A MODERN GIRL

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

A MODERN GIRL

a By PATRICIA LEIGH.

CHAPTER XXIV. The flat looked strangely bare now that nil 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 wns ready for them, Joyce was depressed by tlie forlorn aspect of tbe rooms. Colin bad left two days earlier to be officially received by Penman's aunt aa j his fiancee. Their engagement was to 1 last only a few months, and Celia was confidently expecting Joyce to be back in time to help her with her wedding , preparations. I Joyce looked wistfully round the flat now it was all ready for the new ten- j ants. 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 I call homo. And for what? She shivered involuntarily, and, 111 an endeavour to throw oIT the depression which threatened to engulf her, resolutely j 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 be awaiting her with two tickets for Paris. She refused fo look any further than tho actual journey to France. She had burned ber boats. The last ten days bad been fully occupied by preparations for departure; there had been no time for reflection. She bad fallen completely j under the spell of Ackroyd; her very ■ will power had been paralysed. Nervously she put on ber hat and arranged her veil. Putting her toilet things into her drcssinc case, she locked it up. threw- her travelling coat over her trunk and. without another glance round tbe familiar walls, 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 mnke the taxidriver stop while she explained to him that she would not (jo to Victoria stntion after nil; she had chanced her mind, she would rather go to Euston or Paddington. But the taxi sped swiftly, relentlessly on its wny. Ackroyd was waiting for ber at the station. She distinguished bis tall figure among the crowd the moment she got out of the taxi. He hurried towards her, nnd nt once took possession of her lugorage. Outwardly he was very calm, and had all bis habitual nonchalance. j "Here you are!" wns his greeting. Til 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's only a short run after all. T suppose I'd better keep your tickets, Hadn't I?" "Yes. Thanks 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 tbe end of her old life? . 1 Her brain became numb: Paris, Ackroyd. She kept repenting these two words to herself until they both l>ccame meaningless, a mere confusion of letters and sounds. She followed Ackroyd along the pintform as if in a trance. "Oh. anything, I don't really mind. Something light," she heard herself saying in a slightly bored drawl in reply to his query about what she would like to read. After settling her in the corner of the railway carriage he left to go to the book-stall. j A feelinjj 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 hnd raced past, every moment filled with petty details that could not be ignored. There bad been the flat to let and to make ready for the incoming tenants*, shopping , to be done, innumerable small prcpa motions to be made. | And now it was all over. She was face to face with a new life—a strange, forbidden life. j The carriage began to fill up. An, elderly clergyman was safely shepherded to hia place by an anxious-looking daughter, v-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 waa 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. J She heard that he was very happy,' and had two lovely children, a boy and a girl. All at once she felt very vtorldstained, and envied the fearless and confiding girl who once had been herself. Her reverie was broken by Ackroyd's return. j "I've brought several things along for you," he cried cheerily, dropping a 6heaf of illustrated papers and magazines into her lap. -' j She gave hini a long and searching j look as Bhe 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 Bomehow seemed to be her real self, or possibly the self-that-might-have-been saw was a beautiful but sophisticated woman run-! ning 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 tho open country. i Joyce stared out of the window, let-1 ting her thoughts race. She felt no elation now that she waa 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 I fond of mc." j Would that, later on, become his atti-' .tide toward her? Her cheeka flushed at > tbe vers thought.

•Toyco 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 uoman for encouraging a married man to make love to her? Where was it, in reality, that Vera had failed? Facing cold facts, did she. really consider that Ackroyd or his wife was to blame for their domestic troubles? Yet she was risking everything for the sake of Ackroyd. Could she expect any better treatment from him than * he had given his wife? Though she did not recognise it, the root, of Joyce's trouble lay in the fact that she now lacked confidence in Ackroyd. She could not place a blind trust in'him. And as the train purred on, flying across the green fields with a steady rhythm, she did begin to doubt her own love for him. This flight—for it had ceased to be a journey—bad 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 oIT from her frieds, from ber old life—for what? The other people in the carriage began to stir, nnd collect their belongings. Ackro'vd looked across and smiled at her, with, 'she fancied, a hint of patronage. '•Not feeling tired already?" he asked. "I wish now that we had gone by aeroplane, but I didn't think of it till too late. However, it is a lovely day, so the crossing will be. quite a pleasant alTair- Then to-night we will be in Paris" That evening she would find herßclf in Pnris. pretending to be the wife of Ackrovil. 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. . ovce mechanically folded up her papers and collected her belongings as the train drew up. She slowly followed Ackroyd out of the carnage, a feeling of horror nt 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 nt her in surprise. **You aro not feeling ill, are your" he asked, displeasure at the idea of a scene rather than sympathy in his query. Joyce was trembling, but she retained her composure. "No," she said, suddenly arriving at a decision. "I am not ill. Only —I 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 » train to take mc back to London. Send my luggage beck to rac." Ackroyd stopped dumbfounded. "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 leaving;" said a grutT voice. There was no time for explanations. Hastily shaking bands, Ackroyd -went on board, filled with resentful amazement, md watched Joyce hurry along the quay. CHAPTER XXV. i Dazed with astonishment, Ackroyd walked up the gangway. For a long lime he leaned over the side of the >oat, till Folkestone harbour gradually receded into the distance. It was not mtil the white cliffs of England had iimlly disappeared on tho horizon that ie changed his position. "Pardon mc, but can you tell mc ixactly what time we get to Paris?," inquired an American voice in his car. Ackroyd vouchsafed the desired information, but was not nible to shake off lis chance acquaintance until they left the boat to Boulogne. Before all things ie desired to think, to read his ideas, to arrive at some sort of solution for loyce's extraordinary behaviour. But t-ie American kept up a lively .•hatter all the way across the Channel, retailing at length his impressions of .he United Kingdom, and was not at ill chilled by his companion's evideut n at ten tion. When they reached the other side, lowever, Ackroyd evaded his talkative icquaintance, and settled down with -elief in the corner of a comparatively .•mpty first class compartment. He lit i pipe, and stared stupidly at the rather lat and uninteresting track of country ;hat lies between Boulogne and Paris. Ho had been so very sure of Joyce. Fie had never imagined for an instant ;hat she was capable of turning back it the last moment, and that she should iave done so almost melodramatically, ictually at the head of the gangway, tppoared to him so fantastic as to be mreal. lie opened his .pocket book and pidled )ut the two sets of tickets. It ..ad been 10 dream: ho and Joyce had really itartcd off for Paris together that norning. He woidd have to see about eturning her luggage when he arrived it the Gare dv Nord, and then there ■vould bo the hotel arrangements to liter. He shifted his position impatiently, md pulled down the blind a little as he sun was shining in his eyes. , What had made 'her run away from I him at the eleventh hour like that? He i an through the events of the morning, learching in vain for some hint as to •he abrupt change in her plans. Had ie unwittingly offended , her in some vny on the journey? Or had she perlaps seen some friends or other at the .tation or on the train, and had been nercome by a sudden sense of shame? >r could it even have been remorse— he image of Vera perhaps rising re--roachfully before her? For the first time his thoughts turned o his wife. He remembered, then, that j t had been his intention to write to I ler, very briefly, from Paris, telling her Jiat he had taken her at her woru ' md would never again go back to her.'' A queer feeling of relief swept over dm as he realised that she would never -now anything of the events of that lay, nor how near be had been to runling off with another woman. Joyce's onduct bad wounded his pride and hcrefore made the disappointment asier to boar. It might all turn out to be for the test after all, he reflected, gathering ogether 'his belongings as the train •cgan to slacken speed. Once he had managed to secure a taxi, and was being driven through the Paris streets at the usual breakneck ipeed, his spirits rose, in spite of everyhing, for Paris always had exhilarating i ilfect upon him. ; He had booked rooms at a fairly ima.il and inconspicuous hotel in the Rue St. Honore, as neither he nor Toyce was anxious to run across any of , their friends or acquaintances. His 1

bedroom overlooked the central courtyard, and as the evening was hot and sultry he flung open the windows and lay back in a tall chair while he sought an explanation of Joyce'- behaviour. He was surprised to find that his ; predominant feeling was one of relief. i Posßibly because he really did care for ! Joyce, he wished to shield her from the ' inevitable unpleasantness that would ' have, resulted from their flight. Then, if Vera had persisted in her refusal to divorce him, Joyce's lot could not have been an enviable one. i She was not the sort of woman to be satisfied with half measures, and she was too idealistic to ho really happy with him in the existing circumstances As he sat in the gathering dusk at i his hotel window, the sound of distant music, the nearby clatter of dishes from the kitchen below and a subdued hum of voi<—s rose to his purs. With a start he realised it was getting late, and went down for dinner. ' After dining by himself at a. small table laid for two he strolled into the lounge for codec and a smoke. He was | not in any mood for seeking amusement that night, hroding in a corner he wa_ amazed to bear himself hailed by name ! '•'Hullo, Ackroyd." T never expected jto see you here." i He looked up to find a rlorid man of : about forty standing in front of him. "Carrit-iers! Of all people in the world!" be said, with surprise. ''"Why, I thought you would never be persuaded to leave England. Have you got your wife with you? She was complaining bitterly to mc, the last time we met, that she could never induce you to take her to Paris, even for a week-end." "Yes, she's here. But we have bad a very tiring day, so she has gone straight to bed." Ackroyd was genuinely pleased to see Carrithers, who had n place in Westmoreland 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 and her father came over and dined with us the night before we came away." "You know, Ackroyd, you are a lucky fellow. I don't think I have ever seen 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 be had arrived at a decision. "My work has interefered far too much latclj-. Why, I have hardly been able to spend nny time with my* own wife." Carrithers looked shrcwedly at him. He wns too old and intimate a fr end of the fami'y not to su.-pect th.it all was not well. "I am sure they will all bo doli.hted to have you up there for a bit." he murmured, lly the time Ackroyd went to hed hi. mind was made up. Ho felt that he had come 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 journcv from F< lkcstone to London it 6eetned 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 remembered throwing in at the last moment. He made up his mind to w.it-te no more time, but to go straight up to Vera, by the first available train. He found that he would have to spend tho night in London, and remembered that ho still had the key to hia 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 which had Arrived while he was away. There was one envelope addressed to him in Vera's handwriting. It was very short. "Dear Hack, By the time you receive this I shall be out of England. You have always 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 freedom." Ackroyd's grip tightened on the paper, and then, all at onco he laug'ed—softly, without mirth, without relief. So, had he waited, he could have married Joyce after all! (To be concluded.)