The Storyteller.

Waikato Argus, Volume VI, Issue 382, 14 January 1899, Page 1 (Supplement)

The Storyteller.

SOMEONE ELSE,

(BY BLANCHE ATKINSON.)

CHAPTER I. « But, Uncle Robert, it is a most extraordinary proposal ! Why in the world should you want me to marry anybody—just yet 1I am only twenty-two—just the nicest time of a girl's life, if she is free. 1 don't mean to enter into captivity for half a dozen years yet. It is far nicer living with you, and your old friends are ever so much more interesting than most of the boys one meets.' The man who was sitting opposite to ber, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair, and shading his face with his hand, looking at her quickly. 'lt is one of my old friends whom I thought of, KatePeter Grigson.' The girl laughed gently. " Dear old Peter ! I love him very much I have loved him ever since he gave me a Bilver watch on my fourteenth birthday. And he is immensely good to me. But I don't think his benevolence would go so far as to make him offer to marry me. Besides, Uncle Robert, what has made you suddenly want to get rid of mo ¥

Kate Freeman had lived with her bachelor uncle in his fine house in Harley Street for ten years, and was sincerely attached to him. He had always been kind and indulgent, and had managed her little fortune entirely—paying for her education out of it, and investing the rest as he thought well. Since she left school she had been head of the house. For two or three years, her old governess, Miss Downton, lived with her; but latterly she had been alone, and liked it better. There was no great amount of confidence, or perhaps deep affection, between uncle and niece. Robert Freeman was very much engrossed in business, and so long as Kate was well and happy, and had all she wanted. ha did not seek to establish closer relations than already existed. Never until this evening had he spoken of her possible marriage. It surprised Kate ; and when she began to study his countenence, its expression of utter misery more than surprised her. He was often anxious and preoccupied, and sometimes said that business worried him if Kate asked the reason for any unusual pre-occupation; but this evening there was a ghastly pallor about his lips and a glassy dullness in his eyes which startled her.

When he did not answer her halfjoking question, but turned his head away, sighing wearily, Kate was thoroughly alarmed. 1 Undo, is anything the matter 1 Are you ill V Bhe said, putting aside the book she had been reading, and waiting with a strange flutter at her heart for his answer.

'Yes, there is something the matter, and I hardly know how to tell you. I have done it for the best, but lately everything has gone wrong—and I am ruined.'

He blurted out the last words in an abrupt, almost eager tone, as if the sooner the thing was known the better, and let his hands fall helplessly. Kate felt as if she had taken a plunge into cold water. 'Oh !' Bhe exclaimed, 'it takes one's breath away ? Do you mean that it has all gone I —that our nice house, and carriage and servants, and having everything we want, will melt away like a dream : is that what it means ?' He nodded his head.

' Well, it won't be nice—of course it won't be nice. But never mind. There's sure to be a good side to it. And then, there's my money—' She stopped abruptly, for the man's white face flushed suddenly as he said, without; looking at her—- ' No. That's gone, too. And the law is very strict about trustees. If you like, I can be punished—imprisoned '— It was her turn to interrupt. ' Uncle- Robert! How can you ? I know you have always done the very best with my money. I have had everything I wanted out of it, while you have had all the trouble. Don't think about that. We shall share and share alike. I suppose, There will be something left to begin life with ' — ' Hardly anything,' he broke in. ' And that is why I want you to think over what Peter Grigson said about marrying, my dear, I should be so much happier about you if I thought you were provided for. I —I have a little plan for myself, but it does not include you.' 'Does Mr Grigson know about this? she asked, and a look of vexation came into her face, taking the place of the sympathy which had been shown a moment before.

yes, he knows. And it was his own proposal when I spoke about you—when I said you were my chrrf anxiety—' ' That will do, Uncle Robert !' the girl said, with pome vehemence. •I don't want to hear anything MOre about that. I am not going to be married —out of pity ! I can take care of myself. There are hundreds of things girls can do in these days. You need not be unhappy about rne.' There was silence for a few minutes. Kate looked round the pretty, cheerful room, and tried to

think what life would be without all the things she had grown up among. She smoothed down the lace trimming on her light evening dree 3, and supposed that she would not be able to go to Madame Elise any more for her gowns. • When will it begin, uncle ¥ she said at last. 'lt has begun—that is, all the world will know to-morrow. You are determined, my dear V ' Quite, quite,' she said, impatiently, the hot tears springing to her eyes. ' And I am not a bit afraid of being poor. Lots of people are poor, and seem as jolly as possible.' She got up and went across to the weary-looking man, and put her arm about his neck. Her dress rustled as she moved, and there was perfume about her ribbons and laces.

'To-morrow you will tell me more, won't you ¥ she said, stooping to kiss his brow. ' I will go to bed now, and try to think what I can do best of all the many, many things I know I can do to make a living. And to-morrow you will be able to face it better, and tell we what your plan is.' ' Yes, yes. Tomorrow I shall face it better. Go to bed now,' he answered, putting up his hand to pat hers affectionately. ' God bless you, my dear ! Don't think too hardly of me.' She kissed him again, with some gentle words of endearment, and went away. The next morning Robert Freeman was found dead in his room—an empty laudanum bottle at his side. CHAPTER 11. Peter Grigson had been born with that best of all inheritances—a good heart. No one had ever suspected him of baseness, selfishness or gross-mindedness. It seemed as if he could not have a cruel instinct or low thought. Fortune had bestowed upon him abundant wealth without the trouble of working for it, but even this temptation he had met successfully. His money had been nothing but a blessing. He had been an excellent son, a kind brother, a devoted friend, a worthy citizen. His name was on all the charity lists, and ho was seen at all the philanthropic meetings. And as it is indeed more blessed to give than to receive, Peter's life of royal giving had brought him happiness and quiet content—until now. Only now, at the age of fifty, did he begin to know what it was to want something passionately for himself and not be able to get it. He had always been so entirely occupied in helping other people to get what they wanted, that he had not thought of himself ; and somehow it seemed quite natural to everybody that he should have remained a bachelor—quite impossible that he should even wish to have a wife of his own—sometbing he could not give away again. Besides, he was a shy and constitutionally modest man. He did not know that he was good as gold, and generous as a prince. He thought other people were very kind to be friendly enough to consult him in their troubles, and to allow him to help them over stiles when they fell lame. But that any woman should love him—this he could not have conceived possible. Yet now, for the first time in his life, he wanted something all for himself, and craved with sore longing for what he knew was imposible. He wanted Kate Freeman for his wife. He wanted her to love him as women love their husbands. He had begun to love her ten years ago, when she came to her uncle's house—a tall, slim child, frank and friendly, and easily won to be affectionate in return for pretty gifts and kind words. He had watched the child grow into the maiden—less demonstrative, but still always openly fond of jher old friend—and then into the woman—beautiful, gracious, independent rejecting many suitors, and making the home of her bachelor uncle a sacred shrine to the silent lover who dared not utter a word of his passion. He said to himself that it was madness. Kate must wed someone fit to mate the queen . He kept strong check upon himself, and never betrayed by look or deed that she was more to him than a favourite among many young friends. Then came the disclosure regarding the Io3S of Kate's fortune, and it seemed to him that he might speak. To spare Kate from loss—perhaps from serious poverty—marriage even to him might be tolerated.

Robert Freeman had caught at the idea, but he had not time to tell his friend of the girl's answer. Peter Grigson was left executor for his friend, and made all necessary arrangements for the first time since Robert's death alone with Kate. Miss Downton, her old governess, had been with her; but Kate wanted to talk to Mr Grigson alone, and had begged him to explain to her exactly how matters stood. It was a miserable story, and Peter flinched many a time as he went through it. If Kate's face flushed, if her lips twitched, he saw it, and hesitated. ' Go on,' she had said, more than once, ' I must know everything. I had better hear it from you than from anyone elso.' It wa3 a shameful story, Robert Freeman had been speculating with

other money entrusted to him besides Kate's. Everything was lost, and death only saved him from the punishment to which he was entitled. Disgrace rested upon his name. Peter Grigson made it as little shameful as he could ; but he saw that the proud girl bent her head to hide the scalding tears, and he noted the impatient twisting of her handkerchief by the white hands, which rested on her black mourning dress, though she did not interrupt him. When he ceased speaking, Kate stood up. ' Thank you ; 1 think I understand everything. I have nothing now but a disgraced name and' my own energies to look to. I hardly realise it yet, but'— The man's face flushed as he interrupted her. ' Kate, you must not say you have nothing. You have friends who- who—care very much. We will always help you. We—l—think no less of you than before this happened. You must believe me, my dear !' How he longed for the gift of speech at that moment ! The very intensity of his feeling checked his tongue. How could he expect this young, beautiful girl—more lovely than ever to him in her sorrow and helplessness —tc give herself to him 1 How could he ask such a favour 1 It flashed upon him that it looked like taking advantage of her necessity, and the thought made him hesitate still more. ' Did your uncle tell you of the—the suggestion I made to him—about you, the day of his death 1 He was quite willing to agree to it. Ho did not think the discrepancy in our age too great.' Even as he spoke he felt that he was not putting it in the right way. Kate stood before him, looking at him gravely, with her sweet eyes fixed upon his with a look of inquiry which distracted him. Ho took one of her hands in his, and held it. 'My dear, I cannot say all I mean. But I will do my best to make you happy, if you will be my wife.' Then, to his amazement, Kate snatched her hand away, with a little bitter laugh.

1 You do indeed think I am fallen low !' she said. *l3 there nothing left for me but to sell myself for a home 1 I did not think you could have expected me to do such a thing. ' No—no ! Don't say anything more. I cannot bear it. Please go ! You shall hear what I decide to do. I am young and strong, and I can earn my living in many ways. To-morrow I will go to Miss Downton's house. She takes boarders, you know, and it is very respectable. You can come and see me there.'

He was obliged to leave her, and he could say nothing except —' Remember that 1 want to help you. Let me help you, if I can.' ' Yes,' she answered; and he went away. And then Kate Freeman sat down and buried her face in the cushion of the chair, and sobbed as if her heart was broken.

No ; it was plain he did not love her. Not a word of love ! It was only his kindness, his pity for all helpless creatures, that prompted him to offer to marry her. Anything was better than to accept such a sacifice !

Soon pride and courage reasserted themselves. Kate carried out her intention of going to board with Mrs Downtom and set out to try to earn a living. She found that her pretty accomplishments and little gifts and graces bad no market in the workaday world, and was quickly brought face to face with the fact that poverty is an ugly thing to contend with. But she refused the only offer she had—through Peter Grigson's sister—to be companion to an old lady, and by doing so grievously offended Miss Caroline Grigson and a large circle of acquaintances, who decided that Kate Freeman was a great deal too proud and independent tor a girl in her position, and that the sooner she was brought down a little, the better. CHAPTER 111. One spring afternoon, twelve months later, Peter Grigson was hurrying along the Whitechapel Road to attend a philanthropic meeting in the West End, when he discovered that he had come out without a handkerchief in his pocket. He looked about for a shop where the want could be supplied, and turned in. It was a large, low shop, running a long way back, and, as the day was dull and sultry, the gas was lighted, and the air was a mingled compound of unpleasant smells and germs. He asked for pocket-handkerchiefs, and was conducted the whole length of the shop to the right department. As he advanced he caught a glimpse of a figure moving behind a counter in the distance, a figuro which brought a swift pang to his heart. In some odd way it reminded him of Kate Freeman. The thought of her was never very far away indeed, and lie often found himself looking eagerly at faces in streets or shops to discover some resemblance to her. For six months neither he nor Miss Downton had heard a word from her. She had been at Brixton for four months, and had written once afterwards, saying that she was still unsuccessful in her search for work, and was leaving her lodging, as they were too expensive; and then no further news came.

Peter Grigson had been to the lastaddress she gave, but could learn nothing ; and though every clay he hoped to received tidings from Miss Dovvnton, so far Kate was lost to him, and his anxiety deepened day by day. ' Take a seat, sir,' said the shopwalker, with extra obsequiousness, for customers in silk hats and frock coats are rare in Whitechapel Road. Mr Grigson did not sit down. How could he, while those pale, weary-looking girls were standing behind the counter 1 They were all busy. ' A pocket-handkerchief, sir 1 Yes, sir. Forward, Miss Freeman. Gentlemen's pockethandkerchief.'

Peter Grigson stood at his side of the counter speechless. Was it Kate—or her ghost—this languid, spiritless, pallid, heavy-eyed girl, who lifted down a box from a high shelf, placed it on the counter, and, turning over the handkerchiefs, said in a dull, monotonous voice, ' This is a shilling—'this one sixpence. Or do you wish for something better?' She raised her eyes. The handkerchief dropped ; a crimson flood dyed her face for an instant, and then left it whiter than before. He stretched his hands across the counter and caught hers. 'My dear Kate ! My dear child ! have you been ill ? Why didn't you let me know, and Miss Downton 1 We have been so anxious.' She made a determined effort to control herself, and smiled bravely, gently withdrawing her hands from his eager clasp. ' I won't run away—and no, I've not been ill, except as we all are in this place. It isn't exactly a healthy life, you know, But the comfort is, it won't last long. ... Oh don't

look so distressed. Everyone is watching us. Which handkerchief will you have ¥ * You must come out —come away from this hole at once, Kate. I want to know all about you. What have you been doing 1 Why didn't you write ¥ ' It was no use writing until I had something better to say.' 1 Come with me,' he repeated. ' I'll go and speak to the manager.' ' NO; no ! I shall be out at eight o'clock this evening ' — ' Not until eight 1 Nonsense, my clear child ! You can't stand this atmosphere until eight o'clock —four hours longer ¥ 'We must. It isn't good for the complextion, I grant. That's why you thought I had been ill. But I'm no worse than the others. And about this handkerchief please, which will you have ¥ Whichever you like. It's brutality—sheer brutality.—to keep girls standing in such an atmosphere for hours ! Talk about cruelty to children vivisection Armenian atrocities—this is worse ! . . .

I shall be at tho door at eight o'clock this evening, Kate. You will promise to be there 1 Four hours more, and I am stifled now ¥

' Eels get used to skinnings, you know ¥ she said, struggling- to speak cheerfully. 'Oh that heaven would open for her at eight o'clock. Peter Grigson went on to his committee—where he was late, and at which for the first time in his life he neglected the business in hand, so that his colleagues wondered whether ' poor old Grigson " was beginning to break up. {To be continued.)