed, leaving Will and their father together, they had a long talk about their ' new brother.' ! ' Isn't he handsome, Liz V said Polly. ' Oh, I'm so glad he is. You know I was half afraid he'd come back ugly and awkward.' Lizzie agreed that ho wa& very handsome, but do what she would she could not shake off the strange feeling that had come upon her when her brother first gave hor a brotherly kiss. What that feoling was she couldn't; sny. All ?he could explain to herself was that Will wasn't what she'd expected him to bi? : and that feoling was a very^long timo in wearing off. ! A month has passed since Mr Will ' Orpington returned to the bosom of hi* | family, and his father was far from happy. He didn't like to confess it even to himself, but he was disappointed in Will. The young gentleman had commenced to give himself airs, and to indulge in extravagant habits. He wanted more money than his father thought he ought to have. He went up to London and made a fearful number of purchases, and ordered the most expensive things ho could get in every direction. His father seeing how things were going ventured to remonstrate, but Will laughed the matter off. 'Come, dad,' he said, 'you musn't bo stingy. Look what a lot of lost time I've got to make up for."' Will was making up for lost time with a vengence. He got in w ifcli the fastest set of young fellows in the neighbourhood, and became quite a 'sportsman.' His extravagance knew no bounds. Horses arrived which ho had purchased, a dog cart, a mail phaeton, and a tilbury, and then he told his father that he must build new stables at once, as the old ones hadn't half enough accommodation. He Tvent to London for a week, .saying that he wanted to see a friend who had come over with him from Canada in the same ship, and though his father gave him a comfortable sum to take with him, he wrote home in a couple of days for a further large amount, saying that he had made a purchase and must complete. When he came back again he was wilder in his notions than ever, and told his fathei that he had seen a capital place to let in London which would just- suit them for a town house, and he had begun to negotiate for it. It was just the place they wanted, and tho girls must go up for the London season, and they wouid have to give balls and dinner-parties of course John Orpington was grieved and .shocked at the extravagant notions his son had bi ought home, but he was horrified when he found that the young man had also plunged into the excitement of betting, and was backing horses for large bum& in all the principal e\ents. Wirh tho example of his own fate before him, Orpington was paralysed with fear at this new diecovei'y. His son was treading step by step the came reid to destruction which his father had previously travelled. Lizzie had long ago discovered that her father was unhappy about Will, and .jhe shared her fathei 's anxiety. She was bit terly disappointed in Will. She did not liko to confers it, but she wai beginning not to like her brother. He was so different to the brother she had pictured in her girlish imagination. Polly tried to defend Will ; but even she had to confess that ho didn't seem to care much for his family, but only for what he could get out of his father's fortune. The climax was reached when one day Will walked into his father's study and declared he must have a cheque foi £500. He told his father he owed that amount. He lefused to explain for what, but he said he had lo&t it, and it was a debt of honour, and it wouldn't do for the family name to be disgraced. ! John Orpington was almost heartbroken. It wa* too cruel. His son, his only son, was going to bring them all to ruin again. If he ran through money at this rate now what would he have run through in a couple of years ? Some stop would have to be put to his extravagance, or it would end in disaster. John refused tho cheque. Then there was a furious Fcene. The young man declared that lie would cjet a cheque and sipfn his father'b name to it, and ho must take the consequences. With that threat he left the room, packed his portmanteau, and without saying goodbye to his father or his sisters went up to London, telling tho servant to cay he didn't know when he should ho back. That night John Orpington lay awake and worried himself into a fever ok auxiety over the scapegrace who had como to mar everything. The next morning he went up to London, determined to &cc his son and insist upon a different course of conduct. He would prevent further mischief at all hazards. He knew the hotel his son stayed at, and he drove there at once. i He entered the hotol and asked for Mr Orpington. The waiter looked at him and then went for the manager. The manager, came forward at once. { You wish to see Mr Orpington— are you a friend of his V •I am his father,' ' Indeed ! Then I'm sorry to have to tell you that your !eon was arrested here this morning. The police will probably give you any further information you require. I | Know nothingjof the matter.' As soon as John Orpington had recovered himself sufficently from this terrible blow, he left tho hotel. Ho felt like a man in a dream. He could* not realise the awful truth.

Ho wont to Scotland 1 Yard. An inspector saw him, and in reply fco his queries told him that the young man had been arrested in consequonce of communication from the Canadian police. ' What for V asked the unhappy father, his voice trembling with fear. • For attempf.ee! murder. He is accused of ' The Inspector got no further. John Orpington uttered a low cry and fell heavily to the ground. A doctor was called. He pronounced the attack to be an, apoplectic lib, and ordored the im mediate removal ot the patient to the Hospital. When John Orpington's senses gradually returned to him ho was lying in a hospital ward. ' How long have 1 been here?' he a«ked of a uureo who was just going past his bed, ' Only a day or two— how do you feel ?' ' I don't know— l— let mo think. Ah, I remember all now - my eon ' • Hush, don't calk. " Wait till tho doctor's been. If you dalk now yon may get worse again.' That afternoon Mr Orpington was pronounced to be aufficiently well to see visitors. Tho visitors who arrived were Lizzie and Polly, who had come to London on receipt of the news of their father's illness, and had been every day to bee him, hoping he would be well enough to recognibe them. They were very quiet, as they were afraid of exciting him. But he spoke quite cooliy and calmly, and tho doctor said tho other visitors might, come in. Then theie entoiccl a young man with a face tal/hei pale, as though he had recovered from a lung illness, who came gently up to tho sick man's bedside. John Orpi n £t-C-:i looked at him in wonder. Ho boemed to know tho face, and yob — Ptesently tho young man took bis hand and said, ' Dad, don't you know me?' ' Will ! They — they told me you were aricsfced,' 4 Father,' cried Lizzie, ' this is Will, our brother, the real Will.' John Otpington couldn't understand; there couldn't bs two Wills. The young man saw his perplexity. ' It's all rijht, dad,' he said ; ' that other fellow was an impostor — worse than that, for fcha \illain tried to murder me. He thought he had done so and could palm himseli upon you as your heir. Li/, tells me he succeeded but he don't do much more mischief now. He's saio between tho two walls of a prison and he'll have to answer for his villainy.' 4 Thank (-Jod !' exclaimed Orpington, as soon as he realised the meaning- of Will's words, ' thank (Jod that scamp is not my son. If ho had been, 1 think I should have died of shame.' When John Orpington was well enough Will told him the whole story of the strange i adventure which had befallen him after he had received the news of his father's sudden good fortune, and explained how it was that an adventurer, whose resemblance to him had been a matter of comment in the 1 colony where they both lived, had been able to put into execution an artfully designed plot to pass himself off" as John Orpington's long absent son, and enjoy for a tune the achantages of the wealth that had come to the family.

(To be Continued.)