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
