THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 123, 2 September 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

THE SUPREME TEST. Practically Basil Norcott was at the end of his tetlier. Failure had attended his every effort, and now he -was reduced to his last penny. He leant over the parapet, watching the turgid now of the sullen river which fitly reflected his gloomy thoughts on its dark surface. Arrived at the end of all things, he could survey, with a 'certain despairing calmness, the events of his past life; and in his judgment Fate had dealt unfairly with 'him. Left an orphan at an early age, he had .been adopted by a wealthy uncle, who had given him an expensive education, and led him to expect that, he was to be heir to his wealth. Through some flaw in the will, however, the money had all gone to a ne'er-do-well cousin, and Basil had been thrown on his own resources at tiie a;ge of twentythree.

Ulnfitted for commercial life, and without sufficient capital to start him in any profession, he had sunk gradually lower and lower in the social scale, till at the age of thirty-two he found himself homeless and destitute. There was a fierce resentment against Fate in his attitude. He was still young and did, not want to die. Life should surely hold some sweetness for him yet. He would give it one more trial. With a jeik, he turned his back on the river, and encountered the regard of a pair of eyes as black as his own. For a moment he discerned the face, and started, as though 'he saw the ghost of his dead self. Then it was withdrawn, and the carriage passed on. At the end of the 'bridge, however, it turned and came back, and once more he was dimly conscious of the face. The closed carriage, which, without being aggressively expensive-looking!, was the last word in elegant simplicity, halted this time; the door opened, and a finger beckoned him in.

Almost mechanically, Basil Norcott entered, and took his seat opposite the stranger and the carriage drove on. For a moment or two they sat in darkness. Then the stranger pressed a button and a small electric lamp lit up the interior.

Basil gazed in unconcealed amazement at the man opposite him. It was the presentment of himself in his palmier days.

The stranger smiled. "I think when you have had a shave, I and got into some more respectable clothes, we might very well pass as brothers," he said. "Tell me, what does this all mean? What do you want of me?" asked Basil. "All in good time," replied the other, and then relapsed into silence till they drew up before a large, dark house. With a whispered injunction to Basil to follow, the stranger descended and opened the door with a latchkey, leading the way with unfaltering steps to a small dressing-room.

Here Basil found a dress-suit laid out ready for him, and hot water and shaving materials to hand. ''When you are ready come through into the next room," said the stranger. Like a man in a dream, Basil completed his toilette, and walked through into the next room. A large cheval glass

occupied one side of the room, and as he advanced, the stranger linked his arm iin his, and led him to it. Side by side, they might have passed as twins. Basil did full justice to the meal, which was ready laid, and when at last he had finished, and was purling at an excellent cigar, his host condescended to

explain matters. "lam John Tremayne,"he said, "commonly known as the SteeJ King, a,nd for certain business reasons, which I need not explain to you, it is necessary for me to he in two places at the same time. I shall leave here to-night, and you will stay here in my place. You are the

exact presentment of me, even to the tone of your voice, and for a month I want you to act my part. In this little itook" —lie handed Basil a small moroccobound vol urn e—"you will find everything that you need know, in order to sustain the role without raising suspicion. For your s Tv : ees I propose to hand you a cheque to.' ;'. thousand pounds, and in addition to that I shall, of course, leave you ample funds for expenses, as you understand you have to act the part of a very wealthy man. You agree?" Basil reached out a hand and grasped the other's.

"I won't try to thank you for the trust you have placed in me," he said, earnestly; "hut you can rely on my doing everything possible to further your

plans. You have saved me from an ignominious end. I take it that you require absolute secrecy in this matter?" "Exactly," rejoined Tremayne; "that is Why I chose an hour when the servants are all in bed." "But the coachman?" "I engaged him for the night onlv. To-morrow he leaves for Canada, and we shall probably never see him again. And now, good-bye. You will find a plan of the house in the book I gave you, and you can ascertain the situation of your bedroom from that." For a moment the two men clasped hands. Then Tremayne turned away. "My luggage is on board the Estania," he said, "and I travel as Philip Medway."

At the door he turned and directed one last searching glance at Basil, and, apparently satisfied, went on. As the street door closed softly behind ■him, Hasil rose from his seat, and made a mighty effort to grapple with the situation. The whole thing was so astonishing, and had happened so suddenly, that it was difficult to realise that it was not u dream. Then his hand closed on the little red book, and in a moment he had it open. The first pages were filled with plans of the different floors of t)he house, and Basil easily succeeded in locating his bedroom. Next came a list of the household. The servants were all named i and described, and beyond them there was no one save Moira Tremayne, an i adopted daughter, whose real name was Moira Stanhope. She was, it appeared, I the daughter of a man whom John Tie- j

mayne had ruined, and he had adopted ' her as a sort of expiation on the suicide

of her father, which had occurred when she was onlv ten vears old.

In admitting Basil to his full confidence in this matter, John Tremayne ] l ad i gauged his man correctly; for this exhi-; bition of his trust made Basil resolve 1 to servo him more faithfully than ever, j The following pages of the' book were, devoted to a short description of the millionaire's life, daily hmbits, and the people with whom he came in corftaet. Nothing appeared to have 'been forgotten, and Basil was seized with admiration for a mind whieh, while occupied with big financial schemes, could yet perfect a plan like this to the minutest detail. Having mastered the contents of the 'book, he closed it with a yawn, realising for the first time that he was dead tired. Hitherto the excitement had kept him up; but now he could barely, summon up energy enough to crawl to the ibedroom. Once there, however, the soft bed and the luxury of the surroundings soon soothed him to sleep, and he awoke in the morning, refreshed and alert.

He realised that -lie might have a difficult part to play, and before ringing for the morning cup of chocolate Tremayne affected, read the little nook through once more. Poore, the valet, a model of respectful urbanity, handed him the chocolate, and, having pulled up the blinds, ■ departed, apparently suspecting nothing; but, nevertheless, Basil breathed a sigh of relief that the first ordeal was over. Despite the clever way in which Tremayne had managed the substitution, he could not wholly banish the idea that everyone would look upon him with suspicion. The ordinary everyday manner of his valet, however, had served to reassure him somewhat on this point. Breakfast was the great ordeal, for he had to undergo the calm scrutiny of 'Moira Tremayne's eyes; but, seated opposite the beautiful girl, he preserved an impassive front, and even ventured to address a few commonplace remarks to. her. Her replies showed that for the moment she suspected nothings and presently, while she was engaged in reading a letter, he ventured to glance, up at her.

She was a beauty without dotlbt—dark hair and .blue eyes proclaiming her Irish origin. But there was something more than mere Ibeauty in the thoughtful cast of her features. A girl of considerable character, Basil thought, and one of whom he would he pleased to know more.

After breakfast, he retired to the ' library, where Tremayne had amassed an interesting collection of books, and here, ; secure from interruption, he passed the rest of the morning. At luncheon and dinner he met Moira again, and ventured on a discussion with her on questions of the day. He found she possessed considerable powers of conversation, and showed a grasp of affairs uncommon in a girl of her years. She evidently thought deeply, and was not afraid of expressing her opinions, which were, in the main, original, if not always practical. Altogether, the day passed uneventfully, and the days which followed were simply replicas of it. Occasionally he would ride in the Park, more rarely he attended dinners and receptions; but mostly he spent his time with Moira. He was sensible of , a growing fascination which this charming girl exercised over •him, and found himself making opportunities of .enjoying her society. Although perfectly aware of the danger of this course, he was unable to resist its attractions. Without realising it, he was falling deeply and hopelessly in love, and, as many have done before him, he found the course an easy and pleasant one. * .

But this blissful and placid stiite of things was destined to undergo a rude interruption, for exactly three weeks

after the date of Tremayne's departure he received a cablegram announcing that Philip Medway was about to return, having booked his passage on the Stephania.

This message acted as a cold douche on Basil. In the full enjoyment of this lotus-eating life he had almost forgotten the existence of John Tremayne; and

now he learnt that in one short week he would be back. One short week, and lie, Basil Xorcott, would go back—to what? He tried to picture his future life; but

the result was chaos. iln that moment he realised for the first time the full meaning of his feeling for Moira. He pictured a world without her, and knew it for an empty pretence. ' ■

For two days he sedulously avoided Moir'a, pleading the excuse of important (business; but on the morning of the third day he realised that, cost what it might, he must see her again. He had .barely made ims resolution, when Poo re entered with his chocolate and the morning paper. He glanced carelessly at the latter as it lay folded on the tray, and in a. moment a heading caught his eye: "Fatality on American liner. Passenger falls overboard and is drowned." The paragraph was a short one, stating that a wireless telegram from the Stephania announced the death by drowning of a passenger named Plhilip Medway. The body had not been recovered. That was all—just a .bare statement of fact; but, for the moment, Basil was unable to realise just how much it meant to him. i Gradually", however, as Iris reasoning faculties returned to <him, one fact, start" ling in its import, forced itself upon his attention. John Tremayne was dead, and he, Basil Jforcott, was recognised as the millionaire. What was to prevent him keeping up the imposture, and thus establishing his position? The temptation was a terrible one, for on the one hand was Moira and wealth; on the other, poverty—and perhaps the river. He shuddered as he remembered the old sordid existence—the want of food, the nights spent on a hard seat on the Embankment, the degradation and the hope-j lessness of it all. Could he go back to' that, after the existence of the last three i weeks and the glorious possibility that) had been held out to him of winning Moira's love? No; he couldn't do it; and yet, a few days previously, while seeking'for something in an old bureau, he had chanced on the will of John Tremayne, and learnt that everything was bequeathed to Moira. If he continued the imposture, he

would'be robbing the girl he loved; and yet, he argued with himself, if he married Moira, the money would, in a way, return to her.

In his heart of hearts, however, he knew that this was mere sophistry, an artifice of the devil to make the way of transgression easier for him, and all the latent good in him rose in arms against it. Then, again, Tremayne had trusted him. Should he betray that trust? Whatever he had become, he could not forget that he had once been a gentleman, and his code of honor an unflinching one. Gentlemen did not do these things, and if be wished to retain His self-respect, he could not do them. Resolutely, he put the temptation behind him, though bow severe the struggle had been he alone knew. Hastily, before his purpose should weaken, he drew paper and ink towards him, and wrote out a full statement of the case; then, placing it in an envelope, and sealing it, he addressed it to Moira.

He remembered that lie had. stuffed his old clothes into a closet in the small dressing room adjoining the room where he had supped with John Tremayne on that night of nights. He could not possibly regain them and leave the house in such a guise until night had fallen. What was he to do with the long day which lay before him? He dare not see Moira now, lest his resolve should weaken. He dressed hurriedly and left the house, to wander aimlessly about the city and the West End all day. Time went with leaden wings—it seemed as thouga the night would never come; but even the longest day must end, and eve.Btually he returned, to find the house dark and silent.

John Tremayne would never have anyone to sit up for him when he was late, and Basil now had cause to hless this foible. He easily found his way in the darkness to the little dressing-room, and soon was clothed in his rags again.

He made his way to the door with some difficulty in the dark. It was a, nasty, drizzling night, and as he stood cowering on the doorstep, the temptation to go back once more assailed him with terrible force. The struggle was fierce, but of short duration, for, with a determined effort, he forced his unwilling feet down the steps and into the street. Once there, he slunk quickly into a by-way, and, without one backward glance, hurried along, his one aim being to get away from the neighborhood. He stopped once in a mean, deserted street under a lamp-post, and pulled something from his pocket, gazing at it longingly. It was a photograph of Moira, the one thing] he had permitted himself to bring away from John Tremayne's house.

He was ahout to start feverishly onward again, when a hand was laid on his arm, and, turning, he beheld what he thought was a ghost.

"John Tremayne!" he cried, starting backwards. "I'm flesh and blond, man!" said the other; "don't be afraid . Come back with me; I've gqt something to say to you."

"No, no; T can't go back to your house, You don't understand!"

Basil hid his face in his hands. "Fear nothing," said the other, very kindly. "The proposal lam about to ma'ke to you will necessitate your staying there always."

Basil followed him mechanically. He had gone through so much that day that he was incapable of further emotion.

When they were seated in the libraryJohn Tremayne took up the tale again. 1 "The story oi my having been drowned while journeying home on the Stephania was totally untrue," he said. "I have never left England, or lost sight of you once; but T am the proprietor of the newspaper in which the notice appeared, and I arranged for its appearance myself —the copy you saw was the only one : containing that paragraph. Xow for my I reasons. I am, so my doctor tells me, l stricken with a mortal disease, and cannot live more than a few weeks longer, and I have been troubled with the.

thought that Moira, left with all my money, might become the victim of some unscrupulous' scoundrel. My object, then, was to find a man absolutely trustj worthy, who could act as her guardian and friend, and I have found that man. L must confess that 1 put you to a severe

test —the supreme test—and you have

come through it grandly. Will you forgive me for the suffering I have put you to, and accept the position I am offering .yon?"

| "I accept it gladly," said Basil, grasping his hand, "but hope i: ::iay never be I necessary for me to undertake it. Are I you sure your doctor is not mistaken ?

Why not consult some specialist?" j "Unfortunately, there is no hope," re- . plied Tremayne, sadly. "T have consult J ed every specialist in Europe and America."

"I am sorry," said Basil, simply. For a moment or two there was silence between them; then Basil looked up. "There is one thinw I muSt tell you ■before you finally decide to offer me this position," he said. "I love Moira, and mean to marry her, if she will have me." "So much the better." replied Tremayne, heartily; "the test must have been ever more severe than I thought. I could wish her no better husband." The two men clasped hands. Tt wn> two years later that Basil reaped his full reward and married the richest woman in England; but Moira knew

that it was not for her wealth he loved her. John Tremayne, before he died, had told her all, and she loved her husband the more that he had been through the supreme test, and was proved.