SHORT STORY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXII, Issue 19144, 9 October 1925, Page 5

SHORT STORY.

BY R. BROCAS.

NEMESIS.

(Copyright.) David whistled softly, then road Hash's letter again. "Rachel has an English friend who is staying -with us," wrote Hugh. "She is a writer, and is travelling to collect local colour. In pursuit of her study of people and places she is coming up your way, where she thinks she may meet a more rugged type than she could meet in Auckland, and perhaps get a view of more primitive emotions than the clockwork town life engenders." As David went about his business during the next few days he thought now and then of the impending visit. He knew Hugh had given Mrs. Carlite a letter to himself, and cast about for ways and means of helping her to what she sought. Then one evening his old love of mischief—more or less dormant since losing Hugh's companionship —returned in full force. "I'll provide copy for her," he chuckled. "It will work in well with the plans I have made for showing her the c!istrict. * A few days later Mrs. Carlite arrived. David met her, and was surprised that she looked so young. After the first greetings and the little stir of landing her luggage he said, "I have secured comfortable rooms for you. Being a bachelor —being in bachelor quarters" —he corrected himself, "I could not do roach beyond engaging rooms, subject io your approval." , "Thank yon, that was very k : nd. Yes, Rae told me you were a bachelor, and in any case I should have preferred to take rooms. I am here for work, and I fird I lose less time when staying alone." "But," urged David, "you must get about to see the country." "Oh, yes, that is part of my work; I shall not neglect it. Hugh has told me of some lovely spots which I badly want to see." "I have arranged about all that," said David eagerly. "Ah, well, we can talk about that later," said Mrs. Carlite rather distantly, and little more was said until she and her belongings were installed in her rooms. With these she was charmed, and also with the view from her windows. "I shall be able to work well here," she declared with conviction. "Is work so much to you?" asked David. "It is everything !" she replied enthusi- j astically. David felt rather s wry for Mr. Car- j lite; if her work was 'everything' to! her —where did he come in ? He could not help asking, "Is Mr. Carlite much interested in your work?" After a pause. "No!" she said bluntly, then with a "Thank you very much for everything"—that was practically a dismissal...she turned to take possession of her new quarters. . . By one device or another David carried" out the major portion of Ins programme himself as cicerone. One day, some weeks after her arrival, a e'ay of cloudless blue sky, glass-smooth sea, and myriad-tin ted landscape, he asked, "Are you getting the kind of thing you need for your work ? Do you think it was worth the trip ?" "Oh, yes," she answered absently. "If youi are short of copy," he burst out fiercely, "I offer myself, on the altar! Here is copy to your hand, and you don't see it." "What can you mean?" "Mean ? Why, that I —a man fettered by a secret marriage—cannot keep away from yon—a married woman! I never meant to let you know, but I could not help it. Now forget it, except to use my misery to colour ona of your imaginary characters "Sit down again," said Mrs. •"arlite. "You must not again forget about—my husband. Bat I want to ask you about the. marriage you spoke of—neither Rae nor Hugh mentioned it." "They do not know," he said gloomily. "As I said, if is a secret. Yon a'C the first I have told; I feel sure you w : !l respect my confidence. Her parents did not approve —we were both so young, so—we told no one. And now"—the wretch buried his face in his hands. "And now," repeated Mrs. Carlite firmly, "you will go back to her. I am very grateful for all the time r< u have given me, but I have really seen ail I need, and —and this must encl." She gave herself an impatient shake, and began to gather up her paraphernalia. On the return journey she spoke seldom, and for some days contrived to be verj' busy whenever David suggested another excursion. . . . Some thing was wrong with David. Starting with faint dissatisfaction with himself after his premeditated outburst, it grew into a load that made everything seem a wearniess to him. Was he going to develop into a man of moods, he wondered drearily. "You are not looking very chirpy," said an acquaintance of his. "Anything wrong?" David shook his head. "You are looking as blue as though Mrs. Carlite had already left. I hear she is leaving this week. Friend of your family, didn't you say ?" "A friend of Hugh's wife," David managed to answer. Then he escaped to fight the octopus of despair that was suffocating him with its tentacles, for in one blinding revelation he had learned the truth. He loved Margaret Carlite madly, desperately, And she was married! This was love, was it ? Then—he fold himself—he deserved all the suffering that was coming to him for so basely counterfeiting it. In his light-hearted life he had thought it rather a subject for merriment when any of his friends suffered its infliction, but this was not a thing at which any one—who knew—could smile. He had promised to attend a dance on the following evening, and he kept the engagement, hoping to cheat himself—for a whiie—into believing that all was well. Vain hope—he simply realised still more vividly what he was up against (as he phrased it to himself), when a pretty girl whom he had often admired accepted him as a partner, and then sat out the following dance with him. He could not for the life of him recapture the old laughing spirit that had hitherto made him such good company. His partner, inevitably, noticed his depression, and shrewdly connected it with the object of her own fears. "Mrs. Carlite is not. here, is she?" she asked with 3 casual air. "No," replied David, doing his best to speak indifferently. "She probably had some work to finish." "I thought she might be a widow," was Daisy's further venture. David's (heart raced ; then, in a tone that closed the subject, "No, we have spoken of her husband," he said. He left early, for he felt that in his pre, sent mood his presence gave pleasure to no one. But he was wrong there; Daisy would tolerate him in any mood . . , . , Two days later he walked up to Mrs. Carlite's rooms and asked, in a very decided maimer, to see her. There was one thing he felt compelled to do. She sent word she was very busy packing, as she expected to leave early on the morrow. David scribbled, "1 beg you to see me for a quarter of an hour; there is something I .must confess," and sent it by her messenger. He was admitted, and. after a few words of greeting had passed, he said steadily, keeping with difficulty his eyes from her face for fear she should read the truth, "It is very good of you to see me; I do not in the least deserve it. As 1 told you, I have a confession to make, and I could not rest until you hear it." "~o on," she -aid qui«*t'.v. "Do you remember," the pj.ili in David's voice made Margaret shade her eyes with her hand, "what I said the last time you came out with me?" "I do," still quietly. "I don't know how to tell vou," Wtnt on David. "It sesrts yearn since I was such an idiot—sucn a bounder—as to work up to that scow, partly from mischief, partly to give you copy at firsthand— "You are trying to tell me," asked Mrs. Carlite unemotionally, "that you simply acted it ?" "That is w| at 1 am trying to say," said David desperately. "I have had —time to

think —and I thought if you v-M believing thai wh.it I said wa trato'gjSM might make you miserable."' | You came" for my sake?" '{fan voics 9 was as quiet as before, but hi |j| was a M new softness. 83 "Of course! You are too jolly decent li not to worry if you thought you jaiul done §■ harm, and 1 could not bear you to be un- m happy." David thought he w»? guarding ,1 his secret gallantly—-she should never jfl know how all the light had gone out- of iS his life because of her. She did net Iffl answer him at once, but rc*e to secure |l| some papers ihafc were blowing about the fjj room. As she passed him on her way IE back to her chair she lightly touched the |i scar on his cheek with the tips of her Si fingers, with "Your scar shows more when |j| yon are as pale as you arc to-day." David looked bewildered. What had |I the scar to do with his offenoe ? But his || start and flush when she touched him had || decided—aa she intended it should—a |j point in Margaret's mind. "Do you mean that you are going to i'| forgive me?" asked David humbly. Again M she answered him obliquely. "Had you been as sincere on that day if as you are to-day I might have told you jf| then what lam going to tell you now." B David flamed scarlet. "You knewjfe he gasped. "Yes, I knew—you n.re not a very good fjj actor—and I have waited to discover your motive, though my guess was very, near || the mark." "And you can still bear to speak to p'-J i rae ?" "You hav(3 paid dearly for it," asserted ||j ' this astonishing woman calmly. David paled again. "What do you .-J know ?" he demanded hoarsely. She actu- «J| ally smiled at htm "This—that because 'my mother wished it, as I was travelling alone, I have passed i '.J as Mrs. Carlite, but I am not married— ISS I am simply Margart Carlite." "Say it again—slowly," he begged, "t lIS am afraid to believe it." To give him time to readjust his ideas || Margaret humoured him by repeating the f|j unvarnished fact. "Then—then—" he stammered, a great || nlow lighting his whole face. " 'Then—' " she mimicked deliehtfnllv„ |}ij '' 'then'—you repudiate your secret wife, li; and I my husband " "Margaret!" Did he really reach her : pi! in one bound, or did she me«?t him ? In | j after days she often asserted that he fit never really told her that he loved her, f|j or asked whether she loved him, but j|: simply snatched at her. For the present, |i however —"And you let me suffer!' re- gjii proached David. "I think Hugh might have given me a hint." n I made him promise not to. And don't : you think you deserved—whatever vou || suffered? You. se.;, you made me suffer, f too." i "Margaret, you darling!" Later "I 1 don't propose "that, either -of us should |j suffer any more in that particular diret- T tion, so 'in this country your pilgrimage r ends—-do you hear? You can write jus/ ? , as welt here as anywhere else in the • wide world." "Oh, I'll stay," said Margaret meekly- ||