THREE MEN AND A MAID.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXI, Issue 9028, 15 January 1908, Page 2

THREE MEN AND A MAID.

CHAPTER IV. —Continued. "He isn't asleep," answered James. "Not ten minutes since he went at a gallop towards the Vicarage to knock you up. You seem to be a nice pair. What's the matter between you?" "Gone to the Vicarage? For me? That is the strangest incident of a strange night." "What is it all about, though?" demanded James. "Look here, Warren, let me tell you you had better lie low for a day or two it' you don't want to see serious trouble of some sort between you and Robert. You lie low—talc; my tip. He isn't sober, and he has cut up uncommonly rough about something or other that.you have done to him." "Thank you—he has gone to the Vicarage —good-bye," and Philip was off anew running back the way he had come. Robert Courthope, however, being mounted, had gone, not by the main road down Netherend Hill but across country and by a lane which met the 'road on the left, and by that lane he returned, after rousing an amazed butler at the Vicarage and learning that Philip was not in his room. Thus the two men did not meet on the road, and Philip on reaching the Vicarage saw no sign of life in the place. He had no intention ol darkening again the doors of that home of his boyhood. Once more he set out toward the Court, weary now, and conscious of a brihgtness of morning revealing itself in the east. In front of Edenhurst he found James Courthope strolling about, smoking, and wrapped in a great-coat, with a srnoking-cap pressed round his hard brows, apparently contemplating the beauty of the dawn. In answer to Philip's question if Robert had returned, James pufled at his cigar and said "no"—an untruth, since the Spire was at that moment sprawlirg (in a chair in the billiard-room, staring at the dying fire. "Well, he is apparenly as eager to see me as I to see him, said Philip. "Tell him, will you, when he comes, that I arn to be found in Lancault Church." Philip then, walked away, while James Courthope, eyeing him askance through the comer uf his eye, hummed to himself. He wished to keep Philip's skin whole, at least until Philip should have married Marjirip. In his cousin's present mood that would not Le such an easy matter, Lancault Church lay deep down in the valley, almost hidden in leafage, though part of one of its walls was visible from the Court. Oen Varies ago it may have been a chapel of ease -for nothing tinier in the way of a church can be imagined—but it now consisted of four roofless walls buried in ivy. Philip passed through the fenced enclosure, thick with bracken, which surmounted it. He stepped over a slab, once a grave-stone, which barred the doorway, and sat inside in a niche where, in happier hours, he had placed some timbers to form a .mat. Then, tired with fruitless thought, and misery, though aglow with tie knowledge that Marjorie loved him, ha turned up his coat collar about his ears, nodded, and slept for a while.

CHAPTER V. DAGGERS DRAWN. That morning: the Squire'slept in a c'iair, Philip Warren slept in a corner of old Lancault Church, and James Courthope did not sleep at all. He had a rendezvous with Hannah Neyland at an early hour on the outskirts of Edenhurst, where he gave her the thrilling tidings that Warren had undoubtedly been turned out of house and home, since he had gone to rest in the roofless shelter of Lancault. "Now, my idea is this," siid Courthope, "that Warren, homeless and without; funds, will simply get engaged to Marjorie to save her nama, but for her sake will draw oit of marriage for the present, and, going away to seek his fortune, will leave her here. That would not suit OS at all, for Marjorie left here, means "Marjorie socnar or later Mrs Robert Courthope." " But do you imagine your cousin would tike h r now after seeirg h r on the tower with Mr Warien?" snapped Hannah acidly. "Your fault, by thi way, that he did see her there," siid Courthope. "I told you to tell no one BjL tower or no J;ower, Robert will wsd her still. You don't know my Robert- he has the will of a cataract. No, Marjorie must not remain here. She must go with Warran, as I believe she will insist on doing when she knows that she has managed to ruin hi t), and the pair can rely upon what is left of Aunt Margaret's money for the present. So wfca ycu have to do now, Hannah, is to liii ry home, give Marjorie the news o Warren's ruin, and drop in her t'ie hint where Warren is—in Lai)cai.l'". Church." H innah managec 1 co return to the Greyhound just in time to seem not to have gone out. After meeting the rising eyes of her father and mother, eyes which had a curious scare in them that morning, she at onco made her way to Marjuris's 10 >m, to find Marjorie asleep, but fully dressed, lying in a wild attitude of unrest across *he bed. It Hannah who had let Marjorie in at one o'clock that morning, and she had protended much sympathy and collusion with the erring sister. So now, rousing Marjorie from her careworn sleep, she was soon whispering awfullv the news of Philip's downfall and the whereaboutsol' Philip in the church.

k Marjorie put up her hands to her

By BOBERT FRASEK,

[Pubiished By Special Arrangement.] [All Eights Reserved.]

ha'r, and said: "All right, dear, I will go x ,o him." In a few minutes she was hurrying through the hotel in a sort of concentart( d flurry, tremulously unable to dnw on her gloves. She escaped thiough a back garden without attracting notice; but as soon as s'e was on the bridge crossing to Netherend Hill, she was seen by a lad named Archibald, a stable boy left in charge of Courthope s horsr, whem his master , had posted during t: ; night to watch the time of her arriv.l, and report her goings and coming?. He followed her up the hill, siw her pass the "Hall," as Eder.hurst wis oft'termed by the villagers and hurry town into the valley towards Lancault. There was now plenty of light, though the morning was grey and wintry, and rough with Jthe rags of the gale which had mourned all night. Wondering at this hurried expedition of Marjorie's to the little church, the lad hid behind a great oak in the field above the brackenfilled enclosure, until he saw Philip meet her. Then he ran, found Robert Courthope asleep in the billiardroom, and reported what he had seen. Marjorie, meantime, was revealing herself to Philip in the divine light of a woman who loves. "It is I who have brought it all upon you," she said, "and you go out into the world alone; yet not alone while I live, for I go out with you." "Did I not do well to say last night that the tower was haunted by an angel?" asked Philip with a fond smile. "But where would be my manliness to accept such an exceeding sacrifice from my dear?" "The sacrifice would be to stay when you are gone," said Marjorie. "Let all that he taken for granted. I cannot have you feeling yourself abandoned by the world. If I were left here conscious that you were lonely and hopeless, I should —die, I think. Don't refuse me, Philip—l gave myself to you." "Dear! but the waiting may not be for long. One cannot marry on nothing a year " "Oh, as for the mere money part of it, that much I take upon my own shoulders, for the first six months, anyway. It will be hard if I can't make some sor 4 ; of a living with my b:ush, as I have partly doi e before. And there is my aunt to help us. You may know, Philip, dejr, that my Aunt Margaret's husband left her nine thousand pounds on his death. I was a little girl when she came to live at the Greyhound, and for some reason or other, perhaps only because my name was something like hers, she took a fancy id me, adopted me, and devoted her money to me. There's a traaiticn in my mother's family that one i f them was once a famous singer. My aunt was always full of it, and she determined to send me away to be a singer. But I had no talent for sinking that 1 could discover, and I did have something of the sort for painting, so after two wasted years I was allowed to throw up singing and attempt the Art Schools. I was never allowed to come home, since aunt did not consider the tone of the Greyhound, 'genteel.' Then, on a sudden, I was recalled, some whim of aunt suddenly returning to her old love of singing and becoming dirsatisfied with the painting before | I was through with it. However, as soon as aunt and I met, I saw that I could induce her to do whatever I wished, and no doubt I should have been back in London at my studio weeks ago if I hadn't met —you. That is a confession! And I only met you to undo you. Dear! lam in your hands; don't banish me from you." "But " "No'buts,' or I shall doubt what you swore on my heart last night." "Ah, truth is strong and will prevail. You cannot do ibt the ocean. Have you thought of the privations—the penurious, uncertain future?" "I racher look forward to some privations with you. They can be made delighftul if you only laugh at them." "But—" "No'buts.' Any other word you may Say to your love—'butter' or 'buttermilk,' or even 'button' or 'butcher,' but not 'but.' " "No 'buts,' then," said Phiilp, "since 'but' displeases you. However ■" (To be continued.)