IF TO-DAY BE SWEET

Star (Christchurch), Issue 17906, 23 July 1926, Page 16

IF TO-DAY BE SWEET

“ STAR’S ” NEW SERIAL.

By

DOROTHY ROGERS.

• CHAPTER XVlll.—(Continued.) "It was old Derek who pulled me out. He tumbled across me unexpectedly one day, grot the whole story out of me, and then metaphorically rolled up his sleeves and set to work. Jove, how that chap fought to break me of the habit! And how I cursed him for it at the time! But he did it in the end, and then I went off on a long trip somewhere—Africa, I think it was—yes, Africa. 1 hat was the first trip I took. And so that ended that.” Paul lit another cigarette at the stump of the old one, and looked at Gentian for comment. He had a singular way of losing himself in a story to the exclusion of all outward considerations. It never occurred to him that such a narration was not precisely fitted for the ears of his fiancee. Had he been called upon to give a reason for relating it to her, he would merely have said that having asked the question about morphia she would, as a matter of course, be interested to hear how he first acquired the habit. Moreover. it had all happened long years before she had entered his life. To Paul it was all perfectly natural. Fortunately for him. Gentian fully realised his attitude with regard to such disclosures. Perhaps, had she loved him better she would have understood him less easily. Refraining from all remark, she returned to her original idea. ‘‘But, Paul, why, after all that, have you taken to it again lately?” Paul frowned heavily at his cigarette. “Well,” he said slowly, “to tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit jumpy the last few months, and, besides that, my heart has been a trifle groggy, and one thing and another. As I said, morphia is the only stuff that really does the business, so to speak. But I'm not going to overdo it this time. Gentian, I promise you.” lie spoke confidently. ‘‘Paul,” she said softly, “won’t you try to do without it—to please me?” she added, with woman's age-old guile. He rose and put his hands on her shoulders as she sat. His heavy eyes looked down at her with more than the usual shadow in their depths. “I can’t promise that yet, dearest, he said with unaccustomed ? firmness. “As soon as I am fit again I’ll drop it. You'll see!” “But are you likely to get fit while you take it?” “Oh! lor, yes! I shall be all right in no time,” he assured her cheerfully. “And now I must Vie off, darling. I said I’d run mother over to Cirencester earlv after lunch. We’ve got to see old Bell about the selling of two cottages. No end of a fuss, and documents to be signed. A lot of rubbish, I call it!” He took Gentian's hands as she rose, and she looked at him anxiously. “Paul,” she said, “why have you been specially jumpy these last few months?” He read the anxiety in her eyes and divined the doubt which 'prompted her question. It would have been simple to tell her truthfully some of the agonising restless fears that continually clouded his happiness in her; ♦he nervous apprehensions lest that happiness should suddenly crash down into disastrous ruin. But, realising that this knowledge would only cause needless trouble to the girl who was, he knew, doing her best to meet his love with some sufficiently deep affection, Paul generously let slip this occasion to arouse her sympathy. Bending down to kiss her. he said gently: “Nothing very special, dearest. Don’t fret your littl esoul on my account. Nothing can hurt me so long as I have you.” The warmth with which he said this relieved Gentian’s mind, as he intended it should, considerably. “Bv the way,” he remarked, as he was leaving, “I raked out that Kipling you wanted and brought it along for you. It is ages since I read it, but I used to know a whole lot of it by heart. It’s funny how he gets hold of vou. lie’s got an uncanny knack of hitting off exactly what you’ve felt just as if he’d been through it himself. I wish I could write stuff like that!” After Paul had gone, Gentian slowly returned to the drawing-room full of anxious reflections. More and more clearly was there beginning to dawn upon her a conception of the immensity of her undertaking. She wondered whether the strength of her own moral support would be sufficient to keep him straight in the years to come, after the first glamour of marriage had worn off. There were hours when, daunted bv the volatile instability of Paul’s character, she asked herself whether she would ever conquer all that she had set out to fight. Only in such I conquest could she hope to find coir- | fort and consolation for the dull | trouble that unceasingly filled her own I soul.

Sighing deeply, she picked up the book Paul had left, a well-worn copy of “The Seven Seas,” and opened it at random. Page after page she turned, reading a line here and there, her mind still preoccupied with uncomfortable thought. From between the leaves a sheet of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, Gentian saw that on it were written some verses in Paul’s own hand. Since the lyric he had shown her that last night at Cannes, she had seen no more of his verses. Unhesitatingly she read them through. If you had lingered at the glass, Pinning your violets dewy wet, That moment when I chanced to pass, We had not met! If you had wandered by, nor stood Awhile to watch the creeping mist Enwreathe the silent yellowing wood, j We had not kiss’t! If you had gone, nor mutely glanced With laughing eyes to meet my own— Ah, what a world of love entranced We had not known! Gentian sat down and read the lyric again slowly, then, laying it on her lap, she stared at it thoughtfully. To whom had he written that? Not to her, certainly, for in no way did it even remotely fit any circumstances of her intimacy with him. To whom, then? With surprising chagrin,, she admitted to herself the impossibility of connecting it with any woman in particular; there had been so many women in Pauls life; so many, she

was beginning to realise, of whom she had probably never heard and might not hear, unless a chance word or incident should prompt some such reminiscence as the one to which she had listened just now. Then came the natural but troublesome question: Was she, like all these other women, nothing more than an episode in Paul’s life—an episode which would flag and fade under the influence of some later attraction? What a doubt, she reflected somewhat bitterly, to harbour concerning the man she had promised to marry! What a prospect after marriage that of being set aside and forgotten for the sake of the next woman who crossed his path! With the certainty that this risk would always hover over her did she contemplate the task of moulding and strengthening Paul’s character. Gentian set herself courageously to face the situation. During the past months she had grown fond of Paul—fond of a wayward and very unruly child who yet has redeeming qualities of astonishing sweetness. Never would she love him; of she was perfectly aware. There had been but one love in her life; on that she never permitted herself to dwell; but, nevertheless, she knew that there would be no repetition. At the same -time, by steady patience and an engaging simplicity of manner, as well as by his strong intuitive understanding of her trouble, Paul had succeeded in winning from her a warm affection not to be confounded with love. With this he professed to be content. The transparent delight with which he received her slightest demonstration of it frequently ' caused her a twinge of remorseful self-reproach, as if it were, in some obscure way, her own fault that she could offer him no more. Yet in this disparity of affection might lie her greatest strength. With her knowledge of Paul’s temperament, she knew that for him the unwon held always a supreme charm. The important question was whether it would always remain so, or whether in the end realising the utter impossibility of winning what he wanted from her, he would turn to some more readilygiven love; and then of what use would have been all her own endeavours? Mechanically, she picked up the book and opened it to replace Paul’s lyric between the leaves. Her eye caught the deep-scoring mark of a peifcii upon one page. The leaves had fluttered over, but she turned them back until she came to the place marked. It was a stanza in the “Sestina of the Tramp Royal.” She read it. “It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world. Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die. Unless you get the page you’re reading done. An’ turn another—likely not so good ; But what you’re after is to turn 'em all.” Gentian looked up wistfully through the window. Yes, that stanza summed up accurately the principle of Paul’s existence, and of all her fears. How many pages had he tired of and turned? Would her name, too, be written only upon one—one of how many yet to come? “ ‘But what you’re after is to turn ’em all!” With dull discouragement, she repeated the last line aloud to herself. * CHAPTER XIX. The rollicking Cotswold breeze buffeted Gentian about, tearing at her tweed skirt and rich red-gold sports coat, dragging a glossy wisp of dark hair from under her soft felt hat, and finally driving her laughing and staggering against Paul, who strode beside her. Whereupon, he took a firm grip of her arm, and thus a little wind-hustled and breathless they struggled on along the grey road running straight between two broad upland fields. Paul helped the girl over a low bank of tawny dry grasses and brown withered plants, still sprinkled with the pale mauve and glowing purple of scabeous and thistles, and the late straggling yellow clusters of ragwort; then together they crossed the upward slope of the wide stubble field beyond. Great white clouds sailed and raced over the pale blue sky; sunlight and shadow skimmed over the earth, down to the valley and the grey village below’, up again in fleeting course to the opposite green ridge; near and far. the dark woods and tall clumps of elms and russet beeches were violently shaken, sighing and scattering streaming volleys of leaves upon the wind. Now and again a rook strove against the swift keen air, its great wings curved and vainly beating, until at length, giving up the ineffectual contest, it would spread them wide and go sailing down over fields and woods lo merge into the clear and distant landscape. 4 The wind, that whipped a delicate pink into Gentian’s cheeks, filled her eyes with tears, so that when, weteyed and laughing, and still guided by Paul’s propelling arm, she arrived at the crest of the field she stood swaying and blinking, at first scarcely able to see that for - hich they had come. And that for h they had come was very w th the seeing. It was a plough inpetition, and w’hat gave it a spe interest to them was the fact that three out of the sixteen competing teams belonged to Paul himself. Sitting on his partridge stick, firmly planted into the rich red soil, her skirts flapping about her, the wind whistling and singing in her ears, Gentia regained her breath while she took in the exhilarating scene. The great horses, glossy and be-rib-boned, moved solemnly to and fro, each team upon its own staked patch of ground, manes blowing in the breeze, harness jingling and tinkling, skins gleaming in the sun. The warm smell of them mingled with the fragrance of the earth as it rolled over, red and shining, from the plough. “Which are yours, Paul?” she asked. Paul, loungiqg beside hex, leaning on a stick, let his eyes travel slowly over the various teams scattered upon the field top, then, straightening himself, he pointed with the stick, picking out his own among the rest. “Let us go and watch them,” said Gentian. (To be Continued.)