THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 358, 8 April 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

THE MAN FROM BEULAH All roads.'' says the legend, "lead to Rome." In Beulah Valley all roads apparently led to Potter's Saloon. In other words, Potter's was the general meeting place of the citizens of Beulah. There they foregathered to discuss the topics of the moment, whether the subject of discussion happened to be the nugget that was found yesterday, or tlia lynching that was fixed" for to-morrow.

On the occasion under notice, however, •the talk circled round "old man" Anderson, his daughter Effie, and one Jim Mowbray. The first-named of the trio had recently "struck it rich," becoming something in the neighborhood of a millionaire in a few months, and, as may be imagined, the possibilities of the future were amply discussed. ■ . ''He's off to England in a week," said 'Wiseman, who had just come in. "Old man told me so himself. Suspicioned he'd not be back for j-ears, p'r'aps, and ■the girl, as like as not, never at all. How's that?"

The company offered no immediate opinron. Instead, it divided its time equally between expectoration and staring vapidly at the speaker. At length Barton, who was known to be something of a pal of Mowbray's, broke the silencq by a statement of his views, somewhat 'forcibly expressed. He reckoned it was a "blanked, disgusting, iron-shod shame," he announced. Why in thunder did Anderton let the man and the girl fool round together, if he meant to pulverise it all like this? He felt like wringing the old blighter's yellow neck, or powdering him with the quartz in his own crusher. There was no dissent—only a chorus of approving grunts, followed by the vicious popping of soda corks. Then Wiseman spoke again. ''Does Mowbray know, I wonder?" he queried.

The answer came unexpectedly from a new-comer, whose burly form effectually hlocked the somewhat restricted doorway of the saloon.

"I guess he does so," communicated a harsh voice. "Allowed it warn't no news when I felt called upon to mention it in the store jes' now. Tried to pass it off with a laugh. Hard hit, though; stoppered, you bet!"

"Mowbray's all trumps, boys," said Barton, with enthusiasm. "He's took his tumble like a man; but the gal'J] kick. Take my tip, boys, she'll kicklike a wire-backed mule "

A hoarse murmur of assent went round the room. The rough-hewn community of Beulah had watched the little romance with almost childish delight; it belonged to Beulah, and, therefore, to themselves. A wedding in the camp would have been triumph enough to paralyse the rival settlement of Tankerville, between which and Beulah there had always existed a deadly rivalry. But "old man" Anderton's sudden accession to wealth had shattered off those roseate dreams, and the manhood of Beninh ground its tobacco-stained teeth together in impotent rage. "That you, Jim?"

The girl had looked up sharply at the click of the latch, and her query was .immediately followed by the entry of a tall, black-bearded man, apparently in the late twenties. Mowbray closed the door behind him, and dropped heavily into a chair.

Effie Anderton was sweated on a corner of the rickety deal table, with her hands clasping her knees, and her dainty-slip-pered fn,. t swinging j f n y a foot from th( , floor. Mowbray's face was very grim, and she, edged round lazily to 'look at him.

''So we've pulled the page up. Effie," he laid, "have we? It'll take some tearing out cf the book, I guess; but I suppose I'll have to straighten mv back and do it. Hang the oid man's'money, I say!" *'

The girl did not answer at once, but continued her silent scrutiny oi his'face. Both of them, hitherto, had acted and spoken under evident restraint. But a moment later she sprang down, and, bending over him, pushed back the hair from his forehead with a hand that was scarcely steady.

"P'raps .I'll go farther and fare worse, Jim," she said, with a weak laugh. "I don't need to tell you that I like%ou— Jots,' and I—l don't know but what I'd marry you; but dad says 'No!' and dad's a spiky thing to bamp_ against. He's dead set on a title, and a title it's jjot to he. I'm going to be varnished up a liit at some swell school, hang round tl/se I'OTitmong' to scrape up French and German, anil then hop into the marriage market. I thought at first it wou.'d be sorter fine to be 'my lady,' and I liked the idea till—till—clear out, Jim, if -vou love me! You're rubbing the <rildin<r off!"

Mowbray released her, and pulled himself from the chair muscle by muscle. His eyes had caught the shimmer of tears in hers, and he was nearly unmannecf.

"I guess that's good advice," he said, ■shakilyj "but you'll think of Beulah and me sometimes, little girl, won't you, when you're doing the heavy in Park Lane, and showing them how to ride in Batten Row ? I mean, you'll' not forget this sun-blistered hole altogether?" "No, Jim."

"That's good! Kiss me!" His arms tightened about her waist, and her head fell upon his shoulder. He felt his power then,- for thecheek he kissed was wet; but he woirM not use it, and lie told her so in his quiet, masterful way.. "It's a bit of a wrench," he said, '''and it hurts; but I'm not going to be a fool and ask you to elope with me, lassie. A run round Europe will do you a power of good. Perhaps I'd planned somethin<r of the kind at my own expense before this confounded money built a wall round you. That wall has

got to come down, or else I'm going over it. It's Jim Mowbray that's going to marry you, Effie, and"don't you go and forget it!" She looked up with a quick laugh and a blush. Her agitation notwithstanding, the spirit 01 mischief died hard. "Bet you a diiimoiul pin to a diamond brooch you don't Jim."

"Done!" Mowbray kissed her again, and turned towards the door. "Till we meet—good-bye," he said, hastily, and

stumbled out into the heat-laden air. Where the bridle-path tailed over the hills to Tankerville he turned to glance back and wave his hand. She was standing by the open door of the shanty, with the sunshine on her head, but little enough, as he knew very wed, in her heart. He saw her arm go up and a flutter of white, and then "a grey rook boulder hit her from his view." He sighed heavily and proceeded down the j .path between the hot boulders, with lag-! ging steps and a hollow look in his eves.;

Less than a month after the departure of "old man'' Anderton and his daughter from Beulah Valley, Mowbray's luck —which had hitherto'been of the pooreat—took a sensational turn, for a new claim he had acquired turned out a veritable "Tom Tiddler's Ground."

Materially helped by the tiny perfumed 'billets doux which reached him at regular, if rather long, intervals, the man "'hepped straight" and worked hard, keeping his success, however, a secret from the girl until such time as he could announce the possession 01 a fortune at least equal to that of her father.

It was one evening, about ten months after the Andertons' departure, when the coach brought a cloud of dust and the mails up to the door of Potter's Saloon. Instantly the men crowdtd round for tlieir letters, Mowbray among the numbor.

On being handed, in place of the letter he expected, a copy of the Morning Post, the man's iace showed keen disappointment. It was more than two months since he had received a letter from Effie. What did this protracted silence of hers portend ?

Hastily releasing the paper ironi its yellow wrapper, he opened it out. An oval, made by a thick blue pencil, encircled a section of the letterpress on the front page. « "Births, Marriages, and Deaths," he read. * "The charge for advertisements under the heading is two shillings per line for not less than two lines." Then "Bethune—Anderton. On May 10, at St. Peters', Kensington, Lord Reginald Bet'hune, of Cherlton Chase, Hampshire, to Effie, only daughter of Silas Anderton, Esq., of Park Lane, W." The paper fluttered to the ground, and Mowbrary swayed back against the wall of the saloon, his shaking hand clutching his shirt at the throat, "What's up, old man?" enquired Barton, who was standing near. "You look blue." "Do IV

Mowbray pulled himself round with an effort, and smiled sickly at his chum. "It's nothing. A little matter of a' bet, and I—l,'ve lost—that's all."

It was late in the London season, and there was a big crowd at Mrs. UppertonGore's ball.

"Who is that lanky chap with the brigand's moustache and bronzed face—over there, talking to the girl with redgold hair, and dressed in peacock blue?" asked a man who was leaning up against a wall and watching the crowd. His Companion turned to him in surprise.

"What! don't you know? Of course, I forgot that you have been potting at tollmen on the North-West Frontier* for the last three years. That's Mowbray, the gold king—a fellow who »ada over a million and a-half out there in less than twelve months, and now has come to England to find somebody to wear his diamonds and dissipate his gold," "He won't find that difficult" cynical]v returned the man who had lice;) • ot,ting hillmen on the North-West Frontier.

Nobody would have recognised in the tall, well-groomed man who was standing beside Lady Adela Fane, only daughter of the impecunious Marquis of Carnforth the digger whom ,they called Jim Mowbray in the select circles of society in Beulah Valley. The ragged black beard was gone, and a year :n England had changed him wonderfully.

The man from Beulah had come over to England with hia newly acquired 'wealth, and caught by the glamor of his new surroundings, had decided to miirry a title, and so become a member of society. His choice had fallen on Lady Udela Fane. She was not of his world, nor he of hers; but he felt that she would adorn the stately mansion he was negotiating for in Piccadilly, bring.ing an air of culture and fine ladyhood with her. Mowbray had not seen Effie since the day he had turned the corner by the boulder on the bluff, way back in Beulah, nearly two years ago. and in the meantime "old man" Anderton had gone over to the majority. He gathered that Lord and Lady Bethune spent most of their time on the Continent, and suspiciously in the vicinity of various gambling palaces; but the rumor that the seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds ■were dwindling all too rapidly—as such sums have a habit of doing in the hand* of degenerate scions of noble houses —had not yet reached his ears.

The ex-digger thought often and sadly of his' Tittle sweetheart, whom—though /she was separated from him by barriers which no man might sunder—he still loved with all the strength of his being. He had never found • it in his heart to blame her, shrewdly guessing that it was "bid man" Anderton, who, with his usual' spikiness, hnd tabooed the corre- ! snondence and forced her into the marI riage against her will. And he generalI Iv finished by railing at the fate which | had delayed his success until she had j parsed from him beyond recall.

"You look positively glum, Mr. Mow

bray," Lady Adda's clear, delieately- • (modulated voice broke upon his ear. "Is the immediate prospect of a dance with me m.. .ihouHhcr distasteful to you?" As she >pi'7;i\ llie Blue Hungarians -broke into the -ymplionv of one of Waldteni'el's dreamiest waltzes. "I'm a clumsy dancer, Lady Adela,"

' he replied. "Perhaps J oughtn't to have put my name on your programme. Shall we sit it out ?"

The bounty with tile rod-gold hair acquiesced, and they drifted into the conservatory, jhe air was cooler there, and the lights w v re soft and dim, while the murky London moonlight seemed pure ami white as it crept through the panes and fell in fain.t, silvery blotches on the marble Hour. The waltz was finished' when they once more emerged from the labyrinth of ■palms and ferns, and there was a look of triumph on the face, of the man from Beulah as he crossed the ballroom with Lady Adela on his arm. A hoop of magnificent diamonds sparkled on the correct finger of the left hand. The engagement between Lady Adela and Mowbray was in the next day's papers, and three months later there were columns of marriage ceremony, guests, wedding-presents, and trousseau, while the luxuriance of the adjectives applied to the diamonds which were the gift of the bridegroom to the uride was appalling.

Jim Mowbray was waiting in the draw-, ing-room of his house in Piccadilly to start with his wife for Mrs, UppertonGore's. The man from Beulah had been obliged to go a lot into society pince his marriage six months before, and the ipart he played was that of a looker-on. And in the case of his wife he saw rather more than pleased him.

Presently there was a frou-irou of silks and Ladly Adela swept into the room, a vision ot radiant beauty. She looked at her husband inquiringly, as, with a quick, decisive movement, he stepped forward and closed the door.

"Adf':.' he said, gravely, "I want just a word with you about young Davelegh. He has called on you every morning :> r :■ fi.vt'iL'li:. '.Ti.'e you have been out driving with him, and wherever we have gone in the evenings he has been on hand to monopolise you. I regret that 1 am obliged to mention it." She paled a little, but returned his gaze steadily.

"You are quite at liberty to mention it," she said. "Well?"

"This has been going on for some time," he continued, "and people are talking. Don't misunderstand me, Adela, I am not objecting to your receiving the homage from other men which it seems to be the custom to pay to other men's wives in your world; but I don't'want my wife's name to become a by-word. May I trust you to pull him up a bit?" She mazed at him with slightly heightened colbr. "I'm afraid you want me to do the -impossible," she said.-

"If to be discreet is to be impossible, I do," he answered. "However, we needn't discuss the matter further. Davelegh must me prevented from making a fool of himself. I leave it to you." He opened the door for her as he finished speaking, and she passed out, smiling subtly—though he did not seeas if she held a secret in her heart. Lady Adela danced four times with the Hon. Claude Davelegh that night, and sat out a fifth with him. There was a flash of defiance in her violet eyes every time they chanced to meet her husband's steady gaze.

Mowbray rarely danced, and to-night he denied himself the luxury altogether. Leaning over the balustrade of the terrace, his thoughts drifted back to Beulah, and the days when Effie and he had made love among the hot boulders of the creek. He saw her again as she leaned over him, pushing the hair from his forehead, on the dav they had said goodbye, and his black eyes gathered an expression of intense wistfnlness. He placed his strong brown hands together on the stone rail of the parapet, and heaved a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry you did not see fit to take my advice about Davelegh." Husband and wife were seated in a "taxi" on their homeward journey. "Why?" asked Lady Adela coolly. "For your sake—tjvat's all." "How good of yon." "You do not intend to take it then?" "I do not intend to do anything absurd. Your advice han insult." Mowbray looked at her curiously for ft few seconds.

"That clear* the ground between us considerably," he said at length. "We hare been married six months, but they have not been exactly comfortable ones. .Your consideration for me appear* to be a. minus quantity. I suppose now you .wouldn't be offended if I were to die—or •omething of that sort?"

He spoke calmly; but the contempt in hi* voice stung her. She turned on him with flashing eyes and curling lip». "No! I should not!" he retorted. "You need not deceive yourself. I tolerate you—that is all. I have never done anything else. Had it not been for the emptiness of my father's exchequer I •hould never have married you. You don't mean to tell m« you didn't know it?"

|'l k«ow it now," he said quietly, "A'ud I'm iorry—for your Bake."

Mowbray wm very busy in tho city fh* next day. He saw his" lawyer*. H» I paid his broker* a visit, and gave them instructions about his securities which astonished them. He looked in on the people from whom he had purchased tht house in Piccadilly, and made them an offer which, while it amazed them, was promptly accepted. Certain document* having been signed, Mowbray pocketed the cheque they handed him, and took ,hi« leave. Late in the afternoon he called upon his bankers.

That evening a bulky letter reached Lady Adela from her 'husband's solicitor*. Its contents were startling. U contained her husband's will. She was left everything that James Mowbray had. She read it with amazement, and bit words of th« previous night came back to her with sinister significant: "You wouldn't be offended if I died, or •omething of that sort?" And she'wit -lost in thought. A great theme of th» papers during tie next few days was the startling disappearance of James Mowbray. The ■millionaire had vanished utterly and wholly. And not only had the p-.a'n himself disappeared, but his wealth had gont 'with him. He had realised everyMing. Even the magnificent collection of jewels which he had lavished on hi* wife was missing.

All that could ba learned was that .when he disappeared he must hav» had in hi» possession an enormous sum in Bank of England notes. But never a .note came back to th» bank to give a clue to his whereabouts, and all effort* to trace him proved futile.

The end of the season came, and Lady Adela found herself homeless and practically penniless. She understood now the bitter irony of the will which left her

possessor of all James Mowbray's wealth and why he eaid he was sorry for her sake when she told him that* she only tolerated him.

Within a year of her husband's disappearance she died—some said of (sheer mortification; and the same papers which chronicled her demise gave prominence also to the suicide of Lord Reginald Mc.tiiune, who, having successfully dissipated his wife's fortune of £750.01)0 at the gamine; tables of the Continent, had .elected to put a bullet through his (alleged) brain.

One evening, a year later, on the verandah of a house in Beulali Valley, two people drank in great draughts of the .pure air blown in from the distant .prairie. An old woman inside the house was scouring out pans in the kitchen, »nd an unkempt lad was cleaning a horse-bit while leaning negligently i against the stable door, "a woman and •a boy—that was the staff of servants attendant upon a millionaire and his wife keeping honeymoon. *r guess this will do for the rest of our lives—now that we've both had n taste of the other," said Mowbray, looking out upon the crescent of low hills, in the shelter of which lay the lising settlement of Beulah. "You won't want to #o back to it, Effie?"

"Go back to it!" "she echoed goftlr. "I want to forget it altogether. I don't Jim—except that you never ceased to want to remember anything—flnvthing. except that you loved me all that dreadful time."

Mowbray's eyes were verv tender as he bent his dark head and kissed her on the lips. "If that's all you want, lassie—to forget," He replied earnestly, "I guess this child will help you all he knows."