His Wife People

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 231, 29 September 1931, Page 12

His Wife People

By

FLORENCE BONE

(Author of “ Red May,” “ Stars in the Smoke,” etc.)

CHAPTER XXVll.—(Continued.)

Tired, untidy, grimy as she was, Andy leaned liis head on her 'breast and she gathered him to her, close and dear, in a passionate clasp. His lips sought hers, found her slim throat inside the draggled mackintosh, and kissed it, lingeringly, longingly. Neither spoke much, words were not needed. Now and then Sheila sobbed, which made Andy hold her closer, SUie pressed liis head to her breast, rocked him backwards and forwards like a child, held him to her heart. If Andy had ever thought that his wife had fled from him, he ceased to think so then. “Oh, I love you—love you,” whispered Sheila, at last. “But—Andy, you’re very good to me. You’re kissing me as—l love you to kiss me, as nobody else might kiss me—but, will your love stand it 5” “Stand what, my darling,’’asked Andy, tenderly. “I can stand anything if you and I are together.” “But will you keep me with you—perhaps to disgrace the llobbs —do you know that that terrible woman—is—my mother? She’s mad!” “But she isn’t your mother,” said Andy in a matter-of-fact tone. \Not—oh—do you know what you aay? I mean—Mrs. Lester— ’’ “So do I— tiresome, interfering, queer creature, but not your mother. Simon Bays so—” “Simon says so? Then it’s true.” “True enough, dearest, and all of it a storm in a teacup if Marion and that poisonous Bertha Mitchell hadn’t got their claws into that old tale better left buried in a tallboy. But I put the lid on that. You haven't a thing to fear. But you shall stay with Anne until you feel like coming home to “I want you all the time, Andy,” whispered Sheila. He kissed her. “Let’s go and tell them, sweetheart. Anne and Meg have been terribly worried about you, as well as I. We all love you very much, wee wifie.” “Oh, I know you do.” Sheila put up a glowing face for another kiss. Then, hand in hand, they went back to the sitting room, Sheila glowing with happiness, though tired and wan. Sheila left Andy and ran to Anne, who took her into her arms. Sheila put out her other hand to Simon. “Oh,” she said. “If only I’d asked you, Simon. Andy says that woman isn't my mother,” Sheila shuddered in Anne’s arms. “I couldn’t get away from her. She found me in Edinburgh. I got away in the night. I had one pound note and sixpence, but a woman, one of the best, brought mo in her car to York and I got & bus. I spent last night in York station, and Simon—that woman, Mrs. Lester, she was in the night train when it went through York. I saw her—through the* carriage window.” “You shan’t see her again, Sheila,” said Simon, soothingly. Evidently he thought it was an hallunciation. “IHn not surprised,” said Meg Wedderburn, suddenly. “If ever a woman gave me a grue. I shall sell Fir Tree Cottage. I never want to go into it again. Anybody may have it—cheap.” “Don’t be rash, Meg,” said Andy. “Ye’ll think better of it.” Meg shook her head. “I expect the woman’s in London,” she said. “She’ll turn up at your office, Mr. Todd.” “Then she’ll stay there, until she’s under lock and key—in an asylum,” said Simon, grimly. “I feel responsible for all this happening to my own girl. I ought to have known where Mrs. Lestrange was.” Sheila began to tremble again. Anne put an arm round her. “I’m going to put you to bed,” she eaid. “Ellen will bring up some supper for you, and Andy shall sit beside you.” “I’d like a bath, Anne,” said Sheila, meekly. “I’m filthy.” “A bath it is,” was the answer. “Your own little room’s ready for you. I’m afraid Andy will have to sleep on the couch downstairs.” “The funny thing is, darling,” said Andy half an hour later, “that you may have a mother somewhere, after all, but a pretty callous one. Simon has never heard of her death. She ran away with an American. Did you know that?” “Ran away—my real mother —an American? Jane said she died when I vas a baby. Jane would never talk about her.” “That was Jane’s arrangement, and Simon thought he had better adopt it, but truth will out, and they’d better have let it. Anyhow I don’t think we’ll bother to write home about it. You might be happier as an orphan, with Simon for a father, and a husband like me.” “I don’t want any other kind of either,” smiled Sheila, and then she found she was dropping asleep, with her hand held fast in Andy’s. When Simon Todd reached his flat very late that night, he found his housekeeper, Mrs. Cramp, still sitting up for him. She came out of Qie kitchen, looking rather pale. “Hulloa —anything wrong?” asked Simon kindly. “No, sir, that is Mr. Todd, I mean, well ehc.’s wrong in the head I’m sure of that, and if she were mine I’d be scared of her doing herself a mischief if she didn’t do it to anyone else.” “Who—what?” demanded Simon. “Why, that lady who came here not long after Miss Sheila was married. She’s been here to-night, after dark, and nobody about. I’ve never been scared left alone in this flat before, but I was to-night—scared stiff, I was, by her queer rolling eyes, sort of yellow, and restless. She ought ter be shut up.” “She shall be shut up. What did she want?” was the answer. “She asked for you, and she fair shouted that she didn’t believe you were out. And 6he wanted to know where Miss Sheila was. I thought she would ha’ gone for me when T said I didn’t know. I’d a deal o’ trouble to get rid of ’er. I’m sure she’s not right.” “Did she leave any address?” asked Simon. “She said she was at the Majestic Hotel, on the Thames Embankment, and she might call round again, to-night. I’m glad yer’ve got hack, sir.” “So am I,” said Simon, grimly. “If she does come, which I hope she won’t, I’ll detain her in here, and you must ring up Scotland Yard. You’ve done it before. Tell them to send round somebody, accompanied by a doctor, and, if possible, some sort of nurse. They’re responsible for that woman.” “Mercy,” ejaculated Mrs. Cramp, not sure whether she wanted it to happen or not. * • * • Midnight struck, a wan little moon showed in the small hours through the budding trees, the steady tramp of the policeman was heard, and down-and-outs

huddled on the seats near Cleopatra’s Needle. The coffee stall was busy as it had been on that November night in the fog, but there was no fog to-night. As Big Ben struck two, a figure glided from the dark trees within the railing of a great new, smart hotel, containing many rooms that. the occupant of one could never be missed. This woman’s feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground. She almost sprang from one patch of shadow to another. She reached the space about the Needle. Moonlight fell on to the lions in splashes of silver. A policeman’s helmet was not far away. For two seconds a slight, tall figure was silhouetted against the river and the. sky, where soon the pearl grey of dawn would gleam. The next instant it fell. A stifled cry, a loud splash, circling eddies of water, and that was all. The policeman hurried up, but it was too late. A boat was lowered, and the slender, once beautiful body of Josephine Lestrange was rescued from the tragic Thames, but no life was in it. A worn-out heart, a clouded brain could not stand a shock. Simon Todd’s address was found in the pocket of the woman’s evening coat. As lie was eating his breakfast next morning, he was rung up by Scotland Yard, and learned the end of a long, sad tale. Meg Wedderburn had left Victoria by the boat train on her way to the south of France before Simon appeared at Hampstead to tell Anne and Slieila what had happened. “Poor soul,” was all that Anne said. Sheila cried a little, tears of relief, as well as sympathy, for a life that had been dogged and spoiled by its own fire and feeling. “She must have been strangely beautiful once,” said Andy’s wife. “She was,” agreed Simon, grimly. “But, oh, Simon, I am glad she wasn’t related to me.”

“You may well be, my dear, but there’s no fear of that. I am by no means sure that you have not got a mother living, somewhere, but if eo I am pretty certain you won’t ever hear of her, unless I rake her out, if we need to prove that Josephine Lestrange was nothing to you. Nell Draycott always reminded me of a line from some old Italian poet—‘She hath no heart; she is too self-endeared.’ ” The verdict on Josephine Lestrange’s death was an unusual one. Suicide was assumed, yet it would have been possible to restore her, if her heart had not given way. Frpm evidence produced, it was obvious that her mind had been, failing for months. That of Mrs. Craig alone proved such to be the case. As the daily help had not seen Sheila, and as Bertha Mitchell was glad to keep quiet, Andy’s wife was not called to give evidence. A written statement from Mrs. Wedderburn also pointed to insanity. An enterprising journalist dug into the story of Josephine’s past life, and for a day and a half a long past cause celebre came to light again, with pictures of the Kentish Manor, and speculations as to the future of several people concerned. Then a firm of lawyers —not Simon Todd, produced Josephine Lestrange’s will. It had been, signed in the office of a local solicitor on the day when she grasped the fact that before night she would probably be arrested for the murder of her busband. There was no question, then, of her sanity, overwrought and unstable though she was. She had left all of which she might die possessed to the child of John Draycott. It was as though she meant, if she died in prison, in some way to make up for what she had done. At first Sheila refused to take the money, and hated the idea of possessing Welton Manor. “That ifeedn’t trouble you, my dear child,” said Simon. “It is now a neglected, picturesque, rambling place, in dang,**- of falling into ruin. Fortunately, it in yours without restriction. 1 have two offers for it. One is from a syndicate of hotels, the other from a successful girls’ school needing more spacious quarters in Kent.” “Let the girls have it,” said Sheila. “They may make the place happy.” “Good!” agreed Simon. “That’s my idea, too. You’re not a rich woman. When all dues are paid, you may own £9OOO or £IO,OOO, no more. It is well invested, fortunately, and will give you a nice little income whatever the up 3 and downs of Robb’s mills. No, don’t speak. I’m not going to let you realise. I'm glad to say that I am named as vour trustee. But the money from the sale of the Manor, you can throw into the sea if you like. What about putting it into Robb’s?”

“I believe Andy will tell you that it will put the mill on its legs,” said Sheila, happily. Andy got back to Rowans in tlie early evening of a lovely March day. The low, white house looked charming and home-like. The front door was wide open, japonica and yellow jessamine already made the walls gay; a blackbird was singing loudly in the hedge. Andy’s heart leapt and he longed for Sheila on the doorstep. She was not coming home until spring was well there before her. All the atmosphere that had made Rowans terrifying must be gone before she came back. Libby Duff was in charge of the house, with young Jean to help her. George Weston had taken up liis abode for the time being with his cousin, and Andy expected to find him waiting for supper in the pleasant dining room. Red firelight was streaming from Sheila’s sitting room, and Andy thought he would slip up to the window and astonish George if he were there. Before he reached the window he stepped back, however, convulsed with mirth. George was there—very much there —sitting on the low couch, his head bent over another head, a slim little woman in his of a passionately tender lover, arms, half buried in the close embrace “George and Gay!” said Andy aloud, with a chuckle. “The very thing to tell Sheila. She will lose all fear of her own sitting room when I tell her what I saw through the window. Good old George! Gay shows her sense.” Andy went chuckling into his own house, and throwing down his bag, rattled the handle of the sitting room door before he went into the firelight. “Hullo, George,” he began. “Why—is that you, Gay? I hope you’ve been entertaining her, George, old man, until I got back.” “Oh, yes, Andy, I think so, just ask her,” said George with a grin, and a tender satisfied look at Gay, which she returned. “Oh, he’s been awfully entertaining, Andy,” she s.aid, a high note of happiness in her voice. “But, of course, I shouldn’t have come, but I thought Sheila would come back with you. I brought her some flowers. I was just giving them to Libby Duff wlien-^George—Mr. Weston —” “George, darling, George,” cried out the lover. “Andy, I dragged her in here, to ask her something, and get things put right. % That woman with the queer eyes has been the devil’s luck for all of us, and—” “Well, it’s your lucky day all right to-day, George—‘darling,’ ” said his cousin, with a resounding slap on the back. “Come and have supper with us, Gay, and then I’ll leave you the sitting room to yourselves while I go down to the mill to see James. Then you can take Gay home.” “Right, topping suggestion,” said George. Andy went upstairs to wash his hands, and called out to Libby Duff to bring supper in. George turned to Gay, and held her fast for a thrilling second. Her cheek was under his, his hand was about her throat, their hearts beat together. “We’re at the end of our troubles, dearest,” lie whispered. “My little Gay, I wish you hadn’t a penny.” “I don’t,” said Gay in a happy whisper. “But I believe that you really do, George, darling.” The next time that Marion Robb came' to Rowans it was by special and formal invitation, which did not, then, or ever, include Bertha Mitchell. Sheila, brown, lovely, and charmingly happy, was delighting in Rowans in the May sunshine, and bluebells, the gorse on the hill behind the house. Anne Starkey was with her. Jean Rutherford was expected. Mrs. James Robb had already received, through Sheila’s solicitor, Simon Todd, a plain statement, in legal language,, of the position of Andrew Robb’s wife in regard to Josephine Lestrange, together with the provisions of her .will. It was Sheila’s wish that Marion should know the exact truth, and be told also, the true history of John Draycott’s wife, Eleanor. To say that Marion was amazed, would be to understate the fact. She never had the chance to ingratiate herself with Sheila, who treated her henceforth, with great, but distant courtesy. Marion got one satisfaction out of her own stupid cruelty. She never told Bertha Mitchell the story, but was always able to dangle it before her as another mystery to which she held the key. Nobody at Rowans ever discussed the subject, and Marion went in too much fear of Andy’s threats, to chatter. A year later, Sheila lay contented and very happy, with her son in her arms. The firm of Robbs, later, became wellknown in the north for special brands of stockings, and superfine blankets. Even Marion was satisfied with her surroundings though she envied Sheila’s private means ae much as she dared. George Weston was made a junior partner, and bought Fir Tree Cottage, which he turned into a charming house. Neither he nor Gay was troubled by its former atmosphere. Rowans remained a beloved home though more and more Andrew was in London, as the representative of his firm. Perhaps he was* not altogether amazed when Anne Starkey told him that she was going to sell her hat shop, and let her cottage. She was going to make her home in a big, old house, with a glorious garden, not far away, as the wife of Simon Todd. “I thought he liked you, from the first,” whispered Sheila. *“Oh, Anne, my best friend, I hope you’ll be even half as happy ae Andy and I are. Quite as happy, nobody in the world could be.” THE END.