He Who Fights

Manawatu Times, Volume LIV, Issue 6624, 10 August 1931, Page 5

He Who Fights

SYNOPBIB. Madame Anatole, a shrewd old wife ot forty years’ standing-, knows well enough the doings of her Husband, Pierre. By her own methods she finds out his hatred of one, Gregoire. Pierre, a .'all man with great moustachious, goes In secret rear of his wire, but a husband at ease Is not Madame Anatole’s idea of conjugal felicity. Barbara Dalllngton lives with her mother in Devonshire. Christopher Frayne, Barbara’s fiance, resides in the same district, with his sister, Sally. Mrs Dalllngton is friendly with Mortimer Brown, a man whom everyone dislikes. CHAPTER I.—(Continued.) The. door of the den opened and shut. There was a moment’s silence. Then Jaques spoke nonchalantly. “The hoa-constrictor is getting old, it seems.” “He must go, I suppose?" interjected Paul with an odd significance. “Assuredly.” “Will you tell Gregoire?”

"Not I. As for me, I have fear. Pierre and Gregoire, they are not good to offend, either of them. I do not wish to find myself with my throat squeezed by the one or cut by tho other."

"You are a simpleton;” said the cold voice of the man who had intervened earlier. “Pierre is angry—anyone can see. And he does not forgive. Gregoire, he will be our friend, you lake my word." “You tell him, then.”

“It is possible,” rejoined the other carelessly. “I have not said so. Come, let us go. Pierre will be wondering if we linger, and I do not have the fondness for his wonder myself; it has the quality unwholesome."

The room below emptied quietly. Madam Anatole rose to her feet and stood a moment stock-still, thinking; she had gained some information in addition to verification, but it was of a kind that she was uncertain how best to use. Pierre had not frierely taken a decision—of that she had already been aware—but had taken it unsupported and even opposed by his associates and had held to it alone —of that she could have had no previous information. And his calmness was sufficient evidence to her that his decision was deep-sealed. Had he not been so sure of himself as rather to desire than to deplore the desertion of his three intimates, she was gssured by many memories that the odds of three to one against him would in no degree have checked the expression of his furious resentment. So thinking, Madame Anatole stole hastily down tho back stairs, and away to the market to make good as best she might by increased acidity and acumen, her absence from it at the usual early hour.

CHAPTER IT. Inconsequence. It is not only in the purlieus of Paris that one relative can cause concern to another. As remote from, as she was unknown io, either of the Anatoles, Barbara Dallington stopped on her way down through the wood off the moor that rose in lonely, brackened grandeur behind her, and paused to survey the scene in the garden below with a certain amused indignation. Her mother was crazy about people, there was no doubt. Here in the wilds of Dartmoor it might at least have been hoped that there would be respite from them. That morning several guests, in Barbara’s view both uninteresting and superfluous, had rolled away in their cars from Mrs Dallington’s little country retreat. A breathing-spaee was clearly due before the arrival of the next batch; and yet no sooner had Barbara turned her back than her mother, in default of guests, was cluttered up by neighbours. Barbara, tapping a cigarette on the gate out of the wood, felt that she was justified in her annoyance. There was her mother on the lawn, with people round her, having tea—and such people; she really seemed incapable of exercising any discrimination. Her motto was not merely anyone rather than no one, but she actually, in Barbara’s opinion, preferred the undesirables. Warm from her walk and talk on the moor, Barbara turned over in her mind this singular perversity with half amused exasperation. Her mother was really very obstinate—indifferent to the merits of most of Barbara’s friends, to those of Christopher Frayne in particular (and, after all, nobody else really counted just then in Barbara’s scheme of things), and so Indulgent to people who had no real right to exist at all. Barbara groaned as she gazed at the little group on the lawn below. There was an old Miss Pettigrew, the most , intense and unavoidable of bores, talking away with undeviating determination, and Mrs Daliington was apparently listening, nay, more, yvas answering as necessity arose. Barbara saw Miss Pettigrew nod Vehemently in pleased acceptance of some comment from her mother, and start off afresh exactly like an engine that has only been halted to be oiled. Yes, her mother was an adept in the art of entertaining—just as well as she existed for that before all else. Barbara could see that, whilst oiling 'Miss Pettigrew from time to time, her mother was also contriving to hold the attention of the other two guests; one the vicar of the parish, a melancholy little man, whose main interest in life, as far as Barbara had ever penetrated, was butterflies. And the third guest was as bad, worse in fact. All were apparently drawn into harmony by the sympathetic touch cf their hostess upon their several interests and vanities. Barbara wondered most 'at the evident pleasure that her society was giving to' the third guest, wondered and flushed with something more than mere annoyance; he was not one to whom either Miss 'Pettigrew or the vicar could be at all congenial, and yet in Mrs Dallington’s presence he was acting as though entirely at his ease. Barbara saw him without the least pleasure; true, he was a man, which neither of 'he others really was, but, though manhood was all very well, very useful, very stimulating, and sometimes very delightful, Mr Mortimer Brown’s manhood was at a discount with Barbara. In himself she thought him rather magnetic; he was at that most interesting age when a man has gained experience without

(By LORD CORELL.)

Instalment 2.

losing fire—she put him down at forty to forty-five at most, big, dark, and powerful, with piercing black eyes and a quick, curious manner of speech that had its attractions; also ho had intelligence, she decided, and could talk. But —well, the “ huts were many, lie might have been an athlete, but he was no sportsman witness his headstrong churlishness to Chris —he might have stores of conversation and ease of self-possession, but he was hardly her idea of a gentleman. He was too brusque, too’ unfamiliar with the nuances of life, as she understood it.

There 1 He had brushed the little vicar aside without ceremony—• “rather neatly done, though, all the same,” thought Barbara —and established himself invincibly beside his hostess. The conjunction caused Barbara to flush with vexation, even whilst she told herself that vexation was absurd. Her mother was -sti 11 quite remarkably young and pretty, rich, too —at least Barbara knew that the only question as to anything was not whether they could afford it, but solely whether they wanted it, and between them they wanted most things. There could be no doubt that Mrs Dallington, of 30iB Grosvenor Street, and Great Tot Lodge, Broadcombe, was as eligible as any widow with a grown-up daughter can be, but she and Mrs Mortimer Brown, no, the idea was absurd. Who was he, anyway? A business man on holiday, tenant for the two summer months of that little bungalow up. beyond Great Tor, a nobody in fact. Yet he had already slipped into being the complete nuisance, constantly ever on one excuse or another, or even of late without any at all, and taking no pains to conceal his admiration for his hostess. Her mother would never be such an idiot; it was ■impossible. Still, he was magnetic—truth compelled the admission; the sort of man by whom it was conceivable, just conceivable, that her mother might suddenly find herself carried away. After all, her mother had begun the acquaintance, and had encouraged Us development. Barbara threw away her cigarette at this point of her reflections with some indignation; what a bother mothers could be 1 Well, she would have to put a stop to it, of what use was she as a daughter unless she did. She decided as she sprang lightly down the hill and entered the garden that she and Chris and Sally would have to put their heads together about it. And with this decision tranquility again possessed her. She made a very charming addition to the little group at tea on the lawn. She was just twenty-one, with the slight athletic figure of modern girlhood, much like a boy, with her close-cropped hair, wide, fearless eyes, and companionable smile, but retaining nevertheless the individuality and also the mystery of her sex. Familiarised almost to tedium by three London seasons with the power of her young beauty, it struck her ominously as she joined her mother and the three guests that she was entirely failing to produce any such effect as that to which she was accustomed. Her mother, the neverfailing—Barbara’s criticism amounted only to the judgment that it was needful sometimes, and with some people to fail —threw her a glance of loving welcome; the others seemed rather to resent than to rejoice in the addition to the group. It necessitated a slight shifting of chairs, and in the result Mr Brown was not so impenetrably intruded upon his hostess—he was not pleased. It disturbed the flow of conversation, and as the vicar had just managed to mention butterflies, he was not pleased. And Miss Pettigrew and Barbara were antagonistic of old. For once in her life, and in mixed company, moreover, Barbara felt her presence undesired; it was so unusual an experience that it quite reconciled her to the visitors. But the vicar and Miss Pettigrew both soon took, their departure, and Mrs Dallington seemed as contented with that occurrence as Mr Brown. Barbara was placed in a dilemma; she neither wanted them, nor, if Mr Brown remained, to be without them; and he sat down again and asked tor another cup of tea. Barbara had no choice but to l stay, or to leave him to a tete-a-tete with her mother. She stayed, but resolved at least, to keep the conversation three-cornered. Oh, what a responsibility mothers are, she thought. Her resolve was unnecessary; hardly had the three resumed their seats than Mrs Dallington drew her into the conversation. “What is ‘swaling,’ Barbara?” she asked in the voice of amused negligence. “I’e been hearing such a lot about it this afternoon.” "From Miss Pettigrew, of course,” commented Barbara, with an answering smile. “Then you must know all about it.'’ “I don’t. I don’t even know what it is.” “But you were talking back to her. I saw you as I came down the hill.” “Oh, I only said that it seemed to me her action was extremely publicspirited, and I’ve no doubt that it is. It always is. But I’m afraid I didn't hear what it was she was being publicspirited about.” “Mrs Dallington just said the right thing, as she always does,” put in Mr Brown, admiringly. “Yes, wasn’t it lucky? But one is safe with that dear old lady. Do tell me, Barbara, what she was talking about.” Barbara could not keep from laughing; that was so like her mother, “Oh, burning the moor,” she answered. “Boys are always doing it when they shouldn’t, for fun, at wrong times and places—just like boys. I’m with her really, as it ruins the moor, and she is trying to get it stopped; but ” “Then I was right.” Mrs Dallington was delighted, and Barbara gazing at her mischievous smile, could not find it in her heart to blame Mr Brown. Her mother was adorable; and yet, just because she was still so pretty and so feckless, she needed the dispassionate protection of discerning youth. Upon this thought broke in., again the quick tones of Mr Brown*. “Of course you were. You have what is more than the intelligence; you have Intuition also.” (To be continued.)