EDEN FOR PROFIT

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 60, Issue 249, 29 July 1940, Page 7

EDEN FOR PROFIT

\ By SYLVESTER CAIRN ::

(Copyright).

g Romantic Interest in Rural Background. fe

CHAPTER XXVI. THE BORN OLD MAID.

simply lost her head and she had always prided herself on being levelheaded.

What a fool she had been! She had loved David Jardyne all along and she had sent him away. She felt that she had been a child and now she had grown up. She knew now that she loved David Jardyne, not as a child loves, but as a woman loves.

Then, too, there was a sense of shyness at the thought of David. liverytiling had changed, and this new feeling] was so different from their old cool friendship that it almost frightened her. She looked at the shipping news each day—when Audrey was out of the room. At last she saw it, the Rajah bad reached Marseilles. He Awnild have got her letter by now. What would he think of it, and what would he do? She felt she could not endure the slow passage of the days. But work had to go on, just the same. And Phyl refused to waste time for au emotional crisis. This was a busy season, and there was plenty to occupy both hands and mind. She did not know how long letters would take, but she fancied about three days would elapse before she could hear, possibly longer. Winter promised to set in early; October ended with a. wild gale which, ripped the felt from several hen-houses. So Phyl had to start repairs. She got the felt cut and nailed on one day, and was to do the tarring next. It was a messy job, one which Audrey loathed, so Phyl took it on. She started soon after breakfast, putting on an old jumper and patched breeches, and only iioped no customers would arrive until she had got clean. She hated being caught in a mess, but the harder she worked, the sooner she would be through with it. Tar splashed her bare arms and spluttered in her face. Her hair blew into her eyes and was pushed, back with a tarry hand. But the work got on. She had no idea what time it was when she heard a voice. She started and nearly fell off the roof; it came from behind her, so she could not see the speaker. It sounded such a familiar voice, she would have sworn she could not have been mistaken; but she must be, for the owner of that voice could not possibly be here. She had been thinking of jiim so much that any deep voice would have made her think of him.

But what could she do? By her own incredible folly she had dismissed him. She had been angry with him for spoiling a friendship which she now saw had been imaginary. It had been so much more on both sides. David had seen that if she had not. But the “liajah” had sailed that morning. She had seen it in the shipping news, and even that had failed to open her eyes. But they were open now and she had sent him away. Those words sounded like a knell, tolling in merciless reiteration. The smooth dark head drooped despairingly. Then she stiffened. David had left open a door to happiness. He had asked her to write. Indeed he had made her promise. “If you change your mind,” he had said; but she had been so sure she would not. Perhaps he had known her better than she knew herself. It would be hard to write. It would have been so much easier to see him— and so much easier still if only she had had the sense'to know she loved him when he asked her! But she could not see him, for the “Rajah” was steaming further and further through the night, taking David away from her. She jumped up, letting an indignant Mickey roll unheeded to the floor. Audrey was not in yet; was still saying goodbye to Rollo! Phyl’s smile was sympathetic. It it had been her and David the whole night would not have been too long! She would write at once before she let herself think how hard it would be to express her meaning. iShe would address it to the shipping office at Marseilles. She did not stop to think, but set down breathless incoherent sentences of explanation and of love; of longing to see him or hear from him. She stopped at last, nen poised and found she was breathing fast as if she had been running.

She could hardly bear to dispel the illusion. She dipped her brush in the tar again and took a long sweeping stroke down the roof.

The door opened and Audrey came in. “Hullo, writing?” She sounded surprised. “Yes, A letter I wanted to get off to-night.” She scrawled her name at the foot, and bundled the sheets together. “Rollo’s gone,” announced Audrey unnecessarily.

“Phyl,” said the voice again—“Phyl my-dear!” and no other masculine voice would have said that!

She swung round; the tar-pot upset, its contents trickling impartially round her knees and over the roof. There he stood, David Jardyne, looking just the same as ever—or younger and more eager, his eyes raised to hers, his rough, dark hair uncovered.

“He didn’t hurry.” Phyl tried to bring her thoughts back to the present as she wrote the address.

“Oh!—it can’t be you!” “It is. And is that all you’re going to say—after I’ve come- Aren’t you coming down to me?” She had been afraid of seeing him; had fancied she would lie shy of this new David. But she was not. It was just the same David—or was it? Anyhow, it was the David she wanted. “Davy!” Unconsciously she used his mother’s pet-name. She slid from her perch and found herself almost in his arms.

She folded the letter untidily, and crammed it into the envelope. She did not read it over; if she did it would sound exaggerated and sentimental. But she meant it all and more.

“Shall I post it?” Audrey held out her hand.

“No thanks. I’ll be glad of a breath of air. Come on, Mickey. She flung on a coat and hurried down the road to the pillar-box at the end of the row of cottages. She was glad to escape from Audrey. She felt her fact would betray her, unless Audrey was blind to all sensations save her own! She felt curiously, intensely alive, every nerve tingling with strange exultation. She dropped the letter into the box, then she raced Mickey up the road to the bungalow. - Audrey had so much to talk about that she never even noticed Phyl’s abstraction. Indeed, if Phyl had wanted to talk, Audrey would scarcely have listened . . . They were to be married quite soon—there was nothing to hinder them—very quiet wedding and go abroad “together” said Audrey softly. But Phyl was not listening either— New fears assailed her. What if David had not meant that he would always love her ? What if he had not meant her to write and had only asked her as a sort ofmeaningless convention P What if he thought her unwomanly to write as she had done? Ought she to have been cooler and more non-com-mittal ? But she had written as she felt, and she would do it again rather than lose him! Now she could understand Suzanne . . . Suzanne had lied and stolen to try to win the man she loved—and she had failed. She, Phyl, had not been called upon to behave like that, but who knew what she would have done? And what would he do? She supposed he would write. He could hardly change all his plans and come back; it would look so queer. How soon could she hear. She felt terribly ignorant; she did not even know when the Ilajah was due at Marseilles or how long she stayed there. She could not tell if David would have time to write, or if he did how long letters would take. And if he posted at the next port she had no idea when the letter would arrive; she must just bo patient.

Then she drew back, and his eagerness gave place to sudden disappointment.

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you—now you’ve seen me? You haven’t found it was only—friendship, after all?”

“Oh, no, Davy! But it’s the tar — Pm covered with it. Let me change first.”

“As if I cared!” His arms were round her, and her face was in his shoulder. The peaty smell of his tweeds was in her nostrils, and its roughness tickled her cheek. She remembered that night on the moors when she had slept under his jacket. “Phyl—Phyl darling.”' His voice was husky with feeling. “When I got your letter, your marvellous letter, I could hardly believe it! But you 1 did mean it, didn’t you? Or you wouldn’t let me—kiss you? I. couldn’t bear it now—if you didn’t.” She raised her face, and her snxile was tremulous.

“Davy darling, I’m an idiot, an unspeakable idiot; I can’t think why you want to marry me? Or do you. still?” He laughed down at her. “You absurd child; Would I have

She wondered when she -would see him, not until spring she supposed. But if he wrote, letters would be better than nothing. And she could have had himself if only she had not been so unbelievably foolish! Luckily Audrey ascribed her silence or spurts of sudden gaiety to other causes and w'ould stop in the middle of a sentence to say. “Phyl darling, you do understand, don’t you, even if you’ve never been in love?”

Phyl laughed and said nothing. Days dragged on. Nlayer had time passed so slowly. Audrey, bursting with happiness, chattered of her future hers and Polio’s, and, visited with sudden compunction, would add irrelevantly in the midst of some other topic. “Phyl darling, you know how I just hate to leave you. But you don’t mind being alone. You aren’t like me.” Phyl’s moods changed. Her usually equable temper was completely upset. One moment she would be wildly exultant in the thought that David loved her, hugging the precious secret as a treasure to* her heart. The next sudden fear would fall on her that he might not want her now—that hexletter had been so badly expressed he did not understand it. Why hadn’t she read it over? It would still have reached Marseilles in time. She had

come home to tell you I’d changed my mind?”

She pushed him hack and looked at him.

“But—Davy—T can’t believe it’s really believe it’s you. I’m seeing these tilings because I wanted you so! You can’t have got here so soon, not till to-morrow at the earliest. I worked it all out.”

“It really is me,” ho assured her—and kissed her again top rove it “Isn’t that real? You’re old-fashioned Didn’t you think of flying home.” “Davy—you didn’t?”

“I couldn’t, waste one unnecessary hour,” he told her, “We’ve wasted too many as it is.” “You call yourself old! You’re the most impetuous person I 1 know and you always will be!” “Tell me, Phyl,” his arm was stillround her, as if he could not bear to let her go, “when did you find out—”

“You mean how silly I’d been, though you’re too polite to say so? I think I found out as soon as I’d sent you away, I knew i wanted you hack.” “Phyl darling, there’s no one like you!” “Perhaps,” said Phyl gravely, “I’m not. a born old maid after all. I was so sure I was 1 don’t think I’d let myself fall in love. And I think I was afraid of—of all it meant. Now I’m not,” she added softly.

“Born old maid?” lie scoffed. “You ridiculous child, you hadn’t grown up.” “I’ve grown up now. David. When I think how nearly everything went wrong—because I was silly—it frightens me. You know,” she added, “I think I loved you all along, from the very first, only I wouldn’t admit it. You see I didn’t mean to, because I didn’t want to fall in love.” She sounded almost indignant.

“I don’t care whether you wanted to or not, as long as you did!” “Oh—there’s Audrey.” Phyl. withdrew from his arms. “How she’ll laugh!” •

“Do you mind?” !His air was teas-

ing. “Of course not. I can afford 1 to laugh at myself, now I’ve got you back. Come along, we’ll have to tell her.” David wiped a smear of tair from his cheek, and looked down at sundry black streaks on his tweeds. “Hardly necessary, I should think,” he remarked, “unless she’s blind.” (THE END.)