BANK CLERK

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 303, 23 December 1933, Page 12 (Supplement)

BANK CLERK

(By HOLLO WAY HORN.)

CHAPTER IX. Nina Again.

Bullard still occasionally met Nin< Warren as the winter progressed— usually in the Higli Street, and oftei they pulled up for a chat. Her attitude towards him was as friendly as ever but he noticed a reticence in her, a re serve, which she had not shown in the early stages of their friendship. Those little chats in the High Street were strangely impersonal and unsatisfying and left him even more fearful of the loneliness in his life. But one afternoon, a few weeks aftei his unfortunate visit to Wathani, he met her on the Common. It was a lovely winter day, clear and crisp, witl a tang in the air. He had his Aber deen terrier with him and the three ol them walked along together. "What is your dog's name?" she asked. "That's funny! Do you know I've never given him a name. It just didn't occur to me." "What an extraordinary thing!" she exclaimed. "But surely you must call him something." "Mrs. Spagett calls him . . . just Doggie, I think. I've never had a dog before this one, and I suppose I must have overlooked it. He's not a particularly friendly dog. I'm afraid." "All dogs arc!" she protested. "You simply must give him a name. Call him Mac. It really is amazing that you . . . didn't give him a name. You are a strange man." "Mac it shall be," he said with a smile. "Dear little Mac!" She stooped and patted the dog's head, and, as she did so, he noticed the diamonds sparkling on her engagement finger. For a moment or so he said nothing, He walked rather stiffly, clenching hifi hands in a characteristic gesture. "I see that I have to congratulate you," lie said at length. She looked down at the ring. "Yes," she said, so quietly that he barely caught the word. "I do," he said. "I'm . . . I'm glad.' : "I'm very fond of John," she said after a silence. "He's a good man." "You are wise to marry a good inan,' : he replied, in a tone which made hei glance sharply at him. "I think we shall be married very soon," she said, after walking some way in silence. "Ihere doesn't seem to be any point in waiting," he said, unemotionally. John is thinking of selling his practice and taking another in London." "You want to leave Mossford?" V"I think so. I've been here all mv life, you know. One gets tired of a place, no matter how pleasant it is." They had reachcd the spinney that was tlie end of so many of his shorter walks, a spinney of beech woods. The wintry sun made the little wood rather like the ghejet of what it had been in the summer; the shadows of the trees stood out sharply on the hrown leaves at their feet. I love this spot," she said, and, obeying some impulse, glanced up again at him. "Whatever'e the matter?" she demanded, pulling up short. She had surprised a look of utter hopelessness on his face. It s . . . nothing," he stammered. 'I wish ... I wish you'd tell me," she eaid, watching him desperately. 6 no ' ; hing. Reallv." There's no reason why you should lie to me, dear," she said. "I can see j that there is something, if I hadn't known all along." "Well, 1 suppose I'm not too keen e>n bearing that you are to be married soon. "There's more than that," she insisteel. "Won't you trust mc? There's something burning into your soul. It makes me frightened, it might help you if you were to tell ine." Ut" Y< ?, u , "ccdn't be frightened of mc j rnna, he said, huakily. , < r ourse 110t " she said sharplv. It isn t you . . . altogether. It's something outside you. I'm not-frightened oi you. ° m Z° U T. e mar "', in " a " ood man-a fine man. I m neither. Marry him and God bless you." He spoke jerkily! effort Word 6 With an him^?"^!! 3 r 'fV or me marrv T TJ; , she . a . desperately. "If e JO u think about. I he awake at ni<Wit Z r t y vo g u ahoUt -n- 1 60 "< eti '»e S dream that you are in danger—terrible danh,i? V 1 ®' 7 < . Wor . ( { s , he said - tormented him, tell b , doun the temptation to th. P!, truth ' t0 rid soul of Li that was becoming unbearon t,le ve, y point of doing so When the memory of the horror on ' VT 1 3 in the Wat ham flat came to him; he dare not see it in i> Jna s. 'Isn 4- it enough," he said, "to love you and to know that you love me and yet be unable to marry you? What could be worse than that?" he asked the question in Jus normal voice. Im sorry dear," she said and for a moment her hand rested on his arm. "If I hadn't loved you it would have been easier. I might have taken you away." „ * "I couldn't ... do that. Mv people— my mother and father—it would break their hearts. They've lived in Mossford a-Il their lives anel I'm their only child I simply couldn't, in any case." "I understand. It's hopeless, my dear, uet lis go back. AVc had better not meet again." She noddeel without speaking. "You get married and away from here as soon as you can, Nina. It'is better so. You will find the new life will wipe me from your memory." "But you .... ?" A bitter laugh broke from hiin, but once again he gripped himself. "It's just bad luck," he said. "If only we had met before! But fate is an ironist. We did not meet before. Has your John been doing any more writing lately?" he asked, changing the subject almost violently. "Yes. But he'll never do much with it, I'm afraid. He's a jolly good dentist, though. Writing with him is only a hobby. But what about your writing?" "I'm on a long novel at the present moment," he lied. "Good. Later on, when I'm living in one o fthe outer suburbs, T shall read it and think of the days in Mossford." Dusk was falling when they came to his cottage. "Good-bye," she said, smiling bravely. "Don't come down the liill with me." "All right," he said. "Good-bye, Nina. It is. . . good-bye." "Yes," she said. "But if there is ever anything I can do for you, you will let me know ?" "I will," he said and gravely met her eyes for a moment before she turned away. He remained standing at the gate watching lier walk down the hill

towards the town until she passed rouiit a bend in the road out of his sight. Mrs. Spaggett, as usual, had left his tea on a tray for him. The cottage was empty. lie sat awhile in the firelight thinking then suddenly buried his "face in liis hands. A Call on the Chemist. But all these thing pass, and later thai evening William Chester Milliard, out wardly at last as confident as ever sauntered down the hill into the littli town. It was Wednesday, and with tli( exception of the chemist;, the shops ii the town were closed. Mr. Cournos establishment was open between six am seven, and during that period Mr Cournos himself was in charge. It was half-past six when Bullarc entered the shop, and Mr. Cournos beamed upon him. The chemist was fi small paunchy individual, with flaming red hair and a strongly developed sense of his own importance. A pleasant little man if one liked the type. "Good evening, Mr. Bullard." "Good evening, old chap. Glad I've caught you. I was going to drop in at the King's Arms—l wanted to see you You v.ere talking about the Allotment Association the other evening." "A very fine association indeed, Mr. Bullard. We provide tools and seeds i'oi the realty poor people as well as pay the rent of the allotment for them. Help them to help themselves, as the vicat put it the other evening." "It's a A'ery fine thing, I agree. If a fiver's any good, put me down for it." "I say! That's awfully kind ! of you, We'll make you a vice-president if you care 1" William Chester Bullard smiled without replying. ( "Come ill. I close at seven and 111 stroll along to the King's Arms with you." "Thanks." He followed the little chemist into his sanctum at the back of the shop. It was a cosy little place in spite of the depressing bottles that filled most of the available spaces. It had the not unpleasant smell inseparable from chemists' shops. "You're very comfortable licrc. "Quite. Oh, Lord!" Someone had come into the shop. "Excuse me," Mr. Cournos went on, "I won't be a minute. I'm on my own to-night." He returned, indeed, almost at once, and from a small cupboard took a bottle of tablets, of which he carefully counted out six. "Morphia," he explained as he replaced the bottle, leaving the cupboard slightly open with the key in the lock. Bullard could hear the chemist talking in the shop, and recognised the voice of the customer as that of Dr. Whybrow. Stealthily he rose and opened the door of the cupboard. It was lined with bottles anel boxes. The one he wanted was just in front of him. A minute or so later when the chemist returned Bullard was sitting in tho chair where he had left him. • • • * It was a chcery party in the King's Arms that evening. The committee of the local football club had held an apparently successful meeting upstairs, and had adjourned en bloc to the room behind the bur. They drank beer gustily, and were, superficially at least, an entirely carefree crowd. Bullard listened to the babble of their talk with increasing envy. There was,nothing subtle or even clever about it, but their high spirits seemed to be mocking him. Not one of them knew the meaning of the terrors of loneliness. He paid for a round of drinks for the entire room, but he still felt solitary in the crowd, an outcast. In no sense was he one of them. Gradually, however, the atmosphere of the gathering, and the whisky, affected him, and he felt more chcery. By the time he set out for his cottagc the blank pessimism had yielded to a less morbid outlook. After all, he argued as ho walked up the hill, he had most things . that he wanted —music, books, leisure, money. His inability to write was probably merely a temporary phase. The man with the purple claw had practically dropped out of the Press. Within a few months he would have been wiped from the million memories where he still lingered. Things, William Chester Bullard insisted, might have been far worse. And in any case he was prepared for whatever might happen—thanks to the carelessness of Mr. Cournos. Such, indeed, was his mood that he was convinced he had been foolish to go in the back room of the chemist at all. He was angry with himself; he had let this business of Nina AVarrcn get du his nerves. He had spent years without, the vague thing called love; surely he could go on without it? He had allowed it to upset him altogether, just as if he had no more sense }f relative values than a schoolboy. Back in Rose Cottage, he stirred the smbers of the fire into a blaze. Nina Sees the Mark. It was a pleasant little place. Ho took a new fountain pen from his pocket md locked it away in his private drawer before lie got out the whisky decanter. Munich provided him with a pianoforte recital, and hp spent a quiet, contemplative hour by his fireside. Music and whisky. What more did a man want? Silly to become morbid because a girl, lowever attractive, was not for him. Rather like the effect of disappointed ?alf love. Which all goes to show, although William Chester Bullard did not realise it, that the temporary effect of whisky, if one drinks enough of it, is, to some teople, worth the money it costs even to-day. The following afternoon Bullard phoned to Jobson and asked him to bring up Schmozzle to the cottage. "A lovely day for a ride,'' he was issured, and half an hour later ho was •antering over the soft, springy turf. It was, as Jobson had said, a lovely lay. There was a nip in tho wind, but the air on the common was crystal clear, 't was good to be alive, to feel a horse between your knees, the tang of the ivind in your face. As far as Bullard could see he had tho common to himself. Schmozzle was moving beautifully. He had never known the horse so lively. Only the night before, Bullard reflected, he had been envious of the dull ?lods who were slaving away in stuffy banks adding up other people's money, rhese moods lie had been indulging in lately were the devil. You can't have everything in this imperfect world, and even if he had been forced to give up the idea of marrying Nina Warren, he tad, he reflected, everything else that lie had ever wanted. And what did romance usually amount to? A stuffy

villa in a stuffy road in a stuffy suburb with, after a month or so, most of the gilt off the gingerbread. Ho ' was alone, better face the fact alone—just as he was riding alone across that lovely common. It was good to be alone after all! But suddenly, through the crysta clear air, he saw live red flecks in sofl brown eyes . . . and the cynical philosophy ho had called to his aid seemcc 011 a sullen tawdry, unsatisfying stuff He flicked Schmozzle and the liorsc jerked forward. He was not accustoinec to being flicked. Bullard reined up at the top of the liil overlooking the broad Vale of Ayleston and for minutes Schmozzle stood there immobile as <a graven horse. "Come on!" said Bullard and jerkec the horse round. Schmozzle, with the cunning developed of all horses let out on hire, was a different animal once his head was turned towards his stable. There was nevei any need to urge it towards its manger His way lay through the spinney of beech trees, and as he breasted the hill on the far side of it, Schmozzle was all out. 0 Suddenly, however, the horse turned from the main track he had been following into a path which was not so clearly marked. Bullard attempted to pull him up, and ducked to miss an overhanging branch. He pulled desperately hard; it was dangerous amongst the trees, but something had startled the horse and he did not respond to his rider's attempt to slow him up. As Bullard raised his head ho saw, too late, that another branch was immediately in front of him. He ducked again, but the branch caught him, sweeping him from the saddle. Fortunately for him the stirrups were of modern, safety type, and although he fell heavily, he was clear of the horse, which thundered on its frightened way, leaving Bullard, a huddled, inert heap just inside the clump of beech trees. The wood was deserted except for a girl who sat on a fallen tree trunk at the far end. She looked up in sudden fright as the riderless horse dashed past her, and, with a gasp of fear, recognised Schmozzle. Then, two hundred yards away through the trees, Nina Warren saw the dark motionless heap. She was certain it was Bullard before ihe was near enough to recognise him, ind, taking her courage in her two hands, ran towards him. Blood was trickling from a ecalp wound; his face was so white that for i moment she thought him dead. Exerting all her strength, she turned iim over on his back. (To be continued daily.)