THE SECOND MRS FAIRFAX

New Zealand Times, Volume LIII, Issue 12538, 30 August 1926, Page 12

THE SECOND MRS FAIRFAX

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BY

MARY DREWE TEMPEST

[COPYRIGHT.!

CHAPTER VIU

Mrs Fairfax came back after dinner to tako tier coffee beside her husband, before leaving him for the night. He seemed strangely unresponsive to her stray remarks, and there was a queer “fighting” look about his eyes which puzzled her. With her quick intuition she sensed that some hostile influence was at work, and instantly set herself to finding out what this influence could be. She moved about the bed like a ministering angel, now shaking up a pillow, now tempting her patient with a purple grape, chatting cheerily all the time, while her sixth sense went questing round. Suddenly she knew. Colonel Fairfax had put out his right hand to take some soda-water. She waited whilst ho drank, then quietly took the glass again and slipped away. In the privacy of her bedroom she anathematised that stupid oversight and set her wits to work to find some natural explanation. She thought and thought—but her usually resourceful mind drew blanks. Then she called in the aid of a strong stimulant, and immediately the inspiration came. She sprang to -her feet, put away all evidences of her little “nip,” and returned sedately to the sick room. “John dearest,” she said in a low, awed voice, as she sank into a chair by her husband’s side, “do you know that I perjured myself most frightfully this afternoon?” “Perjured?” “Yes. love. I’ve just remembered you did have a pen in your hand today, you signed the note I wrote in vour name to Miss Falconer, it was just after I gave you your medicine, and you were so sleepy! Dear John, do you think I shall ever be forgiven?” In an ecstasy of relief he seized her hands and kissed them fervently. “Ob, my dear, was that it? I oan’t think . . but I'm so glad that it was only a letter to that puss, Di, that I signed.” He smiled up at her. “You see now, dear, that it wasn’t altogether a dream! Of course you’re forgiven, little woman; hut fancy you forgetting it!” He tucked his hands away in the warmth, well pleased that her admission hod come without his showing her those inky fingers. For reasons of her own Margot countermanded all medicine for the nest day or two. Perhaps the Colonel's recent suspicions had made her “nervy,” or perhaps “Reculer pouT mieux santer” was in her mind: who knows ? At 2 a.m. the dropping of a cinder woke Colonel Fairfax out of a light sleep, and he tried to while away the weary small hours by thinking over the evepts of yesterday. ‘■Poor Margot . . . how distressed she seemed at her innocent ‘perjury’ 1 . . . But he didn’t in the least remember asking to be allowed to sign a letter to Diana ... if he had why had he struggled so? . . . had he really signed such a letter? Had”—the perspiration broke out on his brow at the thought—“had Margot seen the ink on his fingers and made up that story ? Had she? . . .” He sprang up in bed with a cry that brought Dyers out of the shadows; the man firmly laid him back with a “quiet, sir,” then noiselessly rejoined those shadows. Still the Colonel’s thoughts raced on “She had fidgeted round him in a most peculiar way —ah, how long the night seemed! What sort of a mongrel was this illness making of him that he should distrust his wife —Ills sweet, devoted wife! . . . why hadn’t Ronnie written all this time? Heavens! had she had anjthing to do with that intercepted letter? . . . was ho going mad . .or what? He did not distrust Margot, and never could, but lie would keep eyes and ears open as long as he was able. Had he signed a will under drugs and compulsion . . . cutting out Ronnie? Had he? Had he ? Of course not 1 Margot had sworn it . . . but she had also sworn that his hand had held no pen. . where were his black thoughts taking him? . . Margot was a saint—not a she-devil ... all the. same . . . he’d watch out . . . till Ronnio came home. . . .” So see-sawed his poor, sick mind till a pale dawn glimmered in, and ho dropped into a restless sleep again. That day the secretary took ehargo till after lunch, and Colonel Fairfax strove to overcome his failing powers and give this gentlemanly secretary — turned nurse—his close attention. At twelve o’clock the vicar was admitted, and after a little conversation a troisj that gentleman expressed a wish to see Mrs Fairfax a moment, whereupon the secretary had perforce tj go in search of her. It was quite five minutes beforo she appeared. She looked so white and weary, as she welcomed her husband’s visitor, that ho hastened to make her sit down. The clergyman’s bluff, rosy countenance contrasted sharply with that of

the sick man, lying on the pillow like an emaciated mask, out of which gleamed questioning, agonised eyes. “I am deeply grieved to find your husband so ill, Mrs Fairfax,” said the Vicar gravely, “and I feel I have been very remiss in my duty to the sick in not coming before. I want to bring the Bishop to see him to-morrow; have I your permission? As I daresay you know, the Bishop is an old friend or your husband’s.” “Bring him, by all means, dear Vicar,” said Mrs Fairfax warmly. The request had evidently met with her entire approval, for she seemed immensely relieved; “suppose we say at three to-morrow —the secretarv is obliged to go to Ilminster in the morning, and I want him to be here to receive you.” “I am afraid I must fit in my time with the Bishop’s, Mrs Fairfax —and you know he is a frightfully busy man. However, 1 will tell him the hour you suggest.” Ten minutes after the Vicar’s departure, Mrs Fairfax sought the secretary in the library—whither he had gone to await her. On entering she took the precaution softly to turn the key; then she immediately came to the point. “Things couldn’t pan out better,” she said in a rapid undertone. “Yesterday my nerves went to pieces: what with that ‘medicine’ and the inky fingers! I felt on the edge of a precipice . . . for if once my husband loses faith in me—well, ‘phutt!’ goes everything . . . and I become a pauper. The Vicar’s been, and to-morrow he brings the Bishop. Nothing could look more respectable, and the county will not be able to see for dust.” Slie gave a mirthless chuckle, and hurried on: “Make arrangements with Stanford to come the next morning (I altered the date to the 19th), and be back here by 2.30. Don’t fail . . . you must be present while the clergy are her*, they will come at three—and be gone by four. From then on our coast will be clear—for that ‘medicine’ again.” “Stronger, old girl; he musn’t talk to Stanford: that would leave us open to blackmail —afterwards.” “I know* ... do you think I want to drag the thing on? It’s killing me by inches.” “Courage, my beauty, the worst is upon us—and will soon he behind us I Now I must return to duty.” Mrs Fairfax spoke the truth when she complained of strain. That night, tired -out though she was, she could not sleep; and the clock struck five and found her still stark awake. At last, in desperation, she rose, and took a strong sleeping-draught. Dyers sent several times that morning to inquire if Mrs Fairfax was ready to receive him, and when, at ten-thirty, he was told she was still in a profound sleep, he wonderingly resigned himself to carrying on till the Secretary’s return. At eleven o’clock the two clergymen arrived, and asked to be taken to the sick-room. Dyers, as nurse-in-charge, interviewed them, and very respectfully pointed out the impossibility of receiving them then. His instructions were that the reverend gentlemen were expected at three. He regretted very much that he could not admit them now. for the Secretary was absent and Mrs Fairfax asleep. “My good fellow, dying men don’t wait on conventions.” said the Vicar sharply, “the Bishop has put off other engagements to come quickly; kindly take us up at once.” Then Dyers took them up, and gently shaking his patient into consciousness, introduced his visitors, tlifrn slipped away behind his screen. The Vicar followed him. “Will you be good enough to leave the room,” he commanded. Dyers stubbornly stood his ground. “I am on duty, sir,” he said with respectful firmness, “and I dare not leave my post.” “Your duty is outside while clergymen are visiting a dying person. Have you no decency? Outside with you!” The Vicar held the door wide—then took a menacing step. The nightnurse slid through it, and the door was promptly closed and locked. Dyers loved a peaceful life, and when Mrs Fairfax learnt, aghast, that the pastoral visit had been paid while she slept, he assured her that he had remained bohind the screen throughout the interview. The following morning the new doctor was introduced to his patient, but the patient was not interested, he was in a state of coma. Dr. Sandford made a perfunctory examination and sadly shook his head. “The disease was a very obscure one.” ho explained, “peculiar to certain places in India whero Colonel Fairfax had been stationed. He deeply regretted to say that his patient was beyond human skill, but he would look in twice a dav” (incidentally Mrs Fairfax was a deucedlv charming woman, and her “bubbly” of the best.) (To be Continued.!