FOR OLD TIME'S SAKE.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LI, Issue 308, 24 December 1908, Page 4

FOR OLD TIME'S SAKE.

(By George K. Sims).

At the bottom of a narrow lane running out of Eastcheap, a dingy old house with dingy brass plates on the side of a dingy old doorway. On one of the brass plates, that was so dingy that it only reflected oa the character of the person entrusted with the cleaning of it, the names of Fileybank, Farley and Clarke, and an intimation that the ofliee of the firm was on the second floor.

Opposite the dingy old house which was at the bottom of the lane a dingy old church and a dingy old churchyard surrounded by rusty old railings. A dismal, place at any time, but more dismal than ever this Christmas Eve. John Fileybank, solicitor, looked out of the second-iloer window and saw nothing but the church and the churchyard. The street was as silent as the old burial place. Everybody had deserted it except a clean black cat, who was sitting by the' locked churchyard gate and watching a sootly little London sparrow perched on a branch of the bare and dilapidated old tree that still maintained the struggle for life, in the middle of the old graveyard. John Fileybank was three single solicitors rolled into one. Farley had been dead lor years; Clarke, after a quartir of a century of this dismal environment had settled down into a state of continned lnelancholiiL, and having twice attempted to commit suicide by hanging himself in the private ollice after everybody else had left, had been removed to a lunatic asylum, where he passed Ills time in drawing up wills for his fellowpatients and leaving himseli as sole executor.

After the departure of Clarke to the asylum John Filebank had the dingy offices to himself, and what business there was he was able to do with the assistance of two ancient clerks, who had been with the linn from early youth, and had grown prematurely old in the -shadow of the grey church and the gloomy churchyard. But though the clients of the firm had departed one by one for other churchyards, and there was never more for the clerks to iUi than they could accomplish without the energy and bustle which would have been out of keeping with their surroundings, John Fileybank was' a well-to-do man, and could have lived in his quiet methodical way without any clients at all. He came to his ollice day after day and sat in his cheerless office because he had nothing better to do. He had never married, though he had once in the long ago been in love. He was live-nnd-twenty then, and had only had a year of the churchyard view. But Aviee Lee, the sister of young FileyIjank's college chum, had given her heart to "a sailor over the sea" before the young solicitor asked for it, and he never asked a woman for her heart

.again. He knew that the sailor came across the sea and married Aviee, and once he met her by accident with, a pretty little girl at her side who called her /''Mother'' he wished that he had taken ;lo the sea aad become a merchant captain and Avice's husband, instead of dragging out long, dreary years of bachelorhood in a dingy ollice amid bundles of dusty papers and musty parchments.

And now he was fifty and faded and grey, passing every morning from his dingy old house in a dingy old street near the Foundling Hospital to his sombre office in the dreary old lane in Kastclienp. There was no reason that he should have stayed in his ollice til four o'clock on Christmas Eve. But there was 110 reason why he should go home. lie had a housekeeper, who looked after liis two middle-aged servants, and sflw that his breakfast was ready for him at eight, and that his dinner was on the table at seven. Since Clarke hail gone to the asylum John Fileybank had no visitors. After dinner he read, and smoked one cigar, and when he got weary of his book he went to bed. He might as well slay at the ollice as go home any week-end in the year, and Christmas Eve "made no difference to him. There was no one at home to be Christninsy with, and his Christmas dinner would be a dinner for one just, as all his other dimwrs were. The only change in the procedure would be that he would eat it at two instead of seven, as the elderly houseparlormaid Mild the elderly cook had homes, and they wanted to go to them to tea and supper, And so it came alioul that at Four o'clock on Christinas iive John Fileybank stood behind his office window and gazed vacantly at the churchyard and the dead tree, the sparrow and the black cat. Presently he turned from the window with his face a shade gloomier than usual, put on his hat aud coat, and prepared to go home. As he was opening the door that led to the staircase Ihe housekeeper was about to put a letter in the box. She had brought it up after clearing the box -at the front door.

Mr. Fileybank glanced at (he envelope and opened it. To bis utter astonishment all that tie envelope contained was a Christmas enrd. If it had been a summons to attend a dinner party at Buckingham Palace he would not have been more astonished. * He looked at the address on the envelope again to sec if he had opened a letter for one of his clerks by mistake. Xo. 'ihe address in a neat 'handwriting, of pronounced femininity, was open to no misreading. "Jolm Fileybank, Esq." He was John Fileybank, and the address was that of his office. He gave the key of his office to the housekeeper mid went downstairs and. out into the deserted street. The receipt of a Christinas card had completely altered the expression ou his face.

The grave melancholy look had vanished. His features expressed wonder, amazement, perturbation. The only person who used to send him a Christmas card, his sister, had died twenty years ago, and he had never received one since. When he got home he took the card out of his pocket and looked at it again, holding it in front of him distrustfully, as one would a mysterious communication or an anonymous letter. It was a simple little card, with a church 'and a cottage and snow, underneath it the time-honored legend: "Wishing you a merry Christmas." A .merry Christmas! John Fileybank felt himself going hot and red at the idea. What kind of mental picture did his unknown correspondent draw of him in his home on Christmas Day?

Did she imagine that he had festivity in his dining-room, or played blind-man's-buff ,by himself, or that he kissed anybody under the mistletoe! He put the card back iu the envelope, and locked it up in an old-I'nshioneil Chippendale writing-desk ill a comer of Hie room. He ale his dinner without knowing of what it consisted. His mind was still dwelling on the mvstcrious Christmas card. After dinner lie went to the desk ami took the card cut of the envelope again. "It's absurd!" he said. "1 can't imagine who could hare sent nie such a thing." Thinking the mystery quietly over he turned (lie card mechanically,"and saw the back of it for tlie lirst time. What he saw (hole caused him to utter an exclamation almost of pain.) His lip trembled, and a faint Hush came into his sallow cheeks. 'T'o dear mamma.—From Avice." Avice! The name struck John Fileybank 1-j the heart. It brought back in one swift rush of thought the memories oi live-aud-twenty years ago. Aviec! There must be some mysterious link between .this Christmas card and the woman lie loved, Avice Lee. Xo theory of chances could account for any other Avice being concerned in the card that had been seat to her former suitor.

Hut there was evidently a mistake. What this niislake was lie divined it once. There had lu'eu a erossiii" of cards, or a curd and it letter. The Avici' who wrote o„ the hack of this card had put it, by mistake, into tin envelope addresed to John Filovbauk. i What was it that should have been ill [that envelope? 'two people would know, the Avice who sent the card and the mamma who probably received the communication intended for him. And this mnmina was the Avice whom he, John Fileybank. had loved in the days of his youth, mid had asked to bo' lis wife,

Ah, if she had consented, how different his life might have been! That night John Fileybank wasyotri" again. Aviee Lee, in her youth and beauty, came to him in his dreams and smiled upon him. He scarcely touched his breakfast on Christmas morning, and shortly after ten went out.

He hailed a hansom and got into it. He had mot spent a farthing in cab fares for years. He told the cabman to drive him lo the street in the city where his ofliee was, and when he alighted he told the man to wnit. Ho rang the bell, and the housekeeper, opening the door and seeing hi:n, frowned. "Lor', sir," she said. "Yo don't ■mean to say as you're going to come lo business on Christmas Day? 1 haven't had your office doae out.' "It's all right, Mrs. Cibbs," he said. '•X only want to see if any letters came by the last post or this morning for me." "The post's only just come in, sir—the Christmas cards always make it late. Sly daughter's got' the letters downstairs, sorting 'em out to see if there are any for us. We have cards from our friends and relatives, you know."

She went to the top of the stairs, and called down to know if there were any letters for Mr. Fileybank. Miss Cibb's answered that there was one, and brought it up. John Fileybank took it eagerly. He almost snatched it. He looked at the handwriting on the envelope, and his face lighted up. It was the same as Unit on the envelope that had brought the Christmas card. "She found out she's mixed her letters," he said to himself. "1 thought she would."

He took the letter with him, got into the cab and told the driver to drive him back to the Foundling. In tlie cab he opened the letter and read it eagerly. "Sir,—l have just discovered that I sent you a Christmas card intended for my mother. Fortunately, i discovered the mistake before I posted her envelsending to you. I hope you will forgive me writing to you. We are in great trouble, and I don't want my mother to know. Aly father is dead. He died many years ago, and left us very little. My brother and i have kept the home for my mother. 1 am an artist. My brother is an artist, and very clever; but lately he has been ill and unable to do much, work, and we got into difficulties. He borrowed money, hoping that he would soon be well and at work again. If he does not pay this week our home will be taken. Mother knows .nothing. I will tell you why I write to you. Mother told me about you a year ago. i was going over some old treasures of hers, and found a beautiful little volume of Tennyson's poems, it was 'From John Fileybank, with best wishes for your birthday.' "Then mother told me who you were, and that you had been in love with her and wanted to marry her—but she was ' in love with my father. 'But John Fileybank was a good man,' she said. 'I often think of our friendship. Poor fellow, he never married.' "i -remembered all this when our trouble came, and 1 thought 1 would write to you. You are a solicitor, and can perhaps help us in our trouble. If only j we can save the home for mother we can work and pay you back. My brother Frank is quite well now, and hard at work. Oh, .Mr. Fileybank! for the saKe of the time when you loved my mother, won't yon help us now?" The letter was signed "Avice Hanson."

The cab was going towards the West, as John Fileybank, having read the letter twice through, put it in his pocket. There were tears in his eyes as lie looked out at the happy little family parties hurrying along, parcel-laden, to the homes of tlieir dear ones and their friends. He had never understood what Christmas Day meant before. He understood now. When he got home he almost ran into the house. Hie opened his escritoire and took out his cheque-book. He had kept the cab waiting. He got into it again and drove to the address on the letter. It ,was a neat little house in a quiet little square off the Camden road. The sound of the cab stopping had brought a pretty girl of nineteen to the window.

■She saw John Fileybank get out of the cab, -and guessed who it was. Her face Hushed, too, as. he held out his. hand. "Miss HansonV" he said. "Yes. And you are Sir. Filcyhauk, II am sure. Oh, how good of you to come!" . , (She opened the door of the little drawing-room and ushered him in. A bright lire was blazing on the hearth, and the room was prettily decorated with evev-greens, and holly, and mistletoe. '"You are not angry with me for writing?" said Aviec. "Mother know* nothing of what I have done. We don't want her to know.'' "Angry! Xot at all," said Mr. Filc/liank, smiling. "L am so glad you did. What is the amount your brother owes?" "Eighty pounds," replied Avice, hesitatingly. "My dear Miss Hanson, 1 shall be delighted to let your brother have it, and more if he wants it. He can pay inc. ■back in pictures. Get bto ft Jieu and ink."

"Oh, thank you!" c-xclfciinied Avice, her eyes lighting up and her lips quivering with joy. She gave Jolm Fileybank a pen and ink, and he drew a cheque for one hundred pounds and handed it to her. "Your brother will paint me a picture for one hundred pounds," he said, as she took the cheque. Then he held out his hand. "Won't you—won't you see mother?" said. Avice. "She is in tlie dining room alone. My brother has gone out." John Fileybank hesitated. "I—l— to-day,' he said. "It is Christmas Day. You must not have a stranger in the family circle. In a day or two 1 will come—if I may—and see your brother about the picture."

"Oh, how good you are!" exclaimed Avion, as she grasped both John Filcybank's hands in the hall. Then with girlish impulse she took his lace between her hands and touched his cheek softly with her lips. John Fileybank blushed as he had not blushed since he was a boy. Then he looked up and saw he was under the mistletoe.

The housekeeper' and the elderly maids did not know what to make of their master that Christmas Day. He was quite merry over his 'solitary dinner, lie lifted his, glass and wished the parlormaid a hap'py Christmas, and scandalised her by asking her if she were going to see her young man. And after dinner he went out, and was gone for nearly uu hour, and when he came back he had some holly with him and a big bought ol mistletoe. He got on a chair' and hung the mistletoe, iu the hall. Then the housekeeper was quite certain that he had gone suddenly mad. She was quite relieved when he said he was going out fo r the rest of the day. If lie. had stayed iii she would have insisted on the maids remaining to take care of her. John Fileybank went out and Walked about London. He heard the sounds of joy in the houses and his heart was glad. die gave money to every poor child lie met. Late in the evening he went buck home and posted a cheque for ten 1 pounds to each of his clerks as a Christ-mas-box,

"i have enjoyed myself," lie said, as he laid his head on the pillow that night. "I wish it was Christmas Day every day in the year." From tlie Times, June litli, l!>0 : '•Ou the -Hli inst., at St. Mary's, Murylebone, John Fileybank, Esq., of Great Coram street and Kasteheap. to Avice, widow of the late Captain Frank Hanson.''

A CHRISTMAS TRUANT I The man sighed with a touch of disappointment as he rose to go. 1 She was certainly a lovely woman, tactful, accomplished, 'with knowledge 'of the world—a woman of exquisite 'charm. She would have made him i'an ideal wife, and lie luul fully intended 'proposing to her that day. Yet. he got up to leave with the fateful words unspoken.

! Yes, without any doubt she was a 'woman of rare beauty. He repeated 'this obvious fact to" himself many times as .he walked home to his chambers in tile Temple. Yet he did not love her. ' A successful barrister, he was a comparatively wealthy mail. Devoted to his work, he had pushed with dogged persistence through early disappoint'ments, though he had lacked the in'ceittives which to most men sweeten laliour—a. wife and home ami children. ' die had met Airs. Clarence a few 'months hack, and she had attracted 'him greatly. And yet only half an hour 'ago, when he had been on the very •point of asking the fascinating widow to marry him, he had drawn back. The bdd mood of restlessness and doubt had come upon him, unsettling his mind. • He was glad that this'year he was 'going to spend Christmas out of town. Tie got up from his chair and took a 'letter from a drawer. its contents 'were crisp. " Take pity 011 an uld woman's loneliness, dear ill'. Areheson, and spend the Christmas holiday with her. I know 'you love solitude, or I should not bavc 'ventured tw ask you to spend such a festive time at a very dull house, Y'ou 'sluill be left entirely to your own deVices; and, knowing your devotion to 'work, I give you full and free permission to bring down witli you a bag 'stuffed with briefs if you choose. Yours Very sincerely, Gertrude Laverston."

' " P.S.—There is only one person in the house besides the servants and my'self, and that is my graiiddaughte', 'whom 1 don't think you have ever met. 'But she won't worry you in any way, for she is quite a child, and seeks her own outdoor amusements." ' When Philip Areheson had first read 'the letter it was not without a certain ■half amazed irritation. ' "She evidently thinks me a crusty 'and peevish old bachelor, wedded to 'selfish ways," he finid, wondering what 'could have induced Lady Laverston to 'send him this invitation. He had decided to go, not altogether for her V-ociety, as he remembered that some 'property hud lieeni left Oiim in the ■neighbourhood—an .old house with a 'good deal of ground. He had never •had inclination or time to go there and 'view the uld place, iwliieh was little 'more, so he understood, than a ruin. 'Lady Laverston, mure yellow (iiul 'more aged than when he hud seen her , last, met him in the imll with a welcome.

- "Tell me the gossip <)f the town, my 'dear Archeson," she sail eagerly, when 'lie was comfortably seated, bending her "bright, birdlike eyes upon him. ■ Christmas dinner was .served with iill its ancient vitos, except that the '■spirit of mirth was abse7it. ' "My grandchild should have made a 'third," Lady Laverston remarked. "But, 'unfortunately, the child has, I assume, 'gone oil' on one of her thoughtless wantiering expeditious, heedless of time. 'Anyway, she is not to be found. I fear 'that she is a little beyond control—at 'least, my control—and vet a charming 'girl really, a girl iilled -with possibilities', 'sound as a bell at heart. She requires 'a firm hand—yes, a very firm hand!" ' When the dessert was reached Arche-

'son mentioned that a house called the Towers belonged to him. She knew the place well, but had no idea that he was the owner, and she asked him if be might care to walk over and see the place. t" the darkening light of the December afternoon he came in sight of his destination, and stopped in admiration of the picturesque old place. Over everything were traces of neglect, yet the buildiing itself was a symphony in ferey and green—green where the ivy clung to tlie old stone walls. ' Eventually a n ancient dame came 'forth. She lent a deaf ear to Arche'son's announcement that lie was the 'owner of .the Towers, audi he allowed ■her to suppose that he was merely a person curious to go over the house. She lighted a large number of candles in a large candelabrum, and he departsd alone on his tour of inspection. He wandered from room to room, 'where mildewed portraits frowned itproof at this disturbance of their puletide dreams. He rested awhile when he reached a railed gallery which over*, looked what had once been a ballroom, when some slight sound caused him to turn round. He gazed up and down the gallery, but could see nothing. A I thin strain of music came to him, a ghost of melody, as if a spirit hand 'were playing upoii' an invisible harp. Tlicn there was silence once more. But after some seconds, the music could I.* heard again—a thin wail, a fragment of tune. ■ Archeson, listened intently, his nerves tingling in an absurd manner. Silence 'again, broken as before by this mystic ; 'music and the. sound oi' laughter, a Imrst of smothered mirth. He determined upon a close investigation of 'the gallery. The .wall was covered with j'a moth-eaten tapestry, and, lifting this 'carefully aside, he came eventually upon ! a heavy door hidden beneath it. Discovering the handle he pushed the door forward, disclosing a picture as unexpected as charming. 1 Before a huge fire, and seated around a table on which was spread a Christ-

'mas feast were a dozen children, and 1 iit one head of (lie table was a girl, 'with a violin in her hands, who did not 'seem a great deal older than the eldest there. ' She surveyed the newcomer with a 'gaze of honest surprise, but quite deVoid of embarrassment. "How did yon discover our secret icliamliev?" she 'exclaimed. I thought that only ourselves—that is, I and this •happy family—knew of it!" " I—T hope I'm not intruding." he said, 'doubtfully. "] heard the music lirsl of all, and that led me to investigate." "Come in." she said hospitably. "You 'may, you know. The owner'of this 'dear old house never conies near it. The whole place is left to the rats aril bats, except when one like yourself has a. wish to explore it." 1 "This is a Christmas treat," the girl 'went on. " We've been looking forward to it for ever so long! Haven't w.\ girls?" A glad chorus of "Yes. Miss Laverston," was the response. Arch?son started and looked at her with even greater attention. Here, then, was the. truant—Lady Laverston's errant granddaughter.

' "Chris Curtis was coming in to have dinner with us; but he's played us false," she went on, as she graciously extended the freedom of the family circle (0 Philip Areheson. "He's Bridget's eldest brother, and quite a nice boy 'when he's not with his own gang, playing cards and gambling. We wanted (some one masculine to help us. But you'll do just as well—that is. if you're not in a hurry!" lie found himself 'shaking his head. "Then- suppose we start with blind'man's buff, and we'll blindfold vou." Shrieks of delight arose from the children at this suggestion, ami lliey crowded around the astonished Imrri'ster. "r I hope you've no objection," she added, with sudden politeness. ' "Oh, none whatever!" he murmured. 'He submitted tamely to being blindfolded, and presently shrill cries and sounds of ecstatic mirth responded through the room. Never since the day Of his youth had Areheson enjoved himself so much, and he felt little more than a boy himself among Umse happy ■children, and with that bright-faced girl, who ruled them with a sceptre of love. Other games followed, but presently she feared that they might be demandiii-r too much of his good nature, and. leaving the children to tlieir own devices, she offered to show him over as much (>f the Towers as he had not yet visited. "I'd been saving for mouths." she d"-

elared, "so Unit Ilif children . hold feast to-day. T)ont little ones, they liiirdly know what n Christmas dinn-V means! Hut T meant them to this ye.i'r. Ami then, after it was all arrau«eil. it nearly fell thrmijjli. , 1 had asked mv 'grandmother to let me have the dinfree. not It-lling her why. because this room Is illy seeret retreat where [ come ■when—when T feel myself the victim of I ' —tyranny. But a fortnight auo I 'ma suddenly look it iulo |,er head to invite a friend an oh! crabbed lawynfrom London- to spend (lirislm-ts with her. Hut -that was not by anv means the worst!"' She still stood before ltini. and looked at him with solemn ijrev eyes. "She instructed me to nial;'e myself very pleasant tind flinrtiilm.—as if T eotlhl do thai!—to this withered "ihl pevsnn, liecfluse .she had decided that ue would make it very suitable husband for anyone so headstrong as myself." Archeson smothered an "(ill!'' and listened witli becoming gravity.

"The thought of disappointing the children was bad enough, but this wes the lust straw that decided me to play truuut. Jt was dreadfully wrong, of course "—she shook her head sagely. '■ llul," and she turned a face toward him whose brightness seemed to bewilder him, ''could 1 disappoint the children '!" The barrister's heart begun to bent in an odd manner. "Certainly not,' he responded, forgetting the disloyalty audi an answer held in it toward Lady Lavcrston. He was conscious that the girl was beginning to exercise a charm over him. And he was suddenly glad that certain binding words lie had intended addressing to Mrs. Clarence ha.l remained unspoken. ' The girl's voice broke in upon hithoughts.

' "Am I the kind of girl to marry n crusty old lawyer?" she demanded, her grey ieyes filled with mischievous lire, her mouth set in mutinous lines. ' "It would be a terrible fate to overtake you, no doubt," he responded gravely. " Hut he mightn't be so very ancient, you know!" "He's certain to he! All grandma's friends are old. And in all probability he has mutton-chop whiskers! Now, do you think I should make n.t all a suitable wife fur a limn with Jgrcy mutton-chop whiskers?" "You don't think that any possible inducement might make you iilter your mind and accept this 'doddering o.'J parchment-bound dry-as-dnsl ?" 1 A vivid smile crossed her face. "Nothing," she replied. "The man my mind is bent upon marrying is the owner of this house!" 1 "Ah!"

"That is whom 1 am waiting for. But I shall read him a, lecture when he makes his belated appearance. I sliall say to him: 'Sir, here is this lovely place left to rack and ruin. You must do your duty toward it, and restore it, and make it hospitable once more.' And then I shall add, ' Ii you would care to propose to me, I might accept you, because I should love to be mistress of the Towers; but a hew Towers, a Towers finely restored, not a draughty ruin." 1 "IPvrhaps he may turnout to be quite an elderly person, grim and staid; some one like myself, for instance." She smiled. "1 shouldn't call you elderly or grim," she said. "Why, you're little mure than a boy. See how you romped just now!" Archeson's laugh rang out loud and clear. And yet it was astonishing how youthful he felt. "Will you do something for me?" he said, after a pause. "When these children have gone home, go home yourself, too. Your grandmother may be alarmed at your absence, and—and her visitor—this unwelcome guest, may not be so entirely disagreeable as you suppose." ' " Yes, I will do that," she said, her manner subdued. "Perhaps it was unkind to defy grandma's wishes. But I did not see it like that until now. Yes, I will do my best to he amiable, to her poor unsuspicious victim. But nothing in Ihe world would persuade me ever to marry him." "Who knows?" he said. "You may yet—in the end." ■■ And she did. - ,