THREE MEN AND A MAID.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 9027, 14 January 1908, Page 2

THREE MEN AND A MAID.

CHAPTER IV. THE UPSHOT. 'JTIL happened that there was at least 'one other sick man beside the curate •in Hudston that night, and through him Philip and Marjorie were delivered from their prison rot long after midnight. By one of his fitful shouts Philip caught the ear of a boy far off who was crossing the moor into the village to summon Dr. Lawrence. Hence, it was about one o'clock when Philio, after taking Mirjoiij to the Greyhound, knocked at the Vicarage door. Somewhat to his dismay, Mr Isambard himself let him in. "What, did you sit up for me, eir?" Philip asked. "Yes," answered the Vicar. "I am sorry " "Be as good as to come into the study." They paced across rooms of darkness to where the one light in the house illumined the most luxurious of studies. Mr Isambard sank into a chair, took a cigar, and presented the box to Philip, saying: "Will you anioke?" Then after an awkward silence he said: "My good fellow, you are late." "I am sorry, sir," replied Philip again. "No explanation?" "None, I'm afraid. At least, not just yet." "I see. Nevertheless, I bad hoped that you might have something hearable to say for yourself. I warn you that I am offended." "Well, on second thoughts, I don't see why I should mt tell you that lam the victim of a mischance. I —have been imprisoned in Fennell's Tower." "In- prisoned?" "Yes, sir." "But—how do you mean? The place is practically a ruin. The door is never closed as far as I know." "It was closed to-night by some one for some reason —and locked." "But where were you while this was being done that you didn't see or hear the person who did it?" "I suppose that I must have been going up the ladder inside—J really don't know." "In that case the door must have been locked purposely by some one who had marked your entrance?" "Ob, I don't say it was done purposely mfi..sn tAv.!?3?o«.k r —(?U don't know; that possibility never struck me before, but it may ~e so—now you say it." " You have been unfortunate, for during fifteen years I have not heard of the tower being closed. It is to be h>ped that you had no companion in misfortune—or is that too much to hope?" "I suppose you will hear to-mor-row, sir, that a lady was with me." "Ah? That complicates the situation rather. A woman was with you." "I said, a lady." "A woman and a lady are both of the same sex, and, in a case like the present, I'm afraid that sex is the point. If she were a lady, you have contrived to damage her reputation, Philio." "The lady and I are about to be married, sir." "Ah. . . ? Really? That is a-Imirable of you ! And her name?" Philip hesitated a moment. He did not wish to discuss matters with his uncle in his present mood. The Hon. and Rev. Oliver Isambard instantly misinterpreted his silence, and allowed some of his marble wrath to escape. j "A lady! That vile creature!" he puffed. | "You had better be careful what j worda you use," said Philip, stung into angry sspeech. "That little light-o'-love?" j "That is a peculiarly unworthy, kind of lie!" It was as if ten bombs had tumbled into the room—the granite Vicar himself was struck dumb by the shock of it, and Philip, who had leaped to his feet, stood all of a tremble with one hand on his It | was Philip who first spoke, saying I in the low voice of passion: i "You dare speak in that way, j without even knowing who the lady is!" "But I saw her "'ith you on the tower," said the Vicar in the white calm of intense rage. "You saw. . . ?" "L" "Odd! How came you to be there?" "That is a mtter of no importance —I saw you—and your future wife; nor was I alone in seeing you, for I was sent to tiie tower by one who iknew you were there." "Who was that? 1 must know." "It is no secret—Courthope." "Courthope? Which Courthope (Robert or James?" "Robert." "Ah!" And thus was Philip en,meshed anew in that web of poisonous deceit. "At ,any rats, you preceive, my goon fellow," went on the Vicar, "tha*. ;'ie affair is no secret, and that there is absolutely no way out. 1 jhave ,rev,ie\ved the situation on every ~side, .and the one certainty is that we [cannot go on in the old way, as if .nothing had happened. If you do not •marry the young woman, the Vicarage will hardly continue to be your proper ulndo. while if, as you say, you are about Li make the daughter ,of my friend Ney.land a Wa'ren by iraai'rj.aire, still the tone of the Vicarage might be found inhospitable to £he new menage. I have long foreseen what might befall you gome day. flind have dropped bints as broad as one man may Iq another that your way of life and manner of thought were «H t"0 unworldly-for the guiles and chii'icua of thU rather rough earth, But you have chosan your own path and walked insolently in

By ROBERT ERASER.

[Published By Special Arrangement.] [All Eights Eeserved.]

it, sir. I also choose mine—inflexibly. Of course, you may make the Vicarage your pied a terre for as many hours longer as you find convenient, but I warn you, my excellent Philip, that you have nothing further to expect from me, save my good wishes. . .. . Good-night," "But this is beyond belief! It limits all endurance 1" cried Philip, striding toward the other with outstretched hand. The Vicar, carrying an old copper candlestick high in front of his face, passed out without another word, and Philip collapsed into the.chair by which he stood, threw his arms on the cable, -and bent his head between them. He was seated in that posture of desolation for over half-an-hour, feeling the midnight of his fate wrapped thick in fold on fold round his soul and brain. His worldly goods amounted (o two pounds, the remains of his last quarter's stipend for playing the church organ. The question of an allowance had never been raised between him and his uncle. The Vicar was a wealthy man, an avowed celibate, and it was always understood that Philip was his heir. Mr Isambard paid all bills. The organ-playing salary was a mere joke between them —an expedient whereby the Vale of Ure Otter-hounds were maintained. And now, by this bitter joke, Philip had two pounds to buy back Marjorie's good name?' Would that pay the marriage fees? Could they make their home in the tower, living on blackberries, talking of the de Warrenne seals and roll-of-arms? He found himself cast off, drowning, without a straw to catch to, for he knew that under the well-bred calm of his uncle's words had rolled a whole hell of anger and intent, and that of all changeless things the decisions of the Vicar bad the mortalist fixity. Thus in one night Philip's ground had cracked up under his feet, and his skies had rained fire round him. himself how all this had suddenly come about—at first wiMi dull movements of his mind, but presently, with a sharp interest and a sense of discovery—--1 be remembered how he and Marjorie j had been brought to the tower —eviI dently by a ruse, with a dire purI pose. "The little short gentleman" who had sent Felix to Marjorie in j the shrubbery must have been Bennett, the solicitor of Nufcwqrth—Robert Courthdpe's solicitor. Then, | when they were safely lodged in the tower, the door had been loekJ ed, and, some time afterwards, Robert Court hope had laughed loud at j them in their captivity, for both Marjorie and Philip himself had J recognized his guffaw in the c ipse below. This unexpected enemy, too, ' had made it his business to come and tell the Vicar, and the Vicar had gone and seen. . . . It seemed to be all a contrivance of Robert Courthope to ruin and banish Philip, in order that he might se- . cure Marjorie without in3tant oppo- ! sition from Philip. . . . And 1 though one should try to bridle the ' runaway heart and forgive one's enemies, yet there are wrongs so i large and heaven-high, so overgrown and gross, that the cry of them may I hardly be stifled, but all nature i shrieks vengeance upon them, and forgiveness is abrogated. When Philip lifted his weary head from the table he did not go to his room, but rushed out of the Vicarage, a wild and lurid light illuminating his brain. It was then near three in the morning, but there are calls which cannot await the dawn of day, and he made his way at a run down into the valley, then up the steep of Netherend Hill to Edenhurst Court. Passing through tho park, he approached the mansion from behind, and walked round it. No light was to be seen. It was the darkest hour of the night. The moon had set, and tho breezes streamed with dismal music through the huge cedars in front of ,the lawn. Here, too, all was ■dark.; but on going to the right side of the .house, where the new billiardroom had been added, Philip at last saw a light, and rapped at the side door itlie»*e, whereat James Courthope, .wiho was nodding asleep in a chair by the billiard-table, started up and qpened a window. " Waiu;en.!" he said in amazement; "you!" "I must see Robert,"' cried Philip. "If be is asleep he must be roused." (To ibe iconUnued.i)