“THE MISCHIEF MAKER”

Manawatu Times, Volume 60, Issue 230, 30 September 1935, Page 9

“THE MISCHIEF MAKER”

large.” ' Sir Timothy was -off on his favourite topic. -‘They don’t want the truth. They're agrald to pull it to pieces. At tho first threat of it, they weave around it romantic fictions to cover it up.” Michael was watching this strange father of Margaret with absorbed Interest.. Usually tho cynio .betrays his self-interest, by bitterness, or else he is the fraud who cares only for the reputation of being a clever wit. There was no bitterness behind Sir Timothy’s smooth words. Scorn and contempt, porhaps, but no bitterness. His cynicism was a cold flashing word thrusting and cutting at the grotesque imago of human frallity as he saw It.

“Happiness,” he was saying, "why not call it by its true name, selfsatisfaction? You find it either by feeding your vanity or your appetite for tho physical sensations. Why does your so-called good man indulge in gcod deeds?” “To relieve the suffering of his fellow - men," defended Michael, stoutly. "Purely incidental,” Sir Timothy dismissed the explanation with a light gesture of his hand. "His real pleasure arises not from the suffering banished, but because of the almighty ego—he himself has been the cause of it. He is pleased with himsolf. If ho is orude he wants to bask in applause of others; 'if he is subtle he remains anonymous and feels still more pleased with himself.” “I don’t believe it," protested Michael. “I dare say most of us are tainted with vanity. But there are simple good souls who ” "There are, and as a rule you’ll find them In asylums, or If they aren’t they ought to be. They know nothing of life, and think that qualifies them to go round helping their follow creatures. They do more harm in a day than an ordinary man would do In a lifetime. The sooner we stop cataloguing people as good and bad, the better for everybody. Good and bad are so inextricably mixed up in everybody that the classification is futile. There are neither good men nor bad men, but Just fools and bigger fools.” It seemed that for the time he had finished. Michael was itching to get, back to the vital issue. “May we hope to win your consent, Sir Timothy?” he asked doggedly. Sir Timothy flashed him a piercing glance. “I know nothing of you, my boy. You seem, however, to possess a glimmering of intelligence.” Michael noted the change to “my boy” with satisfaction. “Margaret may change her mind. You don't think that possible? Then you know nothjng about women. She may take a sudden dislike to the way you eat your soup, your vie tvs on religion or Socialism, or anything.”

“But we may hope?” eagerly. “To be frank with you, I have other ideas for Margaret. Before I abandon them, you will both have to convince me that I should bo wiser to do so.” The interview was at an end. Sir Timothy left Michael at the gate puzzled. hardly knowing whether to be glad or depressed. At the wicket gate, which made a short cut across the garden from the road, Basil joined Sir Timothy, and Michael returned to think things out. It was not till later that he remern-. bered he had not asked Sir Timothy about Edmund Raike. But that must wait. He had promised Effie, but to tell the truth, tho job was not at all to his liking. With her earnest eyes upon him that story had sounded very convincing; but here, confronted by Sir Timothy, it seemed the most fantastic nonsense. She certainly believed it was the truth, but a girl of warm sympathies might easily be deceived—madmen were notoriously ingenious and plausible in their inventions. London tomorrow. He would see Effie. He would have to tell her ho bad failed. It was ten o’clock before Basil returned. Michael could hear him talking to his father in a gay and affectionate way. He was evidently In high spirits. Yet when he came, up to seek out Michael, he seemed all at once very stiff and dignified. ‘‘l've been thinking over all the rotten things you said to me, Michael,” he said, and smiled bitterly. “And the long and the short of it is this—l can’t put myself in the damned humiliating position of accepting this cheque.” lie drew it from his pocket with a grand getsure and slapped It down In front, of Michael. “Here you are—keep it!” Ho swung on his heel before Michael could find a word to say. If Michael was hurt, he did it with a quiet smile, and took it out. of the cheque. When his fingers had finished tearing it across again and again, he allowed the pieces to flutter down into the fire.

CHAPTER VI. Humming to herself Effie Brown scurried down the stairs and tried the door of Michael Binding’s studio. It was locked. She tapped, but there was no reply from within. “I’ll have to keep it to myself all nay,” she sighed. “What a nuisance.” And then, because she wo.s in ’the gayest of spirits, she laughed at her impatience. Michael might arrive at any minute from his week-end jaunt, but it was no use waiting. Siie must hurry off and keep the morning’s engagement. q'he morning’s engagement 1 How delicious that sounded. She felt that she was the happiest girl in London, it was impossible to believe that life could be so changed. A month ago—it made her shudder even now to think Of It — S he had been destitute, starving, praying . only for the end, too miserably" cowed to summon courage to mount the parapet of the embankment and fins herself'over. And now she had a home, she. had friends, she had a profession. Ah! but best of all, there was Mic Mel. In her darkest hour he had appeared, and like some magnificent God., snatched her up add given her life and happiness aagin. Here was no uncommon .story—a bright-spirited girl sheltered by doting parents in a quiet country village,

(By ALAN GREY)

Instalment 5.

ssudden tragedy like a bolt from ths tblue, and she was left to face lue talone. Not quite alone; a remote relative dutifully had come forward and -found for her what he was pleased to call “a magnificent opportunity. 3 But once she was safely off his hands •and Installed as probationer in “The > Haven,” he felt ha had dono all that 3 could bo expected of him. 3 She had always longed to be a . nurse, but it was soon brought homo 3to her that the one qualification she 1 possessed was tho very one least re- . quired in members of that instiute s j staff. Heady sympathy was indeed ; looked on with suspicion. It had 3proved her undoing. For front the first her impulsive young heart had f gone out to Edmund llaikc. And - when, little by little, she was able to .'draw bis story from him, such a ' storm of passionate rebellion broke ! out in her that she vowed there and i then lo fight his battle for him. If she never achieved anything else, life ! sho felt would be worth while. , She failed, lost her position, and was on a fair way to losing her life. I Nursing was for ever closed to her; t the Jobs she had hoped to find were •overcrowded; she had no experience, ; and she lacked entirely the aggressive ' spirit that laughs at rebuffs. When i Michael met her under tho lamp, and, t startled by the look on her face, stop- ■ pod and spoke to her, she had reached the end Of her endurance. 1 Michael had taken her to his studio, ■had fed her, had listened to her story l and believed every word of it. To : watch her eyes was enough. He had i given up his own bedroom, and was going to make himself comfortable on 1 a settee when Kate D'Blaney from 3 the fiat above had come in. Dear big- • hearted Kate, with the ways of bluff i good-fellow. in her practical way ’ she had at once taken charge. -Withiin half an hour, Effie was her proi tegc. She would find her a job—no • fliiflculty about that. In the mean- • while Effie must stay at her flat. She l was away a great deal buying robes i and mantles for a West-End firm, but i when she was at home she would bo

rlad of a little company. But none tho less it was Mchael who started her In her present profession. It was ho who had thought nf the model Idea.. He could not employ her himself, but he took her round to Sloan Cunningham, whose work, for a certain Illusive refinement md charm, was bringing him in more commissions than he could undertake. Whether it was her trim boyish 3gure that attracted him, or the deep irlint of gold in her unruly hair, or tome deeper appeal in her eyes, it pvould be difficult to say. But Sloan Cunningham was enthusiastic in his swn quiet way. Effie found herself at last floating with the stream instead of struggling (gainst it. She bad no need to look lor work; it found her. Friends iropped in to see Cunningham. She net other models. Chelsea was good o her. Life was just brimming with happiness. To-day she might be required for an hour, or it might be six. At the end of it there was Home. Michael would be back. She would bring tea clown to him; she would pour out. . . cream and one lump of sugar. They would sit and talk. The most enchanting hour of the day. This time she would have something worth while to tell him. In Mlohael’s friend, John Withers, a chubby young barrister, she had found the right sort of companion for her great cause. As It happened, to-day was a light day. Sloan Cunningham was suffering from what he called “mental dyspepsia." Instead of working, ho groaned out his sufferings to Effie. Her ready laughter seemed to soothe and encourage him to get it off his

chest. • It appeared that on the previous flay he had been dragged off against his Inclinations to a private view of some ultra-modern pictures. “. . . and there was one called ‘Evening.’ Good heavens! If evening was anything like that we’d all go stark raving mad. Imagine all tho most ghastly noises a jazz hand can make splashed on canvas In one blast, all mixed up anyhow. And that’s evening as Art with a capital A sees it. And as for colour—oh. my Lord —you scrape it on with a shovel, any old colour so long as it isn’t as dull and uninteresting as the original. 'For instance, cows seem to look best if you paint ’em'green and stick ’em in a blue field with a sky to match the colour-scheme. Art I”—disgustedly “It isn’t Art, it’s—why, it isnt ever fit to be called Decorating.” It was in tho midst of this harangue that Gilbert Vane came in. If talking Art is the chief qualification of an artist, he was certainly a very great one. He had asked Efflie to. pose for him, hut for some reason she could not. analyse, she had found an excuse. Since then lie had taken to dropping in every few days, and Effie liked him none the better with longer acquaintance. He was pleasant enough and courteous enough. But it was the way be looked at her. His slow hilf-dorisive smile seemed to recognise her antipathy and challenge it. He was engaging’Cunningham now in lively badinage, twitting him for his old-fashioned stick-in-the-mud ideas, and he appeared to enjoy the other’s growing irritation. “Oh, chuck it, for heaven’s sake,” growled Cunningham. “I’m sick to death of drivel. You lot seem to think you can turn a stale bloater into a rosebud if you qnly talk long enough. Look here, I’ve got work to do, if you haven’t. Go and paint the town red —that’s something you do understand.” “Cherry-pip, then, I’ll toddle,” said Vane, imperturbably. He turned to Efllo. “What about you, Miss Brown? You were just ready to go,, weren’t you? Como on, let’s leave him gnashing his teeth. How about gnashing something a. little more appetising?” Bef-ore she could answer for herself Sloan 'Cunningham cut in with a, growl of irritation. “I want Miss Brown for an hour or two yet." Vane took his defeat smilingly arid went. Effie was taking off her hat again when Cunningham stopped her. “I don’t really want you," ho said, gruffly. “You can go as soon as