THE STORYTELLER

Taranaki Daily News, 4 September 1915, Page 9

THE STORYTELLER

BRENT'S REVENGE. "The law can't touch you, but it's dishonesty, none the less." The elder man, Douglas Brent, had hardly realised the truth at first; even now he stared at the cheque half incredulously. "I've paid you interest on the loanfive per - cent. We've been partners in busienss, I know; but this was a private speculation of my own." James Alperton spoke composedly enough, but he would not meet his companion's gaze.

"Indeed! And when I wanted money for that Clayton Colliery affair, and borrowed from you, didn't I halve the profits when it turned out a success?" Brent's tone was scornful. "Now its your turn. You've made thousands out of this Black Gulch Mine, and you—oh, you give me five per cent! Who else would have lent you £1,200? Why, if it hadn't been for me, you'd have missed the chance."

Still James Alperton did not answer. He turned away, shrugged his shoulders. "I relied on you—trusted you. I risked my money, and now " "I'm afraid you're manufacturing a grievance. I suppose you want a pretext for getting rid of me—dissolving partnership?" Douglas Brent laughed shortly. "Oh, yea," he said. "I rather fancy I'll be glad when you've gone. A pretext, you call it? Aha! Did you think I'd have any dealings with you after this? Did you think I'd shake hands with you and thank you very much for your five per cent, interest? You sicken me, Alperton. You can go—get out —as soon as you like!"

_ *H you hadnt adopted this highhanded tonfrHf you'd suggested in a TMty—" "Dofi'ij trouble to finish . You mean you'd ha'ye divided with me—acted fairly and honestly, eh? That's a lie!"

"Look here—" Brent railed his voice. "Yon needn't bluster. It's a lie, and yon know it, You meant all along to keep everything for yourself. You're a slave to money, Alperton. I believe you'd stoop to any dirty work for the sake of gain. You've robbed me—" "Brent, this is too much. I—" "Oh, the law can't touch you," repeated the elder man, bitterly. "You're safe enough. .We had no agreement—not even a verbal one. I thought you were an honourable man; now I have to suffer for that very foolish mistake." James Alperton's face flushed and he set his lips together. "You're talking wildly. You've lost your head—else I might resent these insults. Good-bye." "Just one more word before you go." Brent lifted a steady finger towards him. "When you're enjoying your fortune always think of this: one day I shall take my revenge!" "Ha, ha! Melodrama!" "You laugh, but you're not really easy in your mind, Alperton; and you'll always have to be on your guard. Your conscience'U worry you, too. You'll never be able to forget. And then, sooner or later —my revenge!" James Alperton made his exit jauntily enough: but as he went down the stairs he knitted his brow uncomfortably. Brent's words kept ringing in his ears: "The law can't touch you, but it's dishonesty, none the less." He forced a smile. Bah! He's furious because I've been successful. He's jealous. A half share! . He doesn't want much!" Stepping out on to the pavement, he glanced back at Brent's window. " 'Sooner or later—my revenge!' Why, , it'a preposterous!" •Tames Alperton swung round cbcerfu.Hy. "How could he harm me? There's no posible way. I'll look after my money carefully enough. His 'revenge,' indeed!" * * * .# In six months Douglas Brent was in financial difficulties. Alperton heard of it. and nodded without surprise. "Now he'll realise what I was wortli to the business. He'll be sorrv he cut himself adrift." In his lij>art he felt some remorse, and if it .had ,J>een possible he would have helped Brent anonymously. That was the queer nature of the man. To make money was his consuming passion, and he could never resist any chance of gain. Yet he was not miserly in the general sense of the .word, for he could give in charity without a qualm. Douglas Brent's attitude, however, had fixed his resolve.

"I'll do nothing for him until he comes to me," he declared, doggedly. "When he's done prating about this precious revenge of his—"

But Brent made no sign, and gradually Alperton came to forget him. except at such times when, as his partner had predicted, hi 3 conscience pricked. So three years passed, and he did not know whether Brent had failed or weathered the storm.

In a fine house, far from his old neighbourhood, Alperton made new friends, began another life. He was comfortably off now, and could afferd to give up business for good. But his energies required some outlet, and he took to literary work, in the manner of a wealthy dilettante, with a secretary to assist." Thus it came about that he advertised for an amanuensis to fill the place of a youth who had proved unsatisfactory in many ways. Replies, of course, came bv the score, but few of the applicants won his approval on a personal interview. At last one letter only remained; and, growing desperate, he invited the writer to call. "Miss Berwick," announced the servant; and James Alperton looked up in some amazement. "I beg your pardon. You are—" '!I sec you have my aplication there, sir." , . "Yes; but it is typewritten, and from the signature I never guessed—" "That I wasn't a man? Well, does thaj.matter so very much?" The girl eyed him smilingly. She was quite young, and undeniably pretty. James Alperton had never sought women's society, and his tastes were vague; but her hair, her face, her figure < —all gained his instantaneous approbation. He found himself stammering as he met her gaze. "I—l don't konw that it does." "You'll find me quite competent; and, to be frank, Mr. Alperton, I want this j situation very badly." "If yon don't mind—that is, if you can stand a great deal of my company' -—" He hesitaed. "You see, it isn't like being in an office." "Oh, I feel sure we shall get on very veil together." She was obviously well educated. He tested her shorthand and examined her refereßces from a. bmjgfu college t,}

I most mechanically, wit.li curt comments at intervals. Yet for the further ten minutes of the interview he glanced at her frequently. When she rose to go he held out his hand; she left hers quite I frankly in his for a second or two. ' "Then I can come, sir?" : " 'Mr. Alperton,' please." She smiled. "Mr. Alperton, then. Tnank you very much. I'll be here on Monday. At ten o'clock, you said?" He shut the front door behind her thoughtfully. He was a yonug man still—only thirff-flvc—and he realised that he was more Impressionable than he had imagined 1 . "Tehah!" he muttered at last, impatiently. "She's to be my secretary. She's a girl who wovfcs for her living. There are thousands of them in the City." But he found himself looking forward ; to Monday morning with disconcerting ! eagerness, and frdm that day onward his infatuation grow. Though' his manner was cold and correct, and his attitude the formal one of an employer, he came to thrill at the tones of her voice; he watched her furtively as she sat at work by the window. She on her part obeyed orders calmly and paid little attention to his presence; yet once, when their hands touched over a page of manuscript, she flushed, and moved quickly away.

Alperton's heart beat fast. Did she realise the truth? he asked himself, doubtfully. As time passed his confidence increased. He allowed his consideration to become more obvious. She could not have failed to understand; and yet she made no sign that his demeanour was unwelcome. She often grew embarrassed now in hia conpany, but in her slight confusion there was no resentment.

"I wonder." James Alperton mused, uneasily, one evening—"l wonder what she'd say if she heard about that BlackGulch Mine affair and my little deal with Douglas Brent? T wonder whether she'd take his side and despise me?" She must never know, he told himself determinedly. And now, more than ever, he must keep a tight hold upon what wealth he had, so that she might live in comparatively luxury if she married him. For he was almost certain that her answer would be favourable.

"One can always tell," he murmured, more cheerfully. Next morning, however, she was strictly the employee. All suggestion of intimacy had vanished. James Alperton noted this, and was disconcerted. She seemed ill at ease, too, and only spoke when he addressed her or to ask for instructions.

"I've finished copying this maunscript. What shall 1 do next, please?" He glanced round irresolutely. There was really nothing; but he did not want her to go.

"You might clear the old papers out of this drawer, and sort them as far as you can."

He corrected her typewritten pages slowly, turning occasionally from his desk to where she sat by the window. "There are a lot of letters from different people, all about the Black Gulch Mine." Her calm voice broke the silence at last. "Shall I separate them or not?" "Yes, yes; certainly. Tic them up together, please. The 'Blade Gulch'— that was the lucky speculation that made my fortune, you know." "Just fancy! You bought it singlehanded?" 'Tt was in the market—very cheap. No one knew its real value." He laughed awkwardly. "A single-handed dealyes." The girl turned away; her lips were compressed. For a few'moments she did not continue her task, but gazed fixedly through the.window, Then suddenly she roused herself. A side glance assured her that her employer's back was turned. All the papers slipped to the ground. She gave a little cry of dismay. He swung round swiftly. "Oh, that's , unfortunate. Now you'll have to start over again. Let mc help you. No— sit still." Close beside her, he began to pick up the letters. "Oh, thank you; but you really should nt." "Why not?" * "You oughtn't to wait on me. I'm only only your secretary." Her tone was coquettish. He laid the pile before her, then bent nearer. "Miss Warwick, I think you're guessed already. I don't want you to be my secretary any more." "Oh! I've to go away?" "If I meant that, would you be scary?" "Of course." She raised her head for an instant. Her glance drew him forward. He caught her hand. "But I don't. I mean that I want you for my wife. Miss Warwick, will you marry me?" She rose to her feet abruptly, land seemed to shrink away. Passion made his voice indistinct. "I love you, Dorothy! You're everything to me. Since the day you came I've loved you." ," ' ' ;'. "I'm glad," she murmured ±',; r r .. ', "Ah!" He tried to draw u|r tojhMi ! but suddenly, with a wrench, she* was free. "Yes; I'm glad!—Jmt not for the reason you imagine, Mr. Alperton!" He stared in amazement. She faced him scornfully, with head held high. "I—l don't understand." Then . once ■ more he approached her. "I love you! Dorothy, don't you hear?" "Stop!" she broke in, and all at once laughed half hysterically. Alperton's cheeks grew red. He controlled himself with an effort. "But you—you made ine think—" "I know that."

"You've led me on—encouraged me." He spoke in mingled anger and bewilderment.

"It's true. I acted—deliberately. That's what I canie for. You say you love me, and I say I'm glad."' Again she laughed queerly. "In face I'm more likemy dead mother, but people say I've my father's eyes, You didn't notice that, perhaps, Mr. Alperton? You didn't real-

"What do you mean?" he demanded, thickly. "Who are you, then? Not—not

"Yes; Douglas Brent's daughter! I'm here under a false name.'' Alperton raised a hand to his lorehead, muttered dazedly below his breath.

"Douglas Brent? Yes; once he spoke of her, I remember. She was abroad, being educated. Brent —yes. Brent's daughter!" "And this," the girl cried, "this is his revenge!"

With the triumphant speech she waited; but James Alperton did not reply. "A 'single-handed deal,' was it—the Black Gulch Mine? Thai's untrue. You lied to me. You used my father's money and .then, took all the "profits for your-

self. He was old and you were young; but you tricked him.—broke with him. When he failed, you didn't care. It was nothing to you. You had your fortune and your regular income—"

"I'll pay it back," ho interrupted, hoarsely. I'll make full restitution." '•Too late I Do you think he'd take it now?"

"I'll go to 'him—ask him—" ''You haven't his adress." "But T have yours, when you wrote for this—this situation."

"It was a newspaper shop. I called for the reply." "Tell me where he lives. I love you! Let me put things straight. Let me do the right thing. Tell me!" "You didn't try to find him before," said the girl, inexorably. "You're repenting too late. I'll go'now. My work's done. You'll never see me again." With a groan James Alperton buried his face in his hands. When he looked up again she was gone. On the carpet a white object caught his eye. It was her handkerchief. He snatched it up hungrily, twisting it between his fingers in his bitter despair. "Brent's revenge!" he muttered, shakily. ."I'll never see her again!" A week went by, and still his enquiries brought no result. Eventually, however, came a clue. He followed it desperately, reaching at last the shabby suburban house where her father lodged. Douglas Brent faced him In the poor-ly-furnished upstairs room, reserving his smile of triumph until the door closed and his visitor stumbled forward. "Ah! An old friend!" Alperton did not dare to offer his hand. He moistened his dry lips nervously. "You don't look well. Cheer up, Alperton! What's wrong with you, man? Have you lost your money—that fortune of yours?" The taunting voice brough a flush to his cheek. "I've come to make amends—to ■ ask you to forgive me, Brent." But the elder man waved him off. "Make-amends? Ah! I can guess the reason, too. But no; I sha'n't give you even that satisfaction, Alperton." "For your girl's sake! I love her, Brent. Since she went I've been tortured—out of my mind almost. Can't you see—" "If you'd acted fairly I. should be a moderately wealthy man. But I'm poor, yet happy; while you're miserable, aren't you, Alperton? I have my daughter, you see. She'll always be with me now. It was a great scheme, that of ours, eh? Oh, I guessed you'd fall in love with her. She's very pretty, isn't she? And sweet and good—" "Don't!" protested Alperton, thickly. "But she's not for you. Think of that always. Remember her face every day—every hour! Long for her! Listen for the sotind of her voice. You'll never hear it, except in your dreams. And when you wake—" "For the last time, Brent—forget the past. I beg you—" ' Douglas Brent's derisive laughter made him realise the futility of his errand at last. He stopped for a moment at the door, then passed through with shoulders bent. Out in the street he beckoned a cab, and sat huddled in one corner, rigid, till it stopped at his gate. He entered with his key, moving slowly along the hall. This fine house of his in which he had taken so much pride, gave him small satisfaction now. Something led liim to the library, where she had always worked—Dorothy Brent, the daughter of his old partner—the man .who had sworn revenge.

It seemed almost incredible as he glanced round the room. There was her seat: he could almost imagine her figure by the window. Suddenly he broke down.

"Oh, he's had his revenge—yes, a thousand times!"

An hour passed. When ho rose hi face was set.

"I'll repay it—every penny—in spite of him. He must take it—h>» must! Even if I never meet her, I shall know, anyhow, that she'll always b» provided for. Brent- can't refuse it fm her.-"

A; the table be wrote the letter rapidly. fl 7 he<) it was finished he rend ibe last few sentences again. "You must accept this. Brent. It's all ,1 can do. T'll even promise not to search for her. I'll give up all »iv hopes if you'll only take this money—'" The door opened very quietly. He did not raise his head until the girl had reached,the table. Then he showed no surprise, but eyed her steadily. "You've been to mv father?"

He bowed his head. "Yes; but he sent me away. I wanted to ask his pardon

"And I'm asking for yours. For coming here as I did; for—" "I have nothing to forgive. I deserved it all. You aren't to be blamed for deceiving me—for your acting—" "It—wasn't—all—acting." He could hardly catch the words. "I'm imagining things," he said, wearily. With a quick breath he raised a hand to lis forehead. "You don't mean —vou can't—"

"It's true." She spoke with an effort, 'turning away from him. "I've come back. I—l find that my father's wishes are nothing. You said you loved me —" "Dorothy!'' "And I—l, somehow—in spite of the wrong you did him—in spite of everything—" * She hid her face. "Love's very strange," she faltered. "I can't understand; only that, having once been lierc with you spoken only ordinary "formal words—T—l had to return. I nia"de you love inc. It wasn't an unwelcome task, if—if you'd only known With a cry he took her in his arms, bending over her, stroking her hair. "And T thought I'd lost you! 1 never .dared to dream of this. "See! I was writing to him."

She raised her head from his shoulder and read the letter through. "Surely, sooner or later, my father will forget .and forgive. I—oh! I want you to be reconciled. Surely, when he knows that you—that we—"

He held her tightly. "I'd bo his friend once more—his partner, if he'd allow it. He can trust mo now." . "I'm sure of that." She folded the letter carefully. "I'll show this to him. T'm longing to see your hand in his." "Ah, if he'll onlv take it!"

"Why not, if 1 do?" she said, gently: and together thev walked out into the hall.