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Che fieart of Iftatimtt*
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(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)
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- PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.
I
CHAPTER XXIII— (Continued).
By JOHN STRANGE WINTER,
Author of "Bootle's Baby," "A Blaze of Glory." "Soup-La,"
"The Price of a Wife," "Love and Twenty," "Lady Jennifer."
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s
Accordingly, it was Charles O'-
Briens* face which was the last to
smile upon Dick Lorrimer when he
left London on his quest of love. It
must be confessed that it was a very
rougl i night. He had a terrible
crossing, and was frightfully seasick—sea-sick,
too, for the first
time in his life, which made him
--very. indignant, as he had always
pronounced himself to be immune
from trouble of that description. He
enjoyed a detestable meal as soon
as he touched Irish land, and had
to kick his heels for several hours
before he could board the train
which would carry him to Brien
Shaney. Poor Dick! By the time
he got to the little country station
fte was very tired, very cross, very
cold, and l extremely Hungry.
At last he was in the
car
and
spinning away in the direction
of
Brien Shanesy, and just as the clock
in the stables struck one, echoed an
instant later by the clock in the
church tower, the car turned in at
the stable entrance and drew up at
the kitchen door.
Old Biddy came
running out.
"Ah, sure!" she
cried.
"But
It's Mr. Lorrimer!
Mrs. Florence,
Mrs. Florence—there's Miss' Maureen's
young gentleman!
And nothing
for lunch out of the ordinary,
for, blessed lambs she never cares
what she eats."
"What is good enough for Miss
Maureen will be quite good enough
for Miss Maureen's young gentleman,
Biddy," said Lorrimer, ever
so gaily; for was he not actually at
the door of Maureen's
ancestral
roof?
"Now, please do not go and
tell Miss Maureen.
If she
is
at
lunch, I will go and surprise her.
iWell, Mrs. Florence, how are you ?"
The old nurse came forward with
- a face wreathed in smiles, and a
hearty Irish welcome on her lips.
"I know the - way,
thank • you,
nurse/' said Dick.
"She's in the
dining-room, isn't she?"
J 'Yes, the dear lamb.
She is ia,
the dining-room, Air. Lorrimer.^
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The old woman stood orf*one side,
and' Dick wen f
down
ivel]- |
remembered passage and-^6ss~tl»c
"great hali, with its blazing pegit fire,
^comfortable chairs and lounges, and
many trophies of the-Chase.
Then
he opened the dining-room door and
went in, shutting it
softly
behind
him.
Maureen was sitting 7
at the
heat of the table, some-salmon on a
1
plate before her, a book propped up
against the water-jug.
"Dick!" she exclaimed.
Dick went
easily
across
the
foom.
"Well, my
darling?"
he
said,
and,
bending down, kissed
her, quite in an ordinary way, as if
he had been for a little walk, or for
p look round the stables.
"I see I am just in
tinie
for
lunch.
You will give me some?"
"You ought not to have come,"
said she.
"Well, weTI <3fscuss that after
lunch.
I am frightfully cold, -hideously
hungry, awfulty tired. Common
charity, to
say
nothing
of
O'Brien charity, cannot
turn
me
out
So, if you please, I will have
ia good square meal, which, I am
sure, will begin excellently
with
that splendid cut of salmon. And we
infill discuss any intricate questions
iafterwards."
~
''There was no resisting him; she
(caved in without a word.
"You will oblige me," said Dick,
"by making some sort of show of
eating yourself. I can never eat, as
I have told you before, with people
,who peck,
you don't realise how
frightfully Hungry I am."
He stood looking at the table.
p
Maureen followed his glance.
"Oh, of course!" she said. "Ring o
the bell. At all events, Dick,'? she o
added, will feed fou."
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"Thank you," said Dick, quite
humbly.
The old Sutler who ciame in answer
to the summons brought with
itim a plate for Mr. Lorrimer, and c
quickly laid a seat just in the mididle
of the side of the table. As soon t
as he had left the room, Dick pushed
his chair up close to Maureen's s
"corner, and moved his cover. c
"I have been long enough parted b
from you," he. said, "to resent an
pxtra yard.
I want
t?
ba quite
close to you. Do you know, darling,
I had a perfectly awful crossing?"
"Yes, I know it was * rongh
night," said Maureen * 4 Why
iidn't you telegraph?"
"I?'-' said he. "Not much! I
should have found a clean pair of
heels for my welcome . I prefer to
take you as I found you."
-'Yes, but you haven't taken
jne," said Maureen.
-'-Now! We won't argue that
point till we have had a square
meal. I can't argue when I'm hun r
-gry. When I have been fed, then
I will argue until it is time to feed
again—though It's a waste of time.
I have only got a few day's leave.
w
Jt's a great waste of time."
By dint of much watchfulness lie y
got over the rest of the meal, without
trenching cm any debatable c
ground ,* and when it was over and e
tbty smlsft al?AS s&b&safcs
e
m
t
j
s
B
h
i
o
o
w
d
o
h
and the cigarette-box, Dick drew
one of the big old chairs near to
the fire, and invited Maureen to
come and share it.
"No!" she said, holding hack.
"Now, look herei none of that!"
he said, catching hold of her and
drawing her down into the chair.
"You haven't s-cen me for several
hideous nightmares of weeks. Don't
tell me that I'm not welcome. My
dear girl, I saw your eyes—I saw
your face when I came into the
room. I took you by surprise. You
didn't send me back my ring because
you wanted to get rid of me.
You sent it back from an overstrained
notion of honour—quite
over-strained. Even if poor Mary
were done to death by a relation of
yours, that would have nothing to
do with you and me. It is beside
the question altogether. It is no
use arguing. I have got a man's
brain—a strong brain; a man's
heart—a strong heart; a man's will
—a strong will. You are my promised
wife. True, it takes two to
make a bargain; but we made that
bargain, and it tak^s two to break
it."
"Nonsense!" she cried.
"No nonsense at all about the
matter.
I.don't intend to break my
engagement with you.
I refuse to
accept your very honourable proposal.
I admire you for it, I love
you all the better for it, but I absolutely
refuse
to
take
my
freedom."
"What!
Supposing I
change
my mind?"
"When you have changed your
mind, dearest, you will have a different
look in your eyes from the
look that greeted me when I walked
into this room just now. When
I see the look which will make me
feel that I have becomc personally
distasteful to you, then I will break
my bargain any day, any hour, any
moment that you like.
But I have
got to see -that look before I budge
an inch from my present standpoint."
CHAPTER XXIV.
% sense Maureen O'Brien cap#-
tu'atee the stand taken up bv
Dick Lom$?«»r; that is to aay,*^he
owned up fra*.-^ and fully that she
had not cHangec Vn the least, that
she positively adored him and would
always adore him, that for her there
would never be another man in the
world, and that her one hope of
happiness was in becoming his
wife. But from her standpoint of
honour she obstinately refused to
budge for one single moment.
"When Charles's innocence i
proved," she said, "then I will be
vour wife the next dav, if you wish
i,"
"If I wish it!" said Dick, "Oh,
you almost make me angry! I am
satisfied of Charles's innocent, of
Charles's honour. My mother is
satisfied—what more can you
want?' 1
"I want to come to you with a
clean sheet."
"My dear child, go back in your
family history, what will you find?
A sense of honour which revelled :n
breaking people's heads and jabbing
them in the neck, and otherwise using
brute force to get their ends.
Go back to your ancestors, and you
would find that even if Charles w-jre
the culprit he would have been considered
a much finer fellow than I,
who sit down tamely: and argue the
question out with you."
"Oh, yes! Oh, my ancestors—it
is a different thing," she said. ''Today
is not yesterday."
'My dear child, you are infinitely
roud of your ancestors."
"I never said so. I always
thought my ancestors were a set
f marauding, cold-blooded, dishonurable,
thieving, exceedingly disgreeable
persons. They might be
very good-looking—I don't say
they weren't—fine men and browbeaten
women. I don't set my
standard of honour by what my anestors
did, Dick."
"Then by what? Not by what I
hink ?"
"No," she said, with an adorable
mile, "nor by what you think; beause
what you think simply goes
y inclination."
"Yes, but my mother?"
— ~
"I have not talked to your mothr
about it," said she. "Besides,
others will do almost anything for
heir sons, and I daresay yours is
ust like the rest."
"I don't think so, I don't think
o," said Dick.
"No, I never knew a son that did.
ut that is neither here nor there.
I have told you wbat I will do, I
ave told you what I won't do. It
s nothing to do with your mother
r my mother, or your ancestors
r my ancestors; it has to do only
ith what I think. Other people
on't matter to me; other people's
pinions are nothing to me. You
ave got to learn that yet, Dick."
"It is .very hard," said Dick,
ith a sigh.
"Dick," she said, "f promise
ou I won't marry anybody else."
"Oh, well," said Dick, "if it
omes to that, if you don't love me
nough to marry me in spite of this
feusus*?* « wytitipg
lse—well, of course, I would just
s soon you did mariy somebody
lse."
"Dick!"
"I mean it," he said, "I mean ?tl
always thought it very sensible jf
he chap who said, 'If I can't marry
he girl I want, I'll marry the girl
can get.' "
"And you would go and marry"
omebody else?" said Maureen.
"Well, I didn't" say that. I said
thought the chap was sensible."
"Oh!" said Maureen. "Oh!"
"So that, of-course, in the eve it
of your decidedly chucking me, you
may be prepared for any news you
may hear—as I will be," he added,
generously.
"I think you are very unkind!"
said Maureen. Her voice was
shaking, her eyes looked suspiciously
dewy.
"Yes, of course! Yes,; vol
would say so. I—I do think it very
unkind," he returned. "Of courser
Maureen, it will be you who have
shut the door, not I."
"Yes, yes—but—er—one day
you might wake up and say, 'Why
did I marry this girl? She comes
of a bad stock.' What should I
feel like when that happened?"
"I don't suppose you would care
by that time," said she. "If I had
got to be such a beast as that you
wouldn't mind. Romance would
be dead between us; everything
would practically be at an end. It
wouldn't matter one way or another.
Besides, we have got to
take a certain amount of risk whoever
we marry. If you married a
man—a Duke, for instance—and
one day he might wake up and say,
'Now, what in the wide world did
I marry an O'Brien for?' Or you
might marry a groom, and the
groom might wake up and say,
'Now, whatever possessed me to
marry a fine lady like this? She's
horrified when I get drunk, and she
cringes when she sees me put my
knife in my mouth. I had far better
have married a girl in my own
rank.' "
"Oh, Dick!"
"It's true! You might marry
any Englishman, and wake up and
say, 'What did I mafry this Englishman
for? This Sassenach ?"-
"Yes, I might—yes."
"Well, you know perfectly well
that my people came over after the
trouble of St. Bartholomew's Eve.
Beyond that, -Heaven knows what
we were. I haven't the least idea
—we might have been just ordinary
French peasants. Compared to
you we're mushrooms. In marrying
you, with your pedigree that I
am so proud of—you might wake up
one fine morning and say, 'Good
Heavens! I was born an O'Brien!
What could I have been thinking
of-to marry this—this English nobody
who came from somewhere in '
France, and may have been a common
malefactor, for anything I
know to the contrary?' "
"Oh, Dick, don't be silly I" she
said.. "I really can't stand it."
"Well, I won't be silly. I don't
wish to be. I wish—I wish everything
to be smooth as velvet. Then
it shall be a truce to all absurdities
and all conjectures of the future,
and we will go on as if nothing
untoward had happened."
"No, I can't dp that. I will
marry you as soon as you like after
Charles's innocence is proved."
"Which will be when Mary is
able to give up the name of her as*
sailant."
"Yes."
"And you will accept Marys
word on the subject?"
"Oh, yes—always providing that
she is in her right mind."
"Maty is not out of her mind,
you know. Oh, no, not out of her
mind;—not mad in the ordinary
sense—oh dear no! But ^queer—
unhinged—out of gear," said he.
"I think Shakespeare put it—
'Sweet bells jangled out of tune.'-
And are our lives to be ruined because
the chime of Mary's mental
balance may never be put exactly
in tune again?' It's rather hard,
isn't it?"-
"Oh, it is very harcl, Dick", very
hard!
Don't I look as if it were
hard?
Why, my clothes are hanging
on me—look
at
my
svristr-
There was a sound of tears in her
voice. _ Dick promptly
imprisoned
the wrist and covered it jvith kiss*
es.
"Poor little wrisF! Poor little'
soul! Indeed, "dearest, I do honour
and admire you for sticking so "r©»
solutely to your guns, but you will
have to give in in the end. We
can't live without each other. Let
us agree to leave this question of
the future to the future.: Dearest!
it seems so absurd for you to stand
•out that you aren't good enough for
me.''
"I never said I wasn't good en*
ough,'- said she.
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