The Avenging Lover

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 301, 19 December 1931, Page 27 (Supplement)

The Avenging Lover

By

MOYRA E. HAYWOOD.

CHAPTER I. Without Warning. “Illuminating —up to a point!” the young man murmured, giving a low chuckle as he inspected the sign-post again. “To Golden Cove, two miles.” directed the left-hand finger; “to Golden Cove, two miles,” pointed the opposite indicator. The traveller returned to his dusty little car and switched off the engine; then dimmed in and lay back with a sigh which blended content with amusement. On this sunny day, filled with the scent of honeysuckle and the tang of the not far distant sea, the world seemed better to David Creighton than it had done for months. In such surroundings it was almost possible to forget his troubles and allow his mind to be refreshed by the contemplation of Nature’s bounty. He was within two miles of his destination; blit though it was summer, and the name, Golden Cove, up the vision of holidays, it was business, not pleasure, which had brought him to this tiny hamlet on the South Coast. However, there was no occasion to think of that until morning. He could afford to laze; so, lighting a cigarette, he basked in the afternoon sun, forgetting the existence of towns and noise; of men, and. more especially, of women. His reverie ended with the last puff of his second cigarette, and, hauling himself from his seat, he again turned his attention to the dilapidated finger-post. Two miles by either road, and the choice was his. Creighton shrugged his broad shoulders and dived one hand deep into his trousers pocket. Then, from the small change lying in his palm, he selected a halfpenny. “Heads we go right—tails left. Jane, my girl!” he informed the small vehicle which had brought him from London. The jingle of the coin on the road’s gritty surface, and the sound of a little gasp from somewhere behind him, struck' his ears simultaneously, and he wheeled round sharply. “What the — I beg your pardon. I thought I was alone!” The girl’s ready smile ignored his implied resentment of her intrusion upon his solitude, and the blue eyes did not waver under the man’s quick scrutiny of her tall, slight figure and small, childlike face, half-framed by the red-gold hair which coiled uncovered about each ear. The picture she presented standing there on the rich grass in the sunshine might well have been expected to draw admiration from most men, but the sight appeared to have no such effect on David Creighton. As he stooped to retrieve his coin there was a cynical twist to his lips, while the furrows deepened on a brow that was far too young for them. But his face was hidden from Rosamund Loring as she stepped lightly to his side. “Is it ‘heads/ and to the right?” she queried, half anxiously. “Yes,” he shortly, slipping the half-penny'back~in~his~pocket and preparing to start the car. “It’s dangerous,” she warned, “but all the same I’m glad for your sake it wasn't ‘tails.’ ” Curiosity conquered bis resentment. There was something disarming in the girl’s manner; an eager informality which entirely lacked self-consciousness or presumption. A flicker of amusement lightened the sombreness of his dark eyes. “May I know to what ‘tails’ and the left would have condemned me?” Her laugh was the gayest he had ever heard. “A new road, built for cars. As it gets to the village it’s bounded by two lines of mass production bungalows, gforified hen-coops. And every single one of them as built like its neighbour to a brick; you know the kind?” A feeling nod from Creighton answered her gTimace. “And the alternative?” “A narrow, twisty lane, with thick hedges, and arched with trees in places. It’s steep, and if you meet another car you’re done!” “It sounds a rather risky proceeding,” he confessed. “But worth it," was her reassuring reply, “because the hedges are a mass of honeysuckle and wild roses, and the ditches full of foxgloves. You come to Golden Cove by the old church and some perfectly fascinating cottages, where the fishermen live. That’s the real village; the other end is new, and cheap, and beastly.” She ended, breathless with expended enthusiasm. Creighton smiled afc her warmth and noted with spontaneous approval how the flush of her cheeks enhanced the blueness of her eyes. “So, on the whole, you advise me to take the risk?” The girl’s nod was emphatic. “I’m sure you won’t regret it; after all many of thi6 world’s most wonderful experiences demand risk, don’t veu think?” There was a pause while the heavy shadows settled themselves again about his features. “I’m afraid I don’t consider any of this world’s experiences sufficiently pleaant to be worth much risk.” She looked at him with wide, incredulous eyes. “Oh! but you’re wrong, vou can’t mean that!”

“You’re an idealist,” he told her shortly. “Perhaps; I’ve never thought about it. (Anyway life’s too short to be a cynic.” Had she realised how deeply her words cut she would never have used them. But the fury which rose in David Creighton’s breast was directed mainly against himself. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the humiliating discovery that for the first time in six months he was encouraging, and actually enjoying, the company of a member of the opposite sex. All delight in his companion’s youthful charm fled swiftly before his anger. He iwas sick with disgust. Since that day when another girl with blue eyes had given him 6uch a nasty jar. he had permitted himself none but (bitter and cynical feelings towards women. Now he had been caught napping . . tricked . j. and by a mere child, too. The thought tlfat perhaps, after all, the saying, “Time cures all ills,” held some truth, was strangled even as it was born in his mind. His friends had repeated that old dictum for his consolation, but he had not believed it, and was no more inclined to believe it now. The hurt he had suffered when his engagement had come to an abrupt end six months ago 'Would never be healed; neither would Ins faith in women be restored. They were all the game at bottom; fickle, scheming, and ruthless; even this girl (by his side.

Rosamund was gazing over the gate in the hedge and across the fields which rolled down to the sea, still absorbed in the beauty around her. Creighton’s matter of fact tone sought to divert her thoughts from honeysuckle and wild roses that he might elicit more practical information before continuing his journey. * “I wonder whether you can tell me whereabouts Miss Wayne’s house is?” In the fraction of a second which elapsed before her reply he caught the fleeting shadow whioh crossed her face, and was gone. “You mean Miss Julia Wayne, who is renting Cliff Cottage?” He nodded. “That’s it- —Cliff Cottage, Golden Cove/* His mind’s eye saw the heading on the letter by which, three days ago, London’s favourite and most temperamental actress had bidden him visit and discuss with her his latest play. In imagination he could smell the sickly perfume which had impregnated the deep mauve notepaper. The girl perched herself on the gate and pointed a slim arm seawards. “Cliff Cottage is nearly a mile along the coast from Golden Cove; there’s a road, of sorts, running along the edge of the cliff from the \illage.” It Wits now his informant’s turn to be curious. She was intrigued by this young man whose rare smile served only to enhance the underlying severity of hi 6 good-looking face. Presumably he was a friend of the actress; possibly one of her countless admirers. Since Julia Wayne had chosen Golden Cove in which to convalesce after her serious illness, this unfrequented fishing village had seen many such visitors. Rosamund Loring was 21, and still sufficiently romantic to be bewitched by the lure of the footlights. Curiosity spurred her on. Perhaps he was an actor. Indeed, those sensitive features inclined her to the belief that he was. “Miss Wayne is wonderful, isn’t she?** His dark eyebrows helped to parry her question. “Is she? I’ve never met her.” “Neither have I, but I’ve seen her act and . . .” “Glamour!” The interjection was accompanied by a curl of the lip, hut his companion laughed at the brusqueness which amounted to rudeness. “Not entirely,” she returned. “I’ve heard lots about Miss Wayne from people who live down here and have met her.” From the remark Creighton gathered that he was wrong in supposing her to be a native of the place. “I’m just an occasional visitor to Braunston,” she went on, giving her head an indicative tilt towards the small shopping town which lay about a mile inland, “my aunt lives there, but my •fiance is doing ‘locum* at Golden Cove while the doctor takes an extended holiday, so of course he knows Miss Wayne quite well.” “And thinks her wonderful?” „ “He’s quite enthusiastic, but then, she is very beautiful.” * David Creighton gave a twisted smile at the readiness with which women took it for granted that their physical charms were all-conquering. “However, I’m not jealous,” Rosamund informed him lightly, yet there was a shade of wistfulness in her blue eyes as she spoke the words. The young man glanced at the emerald ring which circled the third finger of her left hand, and his sympathy went out to the man whose affection the emblem signified. Perhaps, though, this unknown medico would have better luck than he himself had experienced. Perhaps . . . but Creighton’s warped mind was far more willing to regard him as another poor wretch awaiting digillusiou-

Abruptly he turned to his car and started up the engine. Rosamund Loring slipped easily from her perch. “I’m afraid I ve been wasting your time and my own with my chatter.”

Her winning smile was not to be denied a polite negative; indeed it was on the tip of his tongue to offer her a lift if, as he supposed, she was on her way to Golden Cove. But he checked the impulse quickly. He wouldn’t give her the chance to put him down as the sort of fellow with “gutter-crawling” habits. So, instead of inviting her to share his conveyance, he climbed into the driving seat and accelerated fiercely as he raised his hat.

“Good afternoon, and many thanks for your help.” “But you’re going the wrong way. I thought it was to be ‘heads’ and to the right!” she said.

*A slight flush showed beneath his tan, but he "did not alter the direction of the steering-wheel.

“Your description sounds very alluring, but on second thoughts I think I’ll forego nature’s path and favour the jerry-builder’s; I’m for ‘safety first!’” He was gone, and the girl gazed after the small cloud of dust, laughing a little at his hurried departure. Then 6he turned her tripping steps down the twisty, scented lane which led to the village, and hummed a happy little tunc in anticipation of the meeting which lay at her journey’s end. Twenty minutes later found David installed in the tiny bedroom which was the sole accommodation which “The Fisherman’s Rest” could offer to visitors. As he paused in the unpacking of his bag to glance again round the queer, turret-like apartment, with its whitewashed walls and spotless cheerful curtains, he decided that this was indeed an ideal lodging for any man who could appreciate a warm welcome, cleanliness and simple, wholesome fare. He had already been convinced that the first two of these qualities were characteristic of the inn, while, at this very moment, the opening of the door informed him that the third was about to be put to the. test. There, beneath the low lintel, stood Mrs. Spiers, the landlord’s buxom wife, her rosy face beaming at him across a tray laden with tea. jam, and freshly-made scones. He relieved her of her burden, setting it on the small table which stood before the low, cretonne -covered window seat. “I hope you’ll find things comfortable, sir. I’ll send the girl up to make the bed in a while.” The southern burr of her speech was soothing to his ears. “Thank you; everything will suit me admirably, I’m 6ure,” he smiled back at ber. “I hope so, sir; you see we’ve only this one bedroom to let, but I a.lways keep the bed well aired in case anyone wants it unexpected, like yourself, sir.”. Creighton nodded his appreciation of her housewifelv caution. “You don’t get many visitors?” he inquired, surprised that so delightful a dwelling should be neglected.

“Not a many, sir,” Mrs. Spiers confessed, “the Cove’s not gay enough for most people. A bit out of the way, too; you see, the lane’s narrow for cars, and the new road isn’t pretty enough to catch the eye, as you might say.” Her reference to the lane deepened the crease between his eyes, but he pulled himself up with a jerk to answer pleasantly: “So you’re still a bit of undiscovered England! ” “That’s it, sir; though it’s pleasant enough once you’re here. We get an artist or two sometimes, and fair rave about it, they do! One of them painted a picture out of this very window last year, and gave it the master; real proud of it he*is, too! It hangs in the bar. Perhaps you noticed it, sir.” David had not noticed, so his hostess drew back the patterned curtain that he might have a better view of the picture s original. The narrow, hilly street was lined on either side by a few quaint cottages whose doorsteps were. fronted by granite slabs bridging the little gullies which carried an incessant stream of clear, bubbling water down to the shore. “The fishermen’s cottages ?” he queried. “Mostly,” she told him, “but them up yonder is where the better folk live the parson and schoolmistress and suchlike.”

Her plump hand pointed out a more pretentious yet ramshackle house which stood beside*the squat towered church.

“That’s the vicarage, and yon by it is where the doctor lives.”

Creighton’s eyes narrowed as they rested on the pretty, creeper-lined cottage nestling in a tiny garden rich with gay flowers. “Indeed!”

Mrs. Spiers was startled by the odd note his voice gave to the word. It was a strange, indefinable tone in which fatigue and displeasure battled for place with bitterness. Those tight lines about his mouth clearly betokened annoyance, yet, try though she did, she could find no reasonable cause for it in her last remark or, indeed, in anything she had said.

Her troubled eye fell upon the untouched tea. Why! No wonder! The young gentleman was dying for his meal after his long and dusty journey, and here she was gossiping to him without a thought for that. But even his courteous assurance that her profuse apologies were quite unnecessary, while confirming her opinion that he was a “real gentleman,” did not explain away the unhappiness which the motherly Mrs. Spiers read beneath his smile. (To he continued daily.)