THE MAD TREMAYNES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3590, 2 January 1923, Page 52

THE MAD TREMAYNES.

THE NOVELIST. [Published bt Special Arrangement.}

A SERIAL STORY OF LOVE AND SPORT.

By

E. C. B uley.

Chapter 2 (Continued). Tremayne turned his attention once more to the race, which had now reached its most critical stage. The great crowd, unmindful of this little drama of hopes and fears, was engrossed in the struggle. For a hundred yards the two magnificent colts ran neck and neck, fighting for the victory so gamely that the rest of the field were outpaced, the two leaders drawing away by many lengths.. “Three to one against Witless,” shouted a mighty voice, and simultaneously Sir Ralph’s colt appeared to falter. It was but momentary, but in that moment Bonanza had drawn to the front, and, finishing strongly, put a couple of lengths between liimeelf and the beaten favourite. The race was over; another odds-on favourite had been thrashed by a despised outsider; philosophically, the crowd began to scan the runners for the next race. Lionel Tremayne made a desperate effort for self-control. “That’s what old Gillespie calls a certainty,” he said with a harsh laugh, which had no trace of. mirth in it. “He's getting too old for his job, sir.” His father honoured him with a black look, which might have quelled the hardiest of men, and had the effect of reducing Tremayne to silence. Sir Ralph, without a word, flung away to the paddock to consult his trainer. He found Gillespie looking over the winner, with a calm which went far to madden his disappointed patron. “Well, Gillespie,” Sir Ralph began abruptly, “Witless has a soft spot in him, you see. He deliberately turned it up when the pinch came.” The old Scotsman shook his head; he did not lack courage, and never failed to tell the truth, however inconvenient it might be to the imperious man who employed him. “He did all we could, have expected, Sir Ralph,” he answered. “It’s far wiser to admit that we met his master. Jevons has "0t a fine colt here, sir ; the pair of them 0 left the others standing still when it came to racing. Bonanza will be a hard nut to crack at Epsom, I m thinkmean vou are going to allow Francis Tremayne to rob me of the Derby,” thundered Sir Ralph. “It sounds a S though you were, preparing excuses beforehand, Gillespie.” ~ “I’ll say this much, and no more, was the undisturbed answer. “If the Derby were to be run to-morrow this colt, would beat both vour own, Sir Ralph. But it s a far call to June, sir. I’m far from giving up hope myself.” Jovce Winter found dinner with Sir Ralph and Lionel a painful function that evenin'”. Lady Carfax was deeply resentful of" the little scandal caused bv Sir Ralph’s public outburst, and did not hesitate to show her displeasure bv a frigidity of manner, which added nothing to the sociability of the meal. She had never approved of the engagement of her niece to Lionel Tremayne. After dinner Sir Ralph left them for the evenin'?, with the briefest of excuses. Lionel made haste to follow his example, although his method of desertion was less abrupt. , “I’m afraid you must excuse me for this evening, Joyce,” he said 1 P ro ' mised to talk over a boxing match. Some local sportsmen pretended they want to make a match between Colby and this chap, Frank Croll. I can hardly believe they are in earnest; it seems too soft a thing. But I have promised to talk t over with them. ’ T “But Mr Croll is an amateur, Joyce ob ?‘Fancy q you knowing that,” Tremayne remarked approvingly. “ Not many gins have brains enough to soot the difference A man like Croll is only an amateur until it pays him to become a professional, you see. If a match like this were fixed for him, he could make more in one night, even if he were beaten, than he earns now in a couple of years. No- I cannot imagine a beggarly bank clerk standing out on the score of his amateur status.” . ~ “I see,”' Joyce said, thoughtfully, Its onlv people with money who can afford to be amateurs. Good night, Lionel. She turned her face away as Lionel attempted to claim his just privilege, and his kiss fell upon her cheek bone. Ihe heir to the Tremavne title wore an uglv sctnvl as he hurried to the taxi cab which was waiting for him. Jovce’ sat down to the piano and Lady - 'Carfax took up her knitting. The o-irl plaved soft dreamy music, which seemed fitting to the nrettv cosy room and the leaping fire of logs, which made it homelike. ‘ Her thoughts troubled her a good deal, but she had the courage to meet them fairlv, and to consider whither thev were leading her. She already knew that she had not loved Lionel Tremavne when she gave him her promise. The glamour of hero -worship had misled her to some extent, for he came to her with a gallant war record. Pity may have been a more potent factor, since she knew that he was slowly recovering from shell shock. This unmerited misfortune was the excuse she made to herself for some of the wild exploits with which gossip connected Tremayne’s name «

Lionel Tremayne was conscious of the advantage her pity and admiration gave him. He wooed her so convincingly that she believed that lie loved her, and that she returned his love; until that very day Joyce had not permitted herself to doubt it. Now she was the prey to disturbing doubts. The scene on the racecourse‘had revealed to her the marked eccentricity of the family into which she proposed to marry. All the living Tremavnes had been concerned in it, as it had been put in a remark she chanced to overhear: “They were not called the ‘ -Mad Tremaynes ’ for nothing.” Lionel Tremayne’s estimate of Frank Croll had completed the damage in her estimation which his conduct upon the course had begun. Joyce had not mentioned her adventure with the bank clerk even to her aunt. Instinct had kept her silent about it, but she had recalled it since with a soft smile of remembrance. It did not please the girl to have the mild romance of it shattered by the plan Tremavne had disclosed. Whatever else he mighi be, Joyce was sure that Frank Croll was a gentleman, for his behaviour was a guarantee of the fact. His easy respect for her was what lie would have displayed, she was sure, to a poor and shabby working girl in the same circumstances. Some young men might liave presumed and been familiar; others might have been unpleasantly servile and fulsome to the great heiress. The manner of her champion proved his good breeding. He was handsome, t-00, Joyce was a sporting girl, and she had been able to appreciate and remember the statuesque of his figure, as he threw himself in the natural poses of a boxer striking swiftly and skilfully. She could even remember that he had dark blue eves, lit with a sunny smile, and fringed by lashes as long as a girl’s. The idea that he should be converted into a professional fighting machine and pitted against the hulking brutality of Buck Colby revolted her. Of course, he would not do it. Lionel knew nothing of him, or he would know that no sum of money would tempt Croll to do anything of the kind. But Tremayne had been so very confident that Joyce became very anxious to see him disappointed. The music she was playing changed in character. When it became a noisy and rather reckless jazz tune Lady Carfax laid down her knitting. “What is it, dear?” she asked, knowing the girl’s moods. Joyce spun round on the music stood and flashed sparkling eyes at her aunt. “I really believe I shall do it, auntie dear,” she said. “By all means if you wish,” was the cheerful answer. “I don’t know what it is, of course; but I suppose it’s no harm.” “You have got to help me,” Joyce explained. “You must be too ill to go to the races to-morrow.” “Favours are easy, when one suits ones own inclination by confering them.” “But you must be too ill to come down to lunch,” Joyce “because then, you see, I can talk to him all by our two selves.” “Him!” repeated Lady Carfax, dropping six stitches, ‘Well so long as his name is not Tremayne you mav count on me to do anything you wish.” Girdle's Bank was almost deserted at noon on the following dav. Frank Croll, standing in his usual place behind the counter, was indulging in' a day dream, in which the central figures were birr sell and . . Yes, in his day dream he had the audacity to think of her as Joyce. And then, marvellously converting the fabric of his dream into amazing reality. Jovce entered the bank, and marched smiling to his counter. “Please do not look so startled, Air Croll,” she began. “I suppose you think I am hideously extravagant, and have come back for more money already.” CHAPTER 111. “We have a little left,’” Frank managed to answer, with a corresponding smile. “You have come early, you see.” “But I’m going to pay some back, if you will show me how to do it.” Frank conscious that his heart was beating in a very erratic fashion, handed her a pay-in slip, and explained its use. “It’s two hundred and fifty pounds,” Joyce explained, and laughed a gurg’ing little (unto of enjoyment at his surprise in recognising bv the numbers the same notes she had drawn two days before. “Quite correct,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching. “You see, Air Croll,” she said confidentially, “I didn’t need that money, really. I only wanted to make sure I could have it. And I shouldn’t have been able to nay back if it had not been for you, shoutd I?” “Please, don’t mention-——” “Oh, but I must. My aunt, Lady Carfax, would like to thanlc you for taking such care of me.” (“I’m sure she would if she knew about it,” Joyce added to herself, by way of palliating the fib.) “It’s very kind of Lady Carfax.” “She’s very old and cannot go out much. So I thought, perhaps—we are staying such a short time—you do have time for lunch, don’t you? I know you must be very busy, but could vop spare the time to-day? For the sake of an old, old lady, I’m sure you will excuse the informality.” “I was just about to go out to lunch.” Frank admitted, rather dazed by Die blending of pleasant dreams with a still more pleasant reality. “And I have a taxi-cab waiting,” announced Joyce triumphantly. “You are ndt expected to fight to-dav, you see.” “I shall be ready in ten seconds,” Frank promised. “It’s too good to be true,” he muttered, as he anxiously adjusted his tie

! before the mirror in the cloakroom. "I expect I’m in for a rare telling-off from this old dowager. Never mind, Frank, my lad, it's worth it.” Seated by the side of this wonderful girl in a taxi-cab Frank experienced an immeasurable elation. .Joyce wore a large bunch of fresh violets at the fastening of her furs, and the delicate fragrance of the flowers seemed to make Ins brain swim. He did not know what he was saying, lie only wanted to tell her that he washed he had to light for her again, to fight for her often. It seemed to him there wals nothing in life so well worth doing. When the cab drew up at the Olympia Hotel the young man nerved himself to meet the dragon. The drive had been all too short, and now he was going to pay for it, by receiving a tongue-lasning from an old dame with formidable glasses and an audible method of siiorfi. disapproval. Joyce led the way demurely through the liotel restaurant to the secluded table reserved for her own party. “Excuse me, Miss Winter,” said an attentive waiter, “Lady Carfax regrets she is indisposed and cannot come down to lunch.” “What a shame!” exclaimed Joyce, handing the man her furs, and making round eyes of penitence. “I've brought you all this way for nothing. Mr Croll. Say you forgive me, and signify the same by sitting down and making the best of a bad business.” If Frank Croll was suffering from 1 ee:i disappointment he concealed the fact nobly. To his dying day he will never know what- he ate and drank for luncheon, though it was clear that he was made to eat and drink-, and presently to talk about himself. “Mr Tremavne mentioned you last night,” said Joyce, carelessly. “I think he said you were likely to box against some wonderful champion, or had been asked to do so.” “A champion,” Frank repeated. “lie must have been referring to the wish of some friends of mine that I should adopt boxing as a profession. That is < nite out of the question, of course.” “I’m glad of that,” Joyce raid, softly. “I thought he must be mistaken at the time. Tile bank is so much Letter, isn’t it? At least, I should imagine so.” “The bank is all right,’ Frank explained, “if I were all right for the bank. I’m not much suited to ftie work, I’m afraid, M iss Winter. They have to be very patient with me there, for the fact is, I’m no earthly use for the business. If it were not for my mother I should have tried something eke long ago.” “But surely not boxing?*’ “No, indeed. Even if I wished, I couldn’t do that; not that I ever considered such a thing seriously. My mother is the only relative I have in the world, as far as I know, and she has to live very quietly, because she suffers from some heart trouble. I know that she does not even like my boxing as an amateur, although she conceals her aversion nobly, for my sake. I honestly believe it would kill her if I made a profession of the sport. She’s set on making me a banker, poor dear.” “Y T our mother I It must be wonderful to have a mother; mine died when I wa3 just a baby.” “I wish you knew my mother,” Frank replied simply. “She is the gentlest soul and the purest spirit on earth, I believe. I cannot imagine one |buch of worldliness or of anything gross ever resting upon her.”

“I should like to know her,” Joyce said gently; and her doubts having been set at rest upon the important matter which had disturbed her, she steered the conversation into other and more conventional channels. Time sped on too quickly for Frank Croll. It was so easy and pleasant, chatting to the bright, friendly girl about the topics that interested him most, and finding that the things of the open air were her main interests also. They were neither of them very intellectual people ; but both had the high spirits and the absence of self-conscious-ness which comes of wholesome habits and a clean and simple outlook upon life. Joyce herself was distinctly aware of a pang of regret when her companion rose to his feet with the exclamation; “Past two o’clock. Afy colleague will get no lunch if I do not hurry. Kiudlv explain to Lady Carfax, Alias Winter, liow sorry T am to have missed her, and say that I hope her indisposition will be a very short one.” Joyce sat for a long time after he had gone, turning the big diamond Tremayne had given her round and round on her finger, while she looked at it with a puzzled little frown. What could he the matter with her? She knew that if / another girl had acted as she had just behaved, especially a girl who was engaged, she herself would have set that girl down as detestably sly. Yet she could feel neither shame nor regret; only a desire to go over their conversation again. She reverted to the simnle and honest reverence with which Croll had spoken of his mother. How much at ease she felt in his compariv. and how sure of herself and him! When alone with Tremayne, as she now candidly confessed to herself, she had a sense of shrinking and district. “I don't care,” she murmured robelliouslv, “I might do it again any time. I shall, if I get a chance.” Guessing nothing of all of these plans in his favour, Frank Croll hurried back to the bank, divided between elation and despair. He was in no rational frame of mind, and lightly brushed aside the hopelessness of it all. Two days before, one short glimpse of the fair garden of romance had been opened before bis dazzled eves, and had left him with what he thought would be a unique and lasting memory. To-dav the most beautiful girl had stretched out her hand, and had conducted him through the garden patli6, exchanging friendlv words and kind glances. The quick blossoming flower of love had expanded in his soul, filling every

fibre of him with its rare fragrance. His eyes were opened to a vision of the rich fullness of life, and he could see nothing else. He got his work done somehow that afternoon, and hurried home to confide the story to his one companion and friend. Joyce Winter had said she would like to know his mother—that, at least, was something to bring a gentle smile of pleasure to the dear face he loved so well. The little flat rantr silent and hollow to his hastening footfalls, and no gentle answer came to his cheery “Here I* am at last, mother.” In the doorway he stopped still, mute and terrified by what he saw. Facing him, in the armchair at the table, sat his mother, her head leaning back and her limbs chained by a terrible stillness. Her face, was waxen pale, but the old sweet smile of welcome for him seemed to hover about her dead i lip(To be Continued.)