"Pretty Penelope,"

Wairarapa Age, Volume XXV, Issue 10713, 14 July 1913, Page 2

"Pretty Penelope,"

(OUR SERIAL

By Effie Adelaide Rowlands, Author o; <A Girl's Kingdom," "A Splendid Man," "The Interloper," "A Kinsman's Sin," "Brave Barbara,' eto.

CHAPTER X.—Continued. One day, as Mrs Desborough was sitting in her chair by the fire, exhausted by the toil of leaving her bed for an hour or so, she fixed her eyes on Penelope. "I wish you would go out today, my darling," she said. "Why not have another ride? It will do you good, you know; you are not nearly so fine a baby as you used to be!"' "I shall go and sit in the garden this afternoon for a little while, raumsey. I don't care to ride, and Daphne is away. How I wish you could come down into the sun! Do you know, it is hotter now in November than it was in a July. We are having an Indian summer, mumsey." Penelope spoke in liter brightest fashion and turned the conversation; but as she rose to give her moth or something she asked for, Mrs Desborough glanced at her quickly. "Have you liurt yourself, Pen, dear? You are a little lame, I think?" she asked anxiously. "I have got an awful corn," the girl answered quickly, "and it reminds me of itg existence every now [ and then." "A corn,ppe r dear! and your feet were so lovely, not a blemish on them. You wear suoh tight shoes, my darling; and don't stand too much to-day; you look as if you were in pain." "I am all right, my'dearest," Pen said earnestly, and then she opened, the book she held and began reading aloud. By and by, when the heavy eyelids had closed and Mrs Desborough lay back in her chair asleep, the girl rose and limped to the window. She was terribly, miserably unhappy in these sad days, oppressed with a. feeling of utter loneliness ii addition to her other trouble. She had no one to whom she could turn Lucie and her were many thousand miles "away; Penelope di< not even know now -where a letter would reach the travellers; and some, times, now at this moment, the ■thought, the horrible fear, came .upon her that she ought to write and .sum mon Lucie home as fast as she ocai' come if she wished to see hei* "mother once again. Lucie away, Madame Latimar dead, Denis lost forever, her few intimate friends in Stevenstone absent from their homes. Although she saw her mother fading actually before her eyes, Penelope would not let hope die,. out of j .her heart; and so it was she-shut herself apart from the overtures of t many who, not understanding the ex quisite .sensitiveness of her love, were a little hurt that she would have none of them or tHeir sympathy. And yet, out of all this sorrow am" increasing anxiety Penelope had been given ><com fort in another form. It had bfeen impossible former to sit and think over the cruel blunder she had made, over the mistake wrought in Denis Latimar's life as well as her own. Sometimes, at odd times ih the long night hours, when she ,sat in her mother's room, ready to, obey the slightest movement or whisper, there would come _to her one flash of pleasure, a ray "of golden light that warmed and thrilled her with itg glory and power. It was the remembrance that Denis no longer held her in contempt and dislike—that he knew her to be what she really was. If she had had time and freedom in which t« think over everything thoroughly, it is most certain Penelope i must have suffered many qualms over the folly to which her girlish intolerance and almost quixotic pride had driven her. News of preparation for the wedding reached her now and then. Mrs Rochdale wag possessed of one mania, she might have been called a professed letter writer. No matter what claims she had upon her time, she would always dispatch at least a dozen letters every morning of her life. She always began by saying she had not a moment to spare, and ended b\ filling four pages with a ceaseless flow of news dealing with herself and her belongings. From her aunt, therefore, Penelope learned nearly all there was to letni about Marcia's- trousseau, her presents; she was given little bits of news about Denis, who was still up north, shooting. An invitation, coldly worded, had been sent from Marcia to her cousin, asking for her services as bridesmaid on that auspiciotis occasion ; but Penelope had declined by return of post, giving her mother's health as her excuse. She felt that this decision would be not at all unwelcome to Marcia, although she was far from imagining the dislike and jealousy with which Marcia regarded her. She knew that ' there Was very little love entertain- '■ ed for her by the bride-elect., and for ; this reason, if for" no other, she would i have refused the invitation. j The other reason wag one so potent | that she shivered as she realised what | she would have ti> endure in such an J kour. j To have had to assist at Denis Latimar's wedding was something not even Penelope's phenomenal courjgo j could have supported well. , | She wrote very seldom up to the big house at Rutland Gate. She war always chilled and hurt by the selfish indifference shown by Mrs Rochdale to the state of her sister's health. As a matter of fact, Mrs Rochdale . wa? inclined to regard Mrs Desboro'- in the light of a hypochondriac, ! d very little sympathy with the' mi..-- love and care both Lucie and .a had bestowed on their mother.

As for Marcia, she never thought of her aunt now; except with a. sort of sullen anger. She had not forgotten or forgiven 'Mrs Desborough i-or the way in which she had received the news of her engagement.

If she gave a thought to the sick woman, or realised the gravity of her condition a s conveyed in Penelope's few brief letters, it was to frown sharply with annoyance. "I trust most certainly Aunt Marian will not take it into her head t:> die this side of Christmas —it would be so awkward," she said now and then to her mother. Mrs Rochdale reassured her. "Oh! she will not die for another twenty years—creaking doors hang lpngest, and she is surrounded wit!. such care that she may last goodness knows how long. Besides," and hen Mrs Rochdale had the grace to colour a little with confusion at her own words, "even if—if the worst should happen, need that make 'any difference?—l mean so few people know, and—" "To me," Marcia had said coldly, and not in the least shocked by her mother's suggestion, "it would not make the slightest difference. I have heard so often and so long that Aunt Marian i 3 going to die that really 1 |am fully prepared for the event which, as you say, would interest very few people outside ourselves. In this case, however, you must remember Denis. I expect he would regard the matter in a very different light to us. He has a sort of curious infatuation for Aunt Marian which, I confess, is not easily acoounted for by me, but" —'and Marcia had shrugged her shoulders —"I can only hope she will be considerate enough as to defer dying until after we are married I" CHAPTER XI. November drew to a close. It had been a month of extraordinary fine weather, the sun had shone every day, and the warmth had been at noontide strong and almost summerlike. The bright sunshine .seemed to shed a little of its glory into the wasted frame of the invalid. "If only the sun would list!" Penrlope said to herself. How she had_wished at this tinu that Denis had carried out his plan, and that her mother-had been taken south from the cold weather anc! winds. Mentone would perhaps hav been the salvation, of the poor, deli cate creature. Penelope yearn et 1 even now to waft her mother south ward, but Doctor Westall arwayr shook his head. "We must wait for another year," he said, knowing well in his. heart, however, fthat gentle Marian Desborough would never see another winj ter. ; (To r>e Or.timed.).