HELD IN BONDAGE.

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXXII, Issue 10494, 4 December 1911, Page 2

HELD IN BONDAGE.

OUR SERIAL.

BY L. F. DAORE

Author of "Sinibftd'a VaUiey," A -Phantom of the Bast," "The Shadow of Shame," "Sir John's- Heirless," "A Daughter of Mystery," etc.

CHAPTER I.

THE UNEXPECTED

The vicar's daughter was sitting alono in the hig pew to tho right of tho pulpit, and wondering when the interminable, sermon would come to an end. The preacher was a very young man, with sandy hair and pa.le blue eyes. He spoke "slowly and sadly; 'his very intoning produced a coid thrill, but what he was talking about Margaret Thornton had not the slightest idea. TJ»e young curate was doing duty for hei' father, who was taking a. sadly neev'H luilidilj a three months' holiday —and eight weeks of it were gone. > The garish, sunshine of an early spring morning was flashing through the great window behind the organ. It was a perfect oriel of stained glass, crowded with saints, whose gorgeous robes gleamed crimson, azure and gold too;. One moment a. flash of colour rested on Margaret's fair face, deepening the bronze in the strands of her shining'hair. She moved impatiently, almost fretfully, and encountered the smiling eyes of a dark, middle-aged mrfn who occupied one of the front pews in a line with her own. There was am answering flash, for she knew George Ashtoni, the great Birmingham engineer, very well. He visited the vicarage occasionally, and professed a great friendship for her father.

Tliero was a sudden stir in the chinch, and the organ" was throbbing melodiously. Thank goodness it was over and she would bo able to breathe the free air again. She mingled with a stream of people in the aisle, and later had to shake hands with half a score; and murmur inanities, while her heart was fiercely rebelling within her. ''ln a little while," she thought bitterlyj. days' will begin, and all the world of' Castle Clayford will be talking and wondering, and pitying me. Oh, how can I endure it?"

She walked through the church gate and into the sun-lighted lane with quick steps, bowing here and smiling there, uutil'-she was well in, advance of Everybody else. The birds Were chirping gaily in the trees, and the soft air was laden with the promise of spring. She could still hear the organ's deep refrain, and the murmur of many voices. Then a, man's firm step came behind her, and her name was spoken. ' 'Miss Thornton. What a, .hurry you are in!" She (half turned and George Aston took her cold right hand in his own warm, grip, "It's so late,'' she said. '.'l thought that the sermon would never come to an end." He was gazing at her quizzically, his sombre, dark eyes alight with a | sudden fire. I "What is the trouble, Miss Thornton ?" "Trouble?" Her lips quivered. J J That's the word." "It's about my father nothing that matters. /Don't ask me any quesI tions. Good morning, Mr Aston." But he continued to walk beside her, flicking the daisied bank under the hedge with his cane, until they came to the vicarage gate. "May I come in?" he asked. "Your I old - fashioned 'midday dinners are rather tempting, and I haven't paid my respects to your worthy aunt for weeks."

"I would rather you {lid not* Mr Aston. 1 m not in the mood to .entertain anyone.

And suppose I-insist? Suppose I "ff-V. you on ihe score of old friendship'? Ho laughed| .and hh .stroiif voice was vibrant. "Don't ory, little girl, he quickly added, m a tone of sympathy. "I was coming to see vou anyway because the vicar has written to me.

She gasped a little, for hi s words were pregnant with meaning. Then she felt his nervous grap upon her should-

Come, be hospitable, and after dinner you shall tell me all about it IJruigs may not be so black, &fte-

Sudden tears sprang into Margaret's ©yes, but she winked them away and resolutely squared her shoulders'. . xou, are very kind, Mi- Aston," she said impulsively. "It-is! really'iiics to have a friend. Poor aunt is boo oil I have only Emma Jones, our- holiso. keeper, in M -hom I can confide. In tesd, I thought it all over in church w"3 morilVrig, find my plans ai'O

"That's I'IgMMiMU Bgnt. You aro brave eumi&'h ,f«r &nythin" and kq'H 'have a, good tftng. talk about itHave you spoi&n yet to your aunt, or to the housekeeper?" "_N<i; 1 thought it better to wait until I had decided what was to l>eCtftot) of mo."

She-looked up at Mm so plaintively, >s6 pitifully, that the stern man's face softened, and the deep lines about his mouth resolved themselves into a smile. His strong voice trembled, and Margaret knew that he was stirred by some powerful inward feeling. The gentleness and sincerity of' the | man were a revelation to her, and she accepted his offer to help with a sigh of real thankfulness.

While she ran upstairs'to take off her outdoor things, George Aston went into the parlour. It was a comfortable and spacious 'apartment. If the furniture was antiquated, it was good and solid. There was a grand piano, choice engravings, interesting photographs, and a wealth oi ; books, ornaments, and knickknacks.

Aston paced the carpet, his fingers locked together behind his back, his 'heavy 'brows drawn down, in a straight line. But he was smiling to himself.

and a steady light was s'liining m his eyes. He paused in front of a photograph of Margaret Thornton. It was standing on a corner of the mantel, in. a light silver frame. He gazed it for a. dozen seconds, then caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror, a dawning fear in his heart. How old lie looked beside the girl J And yet there was no trace of gray —his hair, and his smooth-shaven face was as smooth as any boy's. Presently Margaret ran downstairs, and into the room—tall, slim, browneyed, and browilrhaired, her face flushed and eager. lii an instant the picture filled Aston's ment-ai - visim, ?hd he felt that here was the key to ilea veil or hell . '

"Dinner's ready, Mr Aston, and you ! mustn't mind the (housekeeper's grum-' 1 bles and growls if you should overhear them. Emma Jones is a privileged person and she 'hates to have her arrangements upset." "Am I the discordant element?" "Oh, she is just furious about the little extra work. She has invited a cousin to 'have tea with iher this afternoons 'and doesn't want to be disturbed. But I have assured her that you won't stay very long after dinner." "Only long enough* to liave a quiet talk .with you, Miss Thornton. 1 ' i . "I know," sluTihalf sobbed. "Oh, here comes auntie." ! Siie txirned impulsively toward an old lady who was coming into the room, and kissed her on both cheeks. The old 'lady's hair .lay upon a smgu- ) larly placid brow in broad white bands. Her eyes were mild and kind, her voice soft, low and tremulous. "It is kind of you to call, Mr As- , ton. It is so quiet while my brother is away. Ido hope Switzerland will benefit his health." Aston glanced at Margaret with a grim smile, while he took the older woman's nerveless fingers between his own- '.'..;■ "I. hare had a letter from your brother, Mrs Benson, and he seems to be enjoying himself-to. the top of his bemt —in fact, almost running wild," he said. "I invited myselfJhere to tejK you and Miss Thornton of his escapades." The vicar's sister smiled feebly. ''How nice of you. Why, my dear," turning to Margaret, "we haven't had a word from your father for two full weeks. When Septimus was a boy he was wonderfully high-spirited, and always in some scrape. Be he is so silly to be doing such things how." There was a fleeting vision of the 'grim-faced housekeeper in. the hall, ■ and a snappy voice asked if they were going to let the dinner get cold. "Not another word till we are at least half through with the dinner," said George Aston, with an attempt at playfulness. "I was unable to eat any,breakfast tins morning and am as hungry as a ploughman. Pray be hospitable, Mrs Benson." He wondered if the placidity of the vicar's sister would bo,disturbed when he had told his story. It would be better for him to take the lead and thus relieve Margaret of a painful duty. He saw .gratitude and confidence shining in lier eyes; he saty the brave effort she was making to still the quivering lips. One moment her face would flame, with indignation horror, the next with a pale, heart-gnawing fear. Aston deftly cawed an attenuated joint of rib roast,, kvhih? Margaret [handed round some Brussels sprouts [ and potatoes.. Tben the primitive lit— I tie dinner I>egan. .and the man ate with | the speed and relish of a farm boy. "I hardly know how to begin the story, Mrs Benson," he said at last. [ "As long as Septimus has come to no harm If ear nothing." She looked .at him anxiously. "You say that he is enjoying himself?" . "Immensely. ,! ' "Then there can be nothing wrong." She smiled gently. V "But it is the manner of his enjoyment, Mrs Benson. He writes to tell me that he is in love with-somebody—-a man of sixty-five! He begs of me to break it to you gently— to make peace if I can. Hang it, I can't humbug about like this; it isn't my way of doing things. My dear lady, your old fool of a brother is married. I beg your pardon, Miss Thornton, but I am positive that your illllQSs,^ (S jjg. «ii*'b«4-!lis mental balance." Margaret was facing him with fierce, resolute eyes. "Goon!" she said. "Don't spare ' anybody. Tell the whole truth. Auntie, dear, if you do care at all, do show it. Don't you realise what it means ? My father has married a girl—as i young as I am, and such a girl. 1" i Her voice shook with contempt; her face whitened; and George Aston nod-

ded. "Itisadreadfiil thing,'' he said. "A gigantic: calamity! but you have got to face it out." "We can Uiardlymake two ends meet as it is, and .shouldn't bo able to go on at all, if it wore not for my aunt's an- ! nuity. Deduct a hundred a year from I the income and the whole thing goes (Hop!" Margaret was getting hysterical. "Of course I can't stay here 1 another day. T wouldn't even if the new wife were decent, and there was money to support me. No girl shall ever crow over me here! I would sooner go out as a general servant, or work lin a factory. I'm good for nothing l eLse."