Abergavenny Chronicle

0  j ? 41? Rights Reserved.) I ??  TC? T GORiNG'S GIRL I i BY | MY w VNE, I ./1 Anthor of Henry of Navarre," &c. lil  i SYNOP. I On his dMi'Jvtied. Reginald Goring, a wealthy man, tell-- his nurse Imt he lias bLèn sec etly jiarried, and that he ha5* a daughter to whom he has left eveiything. Nurse Janet, who is really a )!r. Keuvon, an adventuress, t'-ils Stuart Goring, the dpad man's brother, of this, aud persuades him to many her, de-tioy the will, and inherit all his brother's rioues. Stuart Goring', aa-eak man, agrees, but two years later he is fatally ijiju: e i in a motor accident. Before he dies, he con- fesses to Midue1. Heatheote, a brilliant young lawver, the true gtory of the will, and tells of she existence of a duplicate Will, which, he says, is in a sealed packet, kept by Reginald Goring's daughter, who lives at Uorkesbury, in Sussex, and is known as Rachel Brentley. He begs Heatheote to find tne girl, and establish her claim. Mrs. Goring, hiding behind a curtain, hears this, and determines to obtain this second will and destroy all traces of the girl's claim. After the funeral, Michael Heathcote goes to Barkesbnry and finds that liachelis a beautiful young girl. He asks her about the sealed packet, but is told that it has been Stolen, along with the jewel-case in which it was kept, about eighteen months before. She also says that a lady has been inquiring after it. Michael finds that this lady was Mrø. Goring. He goes to Scotland Yard and engages Detective Tom Jackson to help him tJ discover the thief of the jewel-case. Jackson goes to Barkesbury and lives at "The Anchor" Inn. Michael is speaking to him one morning, when suddenly he notices Lionel Kenyon, Mrs. Goring's son. His presence in Barkes- bury can only be put down to onefael,-thglt he also is hunting for the missing will. Michael finds that Kenyon is pretending to be an artist, and has v: sited Littleholme, Rachael's house, under the pre- text of painting a picture of it. Rachel fears Kenyon, who has questioned her about the burglary. Jackson, the detec- tive, is convinced that if he can find Ellen Price, who was ser- vant. at Littleholme at the time of the theft, he will be able to get valuable information. But the girl has disappeared, and the detective goes to London to trace her. Heatheote, left to himself, is going to visit Rachel one day, when he hears a splash ia the river, and a cry for help. CHAPTER VI. (Continued). I A RESCUB. I Beneath him the river flowed on peace- fully, and undisturbed save for a small spot in mid-stream where eddies played and bubbles rose in rapid succession round a miniature whirlpool. Someone had fallen in. That was enough for the man on the bank. Flinging off his coat he had sprung down into the water even as a dark head rose a dozen or more yards away, drifting helplessly onward, with no repetition of that gasping cry which had disturbed a summer reverie. Heathcote struck out boldly. He was a strong swimmer and his nerve was steady, his glance comprehensive of the situation. In the lower stream near the old mill he had heard of dangerous currents and a certain ill-omened whirlpool. That drifting figure must be reached before it was caughtjn those treacherous waters and carried to de- struction. It was likely to be a. race in which the winner was only too doubtful; but that tree would help him-the half- uprooted ash whose branches dipped down into the stream. The figure was drifting straight towards it. Even a momentary check would suffioe to give him his opportunity. Ah, good! it was checked, though the current, growing swifter even here, battled with its prey. Another stroke, another, an arm flung out straight and true to its mark, and then a moment of struggle in which it seemed, more than once, that the scarcely rescued prize must be torn from his grasp or the two of them borne away to death by those treacherous waters. Panting, dizzy, with racked sinews and gasping breath drawn in sharp stabs of pain, Heatheote managed at last to fling his right arm round the trunk of the overhang- ing tree and drag himself and his burden up nearer to the bank. Beating the water with his feet, he slipped, dragged, half- swum along, sometimes hopeful, sometimes despairing of his goal, till at length, with one mighty effort, he launched himself for- ward and sank down unconscious beside his insensible companion on the mossy bank. Voices were raised in eager ejaculations of wonder and surprise when Heathcote next opened his eyes. Yet at first, he could dis- tinguish no word of what was spoken, for above all and through every other sound rose the mighty roar of a raging storm in his head, thunder of pulses ca-using vague perplexity and aching pain. What had happened? Where was net How- A glass was placed to his lips. He drank automatically, and the fiery spirit coursing through chilled veins brought clearer vision, scattering the blurred mists which had gathered about his senses. He sat up, becoming aware of a group of villagers, labourers, and farm hands from the fields near, who stood staring down at him in bucolic amazement. By hie side knelt a young man in a serge suit, with a pleasant face and keen eyes. He held the empty glass in his hand, whilst the fingers of the other pressed Heat-hoote's wrist. "The man? muttered Heatheote, trying to rise in spite of the dizzy faintness which threatened again to overcome him. The doctor nodded. "They have carried him across to his cot- tage. I must go to -see him. You are better." "Yes, thanks very much. I—I am per. fectly all right now." To prove it he staggered to his feet, glad enough the moment after to sink once more back on to the bank, with the support of a ruddy-faced labourer's arm about him. The doctor had hurried off. "Sit still, sir," urged the man beside him. "You'll feel a bit queer for a time, though. Bakes a mossy, you don't look like poor Nick did." Nick? "It was Nicholas Fleming you had in your arms, sir," interposed a youth. "Us reckons you'd saved un from drowning." H I heard the cry from the bank," replied Heathcote, passing his hand slowly across his forehead. "It was God's providence we were not both drowned." "That's so," chirped a third onlooker. "Once past the old ash tree an' the cur- rent wud ha' swept you both along into the mill stream where poor young Hunt were drowned last vear." "The ash Iree." whispered Heatheote, half to himself. "Ah, I remember." And he shuddered at tho memory of that cruel struggle. "If you 11 take advice, mister," said his ruddy-faced friend, "you'd just be gettin' back home an' out of they wet things. There'll be a tale of rheumatics for you, let alone wusser if you don't nip in atween the blankets pretty soon." "An' I'll just go an' see how Nick's a- getting on," suggested another. "Poor Mary Ili have had a turn, that's sure." Accompanied by one or two of the vil- lagers Heathcote walked back to the Anchor; slowly at first, then at a brisker pace as the dizziness left him and chilled Mood circulated anew in the warmth of the sun and quickened movement. "I shall be glad to know how the poor fellow is, he said to his new friends on parting. Did you say his name was Nicholas Fleming?" "Aye, aye, mister—Nick Fleming. He lives up near the farm not far from Little- holme. Used to be gardener there afore he took to workin' on the milk round. His wife 'II be in a rare takin' about 'im, though they do say he's none the best o' husbands." l, I hope he'll be no worse for his ducking than I am likely to be;" smiled Heatheote, nodding a brief farewell as he turned to- wards the inn door. CHAPTER Vn. I NICK FLEMING OWNS UP. I A ehort note from Detective Jackson the next day brought the irritating news that Ellen Price, evidently hearing that inquiries were afoot for her, had taken herself off out of London, whither she was being speedily followed by her pursuer, who wrote cheer- fully of an early denouement and success. Michael would have lost ao time in carry- ing the news to Littleholme had not a mes- sage been brought by a grubby-faced urchin that Nick Fleming wanted to see "the gentleman at once. Heathcote went out to view the memenger in person. "Do you come from your father?" he asked. "Is he any worse for yestoerday's adventure? The boy grinned shyly. "No, sir," he re- plied, "Nick ain't me father, but mother sent me over, cos Mrs. Fleming's her neebor, an' does washin' to 'blige mother at times, an she says as how her 'usband's took for death wi' his spin-t hurted in the water, an' Dr. Philips be eomin' with another man to operate on lnm to-day, an' Mrs. Fleming's carryin' on orful, an' Nick says as how he must see you afore they starts cuttin' him about. "He is conscious then." The lad stared. Conscious?" he echoed. nI mean he can talk sensibly and under- stand what is going on?" "Oh, aye. Nick's talkin'-an' hollerin', too. Mother gived me an 'a'penny to come quick." Heatheote took the hint. "I will come at once," he said stepping cut into the road. Absorbed as he was in Jackson's news and his own business, he must spare these few minutes to listen to the gratitude of a sick and possibly dying man. Billy, the boy, trudged on sturdily, chat- ting away with a freedom not often found in country children. Heathcote learned that Nick was the son of the village blacksmith and had at one time been looked on as a bit of a ne'er-do-well. But since he had mar- ried Nan Hustler, nearly a year ago, things had changed and he had settled down into a steadier way of living. "That's Nick's missis," explained the boy, jerking his thumb towards a tiny oot- tage, at the door of which a woman stood, looking down the lane eagerly in their direc- tion. A pretty, girlish creature she was, clasp- ing a tiny bundle in her arms, whilst traces of tears lay unmistakably on her cheeks. "Thank you for comin', sir," she faltered as Billy ran on to claim his reward. "My man's anxious to see you afore the doctors come. There's somethink on 'is mind which seems torturing him dreadful. You'll excuse an untidy place, but what with Nick's acci- dent an' baby bcin' upset and poorly I haven't had a minute." Heathcote spoke a few words of kindly sympathy and strode forward. The situa- tion struck him as somewhat incongruous. Surely the village padre was the man for suoh a case, not himself, yet he could not refuse to go in, and so stood presently look- ing down at the man whose face appeared drawn and pinched, with dark eyes burning in a restless fever, and dark hair straggling over his clammy brow. "The gentleman stayin' at the Anchor Inn told me true," whisjjered the sick man, mov- ing his head slowly from side to side. "Sit down, sir—Nan's not there, is she?" "No, I came in alone. Your wife is in the garden." "Shut the door, then. I'll not let her hear. They say I may die to-day." "You shouldn't look at the black side," paid Heatheote, kindly. "If your case were hopeless the doctors would not operate." "I don't want to die," groaned Nick, "I'm afraid. An' there's Nan, too, bless 'er. If only I'd known Nan then I wouldn't a-done it. But I can't risk dyin' an' it not told." The speech sounded incoherent enough, but Heathcote waited, expecting elucidation. It came haltingly. "It was two years ago I knew Ellen," he said, "but she was a bad girl-a bad girl." "Ellen? What roused a sudden interest in the listener's heart? Ellen was a common enough name, yet he put a question sharply. "Ellen Price?" A flicker of surprise shone in Fleming's eves. I | Aye," he muttered, "Ellen Price, curse her "She was servant to Miss Brentley?" "An' I was gardener. We kept comply then. But Ellen-why, she was a bad girl." Heathcote leant forward, speaking very slowly and deliberately.. "It was she who tempted you to steal Miss Brentley's jewel-box from her bed- room ? Again that spasm of fear. "How did you know, sir? How did you know?" "Never mind. I do know. But tell me everything and you may have it in your power to make full reparation." "I'd left Miss Brentley a six months. Jones had just took me on here on the milk round. But Ellen weren't satisfied. She wanted to cut a splash, so she said. It was her told me about the jewel-case. I—I'd not been too partikler before in just takin' of little things, but I didn't fancy this idea at first. It was Ellen who threatened to give me the chuck if I didn't do as she asked. I used t' drink in them days. I dessay I'd been drinkin' when I promised. Anyway, I did it. I got the ladder out o' the shed at the back, an' went straight in. Miss Rachel was sleepin' with her window open. That made it easy. I collered the box an' came down with it. It was as easy as winkin. Heathcote's face was set in a grim mask, but his heart beat quickly with excitement. How curiously the links of fate were woven to bring him to hear this strange confession from a man whom Detective Jackson with all his shrewdness had never troubled to suspect. But he was only on the brink of knowledge-and the sick man's voice already wearied—a film was creeping over the fever-bright eyes. "And what did you do with the box?" he asked impressively, "tell me that quickly. What did you do with the box?" "The box?" echoed Fleming. "What box? He looked anxiously towards the door as he spoke, his thoughts straying away to what lay before him with the coming of the doctors. "The jewel-box. Miss Brentley's jewel- box that you stole. The plain words had their desired effect. A quiver ran through the helpless frame. "The jewel-box? Why why Ellen got frightened then. That, was where we quarrelled. Thank God we quarrelled. She wouldn't have anything to do with it at first, she was afraid of the p'lice. After. wards we took the box up to town. She had a friend who told her of a place where she could sell such things. We took an' sold it then an' there, jew'ls an' all, and Ellen took half the money. I b'lieve she expected all, an' that finished things. I ain't never seen her agin. Three months later I took on with Nan-my Nan-bless 'er." He spoke feebly, his heavy lids drooping over his eyes, as if too weary even to express contrition for that past which had so haunted him. But Heathcote could not remain content with this easing of a man's conscience. There was more which must be told before the doctors came. "Tell me the name of the man to whom you took the box," he said. "The name and address. Do you hear? The name and address of the man to whom you took Miss Brentley's jewel-case? Only tell me that, and the past shall be buried as you have been trying so vainly to bury it all these months." "The name and address," muttered Fleming, drowsily. "The name the same "Of the man who bought Miss Brentley's jewel-box. Quickly now, quickly." "I don't remember rightly. But Nellie "ud know Nellie 'ud know." "You must tell me. Tell me at onoe." A deep sigh broke from the parched lips, but the insistence in Heathoote's voice had teached and arrested those failing senses. Already the feeble brain was working again as the two men's eyes met—Fleming's vague and fearful; Heathoote's dominating and eager. 11 "Down Hoxton way," came the halting words. "Annie no AI Ivy Yes Ivy Court, near Nile Street a Jew-yes, if was a Jew—an' his eyes were cunning enough. He knew all about it, I lay-and that's why he cheated us. His name, did vou say? I remember that, 'cos Nellie laughed at it. Sal Sally Salmon-Reuben Salmon. I'd a-liked to've wrung his ugly neck, but Ellen joked 'im. To think she could! But she was a bad girl. Not like my Nan." The cottage door opened softly, and the young wife looked in, then came quickly to the bedside. "You're tired, Nick." she said, bending over him, her baby still clasped in her arms. "Dr. Philips said a? you mustn't get ex- j cited. There, dear, you've told the gentle- time man how grateful you are now, M* it'gs entl- to rest." He looked up vacantly. "Rest?" he echoed. kve. come ti)' rest, 'long o' me, Nan. Put your face close to mine-an' the child, God bless her. She's got your face, too. Nan. Did you say the doctor wasn't comin' after all?" "They won't be here yet," she replied soothingly. "It's early yet. You'll rest afore they come." She glanced wistfully towards Heatheote. "You'll be goin', sir'? she pleaded. "He oughter rect. But we'll be glad to see you any other time, an' thank you more proper- like. I'm too dazv to know how I'm talkin' to-day." "I do not want any thanks, Mrs. Fleming," Heathcote replied gently. "Y our husband has more than repaid me. But I shall call to-morrow to hear how he is." "He'll be doin' nicely by then," said the poor soul, with a conviction which forced itself into the words which strove vainly against inner fears. ag "He'll be better then, an' thank you, sir. God bless vou, sir." There were tears in the eyes she raised to his, and he saw the brave lips quiver piteously. It seemed that sho. dreaded the coming of the doctor far more than her husband. Yet she came to the door to see Heathcote off. "You're the gentleman as visits at Little- holme," she said, as she followed down the path. "Nick an' I have seen you go past; I but Nick don't often go that way though I can't say why he don't seem to like Miss Brentley-such a pretty, kind ladv, an', I'm sure, a good mistress in her time to my Nick. It was the old gentleman as gave Nick the shunt-so Nick's told me times and times. Heatheote acquiesced absently; but lie re- membered the words as, leaving the little cottage behind him, he struck across a woodland path towards Littleholme. So old Mr. Goring had given notice to the man wliit afterwards had, unwittingly, robbed liL* daughter of her birthright. How strangely things had worked out, and on what small happenings great issues hung! But it was no moment for moralising just then, since he held at this instant the know- ledge which Tom Jackson and Lionel Kenyon were seeking in vain. But what was to follow? Would it be possible, after nearly two years, to trace the fate of that little box on which all hopes of establishing Rachel Brentley's claims hung? He smiled and sighed in a breath, deter- mining to lose no time in proving the truth of Nicholas Fleming's confession. Should he tell Rachel now-or wait till after his visit to town? Even as he paused, hesitating as to which he should do, Rachel herself solved the question by appearing suddenly round a bend of the path and ad- vancing with outstretched hand and a smile of welcome on her lips. "I am so glad to see you!" she cried gaily. "I was walking towards Barkesbury in the hopes of meeting you. Tell me, i. there any news? She paused abruptly with the last words. "But, yes," she added, "I see there is. And good news? Tell me-tell me." And she lifted an eager face to his. breathless for the answer which he must necessarily give her now. CHAPTER VIII. I AN UNSEEN LISTENER. I Yes," said Heathcote, retaining the hand Rachel held out to him, "1 have news. "From Mr. Jackson? He has found Ellen Price? And she—no, but I hardly can believe she had anything to do with it." "I fear you were deceived in the girl. She was unworthy of your trust." "Then she has been found?" "No, but I have the story of the robbery from the chief actor in it." The girl's eyes dilated. "You mean-It "That chance—or Providence—has given me the clue. It only remains for me to dis- cover what befell the box when it passed from the burglar's hands into those of Mr. Reuben Salmon." "Reuben Salmon! I never heard the name. "Nor I, till an hour since." "And now you are puzzling me with in- quiries. Do tell me all—everything. Oh! I wonder if it really will be found?" She glanced round as she spoke, seating herself on a fallen log which lay back amidst the undergrowth skirting the path, and beckoned him beside her. At that moment Heathcote forgot a pr1 vious desire for haste on his mission, but accepted a present wholly desirable and en- chanting. So he told the story of Nicholas Fleming, simply, directly, whilst watching the rapidly changing expressions on the lovely face of his companion. Insensibly she was beginning to lose some of that self-reliant womanhood which cir- cumstances had thrust on her young shoul- ders, and a more girlish look of trust and confidence shone in the clear grey eyes which she raised to meet the keen glance of the man beside her. Acquaintances had often been heard to compare Michael Heathcote's eyes to flint stones, or blue steel, penetrating, hard and cold. They would have scarcely endorsed their own opinion had they seen them now. Blue fires rather, to burn down into a girl's heart and warm it to a new sense of life which she could scarcely understand. Only she knew she was happy, and told herself it was because of Michael's success. Success? Was it that indeed, and not— not-- The blood rose to her cheeks in a sudden wave of soft crimsoning colour. Her heart beat fast. What was this that he was saying? Certainly something he had never in- tended to say at that moment. But impulse is a wayward tyrant, and some subtle, in- definable feeling had brought the words to his lips almost before he himself realised what he was doing. Rachel!" Only her name, and the grasp of his strong fingers on hers which yielded so readily to their master. Yet he could never unsay those brief syllables, never withdraw that instinctive touch, for their eyes had met, with swift betrayal to both, and after that they were perfectly content to share the secret each found so sweet. But business is business, even in the midst of golden dreams, and time was pre- cious, with the knowledge of Lionel IEen- yon's watchful shadow ever hovering be- tween them. "I must catch the 12.15 train to town," Heathcote said, pulling out his watch. "May I wire you the train I mean to come down by ?" She nodded. "If it is not very late I shall come to meet you. 1 "-sbe smiled shyly—"shall be so anxious to know if you have been suc- cessful. "One cannot tell. I am optimistic my- self. The case may have been thrown aside in some lumber-room—or it may have been broken up and burnt." "I do not think it will have been broken up," replied Rachel, "for in doing so they would have found the seciet drawer, and probably guessed the value of the paper to someone, and traded on the knowledge. I wish I were coming up, too." No, no," said Heathcote, decisively. "Hoxton is not the sort of place for a lady to start exploring. You can trust me that if the jewel-case is still in existence I shall find it, however far I have to search for it." He held both her hands, smiling at her as he repeated his question. "You can trust me with the task? "Trust you!" she cried, with a glad little laugh of utter content. "Always, always. Why, do you know, last night I was wondering whatever I should hare done if you had—had not come into my life, and what I should do when you went out of it again. "And that," replied Heatheote tenderly, "shall not be now till death us do part." She shivered a little at that. "Don't talk of death." she implored. "It is so far away —must be so far away—when we find life so good and full of happiness. Oh, Michael, I cannot believe that happiness yet! But all the time you are away I shall be teach- ing myself by saying 'He loves me-he ioves me. He stooped forward to kiss her smiling lipe, and so absorbed were they in their paradise that they never dreamt of the ser- pent which usually makes a habit of haunt- ing such places. Yet it was there, yonder by the clump of wild rhododendrons, ablaze in their glory of palest mauve. A substantial enough reptile. in a grey flannel suit, with dark eyes, 6leek black hair and moustache. (To be Continued.) .ž,