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(S) [ALL RIGHTS RMMVM,] U? FL YN O' THE HILL § ,A\ or, THE LITTLE WHITE WITCH A\ flfll By MADGE BARLOW, IUJ Xa Author of "Crag Cormac," "The Cairn of the Badger,"&c. /M CHAPTER IX. 1 PATE SHUFFLES THE CARDS. Sylvia had told Flvii of Dorn's arrival in Culsheen, and the result disappointed her. Instead of dread, outcry, and shrinking pro- test she saw anger in the girl's face, a fight- ing look in her eves. "He is pushful," she replied, breaking a prolonged silence. "He hasn't learnt his lesson, and must be taught again. He shall be if he dares to approach my door." ""Hoity-toity!" jeered my ladv. Your tragedy manner is ridiculous. The man's at libertv to come to CulshceH, and you are equally at liberty to bang your door and barricade it, but anybody who heard his side of the storv would condemn your action." "I forbade him the house and he defied me; actually threatened to compel me to re- ceive him." "Love-lorn ravings, my dear. He can t compel you, and wouldn't attempt the im- possible. He was in a temper, no doubt. You do rouse the devil in him sometimes. Listen to me. You could travel the wido earth round and find no one to love you as Ralph Dorn does, not one. It isn't in men nowadays. And think of his constancy. Don't forget that ho wanted you just as badly when you were a poor little typist of whose familv and antecedents he knew next to nothing.. Did anybody else in his social position covet you, then P "Then he was all right, rather a nice fellow. It's the afterwards I detest him for." "The afterwards was a harvest of your own sowing, and Ralph did nothing very dreadful, nothing you can't pardon." From this we see that Lady Darkington was tho- roughly posted in the history of the two, notwithstanding her evasive replies to Cheveral. "He to prate of love! cried scornful Flvr,. "True love is unselfish and forgiv- "19 it? If you were the victim of a grand 1s it? If you were the victim of a grand passion, and a woman came between you and its object you would be a fury. There is no miik and water in your veins, demure though you seem. Put yourself in his place and say if you would bear what he has borne and show less violence. You are re- sponsible for his past and present misery, and in common justice to him you ought-—" I won't hear a repetition of that argu- ment. You always ignore the thing that happened, the barrier that would part us even if I still cared for him." Don't be a crank. The barrier doesn't exist. It's levelled." "But the ghost of a dead girl would rise between us. Drop the subject, you make me hate him." "He has more reason tO hate you," snapped Sylvia, longing to take her by the ehould-ers and shake her. "For the whole year of vour residence at the Hill you im- posed galling restrictions on Ralph, forced him to come sneaking in the dark, snubbed him, let your Jaffcs deride him. It's a pity to waste your youth dreeing it when Ralph could give a wife he adored such a rattling good time. Is there anybody els.e? Has cousin Andy-" Sylvia, you carry inquisitiveness too I far My child—you are the simplest child— I warned you that he was a philanderer who'd flirt with a ship's figure-head if if, had feminine shape. Has he made love to you? From brow to tliToat Flyn flushed scarlet. I am answered," tittered Sylvia. It's an amiable failing of his. I'd stake the paste imitations Horace gave me when he pledged my diamonds that your precious Mr. Andy stopped short at asking you to be his wife. A piteous glance did not move her. If he asked you you wouldn't look at me like that. He doesn't want you, and only pretended to because it suited him to bamboozle Horace and get out of the way of his creditors for a while. In fact, he's secretly engaged. Why did he run off to London without finishing the pretty sceno which I disturbed among the roses? "He had business." You believe that? Andy's sole business was to escape an awkward predicament, and pique you into a coldness which wiU give him a pretext for the non-renewal of that scene. If you don't furnish the pretext he'll be in a blue funk. I tell you in friend- ship. Horace and I are both fond of you, but I know what he does not, that his cousin is sacrificing you to a summer flirta- tion. I repeat, Andy is promised in mar- riage to another. And if you knew who the other was you'd be astonished beyond mea- sure," her ladyship added, in the depths of her wicked heart. Flyn evaded an attempted caress, her bosom heaving indignantly. Don't kiss me," she said in a ringing voice, tears of outraged dignity in her eyes. I WOll,'t have your kisses. There's no truth in these Darkingtons. I wish you'd all leave me alone. I don't want to be mixed up in your twistings and turnings. I don't want your cousin to make love to mo or marry me. Do you imagine that I gave Andy Bamfylde the stewardship in order to catch him? Hateful word!" Nobody dreams of such a thing," replied Svlvia inl shocked tones. "He'd be a poor match for you. and the honour would be ours. Horace's eagerness proves that. And I spoke out of kindness, to caution you against wiving on anything Andy might sav. He has an irresistible way with women. They dote on him, and can blame themsel/es if he raises hopes that have no foundation. Now you're huffier than ever, but I will say. Flyn, whether it vexes you or Dot, that if you aren't in love with him you *e peril- ously near it." And if he were not the cousin for whom you have professed intense and bitter dislike I'd be inclined to say the same of you," re- joined Flyn, a trifle maliciously. The shaft at random hit Sylvia and brought a curious grey tinge to her brown skin. Was she so transparent that this country mouse could see below the surface? One penetrating hawk's glance relieved her. The stiff little face was innocent of double meaning. They were in Lady Darlcington's boudoir, whither Sylvia had enticed her to sing Dorn's praises, and while my lady pondered over her next point of attack, and called her dear FIVTI nasty names under her breath, a knock came to the door. Jaffe stocd outside, flustered and purple. Mr. Mallard. Miss Mallard, and Mr. Dorn," he quavered. "I had no orders. Miss Flvn. I was taken by surprise, and into the parlouV they walked." He watched his mistress, waiting for the storm to burst. Ladv Darkington watched her. Flyn stared fixedly at the floor, battling with anger at this prompt throwing down of Dorn's gauntlet, pondering what weapon it were best to use against so re- sourceful an opponent. She thought of one and smiled. It was Andy. Let him pursue his confident course till Andy returned to hear her complaint and deal with him. His protection would be sweet, and sweet the haven of his strong arms. Not for a moment had she believed Sylvia's tales of # him, though in that first flush of outraged dignity she had exclaimed that there was no truth in any of these Darkingtor.S, She had repented her hasty words when memory re- minded her of that hour in the lane, the more recent hour in the garden, the truth and love in his face, the ring of absolute truthfulness in his voice. How could she doubt him? She would fight no more, but deliver Dorn up to her lover for judgment unless he saved his skin by going in time. Say we shall be down directly," she said to stricken Jaffe. For Heaven's sake don't make a fuss in front of the Mallards," cried Sylvia. The girl's serene smile disturbed her. Isn't it an accepted theory that when we flee men pursue, and when we cease to flee they lose interest in the chase? asked Flyn. You are quite right. It is." "Suppose we test it on Ralph Dorn?" Really one can't be sure of what vou will I do for two minutes too,,ether", wailed puzzled Sylvia. "You are amnoyed because I destroyed your silly illusions about Andy, ready to vent your annoyance on Dorn, to give that awful Aunt Too-Too more to talk about." She wrung her hands, but her only fear was that Flyn at one blow would de- molish the mountain of mystery she had built around herself. I had no illusions about Andy," was the proud reply, and I am not piqued or an- noyed. As for Dorn, he requires practical common-sense treatment, and I've deter- mined he shall have it. If you are curious as to its nature, hadn't you better come and witness its beginning? Retracing our steps, we return to Eric, en route to the hospital. where John Salter was to assist him out of the mess into which he had thrust him. He found the spacious entrance hall busier than usual, owing to a tieries of accident cases that bad poured in during the after- noon. A perspiring porter answered his beck, and, in reply to a question concerning John Salter, said, gaspingly, that the patient named had been sent to the South- bourne Convalescent Home a fortnight ago. Asked if he were certain, he said he couldn't make a mistake, for Salter's re- covery was a miracle, and had been dis- cussed in medical journals with enthusiasm. The doctors had given Nurse Bland a large share of the credit, she having snatched him out of the very jaws of death after the opera- tion. She went in charge of him to the Home to pull him safely through the final stage of convalescence. Eric left, and entering the nearest, call office, requested the Exchange to connect him with the Southbourne Home. Holding the receiver to his ear, he waited, chafing at what seemed an eternity of delay. When the answer came it exasperated him. No connection." He spoke sharply into the instrument, every word staccato. I asked for the Southbourne Convalescent Home." "No connection. Wires hroken." They switched off, and he set the bell whirring madly till an operator at the other end cried in desperation. "Hello!" i Why is the Southbourne Home not con- nected (" "I told you wires broken. The Home was totally destroyed by fire last night. inews- papers full of it." The proprietor of the call office tapped him on the arm. Would you care to glance over a noou edition, sir? It contains the latest accounts. I believe it was a regular bolocaust-bodies of the victims cremated—nothing left for identification." Mechanically Eric hung up the receiver. He swayed like a drunken man. Deathly sickness clutched him. The paper shook and rustled in his grasp, the print swimming be- fore his eyes in a black and white blur. When the mist cleared he skimmed the terrible details of the fire in search of a list of saved and lost. He has it. No. Those are only the saved. But two have been for- gotten. Oh, surely, they have been for- gotten. l- Further on he finds the roll-call of the missing, poor creatures, represented by a I litter of charred bones, of whom it can never be said, "This was he. and this she." And at the end of the mournful muster he reads the names of John Salter and Nurse j Dora Bland. "You were brought home unconscious in a tab, sir. Fainting fit, the doctor who ac- companied you said." Simpkins' voice greeted him on his return to consciousness, and a realisation of the horror. Eric raised a hand to his brow. It was wet, and his hair clung dankly to it. His moist palms smelt of brandy and sal volatile. What womanish tricks had he been up to ? He remembered reading tho paper-seeing two names blazoned on the sheet in red letters of flame. Then all was a blank. Fainted, had he? Would to God he had died. For Andy is dead. Worse, he lies vanished off the face of the earth, leaving no trace. The numbed senses re-awake and his agony begins. He has beheld the last of Andy, truest friend, most faithful comrade, whose love was far beyond the capricious bye of women. How strange to think of him as dead! A violent shudder shakes Eric from head to foot. He feels the scorch of the de- vouring element, hears the shriek of tor- tured souls ascending to their God in a fiery chariot, Andy's shriek and Nurse Dora's. Poor, pretty Nurse Dora! "Leave me," lie says to Simpkins. I-I haven't been well of late. No need to tell my uncle." "Very good, sir," murmurs Simpkins, and straightway goes and tells Gid, who is pen- ning advertisements for various news-sheets, begging the owner of the book inscribed With Clodagh's love" to communicate with him. Gid hastens to his nephew, and for the remainder of the day makes life hideous to him. Will he see the doctor? Gid asks. Has he pain, and can he locate it ? Or is his trouble mental? To get rid of him Eric feigns sleep, but all night he lies awake, his brain reeling. He wonders how many nights like that he must go through before he becomes a raving lunatic. Men reported dead in the, confusion of great fatalities have often turned up again to laugh at their obituaries. Why not Bamfylde? He hugs fantastic hope to his heart, and spends days in sickening sus- pense. There is no revision of the fatal list. The pitiful remains are buried. The Southbourne calamity sinks into the back- ground, and public interest centres in a fresher sensation. Torpor succeeds his fevered expectation. The foul fiend insom- nia has gained such a grip of him that Gid insists on an immediate holiday, and sug- gests Cornwall. I'd lend you Simpkins," he says, "but at this critical point in our investigations-" "Don't want Simpkins," grunts haggard Eric. So Eric departs alone, and goes to South- bourne, and spends a fortnight there, pot- tering about the ruins of the Home, ques- tioning natives, debating with them possibi- lities of escape, and earning the sobriquet of "the mad gentleman." While he thus ? .tt,?; upon grief, and augments his an- guish of mind and body, a telegram for "Cheveral" is handed in at Gid's town house, and he tears it open. It runs:— "Andy's address or his immediate presence imperative. Urgent. Sylvia." Gid examines the post-mark of the Irish town whence it was dispatched. Evidently it is for Eric, whose place of residence in the delectable duchy is still unknown to him. But what is Sylvia doing in the Irish town? Why does she wire to his nephew concerning Andy's address? Is not Andy somewhere convenient to her, in the service of the farming female? He scents mystery, double-dealing, and his bushy eyebrows lower till they seem to rest on the harsh, hooked nose. Spreading the telegram flat on the table he sends for Simpkins the in- valuable, and lays a case for unravelling before him. u-, i Is CHAPTER X. "When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions." Tatthers gaped in astonishment at the wreck of the big fair Englishman stepping listlessly on to the station platform, and opined that Bamfylde had been going the pace on the devil's hunting ground since he went from Culsheen. With subdued greet- ings he brought the car forward, and Eric mounted. Be had nothing to say, but Tatthers had enough for a dozen. Seating himself on the other side, he shook the reins tnd bade the horse "Gee up," and they crawled int-o the sunny street at a snail's gallop. "The little nag's afeard of jowltin' yer fut. He seen ye had the bit limp back wid ye," whispered Tatthers behind his spread fingers. To himself he added: An' a face that'd stop a clock, howiver ye got it. Deuce sich a caricature of yerself iver I see. He leant across the well of the car and eyed his fare askance. "Yer soart of cousin's above at the Hill yet, her that welted me wid her umbrella." "I suppose she is, Paddy," indifferently. "Large as life, an' frisky as a young cowlt. Forever havin' parties, an' sprees, an' dancin' be moonlight to the music of fiddles, an' that Gerald Joyce-Duffy trippin' at her heels like a pet puppy. Miss F ?, ? at a lot of expinse by her. Mane as dirt her ladyship is. No fear of her to sind me five shillin's compensation for batin' the teeth outer me head. I swallyed wan yon evenin', an' to coort she should be broiight for swindlin' an' killin' honest people. Sho near bruk the nag's back, too, sittin' tight an' lettin' him dhrag her up hills." They were approaching a mountainous part of the road, and Eric took the hint and hopped down. Tatthers joined him, and helped the horse to clamber skyward, grumbling that Sir Nicky had been "shuk" by the accident. He accepted a pipeful of tobacco gratefully, debating in his own mind whether to inform Mr. Bamhlde of an unpleasant surprise awaiting him, or let the misfortunate man discover it for himself. On the principle that bad news will bear keeping Paddy held his tongue. "Bad cess to me mimory, aren't they havin' a gipsy tay in the fields behind Para- dise," he cried, bringing his ramshackle vehicle to a standstill. "If ye'd like to go there I'll perceed to the Nest an' warn Bid of yer honour's arrival. Cut over the stile an' folly the track till ye come to the whin stretches where they're sportin' "I don't care to meet a lot of people," Eric protested, but Paddy had visions of cold victuals and happy dalliance in the Wisp's kitchen, and he prevailed. "A lot is it?" he queried. "The mischief a sowl is in it except her ladyship, an' Miss Flyn, an' Miss Cathy. Ould cock-eye (by whom he meant Aunt Too-Too) is feard o' rheumatic, an' wont squat on grass to dhrink tay she could dhrink comfortabler on a chair at home." So Eric paid like a gentleman for the privilege of walking two-thirds of the way, and cleared the stile amid a shower of bless- ings. The fields were golden in the light of the declining sun, the air was warm, fra- grant with cowslips and breath of kine. He followed the track until he saw a flag flutter- ing at the top of a tall and distant pole, then he halted and wished he had gone straight to the cottage. He was in no mood for frothy conversation, even though it were uttered by the lips of his beloved. He hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and went on. He moved towards a gap in a hedge whither the track led, and on the near side of it he paused to listen to a voice, Flyn's voice. She was farther off than he at first thought, and she was not alone. Looking through the gap he espied a man's broad back disappearing down a steep bank on the top of which stood Flyn garbed in pink lawn, with a rustic, rose-laden hat tied eoquettishly beneath her chin. For whom had she discarded her quaint white mourn- ing? He awaited breathlessly the man's ascent. A large hand holding a few sprays of crimson dog-rose gripped the bank, and Ralph Dorn pulled himself up and pre- sented his trophy to the girl in pink. "I've changed my mind," she said pertly. "They're not nearly so pretty at closa quar- ters. Dorn quietly tossed the flowers whence they came, his face unruffled. "Are we going right ahead?" he smiled. "Which would you prefer?" she asked. "Right on, or a return journey?" "On, of course, with you," he replied. "Then we'll return," she said; coldly. Their words were inaudible to Eric, bul they were together, and the green-eyed I monster hinted that she had chosen the time I of his absence to do that which she would not do in his presence. He had heard her inveigh against this man, order him off her doorstep, vow that she had spoken her last to him. But the new lover goes off the stage for a while, and hey presto! the old is summoned back to bask a season in her favour. She was a hypocrite, a skilled actress, he said savagely, crouching in shel- ter of the hedge to watch them, his eyes vengeful. Her childish, innocent airs were assumed, worn to deceive the poor fool who had lovid and trusted her in spite of con- demning appearances, in spite of the doubts he could not wholly drive out of his own heart. It did not occur to Eric that "un- faith in aught is want of faith in all," and that, since he could doubt, his love was as yet an imperfect thing. Reckless with jealousy and unreasoning resentment he pushed through the gap, and at the rustling of the bushes Dorn and she glanced round. A glad cry rose to her lips. She took a step towards him, all joy, all sur- prise, and then with a look of pathetic be- wilderment stopped and let her outstretched hands fall to her side. His face froze her, such a changed, bitter, sneering face. What is wrong? Can it be-she gasps in dismay at the abhorrent thought—that he suspects hex of treacherous dealing? That he is jealous? A hot flush mounts to the roots of her hair. She is, in outward semblance, a detected culprit. Flyn could weep for very rage be- cause of that ingenuous blush, and the more conscious she is of it the hotter it grows. Beyond the lifting of his hat Eric ignored her. He replied to Dorn's courteous How d'ye do" as courteously, for the scene be. neath Flyn's window in the grey of the dawn had convinced him that Romeo was an honest fellow, albeit lie had once drunk deep of brandy and uttered vain threats. Who could blame him for wanting to marry the girl he loved, ad who had loved him in a day gone by? Not Eric, her other dups, though he fears Dorn will wear rue with his bargain. (To bo Continued.)

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