MARRIED OR SINGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 226, 24 September 1934, Page 15

MARRIED OR SINGLE

"Through Deep N Waters," "Against \tho Wall," / eto. /

CHAPTER V. A note was brought to Hadfield next morning whilst he' was dressing. It was a piteous appeal from Sylvia to come to her in. the garden as soon as he was able to do so. Leaving his room, he went hastily downstairs and into the garden, and at the spot where they had talked together the evening before Sylvia Halo was waiting for him. It' she appeared miserable before, the gii-1 looked now completely crushed and heartbroken. When John camo up to her she dropped on to a seat and began sobbing helplessly, and it was some time before she could tell him what she now knew about her husband. "I have had a noto from Stephen," she cried hysterically. "He —ho tells me—he —ho is not coming back. It has been a terrible mistake, lie says, and the only thing wo can do is just to go our separate ways, and to mako the best of it. I am too childish, 'ho says. I could never, never understand what — a man—of his kind wants out of life. That—that is what —he puts —in the note." Hadfield's anger had risen so completely as he listened to the girl's faltering speech that something was forced into his throat and threatened to choke •him, and a second or two passed before ho had pulled himself sufficiently together to answer. "So that's it," he said sternly. "But, upon my soul, Mrs. Hale, a man can't behave like- that. It's —it's—well,, absolutely unthinkable. 'Pon my soul it is." Sylvia's eyes drooped wearily. "Stephen is doing it, anyway," she faltered in an odd voice. "Stephen is not like other men, perhaps. Ho is a great poet, and ho never would bo ruled by ordinary codes of behaviour. I was in—in the way, you see, stifling him as —as an artist, 1 suppose, and yet, I—l never meant to. But —he—may be— right. I am too young, I suppose, to understand it all," she finished drearily. "How old arc you?" John asked pityingly. "Seventeen. Once—lie said—it was— beautiful to be so young." She stopped, and lapsed into hopeless silence. With a sudden impulse John drew her hot little hands into his strong ones. "Tell me," ho said gently, "how it all happened—you two marrying, I mean," he added. Sylvia, making no attempt to move back, allowed her hands still to rest in his as she began her story. "Stephen camo to the school," she murmured. "lie read poetry to us, and talked about it. Ho had a magical voice, and his reading was wonderful. Wo wore all in love with him."

She caught her breath, us if memory of those school days was now pain to her. "lie <1 id not take much notice of the oilier girls," she continued at last, "but he was always very nice to me, and presently 1 used to slip out at nights to talk to him ill the garden, and then —after a time, lie suggested we should go away and get married. '"It startled me at first, because, somehow, I never thought," continued Sylvia, smiling dismally, "I was old enough to do that, but it—it seemed rather a joke— and romantic sort of—and—it was Stephen, you see, but—oh, it's so—hard to tell you about it," she broke out, ready to break down again. Soon, however, she was bravely going

"It was at the end of the term—niv last term" she continued, "and it had been arranged that I should go and stay with my old nurse till daddy came home from America. He is there now. If not, I should have gone home. We have a house at Silvester, and I'm always there for the holidays when daddy is at home. If not, Igo to Nanny. My mother's dead, you see. "Nanny never suspected anything," proceeded Sylvia tearfully, "though I am sorry now we never told her." "But, my dear child, did you plan all this without your father or anybody knowing anything?" exclaimed John, justly horrified. Sylvia reddened. "Stephen could not wait. He seemed all—all 011 fire, and I wanted to be with him too, so I just wrote to Nanny and made her believe that the term was ending a little later—then Stephen and I were to go back and to tell her all about it, and—and Stephen was to write to daddy." She paused. John withdrew his hands and looked frowningly in front of him. "Good heavens, my dear kid, what a frightful mix up," he exclaimed. "And what can be done now? May I ask if Mr. Halo gives any address?" The girl shook her head. "No," she faltered. "He says ho is going away to write a play. He has talked of it often. It's his great ambition, and now he must he alone to do it—to go somewhere where he can think and plan." "Think forsooth," sneered Hadfield. "The man ought to have enough to think of to last him a lifetime, if he has a grain of conscience, which I very much doubt. But do you mean to tell me that he has given you to understand that he is not coming back to you at all?" • . "That —is—what —what he says." "You were married in England, I suppose ?" "Yes, in London, a fortnight ago." "What a complete farce!" cried John hotly, almost forgetting her presence in his fury. "Well, perhaps it will be better now to let your father deal with Stephen Hale," he thrust in scornfully. "So we will leave him for the present. What would you like to do yourself, little girl? You can't stay here alone, of course, can you ?" She looked helplessly across at him. "No," she said wearily. "And if you will help me, I think I will go to Nanny. I can stay with her until daddy comes back, you see.'' "That does seem the best thing to do," said John, relieved that there was some plan 011 which to work. "I am going to England myself, so I can go with you part of the way." Ho paused, then bent forward and pressed her hand. "Courage, little girl," he said gently. "There will be better things in store for you yet, mark my Avoids."

!/:By K. F. Brodrick / \-Z

CHAPTER VI. Two days later, there being no sign of tlie missing bridegroom, Hadliekl escortcd Sylvia to England. In London, lie took her to Marylebone, and put her in the train wliieh was to take her to the Hertfordshire village where the nurse lived. It was about six miles from lier own home, Sylvia said. But when the train departed, and Hadfield turned to leave the citation, lie realised what a great deal there was yet to know about this little girl. He would have liked to have learnt more about her old home, and about her father, too, whom lio Lad heard of under 110 other name but daddy. Ho blamed himself now for not asking more, and for not telling Sylvia, too, that he would like to meet her again. Ho felt lonely as he mounted a bus and realised that at last he could busy hiiiisclf with, his own concerns. There were, of course, numberless things to do—old friends to hunt up, old sccnes to revisit, and at the end of the autumn a sad event took placc in his family. A brother-in-law died, and for come time he was engaged in helping and comforting his sister and her children, and in making arrangements for their future. Ho had been almost a year in England, before there was opportunity to turn his thoughts to the home he had pictured buying. The idea of Laving his own place appealed to Lim, and lie wrote to house agents asking for what he wanted. Long lists of Louses were sent to Lim, all with attractive descriptions of their desirability as places of residence. One or two of these Louses were visited, but none particularly pleased Lim. One night, however, at Lis club he saw in a paper the picture of a small country houso which appeared to be what he needed. Perhaps lie had looked at similar pictures without taking much stock of tliem, but this was different, for under it was: "A desirable country liomo three miles from the charming village of Silvester."

Silvester! The name shot into his head, bringing with it a mental picture of a beautiful little face, of blue eyes, of gorgeous golden hail*. Silvester meant Sylvia. How would it feel to be a neighbour of the littlo girl, Sylvia? Anyway, if he went down there—and this house was Quito a decent excuse— lie might learn something of Iter. He wired tho agents and said he wished to look at the house. CHAPTER VII. Ho arrived at Cranley Bush station in tho morning, and as it was clear and sunny he decided to walk the two miles to Silvester, lunch at tho inn if there was one, and then drive over to the. house which he hoped soon to call home. The wish became keener as he mounted tho hill facing the station, and found himself on a wide, open roadway lined on either side with elms. The air was pure and invigorating. Around liim were meadows green and peaceful, and beyond were woods shimmering in- their new spring dress. Tho village of Silvester, remote from the railway, proved, as he came lip to it, as fascinating as he hoped. A few old world cottages and an inn greeted him first; beyond were crossroads, in the middle of which, 011 a patch of green, stood oak trees as old as tho village itself. Along a winding road to the right Hadfield saw the church 1 and vicarage, and away through an avenue of trees stood an ancient mansion, the home, surely, of someone of consequence. Hadfield turned back to the inn, and, lunching there, tried to "-et some information about the place out of the landlord. This worthy, a plump old man who liked conversation with a stranger, met him cordially.

"So you've come to look at the ' Pi nets,' " he began with interest. "Well, a mighty pretty little place it is, sir, and.no mistake. Been lip for sale since Major Longford died last year. He-was a great gentleman for his garden, and it's beautiful. Oh, you'll l'ike it well enough, sir. You could not help it, to my mind." Hadfielcl looked along the crossroads as lie finished his lunch, which had been taken at a table in tho coffee room window. "A fascinating place, all of it, I should think," he remarked. "I like what I see of it immensely. Church very old, isn't it, and what a lovely place over there through the avenue of trees. Who is the owner?" The landlord began his information eagerly, as if approaching a subject agreeable to him. "Sir George ' Wharton. He is the eighth baronet, and collies of an ancient family, sir." "House looks. ancient, anway," answered Iladlield. "Ancient enough almost to have a ghost, ehl" "Well, you know, they do say, sir—" "'Pon my soul, you don't really.mean to say there is one," laughed Hadfield. "Come, that's interesting." "You may say so, sir," struck in the other, "but them that's seen it—has been worried out of their wits, I can tell you!" Hadfield laughed again, amusedly. He was no believer in ghosts, but understood what village prattle could turn into one. "There is a story attached to it, 110 doubt?" "Yes, sir, and there's a wretched legend belonging to that house, interesting and beautiful as it lopks, and some say Sir George would like to sell the whole place and be rid of it, because the Curse, as they call it, 'as done 110 good to him, that's certain, and he don't bother about the ghost." "The Curse? Sounds awful." Hadfield raised his eyes in wonder. "There's an opal worth, I believe, thousands of set up in a glass case in the 'ouse," continued the landlord. "It has been there for hundreds of years, and was given, so they say, to one of the Wliartons by an Indian chief who bore him a grudge, but pretended he was doing him a service. Attached to the box is a writing which has been

interpreted to mean something like this. 'If any women of the House of Wharton touch tlie opal some calamity will come to them, but worse will befall any of the house who seeks to rid himself of the opal or to destroy it.'"

"Sounds rather dreadful," said Hadfield, taking out a pipe and beginning to fill it. "And have these awful things ever happened?"

"Yes, sir," said the other solemnly. "More than a hundred years ago a young Lady Wharton, not very long married, wanted to touch it. Her husband, the baronet, urged her not to do so, and she promised she wouldn't. Then, one night, not long after her boy was born, curiosity got the better of her again, and she did touch it, and that very night her room caught fire and she was burned to death. And they say it's her who walks about.". "And the opal was said to be the cause , of the fire?" asked Hadfield incredulously. "So it was said, sir, but the other case was worse, for it happened to the pre- i sent baronet's lady. She touched it, and | went raving mad. They had to take her to any asylum, and there she died." "Good God, that's pretty ghastly! Are there any children?" "No son, sir, and that's rather a tragedy, but Sir George has a daughter, just grown up. She's a most beautiful young lady, and is to be married very soon, tliey say, to a second cousin who is the heir to the title." Had field's eyes roamed onco more towards the window. "There are not many people living here, I expect?" he asked sharply, "save the cottagers, are there?" "Not actually in Silvester," came the answer, "but there are houses round, and mighty good hunting. You'd like it, if you came here, sir, I'm sure." "You'd know the names of everybody, I expect," put in Hadfield suddenly. "I think so. I've lived here all my life, sir." "There was a lady I met abroad once who came from these parts," said John cautiously. "A —Mrs. Hale. Does she live near here now?" The landlord wrinkled his forehead in perplexity. "That's funny, sir," he said wonderingly, "for I don't remember the name. But I'll ask my missus. Oh, there's your taxi, sir," he thrust in, hurrying to the window. "Well, the man will know where to drive you." (To be continued daily.)