WHO SEARCH FOR STARS

Auckland Star, Volume LVI, Issue 211, 7 September 1925, Page 14

WHO SEARCH FOR STARS

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BY MARJORIE BOWEN. CHAPTER 111. Edmund Courtoys at first saw only one thing to do, and that was to use every possible means to discover Elizabeth, but this eager, if dreadful, quest was rendered grotesque by the fact that Elizabeth was not lost, but only hidden from him; she had written to him from a false address, mechanical letters to delay hia discovery of her disappearance, and she had never troubled to return

to Myrtle Grove to claim his poor epistles.

Courtoya did not think that it would be difficult to find her; a few searching inquiries, a detective, an advertisement —but yet Elizabeth did not want to be found.

He turned over in his agitated mind her dingy little story. She was the daughter of a harassed clergyman in a j;oor London parish, she had "early been iert without means, in those days when women were not trained to cairn their own living: there had been a few relatives who had ''helped" a little, and then she had faded into a nebulous background of "genteel" people, and Eliza betli had become a governess. Courtoys had met her at Whethamstede, the village where the uncle who had most reluctantly educated him lived in some ease and authority, and the two orphans, both social waifs, had entered into the brief love idyll where prudence had finally conquered passion, and the springtime sweetness of sentiment had ended in the long engagement; Elizabeth would continue to be a governess, Courtoys would try to make money to provide a home; ten years' work, broken into and ruined by the war, had failed to produce home or money, but both, with some irony, had been cast at his feet by the death of this same uncle, who hud never troubled himself about Courtoys since he had done his duty by him in apprenticing him to a rather second-rate firm of engineers. A perfunctory visit to Y\~hethamstede—that spring when he had met Elizabeth—had deprived Courtoys of any hope from his relative, who "had two sons to provide for, and was neither wealthy nor generous, and the two had not even corresponded.

But the war had taken the two sons, and Jasper Courtnys had left all he possessed to tho only man who bore his name. ''Elizabeth would have been pleased," though Courtoys wistfully. And he remembered had" his aunt had refused to recognise the Bardon's governess, and that it had been impossible for him (himself there on chill sufferance) to ask her across the threshold of Courtoys' Manor House, which now waited to receive her as mistress.

Ho hod planned to go there first with Elizabeth; not only to do her a pleasure, but with an instinct of self-pro-tection he had none but cold and unkind memories of the place where he hnd been made to feel the sting of charity grudgingly extended to the son of the family black sheep. Even his love episode seemed now something sad, wistful, pathetic, the half-shamed clinging together of two people robbed by poverty of gladness, unkindly tolerated, unwanted. He had no longing to see again the meadows where the stolen walks had led them, the village street where curious eyes had gaped, the village church where Elizabeth had sat rigid, in dowdy clothes, between her'charges. The only gloss that he could have put on his return to Whethamstede would have been the triumph of taking Elizabeth there, of saying: "I give this to you. after all these years. I give you this home where you were once not allowed to enter, and from which I was shut out save on sufferance."'

And now he had lost Elizabeth. London seemed bleak in the bitter February weather; Courtoys had lost touch with things: the cold'essentials of the city were blurred by the details of modernity; he looked queerlv at the hords of women, thinking of Elizabeth. The dancing instructress, so neat and ladylike, hung in his mind heavily; she was perhaps well born, decently bred; perhaps she was Elizabeth!

j "Well, why not?" he a«ked Irmself, : defiantly. Girls did that kind of thin<? i nowadays, instead of being jroverness. I Lord! who would expect them to go ]on living as EliVabeth had lived? And, lof course, their looks chanjred.. ; Yet he knew that while he had tvan- ; dered from Europe to America and back j savouring many experiences of mind and body, he had liked to think lof Elizabeth enclosed in the sanctltv of 'her dull existence: he had even been [glad that during the war when women jruehed into all manner of excitement I Elizaheth had sone on being a governess I But she had left off be : iirr a governess when she went to Camberwell; the sandy landlady had said that the young lndv had "o-iven lessons": every day she had gone out to give lessons; she was very noor. of course, or she would not have been there, hut she had always paid her : bills. i Courtoys, with anguished eves, reread i her letter addressed to the "P,oste 1 Be«tante." Rome: before it had rather an- ! noved him, as formally childish; now it ! seemed to him very pitiful. "17, Myrtle Grove. 'Camberwell, "Christmas. 1923.

j "Dear Edmund,—This spring it will be ■ ten years since you went away. I can't i help wondering sometimes if you are i right in staying away till you have I made good. I'm quite happy and comfortable, but it is very dull here. I tell myself that I am engaged, that I have a lover, but it seems silly. Have you any plans? Any hopes? Don't let mc be a drag on you: it is eood of yon still to thipk of obligations (o me.' but don't. if they are a drae on you. Ten years is a Ion? time. With love. Elizabeth." Courtoys wondered where this letter had been penned and if irony underlay the simple words; he thought this must be. sin ,, ** she asked quest-'ons when shp . knew she would not trouble to fetch the ! answers.

Edmund Courtoys was remarkable looking; tall and graceful, with the hardened grace of one who has had to carry himself bravely in difficult places, and the quiet surface self-possession of one who has had to obey and make himself obeyed; yet under this was an air of restlessness and disappointment, even defiance and suspicion; the face was long, fine, smooth in texture, small in feature, the eyes narrow, a pale grey, the brows dark and straight, the expression a mask of chill reserve.

"A tragedy," thought the lawyer. "The fellow has been disinherited, forced down, he has come into his kingdoo. too late."

►\loud he said: —

"When are you going to Whethamstede, Mr. Courtoys? I hear.it is a beautiful old place."

"I never liked it," replied Courtoys drily, "and it is not likely that I shall settle in England now "

"You will continue your work per haps?"

'"No. I always hated engineering. And never got on. I did the dullest kind of Government work in the East for six years —that blocks you.' .

He spoke with a light bitterness. "1 was terribly keen to get on, to make money," he added, "'but I never could at the only trade I was taught because I hated it."

"A spoilt life/ thought the lawyer, perhaps a spoilt character." And smiling pleasantly he remarked:

"You have nearly a thousand a year, Mr. Courtoys, from very secure investments, and' a delightful little estate, enough money, enough interest in that "

Courtoys looked at him in a fashion that cut short the conventional sentences.

"I believe I shall hate Whethamstede as I hated engineering and knocking about the world.' he replied quietly, '"hut I mustn't take up your time because I have no one else to talk to in London. What I really wanted to consult vou*about was this."'

Mr. Rees was instantly all professional attention.

And Courtoys, in a very dry, unemotional fashion, told him the story of Elizabeth.

'•I want to find her, without any hue and cry," he continued, •'without her knowing that I am searching for her ''

The lawyer was encouragingly detached and impersonal; he asked many astute questions, compared dates, postmarks, examined the envelopes of the letters, but at the end of all this he could suggest nothing but engaging a detective, or an advertisement in a newspaper.

Courtoys refused both expedients

The first seemed a sordid outrage, the second intolerable publicity; there was no code 'by which he could communicate with Elizabeth; they hail never used endearing nicknames.

"I'll think :: over." said Courtoys. "Probably I'll come up to London and make investigations myself.' .

The lawyer could not forbear a pitying smile. "It is an extremely difficult case," he replied. "I should advise trained assistance."

Courtoys, sad and obstinate, changed the subject.

"I'll go down and have a look at Whethamstede. I suppose the place is ready for use —a caretaker?' .

"The late Jasper Courtoys, as you know, had lived in the South of France two years before he died there, and his wish was that the house should be shut up; after the death of his wife and sons he became very morbid and eccentric. You will hardly be able to live there at once—one of your clerks went down to check the inventory, everything was in order, but not, I under stand, very comfortable or habitable even. We put in a responsible caretaker, a Mr. Wilsett and his wife, whom you can continue to employ or not, as you think fit; they are waiting your orders." During this speech the attention of Courtoys had wandered; he was gazing out of the gaunt window into the drati street where the last shafts of chill spring light were falling on to the dirty pavements.

A woman in a cinder-coloured phawl was offering a knot of wilting violets to the few passers-by; she was a blonde creature, like the dancing instructress, like Elizabeth.

C'ourtoys turned abruptly to the lawyer, cutting harshly across his smooth speech.

"I've changed my wind. I'll employ a detective. I put the matter in your hands.' .

Impatient of delay, fretted by inaction, lie returned straight to his hotel, fhinjr his few possessions into his valise, and took the last train to YVhethamstede.

IHAPTEU IV. So it was over, the home co'niii:, ;h" event to which lie had looked forward with poipnant anticipation ever since In had received t!.e lawyer's letter lVllin-2 him of his inheritance. He had come .home; and he hinl lo.*t Elizabeti). Com toys wondered Imw Kin» ago he had lost Elizabeth; perhaps thai very moment, ten years azu to t'ne exact month, when she had said bye" to him at Whethanistede. and he reluctantly, even sullenly, had gont away to "make his fortune," perhaps then, as she turned away, the (ire and glow had died down, and' Elizabeth had men only bound by the srrey fetters of habit. ' ' ' As the train rushed through the wet daikne.-s Courtoys, huddled in the corner of his carriage, thought: ''Why was I so eaveful and pru.'.eut': Why didn't. I risk everything and take Elizabeth away?" She had been lovely enough; lie remembered the faint ' sunshine falling through the drooping branches of a weeping willow, that blushed with golden buds in a blonde light over her pale hair, the rose and pearl of her fine complexion, the warm white of tht throat above her cheap dress. The train drew up at the platform of Whethanistede station: Courtoys descended into the rain, shuddering" in the sting of the pure night air. No one knew that ho was coming; he paused to reflect that no one would have cared if they had known; he ha:l the keys of Whethamstede Manor House in his pocket, and the lawyer had telephoned to the caretaker to "expect him; he was fairly familiar with the way to his property; there was no reason why any one should be aware of his coming; yet it was bleak and dreary to e et off down the soaking lane ihroush wind and wet n '

rpr . c , -, = » ills own That afternoon Corn-toys went to see] oag. with no possibility of any welcome hi. lawvere » Lncoln's Inn Fields: he when he reached his destination only had settled all his business frith them, the ghosts of tie relatives who' had .Mit he had no one in London with despised him haunting empty rooms the i whom to talk, and he shrank from ghosts of his own youth and of Eliza •cawa] acquaintance, beth's youth haunting wintry meadow. Mr. Rees. a stout eleepv-eved man, re- that would look alien indeed to him reived him with some interest and *or- now. IIU d-aIH-: he was the junior partner in a n Never: in all his journeying* that had r ?' i - x, , .always been lonely, often distasteful Corn-toys, sat in the round oha : r under and porilo-.is. in all lii 6 sojournincs in tl.o rows, of tin owes that lined the ii strange places, that had always "been credibly duetv, dull and blank room: the among strangers and often solitary and comfortable lawyer eyed him not with- melancholy, had this man felt so out curiosity. J stripped - "of his birthright o/honie.,

family, and friends, as now when. he. plodded through this quiet Kentish lane to take possession of the house of hie ancestors. There was the mansion on & rising knoll, the dark- block dimly visible against a saffron rift in the clouds, from which a new moon gave a sickly light, soon to be eclipsed by another rain-swollen cloud that scudded up from the sea.

In one window, the lower window to the right which was that, Courtoys knew, of the terrace drawing room, showed the glow of a pale illumination, a feeble star in the dark murk of the silent night.

HOw he had loathed that terrace drawing room; and yet the house should have been pleasant enough. He remembered that Elizabeth had always regarded the pile of rambling buildings, Tudor to Palladian, with a wistfulnesa that was almost envy.

Courtoys entered the grounds through the tall, scroll-work iron gate that stood negligently ajar; he followed the dimlyseen path towards that gloomy light; he hoped that they had a fire ready for him,- some hot food; the solitary gleam of the single light conveyed no idea of comfort.

Confused pictures jostled in his tired mind; his hurried journey to England, hie stark loneliness in London, the evening in the dance room of the big hotel, the dancing instructress sitting in the broken greens and purples of the grotesque limelight, his visit to Camberwell, the ghastly lodging house, and the sandy landlady with her livid, freckled face handing him the dutsy pile of his own letters to Elizabeth; then the blank dreariness of the lawyer's office, the comfortable man giving his prosy advice, and outside the withered fair woman whining with her knot of perished violets.

There must be fresh violets out now—• no, it was too .soon for English violets, but primroses; Elizabeth had gathered prim ruses that February ten years ago.

But there was no scent of flowers in the sad darkness as Courtoys made hia way across the terrace, all was desolate, silent, drenched by the scudding rain, disturbed only by the lift of the breeze that drove tile low clouds inland.

Before going round to the front door that was placed curiously away from the entrance drive, Courtoys tried one of the tall French windows giving on to the terrace, the window from which the parted curtains allowed the lamplight to glimmer into the night. '

A liar had been dropped acrose the glass, but Courtoys lifted this easily enough, and opened the win-iow on to the well-remembered room.

He saw, instantly, a woman seated by the wide fireplace of burnt wood logs; she was reclining in a lew chair, "with her back to—ards Courtoys, a book was on her knee, her black silk gown trailed over the old pale opal-tinted carpet; in hpr blonde hair was a jet comb like a coronal. Courtoys, standing there wet and wind swept, with the night air blowing in behind him. had one cxazy flash of thought—surely this was Elizabeth, here to welcome him, in their home.

But the woman had risen sharply on hearing his entrance; the picture of her at ca.*e with her book was instantaneously changed to one of her standing erect with an attitude and look of extreme s-urprire and vexation. Xot Elizabeth! Courtoys instinctively stepped back to the dark opening on to the pure melancholy nig-ht.

■He tiiought that this 'woman had the most sinister, terrible face that he had ever beheld on a human being; in the muted light of the lamp that was shaded by ash-coloured Chinese paper, she bent her Fomlire brows on him,'and' nerrouslj'' touched her straight lips with the tip of a rapid tongue.

ITo be continued daily.)