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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (Aug. 30, 1923)
I The Master Man - By Ruby M. Ayres “J suppose 1 might havo guessed that you would say things like this;*’ she said. “I suppose I might have known you would seize upon the oppor tunity to preach at me. Do you think I am going to accept what has happened without a fight? Do you think I am going to be content to be poor and nobody Xgr the rest of jmy life? I am hoi T tell you I am not..” Her voice was broken with sobs now, but they were sobs of anger. “I am going to fight for what I have lost. I don’t believe there is anv soi\ In Australia or anywhere else. I believe it’s all a trick, a hateful trick to make me suffer, to pay* me out. Mr. Rolf always hated me—I can see now iiiat he did—.” Tears were running down her cheeks, but she brushed them angrily away. “But I’m not go ing to give in so easily,” she laughed excitedly. “His son aball find that I am more than a match for him.I won’t be poor, I won’t, I won’t.” She looked at Milward defiantly. Even if I—if I have to marry him and get the money that way,” she said. Milward’s face changed a little. “I don’t think you will do that,” he said gently. Patricia turnod on him fur iously. She was upset and over strung by the shock and disap pointment of the day. “Oh you! you!” she said hoarsely. “What do you know about K? Why do you come here at all? I didn’t wish to see you. You can’t go on ordering me about as you did last week, you know.” The faintest, smile crossed Mil ward’s face, <but it was gone in stantly, and he said: “I have no wish to order you about. I only said that I did not thkik you would marry Michael Rolf for his money or for any other reason, because—” “Because what?” she de manded stormily. Milward met her eyes steadily. “Because I am Michael Rolf:” he said. Chapter III In the moment of blank silence that followed every drop of colour seemed to fade from Patricia’s face. 8he stood staring at Michael with wide eyes and parted lips. Unprepared as she had been for his announcement, somehow she never for one moment doubted the truth of what ho said. Even when, after a moment, •he forced herself to say shrilly **I don’t believe you—” she knew quite well in her heart that •he did believe him; that he was not a man to speak unless he bad first weighed the value of what he said; be was Michael Rolf, the son of the man whom ahe had hated, and already, with her impulsive waywardness, she had made an enemy of him. Iler deepest emotion was rage; rage with herself that some intuition had not warned her, and yet—how could she even have remotely guessed? Even Mr. Philips had believed Michael to be in Australia; how, then, had it been possible for her to forseo that this man, whom she had snubbed and quarrelled with during those weeks at the Chesneys, was the man would have the power to make or ruin her whole future? "J don’t believe you—” she •aid again desperately. “Only this afternoon Mr. Philips said that Mr. Rolf’s son was in Aus tralia, and that he had cabled to him.I don’t believe you,” she said again. It’s just a trumped-up story to frighten me —to..to.” Her anger rose suddenly, the hot blood rushed to her face. “If it’s true, how dared you pass yourself off as somebody else all this time? I suppose that was all part of your mean plan—to make me hate you, to get me to quarrel with you, and then-to turn around and do this I'* , Michael shrugged liir should ers indiffemtly. **I had not the slighest idea that my fatlier would ever Jeave we a penny piece,” he said cas ually. “I neither wanted it nor expected it; he kicked me out of this houso fourteen years ago, and I never had the least wish to return. I always understood that he had made you his heir "3 ess. You can hardly blame me if he changed his mind and sud denly remembered my existence. Come* Patricia—be reasonable, and I promise you that we shall not quarell.” The soothing indulgence of his voice roused her to fury. “How dare you call me by my Christian name?” she cried pas sionately. “How dare you speak to me at all? Do you think I care if you quarrel with me? Do you think I mind one little bit what you say or do?” He smiled faintly. “I think perhaps you will when you have had time to real ize .the truth of those very melo dramatic words you spoke to me just now,” he said quietly. “When you said that you had not a penny in the world, I mean. “I would rather die than take a shilling from you,” she storm ed at him. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well there’s plenty of time to refuse when I have offered it to you,” he said coolly. “In the meantime, I will see Mr. Philips and tell him that you are to stay on here for the present, until something can be arranged for your future.” “My futurq is nothing what ever to do with you,” she broke in, her voice trembling. “I can arrange my own future.” His face darkened as he look ed at her. “You mean by marrying Chesney and making him miser able for the rest of his life,” he sneered. Angry tears rushed to he eyes. Fortunately, everyone does not see me as you do,” she said. “Not that I care in the least what you think of me—not that 1 mind at all how much you meer at me....” You seem to care a great deal,” he answered coolly. “If not, why are you crying?” She dashed her handg across her eyes. “You’d cry if you were me,” she said stormily. “You’d cry if you’d justjbeen served such a trick by an old man who—” She broke off, conscious of the anger in his eyes. “A man who took you from nothing and has fed you and clothed you nad looked after you these years,” he finished for her with anger. “What in heaven’s name are you made of that you can’t even find a spark of gratitude for all that he did for you?” “He never liked me,” she brkoe out. “I can see now that he must have always hated me.” Michael similed rather cyni cally. “Without wishing to be rude, I must say that it is hardly to be wondered at if you treated him as you treat everyone else ” he said. Her eyes blazed. “What do you mean! I have heaps and heaps of friends who like me, and are always glad to welcome me—heaps of friends who will agree that your father has behaved abominably, who will take me in and be kind to me.” He turned to the door. “I am glad to hear it. It will relieve me of the responsibility of looking after you.” She followed his retreating figure with fiery eyes. “Why did you come at all if you didn’t know anything of this, as you say!” she'broke out impulsively. “Just to pry on me, I suppose; just to see what I was doing.” Young Rolf turned and looked at her across the room. She made a very attractive picture as she stood there back to the window and th-e rosy sunlight. “I came,” he said quietly, “to see if there was anything I could do to help you. I came as a friend.” A friend,’' she echoed scorn fully. “Yes—in my ignorance,” said Michael bitterly. He opened the door. “But you need not be alarmed,” he added. “I am not likely to repeat the mistake.” And he went out without a word of farewell. Patricia flew to the window, and presently saw him driving away down the road in the same little car in which he had taken her to the station nearly a week ago. Suddenly she began to cry. Everything had gone wrong « with hor, she told herself, sob bing 8tormily. People always say that when for the first time trouble knocks at their door; they are so angry and sorry for themselves that they are firmly convinced that their whole life has been one of suffering and failure. Patricia had never known a moment’s care or responsibility until Peter Rolf’s death; she had lived her life utterly selfishly, and without thought for others; she had grown to believe that it was a state of ihings which could continue indefinitely; the shock of recent events had seem ed like the destruction of her whole world; she felt herself ut terly alone in the ruins of all she had believed to stand for happi ness. If she had been quite honest with herself she would have ad mitted that her greatest erouble now was the fact that she had quarrelled with Michael Rolf and made him dislike her; she could have bitten her tongue through with rage when she re membered how she had told him she would marry the dead man’s son and get his money that way. "What madness could have driven her! She began to pace up and down wringing her hands she knew that now there was very little to hope for from him; he was glad to see her .humbled and disappointed; he would most certainly do nothing to help her in the future. She thought of all the men whom she had known, and whom she might have married; she had dismissed them from her life one after anothert with no thought for them save that they were not good enough ; but.there was still Bernard Chesney. He loved her, poor boy, in spite of everything; and the thought of his devotion warmed her sore heart; he would not fail her, she would show Michael Rolf that she had no need to fall back on him and his reluctant charity. She sat down to write to Ber nard. For once in her life she felt a genuine affection for him; he would take care of her; he would save her from the hideous night mare o? a future which was ly ing in wait. The , Chesneys had plenty of money, and he tvas tneir only son. Marriage with him would not be such a bad thing. She managed to f)ut a great deal of sincerity and distress In to her letter; she told him how unhappy she was, and that her one comfort was the thought of his parting words to her; she wanted him—would he come to her has soon as possible! There was nobody else in all the world who cared for her, or how troubled she was..*.. “I suppose you have heard by now that Mr. Milward and Michael Rolf are one and the same,” she wrote. “I never liked him, and now.but I for got that he is your friend. Come to me soon—your very unhappy Patrecia.” She posted the letter and went back to the house feeling more confident and secure. She had arranged her own future without help from Mich ael Rolf, and she would make him furious by engaging herself to his friend. “If ho thinks he can master me, he will see that he is mis taken,” was the thought in her mind, as she settled down to wait happily for Chesney’s reply. He would not write, she was sure. He would come to her. Sho calculated the time. He would get her letter in the morn ing, and of course would start at once—therefore she might ex pect him to lunch. She felt almost happy as she waited. Life was not going to be such a bad thing, after all, if she made the most of its op portunities. The morning brought her a letter from Mr. Philips. He had had a visit from Michael Rolf, it appeared, and was very sur prised to find that he had been in England for some months. “He tells me,” so he wrote, “that he has already met you, and that you have spoken to gether about his father’s will. I am sure you will find that the son is prepared to make provi sion for you,‘as I intimated, and he has instructed me that you are to stay on at Clayton Wold as long as you wish, at his ex pense....,.” Patricia crushed the letter in her hand. How dared he so con descend to her? She would not take a farthing of his money, or spend one night more in his house than she was obliged. She would not answer Mr. Philip’s letter until she could tell him that she was to be married. She would not communicate with Michael at all—he could find out for himself if he was in any way interested. She ordered an extravagant lunch for Chesney, and when she thought it was about time for him to arrive she went down the driva to meet him. It was a dull, thundery sort of day, sunless and oppressive. The road that wound away to the village looked dusty and dry, and though Patricia walked to the drive gates a dozen times there was no sign, of Chesney. At two o’clock she was hun gry, so had her lunch alone. “Mr Chesney’s ear has prob ably broken down,” she told the maid* conscious of the girl’s surprised look. “He can have lunch later, when he comes.” But Chesney did not come, and Patricia had her tea alone also. “He must be away,” she ex cused him to herself. “They will have to send my letter on to him. He will wire directly when he gets it.” But the day passed and there was no message of any sort, and Patricia began to feel angry. “Michael Rolf has seen him,” was the thought that leapt to her mind. “Michael Rolf has said something to prevent him from coming.” one cried herself to sleep that night. They were only tears of anger. She really cared nothing for Chesney, biijt she felt thoroughly miserable, and she longed to see him, even if only that he might give her back her poise and confidence. t It seemed, an endless time since she had left him that day by the' river. She told herself in depression that she felt ten years older than she had done when he lay at her feet and the gramophone played across tho water. When she said she lubb’d me, she didn’t speak true: Bo I’m off with the old lub, an’ on wid the new. The silly lines beat through her head as she fell asleep, and were still haunting her when she awoke; she Was thankful when the maid brought tea and letters. Patricia sat up eagerly among her pillows; she did not hear the girl’s “Good morning”—she was sorting the little heap of letters through with trembling hands. Was there—would there be.... Then she sank back with a little sigh of relief, for there was one in Bernard Chesney *s writing. Now everything would be ex plained and arranged, and she would be able to write to Mr. Philips. Already she began to think of her wedding—necessarily quiet It would have to be, unfortun ately! She drank her tee, pull ed the pillow more comfortably {beneath her head and opened her letter. It began: “Dear Miss Rolf....” and. for a moment Patricia’s heart seemed to stop beating. What was the meaning of it t He had always called her by her Christian name. She for ced herself to read on:— “I am dreadfully sorry that I shall not be able to come and see you, as I should very much like to do, or to answer your kind letter in the way which I feel it should be answered, but by the ‘ time this reaches you I shall be on my way to America, where I am going on business for my father’s firm. I should have written to tell you before, but /everything has been arranged so suddenly, and I know that you have your own affairs to oc cupy you without being worried by mine. Yes—I knew about Milward, or rather Michael Rolf, as I suppose we must now call him. He is a fine chap and, as you know, one of my greatest friends. Kindest regards.—Your ever sincerely, Bernard Chesney.” Patricia closed her eyes with a little feeling of faintness, it was a dream, she was sure it must be a dream; she was not fully awake yet—soon she would be thoroughly aroused and find this letter just a phantom imagining. She lay quite still, hardly dar ing to breathe; then she opened her eyes desperately, and they fell again on the formal, written words. “.You have your own af fairs to occupy you, without be ing worried bv mine.” She sat up & bed with a stif led exclamation, and the haunt ing song began again in her head: "When he said he lubb’d me, he didn’t speak true/ For he’s off with the ole lub * on wid the new. She hid her face against her clenched hands. Ke had sworn that he loved her, he had said that if she wanted him she had only to send or write, and now.... he had gone to America to es cape her, the whole letter was just a subterfuge, an excuse; it was either that he had no use for her now he knew she had lost her money or—that Michael Rolf had interfered! It was a terrible shock to Patricia’s pride; she felt as if everyone must know about it, and be laughing at her. She stayed indoors all day and refus ed to see anyone. The servants at Peter Rolf’s had never liked Patricia, chiefly because she had never allowed them to do so. but they knew all about the will now, and were vaguely sorry for her. Patricia did not want pity. The kindly commiseration in the eyes of the maid who waited up on her scorched her pride. That she should have coma to this! That Bernard Chesney, who once would have been beside himself with joy at the thought of mar rying her should have gone to the other side of the world to escane the now doubtful honour. In the evening a letter came from Michael Rolf; he was stay ing in town, he told her, but should be coming down to Clay ton Wold in a day or two. In the meantime he had seen hid lawyer and had arranged to al low PatrMa five hundred a year and to give her the freehold of a small house about a mile from, Clayton Wold. “You will not be separated, from your friends if you live there—’’ so he wrote. “And of course, I will have the place done up for you and made as nice as possible. I hope this will be an agreeable arrangement.” (Continued Next Week THE HIGHLAND LILT. Down In the sunny Strand The ragged fiddler played, And he took my heart In his hand. And away it strayed To the old North-oountry land. For he fiddled an old 8cots tune Than sang of a Highland hill And the hope of a Highland June; And the Strand stood still In the lap of the afternoon. i i Out in the London grey He Addled a sunlit burn Dancing Its days away To the lynn at the turn Where the Avon Btarts to the SPey. Whaups hung In the sky; Sheep called in the glen; The red grouse rioted by; Up on the Ben In the corrle the deer stood high. He fiddled heather and peat, Birk and rowan and fir; fte fiddled my heart a-beat. My pulse a-stlr, And the step of a reel to my feet. For the Highland Road's ahead. And the Summer’s mine to lease So I paid, ere the magio lied. With a silver piece; It should have been gold instead. —H. B. in Punch, London. The With For Hepplneee If ye know these things happy are ye If ye do them.—St. John 13:17. Let me talk of happiness for six days —only one minute a day. The wish for happiness Is natural; all men share It. It Is the law of life itself that every being strives toward the perfection of its kind. Every drop of blood in the bird beats toward flight and song. In a conscious being this move ment toward perfection must take a conscious form. This conscious form is happiness, the rhythm of the Inward life, the melody of a heart that has found its keynote. To say that all men long for this Is simply to confess that all men are human, and thaj their thoughts and feelings are ao essential part of their life. Virtue means a completed manhood. The Joyful welfare of the soul be longs to the fulness of that Ideal. Holiness is wholesome. I* striving to realise the true aim of our being, we find the wish for happiness implanted in the very heart of our effort. Christ alone can teach us how to attain It Fellow Feeling. From the New Tork Sun and Globe. Crebahaw— I always thought you said you would never lend money again. ' Henpeok—But this was to a man-led friend who needed It to keep hie wife away in the country another month. Worthy A Better Cauee From the Philadelphia Record. Muggins—Hardupn«- says the bill collectors are keeping him busy.** Buggina—res. the ingenuity that fel low displays In dodgUg creditors would make his fortune in any other line of Industry. Watoh Outl From the American Legion Weekly. First Pickpocket: "Wanna buy a watch. Red?" Second Pickpocket: "I dunno. How much Is It wort’?*” First Pickpocket: “SayI Ter don’t think I was sucker enough to stop and ask the guy wot paid for It, do yer? In au out of town story, locating the scene of action, or the principal character by town or state frequently gains a reading from some w ho other wise would miss them la the main point c3 intar*** —— ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ - ■ -- 1 Tide* Too Low for Power. The scarcity of coal since the French Invasion of the Ruhr valle*has set the Germans to thinking of ways to nse the force of the tides for power. The chief difficulty seems to be that; the north coast of Germany Is very flat and consequently that the avail able head of water is too low for prao> tlcal use.—Scientific American. Never Too Old. Alice—As people grow old I like to. see them still keep up with the fash-, Ions. Agnes—Yes, we never grow too old to acquire the latest wrinkle. Boy, the Anatomical Chart. Divorce report—“Mrs. Snyder told the court that her husband hit her in the bakery and broke her gas range.** —Boston Transcript, • Litle Tommy. "Then you like your geography?” “Yes, it Is the only book big enough to hide a detective story.” i Some ny^exert themselves more In trying to mow a dollar than in try ing to earn one. 1 To make the day pleasant, study what you say; and don’t study what others say—too much. Yesterday is dead—forget It; to morrow doesn’t exist—don’t worry; today Is here—use it! Women enjoy wearing tight clothes because It makes them feel so good when they take them off. • Not the man who knows the most, but the man who knows the best Is wisest. Every man has a grievance and hq will tell you all about it on the ieast| provocation. Girls who make the greatest exer tions to catch husbands are usually! last In the race. Roads to happiness and to misery frequently run parallel. Any woman can marry any man shq wants—If he 1b willing. One must be Imposed upon more o* less, but that sort of thing is recipro* cal. > . ■ —!- " -I