A MODERN GIRL

Auckland Star, Volume LV, Issue 116, 17 May 1924, Page 28

A MODERN GIRL

By PATRICIA LEIGH.

CHAPTER XXIV. Tbe flat looked strangely bare now that all the personal odds and ends had been either packed or else put away. Two medical students had taken it for the next three months, but now it was ready for them, Joyce was depressed by the forlorn aspect of tbe rooms. Colia had left two days earlier to be officially received by Penman's aunt as his fiancee. Their engagement was to last only a few months, and Celia was confidently expecting Joyce to be back in time to help her with her wedding preparations. Joyce looked wistfully round the flat now it was all ready for the new tenants. She was wilfully cutting herself adrift from the old life. She was giving up, for the time at any rate, the one place she could call home. And for wluit? She shivered involuntarily, and, in an endeavour to throw off the depression which threatened to engulf her, resolutely locked her trunk and hat-box. Tn another five minutes she would have to go out to fetch a taxi. At Victoria Station Ackroyd would lie awaiting her with two tickets for Paris. She refused to look any further than the actual journey to France. She had burned her boats. The last ten days had been fully occupied by preparations for departure; there had been no time for reflection. She had fallen completely under the spell of Ackroyd; her very will power had been paralysed. Nervously she put on her hat and nrranped her veil. Putting her toilet things into her dressing case, she locked it up. threw her travelling coat over her trunk and, without another glance round the familiar walla, she ran quickly down the stairs. Once in the taxi panic again seized her. She bit her lip as she felt the warm tears rise to her eyes. An insane desire possessed her to make the taxidriver stop while she explained to him that she would not go to Victoria station after nil; she had changed her mind, she would rather go to Euston or Paddington. But the taxi sped swiftly, relentlessly on its way. Ackroyd was waiting for her at the station. She distinguished his tall figure among the crowd the moment she got out of the taxi. He hurried towards her, and at once took possession of her luggage. Outwardly he was very calm, and had all his habitual nonchalance. "Here you are!" was his greeting. 11l look after your luggage. It's all here! I have kept a corner seat in the train. It's fearfully crowded, I'm afraid, but it' 9 only a short run after all. I suppose I'd better keep your tickets, hadn't I?" "Yes. Thanka so much," murmured Joyce, overwhelmed afresh by a feeling of helplessness. Some part of her seemed to be detached, and to be standing by her side, looking on with a puzzled interest. Was she really going to Paris with Ackroyd. Had she come to the end of her old life? Her brain became numb; Paris, Ackroyd. She kept repeating these two words to herself until they both became meaningless, a mere confusion of letters and sounds. She followed Ackroyd along the platform as if in a trance. "Oh, anything, I don't really mind. Something light," she heard herself saying in a slightlybored drawl in reply to his query about what she would Ijjce to read. After settling her in the corner of the railway carriage he left to go to the book-stall. A feeling of relief stole over Joyce when he disappeared' in the hurrying throng. It was a respite. It astonished her to find that she desired above all things to be alone. She wanted to think. The past ten days had raced past, every moment filled with petty details that could not be ignored. There had been the flat to let and to make ready for the incoming tenants: shopping to be done, innumerable small preparations to be made. And now it was all over. She was face to face with a new life—a strange, forbidden life. The carriage began to fill up. An elderly clergyman was safely shepherded to hia place by an anxious-looking daughter, _ho seemed loath to see her reverend parent depart for the Continent. A young husband and wife who looked as if they were starting on their honeymoon took their places. Joyce studied them with interest. The wife was a girl of about twenty, wearing a very new and shiny wedding ring. Joyce's heart contracted. She wondered what her own history would have been if, when she was the same age as this innocent looking girl, she had married a certain naval man who had been the first man to enter her life. She heard that he waa very happy, and had two lovely children, a boy and a girl. All at once she felt very worldstained, and envied the fearless and confiding girl who once had been herself. Her reverie was broken by Ackroyd's return. "I've brought several things along for you," he cried cheerily, dropping a 6heaf of illustrated papers and magazines into her lap. I She gave hini a long and searching look as she thanked him. The odd feeling of detachment, of being a disembodied spirit standing by her own side and looking on, still persisted. What this outsider, who somehow seemed to be her real self, or possibly the self-that-might-have-been saw was a beautiful but sophisticated woman running away with a man whose good looks were marred by selfishness. There was much slamming of carriage doors; cries of good-bye. The guard blew his whistle, and Victoria Station slid with growing rapidity behind them. Dreary backs of squalid houses flashed by as the train settled into a steady swing; then at last they emerged into sunlight and the open country. Joyce stared out- of the window, letting her thoughts race. She felt no elation now that she was about to cast in her lot with Ackroyd. His glamour had insensibly begun to fade a little. She began to see his faults very distinctly. He was extremely egotistical for one thing. And although he never denied himself anything so far as his personal comfort was concerned, he did not tip generously. She had noticed certain petty meannesses before, but they had never struck her as they, did that day. Then, too, he was so terribly complacent. Joyce almost heard him saying: "Oh, well, poor little girl, she was really very fond of ma." Would that, later on, become his attitude toward her? Her cheeks flushed at the verj thought.

Joyce tried to put herself in the wife's place. Suppose she had been married —say to Ackroyd—and discovered that her husband was in love with another woman, wouldn't she place 50 per cent of the blame on the uonian for encouraging a married man to make , love to her. Where was it, in reality, that Vera had failed? i Facing cold facts, did she really con--1 sider that Ackroyd or his wife was to blame for their domestic troubles? Yet she was risking everything for 1 the sake, of Ackroyd. Could she ! expect any better treatment from I him than " he had given his wife? j Though she did not recognise it, the ! root of Joyce's trouble lay in the fact I that she now lacked confidence in Acki royd. She could not place a blind trust 1 in him. And as the train purred on, . flying across the green fields with a j stendy rhythm, she did begin to doubt , her own love for him. I This flight—for it had ceased to be a I journey—had more of shame than ecstacy : in it. It was not the supreme moment, she felt, for which she had always longed; this was not the perfect happiness of which she had dreamed. She was cutting herself off from her frieds, from her old life—for what? The other people in the carriage began to stir, and collect their belongings. Ackroyd looked across and smiled at her, with, "she fancied, a hint of patronage. ] "Not feeling tired already?" he asked. j ' . wish now that we had gone by aero- ' plane, but I didn't think of it till too late. However, it is a lovely day, so the crossing will be quite a pleasant affair. Then to-night we will be m Paris" That evening she would find herself in Paris, pretending to be the wife of Ackrovd. They would go together to a hotel. The train slowed down; they could see the sea glittering in the sun. A salt breeze blew in through the open window. Joyce mechanically folded up her papers and collected' her belongings as the train drew up. She slowly followed Ackroyd out of the carriage, a feeling of horror at what she was doing taking possession of her. They were just going to go down the gangway when she suddenly stopped and seized Ackroyd's arm. He looked "down at her in surprise. ' "You are not feeling ill, are you?" he asked, displeasure at the idea of a 6ccne rather than sympathy in his query. I Joyce was trembling, but she retained her composure. | "No." she said, suddenly arriving at a decision. "I am not ill. Only—l have changed my mind, I can't go with you; I am really awfully sorry"—she smiled at the inadequacy of the words—"But I can't go to Paris. I will find a train to take mc back to London. Send my I luggage beck to mc." , Ackroyd stopped dumbfounded. j "I am not going," repeated Joyce, with a nervous laugh, "but you had better continue your journey. We. ; have nearly made a big mistake—but not quite." | "Come along, sir; the boat is just leavi ing;" said a gruff voice. i ' There was no time for explanations. Hastily shaking hands, Ackroyd went on board, filled with resentful amazement, and watched Joyce hurry along the quay. CHAPTER XXV. 1 ! Dazed with astonishment, Ackroyd walked up the gang*way. For a long time he leaned over the side of the boat, till Folkestone harbour gradually receded into the distance. It w-as not until the white cliffs of England had finally disappeared on the horizon that , he changed his position. I "Pardon mc, but can you tell mc exactly what time we get to Paris?," inquired an American voice in his car. I Ackroyd vouchsafed the desired information, but was not nible to shake off his chance acquaintance until they left tho boat to Boulogne. Before all things he desired to think, to read his ideas, j to arrive at some sort of solution for Joyce's extraordinary behaviour. ( But the American kept up a lively .chatter all the way across the Channel, I retailing at length his impressions of \ the United Kingdom, and was not at | all chilled by his companion's evident I inattention. ■ When they reached the other side, however, Ackroyd evaded his talkative acquaintance, and settled down with relief in the corner of a comparatively empty first.class compartment. He lit a pipe, and stared stupidly at the rather flat and uninteresting traok of country j that lies between Boulogne and Paris. ; I He had been so very sure of Joyce, j •He had never imagined for an instant that she was capable of turning back at the last moment, and that she should have done so almost melodramatically, actually at the head of the gangway, appeared to him so fantastic as to be ■ unreal. He opened his .pocket book and pulled out the two sets of tickets. It had been no dream; ho and Joyce had really started off for Paris together that morning. He would have to see about returning her luggage when ho arrived t at the _are dv Nord, and then there j would be the hotel arrangements to alter. He shifted liis position impatiently, and pulled down the blind a little as ;the sun was shining in his eyes. , j What had made her run away from ; him at the eleventh hour like that? He ran through the events of the morning, searching in vain for some hint as to I tiie abrupt change in her plans. Had he unwittingly offended . her in some way on the journey? Or had she perhaps seen some friends or other at the I station or on the train, and had l>een overcome by a sudden sense of shame? I Or could it even have been remorse— the image of Vera perhaps rising reproachfully before her? } For the first time his thoughts turned to his wife. He remembered, then, that it haxi been his intention to write to her, very briefly, from Paris, telling her I that he had taken her at her -Y>i_ j and would never again go back to her.'' I A queer feeling of relief swept over him as he realised that she would never know anything of the events of that day, nor how near ho had been to running off with another woman. Joyce's conduct had wounded his pride and , therefore made the disappointment easier to bear. It might all turn out to be for the best after all, he reflected, gatherin" together 'his belongings as the train began to slacken speed. ! Once he had managed to secure a taxi, and was being driven through the Paris streets at the usual breakneck speed, his spirits rose, in spite of everything, for Paris always had exhilarating | effect upon him. 1 I He had hooked rooms at a fairly 1 small and inconspicuous hotel in the Rue St. Honore, as neither he nor 1 Joyce was anxious to run across any of , their friends or acquaintances. Hia j

| bedroom overlooked the central courtI yard, and as the evening was hot and I sultry he flung open the windows and I lay back in a tall chair while he sought jan explanation of Joyce's behaviour. ! He was surprised to find that his I predominant feeling was one of relief. j Possibly because ho really did care for Joyce, he wished to shield her from the : inevitable unpleasantness that would ,' have resulted from their flight. Then, I if Vera had persisted in her refusal to divorce him, Joyce's lot could not have been an enviable one. i i She was not the sort of woman to be 1 satisfied with half measures, and she , was too idealistic to be really happy with him in the existing circumstances ' ' As he sat in the gathering dusk at j hie hotel window, the sound of distant •! music, the nearby clatter of dishes from 1 ' the kitchen below and a subdued hum ; of voices rose to his ears. With a start • he realised it was getting late, and went i ; down for dinner. i I After dining by himself at a small ' i table laid for two he strolled into the j lounge for coffee and a smoke. He was j not in any mood for seeking amusement ; that night. B rod ing in a corner he was j amazed to hear himself hailed by name i "Hullo, Ackroyd." I never expected jto see you here." He looked up to find a florid man of about forty standing in front of him. I "Carrithers! Of all people in the i world!" he said, with surprise. "Why, j I thought you would never be persuaded ]to leave England. Have you got your ■wife with you? She was complaining bitterly to mc, fhe last time we met, > that she could never induce you to take I her to Paris, even for a week-end." | "Yes. she's here. But we have had a i very tiring day, bo she has gone straight to bed." j Ackroyd was genuinely pleased to see. j CarritherH, who had a place in WestI moreland not far from his father-in- , law. But if Joyce had been with him— "How is Storr Ness?" he asked. "And have you seen my wife lately?" "Yes, we only left a week ago. Vera I and her father came over and dined with us the night before we came away." I "You know, Ackroyd, you are a lucky 1 fellow. I don't think I have ever seen j Vera look so fit as she did the other night. She looked positively beautiful, nnd lately she has changed a bit: got far more life in her than she used to have." ' "I am joining her next week," said Ackroyd carelessly, hardly conscious that he had arrived at a decision. "My work has intorefcred far too much lately. Why, I have hardly been able to spend any time with my own wife." Carrithers" looked shrewedly at him. He was too old and intimate a fr'end 'of the fami'y not to suspect that all was not well. "I am sure they will all be delirhted to have you up there for a bit," he murmured. 1 By the time Ackroyd went to bed hi. mind was made irp. Ho felt that he had conic to his senses at last. In a flash he saw everything in its true perspective; he realised that he had to make the best of things and go back to Vera. | On the return journey from Fi lke- ; stone to London it 6cemed incredible to (him that he and Joyce should have covered the selfsame ground only twenty-four hours earlier. He took his suitcase down from the rack and searched for an A.8.C., he re- ! mcmbered throwing in at the last moment. He made up his mind to wa_te no more time, but to go straight up to Vera, by the first available train. He found that he would have to spend the night in London, 'and rememibered that he still had the key to his (flat in Jermyn Street, which he was (keeping on till the end of the month. Back in the flat, he idly looked through a number of letters whic'.i had .irrived while he was away. There was one envelope addressed to him in Vera. handwriting. It was very short. "Dear Hack, By the time you receive this I shall ,be out of England. You have always I made mc miserable, so I am going away 'with Stephen Mannering. You can please yourself about a divorce, but I think it better we should both have our free- . dom." | Ackroyd's grip tightened on the paper, and then, all at once he laughed—softly, (without mirth, without relief. So, had he waited, he could have married Joyce after all! (To be concluded.) I =====