The Storyteller.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XLVII, Issue 7832, 26 May 1905, Page 4

The Storyteller.

THE LAST WORD. ((Continued.) "Ah, he said, ''there are plenty like that. Well, it is the more to I our credit that you have turned out so well. Now I'll go to bed." 1 The manager took a lamp from a bracket on the wall and preceded the squatter into an adjoining bedroom. 'As he set the lamp down on the dressanjftablo the sguatter ran his eye over the apartment. Suddenly he gave a great start and stepped rapidly over to the mantelpiece. His Cyes were riveted on a photograph — the photograph of a young andjjbautiful girl—and he turned in unmistakable astonishment to the startled) manager. " Where did you get this ? " lie demanded. ; ",That is a,, photograph of my ister," he said. The squatter's eyes went back to the faco in the photograph. "" But her name was not Perry 1 jbe said. The manager's face flushed again. Nor is mine," he said quietly ,ut firmly. The squatter faced round. " Is it " He leant forward and whispered a same in the othef's ear. Mutely the manager signified his assent. The squatter, apparently overcome .with I; some strange emotion, sank down in- , to a chair. " Come," he said, after a long pause, "' let us return to you" HttingHroomi. I can't rest till 1 have heard more;" - 1 They went back to the room they .Had left, and sat down facing each other.

| Tho squatter was the first to speak.-.

" Did you ever hear your si si «r mention my name 1 " he asked. The' manager shook 'his head. " Never," he replied. Again t'berc was a long pause, afiter which the squatter said :

" I've had no news these six years I've been away. Is—is she—marmarried ? " The vvoi-d seemed to cnoke him. Once more the manager shook his head.

! "I, too. have received n 5 news for six years," he said sorrowfully. The squatter looked up ux surprise.

I "You sec," explained the manager regretfully, "I' was a bad lot—a rejgular black sheep, in fact, and she was the only one who had l , a decent word for me. At last I decided to Come out here, and make a fresihj jstart. She helped me, and I said good-bye to 'her at ,thc station. But ,wben I got- here the old life came | back to me, and once more I went Ito the dogs. That lasted a year or sq, . and, o£ course, I never wrote. And then 'I did make a fresh start, arid have kept straight ever since.i Bot I've been too ashamed to write even to her. I should have to tell hef why I didn't do so at the outset,and that would make her cry—the Poor, dear, tender-hearted girl ! Some day I hope to go home and find her' out, and then "

He stopped, struck by a strange, almost frightened expression' on tho squatter's face. The latter had ittarely heard his concluding words. Ono sentence alone had sent a sudden fear to his heart. " You parted frotn her at the station ? " he demanded. ' 'Tell me—when—where was it ? Quick, man ! I cannot—cannot have foecn suoh a ft>6l! "

The manager's astonishment was increasing.

I " It. was .on the 25th of March, 11887," ha replied! " I left London

by the 5.15 from Liverpool Street. The "ship started from Antwerp, and 2 had first to go to Harwich by the Great Eastern."

A groan escaped , the sqluattcr's lips. He knew the truth now— the titter, humiliating truth—and he rejviled his folly a thousand times. For a long time he sat, with his head fjuriJc'upon his arms.. Presently he lifted it and spoke but what was in his/ heart. ' "Listfcn," he said humbly. "I have been a fool. Let mc tell you liow it happened. A little before you left England I proposed to your sister and was accepted'. You did not then live at home, for, until to-day, I never knew she had a brother in the world. This, too, would account for your not having heard of irks. Well, I was a. fool then—jealous of all who spoke to her, yet hating myself for that jealously. Wo had a tiff' about some trivial matter or Other, which, in the ordinary course of things, would have blown over. But Ithe very next day I chanced to be on tho Great Eastern Station at Liverpool Street and, greatly to rny astonishment, saw her in the act of bidding farewell to a stranger. He was quite unknown to me, and I stood aside in order that I might watch them unobserved. Suddenly I saw hei hand go up to his should:r. The tears were in her; eyes, and, bpnti - in? down, she kissed the man tonderly. almost passionately, it seemed to mc. Bi.t I summoned l all my i.ower of self-control and left the station unseen. When I returned home I packed imy belongings, wrote a curt nolo to tell her of my plans mid tho reason I had for them, and .sailed) for Australia by the first steamer I could catch. Hut all through these six long, solitary years my heart has ached with the old longing to: cill her mine, once more. For, heaven help mc !—I still love her ! And now—no.w I have forfeited ull right to approach her. Yet I must see her—l must find her—cost what/ it may f "

Once again he paused, (dropping his head down upon his hands. When he spoke again ihis voice was clcarer.-

" Listen," he said. "You must take charge of both stations- while I go to England. I will find you an assistant—two if you like—and you must fill your time in between both places. I shall start hy the next, boat."

I Then, taking up the lamp;, he went iback into his bedroom.

I But he could not sleep. Hope as jhe might, fears came to crush and ■ depress him. Oh, what a fool he had ibeen ! lie was older now, and the | e.sson of the half hour had taught jhim as much as time had done in I the past six years. He tossed des>pondingly on his pillow. llow could jriie fortgive ? Bitter as his grief might be—complete was his repentance, his self-reproach—how could she forgive ? And what if she were marrie'd ? The thought cut him like a krtife.: He must go—be the issuo what it might—even if she looked on him with eyes that coldly showed her scorn and contempt—he must go —yes, ho must go !

So he went. And when he had |found her, and the long, cruel, heartbreaking search was over, he toldl |her all. There was but one question | for him to ask, and he asked ;t, [humbly, repentantly. " Can you forgive ? " And she answered him :

I The story tame to an eild and the last word was wanting. Iris St. I'iecre leant back in her chair and gazed straight througK the window. The face had paled when the first flush of surprise had died away, and the blue eyes had in them a far away look. She was thinting. But the thought that was uppermost was not the question the slquatter- ha'd asked—" Can you forgive?" She had forgiven long, long ago. No, it was another question she had to answer. Mentally she put it to herself as she sat there before the story of " A Fool and Hi 3 Folly." "Do I love him still ? Can I trust him with my future ? " For half an hour she sat still (Then took up her pen, d!np"d it iu the ink, and Oiled in the missing jvortl "Yes.",

Icdos&g tils laanuwjpt jo a clean

envelope, she directed it to Guv Torrington, sealed it down and placed it ready for pi' Si. 'i lun sh' returned to the rest of the correspondence. Work did not seem .so irksome that day, and she was just about to leave the office for the night, when a messenger brought in a card. "Gen;leantn to see you, madam," he said. Guy Torrington stepped into the rooin. it was quite dusk when they came out. The messenger watched them as they descended the steps to the waiting hansom. " Looks mmiuy ! " he soliloti*iised thoughtfully. " Shouldn't wonder if we had a new lady editor afore long." They stepped into the hantom. " How did you discover mc, Guy?" asked Iris suddenly. Guy laugihed.; I travelled from Sevenoaks yesterday," ho explained. "Got into Victoria at 11.10. When I entered the carriage at tievenoaks there was a paper on the seat. 1 picked it up, found it to be a journal devoted to ladies, and, for that reason, read it. it was my lirst introduction to Tho J'iuce-fiez, and I turned over the leaves to discover the publisher*. There 1 saw your name, it was un odd little coincidence, wasn't it ? " Very. More odd than anything I ever heard' before." Guy looked a, trifle surprised. Oil, come," he laughed. '-'lt was not so .very wonderful after all. People very often leave their papers' in railway carriages." *' Yes. But that isn't all,". Guy turned'. "Eh ? Who's that ? " he inquired. Iris was smiling. ''Because 1 travelled from Hastings to Tunbridge Wells in that particular train yesterday morning, and so. it happens that X left a copy of The Fiiice-Nez in' the carriage I occupied.i Later in the day I returned to town-: It's rather a pity I didn't come straight through trv the 11.10." She shot him a swift little look, and he pressed her hand under cover of tho hansom apron. " All's well that endk well," he said. But 1 can never forgive .myself for all that has passed, Ills." Iris stopped him with a look. " Don't," she pleaded. "We must both forget the past. There is nothing now to keep me in England. I am quite longing to see the new land in which you have been working so well. -And—and I 'am so glad to hear about my brother Burtie." Once more Guy pressed the little hand that lay fondly in his. "But, Iris, how cam I forget ? I do not deserve even your forgiveness ! You must ! You do," said Iris with decision. " Please don't talk c.f it any more." Guy assumed a look of saint-like submission. " Very good; madam," he said humbly. "For tho second time ycu have had the last word."