THE HEART OF A GIRL.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXX, Issue 3533, 25 May 1912, Page 5

THE HEART OF A GIRL.

BY HENRY ’FARMER,

Author of “The Money-Lender,” “12a, Quiltry Street,” “Bondage,” etc. ( (Published by Special Arrangement.) COPYRIGHT—ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CHAPTER Vll.—Continued. 1* a'.th will hold out against facts! before which reason must yield.! Queenin's faith stood firm. Stan-j more had telegraphed to her that he! was the victim of a conspiracy. She ■ still believed him. Her belief afforded her some kind of consolation, yet it also increased her agony. It was something that he had not fallen from the niche in which ho was enshrined in her heart, but when she thought of the utterly unmerited nature of his punishment lor a crime she refused to believe him to have committed, her suffering became well-nigh unsupportable. t A subdued knock on the door broke in upon her thoughts, and Beryl stepped in timidly. Her face was a little Hushed.

“Mother’s a shade better,” she whispered. “She’s asking for you, Queenie, and they say you may see her for a few minutes. You mustn’t say anything to her about Hilary. And, Queen ie”—the flush on her tired face brightened—“ Michael, Mr. Thorne is here. He’s in the sittingroom with father. Just like old Michael—so kind and so human. When you’ve seen mother, perhaps you would see him—and try te thank him—for all he’s done. I’ve tried to—hut I .” She pressed an already soaked handkerchief to her eyes “but I simply broke down—and howled !”

And Beryl proceeded to “howl” again—in other words wept bitterly, tlie emotionalism of her nature overflowing. Queenie’s nature was different, and her emotions rarely found relief or outlet in tears. But she covered her eves for a moment with a sharp movement..

The present . was knocking at the door and calling to her. She must not encompass herself about with a shroud of her own misery and withdraw selfishly from the' battle of the present life. She must take up her cross as other men and women had done before her, and stagger along under it as best she could.

She might dislike Michael Thorne ever so imiehj might fear him in a vague, unsubstantiated way, might realise-his material, sordid mature, but he Jiad played the benefactor to the family. She could jjeense him definitely of nothing. She might be. unjust in her estimate of the man’s motives. She could not restrain a slight writhe of the body that was physical. Her father and her brother were parasites who had attached themselves to Thorne.

She drew her hands swiftly from her eyes, and went to her mother’s room. The nurse admitted her. “Just let her know that you are back; blit you mustn’t stay.” Mrs Price looked like a grey-faoed, unsubstantial shadow—too weak to dilate now on her symptoms or express pessimistic views on the subject of what was to become of the family.

“Thank God, you’ve come back, Queenie,” she articulated almost inaudibly. “I feel—happier—now—I —know. Your poor father—Beryl— Philip! Take—my—place, Queenie!” She asked no questions about Stilchcster or Stanmore. For the- past few years, poor woman,;' through 210 fault of her own. She had been an incubus and. Queenie the mainstay and wise head, the contriver and chief breadwinner of the family. Mrs Price, in a state of childish weakness, was just thankful that she was back, believing herself about t-o die. “I’m—not—long—for—this—world now, Queenie,” she added. “H’sh!” whispered Queenie, kissing her, “you’re going to get better, mother. You’re better now—or they wouldn’t have let mo come to you!”

Optimism was a tonic sorely needed by Mrs Price to stimulate her into making a. fight to live, and Queenie was supplying it. For the moment her own troubles were thrust into the background. The nurse touched Queenie lightly on the shoulder. She kissed her mother again, told her that there was nothing for her to worry about, hardly conscious of tlio supreme l irony of her words in her anxiety to sooth and stimulate, and left the room quietly. v Outside she paused.

Hilary would understand, would have been told why she had not stayed, why she was not present at the crucial moment of his ordeal to flash him a message of love and faith with her eyes. He would understand—but why, oh, God, why had fate ordered things so cruelly ? She moved again—hesitated. She was craving again for the solitude, of her own room. Yet her sense of the fitness and the , appropriateness of things was asserting itself. It had been brought home to her that specialised skill had saved her mother’s life, and that Michael Thorne had provided it. A door opened, and as Beryl camo

: out on to the landing Queenie heard her father’s voice. Ho was saying something about Voile’s, and a flood of sensitive color swept her face. She

realised that he was playing his old trick, -making cadging appeals to Thorne for some benefit or assistance on her behalf.

It was like a spark to a train of gunpowder. It fired her spirited pride. She turned, her head flung hack a little and her features unnaturally composed, and went towards the sitting-room. She did not want charity; she did not even want patronising pity. True, understanding sympathy and love were another matter. Eut her father had assumed his favorite role—turned beggar—and on her behalf, with an eye to his own personal advantage. Michael Thorne stood with his back to the firephlce, bis arms folded, bis head thrust forward somewhat, looking more like a man of forty than twenty-nine years. He appeared to be giving a sympathetic ear to what Mr. Price—in a melodramatic attitude of despair that might have been modelled on some heavy stage-father —was saying.

Ho raised his head, and the light cauglit his sluggish, deep-set eyes as Queenie entered. Mr. Price, v.'hose face was hidden in his hands, according to the tradition of heavy fathers in despair, opened out his fingers a trifle the better to note the scene, though he pretended to be too overwhelmed by bis feelings to bo conscious of Queenie’s entrance.

There was a touch of unconscious defiance about her bearing. Michael Thorne crossed to her with a big, rather clammy hand outstretched; but there was nothing effusive or excessive about his manner.

“If Queenie only plays her cards properly!” was Mr. Price’s thought as he watched through his fingers; and he’ offered up an emotional, whiskyinspired prayer to the Merciful Almighty that she might be moved to do so.

“I’m sorry beyond words,” said Thorne. “When I heard of Mrs Stannard’s appearance on the scene 1 was afraid it was all up with poor Stamnore.”

Philip was not present; but Eeryl crept back .into the room, and experienced a miserable little pang of jealousy. Queenie had taken Thorne’s hand. There had been nothing exultant in his tones, nothing in the least to suggest any secret sense of triumph “We won’t talk about that now,” said Queenie, “I want to—to thank you for all you’ve done for mother. I don’t know how to thank you—in words!”

Mr.. Price deemed this to be a psychological moment deserving of a groan, and emitted one.

“Pm only thankful,” answered Thorne, still retaining Queenie’s cold hand and accentuating Beryl’s miserable feeling of jealousy, “only thankful that I was in a position to do what little I’ve done. They tell me she’s better. Good. They toll me she ought to get away as soon as she’s strong enough. Have rooms on a ground floor—stairs to be avoided—she ought to get about in a bathchair, get good fresh air, with as little exercise as possible.” He was. driving it home, the power of money.

Another groan from Mr Prce, followed chokingly by the words, just audible v “We’re not millionaires!” It belonged to the order of stage asides.

Queenie heard it. She drove hei teeth into her lip. Her sensitive powers of perception instead of being dulled seemed to have had their edge sharpened. She utterly hated and despised her father at this moment. He was not even subtle. “Far the sake of old times,” went on Thorne slowly, “you must let me see this through for your mother — soon as she’s strong enough. You will, won't vou?”

Queenie had withdrawn her hand. The question had been put to her directly. Mr. Price held his breath. “You will, .won’t your” repeated Thorne.

Mr. Price’s feet, invisible under the table, did a kind of silent, agonised step-dance: Curse the che-ikl, but why didn’t she sav yes? Why didn’t she fall on Michael’s neck and weep tears of gratitude? Why on earth didn’t she play the game properly, sink to her knees and kiss his hand? Rope him in then and there? The game was in her hands —at her feet!

(To be Continued.)

(To be continued daily.)

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