The Cotton Factory Times. — 1907-09-20 (Manchester, Greater Manchester, England)

ESTHER MILLER.  CHAPTER XVIII. "FIND THAT MAN FOR ME." Roderick, chained by the leg to a sofa, bore his captivity with a better grace then might have expected. . . .  On the evening of the accident he had been assisted upstairs by a couple of men servants; this morning he was brought down, like a baby, to the small apartment known as the "den," where his breakfast was served on a tray, and his grandfather and Isobel came to visit him. He ought to have been on his way to London. It was somewhat remarkable that he should haves been kept at home on this day of all days by a mishap which does not occur once in a lifetime. He sighed—not sadly—resignedly. Was be, in fact, a little relieved at being spared that farewell interview with Arthur which he had promised to his conscience as a penance? Be did not own it; he preferred to humbug himself, but the words he must have raid had been easier to write than to epeak, despite his protestations. "You have now done all that could have been expected of you in the matter; rest in peace," the morning sunshine said to him. He watched a thrush digging for worms among the flower beds, and listened to the sound of a distant lawn-mower, with a drowsy sense of mental and physical recuperation. He had had a wearying time lately, and there was more to come. This was an entr'acte. As soon as he could stand on his feet he would be seeing Angela again and feeling the necessity of a new battle with his grandfather. Isobel was very kind to him. She fluttered in and out like a timid bird, bringing all sorts of things that she thought he might like—fruit and flowers, newspapers and books, his letters, her snapshot camera. Roderick photographed her, and Alice, and the dogs, in all sorts of attitudes, with the feeling of playing the fool on the edge of a precipice. "Are you amusing the invalid?" asked Sir James, entering on his return from his afternoon drive, "'Phat's right, Isobel !" . . .  Isobel blushed, as usual, but nobody noticed her, because at that moment a servant brought Roderick a note. It was from Angela, who had just reached home.  "Arthur received the letter," she wrote, "and was so sorry. Miserable accident, poor ankle! How could you be so clumsy, my dear, dear one? And you are suffering, and I cannot come to see you, for I dare not beard that terrible grandfather of yours again without a special invitation. My fondest love."  Roderick looked up at the end to find his grandfather watching him. Yes, truly he was a terrible old man.  "From whom is your note?" he asked. "From Miss Kenyon," replied Roderick, emboldened by anger. "She has returned home from seeing tier brother off." "Au, he has gone; that is some comfort. It annoyed me even to pass him on the road," growled Sir James. "I should choose my friends more carefully another time, if I were you." • Roderick did not reply; he was sullen, and tired of the subject. "If I leave off defending, he will leave off attacking," the young man told himself. "He only harps on it because he thinks I care." He maintained the attitude of indifference until it became natural. In silence he listened to his grandfather's bitterest allusions to the absent Arthur. What had formerly annoyed him beyond endurance ceased to sting. His conscience slept. Arthur was gone; it really mattered so little, and it only ruffled Sir James to be contradicted. The first day he could put his foot to the ground easily he ordered the dogcart and drove round to Holmwood. "Oh, Angela. how I have missed you!" he said. She had made much of him, as though he had  come back to her from the dead; but despite the joy of reunion there MWB a shadow of care on her brow.  " What do you mean?" he asked, quickly. "About Arthur." Her voice sank. 'You know, Roderick! It isn't true, is it? It can't be!" " What have you heard?" "Mrs. Wells, the doctor's wife, was here this afternoon. She has been away on a visit. You know what a oat the woman is! She congratulated us on Arthur's departure. Everyone was so sorry for my mother, she said, and it was such a drawback to me. Young men never thought of their families when they disgraced themselves. I asked her what she meant, and she said that Arthur had been poor Coralie's lover, and it was his 1,4 d behaviour which had driven her to suicide. Everybody knew it; and it was only kindness—mistaken kindness, she thought —which had kept the story from my mother and myself so long. We might ha-re given him good advice if we had been told in time. Oh, Roderick, the blood left my heart and rushed to my face." He took her hand and bent to kiss it. "Don't cry," he begged in a low voice. "I've never seen you cry."  "I told her it was a gross untruth; that my brother could not have treated any woman so badly, that he might be careless, but there was no real harm in him. And she smiled at me, the old mischief-maker, with her false teeth. It was quite natural, she said, that I should defend, and that my mother should defend him; unfortunatly, nobody would acquit him until the right man was found." He kissed her hand again.  " Confound the woman: w'hy did she tell you," ho said, passionately. "I hoped you would never know."  "My mother is terribly upset," said Angela, "and so am I. We shall never rest until this dreadful stain is cleared from his name. We know he is innocent, of course; we know he couldn't have been cruel; he is the best-hearted boy alive, but there are so many stupid people who don't understand, and like to think the worst of everyone. Roderick, we are two women, and he is gone. You must help us." "How?" he asked. "I would do anything for you, Angola." The girl's eyes flashed, and her voice rang. 'Find that man for me!" she cried.