The Avenging Lover

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 302, 21 December 1931, Page 12

The Avenging Lover

By

MOYRA E. HAYWOOD.

(CHAPTER I.—Continued.) The good woman gone, David sat on the window-seat and divided his attention between the delicious scones and jam which, comforted his body and the view of that small cottage up the street whose charm should have soothed his mind, but somehow didn’t. “Forget it, old man,” his best friend, Jerry Redmond, had said to him only last night. He had been saying the same thing to him at intervals ever since the catastrophe had happened six months ago, but last night was the occasion for a parting homily. Jerry had supped with him last night, and David could picture him sitting afterwards in the big armchair, his long legs reaching to mantelpiece, while he poured forth his advice. “Look here, old chap; forgive me being brutal, but we’re friends, and I hate to see you letting life knock the stuffing out of you like this.” David let liim have bis say, for, however little he agreed with Jerry’s counsel, he had never resented it. A close friendship had existed between the two ever since the days when, as kids, whose parents were neighbours in the same Midland town, they had attended the same school, neglected their studies and dreamt of the day when their prowess in realms of literature and the stage should startle an unsuspecting world. Now they were both twenty-seven, and though Jerry Redmond occasionally secured subordinate roles in the few theatrical companies now taking the “road,” he spent most of his time “resting,” while David’s post continued to deliver more rejected manuscripts than cheques to his door. “Wc all know Wanda acted like a little cad,” he went on. “She let you down a big crash which hurt damnably; but, dash it all, you simply can’t let your entire life be ruined by a chit of a girl who isn’t worth a snap of your fingers.” “I trusted her,” replied David simply, and the other sighed. “I know; and she repaid you by hooking off and marrying another man.” “Who had more money. Money! That’s what the lot of them are after!” Jerry Redmond shook his head at his friend’s bitterness. “Well, let’s agree that ono comes across an exception here and there, shall we?” he modified, with a smile, But David was stubborn. “Have you ever been in love—seriously, I mean?” he asked. There was a suspicion of a twinkle in Jerry’s eye as he replied. “Honestly, no, not seriously; hundreds of times lightly, of course. I’m a fickle fellow', as you know; real love’s too exhausting for me.” Creighton did not resent the bantering tone, for in spite of it he knew Jerry’s staunch sympathy had never deserted him during the last trying months. “Then you can’t know how much W T anda meant to me,” he said. “Perhaps not, old fellow, but believe me I do realise you’ve had a sickening experience, really and truly I do.” He relit his pipe and continued: “In spite of that, and although it sounds pretty brutal, I’m not at all sure that this thing won’t be the cause of brighter times for you.” David cut in briskly. “If you’re going to start preaching about ‘silver linings,’ Jerry, for heaven’s sake don’t, please!” Then, noting the other’s quick flush, “Sorry, old man; go on, say what you like.” “Well, it’s only this. We all know the old tale about killing worry by work. ...” “Yes,” returned David, “and it’s nothing but an old wife’s tales —I’ve proved that.” “Maybe, but the fact remains that you’ve worked harder in the last six months than ever before in your life, and, what’s more, you’ve got something good to show for it.” But even Jerry’s good opinion of the play which had occupied so many of his hours excited little interest in its author.

“Look here, David, you’ve put yourself, your mind, into that play. . . ” His companion’s broad shoulders shrugged.

“I suppose that’s your way of saying that the thing is warped by bitterness.” Real friendship manifested itself in Redmond’s refusal to be irritated by his cynicism.

“Tinged, perhaps, but by no means warped. It rings true, anyway, and, what’s more, it’s by far the finest thing you’ve touched so far.”

“Thank you,” and an ironic bow accompanied the acknowledgment.

“Don’t—I mean it, and you know I’m right, too. You can bet your bottom dollar you wouldn’t be off to interview Julia Wayne to-morrow if she didn’t share my view. It’s certain that she’s after something that will make her return to the West End a sensation. Don’t blame her either; the public soon forgets even its favourites, and that illness has put her off the map for over a year, remember.”

Creighton had walked back to his flat with Jerry in the early hours of the morning.

“Well, good-bye, and lots of luck. If you find the fair Julia inclined to eat from your hand, don’t forget a poor actor who’s at liberty any time, will you?” and with his parting handshake he added more seriously, “Buck up, old fellow. Forget it all, and don’t be a cynic. . . Life’s too short for that.”

The memory of this farewell injunction brought David back to his present surroundings.

“Don’t by a cynic. . . Life’s too short for that!” It was barely an hour since a girl who was a complete stranger had repeated the words of his lifelong friend.

Dear old Jerry. He was the best pal in the world even though he couldn’t quite understand all that Wanda’s unfaithfulness had meant to him. But then, nobody could. All very well to tell him he was well rid of her. Perhaps he was, but that thought did nothing to ease the humiliating sore which the passing weeks had festered instead of healing.

Acquaintances, less feeling than Jerry, had accused him of self pity, and he had resented their opinion. A cynic, too, was he? Yet surely his complete loss of faith in woman was justified, for if so wonderful a girl as Wanda could prove thus wantonly cruel, what constancy or depth of feeling could one expect from any of her kind?

As the last of Mrs. Spiers’ excellent scones disappeared, David decided that a walk of exploration might break the trend of his thoughts and bring forgetfulness for a while.

A final look up the inclined street brought his eyes to rest once more on that charming cottage near its crest,

and in that moment Fate gave one of those queer twists which oft-times shape man’s destiny. Had his glance been withdrawn from the window a second sooner he would not have seen Rosamund Loring’s arrival at her fiance’s home. Neither would he have witnessed the exuberant greetings exchanged between her and the tall young man who ran down the garden path to meet her at the gate. Creighton turned sharply from the window and took up his hat. Behaving like a couple of soppy school kids,” was his summing up. “Undignified, too; one would expect a '™° r ” SCIISe from a fellow in his If he had been within hearing of the conversation which accompanied these antics, his conclusion might have differed, but as things happened David Creighton, all unwittingly, played a kev card in his fate when, disgusted with what ho had seen, lie decided that his steps should avoid the village street and lead him to explore the shingled coast instead. “Guy!” he?c S j amUnd ' S amazement was patent in “Didn’t expect to see me, ell?” laughed Guy Bentham as he gave her the® big friendly hug which had appeared to Creighton so lacking in decorum. “But, Guy, what on earth are you dom. down here? When did you come? eay a word to me yesterlamdiedna"aintbam,S tall youn S brother “For the very good reason that he 2S? 1 ci ther,” he explained. lnought Id take a couple of days off to run down and look him up. I needed a change, too; believe me, Rosamund, a lawyer’,* lot is not a happy one!” She smiled, well knowing how lightly the responsibilities of his position as junior partner in his father’s firm weighed upon him. “Anyway, it’s nice to see you,” she assured him as they went through the bright green door into the house. Then, <( where’s Kelvin ?” she asked. “Haven’t seen him. He was out when I arrived; gone to a case, Alice says.” Rosamund rang the bell for tea. ‘ Let’s start, I’m dying for a cup, and he’s sure to be back quite soon.” She gave the order to the tanned, wellbuilt village girl who acted as the doctor’s maid. “Yes, miss,” she replied in answer to Rosamund’s inquiry. “I don’t think the doctor’ll bo long. Miss Wayne ran up for him about three o’clock, and he went off straight the way.” “Thank you, Alice.” The girl retired to the kitchen. “Oh! some patients are so inconsiderate,” she burst out with unusual warmth when the door had closed, and Guy saw the colour start to her cheeks. “I know the sort,” he agreed, “I suppose Miss Wayne’s one of those elderly, parchment-faced females who hollers for a doctor if she pricks a finger!” She shook her head, and smiled. “Not quite. This is the famous Julia Wayne.” “What? The darling of the gallery?! Didn’t know brother Kelvin had such distinguished clients.” Rosamund busied herself with the tea which Alice had set before her. “There’s nothing much the matter with her really. She had a serious illness last year, but she’s better now. However, she’s beautiful and famous, and loves attention; but she’s an awful nuisance to poor old Kelvin, I’m afraid.” He took the cup which she offered him. “Drink yours,” he urged. “You’re looking fagged, my dear.” “It was hot walking,” she told him. But as they sat together sipping their tea Guy suddenly realised that it was he who was doing all the talking. “What’s, the matter; anything worrying you?” Rosamund gathered her drifting thoughts. “No, what should there be? I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.” But her quick assurance did not satisfy him that the look deep down in her blue eyes was entirely due to fatigue. She seemed such a child sitting there; selfpossessed and independent, it is true;, still, nothing more than a frail child. “You’re unhappy,” he insisted, “now, come along and tell big brother-in-law, all about it!” “There’s nothing to tell, really. I’m quite happy, wonderfully happy; and anyway you’re not my brother-in-law yet!” 1 He joined in her laugh. “Well, I shall be in . . . let’s see, how, long is it ... a month?” She nodded eagerly, and her eyes and face filled with animation at his reference to her fast approaching marriage. | “Then that’s settled; now out with it,” he commanded, “has Kelvin been kicking over the tracee, already, or, what ?” The idea of his quite, steady-going brother performing any such feat seemed to amuse him vastly, and Rosamund could not resist his mood. “Idiot! Kelvin’s a darling, and you know it; hut I wish we were being married to-morrow.” “Impatient maiden,” he chided. “He’s looking ill, Guy, and needs a change and rest badly.” “Been working too hard ? He was never the one to do things by half measures.” “I know. Yet there’s not nearly as much to do down here as he’s been used to in town practices.” But, as Guy pointed out to her, it might not be altogether the work which was wearing his brother. Probably the place did not suit him. It was a relaxing climate, quite unlike the bracing air of the North London suburb which was their parent’s home. “ . . . So if Kelvin’s health is wliat’a troubling you, don’t worry any more, my child; he finishes down here in less than a month, then heigh-ho for wedding bells and a honeymoon. Why, bless me, no chap could be ill for long with such good luck almost within his grasp!” And partly because she was only too anxious to be convinced by his reasoning, but more because her loyalty forebade, she did not tell him that more than once during the past fortnight’s visit to her aunt’s at Braunton she had come across queer inexplicable rifts in her fiance’s usual steadfast devotion.

Meanwhile, David’s walk alon" the coast was proving an unqualified success. For a while he had lingered in the shadow of the cove and chatted to the weather-beaten fishermen who puffed contentedly at their pipes as they awaited the arrival of the loaded smacks, which were heading for the shor®

‘‘Aye, it’ll he half hour, or more, afore they beach, sir,” one of them had told him. “Then I’ll have time for a stroll before they unload.” “Keep well out from beneath the cliff, sir, it’s none to safe in parts hereabouts,” he was warned. So, taking heed, David walked by the water’s edge. Now that the sun was setting, a breeze stirred the rushy grasses which crowned the low cliff, and the light sound mingling with the deeper music of the waves upon the shingle soothed his ear with its harmony. He was once more falling a victim to the charm of his surroundings. They were so delightfully unconventional. The rocky coast wall consistently refused to follow an even line, now rearing its crest to make a jutting headland, then lowering itself into a. deep crevasse down which an unexpected waterfall might chase. Time and again, with schoolboy zest, he stopped to examine the quaint starshaped fossils which abounded in the fine shingle. Half a mile brought him beyond the promontory which hid Golden Cove from view, and helped to form yet another even more secluded bay. Here was utter solitude and peace. Only the faint hum of a car from somewhere on the higher land recalled the presence of other men. He sat down on a small boulder to rest for a moment before retracing his steps. Suddenly, without warning, like a bolt from the blue came something to disturb for the second time this day David’s solitary contemplation of Nature’s beauty. In upon the soft crooning of the waves came a sharp cry rasped out from his throat, as the bonnet of a ear appeared on the edge of the cliff, clearcut against the skyline. For a second it seemed to poise there, then the dust from the crumbling rock gave warning of its terrible descent. Creighton instinctively shut his eyes. The next second his legs were covering the fifty yards of shingle to the spot where a man lay, mangled and torn, amid the "wreckage of his car.