THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 122, 1 September 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

J " GRANNIE." j A TALE OP A TERRIBLE FIX. "There is no new thing under the sun!" I wonder! The thing that happei*ed to me a few years ago seemed quite new then—does even now, for that matter! But supposing for a moment the treatment is new, the subject is as old as time iself; and my love story, such as it is, whilst like most others in its refusal to run smooth, led me over a 'bit of country so rough that I hope I am its only explorer! Things had gone more than well with me until I struck that ibit of hilly ground, despite the fact that my father and mother had' died when I was quite young.

iMy grandfather had been a big land- ' owner. His livst wife died at the birth of their second clr.:d—my mother —and in his old age he had taken u into his ih-ead to marry again, i My cousin, who was the recognised heir to the unentailed estate, expressed immediately sueli a very decided opinion of my grandfather's impudence in daring to marry at all that he set the old man s iback up. A year after the event, I got a letter from the family solicitors announcing my grandfather's death. They informed me that in a will, made directly after a particularly stormy , interview ■ with his elder grandson, he left m<s the whole of his property except a jointure of five hundred a year to the young widow.

I was pig-sticking in Bengal when the news reached me, having the rarest of real good sport; so, as Surley Hall could not run away, and my grandfather's agient, who tiud managed the estate ever since I could remeiniber, mus>t 'know a great deal more about it than I did, I determined not to hurry home, but just 1 get in as ripping a time as I could out of my totally unexpected inheritance. I stayed in India another .six months; afterwards joining a matt I knew very • well in a big game hunt through Africa. When that came to an end I still delayed my home-going, taking a leisurely trip through Greece and Italy—stopping 1 a week in one place, a month in another 1 —until, one evening in October, I found myself in an easy chair on the balcony of the Hotel Biron, Villeneuve, looking out on the still waters of Lake Geneva. I was dimly conscious of a feeling that I'd been knocking about long enough; that I was "fed up" with a roving life, and, beneath the soft influences of a particularly beautiful setting sun, I was getting distinctly "mawkish" in my sentiments. Painting mental pictures of peaceful, domestic evenings at Surley, with a delightful little wife sitting on the other side of tihe great fireplace in the drawingroom; model babies upstairs, and my old pal, Jim Darnley, with the girl he'd been I waiting to marry for at least six years, I safely fixed: up in the rectory at the bottom of the Park! I remember everything that occurred ; on that night now as plainly as though ■ it were yesterday —the very order in which the stare came out as the darkness closed in—the blazing comet curving : almost from the Alps on the left to the . distant mountains on the other side of the lake—if I shut my eyes I can see it all again, so clearly! ; I "ot up at last and strolled down to ! the pier, from where I saw presently • the green and' red lights of an approach- ! ing steamer. Silie came alongside witli a deal of unnecessary fuss, and I watched her few passengers disembark. It was too late in the season for the usual crowd. Three tourists in dirty coats, with the regulation knapsacks and alpenstocks; a dozen or so working men; a few peasant women, veritable "beasts of burden"; the most energetic little French maid I have ever struck, full of bustling anxiety, coupled with an abundant variety of gesture about a pile of boxes —and then, last of all, her young mistress, dressed in black. I've often since that evening tried to (Irscrrln- lrv— tried, and failed miserably! It should 'hi; easy enough —big, wistful eyes, goklen hair, parted in the middle and brought low over the white brow, the soft, tremulous lips; all these things should paint some sort of word picture, but they utterly fail to convey the subtle "something" that made her different — so different —from all the other women I have ever met.

She dropped something, a wrap I think it was, ami when I gave it to her her "thank vo:i." murmured in a soft, sweet voice, strengthened, the extraordinary effect her personality had created, and that accidental dropping of something, combined with the fact that we were j both strangers in a strangle land, led to the next few days being quite the best J have ever experienced! We made excurisons together; she wanted to "do" old Chillon, she told me, and, though I had "done" it twice before, I went again, to find altogether new beauties in such companionship. She was curious to explore tlie salt mines at BexJ but, alas! couldn't go alone; and I, knowing them thoroughly, insisted on accompanying her. ! Mrs*. Smith —when I learnt her name, I wondered why I had hitherto looked upon Smith as common—was a widow, she told me; and that was all I knew, wanted to know. I was supremely •happy until at lastv those days of wonderment tame to an end, as I had to leave for Paris. 'Wlhen I said "good-ibye" I felt ; the little hand tremble in mine, as she asked me to call on her in the Rue de, Rivoli, when she reached the capital, which she hoped would be quite soon. Madame was fatigued with the long journey, andi was lying down, I learnt from Suzanne, when at last the long, days of absence wore over, and I called in nnswer to the softly-spoken invitation by the Lake of Geneva, feeling that I could no longer delay asking the question that ■would make me either tihe happiest or most miseraJble of men. "Will Monsieur sit down and wait for Madame, who shall know at once he has

called?" the spritely little woman queried, as she frisked out of the room, witli a glance over her shoulder so expressive, so eminently French, that it made me feel hot.

I was sitting lost in delightful reveries when the door opened and Mrs. Smith came into the room with a smile of welcome on her dear lips, and —was it fancy 5 —a look of something warmer in her soft eyes.

"How good of you to come—to have re numbered me," she murmured.

I "I've remembered very little else!" I j rejoined, holding the hand she extended much longer, I'm afraid, than I ought. "I was fearful you might not have been able to stay," she went on; "now sit down and tell me all about yourself, Ibut first you must listen patiently to the horrible travelling experiences I've been through since we parted all those months ago." How sincerely I sympathised with her, and how full i was of wishes to make travelling, and every other thing that might trouble her, easier in the future. But, alas, as I listened to that soft, sweet voice, I found myself becoming gradually more and more stupid. The conversation dragged —I " simply couldn't talk commonplaces to this radiant woman—and the words I longed so desperately to say, resolutely refused to <1)0 uttered.

iShe must have guessed the thoughts that were crowding through my mind, I think, for she began to look uneasy—but more beautiful than ever—then she recovered herself and said brightly: "I must show you some new photos I've taken; you know what an enthusiastic 'snapper' I am. I had them developed directly I got to Paris. They only came this afternoon, and there are a lot I took in England, too, before I came away; it won't bore you, will it?" I looked into her eyes —full—and a delicate flush spread over her face as she read the answer to her simple question.' Our heads were very close together as we bent over the pictures, and I'm afraid I still kept silence; Ibut I think I managed to convey without words how willing- f ly I wcitild Spend the rest of my life looking at photos—in her company. | "Here is the dear old Dent du Midi, Mr. Ruscoe, and, oh! here is the picture! of that funny "convent we saw togetherdo you remem'ber?" Again I looked into her eyes, and again' that pretty flush spread over her face—a little deeper this time, surely. "Do you j remember?" How well I remembered every incident connected with that convent on the other side of the Rhone. j

"You remember my slipping when we were clambering up that marble rock •thing behind the grounds, - (because I wanted so badly to .see the dear nuns s walking in their garden? You can't ? imagine how bad my ankle was after- ' wards," she went on. "It was the last * place we did together, wasn't it? 1 r couldn't go out all the day you left— ' didn't get down to dinner even." * I murmured sympathy. ' ( "It's so awful and lonely, da/i't you think, being laid up in an inn, with no 1 one to care whether you're better or : worse?, I got so horribly humpy!" "No one to care!" How little she knew that one man at least would have willingly journeyed across Europe if he had only known! But I remained tonguetied, longing madly for the courage to take my fate in my hands. "I didn't .know how lame I really was, until I tried to get upstairs again after I'd said "f! nod-bye' to you." ') I turned the photographs over, staring at them blindly; what I had come to saj'| must be said, sooner or later—why notl now, this instant? I rose unsteadily,! and her eyes dropped half-fearfully as 1 blurted out: "We may never meet ajrain!" Her breath came ß more quiekiv, and she looked up with a smile curving her full ,red lips. What I thought I read in those wonderful eyes made me reckless, and I blundered on: "I—l—can't Iback to England without telling you that I—l " Again the words refused to come, until; she herself attempted to speak, then i went oil quic'kly: "No, no, don't say anything yet. I didn't tell you—indeed, I couldn't—l was | so afraid of spoiling the good; time we were having; tut I think—l'm sure—you! must have known, Ella. I'm going home to take possession of my place in Shropshire, and I—l want " And then, as the utter impossibility of such a brilliant creature caring for such an ordinary individual as myself came to me, I again stopped dead. • There was a moment's silence, then she said softly: "Do you come from Shropshire? Per-] haps we shall !be neighbors, I'm going back again in a few months. I wonder if you know what used to be my home— Surley Hall?" "Dear, dear Mr. Ruscoe, what is the matter? Are you ill? Please, please,| - speak to me! Tell me what is troubling ■ you!" I looked at her steadily. What was ; the matter? Nothing! Surely nothing; , a man's heart broken, that was all! 1 "What used to be my home—Surley Hall!" Great Heavens! This woman was , 'my grandfather's second wife whom I [ had never seen. , "And a man may not marry his grand- , mother!" How I got away that afternoon I can- ! not tell, nor have I any distinct remem- ' brances of the awful days that followed. 1 I hung on to Paris, unable to lose the '■* chance of just seeing her, even in the dis- > tanco; but the opportunity didn't eome until one day. as I was passing the Bon Marche, she came out of the place with ' a woman I had never seen before, a wo--1 man of about her own age and singularly f like her. r Was it my imagination, I wondered, or ! . had she paled as I stood for a moment > looking into the onJy face the world conD tained for me? r I turned away, afraid to speak, afraid ta do anything but leave her in ignor- ■ ance of the fatal barrier that separated 3 us so inexorably.

I wnlked quickly, conscious of only one l thought—that I must, leave ravin at : once. The unexpected meeting told me i only too plainly that I could not answer for my self-control if it occurred again, s Suddenly L felt the light touch of a I hand upon mv arm—heard Klla say in ■ almost a whisper: '■ "Why did you leave me so strangely ; the other afternoon, Mr. Ruscoe, and why have you never been near me since?" Then, without waiting for a reply, she went on quickly, "si namesake of yours has ibeen staying with me for the last few days, Mrs. Ruscoe. She wants to meet you, I know " "A namesake!" I interrupted, as the possibility of a mistake which seemed too wildly good to be true Hashed through my mind —"a namesake of mine —■and-—and 1 —yours ?" "Of mine V' with a puzzled frown. "You know my name, Mr. Ruscoe, as well as I know yours!" "But Surley Hall," I gasped, "which used to be your home!" "You are its new owner. How strange that thought shouldn't have occurred to me. But even now I don't see " She stopped albruptlv, her eves full of enlightenment; she laughed softly, gladly, I thought, and the laugh ended with a half sob. "You poor dear, I see now. May, :l she went on, turning to her sister, "Mr. Ruscoe wants me to introduce him." I bowed to my grandmother gravely, and spoke, with more truth than she knew, of the pleasure it was to me to know her at last. And Mrs. Ruscoe, with a tact which did her infinite credit, suddenly remembered an appointment she'd quite forgotten, and' hurried away with many apologies, leaving Ella and me to stroll back to the Rue de Rivoli together. It was heavy ",goiiig" the bit of hilly country I rode, but the finish was worth all the risks, and the pictures J drew that night by the still waters of the Lake of Geneva have materialised in every detail. Ella insists on calling her sister "grandmother" whriftever she stays with us at Surley Hall, and I cannot, for the life of me, help calling my little wife "grarfnie."