THE TAINT

Taranaki Daily News, 3 May 1933, Page 15

THE TAINT

By

Wilfred Roberts

CHAPTER V.—(Continued). “A Miss Peyton—Joyce Peyton. I doubt whether you would know her, as your acquaintance with them came io an end so long ago.” “Peyton?” Lady Trevelyan repeated. “No, I don’t think I should know her. I remember Mr Thornbury had a friend of that name, hut nothing more.” “I believe that Miss Peyton is the the daughter of that friend whom you mentioned. Unless I am her parents are dead, and she was lef. in Mrs Thornbury’s care. She continues to live with them now. I fancy she had no other home.” “Very likely,” Lady . Trevelyan assented. . “It is strange that you should not know the Thornburys better,” Dr. Stevens went on, “for your nephew is quite an intimate friend of theirs. “What?” Lady Trevelyan broke out, almost as though in sudden terror, “I beg your pardon,” she went on, more calmly, “but you, startled me. Did you say that •?” “Only that one of their friends is a Mr Trevelyn, whom I take to be yoyjr nephew. I believe he mentioned Sir Arthur ——” “Gerald Trevelyan a friend of the Thornburys!” she said, as if to herself. “And I never knew. Why. didn t he tell me?” .. .There could be no answer to the question. Lady Trevelyan sat looking down the garden, her eyes s tf al though she saw something which was invisible to. the others. They were exchanging glances, completely a small world .it is,” she said, with rather forced lightness. I never thought that'he was acquainted with them. I wonder why I haven t happened to liear of it.’ M “Perhaps your nephew „ “My husband’s nephew—• sne corrected, smiling. She seemed to have quite recovered, herself. “Of course, it was stupid of me. Perhaps Mr Trevelyan has come to know them only recently. Or. P er ' haps it is pure chance that he had never mentioned them to you. certainly he is a friend of theirs. He was staying with them.” “Was he one of the party that day ? 1 * “No. he had gone off on a long expedition -by himself, and rea <J ed house only a few .minutes before we came in. Probably he will tell you the story when you meet.’’ ■ “I daresay. At least it Is of no Importance, now, since you were able to save them both. I think I will go n. I am rather tired.' Thank you for telling me your adventures, she added, facing Dr. Stevens steadily, though if turned out badly, but it seems that you arrived in time. lam very g for the Thornburys sake. I ’ w °" ld have been hard on them to lose their ° n ‘^ow, ld ’what’s the meaning of all this?” asked Dr. Stevens of his wife, as Lady Trevelyan passed through the glass doors that' led back into the house. “What do you make of it?” “Nothing—as-yet.”

“Of course it may be chance. Rose, you have a good head. Did I tell that story too carelessly? Do you think it ought to have startled even an invalid, as it did.” “I don’t think so. You were saying “this evening that, you believed Lady Trevelyan had something on her mind. I’m going to hazard a guess. Find out the nature of her .association with Mrs Thornbury; and you will lay ■ your flnger on the secret that is wearing out her strength. I’ve not the least idea what-it can be.” “Mrs Thornbury!” Dr. Stevens repeated, thoughtfully. “I wonderr- — he paused and. reflected a few minutes in silence. ■“I wonder whether the memory of. an old fright would prey on her mind enough to produce such an effect?”

“You ought to know, if anyone does."

“It’s possible. I have sometimes found obscure, nervous troubles due to something’ of the kind —an old scare, for 'example, dating back to childhood.".;.

“But why should you imagine that she had any fright connected with Mrs Thornbury?” Dr. Stevens did not reply. He was lost in thought. It was difficult to decelve him in matters that concerned hi# own line of work, and though Mrs Thornbury had been well when he met her, little signs, unnoticeable to anyone but a trained observer, had suggested to' him that her mind was not perfectly sound. Was it possible that the disease ■which he suspected had broken out during Miss Merton’s acquaintance with the Thornburys? A young girl, ‘in such circumstances, might easily have received a fright that she would riot forget in the lapse of years. Possibly she had even been in danger; hfe could not tell what Mrs Thornbury might have done. Dr. Stevens followed up a long train of thought building conjecture upon conjecture, until he roused himself with a laugh- realising on how very small a foundation .he was rearing a large structure. Still, it might be that the theory would fit the case. If he were right, then it became clear why Lady Trevelyan had avoided the Thornburys ; clear why she would not speak of the secret that she had discovered—« since others were so deeply involved in it. Theory alone it must remain, for the present, but Dr. Stevens made Up his mind to watch for facts that might confirm or shatter it. Meanwhile, he sincerely pitied Bevis, who, if his suspicions were correct, had come into so terrible an inheritance. He made some attempt to learn from his patient, but Lady Trevelyan baffled him so skilfully that, at the end, he was uncertain whether she knew something that she was resolved not to tell, or whether she was really unconscious of his drift. She answered all his questions with, apparently, perfect openness. She was not betrayed into the display of any more fear or excitement at the mention of the Thornburys, but he learned no more than he had done at first. Presently he was forced to give up the endeavour, for Lady Trevelyan had decided to return home. Her health had improved during 'the past weeks, and Sir. Arthur was anxious that thea Should both be at their home in Cornwall for Christmas. So Dr. Stevens was left to make what he could of his problem. Apparently it was beyond him, and yet, whenever he could spare a few minutes from more pressing work, he occupied them in reading the notes that he had made on what he began to call the “Thornbury” case.. Few and scanty as these were, he seemed to find in them food for thought, at least he studied them again and again, making new entries, in the shape of comments of suggestion, but always coming back to the same conclusion —that he must await, the course of events. He wished very much that he knew the Thornburys sufficiently well to pay them a- surprise visit during the few days when Bevis was likely to be at home. He felt convinced that, could he have

done so, he would have been rewarded for his pains. Dr. Stevens was not far wrong. The first day or so of Bevis’ short holiday passed without event, but then there came a fine afternoon, when he and Joyce went out for a walk together. “Joyce, doesn’t it seem to you that my mother is looking very ill?” he asked, as they crossed the moor. “I’m afraid she is,” Joyce returned. “I know Mr Thornbury is anxious about her.”

“He has said nothing to me. Perhaps Bevis broke off, and they .went on for some way in silence. The winter afternoon closed in early, and they had not gone far before the fading light made them turn back towards the house. “Joyce,” said Bevis, suddenly, when they ware within sight of the trees, “w r alk steadily on, and don’t turn your head —” he had dropped his voice almost to a whisper. ‘We are being followed.” “Followed?” she repeated, In the same cautious manner. “I am sure I heard steps after us then, but it is getting so dark that I doubt whether I can see anyone. If you could give me a chance of . stopping.” .. , “This stupid shoe-lace,” said Joyce, promptly raising ’aer tone so as to be audible to anyone near them,. “That s the third time it has come untied. Just wait a minute,” and she bent down, while Bevis availed himself of the op-, portunity to stand still and look about But the afternoon was growing late, and among the scattered gorsebushes on the moor, it was impossible to distinguish any lurking figure. “Did you hear anything?" he asked. “I fancied I did. I’m not sure, Joyce replied. “There,” she went on, raising her voice again. “I’ve fasten“I hope you don’t go about at night by yourself,” said Bevis, as they neared the house. ~ “I don’t altogether like this. Do you mind waiting a little. The moon will rise before long, and we might see something. “We can walk, up and down the garden. It’s too cold to stand still, .she suggested, they began to do so. ■ ./ Presently the moon came up, hut still they were unrewarded for their patience, and Joyce was beginning to think, of giving up, and going indoors, when Bevis dropped his voice once more.

“Look at the trees,” he said. Joyce did so. For an Instant she could see nothing. Then she made out a figure standing under the shadow of the pines, and evidently watching their movements with keen “Who in the world can it be?" ehe said. , , But Bevis had left her already, and was running toward the pines., Joyce hurried after him, but he had disappeared among the tree-trunks before she came up, and she was forced to wait for his return. Presently he joined her, out of breath, and not in the best of tempers. “I missed the blighter,” he said, when he could speak. “He got away somehow, and gave me the slip. Infernal cheek, I call it, watching us like that. I wish I could have caught him.” „ . . “I'm just as glad you didn’t," she answered. “Let us get back to the house, now; I don’t want to go hunting this person any longer.” “I wish I could have laid hands on him,” Bevis grumbled. “I would have given him a lesson he’d not have forgotten in a hurry. I can’t think what reason anyone can have for such tricks.” “Nor can I." , “It’s not likely he'll come again, but I hope you won’t go about by yourself, after I’ve gone,” Bevis added. “I don't suppose I shall, at least until the light evenings have come again.” Joyce had been upon the point oi telling him her previous experiences, but she ■ changed her mind,_ and kept her own counsel. She had little doubt that the man "who followed them that night was the 'same who had dogged her steps before. In other circumstances -she would not have hesitated to take Bevis into her confidence, but now she feared to do mischief if she caused him worry or excitement, and ■she said nothing. The Thornburys spent Christmas very quietly, for Mrs Thornbury was no longer well enough for exertion. Joyce was fully content, though the older members of the family feared that it was dull for her. She was out of tune with gaiety just then. Her •own troubles weighed on her too heavily. One problem was coming urgently before her. If Mrs Thornbury died, where should she go? She could scarcely remain in her present home, and she had no other. Her parents’ death had left her quite alone in the world, for she had no near relatives living, and the Thornburys were her only intimate friends. The last evening of Bevis’ stay arrived. Mr Thornbury had gone upstairs to see his wife, who had been unable to leave her room, that day. Joyce and Bevis were left alone, in the lamp-lit room that overlooked the garden. ■ . “You will be starting early tomorrow,” she said, breaking a silence that had grown oppressive. ■..-.' "Yes, and glad to get to work again. Joyce, I’ve found the only safe way for me—" he turned to her as he spoke—-“I must keep myself, hard at work all the time, so that' there is no chance to think. You’ve heloed me. more than I can tell you* I can’t say liow much 1 owe jo you. I'm beginning to hope now that I may get off—you know what I mean, ine fear of the thing hasn’t been so bad' since I spoke to you about It. Joyce nodded wisely. “I’m sure that I was right, she Sai “But, Joyce, it’s very hard on you. I feel that I’ve dragged you into this trouble, when you might have been kept out of it. And I can make you no amends, as things are.”_ “There’s only one thing for us to do,” said Joyce quietly, “and that- is to go plodding on, day by day. its no use trying to look forward to the future, and it’s worse than useless to spend our time thinking of what might have been. It is hard, but all we can do is just to go on.” .. “You’re a good friend, Joyce And I can do so little for you in-return. It was unfair to you. I’d no business to bring you into all this — and for a moment Bevis laid his hand - over hers as it rested on her knee. Jovce looked up but did not answer At the end of the room, opposite to the window, was a large mirror, and raised her eyes, she eaush sißht of a face reflected in it, a fo.ce nearing into the room between the cui.race .0 distorted ™ih ra 5 that -she did not. know it. She sa auite still, unable to move, staring at ?he glass, and suddenly the ace was gone, and Joyce dropped back in hei chair with a little gasp of relief. "Joyce, what is it—are you dll? Bevis demanded. . “It's nothing,” she said, tbougb her voice shook, in spite of her efforts to control it, and her own face was

white. “Only a trick of the fight. I thought for a moment that someone was looking in at us.” “You look quite ill.” said Bevis anxiously. * _ . “It’s very ■absurd of me. Queer how a little thing will startle one. Never mind about It now.” .... .. Mr Thornbury came back into tne room before Bevis could reply, and the subject was dropped. But Joyce, though she had turned It off carelessly, was convinced that her Imagination had played her no trick. She had really seen the face. Yet, why should anyone he keeping watch over her and Bevis like this? Joi' o ® ■could not answer her own Question, but for several days she was conscious of feeling uneasy as night came on, and she would not sit alone in the room that looked on the garden, if she could avoid doing so. Still, as time passed, and nothing more happened, the impression faded, until she almost succeeded in persuading herself that, after all, It had been some strange effect of the lamp-light. January passed, and February set in, an unusually warm, bright February, that tempted Joyce out of doors, so long as the light lasted. But she avoided the moor, that had once been her favourite walk, and kept resolutely to the high-road—less interesting, but, perhaps, safer. It was almosl half-way through the month that, as she was coming home from one of her walks, she met Gerald. “Mr Trevelyan 1” she exclaimed. "How did you come here?” “I came to see Mrs Thornbury—ran over on my machine,” he said. “I thought that I had missed you. I’m very glad that we have met like this. I should have gone, If you had been ten minutes later.”

“And how have you spent the winter?" she asked, lightly, for something In his tone made her uncomfortable, and she wished to keep 1 to strict commonplaces. "I have been abroad, most of the time, having better weather than you have had, I fancy. I have come home for a few days now. Mrs Thornbury looks very ill.” “I’m afraid she is very ill," Joyoe replied, sadly. Gerald said nothing, but he dearly was in no hurry to go, and they walked towards the house in silence, Joyce wondering whether he meant to prolong his call, now that she had come. She was not at her ease ; she half suspected what lay behind his appearance, and she searched hastily for something to say. “Had you a good time?” she enquired. “Very. I’ve had the best of it.” “I’ve cften thought that I should like to get away somewhere for a change, I got tired of seeing nothing but mud and fog. I rather think," she went on hurriedly, feeling that she had blundered, “that, next time I see Miss Drummond, I will ask her to take me on some journey with her." “I could suggest & better plan than that,” Gerald answered, seizing the chance that she had -given him. “-But I think mine is very good,” she broke in, still hoping to put off further explanations. “Miss Drummond ——” “I’m not going to be stopped now,” Gerald interrupted. “I don’t want to make you angry, but I mean to go on. I want an end to this uncertainty. Last summer I thought that y oU —mat you understood me, and didn’t.feel inclined to turn me down altogether. Perhaps I was wrong, but I hoped that in time —and then you changed. I don’t understand it. Have I offended you?” “No,” said Joyce, reluctantly. "Then was I wrong all the time—all ■the days that we spent together last summer. Surely, Joyce, you knew * • I “I can’t tell,” she said, the memory of that summer, and its perplexities and troubles coming back to her painfully. “I’m very sorry if I—if I gave you a wrong impression in any way. I’m afraid that I did, and I’m much ashamed of myself, and I can, only ask you to forgive me.” “Joyce, I’m not going to be content with that. } mean to have it all out now, plainly. I want to ask you—” “Please —" she broke in, “please don’t go on. I think I understand, and It’s, quite useless." “Will you marry me, Joyce? I mean to have a distinct answer ’to that.” “No," 'she said, firmly. “There it. is plainly enough. I’m very sorry, very sorry Indeed, if I made you think that 1. would. It was wrong of me. But " she looked up from the ground on which her eyes had been Axed—-"can’t you understand- that things inay be —difficult? I wasn’t quite sure—l couldn’t know for certain whether it was anything mors than just that you liked me. It would nave been naicuious if I’d—l’d ma.de any difference to you, and then It turned out that you hadn’t thought of me .at all like that—that It was only a case of being friends. I’m very sorry.”' “I have not blamed you, have I? There is time to ask forgiveness when I do. I ashed you a question, and you have answered it. Now I'm going to ask another. Is there any one else?” ju. Joyce was silent. She aid. not know what she could say. Gerald had stopped, and stood looking at her, waiting for her answer. She knew that she was colouring hotly. Her eyes fell, and she stood before him, her fact burning. “Then there is. Are you engaged to Thornbury?” he added, as she made no attempt to reply. “No?” he looked at her In doubt. “But it’s for his sake that you’ve refused me?” “You’ve no right to ask that,” she retorted, angrily. “I’ve said I’m riot engaged to him, and that’s enough. You’ve no right to question me further. If I—if I cared—do you think I should want to tell you. about it? Is it any business of yours to try io drag—things—out of me?” “If you cared for Thornbury, and he didn’t care for you," Gerald replied, seizing on her half admission, “it might be my business, That would leave a chance for me. But I could have tnade certain that he——l don I understand this.” • Joyce did not try to enhghten him. He was silent for a time, and when she walked towards the house, he accompanied her .without a word until they had almost reached the gar6“'l wonder whether he can have found out—” said Gerald, rather to himself than to her. . Joyce felt that she was turning cold at the thought of Bevis’ secret having passed into the keeping of one who certainly wished him no good. She had some thought of appealing to Gerald to keep silence, but wisely checked herself in time, realising that her interference on Bevis behalf would only embitter the other against hl ”‘Does he know that Mrs Thornbury is not — u f “Oh, stop,’* Joyce broke in, dreading an allusion to Mrs Thornbury’s terrible disease. “Please stop this, 1 can’t stand it. I've said that I m not going to marry Bevis. Please let jhe reason alone. It doesn’t matter. “Joyce,” said Gerald abruptly, ’’can you give me any hope for the future?” . “I don’t know. How can I possibly tell ? I don’t think I shall change my mind, but I suppose I might. “Yes, you might, if you understand how impossible it is that you and 'Bevis—l’m not going to question you about that. I know you’d keep his confident.-. So long as you know .it’s impcsbible. I’m. satisfied. You meant what you said?” T "Of course I meant it, or 1

shouldn’t have said it. Whatever may come about, that won’t,” she ended truthfully to the best of her knowledge. “In that case I shan’t give up hope, Joyce, I’m taking you at your word, for I think you may be trusted. Im not going to worry you by dangling about you all the while. But I don’t give you up. I shall be at hand, and if ever I think that you ve reconsidered matters, I shall try my luck again. But there’s one thing more.”

They were near the house, but he put his hand on her arm, and stopped her. “One thing, Joyce. I can put up with losing you—l’ve got to, it seems —hut I’m not going to see any one else take my place. I wouldn’t merry you against your will, if I could, but I shan’t stand by and see you marry someone else. So long as you remain as you are, I shall not trouble you. But if I hear that you are engaged to any one—and I shall take care that I know all that concerns you then it will be the worse for him, or for you. Do you understand?" “No, I don’t. So far as I can tell Pm not likely to marry any one, but If I did •” “I don’t think you run much risk of being overlooked,” he said quietly. “You evidently do not suffer, from conceit, or you would know that. But you must not take any one, no matter who it may be. I won't have that." “Are you out of your mind?” she demanded, trying to twist her arm free from his hand. “I’ve said I don’t think I shall marry anyone. But if I did—what could you do to prevent me?" “Try me and see. Or don t——ll you set any value on— ’’ and Gerald checked himself. “What can Ido Joyce? A great deal. People who care nothing for their lives have more power in their hands than you may think. And, if I saw you marry anyone else, I .should lose all that I care about in life." “Don’t talk like that,” she said, half frightened, for she saw that he was in earnest. “I’m very sorry about this. I wish we could have gone on being just friendsf But It's no use to threaten me——” “I was warning you, Joyce, not threatening you. And' it will be best for you to remember what I said. If I can’t have you myself, no one else shall— Thornbury least of all. You were telling me the truth about him?" ■ , . “Of course I was, she replied angrily, “do you take me for a liar?” , , < . . , j “Not that, but you.might have tried to deceive me on such a matter as this. You have been so much together——’ ’ “Not more than was Inevitable, 'since my home ‘has been with ■ his people. “Perhaps not.’’ His tone suggested that he was not yet convinced, and Joyce felt more frightened still. It seemed absurd to thin* that he 'could do any harm to Bevis, and yet she wished that she could be sure that no lurking suspicion remained in his mind of Bevis being ■the barrier between them. “I tell you again, as I did before, that I shall never marry Bevis. 1 am not engaged to him, or to anyone. I know no one whom I am likely to marry,” she said emphatically. (To be continued.).