THE WASTER

Bay of Plenty Times, Volume LX, Issue 10771, 18 January 1932, Page 4

THE WASTER

OUR SERIAL STORY !

(BY ANN FORESTER). XIV. HOME. Mr and Mrs Brant Stuart Kendall sat in the train travelling to town. Dale was frightened. -She had lived so long with misfortune that she distrusted the sudden prosperity of the Pullman express—the books, the flowers, the baskets of fruit, and the attentive servants. The change was too abrupt. There was no borderland in which to prepare for the new condition of things. A brief week after the appearance of the solicitor had seen Brant and herself on the train rushing into a new environment. Sitting here now at the train window, her chin propped on her hand while she watched the monotonous miles reel by, Dale thought over the last two weeks. On the night following dinner with the solicitor, she and Brant had a long talk. Brant had told her of his family. “There were just the four of us,” he had said. “My father and mother. My sister, Joan, and myself.” Brant had hesitated a moment and added, “and Mimi Sutherland, of course. She was my father’s ward, and she lived with us. She was a couple of years younger than I, and there was a—a sort of romance grew up between us—” At this point Brant stole an uneasy sidewise look at his wife. "As you saw, in that cutting that I acted such a beast about, Mimi and I were engaged once. Then an Italian count came to town with a title to let, and Mimi decided she’d rather be the Countess della Curzia than plain Mrs Brant Kendall.” Dale’s eyes had watched Brant very intently here, trying to find some bitterness in his face. But Brant told the story lightly, as though it concerned someone he had known very long ago. “I must have been very conceited at that time. It broke me up—the jolt to my pride, I suppose. I started to make a fuss about it, to the great disgust of my father. Poor Dad, he was right, but he wasn't very tactful. And I chose to get my back up. Well, one thing led to another, and I finally cleared out, determined to go to the devil. You know liow far I’d got in seven years when you first met me.” Dale had regarded Brant with wide brown eyes through the lamplight. “But if you loved Mimi like that,” said Dale through stiff lips, “how could you—how could you—” Brant had leaned forward to cover Dale’s hand with both his own, and his face was tender and grave. “Dearest once and for all, let’s have an understanding on this subject. As I told you, I was a kid. My pride received a jolt—yes, and perhaps my sense of romance. Every youngster secretly believes his first sweetheart is a queen who can do no wrong. I had no sense of humour, and all a boy’s intensity. When I was jilted I thought I had to go to the devil —that that was the thing to do. I knocked around for seven years nursing a sense of grievance. The thing had become a habit. I made it the excuse for indulging myself. It wasn’t until I met you that I realised what a fool I had been. You punctured my pretence before we’d been married a month. Your words that day jabbed the illusion and my silly pride blew out like a punctured tyre.” ! “But—you must have loved her to remember her all those years,” Dale persisted after the world-old manner of women. Brant shrugged. “I thought 'I did. Mimi was good-looking. But then I’ never met a little yellow headed kid with honest brown eyes. A little kid who stuck to a bad bargain when she hated it. Who put up with physical disconfforts, and with the insults of a surly brute just because her sense of honour told her it was the right thing to do. It was then I found out what love really could be. Oh, Dale, sweetheart, as though I didn’t know I have the prize of the world ’’ Remembering this now, Dale felt her eyes go moist. Mimi didn’t matter. Mimi was buried in the past. Mimi was married and living in Italy, and her path would never cross Brant’s anyway, so why worry.... Brant had told her of his mother and sister. “Joan was just a little girl when I left. I keep forgetting she is' quite grown up now.” Dale felt her heart sink, Brant’s mother, perhaps when she saw how well, how manly, her son was, might lova her, Dale thought. But that sister! Joan would be narrow and hard with the intolerance of pampered youth. She would patronise Dale—or secretly despise her! Puffing deeply, like a tired animal, the train came to a stop in the huge terminus. They had reached the journey’s end. Brant was about to hail a taxi, when a chauffeur in private livery stepped up and touched his cap. “Good evening, Mr Brant. Mrs Kendall sent the car for you.” Brant’s face lit with recognition. ‘‘Duffy! Well, it’s a surprise to see you!” “I’ve never left your mother’s employ, Mr Brant. It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir. A privilege to be sent to drive you home.” “Thank you, Duffy. It was thoughtful of my mother to send the car.” The car stopped before a tall red brick house. They moved up a drive past a sloping stretch of lawn. The great leaded glass door of the house was silently opened by a liveried butler. At Brant's greeting he bowed and ushered them into a room, holding aside the silk tapestry of the hangings for them to enter. Dale had a blurred impression of soft brightness; of slender legged chairs of gilt and rose damask. Of a small and lively fire reflected in lacquered screens.... There was someone here, sitting before the fire. A woman who put aside a book and turned to meet them as they entered. Behind her, Dale heard Brant give a little gasp. His voice was sharp with surprise. “Mimi!” he said. “MIMI!” Mimi. . . .! Yes. It was Mimi. There were the long narrow eyes, the crisply curled mouth which had looked up at Dale from the newspaper cutting so long ago. . . . But the woman facing her was a hundred times more beautiful than the picture. Dale had judged Mimi to be tall. On the contrary, she was small anl lovingly moulded, like a bit of rare porcelain. Brant was speaking, -while Mimi listened a faint assured smile stamped on her lips. “Mimi! I have never dreamed you were here. I thought you were living in Italy. . . .1 never dreamed. . Brant was rattled and he showed it. Mimi spoke in a soft slightly husky voice with an appealing drawl. “You have been out of touch, Brant! I’ve been here two years.” “You mean—living here? Here at the house?” Brant knew that he was stammering and the thought made

him uncomfortable. “But you—but —the Count —” The long eyes were enigmatical. “0h.... of course. You hadn’t heard. Poor Bertino died —one of his African hunting trips—fever, you know. I camej home. But, Brant, my dear boy, you have forgotten—” Her sentence trailed into a graceful wave of her hand. Brant turned with hasty apology to the other girl. “Dale, dear, forgive me. This is the Countess della Curzia. Mimi this is my wife.” There was a bland moment, while each woman acknowledged the introduction. Eyes rested upon eyes and smiles were exchanged. “Ah, yes.” said Mimi’s soft, husky voice. “We heard that you were married, Brant.” Nothing about that which should call the quick pink to the cheeks, but Dale felt her face go hot. Brant was asking: “How is Mother, Mimi? How is she standing everything?” Mimi’s exquisite brows arched sympathetically. “She is very frail. Brant. Uncle Roger’s death was a great shock to her. If she had not had your return to look forward to, I believe she would have fallen very ill. Poor Aunt Aimee, she has a great deal to bear. No one ever took your place, Brant. Joan is—-well, she is young ami inclined to be thoughtless I have lifted her burden as well as I could since I’ve been home, but the fact that you were coining back has acted like a tonic.” Brant stirred uneasily under the note of sweet reproach in her voice. “Poor Mother —I’ve acted like a brute to her. But I’ll try to make up for it now—ls she here?” “She’s upstairs in her room, lying down. She tires very easily these days.” Mimi’s eyes went slowly to the other girl, passed over her stealthily. They returned to Brant’s gaze again and Mimi spoke with an assumption of reluctance. “I —I wonder if you’ll think I’m intruding if I suggest that you see Aunt Aimee alone at first, Brant? There may be things which she will wish to say. . . .Oh., not, of course,” Mimi added hastily turning to Dale, “that she is not prepared to welcome your wife ——” Dale flushed again. “Yes, dear,” she said in a low voice to the man. “Go and see your mother alone, at first. ...” “That is so sweet of you,” Mimi murmured. “And while you’re up there, Brant, I’ll show—” the slightest hesitation—“ Dale —-to her room. We’ve given you the west suite, Brant.” (To be continued.)