SIR JOHN'S HEIRESS.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 9676, 15 December 1909, Page 2

SIR JOHN'S HEIRESS.

CHAPTER IX.—Continued

"'One touch there is of magic white. Surpassing southern mountains' snow, That lends the sails the dying lightThere, where the dark ships onward go, Upon the golden highway broad That leads up to the Isles of God! "One touch of light more magic yet, Of rarer snow neath moon or star, Where, with her graceful sails all set, Some happy vessel seen afar, As if in an enchanted sleep, Steers o'er the tremulous, silvered deep! '"Oh ship, 0 sail, far must ye be Ere gleams like that upon you light, O'er golden spaces of the sea, From mysteries of the lucent night! Such touch comes never to the boat Wherein across the waves we float, "'0 £ learns more magic and divine, Life's whitest sail ye still refuse, And, flying on beiore us shine Upon some distant bar ye choose! By night or day, across the spray, That sail is ever far away.'" Then followed a spell of silence, strange and almost weird. Hilda's heart was too full for words, her eyes were Joliuded by a mist of tears. ''Shall I sing again, uncle?" she said at last. He did not answer. « She rone and walked softly to the bedside. He was sleeping; there was a smile about the firm lips, and his eyes were closed. In his right hand he grasped the letter of the woman he had loved. He was sleeping indeed—the sleep of death!

CHAPTER X. A DEPRESSING LETTER. After a restless night, Victor Linton awoke with a start. Dawn had been breaking when he dropped into the first fitful slumber, but the sun was now high in the the heavens. A shimmering golden bar of light lay across the carpet, and mingling with the chirping of birds was the mournful pound of the passing bell. He listened for a while, half in affright, then sprang out uf ned, and swiftly drew, up the blind. It was a perfect autumn morning; the sky was blue and clear, the sunshine was brilliant. Victor dressed hastily, the solemn tolling ringing in his ears. He knew intuitively that the master of Woodcroft was dead, and his thoughts were, with Hilda; he wondered what responsibility had been laid upon her shoulders. "Nothing like a bath and a gleam of sunshine to dispel the shadows and phantoms of a restless night!" he thought, while vigorously applying his towel. "And yet"—-he glanced through the window out upon the beautiful world—"l am not superstitious." His thoughts i. f an on. "Not a bit of it, but I canno: help feeling that everything has changed for me in the past twenty-four hours—the trouble at home and my father's disappointment. He was a little bit harßh—poor old dad!—but he will be more reasonable some day. Then the marvellous change in Colonel Mayhew—he positively cut me dead! Bang him'" Victor tossed the towel aside savpgely, and turned his attention to a refractory button. But the worst of all is Sir John Carrington's sudden partiality for my little Hilda. He has neglected and wronged her all these years, and at the end comes between us and happiness. If he is dead —and I know that he must be, from that infernal bell, which rasps every nerve—our marriage this week is out of the question. And he might leave her a little of his money, which would be another nuisance, in the circumstances. I want to work for Hilda, and where could man find a sweeter inspiration? Everythng is muddled into a frightful mess!" He went downstairs, and his landlady met him with a solemn face. "Sir John Carrington is dead, sir. The rector called to see you an hour ago, but I didn't like to di3turb you as you went to bed so late. Shall 1 I bring your breakfast now?" "Yes; a cup of cofltee only. I must go to the rectory; 1 am sorry that I overslept myseif. Any letters? Ah, thank you!" He hoped that the solitary letter was from Hilda, but it waß not. One swift glance revealed the embossed name of his father's firm on the flap. But the handwriting—could it be his father's? There was a strange flutter at his heart, and, hearing the landlady's footstep at the door, he thrust the envelope into his pocket unopened. The coffee was brought in, witb a plate of hot toast. "As I'd got the toast ready, I thought I might as well bring it in, Mr Linton. I'm sure you don t look well this morning!" She fidgeted

BY P. L. DACRE, Author of "A Loveless Marriage," "A Change of Heart," •'Trenholme's Trust," "A Case for the Court," Etc, etc.

round the table. "If I could tempt you with a new-laid egg " "No, thank you." "It must have been a shock to you to hear of Miss Carrington being sent for by Sir John! She'll be a great lady, after all, the rector says." "The rector ought not to gossip. Now. Mrs Gwyn, don't bother me—there's a good woman!" He drank his coffee standing. "Will you hand me my hat, if you please?" The landlady pursed up her lips, and frowned. "1 hate gossips," she answered virtuously, "and 1 sha'n't hear our rector called no such names, Mr Linton ! There's your hat, sir, and you'd better brush it yourself! You've been at Llanberis long enough for me to begin to take a motherly interest in you, and 1 hope to goodness things won't begin to go wrong ! You look awful worried, and no girl ain't worth it!" "Mrs Gwyti, you are talking arrant nonsense!" The landlady faced him defiantly. "No, I ain't! There's the young lady you were going to marry! Well, it was all right while she was what ! she was—not but what I thought it was a shame, and you such a nice young gentleman!—but now she isn't what she was, and has got all Sir John's money—a quarter of a million, the rector says. Everybody here knows what them Carringtons are, and I want to prepare, you for a disappointment—that's all." Victor laughed nervously* "I appreciate yo«j; motives, Mrs Gwyn. Ami we hftve been the best of friends for weeks; but, if the good understanding existing between us is to continue, don't you breathe a word of disparagement about Miss Carrington. even if she jilts me, as you are trying to insinuate that she will! I am not sure that I can honorably bind her to the bargain now that she is rich and lam poor. It is a most unfortunate interruption," he added as he put on his hat and to the dtor. At that very moment a telegraph messenger appeared and handed him a despatch. It ran.: "Better return to town at once. Your mother needs you. "HARRY MAYHEW." He squeezed it into a ball and stood irresolute. "No answer," to the messenger, who was waiting. "I may have to return to London, I Mrs Gwyn," he said, turning to his alndlady, "so do not make any preparations for dinner or anything else on my account." Then he walked off without another word, and Mr Gwyn locked after him compassionately. "He's preparing himself for what he knows will happen," she thought. "It was a pity that he ever set eyes on that vixenish girl!" "Your mother needs you—your mother v r»eedß you!" were the words that repeated themselves incessantly in Victor's mind. The telegram which had told him this was a vague, alarming one. What was thi matter with his mother? Less than twenty-four hours ago he had left her in perfect health. What a fool Mayhew was to wire such rubbish! He ground his teeth. "Yes; I had better telegraph to him for particulars; I can't leave Llanberis until I have seen Hilda. Is my cup of happiness to be dashed away?" He suddenly remembered his | father's letter; perhaps that would explain a little. He opened it with I quick, nevous fingers. Yes, it exI pteined a great deal, and he groaned as he read it.

"My Son: I could anathematise you for the disgrace and misery your selfish and insane conduct has brought upon our name. It is all through this mania of yours for scribbling stuff which nobody but fools will read in these days. I have been hoping for weeks that I might take you into my confidence at last, arid that together we should pull through and leave the name of Linton untarnished; but now the end is near, for I am alone in my trials, and my spirit is broken. My boy, why did you leaye me? I ought not tojblame you, perhaps; you had no knowledge of our insolvency —that we had been insolvent for many years, and that we have kept going upon the money of our clients. "The first false step was mine; and you were a child then. I was eager to make a fortune quickly, as most young and ambitious men are, and I listened to the glowing story of an expert in mining affairs. He knew of a tract of land which was for sale cheap. It was in Wales, not a hundred miles from the place where you are now staying. Beneath its surface was a mine ot wealth —a wide seam of anthracite coal. No me believed in it—no one indeed suspected it. The expert alone had discovered it while taking a rambling holiday. He and I were old friends, and he was the greatest mineralogist of his day; so I listened to him. Five thousand pounds, he said, Woild buy the land and sink two shafts. TO BE CONTINUED.