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THE SUNNY SOUTH'
THIRD TtAGE
T r istr am
Synopsis o/ ^
Preceding CHapte rs
„f A nW d « M if °, ° f Slr Randolph Edge,
of Blent Hall, eloped with Captain Fltz-
hubert. Sir Randolph died in Russia,
presumably in time for Lady Edge and
Fltzhubert to marry and so make their
eon. Harry legitimate. They learn later,
a^v. Ve v!’. th i U the date of Sir Randolph’s
death has been given incorrectly and
Harry is not the rightful heir. They keep
the matter secret and eventually Mrs.
Fitzgerald succeeds to the barony of Tris
tram of Blent and resides with Harry
R! 31ent Hall. Unknown to Lady Tris
tram. a Madam Zabriska and Mr. Jen-
kinson Neelil are also in possession of
the secret and Madam Zabriska, with her
uncle Major Duplay, come to reside at
Merrion Lodge, near Blent Hall. Harry
learns from JITS) mother that he is not
tlie rightful heir to Blent, but they deter
mine to hold the title for him at any cost.
To further his cause he decides to marry
Jenny I vers, heiress of Fairholme, but
finds two rivals in Bob Broadley and
Major Duplay. The latter learns of his
unfortunate birth from Minna Zabriska.
He informs him that he intends to tell
Ivers and they quarrel. Harry winning in
a brisk tussle. Neeld becomes the guest
of Ivers at Fairholme. Minna Zabriska
meets Neeld and they form a compact
to protect Harry's interests and maintain
secrecy. Lady Tristram dies after ex
tracting from her son a promise that Ceci-
v Gainsborough, rightful heir of Blent,
hall be invitcu to the funeral.
RlCTkt By ANTHONY HOPE
A JL JL L * Brilliant Author of "F/ie PRISONER of ZENDA,”
“RVPEXT of H ENT2 A U, * * and othf.r Fascinating Books
Copyright 1900
CHAPTER. TEN *
continued
tTTLE inclined to sleep.
H he went down into the
I H garden presently, lit his
■ ^ U cigar and strolled on to
the bridge. He had
stood where he was
only a few moments
when, to his surprise,
he heard the sound of
a. horse's hoofs on the
road from Blentmouth.
Thinking the doctor,
who often did his
rounds in the saddle,
might have returned, he
crossed the bridge,
opened the gate and
stood on the high road.
The rider came up in a few minutes and
drew rein at the sight of his figure, but,
as Harry did not move, made as though
he would ride on again with no more
than the customary country salute of
"Goodnight.''
"Who is that?” asked Harry, peering
through the darkness.
"Me—Bob Broadley,”w as the answer.
"You’re late.”
"I've heen at the club at Blentmouth.
The Cricket Club’s annual dinner, you
know.”
"Ah. I forgot."
Bob, coming to a standstill, was taking
the opportunity of lighting his pipe. This
done he looked up at the house and back
to Harry* rather timidly.
"Lady Tristram—” he began.
"My mother has been dead something
above an hour.” said Harry.
After a moment Bob dismounted and
threw his reins over the gate post.
"I'm sorry, Tristram,” he said, holding
out his hand. "Lady Tristram was al
ways very kind to me. Indeed, she was
that to everybody.” He paused a mo
ment and then went on slowly. “It must
seem strange to you. Why. I remember
when my father died I felt—besides the
sorrow, you know—sort of lost nt coming
Into my bit of land and Mingham. But
you—” Harry could see his head turn as
he looked over the demesne of Blent and
struggled to give some expression to the
thoughts which his companion’s position
suggested. The circtiimstanc.es of this
meeting made for sincerity and openness;
theyw ere always Bob's characteristics.
Harry, too. was in such a mood that he
liked Bolt to stay and talk a little.
They fell into talk with more ease and
naturalness than they had recently
achieved together, getting back to the
friendliness of boyhood, although Bob still
spoke as to one greater than himself and
Infused a little deference into his man
ner. But they came to nothing intimate
till Boh had declared that lie must he on
liis way and was about to mount his
horse.
"As soon as I begin to have people here
T hope you’ll come often,” said Harry
cordially. "Naturally we shall be a lit
tle more lively than we’ve been able to
be of late, and I shall hope to see nil my
friends.”
He did not instantly understand the
hesitation in Bob’s manner as he an
swered. "You're very kind. I—I shall like
to come.”
"Blent must do Its duty.” Harry pur
sued.
Bob turned back to blm. leaving Ills
liorse again. “Yes. I'll come. I hope I
know how to take a licking. Tristram.”
He held out his hand.
"A licking?” Both the word and the
gesture seemed to surprise llarjry Tris
tram. S
"O you know what I mean, p You're
engaged to her, aren't you? Or as good
as. anyhow? I don't want to ask ques
tions—” „ .
"Not even as good as yet. answered
Harry slowly.
"Of course, you know what I feel.
Everybody knows that, though I've never
talked about it—even to her.”
“Why not to her? Isn’t that rather
usual in such cases?" Harry was smil
ing now.
“It would only worry
chance should I have?
"Well. I don’t
humble.” „ , ..
"Oh, I don’t know that T am humble.
Perhaps I think myself as good a man
as you. But—” he laughed a little—"I m
Broadley of Mingham, not Tristram of
B '“I lt see. That’s It? And your friend.
th “I "shouldn’t so much mind having a
turn-up with the major.
"But Tristram of Blent
much?” , .. ,,
"It’s not your fault, you can t help It. ^
smiled Bob! “You're born to it. and—”
He ended with a shrug.
“You’re very fond of her
frowning a little.
“I've been in love with her all my life
—ever since they came to Seaview. Fair-
v,ai^e wasn’t dreamed of then.”
-fe spoke of Fairholme with a touch
of bitterness which he hastened to cor
rect by adding. “Of course. I’m glad of
their good luck.”
“You mean if it were Seaview still and
not Fairholme?”
..va t don’t. I've no business to think
snvthing of the sort, and I don’t think
It.” Bob interposed quickly. “You
asked me a question and I answered it.
I’m not in a position to know anything
about you. and I’m not going to say any-
th ‘’A%ood many reasons enter into a mar
riage sometimes,” remarked Harry.
“Yes. with people like you. I l$iOw
tf Hls renewed reference to Harry’s posi
tion brought another frown to Harry s
face, but it was the frown of thought-
fulness, not of anger.
f ”1 can’t quarrel with the way of the
world, and I’m sure if it does come off
“aX «■* »»»“'
r-r-. i »"*<■»•
her. What
jree with being too
is—is too
Harry asked.
Cecily Gainsborough
from BM>, nml made no attempt to al
ter or to amplify it.
Bob was mounting now; the hour was
late for him to be abroad and work wait
ed him in the. morning.
"Goodnight, Tristram,” he said, as lie
settled in his saddle.
"Goodnight. And, Bob, if by any chance
it doesn't come off with me, you will have
that turn-up with the major?”
"Well. I don’t like the idea of a for
eign chap coming down and—. But. mlml
you. Duplay's a very superior fellow. He
knows the deuce of a lot.”
"Thinks he does, anyhow.” said Harry,
smiling again. “Goodnight, old fellow.”
he called after Bob in a very friendly
voice, as horse and rider disappeared up
the road.
“I must go to bed, I suppose.” he mut
tered, as he returned to the bridge and
stood loaning on the parapet. lie yawned,
not in weariness, but in a reaction from
the excitement of tile last few days.
His emotional mood had passed for the
time at all events; it was succeeded by
an apathy that was dull without being
restful. And in its general effect ids in
terview with B.*b was vaguely vexatious,
in spite of its cordial charaeter; it left
him with a notion which he rejected, but
could not quite get rid of—the notion that
he was taking, or (if all were known)
would be thought to be taking an unfair
advantage. Bob had sa;d he was born
to it, and that he could not help it. It
did not trouble him seriously. He smoked
another cigarette on the bridge and then
went into the house and to bed. As lie
undressed tt occurred to him (and the
idea give him both pleasure and amuse
ment) that he had made a sort of alli
ance with Bob -gainst Duplav. although
it could only come into operation under
circumstances which were very unlikely
to happen.
The blinds drawn at Blent next morn
ing told Mina what had happened, and
the hour of 11 found her at a committee
meeting of Miss Swinkerton’s which she
certainly would not have attended other
wise As it was. she wanted to talk and
to hear, and the gathering afforded a
ehance. M-s. Iver was there, and Mrs.
Trumbler. the vicar's wife, a meek wo
man rather ousted from her position by
the energy of Miss Swinkerton. Mrs.
Trumbler felt, however, that on matters
of morals she had a right to speak—jure
mariti. . .
"It Is so sad.” she murmured. And
Mr. Trumbler found he could do so little.
He came home quite distressed.
•■Tm told she wasn’t the least sensible
of her position.” observed Miss S.. with
what looked rather like satisfaction.
"Didn’t she know she was dying? ask
ed Mina, who had established her footing
bv a hypocritical show of interest in the
cottage gardens.
“Oh yes, she knew she was dying, my
dear,” said Miss S. "What poor Lady
Tristram might have known, but appar
ently had not, was left to an obvious in
ference.”
"She was very kind." remarked Mrs.
jver. "Not exactly actively, you know,
but if you happened to come across her.
She rose as she spoke and bade Miss S.
farewell. That lady did not try to detain
her. and the moment the door had closed
behind her remarked;
"Of course, Mrs. Iver feels in a delicate
position, and can’t say anything about
Lady Tristram, but from what I hear she
never realized the peculiarity of her po
sition. The engagement is to he an
nounced directly after the funeral.
Mina almost started at this authorita
tive announcement.
"And I suppose they’ll be married as
soon as they decently can. I’m glad for
Janie Iver's sake—not that I like him, the
little I’ve seen of him.”
"Are you sure they’re engaged? asked
Miss S. looked at her with a smile. Cer
tainly. my dear.”
"How"” asked Mina. Mrs. Trumbler
stared at her in surprised rebuke.
"When I make a mistake it will be
time to ask questions." observed Miss S.
with dignity. "For the present you may
take what I say. I can wait to be proved
right. Mme. Zabriska.”
“I’ve no doubt you’re right; only I
thought Janie would have told me.” said
Mina She had no wish to quarrel with
M “Jane Iver’s very secretive, my dear
She always was. I used to talk to Mrs.
Ivers about It when she was a little girl.
And In your case—” Miss S.’s >^mile
could only refer to the clAumstahce
that Mina was Major Dup.ay s niece, the
major's maneuvers had not escaped Miss
<5's eve “Of course the funeral will be
very quiet,” Miss S. continued. “That
avoids so many difficulties. The people
who would come and the people who
wouldn’t, and all that you know.”
“There are so many questions alwa>s
about funerals,” sighed Mrs. Trumbler.
"I hate funerals,” said Mina. I m go
ing to be cremated.” ..
"That may be very well abroad, my
dear,” said Miss S.. tolerantly, “but you
your
couldn’t here. The question is. will .Tanie
Iver go, and if she does, where will she
walk?”
“Oh, I should hardly think she'd go if
It's not announced, you know,” said Mrs.
Trumbler.
“It's sometimes done, and T'm told she
would walk just behind tile family.”
Mina left the two ladies debating this
point of etiquette. On her way home she
stopped to leave cards at Blent and
was not surprised when Harry Tristram
came out of his study, having seen her
through the window, and greeted her.
“Send your trap home and walk up
tile hill with me,” he suggested, and she
fell in with his wish very readily. They
crossed the footbridge together.
“I've just been writing to ask my re
lations to tile funeral,” he said. “At
my mother’s wish, not mine. Only two
of them—and I never saw them in my
life.”
"T shouldn’t think you'd cultlvat
relations much.”
“No. But Cecily Gainsborough ought
to come, I suppose. She's my heir.”
Mina turned to him with a gesture of
interest or surprise.
“Your heir?” she said. “You mean—”
”1 mean that if 1 died without having
any children she'd succeed me. She’d
be Lady Tristram in her own right, as
my mother was.” He faced round and
looked at Blent. “She's never been to
the place or seen it vet,” he added.
“How intensely interested she’ll bet”
“I don't see why she should,” said
Harry rather crossly. “It’s a great bore
having her here at all, and if I’m barely
civil to her that’s all I shall manage.
They won't stay more than a few days,
I suppose.” After a second he went on.
“Her mother wouldn’t know my mother,
though after her death the father wanted
to be reconciled."
“Is that why you dislike them so?”
“How do you know 1 dislike them?” he
asked, seeming surprised.
“It’s pretty evident, isn’t it? And it
would be a good reason for disliking the
mother, anyhow*.”
“But not tlie daughter.”
"No. and you seem to dislike the daugh
ter, too—which isn’t fair.”
"Oh, I take the family in the lump. And
I don't know that what we've heen talk
ing of has anything to do with it.”
He did not seem inclined to talk more
about the Gainsboroughs, though his
frown told her that something distaste
ful was still in his thoughts. What he had
said was enough to arouse In her a great
interest and curiosity about this girl, who
was his heir. The girl whom he chose
to call his heir was really the owner of
Blent!
“Are you going to ask us to the fu
neral?” she said.
“I’m not going to ask anybody. The
churchyard is free, they can come, if
they like.”
“I shall come. Slmll you dislike my
coming?”
“Oh, no.” He was undisguisedly indif
ferent and almost bored.
“And then I shall see Cecily Gainsbor
ough.”
"Have a good look at her. You’ll not
have another chance—at Blent, anyhow.
She’ll never come here again.”
She looked at him In wonder—in a sort
of fear.
"How hard you are sometimes.” she
said. "The poor girl’s done nothing to
you.”
He shook his head impatiently and
came to a stand on the road.
"You’re going back? Goodby, Lord
Tristram.”
“I’m not called that till after the fu
neral,” he told her, looking as suspicious
as he had in the earliest days of their ac
quaintance.
"And will you let me go on living at
Merrion—or cpming every summer, any
how?”
"Do you think of coming again?”
”1 want to.” she answered with some
nervousness in her manner.
’’And Major Duplay?” He smiled
slightly. i
"I don’t know whether he would want.
Should you object?”
"O, no,” said Harry, again with the
weary indifference that seemed to have
fastened on him now.
“I’ve been gossiping,” she said, “with
Mrs. Trumbler and Miss Swinkerton.”
“Good Lord.”
"Miss Swinkerton says that your en
gagement to Janie will be announced di-
»ectly after the funeral—”
And Major Duplay says that directly
it’s announced—”
“You don’t mean to tell me anything
about it?'’
“Really, I don’t see why I should.
Well. If you like, I want to marry her.”
Mina had really known this for a long
while, yet she did not like to hear it.
"I can’t help thinking that somehow
you'll do something more exciting than
th “She won’t marry me?”. He was not
looking at her, and spoke rather ab-
sently. ...
“I don t suppose she 11 refuse you, but
—No. I’ve just a feeling. I can’t ex
plain.”
“A feeling? What feeling?” He was
irritable, but his attenlon was caught
again.
“That something more s waiting for
you.”
“That it’s my business to go on afford
ing you amusement perhaps?
Mina glanced at him; he was smiling;
he had become good tempered.
"O, I don’t expect you to do it for that
reason, but if you do it—”
“Do what?” he asked, laughing out-
rl "Idon’t know. But if you do, I shall
be there to see—looking so hard at you,
Mr Tristram.” She paused, and then
added. “I should like Cecily Gainsbor
ough to conic into it. too.”
"Confound Cecily Gainsborough!
Goodby,” said Harry.
He left with her two main impres
sions; the first was lhat he had not
the least love for the girl whom he
meant to marry; the second that he
hated Cecily Gainsborough because she
was the owner of Blent.
*
CHAPTER. ELEVEN
A Phantom by the Pool
Tn a quiet little street running be
tween the Fulham and the King’s roads,
ir a rov,* of sm ill houses not yet ini-
proved out of existence, there was one
house smallest of all. with the smallest
front, the smallest back and the small
est garden. The whole thing was al
most impossibly small—a peculiarity
properly reflected in the rent, which Mr.
Gainsborough paid to the Arm of Sloyd.
Sloyd & Gurney for the fag end of a
long lease. He did some professional
work for the Slovils from time to time.
; i d that member of the firm who had let
Merrion lodge to Mina Zabriska was on
frier uly terms with him; so that per
haps the rent was a little lower still than
it would have been otherwise; even tri
fling reductions counted as important
things in the Gainsborough budget. Be
ing thus small, tli” lioi.se was naturally
full; the ttiree people who lived there
were themselves enough to account for
that. But il was also unnaturally .nil by
reason of Mr. Gainsborough’s habit of ac
quiring old furniture of no value and new
bric-a-brac wli sc worth could be express
ed only by* minus signs. These things
flf-rded floors and walls, and overflown
on to the strip of gravel behind. From
time to time many of them disappeared,
there were periodical revolts on ( ecily a
trrt. resulting in clearances; the gaps
were soon made good by* a fresh influx of
the absolutely undesirable.
In no other way could Gainsborough-
Melton John Gainsborough, architect—
be called a nuisance unless by* Harry
Tristram’s capricious pleasure. For he
was very unobtrusive. - small, like Ms
house, lean like his purse .shah ov like Ms
furniture, humbler than ins brii -a > •
He asked very little of the world; It ga'o
him half, and he did not complain. He
was never proud of anything, but be was
"•ratified by* his honorable descent and by
his alliance with the Tnstrams. i he
family instinct was very strong in Mm.
And now they were going to Blent.
Siovd calling on a matter of business
and pleasantly excusing his intrusion
by the payment of some fees had hen* d
about II from Gainsborough This . just
take us to Blent!” the little gentleman
had observed with satisfaction as he
waved the slip of paper Sloyd knew
Blent and could take an Interest he de
scribed it, raising ids voice so that it
traveled beyond the room and reached the
hammock in the garden where Cecily* lay.
She liked a hammock and her father
could not stand china figures and vases
on it. so that it s- cured her where to lay
her head. Gal...- -rough was very fussy
over the news; a deeper, but quieter ex
citement glowed in Cecily’s eyes as. listen
ing to Sloyd. she feigned to pay no heed.
She ^had designs on the check, beauty
unadorned may mean several thmgs but
moralists cannot be right in twisting t
commendation of it into an eulogism on
threadbare frocks. She must have a fu-
n sTo l yd r0 c C ame to the door which opened
on the garden and greeted her. He was
■ s smart as usual, his tie a new creation,
hi- hat mirroring the sun. Cecily was
shabby from necessity* and somewhat
touzleil from lying in the hammock. She
looked up at him. smiling in a lazy
3 Dr> C you*ever wear the same hat twice?”
S '”Must have a good hat in my profes
sion Mi=s Gainsborough. You never know*
who-c vou’ll he sent for. The duchess of
this or Lady* That loses her money
cards or the carl drops a bit at Newmar
ket must let the house for the season
seals off for me-mustn’t catch me in *n
old hat!”
•‘Besides^ 6 von may- say what you like
but a gentleman ought Y^orough ”
hat. It stamps him. Miss Gainsborougi
“Yours positively illuminates
could find the way by you on the darkest
n ”\vith just a little touch of oil," be ad
mitted. cautiously, not sure how far she
was serious in theirs « her eye ;
seemed to express. \\ hat u
doing with yourself?” he askei breaking
off after his sufficient confession.
°Vve been drawing up advertisements
of my own accomplishments.” She sat up
suddenly. “O, why didn t I as* you to
help me? You’d have made me sound
eligible and desirable and handsome and
spacious, and all the rest of it. And I
found nothing at all to say .
“What were you advertising for.
“Somebody who knew less French than
I did. But 1 shall wait till we come back
now ” She yawned a little. “I don t in
The least want to earn my living you
know*,” she added candidly, and there s
no way I could honestly.^ I don t really
know* any French at all.”
Sloyd regarded her with mingled pleas
ure and pain. His taste was for more ro
bust beauty and more striking raiment,
and she—no, she was not neat. Yet he
decided that she would, as he put it, pay
for dressing; she wanted some process
analogous to the thorough repair which
he loved to see applied to old houses.
Then she would be attractive—not hts
sort, of course, but still attractive.
“I wonder if you’ll meet Mme. Zabriska
—the lady I let Merrion lodge to—and the
gentleman with her, her uncle.
"I expect to. My cousin invites us for
the funeral. It’s on Saturday. I suppose
we shall stay the Sunday—that s all—and
I don’t suppose we shall see anybody to
speak to, anyhow.” Her air was very-
careless; the whole thing was represented
as rather a bore.
“You should make a longer visit. I m
sure his lordship will be delighted to have
you and it’s a charming neighborhood; a
very desirable neighborhood, indeed. ’
“I daresay. But desirable things don t
generally come our way, Mr. Sloyd, or at
any* rate not much of them.
• pretty odd to think it d all be
yours if—if anything happened to Lord
Tristram.” His tones showed a mixture
of amusement and awe. She was w*hat
he saw-she might become my lady!
“It may be pretty odd,” she said, indo
lently, “but it doesn’t do rat much good
does it?”
This last remark summed up the atti
tude which Cecily had always adopted
about Blent, and she chose to maintain
it now that she was at last to see Blent.
She had never been asked to Blent. If
she was asked now it was as a duty; as
a duty she would go. Harry did not
monopolize the Tristram blood, or the
Tristram pride.
Yet in her heart she was on fire with
ar. excitement which Sloyd would have
wondered at and which made her fa
ther’s fussy nervousness seem absurd.
At last she was to see with her eyes
the things she had always heard of.
Addle Tristram, Indeed she could no
longer see; that had always been denied
to her, and the loss was irreparable.
But even the dead Lady Tristram she
would soon be able to realize far better
than she had yet done; she would put
her into her surroundings. And Harry
would be there, the cousin who had
never been cousinly, the young man
whom she did not know and who was a
factor of such Importance in her life.
She had dreams in abundance about
the expedition, and it was in vain that
reason said, “It’ll be all over in three
days. Then back to the little house, and
the need for that advertisement!” Cecily
was sure that at last—ah, at last!—a
change in life had come. Life had been
always so very much the same; changes
generally need money, and money had
not been hers.
“It’s begun!” Cecily said to herself
when, three days afterwards, they got
out of their third-class carriage and got
into the landau that waited for them.
The groom, touching his hat. asked if
Miss Gainsborough had brought a maid.
(“The maid,” not “a maid.” was the form
of reference familiar to Miss Gainsbor
ough.) Her father was in new black,
she was in new black, the two trunks
had been well polished. And the seats of
the landau were very soft.
“They don’t use the Fltzhubert crest, I
observe," remarked Gainsborough. “Only
the Tristram fox. Did you notice it on
Hie harness?”
”1 was gazing with all my eyes at the
eoronef on the panel, ” she answered,
laughing.
A tall and angular lady eame up and
spoke to the groom, as he was about to
mount the box.
“At 2 on Saturday, miss.” they heard
him reply. Miss Swinkerton nodded anil
walked slowly past the carriage, giving
the occupants a leisurely stare. Of course.
Miss S. had known the time of the funer
al quite well; now her intimates would be
made equally well acquainted with tlie
appearance of the visitors.
Blent was in full beauty that summer
evening and the girl sat in entranced si
lence as they drove by the river and came
where the old house stood. The blinds
were down, the escutcheon—with the
Tristram fox again—above the door in the
central tower. They were ushered into
the library; Gainsborough's eyes ran over
the books with u longing, envious glance;
Ills daughter turned to the window to look
at tlie Blent and up to Merrion. A man
servant brought in tea and to’.d them that
Mr. Tristram was engaged in pressing
business and begged to be excused; dinner
would lie at 8:15. Disappointed at her
host’s invisibility, slit* gave her fattier tea
with a languid air. The little man was
nervous and excited; he walked the car
pet carefully: but soon he pounced on a
l>uok. a county history, and sat down with
it. After a few minutes’ idleness Cecily
rose, strolled into the hall, and thence
out into tlie garden. The hush of the
house hail become oppressive to her.
Yes. everything was very beautiful: she
left that again, and drank it in. indulging
her thirst so long unsatisfied. She had
seen larger places, such palaces as all
the folk of London are allowed to see.
The present scene was new. And in the
room above lav Addie Tristram in her
coffin—the lovely strange woman of whom
her mother had told her. She would not
see Lady Tristram, but she seemed now
to see all her life and to lie able to pic
ture her. to understand why she did the
things they talked of. and what manner
of woman she had been. She wandered to
the little bridge. The stream below was
the Blent! Geographies might treat the
rivulet with scanty notice and with poor
respect: to her it was Jordan—the sacred
river. A big rose tree climbed the wall of
the right wing. Who had picked its blos
soms and through how many years? Its
flowers must often have adorned Addle
Tristram's unsurpassed loveliness. After
the years of short commons there came
this bountiful fea=t to her soul. She felt
herself a Tristram. A turn of chance
might have made all this her own. Her
breath seemed to stop as she thought of
this. The idea now was far different from
what it had sounded when Sloyd gave it
utterance in the tinv strin of garden be
hind the tinv house, and she hail greeted
it with scorn and a mocking smile. She
ujq ,,,, t all this lor her own: but she
did want—how she wanted—to be allowed
to =tay anil look at it. to stay long
enough to make it part of her own and
have it to carry back with her to hog
home between the King’s road and the
Fulham road in London.
She crossed the bridge and walked up
the valley. Twenty minutes brought her
to the pool; it opned on her with a
new surprise. The sun had Just left it
anil its darkness was touched by mystery.
Turning by chance to look up the road
toward Mingham she saw a man coming
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down the. hill. He was sauntering idly
along, beating the grass by the roadside
with his stick. Suddenly he stopped
short put his hands above his eyes and
gave her a long look. He seemed to
start; then he, began to walk toward her
with a rapid, eager stride. She turned
away and strolled along by the pool, on
her way back to Blent hall. But he would
not be denied; his tread came nearer; he
overtook her and halted almost by her
side, raising his hat an> gazing with un
compromising straightness into hei <*•' ' ■
She knew him at once; he. must be Harry
Tristram. Was lounging about the roads
his pressing business?
“I beg your pardon.” he said, with a
curious appearance of agitation, “I am
Harry Tristram, and you must be .
(To Be Continued.)
The Demoniac Pofsefsion of Mifs Keturah
ISS KETURAH alwavs
M prided herself on the fact
that she never “carried
bones.” People might say
the most unpleasant things
about each other, but if
they were said to Miss
Keturah that would be the
last of them. She never
was known to make the
least little bit of trouble
among the neighbors In all
the forty-eight years of
her quiet life.
The knowledge of this was in her sub-
consciousness. even at the time when she
told young Mrs. Vincent that Mrs. Over-
ton had said that she thought Mrs. Vin
cent and her husband were the softest
couple she over saw*, and she had seen
a good many, first and last. too. Miss
Keturah then went on to tell what others
had said in disparagement of Mrs. Vin
cent's housekeeping, and it was not
long before her caller went home in
tears.
“Now. I wonder,” thought Miss Ketu
rah. “what made me do that. I never did
such a thing in all my life before. My.
but I could make a lot of trouble If I set
out.”
Somehow she had not the least com
punction about what she had done, and
when a few minutes later Mrs. Overton
came in Miss Keturah immediately be
gan to tell her guest what had been said
about her butter by Mrs. Vincent.
“She said she believed you put In so
much salt to make It weigh more, and s'— 3
had a mind to buy salt in the first place
and save money.” Miss Keturah repeat
ed this remark with great relish. “Of
course, I don’t agree with her at all. I
think your butter is nice, and I like it
salt. Mrs. Miles was in here the other
day and she was talking about your but
ter. She thinks as I do, but she said
she did not like to get milk at your house;
It smells so strong of the bran.”
Mrs. Overton looked very angry. “I'm
going to see Mrs. Allies right now.” she
declared. “ITI tell her that she needn’t
cother to get milk of us if she don’t want
to We can find plenty ot tolks that will
be glad to buy it. and iolks that will
pay us without waiting six months about
«t. too. And ITI go and see Mrs. Vincent
and tell her to use soap grease for butter
If she don’t like any salt.”
Airs. Overton had haTdiy gene before
another neighbor came. In fact, there
was a continuous stream of callers. Each
one went away angry with some other
neighbor. A little girl was crying softly
because some one had made fun of her
clothes. A young lady of musical fa ? tes
was flushed and excited. “He’d rather
hoar it thunder than to hear me sing, had
he? Well, he’ll have to hear me just the
same, and I shall open the windows when
I practice.”
Another girl was pale and dry eyed.
“So he said he thought I was a good little
girl, hut without much force of character.
Ho will discover tonight that I have
force enough to break our engagement.”
Miss Keturah noticed the effect of her
words in every case and gloated over each
victim. "There won’t be anybody In town
on speaking terms with anybody else by-
night.” she said to herself. “Aly. wnat
a string of company I am having this
afternoon; everybody t know. And
here don't come thp minister. Dear me. 1
guests he's heard something, he looks so
sober.”
The Reverend Mr. Fletcher seated him
self and regarded Miss Keturah reproach
fully. “I am very much surprised. he
began, “that Is to say. I am greatly pain
ed to learn of your very extraordinary
conduct this afternoon.”
“Then you have heard of it. They say
bad news travels fast.” and Miss Keturah
laughed. “You don’t know* what fun it
has been I never did anything like it in
r whole life before. But I think it does
any one good to let themselves go once
in a while. Don’t '*••, think so.' bhe
looked at him frank.
“No indeed.” he answered sternly*. “I
certainlv do not think so. Do you realize
what you have done?—what an amount of
harm that never can be undone?”
“Well they had no business to tell me
the things they do. I didn’t tell anything
but the truth. They come to me and tell
me these things and expect m fi to keep
them. They make a regular moral rag
bag of me. After a time, if you keep
stuffing a rag-bag. it has either got to
burst or run over. I’v« done one of the
two today. I'm net quite sure which, but,
anyway, it has been very interesting-
very.”
The minister looked at her in horrified
amazement. “It would almost seem like
a case of demoniacal possession,” he mut
tered. “I don’t think you even yet under
stand the enormity of your offense.” he
added. “You have broken up friendships
and wounded people cruelly. You have
even, in one case, com® between husband
and wife.”
"Is that so?” said Miss Keturah eager
ly. “I didn’t know I had done that. Do
tell me about it. Well, it you won’t
wouldn’t you like to have me tell you
what folks say about you?”
For an instant an expression of eager
curiosity crossed the minister’s face, but
it was gone in a moment. “No.” he said
quickly, “I do not care to hear anything
of the kind.”
Miss Keturah laughed. “W hen you said
that you looked just as ADs. Barnes says
you look in the pulpit. You alwa> s
thought considerable ot Mrs. Barnes,
didn't you? Well, she says that when
you are preaching you look just like an
old woodchuck. And Lydia says that if
she had the winding you up for your
sermons to do. she’d manage it so that
you'd run down in a little less than forty-
five minutes. Miss Gates sayfi that as a
cure for insomnia”—but Miss Keturah
was talking to an empty chair, for thu
minister had fled.
Perhaps his words began to have some
effect on her. and perhaps she was tired
from her unusual excitement. At any
rate, she began to feel twinges of re
morse.
“Demoniacal possession.” she murmur
ed. “That must be it. I was possessed. It
was an awful thing to do. Oh. dear,
dear!” and she began to cry. “I might
go around and tell folks that they were
all lies, but nobody would believe me—
and they weren't lies, either. What shatf
I do?”
She wrung her hands and rocked her
self back and forth. Just then the mal-
tese kitten began to chase Us tail. It
was a very playful kitten, and it went
whirling over the floor. Suddenly it came
dlrectlyi toward Miss Keturah's chair
and stopped under the rockers. “Oh. I
shall rock on you!" she cried, springing
up.
She woke with a start. “I dreamed
about the kitten,” she said to herself, and
immediately her mind went back to tho
dreadful thing she had done.
“Oh. how could I do it?” she walled.
“How can I bear It?” Tears were running
down her cheeks. “I—I wish I could die!”
Suddenly she sat up and looked about
her. It was dark as midnight. “Oh, oh!”
she cried out Joyfully. “I didn’t do It. I
didn’t do it after all. That was a dream.
too!”
She reflected a little. “No.” she said
with decision. “I didn’t do It. I really
didn t. But I am not going to sleep anv
more tonight. I’m afraid I’d go to dream
ing it again!” Groping about in the dark
she found her clothes and dressed herself
quickly. “I didn’t do It.” she kept say
ing softly.
Finally she wrapped a quilt about her
and sat down in a rocking chair. She
swayed slowly back and forth, and in
Her heart was a deep peace.
’Oh.” she sighed. “I am so happy and
so thankful. It was an awful dream. It
was a warning, emphatically: “And
never, as long as I live, will I ever eat
mince pie and cheese for supper again.”
In a few moments she was sleeping
Peacefully and dreamlessly in her chair.
SUSAN BROWN ROBBINS.