THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LII, Issue 385, 10 May 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

A SECRET WOOING Paul Walton locked the door with trembling fingers and, with a half-hys-terical cry, threw himself back into an easy chair, muttering angrily to himself, reviling the stars that had adversely ruled that day.

lie had succeeded in controlling his demeanour whilst his uncle's -will was being read—that will which dispossessed him of an inheritance which he had reckoned upon as falling to him as •soon as the old man had passed into the beyond. Vain imaginings! for that splendid heritage had passed away from ■him, though his name was placed down for a legacy of five thousand pounds—a sufficient sum for the rich man to leave a nephew.

But Walton, thinking of the girl .who had come into the fortune he had counted upon as his own, could have raved against her, forgetting all decorum in that solemn company which had assembled in the dining-room, and .denounced her as an adventurous who had blinded his uncle, setting old Mr. Walton against his nephew. "Lost to me!"

He got up from his chair, glanced through the windows at the fair scene vthat, lay stretched out below—tile wine, green lands, whose owner he had hoped to be. ■• -"---j

"Lost to me! Lost to me!" He repeated the words again and again; then suddenly paused. His expression changed. A subtle light came into his sombre eyes. He pulled himself upright, and something of his customary airy swagger returned to him, "I might win her for my wife! I might make her love me!" So ran the tenor of his thoughts. He unlocked the door softly and stole out into the great hall, from which the wide, shallow staircase wound upwards. He found Charlotte Dane in her favorite room—one that looked into a winter garden, lovely with blooms, tall lillies, and narcissi that sent forth an intoxicating perfume. She glanced up at his entrance, and ■came eagerly towards him. "Oh, I am* so glad you are here." she exclaimed. "I wanted to talk to you."

"But, first of all, let me congratulate you," he said, with a false smile. She drew baek with a little exclamation.

"Oh, don't, please! Old Mr. Walton ■was wonderfully good, most kind in his intentions. But—but I cannot take it; no, my mind is made up. I shall restore it to the man to whom by every Tight it belongs." The blood began to beat in the other's veins. Was the amazing, the impossible thin? about to hanpen? Was this girl a fool—a quixotic fool—whose stuniditv, however, was to his advantage, for he had no doubt that he was the person she meant?

She turned to him with a little appealing gesture. "Thev 'all tell me T am wrong." «V s" : -l. "Tbe lawvoro =a,y that mv intention is an act of madness. But you "

He shook his head. "It—it will not seem madness to me, of course, he answered, a little thickly. "How could it?" She gave a grave little nod, and a touch of relief crossed ,her face. • "T knew that T =lmuld hive one sympathiser," sh" renlied. "You will heln me. then, in thi= matter: n=sist, me to •Viripn- back to V* t' ,n mnn who left it vears ago. T/V.v<ird'Walton, the true heir to h'« father's wealth." ~

He staggered a step 'or-'two a'va'from h»' - . bending his bead ouieVlv that she might not rend the overwhelming amazement that he knew his expression must reveal.

The tnie heir, the nrodiaul who hod Shaken the dust from n 'is iiTi"nstral hnrn" jroni the dust of bis fe«t. had rleimvtod seven vears ago—a snnce of time unbroken b-<- •nn-'- wo'-d f r om him indicating that he still lived. Whv. lie had forgotten his cousin. *hr dead man's son—nu'Vklv forgotten his verv existence. Ho hesitated some mo•ments. not knowing wr*"* to =<"-• then like ni 'neriiration. an idea flashed into his ferti'e brain. "rhnvlnttp"—there ws a frrjivp Inftr* in his voice as be snoke lu" - no me—"'-on caii""t carry out this project: it •= 'inpossible." "Tm-nn^il' l "'" She o-o 7 ed " f Vm witTi rebuke in "'"' rl ark eves. "Tlmv is «n su'di =he said, with gentle determination.

"TIM nn' l'nc l " evei- toll "*"n fl1 " r"nson tVnt rl'-nvr. "Rdvm-d W-'Hon fvnm h's home'" "T do not "—if <" l-"i"- H " °"" 1 «Tt. ennnot Mt»" + P" f "" 1 l *" 1 W " ; " this house, is Edward Walton's ri<rhtfnl place" , . . , ' "But. Charlotte. -OU mr«t hear wW I have to snr. sincp it a<Tef>t= vou '" nmatelv. Tn the rniu whieh drove Tylworn a war from vour father was tnvolved." She flushed a deep red and bent Imr head a little. ' "Mr Walton." she said, you shall Iknow what it is that make me lenient towards vour eousin. If he is a nrodiff.il —ala = ' that T should sav it—is it not true that hit own father was also fl ■prodigal? I loved him dearlv: vet T must°admit that others would jud-ro him harshly, condemn him for wa=timr his Teonev'unon the Turf, though in that last coup, the defeat of win eh wa« his death, he did hone to re<ram all that he had lost and leave his daughter seein'e from povertv." "That conn which must have eome-.off had the race on which it denended been run under fair conditions. My dear girl, listen to me for a moment. Your father's judgment for once was absolute 1 !- correct. But there was villainy at work villainy in which my guilty cousin had a hand." , "How could that he? What do you mean ?" "The horse was what racins: men term <Wj._th.at is, given some dm? before the start of the race to prevent its running in its usual form. And the person who" administered that dose which ruined your father's last chance was bribed

to carry out his infamous work by Edward Walton. I have this man's confession under lock and key in my own desk." The girl gave a low cry—a cry of utter disillusion and regret. "But my father liked him,'' sir- murmured, "always spoke of him in highest terms, wished that Ave two had met, though I was but a girl at school, away from home. Surely, oh. surely, he cannot have betrayed my father's friendship." "It pains you to hear this, Charlotte. But my cousin is a stranger to you—one whom you have never wen —and it is better you should know the truth from my lips than sacrifice your fortune to one who dealt your father that secret and cruel blow."

"What you say is true." she replied, sadly. "Show me the confession that you speak of," she added: "and not alone that, but other proofs as well. There must be no error, no possible mistake."

"You shall be satisfied," he answered. "There are letters from my uncle that go into the matter, which I also haveletters that voice his regret, his intense disappointment, that Edward, his onlv son, should be the villain that he had proved him. I will bring them to you. 'not because I wish my absent cousin any ill, but you must be just. Charlotte, before you are generous."

A month had passed since Mr. Walton's death; and one afternoon Charlotte slipped away from the big house of which she was now the owner, a slim,, graceful figure in her simple black gown. She had abandoned her generous desire to see the disinherited heir reinstated in the home of his forefathers. Paul had displayed his promised proois, and against her will Charlotte had been convinced of the absent man's villainy.

But now she was thinking neither of him nor of Paul. Her eyes were shining with a strange glow, her lips were parted in a tender smile, and she went along her way with alert steps, coming to a pause when she reached a grove where a few leaves still lingered upon boughs that were almost bare.

The muscular, well-knit figure of a man was slowly pacing there, his mind apparently lost in thought.. But he turned sharply with % glad cry upon seeing the girl, a smile coming into his grave, bronzed features—a smile of intense devotion, that was reflected in her own face.

"Oh, my dearest girl!" He took her hands, and spoke to her in a low voice. "I began to fear that I should never see you again. Do you know what I thought—what I imagined? That you had become proud now that you are rich, and wanted to—to forget the man who loves you." ' "How could you think that?" she murmured. "Don't you know that nothing could make any difference to my love, certainly no worldly consideration 1" He took her in his arms and reverer.t'v kissed her.

"It would haye boon but natural, after all, my dearest." he said, "for 1 am poor—a man of whom you know nothing, except that he is of no importance in the world—and you are .■> rich woman." "Rich only in your love," she murmured, happily. Yet what Bertram Wood had remarked was indeed true. All she knew of him' —his past, his present—nvas his n>ime. A sudden shower, a courteously offered umbrella, had led to her acquaintance with the mysterious tenant of the Xe«t —a small house in the Manor woods--this quiec, retired man, with the weary eyes that were yet so, kindly in their gaze, so true. From that first fateful moment the flame of love had kindled between them, and man and woman- realised that each seemed destined for the other. Some secret in his life Charlotte knew there was. something that shadowed his days, though he was silent as to its nature; yet. despite this, and even though he urged her to keep their very acquaintance from ,the world, she gave him full and complete trust. He had even urged upon her that they should be secretly married by special license in some neighboring church, without asking anyone's consent, since Charlotte was alone except for her father's old friend, Roger Walton, whose death had been long expected, though the disposition of his property had ben,, as much of a surprise to Charlotte n" it had proved to Paul Walton. And now he spoke of it aarain. "ud listening to her lover's words, her heart, overflowing with devotion, had given consent before her lips echoed it. Yes. it would be no disrespect to the man who was dead. He would have been glad for the srirl to take her happiness, but she pleaded for some weeks to pass, and Bertnm Wood was ready to defer to her wish. s But the brief period of waiting sped nuicklv bv, happy, love-filled weeks—a time of joy that was marred only bv one unpleasant incident, for Paul Walton proposed to Charlotte and she had to refuse him.

She was sorry, since she cared for him in a certain sisterly fashion. He was always at hand, ready to advise, to assist; and she missed him whenever he was absent.

He lost his temper for a moment or two and demanded her reason for refusing him. and the girl felt it .was but due that he should know she cared for another man! He heard her faltering words with quite a contrite expression, and Charlotte, who hated to see anyone unhappy, freely forgave him. • One day when she returned home with a glow of a wonderful happiness shining in her eyes—for was not to-morrow to witness her wedding, her secret wedding? —Paul Walton was 'waiting for her. His face was pale, but there was an air of ill-suppressed excitement about him, a twitching of the features, a restlessness of attitude, all repose gone. "Charlotte!" He uttered her name huskily, following her into the drawingroom and closing the door. "I have something to tell"you.. I have discovered who my successful rival is—this man you care for, this man who has wooed vou secretly and in disguise." He spoke

slowly, striving for an appearance of calmness. lie was playing for high stakes, determining his destiny and hers too upon this one throw. '"His real name is-Edward Walton. That is your lovers name. Here is his portrait if you doubt me, with \\r v son ' written in his father's hand beneath, one that was spared when all others were destroyed.

"It is impossible!" She gasped out •the words at last, gazing at him with eyes whose light was suddenly shadowed by a mist of pain, veiled by tears "Charlotte, this is the truth." He spoke the words with emphasis. '•But why-why should he be here ■alien in name and identity, here in the place of his birth?" "His motive?" The other shrugged his shoulders. "Does not his success" in accomplishing it reveal that motive to you ?"

Her head drooped, a tear fell down her pale cheek. "Charlotte, you must act, and at once. You must make up your mind to thrust this man from your life."

"My mind is already made up to do that," she answered, brokenly. "But, Charlotte, it would' be wiser, far wiser, not to see him unless rou f.re very sure of yourself. Mightn't he be able to blind you with specious denials and explanations? There is a bette; way than seeking an interview that would be charged with bitter anguish to yourself. Recollect the injury he has sought to do you under the disguise of love—how he has befooled you, laughed up his sleeve at you, made you" his dupe. Take a woman's revenge upon him. Do not sec him—write, a mere line, telling him you do not care for him. and, Charlotte," his eyes glittered, "leave this neighborhood this very day." : She rose abruptly to her feet, and spoke in a steady tone. "He cannot really care, so there would he no cruelty in such an action." "Less by far than he would have shown you. He is only a clever trickster. Ah, Charlotte, had my plea dins •been something more than vain pleading, my love 'would have spared you this. And is it too late now?" he went on. seeing that she did not silence him. "Prove to this disappointed fortunehunter that you can dupe as well as he. Go to London as you have decided, out jro in my company. Let him draw from that circumstance \ what inference he chooses."

A chilly smile touched her cold face. She looked at that moment a woman with a dead heart.

"You suggest a remedy that would take out the sting from wounded 'pride," she said, giving him her hand. "And you are mv friend?"

"Your true, vour lovnl friend—who would be more, if he dared hope."

Charlotte sat gazing into the fire, watching the dancing flames with sad eyes. Six months nassod since she had fled from the. Manor—six '••

which she had buried herself in London apartments, striving to forget the man she knew to be unworthy of her love. And now she was going to marry Paul Walton. His devotion had won its reward: his quiet persistence had wrung consent from her at last. He had saved her from a villain who, with clearer eves than others, must have foreseen before Mr. Walton's death that tl>" old p"*" had named Clmlorte as his heiress. n'"l had linked by winniii" he love to regain what he ha' l forfeited.

And vet—oh, if she had never r-o* .i,,-,,, „,...„,. i.-nrMvn < T ie -lain a tenderhearted woman must feel whe'i she has wasted her love upon a rogue! She glanced un a little as. she heard the door-handle turn; then looked down again with a smothered sigh. She knew who it would be—Paul, paying his customary visit. But ki voice sneaking her name marie her start up to her feet, cold and trembling, to stand face to face with Edward Walton.

For a moment she was thrilled with an insane happiness-; then her face hardened. "T have found you at last, traced von 1 ere—thank heaven for that." he began; but before he could proceed the door opened once more, to disclose Paul.

The latter stood for a moment as if turned to stone, his face white as paper; then he cast a wild glance round, and seemed as if about to fly. But with a swift stride or two Edward barred his exit.

"I have something to say to you." he remarked, grimly; "and it is better you should hear it." "Something in my disfavor, I have no doubt," returned Paul, .with a sudden assumption of boldness. ''But Miss Dane will scarcely give ear to calumnies. She knows the truth with regard to your own iniquities." There was a. dangerous flash in Edward Walton's dark eyes. But he retained self-control.

"On the contrary, Miss Dane will hear the truth now for the first time," he responded, "and learn that you have reversed the position of affairs, as ">'ou did long ago, to my hurt-then as now. "It was you who, assuming my Chris : tian name as well as the name we share in common, bribed rascals of the racecourse to do your vile work, weaving a' mesh of villainy in which T was caught." Paul Walton interrupted with a sneering laugh, and threw a glance at Charlotte. But her eyes were turned away from his, were bent with a shining light in them upon his cousin. Ann u. ■was to her that Edward now turned.

"Charlotte," he said, gently, "my cousin made me his scapegoat, hardened my father's heart against me. placed his guilt upon my shoulders with a devilish cunning. "I did not Know it then. I fannied ihe was my friend. Only within the Inst year have I suspected his secret enmity; only within the last few months heen able to prove it." "It is nothing hut a tissue of lies." Paul Walton boldly declared. "Miss Dane knows perfectly well that your object in winning her regard was that which animates the vulsrar fortunc-hunt-er" , A "Silence, or the wrongs I have endured at your hands shall be avenged here and now!" The other's tongue was hushed, and ihe turned a sickly yellow. "Miss Dane' has no fortune." Edward Walton proceeded. "I knew that at the time I told her of my love, but I wanted to test her, and mv father gave consent to the trial, when he knew that I cared for her." "Your father .... Chariot!-- ni> heiress!" gasped Paul. "Yon must be mad."

"I think not." rcsnnndert Edward. quietly. "Mv dear father knew me to be innocent before he died, T am more than thankful to say. Several times T secretly .saw him in his room, with the connivance of an old servant, secretlv at my owu wish. He made a later will, putting mv name down in its place. But this I'did not mean to let anyone know until I had made Miss Dane my wife. Then T had intended revealing all, and standing forward with my name cleared from disgrace." "And you have come to-dav to rob m« of Charlotte?" Paul Walton interposed, with his evil sneer, for he recognised his

own defeat. "Oh, welcome to her; welcome!" He cast a hitter glance at them both, then turned on his heel and vanished! For a moment Edward seemed inclined to follow, ,but a dearer purpose than punishing his cousin had brought him there. He -turned and slowly approached Charlotte. His gaze forced her to lift her eyes to his. "You heard what he said, Charlotte? Will you share the inheritance I come to rob you of, share it as my wife?" "A woman who doubted you, left you, believed another's word against you.. Can you still care for-me, still love me?" Her eyes were wet. but a wonderful radiance had begun to touch nor face. _ "Now and always," he said, with passionate tenderness. "Now and always."