The Road that Led Home

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 119, 10 August 1927, Page 14

The Road that Led Home

By

Elizabeth York Miĺer.

Aut^% r House oj the Secret Conscience " A Cinderella ol Mayfair. ' &c £rc

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS CHAPTERS VIII. to X.—Mrs. Clayton enjoys her new status, but keeps her husband at arm’s length. One Sunday morning Raymond meets Connover and Mrs. Gerald Methune, and these two invite themselves to lunch with the Claytons. Informed by ner husband of the two guests Nora becomes excited, dresses with care in order to impress them, but finds that both Connover and Mrs. Methune are quite weight enough for her. Later she takes Connover to her boudoir, and is once more overcome by the old glamour. She tries to hold her own, but Connover takes the \v*ind out of her sails by telling her that, in the long ago, the curate, James Prester, interfered between them, and took a message to him, Connover, that Nora never wanted to see him again. To Nora's incredulity he replies, “Ask him.” A little later the Vicar of Riftmoor is taken ill and dies. The Claytons go to the funeral, and Nora stays on at the Vicarage to help her sister to straighten things out. Alison intends to carve out her own future. Nora visits James Prester in his little cottage. Jim comes to the door. He invites her in and she challenges him with the statement made to her by Connover. He is silent. CHAPTER XI. (Continued) The surprising thing was to find Connover by himself, and so much at home in her drawing room. His ruffled hair and the crushed cushions suggested that he had even been napping; illustrated magazines were strewn about him; ash from his cigarette desecrated the purple carpet. “By jove, if it isn’t little Nora!” he exclaimed, pulling himself together with a series of renovating pats and jerks. Nora said he looked so comfortable, and wasn’t to be disturbed on her account, but he missed the irony of her remark, and insisted upon ringing for fresh tea and sharing it with her. “Cora won’t be long,” he assured her, “but meanwhile—oh, Nora, I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have you all to myself even for a few minutes.” Nora’s lips curled with derision. “Don’t tell me that, Conny; you’ve pretty well exhausted yourself in finding reason to keep away from me. Only last evening Raymond was remarking on it.” “Raymond!” Connover exclaimed softly. Then, in a tone of bitter sadness, he repeated; “Raymond!—you ought to understand why I have kept away, why I didn’t dare ” “It was kind of you to write after daddy’s death,” Nora interrupted, ignoring his sentimental politeness. “I went down to Riffmoor, of course, and I saw James Prester.” “Yes?” Connover was sharply attentive. “You didn’t—did you—say anything?” “I most certainly did,” Nora replied. I told him plainly what I thought of him, and he was crushed—absolutely crushed.” “Oh, crushed, was he? Didn’t try to lie or wriggle out of it in any way?” “How could he. I simply put it him that he was a liar and a hypocrite, that you have believed him because he was in holy orders. I told him that he had made use of his hat and collar to ensure your confidence. I wasn’t very gentle with him, you may believe.” “And Prester let you accuse him without —without trying anything on? Well, I’m dashed!” Connover lighted a cigarette for himself, keeping his gaze concentrated on the blazing match. “He might have thought up another lie,” he added. “Jim’s not quick enough for that,” Nora said. “You see, I took him by surprise.”

“Well, that’s all over with, then. For my own sake, I’m glad it’s been cleared up. Funny little hole in the wall, this of Cora’s. Do you come here often?” He raised his eyes now, and was saying something to Nora with them —something quite different from the casual words on his tongue. “I—not very often. This is the first time I’ve come without a special invitation,” Nora replied. Connover laughed, screwing up his little moustache and trying to look plaintive. “I know what you’re thinking. Well. you see, I’m one of Cora’s tame robins. There are lots of us. We all feed out of her hand. You see, Dora is more harmless than she looks. Now what would you say if you walked into your

charming boudoir and found me like this? Or, what is more important, what would Raymond say? Besides, Nora, I couldn’t trust myself to be your tame robin. One of us would turn into a tiger.” Nora started at him solemnly. “Is that the way you make love to married women?” she asked. Connover flung his cigarette into the fire. “No, by jove, it isn’t. At least, it isn’t the way I’d make love to you if I had half a chance. Nora, you belong to me, and both of us know it. First that scoundrel of a parson steals you away by a trick, and then Clayton buys you, body and soul. Are neither you nor I to have any say in all this?” She moved back a step and held out protesting hands.

“Conny, I don’t want you to talk like that.” ‘‘Oh, yes, you do! You’ve been wanting it ever since you went up the hill to the common; ever since that afternoon I all but slaughtered you. I I saw what you wanted in your lovely eyes the day Raymond brought Cora and me to lunch. I’ve seen it when we’ve met in the street. Nora, I’ve been haunted by your eyes, by your lips, by the fascinating little bundle of tricks that is just you. That’s why I’ve kept away from you, if you really care to know.” ‘‘Oh, Conny!” she breathed, in a frightened, wavering voice. How mean and small seemed her cruel boasting to Jim! She hadn’t really meant it, but now something seized her like a madness. She might have let Connover take her into his arms and press kisses on her quivering lips; she might have committed any folly on earth—but for the moment she was saved all that. A little bustle in the hall accompanied by the rich deep voice of Cora Methune put a stop to the dangerous philandering, and Lord Connover was himself again, just a languid young man-about-town bored with life in an amiable, amusing fashion. It seemed to Nora that Mrs. Methune was not altogether pleased to see her, but that might have been imagination. However, she was feeling too distraught for coherent conversation and soon took her departure, -wondering, as she did so. that Connover should show no inclination to accompany her; that he should, in fact, commit the small social error of out-staying her.

CHAPTER XII. Cora Methune came back to the purple and gold drawing-room after saying good-bye to Nora. She looked a little fatigued, her eyes cavernous, her painted lips thin and compressed. “Conny?” she said, with a rising inflection. Connover, buried in an illustrated weekly, returned her an absorbed: “Yes—what ?” “Put that paper down. I want to talk to you.” “The deuce you do, my dear! What have I done now?” He flung the inoffensive paper across the room with a sulky qur, and began to fish for his cigarette case. “You’ve been making love to Nora Clayton,” Mrs. Methune stated regretfully.

’’What ideas you wom*« ! your heads!” n Set Mrs. Methune was stanriu | an old Venetian mirror now S i mg her hat. As usual, off thJ* movshe was a little untidy. a m?, i assorted. A wisp of her sf, *»- ruddy hair had straved from wf Uclra ' ; ;ngs and was plastered damn]v ®°° f ' ! tie. r cheek. She pushed P There was a button missin* ,~. h * c,L crystal row that fastened front of her frock, whkfh wZ? mauve in colour and snla.hJa hem with a streak of mud***' “>« some mischance she had chosen by on shoes with red heels. “ 1 Pat ,^ et was that wondeful , charm of her. that rantlv alluring: which blindS J***' her clothes and revealed only woman. un| y She turned and looked at who was puffing at hfs staring with deep gloom i! U ao<! depths of the fire. The n " h . lt * slowly toward him and laid a on his shoulder. h *nd asked. y ° U SUU Care for she He moved irritably. “Of course—don’t be silly” I wonder. You see I didn’t I?” tailed you, No " he tw *sted around and up at her. “You mean with cff I suppose. Well, it's not too & only you'd play the game as to do in the beginning. You carTtS some money out of him if voJ? f! making* lo’ve—as would help. You're a bit of a ‘ I know. Bat, you see, I love Conny. Lately I've been wondering it wouldn t be as well to announced fact that we re married. We ml;! say how many -years it is.” 1 “Oh, come, now!” Connov,r to his feet protestingly. pran S , ? rS u U seemed the sensible thin, to do, she went on. "To keen ■ secret. I mean. There was my a P I was the famous Mrs. Methune beautiful Mrs. Methune,' and all !!* rest of it. To be Lady Conned would have had its But now Ini wondering. You Conny, we got into bad ways Oh i know, lots of people do It-noii't blackmailing, bleeding one's friend!,™ money, living beyond one', Z ” ~£n. a cou P le of buffoons, Conny" This is all most interesting" (v. nover observed, drily. "Where nr!' cisely, does it lead?” pre ' She sat down on the arm of th. chair he had vacated, tilting a little sidewise and swinging one foot gently All of her movements wer e graceful and unhurried. “It leads to what I’ve said.” she re plied. “Raymond Clayton is in love w’ith his wife. I know what you’re driving at, Conny. You’ll get her to make an idiot of herself over you, and that’s my cue to take up the role of consoler to Raymond. It should be worth quite a lot of money to u« worked politely. No sandbags, lif« preservers, or whatever it is honest footpads use.” “You can be most awfully boring" Connover said with a yawn. “Weil, I’m off. See you some time to-morrow if our engagements don’t clash. ni ring you up in the morning.” “Wait a minute, Conny. Tell me something—are you in love with Nora Clayton.” “She thinks so,” he replied. ‘Was there ever anything between you ?” “Oh, we played* about a bit—a boy and girl flirtation. Nothing in it" He yawned again. Mrs. Methune fell to musing. She leaned forward, a graceful huddle, with her chin on her hand. “There’s only Jim who knows that we’re married.” she murmured. “It seems so strange that he should have taken a post at Riffmoor, of all places. I haven’t seen him for years. I’ve wanted to see him, but our lives were so widely separated—and lately I’ve been ashamed.” Connover stared angrily at the toes of his boots. “Your precious parson brother,” he glowered. “Don’t mention the prig, if you please. The very thought of him gives me a sick headache.” (To be Continued.)