THE HEIRESS.

Te Aroha News, Volume XII, Issue 1761, 21 August 1895, Page 3

THE HEIRESS.

This is the romance of a middle aged man-~the romance of an old head and a young heart. I amgray Wired and 40, end yet; as I sit at my desk in the gloomy office of Harman’s mill a face cornea ; between my eyes and the columns of flgfires In dusty ledgers—a young face with clear, bright eyes—and I fall into a ■ day dream and forget that lam old and >*£ ppOT.Biid6oimhOTpla^^^^ Ti^ Bh© is the only obild of Jere Hannan, the millionaire mill owner, and as gentle and good as she is beautiful. I bare watched her grow into woman-' > hood. I have watched her character deepening and widening and developing toward the ideal of my dreams. And all these years I have beeii learnv ing to loye hear. ' ■ - Surely love ia not • wholly wasted, though It is hopeless. I am a better man ■“ that! have loved Nellie Hannan. No. I build no aircastles. ; '% am 40 and she 18, I am only her father’s bookkeeper, and ia the heiress of millions. *. '« , * There wasa time when little Nellie Harman rode on my shoulder, hunted my pockets for goodies and escaped her mxxwe’s charge several times a day to tndAU down to the mill in search of "her Jack Spencer.” Later she brought her school tasks, the incorrigible Latin verba and the unconquerable examplesfn fractions, to the same old friend, who was never too busy to be bothered by little \V; Nellie Harman. 'J: She is as unaffected and cordial in her friendliness as ever, and sometimes when she lays her hand on my arm and looks up into my face and asks why I come so seldom to the hall, and have I grown tired of old friends, of her—then I find 4 - it hard to answer lightly, to smile calmly;; and I go away with a heartache. The girl does not lack for friends. Grim, stem old Jere Harman's little bright faced child, motherless since liar babyhood, long ago ;found a tender spot in the hearts of the village folk, to the cottages her face is as welcome as l sunshine. The children hang on her gown, file wofien sing her praises, and the toughest millhahd has always a civil word for her and a lift of the cap as she ■ ■ passes. * : - . -- She has her friends, too, among the country gentlefolk. Young Harry Desmond is of ten at the hall. Itism-

xnored that he is the fortunate suitor of X Jere Harman’s heiress. He is a fresh faced, good hearted lad. Lore is-for •f/yonth, and they are young together., - r. Gray haired Jack Spencer, what have you to do with “love’s young dream?” * *• * ■■ * # The strike! The mill is shut down, and the strikers gather in knots along the village street and discuss the situation. The cut rates have caused the trouble. Jere Harman ia a hard-mnn and a Hard master. He holds tk§ fate of these people in his hands. A-few cents less to them, a few dollar more to him. This seemed to him to Settle, the question. The times were dull—hs would reduce wages. The Har- : .man mill operatives went out in a body. * The first day of the strike Big John, the 'weaver who headed the strikers, caine to Jere Hannan with a delegation to arbitrate the matter. To them Harman skid: “Return to work at my terms or stay out and starve. Monday I hire new hands if 4 you are not back in your places. " As long as I own this min i shall be'master here,” This was his final answer, and no words of mine, no warnings of the murmurs and threats that grow and deepen among the men, will shake his will. Thera is talk of firing the mill among the mad brained ones, and Big John shakes his head. “That were chopping the nose off to spite the face, men. If the mill were bunied, how would that help us to work and wages? 'Nay. It must be other means.” “Aye, we must live, but .if we do not get our rights by fair means we will have them by foul,” cried another. They mean mischief. I have warned Jere Harman, but he will not heed. * * * .. » # 9 The strike is over. The night is ended, and I sit alone in the office in the gray dawn, sick and oißzy with the Horrors or sue nighTs experience. I Shut my eyes, and the picture stands out before me—the dark • " night, the hall with its lights glowing out through the windows, the gay party of young people in the drawing room, the gleam of torches outside, the mob of 4esperate men, the angry, upturned feces. There was a tramp of feet, hoarse ' an 4 a s h3ue crashed through a Window and shattered the chandelier. The music stopped with a discordant Crash. There was instant confusion, and above it all there were the hoarse cries Jere Herman. X sprang through the plasaa window and faced the men. They knew me well, ' fftfrd Big John shouted: “We’ve naught against you, John Spencer. We mean no harm to any, but the master must hear us. Bring Out-the master!” “Come like honest men in daylight and talk it over calmly,” I urged; “not at night like a mob of ruffians, with stones for arguments.” Jere Harman had come out to them. They greeted him with _an angry shout. - “We are to be put off no longer. Is it'our rights by fair means or by foul, , Jere Harman?” ' . “Your'"rights”— began Jere Harman, in hia harsh, stern voice. I saw that Nellie Hamiaa had slipped out to her

, father’s Bide and laid her hand pleadingly on his shoulder. She did not fear the angry men, for willingly not one of them would have harmed a hair of her dainty head. I saw that she would have pleaded with her father to be gentle with them. “Yes, our rights!” yelled a voice in the crowd, with au awful oath. He was drunk or blind with rage—surely he did not see the girl at her father’s side. A stone whizzed through the air. It might have been Jere Harman’s deathblow; instead, it struck her. It cut a great, cruel gash just above the temple. They sprang toward her—her friends, her lover—but Nellie Harman put her two hands out to me with a sharp, gasping cry. "Jack, Jack!” she said, and I caught her in my arms. f I have lived over the agony, the joy, of that moment all through the long, lonely hours of this night. It was Big John himself who brought the doctor and cried like a child when they told him she was dying. His little crippled child she had loved and cared for, and it had died in her arms. . “Aye, and that harm should have come to her, who was more good and innocent of wrong than the angels!” muttered Big John brokenly as he went away softened and sorrowful. Jere Hannan sent me out to tell the men that he had yielded, and in the silence of death they went away. The strike is oven As I sit here in the gray dawn, waiting, fearing, dreading the coming of the morning and the news it may bring, I hear the olatter of a horse’s hoofs. It is a servant from the hall riding to the village on some errand. “What news?” I call out hoarsely, and learn that the worst is over and that she will. live. # » « * 9 9 Nellie Harman hovered between life and death for long weeks, and I worked as I had never worked before. Jere Hannan left much of the management of the mill in my hands, and I put heart and brain in the work, or I Bhould have -gone mad in those weeks with the longing to see her face. When she was well again, ! spent many evenings at the Hall talking business with her father, who came seldom to the'office in those days. He had broken in health with the recent troubles and had lost energy, but he was gentler and kinder than of old. Harry Desmond was always there. I was but a dull guest.,, I could not endure his light heartedness, the triumph in his eyes, the happiness in his laugh. I could not endure that he should call her by name or Bmile on her. I was a mad fool! I told Jere Harman that I - must go away, that I must have rest, change—a vacation. Gordon, the young foreman, could take my place, I urged, and he consented, though grudgingly. The last evening I promised him to spend at the hall and. go over the ac- . counts, with him. Never had Nellie been brighter or gayer. I felt a vague pang that my going was so little to her. It was early when Desmond left, and I immediately rose to go. Jere Harman grasped my hand cordially in farewell, and Nellie said simply “Goodby,” and I went down the path slowly and sadly. Suddenly I heard a light, flying step, behind me da I reached the shadow of the trees.. It wa3 Nellie. •* ,< I stepped back in the darkness. She , stopped as if listening and then came to-tp-jupA rtxo. •*1 thought I should overtake you,” she whispered, slipping her arm through mine. “Did you think I could let you go away , tonight without a last word?” There was something in her voice, a tenderness, that explained all. She had come ont. to meet her lover, Desmond, and mistaken ine fpr him in the darkness. But to have her so. near was very sweet. She seemed not to care for speech. She was very still—just clasping my arm and leaning overi so gently against my shoulder. The temptation was great—l was going away—just to take’ away with me the memory of a moment’s heaven! I kissed her. •

“Forgive mo,” I pleaded desperately. “You thought me your lover, Desmond, and I was cruel, mad, to take that kiss. Nellie, forgive me.” “But I kissed you, Jack,” she whispered. “And you won’t go—oh, Jack, you won’t go when I love you. so?” Jack Spencer, gray haired and 40, commonplace and poor—she loved him! That is my romance.—M. A. Worswick in Frank Leslie’ 0 Weekly.