Denbighshire Free Press

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] A GOLDEN THREAD. BY HAROLD SPENDER Author of One Man R-eturiis," &c. CHAPTER XIX. The passing of Jack Carter caused very little SLir among the party at the Manor Hous? His sister Elaine accepted with a timid ¡'ut resigned surprise the story retailed by Agatha Bourne of business affairs in his father's factory at Leeds. Mrs. Derwent was secretly relieved. As for Stephen Dcrwent, it was enough for him that Jack Carter had had the decency to clear out. The next day was Sunday, and it opened with a clean bath of radiant sunshine. As the party slowly gathered at breakfast their spirits seemed to go up with the dance of the sun rays. Agatha Bourno was a little difficult to feed. Her taste that morning seemed extremely z_1 fastidious. Oh, I think I'll have a teeny weeny sar- dine. The very smallest there is in the tin, please." So the tin was raked out, and every occupy- ing fish removed from its position, until, at last, Stephen arrived at an almost invisible minnow which r-eemed to suit her.fancy. At all these proceedings Elaine Carter looked a little bored; but Mrs. Derwent seemed, for some reason or other, highly satisfied. Having consumed this morsel, Agatha Bourne leant back in her chair and sighed deeply. I'm feeling rather low tirs morn- ing," she said. "I think I'll go to church." Mrs. Derwent looked up. "But you can't go alone, my dear," she said. At this point Elaine Carter looked up with nn eager expression on her timid, pale face. "011, I should like to go very much," she said, and n close observer might have noticed a sudden droop in Agatha Bourne's under-lip. I think it will be too much for you, Elaine," said Mrs. Derwent, in her even tones. For my part, I don't see why the men shouldn't sometimes go to church. What do you say, Stephen? Oll, I'll go, if Miss Bourne will tales me," said Stephen, quickly; and a sweet smile took the place of the slight touch of hardness which had 'been disfiguring Agatha's gentle countenance. She managed to be a little late, and they found themselves overtaken by many of the folk from the town trooping along the field- path toO their favourite place of worship. There were some nudges and smiles among J the people as they passed the handsome pair; and as Stephen looked up and down the nalli, ) he realised for the first time-.co simple are 1 men—the full import of this proceeding. Dtit in him, too, the heart wns rebellious and I defiant, and he faced the looks of men and women with head erset. I cannot truthfully record that Stephen I Derwent attended very faithfully to that morning service. His thought.3 wandered into a day-dream, and for the first time there stood out from all other impressions the vivid reality of the life-choice that faced him. He was (standing there conspicuously associated with this girl, and he linew well that the gossipy world along the coast v. ould already have heard the iNedcli-,ig-bells. There came before him once more *'ie face of Mary Beltcn, as he saw it that d: 7 three years ago on the cliffs-the bright, lustful eyes, the flushed cheek, and the golden hair lightly fanned by the sea-breeze. He looked back, and he knew in his heart that, on that day on the clifib, there had come upon him a love which had not yet died—a passion which had ever since worked its way into 1:;« life. In one moment it had come upon him, 1 he had played lightly with it, untrue his better self. He knew that that love, that pas- sion. was still alive-ii-itliiii him- mu JU61 DecTtuue max icve nan neon aeep, the recoil of theylast twenty-four hot-1; was the more powerful. Mary Beltoii. whci he had thought o -simple, so single-hearted, seemed just another fickle light o'-love, scat- tering her affections among any who sued for that la-rgesse. Then there came to Stephen the burning memory of her sister's treaLment -the bitter shame of his own weakness and his own betrayal. And so in the thoughts of that hour the memory of Helen Beltori's treachery threw a black shadow over'tho face of '-Nl,,try Belton,, and obliterated that bright and beautiful picture from his vision. As they walked home there was a silence between them. Neither seemed to know (iuite to siv. Even Agatha Bourne was for the moment hushed into a certain gravity. Perhaps she, too,felt the hand of fate. Stephen Derwent spoke in monosyllables. lie wanted time to think, and he was afraid of speech, for he felt afrafd of himself. Stephen took Agatha Bourne back to the house, and 5he went in to dress for unch. He k-lt inclined for a walk. Leavine the house behind, embosomed in its woods he passed along the road towards Sheringham. He had passed the Abbey Farm on his right- when he saw coming towards him, dressed, not in her uniform, but in the si,,)Ple e(--ti",trV costume smt the old Ciays-lier "Off-C,, 'Yi' I dress-Man. Bdtoll, There came upon Stephen a shock of crisis i 'te p —a feeling that Providence now meant him to put his life to the test. anger I seemed to vanish at the eight of the girl. He would rpeak to her. As he drew near to her he took off his hat and saluted. Mary flushed a rosy-red, and seemed at first inclined to pass on. But as Stephen slowed down to stop, flie also stood still. "Good-morning, Miss Belton," he said. "Goir, home for a Sunday visit? Have you quite recovered from the sen bath?" "It was stupid of me." ?he said. "I beg pardon for the trouble I gave you." Trouble? he said. Why, it was quite an exciting scramble. I like trouble of that sort." "What kind of trouble don't you like, Mr. Derwent?" she said, a little embarrassed at his tone. "Oh, the sort- of trouble." lie said, "that comes to one as o e learns what life really is." What do you mean? said Mary, flushing. "I don't understand you, Mr. Derwent." The trouble that comes when you find that people you love are not quite what you thought them." I think yon ought to tell me more clearly, Mr. Derwent. what you have in your mind." He felt inclined for realities. Well, Mary Belton," said Stephen, "if it comes to that, what had you in your mind when you spoke to me so harshly on the beach tho other day? Did I not deserve something better than that? Oh, don't ask me, please, Mr. Derwent. I'd rather not say." She spoke appoalingly. But I tijitik I liin-e t i-i-lit to i,k )-oti-at least, as much as you have to ask me." Tho girl lowered her eyes. "Forgive me) Mr. Derwent. I cannot tell you. It's some- thing too dreadful, too awful for me to talk about." "What! You snub me, and arc cruel to me, and yet you don't do me the justice of telling me what you have against me." It would only make things worse, Mr. Derwent," she almost wailed. There are times when silence is best. There arc things of which I would rather not speak. We have had sad lives, we Beltons. You brought sorrow into our lives, not meaning it. My father has never been what he was before— before that day in the ruins. But I don't blame you. It was your accident, and not your fault. But this, Mr. Derwent, I cannot speak of. It's too trrible-" She turned asido. Stephen Derwent drew himself up. There was a touch of anger in his voice. "For what I did wrong, Mary Belton, I am sorry. But for this—this new thing—what right have you to speak to me liko that? If a, man is accused, at any rate ho should know svhafc he is accused of." At this Mary Belton raised her eyes with a flash of spirit. S' And I too. Have I not a right to know of what you accuse me? What you hinted at just now-how do you know it is true I it. "KildW 1t is true," he sala, quietly, be- cause I saw it with my own eyes." And, for that matter, so did I!" she tried, defiantly. The two stood for a moment facing one an- other .with flushed cheeks and angry looks. Then, as their eyes met, there came into them all the regret and sorrow for a love that once was, and waa now no more. There came upon them a sudden shame for Ihese angry speeches and these hasty reproaches. Yet their poor young minds were flooded with a sombre perplexity as they thought of the things they had seen, and compared the speech with the act and the word with the deed. Life seemed to grow very dark before them, and their voices seemed to echo with mockery in somo hollow void. There was a I dead silence between them. Stephen held out his hand. "I am sorry, I Mary Belton, that I spoke like that. Let us part friends. We will say no more also at it. You go to your house and I to mine. We will each go our own way. Perhaps it is better. Good-bye." Mary Belton spoke not another word but for many minutes afterwards Stephen felt the cold touch of her chill lingers. It seemed like the hand of one stricken. Stephen Derwent was not really surprised that-evening whe-n, after the Sunday supper, lie found himself left alone in the drawing- room with Agatha Bourne. They had scarcely entered the room, in fact, when his mother had made some light excuse, and passed with Elaine Carter through iii- French windows into the warm night outside. Stephen could still hear the voices of his mother and Elaino as they walked up and down in the garden but they sounded quite distant. The one fact that filled his mind was the face and figure of I Agatha Bourno. She was dressed very simply that evening. Her talk had been graver than usual, and she seemed to he tuning her spirit to meet his mood. Stephen rose and sug- gested some iiiiis;cl, and she sang to him two I or three old English songs, accompanying herself with a light and accurate touch that seemed to wed the notes to the voice in per- fect harmony. Stephen leant over her, and turned her music, although he did not gener- ally care for such things. Then they left the piano, and Agatha Bourne paused before sitting,down. Shall we join the others?" she said, gazing at Stephen from beneath her lashes, as if she were deciding his reply. "No; I would rather stay here, if you don't mind," he said. "Why, I thought you hated being with me alone she said. It was a daring speech. "Well, if I ever did I don't now." And Agatha knew that from him that utterance was not flattery. (T I thought you couldn't bear me," she said, looking up with oae of her coquettish smiles. Well," he said, musingly. You are one of the people one must either hate or love. Frankly, at fird and he paused, leaving the word ui- "And now?'' she said. Stephen made no reply, but sat down, and she followed his example. "What a pity! she went on. "It was so pleasant to have one man who hated me I'm sony if you don't like the change, Miss Bourne. In that ease I'll say 110 more," and he half rose to his feet. Agatha spoke quickly, as if to arrest him. Oh, no It amuses me. Do tell me some more about it. Why have you changed?! W 1) ± lllVfl T 'v™1 u 1 J Steplien raised Ins'eyes and" looked at h .;r 1 mu,singly. Then he leant forward, and ebe j felt the full force of his honest gaze if on-t» dark night she had suddenly iwsed into the range of a searchlight. For i moment she felt almost afraid—afraid that he might see into her soul. Agaiha Bourne was a woman of courage, and at the present moment she re- quired it all. She summoned her soul to the fighting point, and returned his look without the fluttering of an eyelid. I don't know," he said, slowly. I cannot tell you what has happened. But everything seems changed. Perhaps it was that you were kind to me--took an interest in me. You know how my hopes have been (shattered 3 Then he broke off, as if ashaJned of himself. I But I forget how much you know—of | course, you won't listen to me yet." I "Yea, I will," she said, quickly. "I know f your feeling. You ha\e been deceived. I feel so sorry for you." And she dropped her voice to a caressing note which sounded like music to his ears. She leant forward and fixed upon him « large, open eyes. Perhaps Agatha Bourne did not know that she never looked so en- trancing as when she opened her eyes like that. Or perhaps she did know? Who can tell? But are you ,tire you're right, Illr. 1 Derwent? she resumed. How do you know that I am really kind, that I am really honest ? Perhaps she did not mean it. But the re- sult was immediate. It was to scatter the last clouds of doubt that hung over Stephen Derwent's purpose. It was to convince him. How could any girl who spoke to him like that be a deceiver? I am sorry, Miss Bourne," was all he said. I have not been fair to you. Will you ever forgive me? I Forgive you what? she said. Oli, everything. Will you let me make amends?" Now he spoke a little hoarsely. I know it's absurd, Miss Bourne, for a fel- I low like me to talk to you, you who have 1 everybody at your feet. You have a right to ask me to serve for you, and I have not yet served. But will you give me any hope? That's what I mean when I ask you whether you will forgive me." Agatha Bourne rose slowly from her chair to her full height. She cast her eyes slowly round the great room, and looked out through the windows into the darkening night. The voices from outside came to her clearly in the silence. She seemed to.bD thinking, and Stephen thought she had never looked so beautiful. She gave her little head a toss and seemed to make up her mind. Then she stretched out her hand. Hope? Yes, Mr. Derwent, you may kiss my hand."

CHAPTER XX. A few days later Mary Belton had brought the children in from their play on the sands, and was moving about the nursery, preparing for the midday meal, when she casually picked up a newspaper of the da.y before, accidentally left in the nursery by Mrs. Mark Hudson. Her eye fell on the following an- nouncement: A marriage has been arranged between Stephen Derwent, son of the late Major Derwent, of the Manor House, Shering- ham, and Agatha, daughter of Alfred Bourne, Esq., and Lady Laura Bourne, of the Shire Hall, Holt, Norfolk." So it was all over-that dream, that vision of her girlhood. Hol- mind went back with an almost agonising precision over the events in a romance that now seemed dead. She made some excuse for not coming down to the evening meal, which she usually shared with Mrs. Hudson, and had a lonely supper in the nursery. Then she took up the news- paper again and read and re-read the an- I nouncement. No, there could be no mistake about it. Mary could almost hear the county dow- agers talking. "What an excellent match, my dear! Why, with two properties joined for the midday meal, when she casually together they will be quite rich And then she could hear the younger women talkmg. What a romaiice How long have r':ey I known one another?" I expect they were brought up together." And as that imaginary speech echoed through her consciousness Mary Belton smiled a bitter smile. Yes, how long had they known one i another? Very likely they really had been brought up together. Perhaps Stephen Der- went had been running the two affairs side by side, making love to the Shire Hall and to the Abbey F; in at one and the same time, doing hij'oassiunats love-making pa, th cUffs ma nrs decorous wooir.g-at tne Xxr-.i. k_-c was the way of the world? Was that the • reality on which all the decorum and lespeet- I ability rested? If so, then civilisation was 3 like a gigantic Venice, a fair city built on piles driven into the mud and ooze. Some f such image vaguely entered into the aching mind of Mary Belton at that moment. So far the tide of feeling in her heart had run all the time against Stephen Derwent. But now, as she eat there in the half-light, there came a gradual reaction. What of her wn part? Had she always considered his difficulties? Had she not been a little impatient in those old days when she had pressed him to announce their engage- mellt? Then her mind passed to the later phase. Filled with the impressions of her sister's downfall, she had always put the worst interpretation upon that chance glimpse I of the two in Kensington Gardens. But How] that she began to think calmly, might them Hot be some explanation ? Might the reality not be so bad as she had thought? Then she recalled her rebuff to Stephen Derwent at the foot of the cliffs. It followed naturally on the earlier thought that her mind should now go back on that incident almost with some misgiving. Had she not been a little hard on Stephen at that moment? Love had soured into suspicion, and gratitude had been darkened by reproach. Her pricle had completed the chilling process. Did he expect her to share his heart with her sister? Was that his measure of her worth? And so she had spoken coldly, and almost cruelly. Yet she still felt that somehow she had wronged him. For the strange thing was that across all these divisions and differences, Mai y Bel- ton always felt as if she were conversing with this one soul in the universe, and ti ;ng to see through all the mists and fogs between them some touch of brightness, some glow of sunshine.. At that moment she heard the call of Mrs. Hudson's voice on the stairs, and imme- diately afterwards that excellent lady, who happened to be in a most kindly and cheerful mood, entered the nursery. "Why, what's wrong with the child?" cried Mrs. Hudson. Sitting up here all alone in the dark? Why, anyone would think you had a love affair! What, tears? Mary been crying? Whoever heard of such a thing? You must tell me all about it." Mary rose and laughed a. cheerless laugh. As her eyes fell r on tha kind, plain face of Mrs. Hudson, she felt the strings of secrecy unloose, and her heart longed for confidence. So the two eat there in the gloaming, and Mary t-old Mrs. Hudson her story. Mrs. Mark Hudson was one of those few women who could listen to this tale with absolute simplicity, without marring its offect by any of those worldly consolations with which some women try to salve wounds beyond such remedies. It would have been easy to tell this girl that young men are often so, and that she had over-rated atten- tions which she ought to have set at a lower value. But Mrs. Mark Hudson was a demo- crat, and this was juet- such a story as set her heart aflame. She was out for equality, and t-hese cruelties of an unequal world were the very injustices that appealed most to her. At the same time, she was a sanguine woman, and never ready to give up hope. She. heard Mary Belton's story 011!, and then elie spoke in strong, cheerful accents. Poor young people I'm sorry for you both. Just as much for him as for you. He's a vic- tim quite as much as you—the victim of a social code. You mustn't blame him too much, Mary." I don't blame him at all, Mrs. Hudson," pa-id Mary. "But you mustn't ask me tody him. I expect he's happy enough. Why not? "Ah, there you're qtlit-e wrong," said Mrs. Hudson, in her frank, brusque way. "He's not a bit happy, though I expect he thinks he is. Of course, he'll be surrounded with cot- ton-wool of every kind-flattery and praises and congratulation's and wedding-presents, and all that kind of rubbish. He'll have lot-s of anaesthetics. They'll be married by a Bishop at St. Mary Abbott's, and the choir will sing 'The Voice That Breathed "er Eden,' and the papers will descril-- lie bride's going-away circus. Let me see, it ,-ill hA_" Mary put her nngersjn her ears. "Don't, Mrs. Hudson Please, don't! she cried, and the good lady, repenting, impulsively threw her arms round the girl and clasped her to her heart. '>t' The two sat in silence for a moment or two, and then Mrs. Hudson gently uneltisped Mary, and, rising to her feet. walked twice up and down the room. It was a habit she always had when rshe was thinking. If that's the ease. Mary, why do you give up without a, struggle? she said at last. What can I do? wailed Mary. "Well. I'll tell you my own conviction. It is that Stephen Derwent won't be so happy as you think. If I know this girl, and I have heard something of her, ¡,-he'll like this en- gagement business, dragging the man after her round country-houses, and all that sort of thing. She'll want to hang it on." Well? said Mary. What then? Well, if she docs that, I believe that Stephen will find her out." Mrs. Mark Hudson rubbed her hands to- gether and laughed with the cheerfulness of an Olympian god rejoicing over broken lovers' vows. But Mary Belton only sighed. It's very kind of you, Mrs. Hudson," she said at last. But just think of his life and mine. What chance have we of meeting again? "A country squire and a nursemaid, you mean? Well, it is a bit difficult," meditated Mrs. Hudson. What all askew world it is, to be sure I suppose, when you come to think of it, you are a good way apart just at present." Then Mrs. Mark Hudson fell silent for moment or two. Her mind seemed to be working rapidly v..r some plan. When six spoke again it ,vas to ask an abrupt question, which she fired at Mary Belton with a frank brutality. "Are you ambitious, Mary?" It was a peculiar question to ask at that moment. At 'any other time Mary Belton would probably have replied No." She was content with her life and happy in her posi- tion. She loved the children, in spite of all their queer ways and worrying questions. I Other things being equal, she would have gone on in this way quite happily. Bub one effect of these recent incidents had been to bring home to her the penalties of li r posi- tion. She was being punished not for licr own fault, but for the fault of caste. Thus there had entered into her heart that day a passionate desire to break her hirth's invidious bar." She would show herself cap- able of equality. She would snatch 1 at any rung of the ladder by which she could climb. She would meet on an equal plane tin? S1^— the daughter of the Shire Hall—v had snatched Stephen from her. In sfio^ Mary Belton raised her head and answered with a courage that gave Mrs. Hudson a shock of surprise: "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I am very ambitious." „ (i That's right/' said Mrs. Hudson, cheer- fully. Well, I'll tell you what's in my own head. My husband and I want a secretary. We have both so much public work to do now that we cannot cope with it. Well, it s easy enough to get another n-nrse for the children, but it's the most difficult thing 11l the world to get a good secretary. It might take us a year to get to an understanding with her. We understand you, nd so I propose that you gradually slip out of the nursery 11^0 the library." Mary Belton took up the proposition with enthusiasm. Very rapidly they discussed the details, arranging that. Mary Belton snould at first spend her evenings learning the craft of a secretary, while in the daytime she should train a succcssor to tako her place with the children. It would bo a matter of I several weeks to make the change. But in the course of her experiments at independ- ence Mary Belton had already learnt typing and a certain amount of shorthand, and. could write a good letter. It was not that she really hoped to wilt back Stephen Derwent She re^rd^d that maprer as cio;en. r>-tit eoiwnw or nasi <"<' whole of her past had brought home to her the narrowness and insufficiency of a subject life, and it created even in her quiet soul a longing for freedom and equality. Here was this matter of a choice of a mate in life. It was right that a woman should wed with one Df her own tastes and her own views. Why, then, should she be narrowed in her choice by an accident of birth? Against that bar Mary's soul fought with a strong form of that rebellion which has really been in the heart of woman ever since the beginning of the world. For though in nearly all other mat. ters women are champions of feudalism, in regard to the heart, have they nefc, through all time, since the day of Hagar, dreamt a dream of human equality in which human beings should mate, not rank with rank, but soul with soul? Just before she went to rest that night Mary Belton took lt again the faded letter from her case. She read it again. But this lime the reading was not followed by an outburst of tears. On the contrary, as she put it back there came from her lips eome-i thing that sounded almost like a happy sigh, (To be continued.)

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