FOR LOVE OF BETTY

Auckland Star, Volume LIII, Issue 37, 9 March 1922, Page 11

FOR LOVE OF BETTY

BY MAY CHRISTIE

LIX-—A WCMAX HATER? Jack Trevor was in a thoroughly bad temper. Everything in the whole world seemed conspiring together lo make him miserable. Tt was a week now since he had written Betty (Jordon—a dreary week in which bo had run through the whole gamut of emotions. For Betty had left his letter unanswered. "And I wrote it -straight from my heart," Trevor told himsulf wretchedly. Was ehe never going to write to him at all? Anything—anything was better than this suspense. Each evening when hi* business was completed, he had hurried back to Mrs. MacTurk'e quaint rooming-house, a desperate hope in his heart. Kach evening he had been doomed to bitter disappointment. And now, as he eat in the fearsome apartment set specially aside for his particular use, with the rain dripping depressedly against the windows, he felt that li!e was stale, flat and unprofitable, and offered him now nothing but an endless stretch r>f melancholy days. "You're looking pale, Mr. Trevor," liroke in the sympathetic voice of Mrs. Mac Turk. '"This house is toe quiet for you, perhaps.' , "Eh? IVhat'e that?" Trevor turned round with a start. Hi; thoughts had been miles away. "I'm savins; you're not looking well— kind of piqued and pale and thin. Just the way my father looked before he died—begging your pardon for saying so."" Mrs. MacTurk"s honest face was filled ■with grave concern. "Perhaps you're moping for company?" she went on. "'l'wish there were more young folks in the house —some young ladies, to cheer you up." "Heavens forbid!" The, words broke sharply from Trevor. Then he gave a faint, amused smile at his own vehcmenct , - "You—you're not a woman hater, are you, Mr. Trevor?" Mrs. Mac Turk was regarding him with the Fame perky infjiiisitivenes3 a≤ one of her own stuffed, glass-encased fowls. "Perhaps T am—l've cause to be—" Trevor pulled himself up suddenly. '"It's liver, that's what it is—-and the depressing weather." The kindly landlady beamed down nt hhn. "I'll go and make you a cup of tea —that'll do you all th<': good in the world." Sue bustled oft" on her officious mission. "Do I really look ill?" Jack asked himself, taking a melancholy pleasure in the question. Hd glanced across the room at his reflection in an old-fashioned mirror. The ancient glass gave back a greenish image that was almost startling. '•'Heavens! Do I really look as bad is tliat?" Trevor rose hastily and peered into the mirror's depths. Yes, the face reflected there looked most extraordinary. The young man failed to gra&p the fact that the fauit lay in the cracked old glass, and not in his own tanned and healthy countenance. A wave of self-pity swept over him. Something serious must be the matter with him to make him look like tliat, Mrs. Mac Turk might be garrulous, but even she had noticed his altered looks. Yes, he did feel queer now he came to think of it. '•Didn't I feel a pain this morning somewhere in my chest?" He searched his mind for the unhappy recollection.

He couldn't locate the pain just at the moment . . that was unfortunate . . . perhaps it would come on again, if he fixed hie mind carefully upon it. What particular ailment could turn one to a vivid green, such as the mirror reflected? Heart-disease? Yes —an uncle had died of that! Jove, now he came to think of it, the'pain this morning had been somewhere in the region of the heart. Hereditary, no doubt. Reposing upon the topmost shelf of a mahogany atrocity which Mrs. MacTurk proudly referred to as a "whatnot," lay a medien! book entitled "Symptoms." Trevor knew that the good lady took a ghoulish delijrht in (he perusal of thie volume. And now lie could not resist opening its pages. He rather hoped that he was going to die. Like the average healthy young man who has been "crossed in love," he had a passing feeling that the sooner fate moved him from a callous world, the better. "There's no one in the world to care whether T live or die.' , he told himself. "It wouldn't make the slightest difference to anyone!" His money? Yes; that had been his only asset—in other people'e eyes. '■'It hasn't brought mc any happiness, anyhow!" He ei^hed —and there was a hint of the melodramatic in that sigh. Trevor had completely forgotten for the time being, the many delightful holidays, trip;, parties arid voyages, which his money had made possible. "Betty Gordon wasn't attracted by my dollars, anyho.v!" A sudden thought possessed him, and he sprang to his feet. He had it,'. Strange how he had never thought of such a tiling before! "In spite of all that's happened, she's the most di-sinterested girl I've ever known!" Yes, he would do it—it would be heaping coals of fire on her head, if anything happened to him! And there wasn't anyone else in the whole world that he cared to benefit. He would draw up a will—in Betty's favour!

Author of "The Uarriage of ,A.ume," "Betont , ! Married Life" mi "At OupitTe CaU."

LX.—THE WILL. TrevoT was a young man of action, and in a twinkling of time he was seated at the window, pen and ink and paper before him, and writing busily. "If anything happens to mc, she'll be rich—and, I hope, happy!" He went on writing. furious how strong and well he felt now he actually came to think of it! This little act of fchoughfulness, of generosity, had cheered him up wonderfully. The pain thie morning had surely been indigesti-on?\ How much better for Betty and himself to share thie money—together? Still, he would do the thing properly. He rose, thrusting his boyish head out into the now darkening passage and calling for his landlady. "I'm coming, sir!"" Mrs. Mac Turk. breathed heavily in her hasty scuffle to the summons. HeT large, round eyes opened to an alarming extent when she heard the reason of the said summons—the witnessing of a will. , "But you aren't going to die, sir!" she expostulated. I only meant, you looked a 'bit seedy, that w»s all!" Trevor smiled. "It's time I made a will, anyhow," he answered. "Could you get a friend to act as second witness?" "My sister's with me—she'e a nurse in the hospital near here—shell sign with pleasure, sir!" Mrs. Mac Turk was all a-flutter. The romance of the occasion appealed to her kindly, sentimental heart. So he was going to leave his money to a lady—all of it, too! Yes, she h*d felt sure there was a woman in the case. "'l'm sure I hope she's worthy of you, Mr. Trevor!" she remarked at the conclusion of the little ceTemony. "I'll take it to a lawyer's to-morrow and see if it's all in order," he answered vaguely, not heeding her observation. In the corner of the room stood an oldfashioned cabinet, with two drawers at the top. TrevoT took a long, deep 'breath. Betty, deserving or undeserving of his forethought, was amply provided for. 'The worst can happen to mc now," he said. "And it would foe a good thing for her if it did." There "w»a a sudden sharp knock at the front door of the house. Trevor's heart stood momentarily still, then leaped and bounded. A quick and curious premonition swept over him—Betty had written and her letter was even now arriving. With thrdbbing pulses he heard his landlady go to the door and open it, discoursing pleasantly with the postman. Confound the woman! Was she never going to bring the letter to him? He knew—knew for a certainty that the epistle was for him. "Here you are, sir." The envelope was thrust into his hand. He shut the parlour door quickly, hurrying to the window, so that h« might get the 'last rays of fading light. His heart sank into his boots. The" envelope was typewritten! But stop! The postmark was that of Betty's village. What could it mean? Betty was ill, and someone had written to tell Mm! Betty had met with an accident? Betty was—dead? •He sank into a chair, hie breath coming and going miserably. He hadn't the courage to tear the letter open. The whole of his future life depended on tihis letter! A eudden ray of hope illuminated Ms face. Hadn't he seen a typewriter tucked away in a corner of "the Red Cottage? Hadn't Betty said something about it belonging to her aunt? The letter, then, was from her aunt? That pointed to the worst! Betty herself was unable to write to him. He wrenched the letter out of its envelope . . . his eye hunted desperately for the signature . . . ah! there it was—"Betty Gordon." Waves of happy relief swept over him . . . Betty herself had -written! There was silence in the parlour, then —a deep, unbroken silence.

'"Dear Mr. Trevor," he was reading slowly. "Your letter from Maine reached ma safely, though I confess I was somewhat surprised at its tone. You must really understand that those ridiculous expressions of love only amise mc- —and do not impress mc in the least. I admit I was rather sentimental, when with you—but I'm afraid that absence doen't really make the heart grow fonder. On the contrary!" Something fluttered from the envelope to the floor. Stooping, Trevor picked it up. His face was very white, and a sound as of a roaring torrent was in his ears. He stared incredulously at the little snapshot which Betty had enclosed. Heavens, was it possible? Betty—in Charlie Davon's arms! Trevor's castle of romance—his hopes and happiness—had toppled to the gTound. (To be continued daily.)