SIMON IN LOVE

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXI, Issue 21882, 18 August 1934, Page 11 (Supplement)

SIMON IN LOVE

By L C DOUTHWAITE

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued) " To have —that—to live up to, yes." Nobby said quitely, at last, and though he refrained from meeting the boy's eyes, catching the quick intake of his breath. Simon was satisfied. •*• Where's mother.-" was all Nobby gaid.

Without seeing her leave, and with his back to the entrance. Simon had known she was not there; had wondered at her absence as he had wondered at her lack of response when this visit to the church had been mooted. Considering the bond between them, he would have thought that here, in this sanctuary of the boy's heart, she would have wished to he near him. With an odd and rather empty feeling he wondered if the omission would h;irt —and in the thought did injustice to Nobby s loyalty. For in her defence the boy had no hesitation in making reference to tnose feelings the existence of which, hitherto, had but been implied, and even then but indirectly. " I rather think she thinks that—there —I'd rather be alone," he explained quietly. But this did not wholly cover the motive for her absence was evident, when rejoining her where she awaited them in the aisle, Simon sight of her face. In her eyes was a deeper trouble than, until now, he had road there —a fear that was haunting, intimate, and, if he was any judge, of something imminently to hand. It seemed to him. too, that it was almost breathlessly that she hurried them out of the church, and that not- until the churchyard gate had closed behind them she breathed with freedom.

Back in his own room over the stable. Simon made himself tea, and, tilted back in his chair, fell into deep and, he hoped, constructive thought. For behind a situation he did not even begin to understand, he realised the while and too meticulously-tended hand of Mr. Julius Gordon.

But how in fortune's name could that flamboyant person's strange hold over the lady of the Dower House bear any association with the memorial to a dead soldier, in Charteris Regis Church? For the glance of hardly veiled threat, that, in the interview of the previous morning, Gordon had cast at Nobby had Simon certain that it was through Una's love for the bijy thatGordon's duress was maintained. That accepted, the motive-power behind that coercion must have been generated from something that, if revealed, would react adversely upon Nobby. It was hot in that room, with the afternoon sun pouring directly through the window, and after he had finished his tea he passed down the stairs and into the shade of the stable yard. The door opposite opened, and Bunty came out.

" Had your tea?" she called. " Just finished, thanks." he said, and, an idea coming to him, strolled across to her.

"Pretty little church you have here." he said, though not so casually as he could have wished.

She glanced at him shrewdly for a moment. Then she nodded.

■i " There's lots come to visit it, anyway.-" she said. "Antiquarians, an' an them as is inter-rested in brasses. Aou've been 'avin' a look at it?" He nodded in turn

" This _ afternoon," he told her. " Miss Venables took me—or rather Nobby did. . . That's a fine memorial Window, Bunty." She rose to the bait. " But not finer than's fittin'," she said definitely, "for than Major Bower eo finer man ever drew breath. Nor a straighter nor a kinder."' "'What was he in private life?" Simon inquired. " I told you," Bunty said. "A soldier—in India. Pythons or Paynims or somethin'. Black fellers, anyway." " Pathans?" Simon suggested, and Bunty nodded.

" That's right," she agreed. "Pathans. A captain, 'e was-*-when his father died. After that he had to come home because things was in'such a betwix an' between state. Money owin' to the estate, an' money owed by the estate. If there was to be owt left he just had to carry on—for the sake of the son 'e hoped some day was comin', an' that he lived to see only twice —when he came home on leave. . .

From then until war broke out, that's what he did. doin' the best he could —an' a mighty good best at thatv When War came, of course 'e just downed tools an' shouldered a gun again . . . The best and cleanest man as ever pulled a boot on." This was definite enough; from so shrewd a judge a man couldn't earn a eulogy like that without deserving it. The difficulty was it had reference only to his career in England. What about India? Was it something discreditable there that Gordon had seized Upon as a lever for moral blackmail? "However, Simon consoled himself with the thought that that also could be ascertained. Later that evening a second letter was written, a.nd posted, to the knowledgeable Tommy Boyle.

CHAPTER XIV. Early next morning the work of j cleaning the pond was resumed. It was j Hot nice work, but in Canada Simon ; had learned not to be particular. Fur- j ther, it has to be remembered for j whose pleasure and well-being that j cleansing was in process. Also he had ; the help of Jerr.y "Welks. A sound workman. Jerry, rather to i Simon's surprise; a willing and cheery spirit rising triumphant over a physical J strength not too robust. _ j At noon, instead of riding his deplor- j fible bicycle to the three-room cottage j that, belonging to the Dower House, , had been allotted to him. Jerry pro- > dueed the red-spotted handkerchief that j Contained his dinner. " Why not come and eat in niv j room?"' Simon sucgested. for there was ; Something at 'once ingenuous and i shrewd about this rotund little man he j found rather attractive. Also, his atti- / tude toward his position at the Doner ; House was taken-for-granted perrnan- | enny that Simon found distinctly in- i trisuing. . j In his room Simon produced tinned I Salmon, bread and butter, and, the j day being warm, two out-sized bottles j of a deserved!v popular brand. " Like a glass of beer. Jerry.-' j There's only one thing, the little Itian asserted with fervour. 1 d like : better."' . " And that is?" Simon inquired in- j terof-tedly. . . '• Two glasses o' be-, r. ' Jerry said • timi'ilv, and for the first half of the , at least, was so silent that Simon obtained the impression h«* was debat- , Ins whether or not, to unburden him- j He!f of something that was on his mind, j \Vh<->n at last he looked up there , 5 look on his face Simon had not seen ■ before—a shamefaced ness that, contra- j liictnrily, was not without a trace of j t>ride. " I don't reckon, lookin' at you, : that you've ever been 'over the j Alps?' he said speculatively. j Simon stared. The last thine he had j Anticipated was a travel talk. j " I've been very little in Europe, ; he replied. . . Jerrv's gesture was both derisive and j impolite. "Travel nothin'." he exclaimed. " 'Over the Alps' means 'stir.' " j "And if. in turn, 'stir' means prison, I Sirtsnn said gravely, "I've been lucky j Inough to escape—up to now." ;

(copmicni)

AN ENTHRALLING TALE OF MYSTERY AND ROMANCE

It was evident that, slight as it was, the qualification did not pass unnoticed. Jerry glanced at him keenly, as he said, with emphasis: ''Take my tip. an' go on escapin'l" "You speak feelingly," said Simon. "Me?" The gesture with which the little man pushed aside liis plate was at once a history and a renunciation. "I'll tell you!" He half-turned in his chair, and, through the open window, pointed directly to the house, gracious in the full light of noon. "If it hadn't been for the—little lady—there, I'd a been a 'abitual by now," he said slowly. "Not a man—just a norrible example to the n.P.A.S." (Discharged Prisoner's Aid Society.) Ho paused and then said, reverently, "Luckiest day in my life it was—when I tried to pinch that there trowel." Simon was beginning to feel rather dazed.

"Tried to—?" he questioned. Leaning across the table, with a begrimed forefinger Jerry earnestly tapped Simon's chest.

"Listen!" he said. "Til I tried to pinch that there trowel—it's in me room, now r that trowel is, 'anging on the wall, polished, with blue ribbon oil the 'andle —I never 'ad a chance. That's the old gag, of course, among the 'regulars,' about 'never 'aving 'ad a chance,' but with me it 'appens to be true. Listen! My father—educated bloke 'e was. too —was a stair-danccr—" Simon broke in.

j "Come again?" he questioned, i "Danced the stairs." the littlp man j repeated. "Got. himself all pnnsied up j in "West End Clobber an' waited in an j i 'otel lounge until he saw 'is chance of j | streakin' upstairs an' into the nearest ; i bedroom and strippin' the dressing- ' j table. Then, out into the street—quick! j I My mother was a shop-lifter. Not too i | clever at the game, cither: she was in : i and out of 'The Castle' (Holloway) same ! j as it it was a public-'ouse. With both | : parents on the crook, you can tell the ! ! atmosphere I was brought up in. Hon- j | esty? Lumme, 1 thought it was a 'erb — I | I was only seven —my mother was 'up ; I the road' (serving a short-term sen- ; ! tence) at the time, when I was caught, i l.tiil-snatehin', and 'sent to school' (the j reformatory) for three years. A couple i i of years after my discharge from there j ! I lived the only way I knew —on the \ J crook. Then, when London got too 'ot i \ for me, I took to the road. I landed i ! 'ere at last, an' " —as he swung round, j pointing to the house again, it was >.is I I though, impressed with his own nn- i | worthiness, he hesitated to pronounce j her name—"she gave me a meal, and j when I'd ate it, a bob to carry on with. ] ] And when I passed through the gardin' j ! on me way out, an' there was a brand ! | new trowel stuck in one of the flower- j j beds, what do I do but pinch it!" I Aggressively expectant, he stopped ' ! speaking. Simon, however, whom life ! ! among prospectors and lumber-jacks had rendered shock-proof, said notliuig. | "That there Bunty spotted me, an' i shot out. 1 legged it down the drive, j on to the open road an down it—with 'er after me," the little man continued. J "Amazin' 'ow that woman could run; : like a hare she was, an' me limpin' from : a packer I stopped in the knee at ! Wipers. Before comin' 'ere, that's the ! ; only decent thing ever I did —to serve I ] in the war . . . "Well, Bunty copped me —by the ear. j ; I wasn't too strong in them days, an' j f she'd a grip like iron. Back down the : road we processes, me yellin' fifty-seven dif'rent kinds of murder an' swear- j ; words, all the time wonderin' if the Ideal : flatties 'd take me fingerprints . . . ! j Then, when we gets to the drive gates, i it 'appened. Nobby—'e was only five or , six then—dashes out, an' a car comes : past —simulta'nus, if you get me, with j neither iooking' where they was ■ i going' . . There was a silence that, scenting i drama, Simon refrained from breaki ing. j "Funny," the little man resumed ; musingly at last, "but, far down ta the | mud as I'd sunk, I'd always kep a kind 1 j of weakness for'kids; I guess they was , | the on'y bit of innocence I knew. . . j | Well, 1 said good-bye to me ear an' i made a dive for it. I got Nobby all right, but I didn't know the 'uman ! frame could travel through the ai: is j fast as what that car sent me ' When I came up for the third time, as 1 | you might say, instead of in 'stir,' j where by rights I should've been, I was , j in 'ospital. An'—an' with—'er bendin" j I over me." i "Splendid!" Simon said, with the re- j : alisation that the man was neither lying j ! nor bragging; only simply and straight- | j forwardlv relating an incident that had j ! proved the turning-point in his life. For j | the moment, however, Jerry was pay- j ' ing no heed to anything but his memi ones. "Then, when I was better," he went! i on, "she just talked to me. Not religious talk—there's nothing as you might say pious about 'er. "After" she'd thanked me—an' with tears in 'er eyes —savin' Nobby—she put it up to me, man to man, as you i might say; no 'olding up 'er 'ands in ! 'olv 'orror of the criminal; just a bnsi- | ness proposition—in all the years I'd ; been on the crook, 'ow much 'ad I actu- ! ally made? I told 'er I'd never bothered I to reckon it up. ' Very well,' says she, ' practical as you please, 'we'll do so now, | between us; it'll be somethin' to pass the time, anyway.' She got a pencil an' paper an' put down the items as I could remember 'em. 'That the lot ?' she. asks at last. 'I can't think of any more,' I says. 'Bight,' she says, an' adds the ; total. Then she looks up. 'Takin' in j j the time you've been in prison,' she i

i says, 'do yon know how much you'vi ' averaged a week —since you started? | 'l've never given it a thought,' 1 says 'Twentv-four shillings and seveifpence, 1 she says. 'lt seems a fool's game to me, spending half your life in prison for less money than you could earn at the lowest-paid job there is.' Of course it'd never struck me that way, an' she was dead right—only for the snag. I laffed at her —unpleasant like, just to 'ide what i was really feelin'. 'Where ! are they, anyway, these jobs there's all ! the talk about —low paid or 'ighr" 1 ! says. 'Au' if you don't know, Miss, I'll j tell you. Nowhere. There aren't any ! loft. An' if there was, oo's goin' to give ] one to a feller like me, oo's lived 'alf i 'is life in "stir"?' "She looked at me 'ard for a minute, i same as if she could see right through ! me an' out the other side. 'J am,' she j says. 'lf you can risk your life to save my nephew, I should he a pretty poor thing if I couldn't take the risk of findin* you decent work. J'artic'iy,' she says, 'as I don't believe for a minute there is any ri.-'k . . . Will you sta.% an' do it?' she/says, an' 1 says: 'Yes. lady, I will . . . An' what's more,' I says, 'l've pinched for the last time ... "She got up from the chair by my bed an' she 'eld out 'or 'and for me to shake. 'Right,' she says. 'Report at the Doner 'ouse soon's you're fit. I done it, an' 'ere I've been ever since." As he paused, Simon saw that the homely, plebeian face was, at is were, sublimated. "I'll tell von somethin' else," Jerry went on decisively, after a pause. •'When 1 was took on, I was took on a=s a man —not as a blinkin' sus-pect; she wasn't all the time watchin' and puttin' me to the test -to see if 1 could be trusted. From the second day I started she let me go round wi' milk an' such —and collect the money . . . dust at, first 'abit was so strong in me it was all 1 could do not to go pinchin'—once I'd got mv fives on good money it didn't seem kind of nat'ral to loosen up on it ... In the first week J. did keep a quid back —only L 'ad such a 'ell of a night of it after that first thing in the mornin' 1 was good and glad to 'and it over. (To be continued next week)