Escape of a Lady

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 254, 27 October 1938, Page 26

Escape of a Lady

Till, loneliest lad\ in walked down the broad white steps of her home and stepped into tlie lillle Mini silver Rolls Koyce that a\v;t iteil her. The supercilious footman a i ranged the fur r u«r. closed the door, and stood rciS|M>ct fully on the pavement until the ear had 'moved awav. Then he walked up the*teps and said to the pompous butler: "Ain't she enjoying her niunev! I don't think! 1 <1 rather liave nuthin'.'' "As that is all you are likely to 'nve. Henry." replied Mr. Tomkins, "[ (shouldn't trouble yourself with Mis* Bovin's hu*in<>s>s." With whieli remark lie retire<l to the pant ry. The lonely lady, otherwise Marjorie Bovin. drove on toward* the park, where she left the car and took a walk round the Serpentine. Kvery day she went the fame way. passing Ihe dueks and i-waiiK who were lieiir; fed hv excited lailjrhinv «*h ild it'll, past the lioatholise oppo*ite tlie tiny island, past the sedate little white with its eurtained window* and prim iron gates. Marjorie eovete<l that little lodge. *he wove romantic stories about it. It. was like tlie <lream house which e\erv woman build* in her heart and which to Marjorie meant a home which was com- | pact and -mall. Mow -he hated the nuijiniticence and empty grandeur of (irots-

venor Sijiiaro. The baronial drawing room whore she sat alone, waited on by Mr. Tomkins and Ilcnry, feeling tliat I'vci'v in• >iit liful of food must choke her under tIn»•»«* watchful eyes. The drawing room wan not much better. the oyster white envcr«* chosen liy a woman decorator who hail acquired a reputation for good taste because slie owneil tile most expensive shop in May fair jrave a funeral imprev.-ion. The polished doors seemed to inivk llieir lonelv owner, til' <! ilt -edged mirrors hut reflected lie" shrinking self. Not suc'n n n unattractive self really; |mle golden hair, dark brown eyes. a. ! good complexion and a young supple figure might. have lieen einied liy many less fortunate girls. Hut an air of ntiliappinecs and of awkwardness completely eclipsed her attraeiions; even the moot expensive dress liecame somehow insignificant. the most fashionable hat a mere dowdy head-covering when Marjorie wore them self-consciously. Monsieur Olatte. the world-famous ooutourier. onoe saw her in his showroom and asked who she was. "That in Mi ss Bovin." lie was told, "daughter of the dental millionaire." "Mon Dion!" Monsieur exclaimed. "Redress her completely. Where could she have bought such dull, such deadly clothes ?" "But that is our model that inadame is wearing now." the embarrassed vendeuse explained. "Surely monsieur remeinliers designing "Ravisante." "Impossible." cried Monsieur fllatte. But it wasn't, it was unfortunately quite jKistsible. and no one knew that better than Marjorie herself. Often she would lie awake trying to imagine life as an ordinary girl, without money, without a father whose name was oil every hoarding, whose I goods were a household word. Ever since childhood she had suffered from that quick surprise which followed the announcement of her name, from the gushing inanition of those who were impressed bv her money, or the barely concealed amusement of others. There was something revolting or screamingly funny, however you looked at it. at the idea of ready-made sets of teeth guaranteed to fit any mouth. "Knjov your food the Bovin way." "The Bovin fit is a perfect fit." "Your money back if unsatisfied." Slogan after slogan, under pictures of flashing smiles. all showing "the Bovin set." How Marjorie hated them. Branches were ojiening all over the country, her father was seldom in Tondon these days, and so she stayed alone, wandering listlessly from room to room in the huge mansion which was no home, ionly another advertisement of "BovinV perfect way." "Why. why can't T escape?" Marjorie asked for the millionth time as she passed the little white lodge. She knew only too well that she was j not ltorn to a life of luxury: her an- : oestors had worked—every one of them ] —for their home, their men. and their | children. Her arms ached sometimes for j the labour of scrubbing a floor, for cook - . ing a dinner, for cleaning a window. 'Her heart ached for a man to do it for. ( a man who would love her for herself. ! who would hate her money as she did. ; who would want her strength an<l would use it. Thfme were her dreams, so secret that i/o one could guess how mucli time she spent over thein. her only companions. She moved on. then turned up the grassy slope to where Rima reigns, disdainful of criticie-m or praise.

Short Story . . By Barbara Cartlani

And then a* slip walked along slowly, her head lient. she was *tartled hv a st ra ii'je sound. Someone was sobbing, not n child's anguished cry, or the hysterical out-hurst of a woman, hut the deep ii'.'ony of tears which cannot he denied and which break down even the la*t barrier of masculine reserve. Marjorie looked round. Irving full length on the grass ju*t a few feet away was a man. his face buried in his hands, but somehow she knew by his head and the square, athletic build of his shoiiiders that lie was young. She hesitated. mad;! )in effort to pass on. then hesitated again. There was something in those tears, which tore at her heart, making her weak, sympathetic, and unaccountably brave all at once. With a composure slw was far from feeling Marjorie bent over the man and touched his shoulder. "(an I help you?"' she said. "Please let me."' It was only when she had spoken that she realised what she had done. This strange man 'lid not look poor, his suit was well made and in good condition, his shoes were not worn. Marjorie knew even as she spoke it was not money sin- was offering in consolation, and yet she was too bewildered by her own action to know exactly how she meant to assist.

There was a sudden deep silence, then the young man moved quickly and looked up at Marjorie. Her first thought was —"He is older than I expected over thirty," and then her eyes tell before his. "I'm sorry." she said tremblingly, "if 1 iiiii impertinent, but I know what it feels like to. . . ." she groped for winds and her voice trailed away miserably. "Do you?" the man said fiercely. "Then I'm damned sorry for you." He sat up and blew his nose. "! x just thought. I might be able to help." Marjorie floundered on moving as if she would go. "Don't go." the man said suddenly. "As you've seen nie making a fool of myself you might as well stay and hear why. If I'd had someone to talk to it might have seemed less terrible. Sit down." Quite simply Marjorie obeyed him. It di<l not strike her at that moment how odd it was to be sitting on the grass in the Park with a complete stranger. "When all your hopes oi\ which you have lived for months are dashed, when the future only holds hell for you, what would you do?" the man asked suddenly. "I don't know." Marjorie answered simply. "My future couldn't be much worse than my present." "Oh you say that glibly enough." her companion answered. "Wouldn't it be worse if you were crippled, if you couldn't use your legs, or lost the sight of your eyes?" His voice broke on the last word, ou are blind?" Marjorie asked in a whisper. "Not yet. but I shall be" he answered. "In a month, two months, maybe two years, but it's inevitable, inescapable, nothing can be done—nothing." "Oh you poor, poor thing." Marjorie held out both her hands impulsively and he took them gently. "Are you quite certain?" Marjorie asked, her own eyes brimming with tears. "T arrived in England last night," he answered, "from South Africa. I've got a farm there: it's my job, my living, my home. The doctors sent me back to see the greatest eye surgeon in Europe. I saw him to-day —he gave me his verdict." Again there was silence—there seemed no need for words to express her sympathy, Marjorie showed it in her worried gentle face, for once completely forgetful of self. "What will happen to my farm, what will happen to me?" the man asked bitterly. "Can vou help me—can anybody ?" "You aren't married?" Marjorie asked, somehow knowing the answer before lie replied. "No. I have no relations, and few friends. I've been too busy earning my living." "Tell me about your farm," Marjorie asked gently. And then he started to talk. He told her of the country, of the men who worked under him, of the livestock, of the markets, and he described his home, a bungalow small but very attractive to him. comfortable in its own way but lonely if he craved society which he never had until now. Marjorie could imagine it all, the peace, the joy of creating from a wilderness,, and the happiness of watching the results of his work get more and more successful year by year. "It sounds eo wonderful," she uM.

"If I only had a partner,'" he went on. "I suppose I could manage now, even a woman could superintend the work, it's easy enough, for the men are as keen as I am and own a share in the profits. I believe in share and share alike." "Can't you think of anyone?" she asked anxiously. "Not a soul, unless you feel like tackling it,'" he said, half-jokingly, halfbitterlv. The blood rushed to Marjorte's face, she suddenly realised her position, her shyness swept over her like a cloud, the look of eager attention left her eyes, she got awkwardly to her feet. "I must go," she said. "What is your name?" he asked. "Marjorie Bovin," she replied, and waited for the inevitable look of recognition slie had grown to expect from everyone who heard her name. But his eyes registered nothing save an intent interest and a strange expression which Marjorie had never seen before in the eves of any man. "My name is Tranfield, Jack Tranfield. he said, ''and now we are introduced will you. Miss Bovin, give the pleasure of having luncheon 1 til me? It is after one and I'm mighty hungry." "Oh. I don't think I. . . ." Marjorie started, but Jack Tranfield, towering above her, smiled. "Say yes," } le commanded. And with only one brief thought of the Rolls waiting at Stanhope Gate, of Mr. Tomkins and Henry standing in the baronial dining-room of Grosvenor Square, Marjorie gave in. T hey walked together toward the Hyde Park Hotel, passing as they did so the little white lodge. One of its curtained windows seemed to wink at Marjorie as she passed, and for the first time she looked at it without a pang in her heart. She knew unmistakably and miraculously, that a small bungalow was waiting for her in South I Africa.