"OUT OF THE PAST"

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 27, 1 February 1930, Page 13 (Supplement)

"OUT OF THE PAST"

By MARTEN CUMBERLAND

CHAPTER XVII. Tevnan's Wife. Claud Tevnan felt quite pleased with himself as lie left the "vicinity of Ashdown Gardens The more he thought over things the more he was convinced that Gloria had attempted to bluff him. He bad, however, been too smart for her f He would very soon find out the whole truth of this business. Whistling to himself, he boarded an omnibus, in Praed Stree, and booked to Earl's Court. It would be late when he arrived home, but Dolly wouldn't be in bed. She was a late bird. Her profession had given her the habit of retiring at any hour between midnight and two in the morning. It was, in fact, close on twelve when he reached the cheap little flat where he lived with his chorus-girl wife; aud, as he opened the door with his key, he saw that a light was burning in the kitchen. Dolly was seated at the table eating an unholy meal of tinned salmon, cucumber and bottled 6tout. "Hullo, old dear," cried Tevnan, casually. "Home again! Be it ever so humble —what?" He walked into the stuffy, garishly-lit room, and the woman looked at him. "Hullo," she said. "So you've come home at last, eh?". Her voice was surly, but she held up her lips for his careless kiss, and her hauds closed tightly on his arm. Dolly Tevnan, or—to give her the name by which she was known on the stage— Dolly Cavendish, was a curious type of woman. Very tall, and dark, with a rather heavy figure, she was of mixed blood, her father being Irish, and her mother Portuguese. She had beeq born in Gibraltar, and a good deal of the sluggish heat of that glittering rock seemed to have entered into her veins. She was a queer mixture of passionate energy and laziness. She would work very hard for weeks or months on end, and then there would be periods when she became completely apathetic. At such times she would lie about on sofas, clad inadequately in soiled negligees, reading cheap novels, and eating more than was good for her figure. x She was thirty-seven, and off the stage she looked every year of her age. Before the footlights, however, she looked considerably younger; and at all times she was physically attractive, except in her moods of indolence, when she let herself go completely. Her figure was of a fine statuesque type, and this and a rich contralto voice made her pretty sure of almost continual work in the chorus. She wore her clothes well. She was experienced. As a rule, it was her role to stand behind shorter girls, and add her deep tones to their lighter vocal efforts. Sometimes she would even have a rather conspicuous, though small part, holding a flag, i a torch, or some other symbolic emblem. She rose now, pulled a chair to the table for her husband, and brought from a cupboard another bottle of stout. 'T suppose you're hungry, Claud?" shp asked. "Bather!" he replied. "Train journeys always make me rather peckish. Deuce of a trip from that hole, Torringdean!" She nodded, and cut him,.some thick slices of bread and butter. As he began to eat, she leaned back in her chair, watching him. Dolly adored her husband. She wondered sometimes why this was, and she had never, found a really satisfactory answer to the question. She remembered him aa a handsome magnificent creature/ who had eent expensive flowers round to the dressing room, and taken her out to supper at smart restaurants. In the light of her present knowledge, she often wondered where he had procured the money to do this with. Certainly he had never done anything of the kind since they were married, and now he never seemed to have a penny. When he did get • a job, it Was never up to much, and he never kept it long. It it were not for her he would starve or go into the workhouse. Yes, she could never decide why she loved him, though she admitted to herself that she still did, and probably would always do so. He had captured her fancy somehow, and even though she knew him to be vain, selfish, and incompetent, he still held for her. most of his old attraction. She did not admire him either physically or mentally. She doubted his real affection for her, and often suspected him of lying and deceiving her, and yet . . . With it all, she loved him, She could not contemplate living without ' him 1 Now, as she looked at him across the table, she marvelled once more at herself. Was it sheer habit and inertia ; that kept her fond of this man, or was . it that he had made her suffer as no ' one else had ever made her suffer? * Yes, that was it, perhaps. We were ' always fond of those we suffered for, or 1 conferred favours upon. That bound us to other people somehow I Those we had nursed through sickness, saved from t ruin, made sacrifices for. We felt bound ( to them for ever. She had certainly suffered a great deal ® for Claud. One by one he had destroyed , all her illusions, and broken down her * dreams of happiness. He was, she knew, ' utterly selfish, and "without a thought . for her. He sponged" on her all the time, and barely thanked her for what she gave him.. If she came home tired from the theatre he-had scarcely even more than a casual greeting for her. There was never a word of gratitude, or an expression to show his sympathy for her, though she would have given the world for one. When he did make a little money, he . seldom gave any to her, or made her a present. It all went on himself, and often she suspected him of lying, and keeping back sums, whilst asking her for a share of her hard-earned salary. He was lazy! he could and would do nothing to help her about the flat. He was often bad-tempered, and cruel in his tone to her. And yet she went on :living with him; for nearly five years she had put up with it all. She loved him! He might madden her; rouse her jealousy and torture her with suspicions and fears. Yet, through it all- she clung to him. He was necessary to her life. "That's better!" said Tevnan, polishing off his last morsel of fish and lighting a cigarette. "Any news, old dear? Got a job yet?" "Yes," she replied, "give me a cigarette, Claud, will you? I've got a shop at last. We open up at the Sheridan next month. Maurice Lang is putting on a musical show. No title yet. Chorus for me, of course."

"Fine!" he said, complacently. "You're never out for long, eh ? West End, too. Lang pays for rehearsals, don't he?" She nodded. "Well, what's your news?" she asked. "You were away longer than you thought ?" Tevnan yawned rather elaborately. Watching him, the woman suddenly .felt that he was going' to lie to her. "Yes," he said. "I found I had to hang about for a fortnight in the holel Couldn't get the information I wanted. In the end I only made barely a fiver, after my exes were paid." ; His maimer was a shade tqo casual, and his eyes'were more .than usually shifty. She became alert and suspicious. "You didn't meet, anyone you knew down there —any woman?" "My dear girl!" He* laughed, 'but she had seen a swift light come into his eyes that she recognised. 'His laughter sounded false to the woman who knew him. "My dear girl! How on earth should I meet anyone I know down in a onehorse place like that?" "You might. Why did you stop so long? You said you were only going for a couple of days." His face darkened with anger. "Cut that out, Dolly!" he said. "I don't want any of your jealousy stunts to-night. I'm tired." 1 went to the place on business, and I had to stay until I'd got tilings fixed up." "You might have ■written, or at least sent me a postcard. Where did you stay ?" "In some darned boarding-house. A home from home, where the meat comes from the Argentine and the soup comes out of the tap!" Ho flung away his cigarette and poured himself out a fresh glass of stout. She did not say any more, and they sat in silence. She began to mend some artificial silk stockings whilst he read a paper and smoked. But, every now and then, her ho.ad turned' towards him and she. looked inquiringly at his unconscious face. There was a sullen, questioning light in her great dark eyes.

CHAPTER XVIII. A Man in Agony. As the front door shut behind his wife, Dick Hemingway stood stock still in the middle of the room. For a moment his face changcd, and a queer light came into his eyes, then he resumed his nervous pacing to and fro. The man was in agony. His mind was tortured with thoughts that seared into his brain like burning iron. . The hands behind his back were clenched, and the fingers knotted together until the knuckles showed white under the light. All his world had suddenly crashed about him. He was the kind of man /who does not love easily, and probably only loves once. He was a queer mixture of strength and weakness; wisdom and folly. Such a man puts the woman he loves on a slender pedestal of wrought marble, worshipping perilously some being of his own imagining rather than the actual creature of flesh and blood. Love to such a man is an ecstatic dream from which only too often he will awaken with a rude shock. He tries to make of human clay and human relationship something that goes bevond our common earth, and when he fails he blames anyone or anything hut himself. Without knowing it, Dick Hemingway was of the type who badly needs the support and love of a woman. Gloria had mothered him; delicately guided and counselled him; stimulated his imagination and his purpose; thrust him forward upon his successful path. And now she had gone. Worse, the idea and image of Gloria, as he had always, pictured her, had vanished 1 ! He had lost a vital article of his faith; he was riding rough eeas without sail or anchor; a soul lost in bitterness. , & For 20 minutes he paced to and fro in the room. Then he heard the servants return. They had evidently met by accident and were chattering about some film. A sudden determination came to him to leave the house. He needed fresh air and exercise. He wanted to walk, mile after mile, until his body became tired and some of the fever left his. brain. 'He put on a pair of soft-soled shoes, and took a stick from the halL It was growing late, and Torringdean was retiring to rest. The evening was warm and still, with a rising moon, obscured now and then by passing clouds. Dick walked briskly across the main road, into a quieter part of the town. As he walked his head was slightly bowed,' and he scarcely glanced about him. The hbuses were silent and most of them unlighted. The streets of Torringdean were deserted save for occasional'cats and policemen. He passed the park, now closed, and with the moonlight shining on the gleaming railings. He came into open country, but still he walked .on. One thought ran through.. his mind, and excluded all others. Gloria had left him, and their life together was over. She had gone and she would'never return.

With'a groan, - he quickened his pace, seeking to kill by. physical effort the torment ofhis brain. He thought of the servants. .• To-morrow he would have to explain something to them. It would need thinking out. They would 'be astonished at- Glory's sudden departure. At last, when he had walked mile after mile,-he'.turned a little wearily;and began v to make his way'back. His, body was growing tired now, but his brain was still abnormally active. Time and again he went over his scene with Gloria,(recalling as far as he could her every, word; r ahd gesture. t Gradually, .as- the sense of fatigue stole over him, his brain seemed to'grow a little, calmer. - He began to think of things from Gloria's point of view; he began for the first' time to" give consideration to her statements. - When she had told her tale, he could not 'believe, "anjT-he; could not even listen. He could think',only of Tevnan hurrying away from , the house; of Gloria .cjosing the-' door behind- -him; of the fear in her-eyes when, she had seen her husband. ... K' * .. ■ " He had been mad with jealousy and rage. He had not thought, nor listened; he had only felt. 1 But now,'walking bareheaded in the moonlight,. new thoughts crept into his mind. Supposes—suppose just for one instant, that .Gloria's wild-sounding tale was in reality the truth? She had said that Tevnan was blackmailing her. -Well, suppose that wet'e true? In'.that case, he was not her lover; on the she hated and feared him. She had paid him money to buy his silence;-she had brought him to the house Ito trick him into leaving while Dick was away. Yes, it fitted; in to a certain extent. In fact, it fitted in very largely with the facts he knew. Gloria's lies about money that .' had gone, he knew not where. Her 'lies about seeing Tevnan that afternoon when she had been in the car with 'him.' Of would lie and be afraid, if Tevnan were "subjecting her to blackmail. And,' in'that case, though Gloria had been guilty in the past, she was not guity in the present! Dick came to his silent house and left himself in thoughtfully. He went back to the library and flung himself into a chair. _ Later, he would go to bed, or the servants would wonder what' was the matter. But, for the moment, he would stop-where he was. He could not sleep. Suppose, then, ■ that Gloria was only guilty in the -past? But then if he went so far, he might as well go further. She had told him that even in the past she had been guilty only of indiscretion and girlish folly. Dick frowned to himself. What if he had been too hasty, too madly jealous, as he certainly had been sometimes before —? He thought of Gloria as he had always known her, proud, sensitive, fastidious as all " fine women are fastidious, • And" then he thought of the little eid, Tevnan. . . . It wis impossible that such a man could mean anything to Gloria. At one time, perhaps, this obvious blackguard might have been more presentable, certainly good-looking and plausible enough to deceive a young girl's fancy. But not now. ... No, he could not believe it. Dick leaped to his feet suddenly, and his face was alight with hope. He had been a fool —a mad, impulsive, jealous fool. He had ; never thought, never listened properly to Gloria's explanations.

Then, as suddenly, he sank back into his chair, and his face was 'darkened. Right or wrong, his new thoughts were,, no, good to, him now. It was too late. Gloriafhad gone away! ; , (To be continued Saturday next.)