THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 309, 8 February 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

THE SECRET HOLD. For miles around in every direction 'the bushland stretched, an unbroken expanse, burnt up beneath a torrid sun. Unly the arid prairie to be seen, notiurg beyond. i'es. On patch of scorched grant something could surely be seen—a human form, a man's form. He moved restlessly from side to side, liis parched, cracked lips softly muttering incoherent words, spoken in the delirium of fever. Phantasmal pictures floated across his scenes of the past were ilashe:! Upon tlie screen of consciousness. Eancy cheated him in that forsaken hour, when sie stood face to face with eternity, into the belief tiiat he was safe and well •with tender voices falling upon his ear liud no longer that cruel, devouring thirst that seemed to have turned his' whole body into a furnace, his 'ips moistened with some healing draugut, the well of water suddenly uncovered in the desert. He started n, little, a tremor passing through his body and the clouds floating from his brain, and he glance 1 up with eyes that no longer gazed on imaginary faces, but fell upon the bronzed, kindly features of a finely-built, muscular nia.il, who was bending over liim bolstering his reclining head -in arnS he placed a water-flask against those that were as tender as a woman's to life the sufferer, whilst with one hand dried lips. Jim Roans drank eagerly, then shook liis head a little, murmuring in' a weak and drows'y voice: "It's no good, old man. li've taken my pasage this time for the real back of beyond. I'm going to peg out." "Nonsense, Jim. You mustn't talk like that. 11l get you on to my horse and Carry you back to Creek town. It's only a matter of twenty miles,, and what's such a distance to vou and me, fch, Jim? How did you get bushed?" "I lost the track, and have been wandering for hours—days. I think. I suppose I must have been rounding in a fcircle all the while. And all the time the pitiless sun, the cruel, merciless sun. li " He fell back gasping. George Lester bent over him. wiping the clammy brow. Then from another flask lie drained some brandy and held it to Roane's lips.

A momentary brightness came into his glazing eyes, a sudden strength sounded in his voice.

"I'm glad it's you, who have found tne, George." he said. "I can die content now, at peace. For what if others had come to me iu these last moments and robbed me! George—l haven't told you, no, not a soul. But—but I—l've pegged out a —a claim, loaded with gold, and—and all the papers of possession arfe here, sailed in my wallet. You—you will find instructions there that—that I know you will fulfil, for I can trust you, old pal; you are a white man, a true friend. When—when you have set the mine working, you—you \vill go back to the dear old country—oh, the green lanes ot England the hedgerows and the wild flowers—doesn't your heart ache for them, eh?" Jim Roans went on in a gradually "weakening voice. "There—there is' a girl you must find in England. My daughter. Yes, child of my heart; a link of love given to me by the wife whom I worshipped—that young wife taken fl'om me, snatched from my arms, after one brief year of ioy."

A marvellous tenderness stole into'his failing tones, and tlie drawn, haggard face seemed to shine with an ecstatic light.

"You —you will seek this girl, George, and you will hand to her my wealth—the wealth Ii have sought in vain for during life, but that is mine now—now a v t flay death."

(Jeorgc Letter could say nothing, though he longed to ask a hundred question;-. for the fact that his old partner was a married man and had a daughter was one that he had been entirely in ignorance of until this moment. .But the other lapsed into delirium; and then, not long after, Jim Roane's soul had drifted out upon the river of cternitv.

j George Lester allowed his gaze to rest . upon the pretty scene that an English | garden presented, feasting his' eyes upon | a sight that had heen so long denied I him. lint they returned after a moI iiient. with a deepened glow of pleasure, i to the girl seated by his side. | He watched her lovely, flower-like features unpcrceived for a second, startling I a look of gravity resting upon them. [ Xot for the first time he wondered at the sadness' that her expression had betrayed in those unguarded moments when she was lost in thought. Yet for all that touch of melancholy, which, indeed, heightened rather than detracted from her beauty, she was the loveliest woman lie had ever seen this ' girl who was his old partner's daughter, Jim Roane's child. At last s'he caught his gaze fixed upon her, and she started a little nervously, playing with the cups that stood on a gipsy table, for, late though the year was, summer still lingered, and it was warm enough to take tea out of doors. •''This is better than the tea I used to get out in the bush," lie declared. "One of these days', perhaps, you will go to Australia, Miss Roane, and pay a visit to your own prosperous holdings. Quite a township has sprung up around the Katherine group." She shook her head and paled a little, as if some inward, unspoken emotion had caught at her heart. "Xo," she said, slowly, "I shall never go out to Australia."

"I can understand your feeling," re-j marked the other, gently. "It repre-j seiits a cruel land to you, for did it not! rob you of your father? Miss Roane" —lie drew a little nearer—"is it the thought of your father's sad death that causes you such regret as at times I can read in your face?" She did not answer at once, but he saw a tear gather in her eye. "My father, whom I never recollect seeing? No, not that. He left England When I was but an infant, remember. I have gone through a hard time, Mr. Lester, of late years; have stared the wolf of hunger in the face. It is that, if anything, which saddens me at times; for such experiences leave tneir mark — don't they? But now " She made an expressive gesture and gave a sigh—a sigh of contentment, or so it s'omided. '"That fear has been removed for ever," replied Lester, quietly. "You must not blame your father, Miss Roane, for I am perfectly convinced that lie forwarded money to those fosterparents in whose care he confided you when you were a baby. Perhaps it is kinder, so far as they are concerned, to believe that such remittances went astray. And that reminds me of something that I wish" to say to you, pleading the privilege of my old friendship with your father. This nephew of those people, this Austen Racewood, whom ,1 find so often here—does lie intrude upon you? Is his presence distasteful? There is no real cousinship between you, recollect; and if ; as I have imagined, his interference in your affairs is secretly rcs'ented, and he refuses to see this for Jiimself, will you leave me to convey to liim in more unmistakable terms what I fancy are your feelings?" She drew back, a look of swift alarm coming into lier face. "You—vou have formed n. wrong conclusion," she Said, fatterlngly. "Austen —is not unwelcome here." Lester flashed deeply, and bit his lip in chagrin and astonishment. Yet, despite her ass'uranifft, he was left still with that idea that she disliked the man who was for ever thrusting himself forward. "Let us think no more about him," he Said, after lie had spoken his apology. "There is something else I have to say, something nearer to my heart. Gwendolen, you .know, oh, surely you mus't have read it in my voice, my face, read the secret tliat I love you. Dearest, li am a wealthy man myself, and you know that it is not your father's money but yourself that I want."

She was silent some moments, but he isaw that the color had come swiftly into her face. Suddenly she gave a little sob, instantly hushed. Then s'lie turned to liim and addressed him, in almost lifeless tones:

"I—l should have told you," she said. "It-r-it would have been kinder. But—■ but I did not know; indeed, I did not realise that —that you cared for me."

"What is there you have to tell me?" He spoke in a strained voice. "'Another asked me that question yesterday," she replied. "And—and he holds my promise to become liis wife." "And who is this man?"

"It is Austen Racewood whom Ji am going to marry."

She spoke simply, aiul he gazed at her with undisguised amazement. This man whom he had thought hateful in her eyas!

"I —I congratulate you," he stammered, rising stiffly to liis feet. "Oh, don't—don't!" She spoke in tones of pain. '•'Don't?" He glanced at her questioninglv.

"I—l mean that it costs yon pain to Say that," she replied, "and—and I am sorry—sorry to give pain to one who—who was my father's friend, who is mine!" i ,

"Let me be vour friend still," he said, a little brokenly, "if 11 can be nothing else." ,

She inclined her head and let her hands remain in his' a long moment, But no other words were spoken; and with the feeling that all the light had left his world, George Lester made his way from that garden and from the "woman who had transformed it into i\n Eden.

The weeks that followed were bitter weeks for George Lester, for they buried a dead hope —a lost love. He kept away from Gwendolen's home, thinking it tetter.

A couple of months went by, bringing nearer Gwendolen's wedding-day, for the engagement was to be of short duration at Racewood's desire.

After a somewhat aimless walk, George returned one afternoon to the hotel where he was staying, to be met 'at tlie entrance by an acquaintance who had forced himself rather upon Lester, a warm-hearted but somewhat foolish youth, who seemed bent on squandering a fortune which his father had laboriously acquired. His name was Harry Cross', and he now came forward to claim Lester for that evening, insisting, in his impetuous, boyish way, upon his dining with him and visiting a music-hall. ■George had nothing else in view, and this would at worst mean an escape from thought. A few hours later found the two men dining together at one of the fashion* able restaurants, afterwards going on to one of the big variety theatres, where they were joined by a friend of Cross's —a good-looking man, who spoke in gentle, well-bred tones, and seemed a gentleman. But to Lester lie suggested a bird of prey, intent on plucking Harry Cross's gilded feathers. He s'eemed at first to regard Lester with a look of doubt and uneasiness. But George lent himself to an assumption of false gaiety which apparently satisfied the other, for presently lie suggested that all three should drive on :

to a friend's place, where they could in dulge in a quiet little gamble. Lester glanced at Cross and s'aw that it was impossible to persuade him to return to the hotel, so, with a slight shrug, he accepted the invitation, and presently the three men were driven in a taxi to a narrow street of oldfashioned houses in the neighborhood of Westminster. After some parleying with a stiabbilydressed footman at the door they passed through a passage into a room at the farther end of it. The sound of voices swelled up as they entered—voices raiseu in excited tones, and a glance at the occupants revealed to Lester the gambling den he had imagined it would prove. Cross was' at once taken possession of to play a "quiet game of cards/' Lester being asked to join. But. replying that he would prefer to look on, he strolied over to where roulette was in full swing and gave quite a Monte Carlo atmosphere to the place. A group of men had crowded round the table, their eyes sparkling with a feverish glitter, for large sums were at stake. iiut one man in particular seemed to claim almost as much attention as the game itself, and for a moment, as Lester's gaze was also directed towards him, it was hard for iiim to recognise in the white-faced, haggardeyed creature, whose lips and features were trembling with an uncontrollable agitation, the man who was going to marry Gwendolen Moans—tils own successful rival. From the whispers of those around, he gathered that Raeew'ood had already lost a considerable sum. and one of the habitues muttered in Lester's ear that he was fated to ruin himself ultimately. '"C'-omes here every night and pas lost a pot of money. They say our friend ljuijitin, who runs this show, lias got : a pile of 10 U's. Shouldn't care to possess them myself; but they say it's all right. He's going to marry a rich woman, and he'll pay it out of her ' money-bags." . »,> ■ •;« Letter's heart turned sjek within iiim. So this was the man Gwendolen had .chosen—this man who would let her wealth melt in his grasp! Fascinated, he watched him. An hour passed, and the man played on, steadily losing, until finally it seemed that an end had come either to his purse or his patience, for with an oath he flung down a coin, and then, seeing that fortune was s'till against him, he stood white and mute for a moment; then began to yell out accusations against the croupiers, calling them cheats and blacklegs and rogues, and finally turned upon his fellow-gamblers, raving in a shrill voice, whose tones dominated the hubbub which immediately ensued. Pressing through the excited throngs, Lester came upon his friend, and, pulling his sleeve, urged him to come away. "We shall get mixed up in this, and it may prove an ugly affair." Nothing loath, Cross obeyed, and they made their way towards the door, to come to a sudden halt there. Above the din of voices came the sound of a single pistol-shot—an ominous sound, for a shriek accompanied it—a cry of human agony, and then there was a sudden hush—a dead silence.

The excited crowd was sobered now, and stood with consternation written upon their faces around two central figures, one prone upon the floor, and the other, with terror in his eyes, wildly gesticulating.

"He called me cheat, liar, and trickster. and worse—thief. T but avenge my honor. I shoot him—it was my right. But the saints know I never meant to kill him, onlv to wound, not to kill."

George drew a little nearer, not that there was any need, for the strong l' light thrown down by the powerful I burners had already revealed to him = , that it was Austen Raeewood who lay * there—dead—with a bullet through his , heart. .. s '•'Gwendolen", I have sad news to tell l you. Oh. my dear girl, J wish I could | spare you. but prepare yourself for a blow. Austen Racewoou, tlie mail you were going to marry—oh, how can I tell yon. Gwendolen—but he is dead!" "Dead!" She echoed the word with I a singular intonation. "I—l—do not understand!" In simple language iie described that | fatal s'cene in the gambling room. She r j listened without interruption to tiie end, , But as he proceeded a certain resolu- , tion, a set expression, came into 'hor features." "Gwendolen," ho said, looking at her strangely after a pause, "you are not weeping. ]i see 110 tears. Did you lov this man?" She shook her "head slowly. "I never loved him," she answered a faint pink stealing into lier cheeks. "What hold had he upon you. then—- ■ what pressure did he use—to 'wring unwilling consent from you?" She turned away from him, bending her head low, as if in shame. "Oh, you shall know the truth, though I might liave kept it from you now for ever—though you will hate and despise .me when you hear it. Listen. I am an impostor; I am not Jim Roane's daughter. I hold his money under false pretences." "Gwendolen! What strange madness are you speaking?" "Alas, it is the truth! At first I was a dupe, put forward by Raeewood, believing myself the rightful Gwendolen Roane. It was not until afterwards that lie told me the cruel truth—told me that I was never Jim Roane's daughter, but the child of his own aunt and uncle, in whose care the true Gwendolen Roane had been placed. It wasn't the money that J clung to," she continued, falteringly. "I would have forfeited ' that, des'pite what I had endured from I poverty in the past. But—but your esteem—oh, it was hard to lose that. And so—l was wax in his hands, pliant to his will." '•'Oh, my dear, my dear," Lester broke in; "he duped you indeed. It was a bold lie he spoke. I have your mother's portrait, and by the resemblance alone could swear you were her child. And did you think I regarded mv trust so careles'sly as not to be very certain thai you were poor old .lim's true daughter? I. hold all proofs. Had you but come to me! But he knew you ' would not do that. He lied to you, Gwendolen, this villain who is dead' because he wanted you for his wife, your fortune to .pass into his own possession." "Ts it true—is it indeed true?" She asked the question in arcenly of rapturous relief. 'lDea're.'sfc, it i.s true, 1 swear it to you—as true as that T love yon." She gave a little sigh—a Sigh that expressed immeasurable contentment, and I lien she was in his arms,-held to his' tho shadow tauen irom {MK vmt ts I