A Fatal Vengeance

Taranaki Daily News, 18 October 1933, Page 11

A Fatal Vengeance

(By

John Thanet)

. CHAPTER 3. Trade in Slagborough had declined, and Dick like many of his fellow workmen, received his dischargp one day, which meant his leaving the town and seeking other employment. Most men would have lost heart at the prospect, but he had known- hard times ' before then. He recollected his father's difficulties, who in spite of them, had managed to find the premium for his son's apprenticeship to a flrm of engineers. Of hi§ mother, Dick remembered but little, for she had died when-he was too young to realise his loss, yet. from the time of her death, his father- had sunk into a despondency that marred the whole of the bereaved man’s afterlife.

He had applied to a firm of contractors who had advertised for a competent’ man to take charge of some works, and perhaps he might be successful in obtaining the post, but. that was very uncertain. He would not allow himself to ’build castles in the air, but if he were chosen Out of the many who would have answered the advertisement, Esther should be the first to hear, and he pictured her delight in that event,.as he went to Say good-bye. “I’m alone as . usual, Dick,” she said with' her bright smile, as he came into the house. “Father is upstairs, for he is very ill, I am sorry to say.” Dick had seated himself at the table where Either was at work, and he Watched her nimble fingers, cleverly embroidering a piece of silk that was to form part of' a dress presently. “You know I’ve been discharged,” he said at last. “Yes. You -told me two days ago,’,’ replied Esther. ‘'You were not surprised, you said.” ■ “It’s not so bad- for me as it-would-be for so'me men,” he went on.’ “If only affects myself.” “I often think,” continued Esther, “that what We think are troubles—this is one to you, of course.” “Greater than you imagine.” “I’ve often thought,” said Esther, looking Up a little shyly, “that what we consider to be troubles and disappointments are only the going over a rough road to something which makes more than amends for them. That they bring us something -we never .expected and could not be reached any other way. I don’t explain very well, perhaps.” “I wish I could see things in that light,”' replied Dick in his grim way, “because I shall have to leave the town.” Esther had put down her’work hastily and gone to the window, so that he did not see the change in her face. ;■ “When shall you go ?” she asked. “To-morrow, I have a friend in Milchester and am to stay with him for a few days.. After that I’ve nothing in view,” and he got up froth his chair. It would be better to get their parting over quicklyl ”1 shan’t forget what ydu said, Esther. About the unexpected, I mean.” “And perhaps your going away is for the best,” and their hands clasped in a silent farewell.

CHAPTER 4. . Mr. Eugene Phillipson, rousing himself from an uneasy Slumber On the hard sofa of a third-rate lodging house in Soho, glanced round the shabby room and rolled a cigarette with trembling hands, for he had sat. throughout the previous night drinking and gambling. Not so many years ago he would, have been called a handsome man, but dissipation had changed his complexion to ah unhealthy yellow and time had brought a white streak here and there to his once auburn hair, his face having a grey stubble as he had neglected to shave since the day before yesterday, and his dress betrayed a neglect in keeping, with his surroundings, for he had sadly deteriorated in many ways from his halcyon days. He was over forty and his once fine figure had developed an obesity that aged his appearance, but in spite of these changes there remained a swagger and assurance which defied his present lack of means to depress him. There was always a method of raising money and he had employed it recently, awaiting the result with a certainty that made him complacent as he filled a glass from the half-empty brandy bottle on the table. “Three O’clock,” he murmured, glancing at the unevenly ticking little clock On the' mantelpiece. “Punctuality was always one of the few virtues I admired in her, but possibly a slight hindrance has occurred.”

The door opened as 1. - said this and glass in hand he regarded with an urbane smile, a woman who had come into the room. She was Adelaide Bellairs, whose look of disgust caused him to give a quiet laugh. “My dear Adelaide,” he said, gulping down the remains of the brandy, “it would be a wrong to your good taste if I imagined for one instant that you approve of my apartment. I am far from being satisfied with it myself, but fortune has treated me scurvily of late, therefore much against my Avill I was compelled to write to you.” “I had your letter,” she replied, scarcely disguising her anger, “and have brought you the money. I preferred not to send it by post. You are in poverty you say.” “Is that.so unusual as to require my apology,” and he raised his eyebrows with an amused look. ,

“You are very much mistaken if you .believe I can find money every time y r ou demand it. I have had to sell my rings to get this.”

“I trust the one I placed on your finger, seven . years ago has not been sold,” he answered, with an affectation of concern. “I observed its absence the last time I had the. happiness of seeing you. That golden circlet, which symbolises so much.” “You 'need not remind me of that," she retorted fiercely. “It is enough for me to remember that I destroyed myself when I married you, and discovered the kind of man you are.”

“Then we will not refer to it ever again, my dear. Why should we ? Still, the fact remains that I am your husband, although we agree to live apart for our mutual convenience, yet I see no reason why we should quarrel. I do not complain of the arrangement.” I “Faugh !” and Adelaide flung down I some money on the table with' an ejacuj lation of disdain. “You sicken me when

you talk like this. Understand it is the last money I will give you. Do your iworst—let everyone know I am youi wife.' That at least would end the purgatory of keeping my folly a secret. ’ “You were' always impetuous, my -sweet Adelaide,” he answered, not one ,whif abashed by her angry outburst. “Even our parting was done in a hurry, if you remember.” I She was too angry to retort, and a look 'Was in her eyes of bitter hatred of the man to whom she was bound by a tie 'that only death could sever, and she turned to .the door. , Seven years ago she had been finishing her education in Paris, a headstrong, romantic girl who had never known a wish or caprice to be restrained. There she had met Eugene Phillipson, a winegrower's clerk, and married him, to dis- . cover'too late his true character, which •had been concealed under his flambOy - ■ ant manner and plausible tongue. He had the veneer of -a gentleman and a nature incapable of either shame or pity, together with an effrontery and assur- ■ ance that enabled Mm to pass as a wealthy man,’until a month after his marriage, when he Was arrested for robbing his employer. Adelaide had insisted on a separation after his release from prison and she returned to her mother’s house, where her ruined life had been spent since, and four years later her husband came to London, whore he gained a pre- ■ carious living by means best known to himself. ' - CHAPTER 5. A month had gone-by and Dick’s Stay 'in Milchester was coming to ah end. He could see no chance of getting work, for thousands of others were , out of work; "his - slender savings Were almost ex- : hausted and he had acted wisely in not asking Esther to be his wife, for he loved her too well to let her share his .poverty. Then one morning he received the welcome news that his application for the post offered by a firm of contractors had been successful and his first thought was of Esther. Later in the day he was in Slagborough. There had been chapges since his leaving it, but Esther would not have changed, her bright smile would greet him as of old, and a host of happy thoughts kept him company as he went along. Stephen Drake would be pleased to see him, and he must stay to shake hands, although it was losing preefous time that ought to be, given to Esther. Drake’s house was shut up and a bill in the dusty window announced. that it was to let,- and he walked oft in the direction'-.tof- the street in which Mr. Deane lived, but only to find the house closed, and after some fruitless enquiries he went back to Milchester, where two letters were awaiting him. One was in a woman’s handwriting and he opened the black edged envelope eagerly, not heeding the other letter, which was addressed to “Richard Ingram, Esq.,” for the letter he held in his hand was from'Esther. ( "Dear Dick,” and the familiar use of his name brought a curious pang to his heart, "I have delayed writing to you of the trouble that came after you left, because I knew you-had your own and mine would only add to it by telling you of my father’s death. "I have been fortunate in getting a situation, and when you get my letter I shall have left England. "Do not think because I have net written before that I forget how kind you were to my dear father, but it was best for me to go away as I have done, without telling you until now,” and the letter ended abruptly. His other letter, addressed to "Richard Ingram, Esq.,” remained unheeded for several minutes and he took it up at last, his brow furrowed with a puzzled look as he read the contents. It was from a Mr. Cai-ron, solicitor of Bedford Row, who signed himself “Yours faithfully," requesting Dick to call at his Office at his. earliest convenience, (To be continued.)