WHO SEARCH FOR STARS

Auckland Star, Volume LVI, Issue 212, 8 September 1925, Page 16

WHO SEARCH FOR STARS

[All Bights Reserved.]

BY MARJORIE BOWEN.

CHAPTER V. Courtoys did not speak, had, indeed, no wish to speak; he came again into the room and closed the window. The woman was smiling- now, and he. wondered why he had thought her face sinister; it was a pretty face— : yes, pretty, if one* got away from the usual standards of prettiness. "I suppose you are Mr. Courtoys ?" she said, quietly. '"We were not expecting you so soon." Courtoys resented her—resented both her personality and her presence.

"This is Whethanistede Manor House, isn't it?" he asked, unpleasantly. "My house, I mean." "Yes, I suppose it is your house —I lodge with the Willsetts" at the gate house, and they told me that you were coming." Her voice was lilting and quite impersonal; she surveyed him coolly, and seated herself again in the low chair

where she was able to recline so gracefully —long lines of slender limbs showing under the close twist of the black satin gown. The room was pleasantly warm; 'the' fire on the wide hearth had obviously, been burning a long time, a great still heart of red embers gave out a steady heat. . Courtoys felt out of place in his;wet rain coat, carrying his' cheap valise; he hated this feeling which gave him .more than ever the sense of being alien to this house, and said, curtly: "Do the Willsetts allow their lodgers the run of this house?" "I don't know," replied the woman. ' : I have come up here whenever I liked —why not?—the place was empty. Won't you take off your coat and sit down?" "No, thank you," replied Courtoys.. every moment more acutely conscious of a false position. "I'd rather meet the Willsetts and have things explained a little." ■ "They are not here,";' answered the woman. "They are away for a few days. I got the message from the lawyer, that is why I am here so late — to see if I could do anything for you. I thought." she added, slowly, "it would be rather miserable for.you to return to this house and find no one here."

"It is kind of you," said Courtoys, stiffly. "But the Willsetts had no right to go away—l don't understand any of it." he added, wearily. "No? My name is Anne Fardel. I am here with my brother, Sebastian." Something in her voice, in her accent, even in her absolute stillness, for she used no gesture whatever, caused Courtoys to say sharply: "You are not English, are you?" A look of laughter flickered over her face, yet it remained unchanged. "No, we are not quite English," she answered. "Do you mind?" Courtoys stripped off his coat and flung it over the valise. "Good Lord," he observed, "I don't mind anything. I'm quite detached, impartial, indifferent—l've knocked about the world " "You will be glad to come home, she put in, smoothly. '< "Glad? Home? I don't know the words. I hate this place, it was never home to me," said Courtoys, peevishly; he sank into the chair opposite the strange woman, grateful, secretly, for the warmth and stillness, the beauty of the objects about him, and the faint perfume in the air of old leather, of burning pine wood, of faint aromatics, old pot pourri, or the scent of faded flowers—the flowers that remain sweet to the last shred of the leaf. "You are tirfid," said Anne Fardel. "We will have supper without waiting for my brother—lie is over in his room at the" lodge, working; but he said that he would come over to-night to meet * She rose and opened the folding doors that formed the end of the room, and Courtoys sav a mellow- room, filled with an amber light that illuminated a table laid with three covers; there was, a fire in this room also, a fresh, leaping fire that cast long flames up the chimney, and glittering lustres in the glasses and decanters on the table. Courtoys felt a sense of comfort and even pleasantness. He began to sense that these strange people had tried to do honour to him, that they were meaning to be friendly and hospitable, and he also felt himself boorish and rude. As he saw the refined, elegant figure of the woman standing by the open door, and the delicate appointments of the supper table, the quiet luxury of the warm room, he* realised, rather bitterly, how soured and coarsened he had' become, how used to the rough and garish side of life, how something delicate and fine in him. had been stifled and almost killed. He rose. ' r "It is good of you to have taken so much trouble," he stammered. She responded instantly to his.change of tone, but never lost that air of chill indifference that she had him, as for all men. "Ah, you do like it? I thought I was going to be disappointed." "Disappointed?" he echoed, rather stupidly. "I thought," explained Anne Fardel, with a remote smile, "that you were going to be one of those people who would really prefer to come into a cold, blank, bleak house, and knock up the inn for bread and cheese." ' "No," said Courtoys, "I do appreciate it —I never had the luck to be able to say pretty things—but I do appreciate vour trouble." "I like your house." she remarked irrelevantly. "You will like it also. Are you married or going to be married?" Courtoys had followed her into the dining room. "I hope so," he answered grimly. "There is a story about that —this is a jolly room, isn't it?" "Air. Jasper Courtoys made this and ■ one bedroom fairly comfortable, but the rest .of the house has been allowed to fall rather "to pieces." She moved with ease round the massive table, between the massive chairs, and indicated (he hoped without mockery) the grandiose seat at the head of the table to Courtoys. "That'll make me feel a fool;" he remarked, glancing at the great ygilt chair with the flowing scrolls and flattened lions' heads,; and the thick',curtains of faded puce-coloured, velvet. " "You are the master of the house, you know," she remarked. "Your uncle; I think? Mr. Courtoys, always used that chair, I believe." "I remember." "* And Courtoys. despite himself j. took the seat at the head of the table; took the pompous chair with a glance of defiance. "I hated my uncle,", he remarked.

"Yes ? That is a - bad thing to say of anyone.. You remember, the dead command, that French proverb?" And she looked round the room as she spoke, as if conscious of a third persence. "Don't," said Courtoys sharply. "It would be so easy for me to think I saw' him here." He did not like her; even if he had not seen that expression on her face when he first surprised her, he would not have liked her. He thought of Elizabeth with a poignant pang; Elizabeth would be so different. He corrected himself sharply—Elizabeth had been so different. What did he know of Elizabeth now, after ten years? Anne Fardel was serving her hot and delicious dish; he was glad of the food, of the German wine in the long green glasses; he felt the urge to make himself plea.sant to his strange companion. In the morning he could find out all

about her- —get rid of her and her brother, have the place to himself, but for this evening he must endeavour to be civil. "What does your brother do?" he asked. "My brother? Oh, many things. He. for one, collects maps." This was so unexpected and so trivial that Courtoys repeated with some impatience :

"Maps?" "Old maps. There is a lot in maps, really." - "I'm tired of maps." said Courtoys. "When .you've travelled " The great door opened, and Courtoys looked round, rather on the defensive. ■ "My brother," said Anne Fardel. ' The newcomer paused a moment, and Courtoys had the sensation of being somehow trapped between two alien personalities. He made a quick effort to shake off this oppression. "Ah, Mr. Fardel! It has been agreeable to find someone in possession of the old place. 1 thought 1 should find a very, chill welcome, but your sister has been charming." He was conscious of talking wholly falsely, with a quite unnatural voice and manner, to gain time, as it were, while he observed the man before him.

CHAPTER VI. Sebastian Fardel was pale and slight, and as tall as his sister, also inclined to plumpness and softness of outline. He, too, had small features, a smooth complexion, and straight blonde hair; he was conventially dressed, and his impersonal, manner was both well bred and ordinary. In fact, so ordinary that when he spoke the whole incident was largely robbed of fantasy and strangeness; the fantasy and strangeness that were due to the personality and manner of Anne Fa rdel. "Ah, Mr. Courtoys," he said amiably, "this is rather an uncommon kind of introduction, is it not? But it was Anne's suggestion, and I did not thwart it—probably I said to myself, Mr. Courtoys is like ourselves—he has been about the world jtoo much to take a great deal of heed of the conventions." During this little speech he had adroitly seated himself at the table and begun his meal; he had an air of doing most things adroitly. "It is very good good of you, of course," • answered Courtoys, not too stiffly. "It would have been a very bleak sort of homecoming without your kind thought—not," he added with a defiant smile, "that it is in any way my home. I never even liked the place." "You will like it now. I'm sure you will," returned the other, with an eagerness touched by envy. "It is quite a wonderful little house—you'll live here, of course?" "I don't know," said Courtoys. "1 shan't be able to keep the place up—my uncle wasn't a rich man." ■He felt there was a certain affectation in talking like this—he to whom a thousand a vear had seemed wealth — hut the words had come in good faith; half an hour in the house, so much more imposing than he had imagined or remembered it, had convinced him that he should not be able "to keep it up." Anne Fardel, from the top of the table, said in her still tones: "I suppose you will sell, Mr. Courtoys? You might get, I think, wjiat the auctioneers call a 'fancy price' " No, Courtoys had not thought of selling—lie had not thought of anything except of tliis house as a home for Elizabeth. - Sebastian Fardel regarded him keenly across the dark gleam of the table, the bright lustre of the crystal. •"May I make a confession, Mr, Cour- j toys? We are wanderers, my sister and \ I, and know the, world rather well-—' there was no attraction for ois to stay here —though we are quite comfortable with the Willsetts—but vour house."

"Oh?" said Courtoys, drily, but half flattered. "That's my confession—l've been over here a great deal, looking at your things, principally studying your' collection of maps." . "I didn't know there was a collection of maps." "Oh, but there is! Beautiful! You haven't bothered with the inventory, then ?" "Not yet. All that tiresome part is to come. I didn't know the house well in my uncle's time, and I haven't been here for ten years." And his tired face clouded as he said the last two words; and. then a faint dislike of the man seated opposite him ■prompted him to, say: *• "Naturally, one thought that this fellow Willsett was quite reliable." , "So he is, Mr. Courtoys; So he is! Most reliable. I have only been aliowed here on sufferance whilst "the place was being aired or cleaned—you mustn't blame poor Willsett for my" indiscretion, the ardour of the antiquary, you know." "I didn't mean that," said Courtoys, awkardly. "I meant that they ought to have been here to-night as they knew I was coming." "But they didn't,"- said Miss Fardel. "Your message, quite carelessly given by some clerk in your lawyer's "office, said that you would be here late to-night, and it came just after the Willsetts had started off, in great distress to see a daughter very ill at Lingford, which is. you know, some miles away, so I did the best I could." Courtoys was uncomfortable during this explanation, which subtly put him in the wrong, accusing him of a boorish awkwardness of which he indeed felt guilty. He knew that they were not quite English and. not quite gentlefolk (as gentlefolk had been considered when Lc was last in England), and secretly lie thought their behaviour more intrusive than kind; in brief, he.neither liked nor trusted them; but in manne." they had ihe advantage of him, and of this lie was acutely conscious. Anne Fardel leant slightly forward as if to read his thoughts, and said: "I am sure you think us very impertinent, Mr. Courtoys." , s ■ He did like her the more for that, and his reply rang false.

"Why should I think so? I'm afraid! I've got rather out of the way of com- j pliments." He fidgeted in his chair, and Anne j Fardel instantly arose. I "I am sure that you wish to be rid of us—we will go now; perhaps in the morning my brother may come again and apologise for his trespassing." While Courtoys was trying to frame some disclaimer, while he was standing there ill at ease before these two strangers, her clear voice went on: j "A village woman will come in in the morning—you know your uncle's room upstairs? It is ready for you, really the onlv bedroom in the house habit- j able." * j Courtoys could hardly restrain a, grimace;* he did not want his uncle's room: the room where his uncle had died, of course. | '•Thank you for all your kindness," he < said, stiffly. | Anne Fardel had picked up some black ■ cloak from a chair that she cast over ! her head and shoulders, eclipsing her pale ! fairness. - I "Can't I see you on your way?" asked Courtoys. for want of something to say. "I've rather forgotten where Ihe lodge • is." > "A few yards," smiled Mr. Fardel, "and it has left off raining—in any case, I have mackintoshes in the hall. May I really come round to-morrow and explain myself?" _ i "Please come, but of course I don't want any explanation." Courtoys forced himself to be cordial, or, at least, to a . semblance of cordiality. "Oh. I assure you 1 must! For my own satisfaction." Well, good-night, and till to-morrow." ;

- "Good-night." echoed his sister, with that remote detached indifference that lent an air of strangeness to everything she said or did. "Good-night and thank you," answered Courtoys. He was slightly ashamed when he considered that his curtness had brought the supper to an abrupt end—no doubt his face had been the signal for their quick exit —but he could not feel sorry that they had gone. And that man and his maps! To a man of the temperament of Courtoys this about the old maps had seemed a ioke of eraziness. Maps! As if he was not tired of maps; they were associated with all the dullness of his dull career. And then Courtoys going back into the silent empty house asked himself why his career had been so dull. Many men would have made an adventure out of such a life .is he had had; in himself the dullness must have lain; the dullness of a disappointed, soured man. If he had not been so prudent ten years ago. if he had risked everything and married Elizabeth Skalkeld, he might not be so dull now, so out of touch with the humanities. The supper table with the scattered remnants of the meal looked depressing. Courtoys snapped off the lights here, and returned to the big terrace-room, where the pretty lamp still glowed behind the dusky parchment shade, and gave that soft muted light that is so becoming to form and colour. The fire had completely fallen out; a few fiery embers glowed from a heap of whitish ash, but the room was warm. Courtoys glanced round him, not without a sense of luxury; now that he was alone ho could take stock of his feelings, of his possessions. He admitted that now. as master, it might be possible for him to like the house.

After his rough life and endless travels the settings of these rooms seemed beautiful, patrician, and stately. He moved about, touching the tapestry on the walls, the fine satin covering of the chairs, the fine marble of the mantel7>iece, the rich velvet of the curtains. He received a certain thrill, a certain pleasure from these things, a definite, if faint sense of ownership; but stronger than any of these was the sensation of being a child playing with forbidden toys; he might have inherited the house from reluctant, contemptuous old Jasper Courtoys. but he remained the son of the family black sheep, who had been fed and educated by cold charity; he was strange, shy, and alien with everything, always, he thought bitterly, would be. ° With a sensation of being pulled up short by something in his path, he stopped before the chair where Anne Fardel had been sitting when he had first entered this room a few hours ago. So vivid had been the impression she had on him. that he frowned into the amber-hued dusk as if he saw her again before him rising as she had risen when he had pushed the window open, with that peculiar and sinister expression on her face that now, he believed, he must have imagined. Courtoys moved away quieklv to rid himself of a memory that was as actual as a definite wraith before him. His foot struck against something; a book, a fallen book. The book that Anne Fardel had been reading, and that she had dropped on his entrance. He stooped and picked it rrp. It was an old parchment book with the title written by hand on the cover in long sepia letters. Courtoys, after glancing throuo-b the stiff regular pages, put it down with a gesture of disgust. It was a treatise on witchcraft and black magic, with hideous and extraordinary illustrations; clots of devils ami wreaths of imps seemed to issue from between the covers in the fantastic contortions only possible to old wood cuts. Courtoys wished that he had not. just now, seen this book; he wished, indeed that he had not met Anne Fardel in the terrace drawing-room. (To be continued dailr.)