CHRISTABEL

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 66, Issue 304, 5 October 1946, Page 7

CHRISTABEL

BY PEARL BELLAIRS

Serial Story:

(Copyright)

CHAPTER XIII. HEWITSON AGAIN “Dr. Hewitson?” Christabel echoed, when they told her that he was coming to see her. “Hewitson?’’ ; Her whole being seemed to respond wih an echo of old emotion; but still she could connect no face or personality with the name. “Dr. Hewitson is a mental specialist. Don’t worry your head trying to remember. It will all come back!” said the nurse. She fell into a doze, and then opened her eyes at a slight sound—and there he was, smiling down at her. She had not heard him come with the sister. “Hello!” he said. • “Hello!” echoed Christabel, faintly smiling.' She knew his face. She knew he u T as the Hewitson they had spoken of. The sight of his face, the live gaze of his blue eyes, was like a shock to her whole system, wakening her to new life ....

He held out his hand and she, raised hers to take it. But he saw the distress which followed the startlfed interest in her eyes—- “ You don’t know me?”

“I know you!” She tried to say more, but shook her head, staring at him with eyes from which the old look of subtle secrecy had utterly faded, leaving them two dark pools of liquid innocence.

Hfe still held her hand and she showed no desire to draw hers away. “My name is Hewitson.” “Yes, I know.” “Oh, so you do know that!” Their hands parted. He sat down in the chair at the bedside, his brows knitted, a warmth in his eyes which increased her confidence. “I don’t remember much,” she said. “You mustn’t worry about that. That will go.” “I know you, but ” she broke off helplessly. “We were both working at clinic in Bering Street before you came down to Kent,” he explained. “I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything. My mother came to see me, and I remembered her after a while. I remember other things in my childhood. and I remember going to school. But I don’t know anything later than that. Except that the doctor told me that somebody told, him where I was working, and that I was married.” “Married?” It was Hewitson’s turn to look taken aback. , ■ “Yes, and my husband died. I’m a widow. But I don’t remember any of it.” She began to look distressed, while all the time her gaze was fixed on his face with a kind of timid curiosity. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Hewitson said. “You see I only knew you for a month or two and you never told me anything about yourself. But you really mustn’t think about all that. It will come back!”

“But there’s something I want to remember,” she said, and a thrill of fear ran through her, an eluding memory which fled like a shadow and left her blank.

. She felt a vague disappointment, because she. had assumed that lie was someone she knew really well. Yet the atmosphere was electric,- his smiling eyes seemed to be holding hers with intention ; in her weak state she felt helplessly possessed by his confident vitality. “All sorts, of things might he happening; things I ought to know about. she looked searchingly at Hewitson himself, as though she thought there might be things about him that she had forgotten. MILLIONAIRE VISITOR

He guessed her difficulty and smiled equivocally, as though he did not intend to enlighten her on that point immediately. “We shall have to re-educate you!”

It pleased him to see the blush of colour in her pale face, and her eyes, half startled, half shy, fall before his. His conscience stricken doubt as to whether he was behaving in a manner best suited to an invalid made him pull himself up. “No, but —I mean, shall I always be like this?” 1 “Not at all. Some part of the associational system in your mind has been put out of action by the blow on the head. It might have been destroyed, but that isn’t a likely supposition. In a few weeks, if you take care of yourself, you’ll be as well as ever.” He spoke seriously, while her eyes grew blacker and blacker, Wondering, fixed on his. He added with a smile, to take her mind off the subject: “The tables are turned on you, aren’t 'they?” “Why?” “You used to be something of a mystery to me—now you’re a mystery to yourself!” He left her knowing that he had unintentionally created an illusion in her mind. She believed, one could see it, that they had been on better terms than was actually the case. The only result of this embarrassing fact was to make him extraordinarily light-hearted. The day after Hewitson’s visit, Arthur Cavanagh, who had been getting daily reports of Christabel’s progress through his secretary, paid her a visit in person. He arrived on Christabel’s balcony accompanied by the matron, for the children’s ward of the hospital had been built with his donation, and his visit caused a stir in the place. The matron, carrying the great bunch of crimson roses he had brought for the patient, was all deferential smiles. Christabel could only stare and smile politely, and lie embracing the bunch or roses which the matron put into her arms. His visit, and the roses, were things she must accept as a matter of course, and hope that they would explain themselves later. “This is very gratifying,”' said Cavanagh. “I hope you are feeling much better. I can assure you you were a very frightening sight indeed when I brought you here —wasn’t she, matron? And no\fr you look no more than a recovering invalid!” “I am better, thank you,” said Christabel. “It was very kind of you to come.” She understood who he was and felt more at ease. “Not kind at all!” said Cavanagh, looking round for a chair, which the matron put'beside him, “I was im-

pressed by your heroism! I shall never forget how We saw you throw yourself across the road to save the little girl. It was most magnificent!” “It’s very kind of you to say so; but whether I deserve it or not, I can’t very well say, because I remember nothing about it.” “Your memory is still affected?” asked Cavanagh, looking at her gravely. “I don’t remember very much,” was all Christabel would say. (To be Continued).