PRIMROSE DELORAINE

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10275, 30 June 1911, Page 2

PRIMROSE DELORAINE

By MAISIE PENDKNNIS, Author of "Sir Reginald', Whim" "The Forgotten Heir," "Rival AU Beauties, etc.

OUR SERIAL.

THE MISER'S DAUGHTER.

' CHAPTER I.—Continued. ( "How long you have been," he ] moaned feebly. "I thought— And then he suddenly caught sight ot the tall figure that followed Primrose. "Who is that?" he asked, in a firmer

voice. Captain Jack came forward. "I'm afraid I'm a stranger to you, sir," he said; "but I hope I may be able to do something for you. I met your daughter outside, and as she appeared to be in trouble, I offered to come and see if there was anything that I could do. I hope you will let me help you if I can. One doesa't wait for an introduction in the bush." The dying man put up his hand. "That will do," he'said. "It's all i right. I like your face; I like you. Sit down in that chair and talk to me." j So Captain Jack sat down, and, for a time; they talked; and he was able to do one or two little things to add to the comfort of the dying man, though he knew that he could do nothing to prolong his life.. The man was very grateful, and when at last ho rose to go he put out a feeble hand to detain him. "Don't go yet," he said. "There's something else. Call Primrose. There is something I must tell her before I die, and I would like you to hear it, too, because I like your face and I like you." So Captain Jack went round the partition that ran down the centre of the hut, and there, on the other side, he saw Primrose, busy with some tempting dish for the invalid; and as he saw her his gray eye's gleamed with a light that was new to them. "Venus among the frying pans!" he said, in his low, lazy voice, and then he abruptly paused. "Forgive me," he added. "I'm afraid one's manners go rather to the wall out here, but I don't mean to be anything but what I ought to be. Will you come to your father nowP He has something that he wants to say." • Primrose turned to him, and she looked so pretty that he was tempted to wish that she was only an ordinary camp girl, instead of what he instinctively felt her to be—a high-bred English gentlewoman. If she had been an ordinary camp girl, he thought to himself, he would have kissed her; but under the circumstances he could .not. He sighed a little as he followed her to the other part of the hut. The sick man was sitting up in bed, and he looked anxiously at the two as they entered. . "I have something to say to you, Primrose," he said, "and I want to •< j say it before a witness, and this gentleman is kind enought to promise he Will be a witness." Pausing, he drew a, long breath. "I am going to tell you a secret, Primrose," he went on, s"a &ecre,t that I have kept for twenty long- years." Then he paused again. "I am going," he added, "to tell you who I am and who you are, and why we sre out here."

CHAPTER JI. THE MISER'S SECRET. For a moment there was a silence in the little, hut, and then the sick! man spoke again. > |"lv married," he said, : "when I was Mly a boy, and I married beneath me, as; the saying goes. Not your •mother was really beneath me; she wjis far too good for me; but we did not belong to the same world. She was a gamekeeper's daughter and I jhw|s an earl'.s son, and that was a dif-. felrenoe that it was hard to overlook. A| a matter of fact my. people would Jnot'be reconciled, and from the day of *my marriage they disowned me and sent me adrift. I had nothing but the younger sonVsmall portion, and I wits never taught to work, as my people meant me to marry money. I came out here to try my hick, and at first my luck was rough enough; but after a time I succeeded far beyond my wildest hopes. ; ''One day I struck gold, and it was a Big thing. Before long I was the richest man in the camp. After that all was smooth sailing, as far as money was concerned; and my only regret was that your mother couldn't share my. good fortune. , Alas I worry and .trouble, and the hard life out here had been top much for her, and she had been taken from me when you were a child, leaving me alone in the world with you." ". He stopped for the third time and sighed. "Her death," he said, "took all the heart out of me. After that I seemed -to care for nothing, and when I became a rich man, instead of going home to England to enjoy my wealth, I remained here to be near the place where my wife was buried. My people think I am dead, if they ever

think about me at all, and I shall not trouble them. There is a man in Eng> land who was my best friend in the l old days. We were at Eton together and we kept up our friendship until I came here. I haven't seen him for I twenty five years; and I have not I written to him for twenty years; but 1 I know that he is still alive, and\ I have an idea that he will no have forgotten his old friend. "So, Primrose, I am going to leave you as a legacy to him. I have made him your guardian, and I hope that he will be a good and faithful one, and will take good care of you and of the money I have hoarded for you. I wrote to him some weeks ago when I found that I couldn't live long, and told him that in the event of my death you would at once leave hero and go to England to him. I also \ wrote a letter to you which you can j open when I am dead. It tells you all that you need to know, and all that you must do." He fell back on the pillows and closed his eyes, and again there was

silence. Primrose was crying quietly; she could not speak. After a pause Captain Jack spoke. "I think, sir," he said hoarsely, and his face looked strangely white, "I have heard a story very much like youre before. Would you—will you—do you mind telling me your name?" The sick man opened his eyes again. "I am known out here," he said, very feebly and with an evident effort, "as the Miner of Red Tree Camp; and my daughter is known as Primrose, of Red Tree Camp; but, really, I am the Honourable Hugo Deloraine, and she is Primrose Deloraine." He fell back once more with a gashing sigh. Captain Jack's face had become whiter still, and there was a curious light in his eyes; but Primrose did not ' look at him as she flew to her father's ; side. ' "He has fainted!" she cried. "He has fainted. What can we do for ihim?"

I Captain Jack's eyes softened pityingly as he moved to her side, for he knew that her father was dead. He still looked white, and the curious light still gleamed in his eyes when he left the hut half an hour later. Primrose went with him to the door, and her hands trembled as she held them out to him in farewel.. "I wish I could thank yon." she said. "But I can't. Y«u have been so good to me." - j Captain Jack took her outstretched hands in hi? as he answered her. "I don't want thanks," he said gently. "I want you to remember me," that's all. We may meet again some day. I flare say we shall; but lam a queer sort of chap, and I don't often know what I am going to do until I do it. I generally., follow the fancy of the moment. The fancy of the moment may lead me across your path again, or it may not." - He looked down at her, and his eyes softened suddenly. "I think it will," he added in a lower tone. "I hope—yes, I hope it will." Then he dropped her hands and swung himself into the saddle and patted the grey mare's shoulder. "Good-bye," he said.

A moment later and she was alone; and, with drooping head and teardimmed eyes, and weary, lagging step 3, she turned and went back to the loneliness of the hut. Captaii .lack rode slowly away, and his face looked grave and thoughtful in the bright moonlight. \' . It had been such a pathetic little scene, and it touched him as he recallr ed it. The thought of Primrose touched him too. She had looked so lonely" and sad and desolate when they said good-bye, sc girlish and helpless, and it grieved him to think of her like that—to think of her alone there with nobody to help her. He wanted to go back and take her in his arms and kiss her tears away, and pillow her head upon" his shoulder, and comfort her; but he could not. It was impossible. Yes. it was impossible. The very thought was madness. As he arrived at this conclusion he drew rein and stood still, looking back at the lonely little hut on the wooded rise. And 'as he looked his eyes grew dark, and he begnn to talk to himself, after lus usual habbit. "It's a queer thing,'? he said,.-'<that she should turn out' to be so pretty, after all; and it's queerer still that I—that I—after all these years— that I~—" He frowned impatiently. "1 wonder,'' he went on, "if I shall ever come across her again. It won't be my fault if 1 don't, but one never knows. Life is a tricky thing at the best, and squalls come .along when you least expect them." (To be Continued).