For Her Sister's Sake; OR THE LAVENDEN SECRET.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXIX, Issue 8340, 24 January 1907, Page 2

For Her Sister's Sake; OR THE LAVENDEN SECRET.

By SC. Norman Silver, ( t]ir of "A Double Mash," "A Daughter of Mystery t > "Held Apart," "The Golden Dwarf," etc.

■j CHAPTER XV.—Continued. "He—he knows you well?" she said. Sister May nodded. "Oh, : yes!" she answered; "I am always tunning in and out. Mr Ingram takes a great interest in Boysie, and, when he had croup awhile ago, I nursed him. through it." Julia caught her breath. The chi Id had been ill, dying, and she—his mother—not there. "And is he :quite—strong now? ' she asked eagerly. "Ought he not to have a change of air, a warmer climate, perhaps? I would arrange for that willingly," May Anderson's eyes shone. You are kindness itself, Lady Lavenden, / she said; "and, really, Boysie has not been quite at his best since. l He got rather delicate, and Clerkenwell is not the best place in the world for children." Julia started. "Oh! let me arrange for him to go away," she answered. "I have several places in the country,' and the spring is coming on. Country air would do him good." _ The cab-driver had been taking off his coat; he stopped on the point of hanging it up. .. "Thank you, my lady, very much, he said, "but we couldn't find it in . our hearts to part with Boysie. "Oh! Mr Crimple," protested May Anderson; "you wouldn't say 'No' to what was best for Boysie!" ' "Let me talk to him," said Julia tremulously; "I am sure he only needs to think about it a little. She went towards the cabman. The kitchen was large and low-ceiled, and the afternoon was fast closing in. Screened by the shadows, it seemed as if she and Peter Crimple were alone together. The nurse had trained her attention to Boysie's new toy, and Winnie, fathoming her sister's motive, had taken the child upon her ' Crimple glanded round at them, then lowered his voice and changed his tone from one of grudging respect to one of rough friendliness. "It's David's orders, my lady," he told her, under his breath, "I can't give up the child without hid permission. Besides, it isn't safe; you're going too fast. Young unmarried lldies in your position don't go mad over common people's brats, even if they do have golden curls and big blue eyes." / Julia bit heir lip—the cab-driver's blunt masterfulness had a ring of practical wisdom. "The child ought to go away," she said; "it is kicked, cruel, to refuse if . ' me. . t "It's for your own good, "rejoined Peter Crimple, more gently. "Why, you'd cause people to talk in no time. ' Remember,you're not like most la,dies bred and born—you were a dressmaker once,! and ' lived about here. Do you want people to say the child's your own, to ask who its father is, to ask wh&t has become of her ladyship's husband?" .He leaned closer to her. "Boysie is supposed to be my grandchild," he added," let sleeping dogs lie. You * cstfi see the chi|d here now and again. But, if you're wise, you won't over'do your visits. I'd advise you to drop coming altogether; > the youngster's happy enough with us. Go back to your smart houses and your fine friends/ and let bygones be by-1 gones. I'll stand by Boysie as I stood by his dad. But have him, you won't, unless David Garth says it's to be." .. ; Julia Lavenden groaried. The cabdriver gave her no opportunity for further discussion, but raised his voice and resumed his former deferential bearing. - "No, my lady," he s?iid, "I'm sorry, but I don't see the wisdom of sending the boy to be spoiled, and petted, and used to what he can't hope to live up to. If he needs change, as Sister May says—well, he shall have a week at Yarmouth with Tilda when the weather is • warmer. Thank you, kindly, all the same, my lady." ; , Julia drew back, baffled. ' "Come, Winnie," she said, faintly; ''Mr Crimple is very obstinate man.'' She held out her hand to the young •nurse. "Good-bye," she observed, forcing herself to be calm "if you will let me know, through Mr Ingram, if , there is anything I can do for the little one, or if—if his grandfather relents." . • I will, with pleasure, Lady Lavenden," was the answer, "and I think it is a pity Mr Crimple won't decide to avail himself of your great kindness." "I'm afraid there's no chance oi that, my? lady," said the cab-driver, determinedly. Winnie rose, anxiously; she hac seen Julia' 3 face in the half-light, But Julia Lavenden, rallied , all he: strength, folded Boysie to her bosom kissed him/- and set him down. "Come, Winnie," she said again not daring to look back at th< ruffled golden head. Winnie kissei : t the child, and glided away. Tilda w'ent 'ito show them out; her • father had drawn Boysiejon his knee. The child resisted, bent upon playing with .his new toy. Crimple pushed it away irritably, but Boysie clung to it. ' „ "Boysie, come : to grandpa, said the cab-driver, pleadingly. The boy nodded, arid climbed up, clasping the horse. Crimple settled him on. his knees, put an arm round the little figure, and sat brooding. May Anderson stepped to his side. "Mr Crimple," she remarked, "you weren't as grateful as you should have been to a very generous and kind-hearted lady." Peter Crimple struck his open palm on his thigh. "They shan't have the child from me," he retorted fiercely; "a pack of fine ladies—l know them! They'd only teach the kid not to care for me or ,Tilda.; I will keep him, I

"For Her Sister's Sake " was commenced on December 20th.]

tell you; there's not too.many who love Peter Crimple for him to spare this one. he's mine, and he's going to stay mine, or I'll know the reason why!" bister Mary sighed. "You are a very strange man, Mr Crimple," she said; "I don't think I quite understand you." A singular flicker 1 passed over the cab-driver's countenance. "Probably not, miss," was his answer, and he would add nothing to it.

CHAPTER XVI.. EDWARD AGNEW SPEAKS. "It's'no use disguising the fact, Ingram, I've had a blow—the cruelest fate could have dealt me. I suppose fate, in this instance, is a kind of Nemesis. I've been t<DO lucky. The House at thirty, arising lawyer at thirty-five, half-way up the ladder when most men are beginning to mount it. And now " "Now," said Charles Ingram, gently, for the other had paused. Edward Agnew sat back in the chair, and looked out at the green lawns and quiet ways of the Inner Temple. The chicken-joints on his plate were barely touched, the level of the wine in his .glass scarcely lowered. He got up to get a cigarbox, and bring it to the curate. Ingram took one thoughtfully; he had shared the young lawyer's impromptu lunch with a better ap petite than his host. '' Now, "he repeated. Agnew fingered an unligh':ed cigar. "You know the proverb," he said, " 'Lucky at cards, unlucky in love' Where can fate hit a successful man better than on the left breast?" He touched the spot over his heart with a grim gesture. * "I answer one proverb with another," responded Ingram cheerfully ; " 'Faint heart ne'er won fair lady."' The other smiled, sadly. "Thei proverb is trite," he said; ".but why should I grieve your kind soul with my woes? We do not meet often enough to be able to afford melancholy. Have some more claret." The curate inade a motion of dissent; he was lighting his cigar. Agnew followed his example. "Time works wonders, Ned, old fellow," declared Charles Ingram; "you may not be so hard hit as you think." . ' * The lawyer looked at the smoke, of his cigar. "I have received my death-wound, Charlie," he said; "hot the deathwound that takes the f breath from one's lips, but the heart-wound that takes the salt out of life, the joy out of success, contentment out of rest. The wound will skin over, and I shall go on somehow. But my heart will be dead—dead and cold." Charles Ingram put down his cigar,, and his strong, long-fingered hand fell softly on that., of his friend. There had been a strange bitterness in the latter's words, a deeper bitterness in his tones. "I'm sorry, Ned," he answered, a little huskily. Agnew ; turned his head away. "Don't set me down as merely maudlin," he said. "I—l found, a jewel, and I may not wear it. A woman —young, beautiful, highminded, simple, 'wise —a woman who has come " unvulgarized through poverty, unspoiled through wealth; a woman who loves me —unworthy though'l am of so great an honour - as only such a woman can love." The curate looked anxious. Agnew felt the change in his bearing. "Its not that,old fellow," he added, interpreting it; "she Wears no wedding ring. She has never loved any one but me;|she told me so — think of it, she told me—and when such a woman says Slje has iiever loved, t>e sure she has never married. And yet between us there is an abyss; she refuses me —with an agony of womanly grief 'and pity, yet she refuses me. Fate, she says, has parted us, hopelessly, irrevocably. " j Charles Ingram pondered. He had taken up his cigar agaiji... , • "I tortured her," pursued Agnew j somberly, "with sneers and theatrical rhetoric, till she said—against her better judgment,. I could seethat I might remain her friend, her brother. And I have honestly tried to reconcile myself to; that hopeless future. See?" He lifted an envelope from a drawer,and, opened it. Inside there was a handful of feathery ash, black ; gray. ' t ; "I came back, after she had told i me my he said, "and I burned & little note l ' or two she had had occasion to write me, and a flower I j once pilfered from her bouquet. And then, Heaven help me! I saved the , ashes; even they were too dear to be scattered to the wyids. And I find ' myself thinking, about her hour by hour, day by day, not ,as a brother ' should think, or as a friend, but as j a lover." ■ (To be Continued.)