MARRIED OR SINGLE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20455, 7 November 1934, Page 16

MARRIED OR SINGLE

S' Author of S' “Through Deep Waters,” “Against the Wall,” . \ etc. /

/ By \

K. F. Brodrick

CHAPTER XXI. (Continued). “But, my dear kid, you don’t think he came for nothing,” he said sarcastically She raised her head, looking: at him in nervous wonder, and he could see that tears were not far away. “Why—why—it—was— just —just tc. see the house —the sort of house, wasn't it?” she faltered. Hadfield laughed, a little mockingly. “I don’t trust your Mr. Fleming, Sylvia. I don’t indeed,” was his candid remark. At that Sylvia suddenly held out her hands towards him, whilst frightened tears gushed from her eyes. Somehow all this seemed just the last straw. Alarmed. Jtd* took her hands hastily into his own. “Little girl,” he whispered, looking tenderly down at her, “ what is it? Oh, what is it, Sylvia?” She came closer then, sobbing, sobbing weakly, miserably, and with a face filled now with actual fear. Hadfield suddenly put his arms completely round her, whilst his kind voice tried its best to comfort. “Sylvia, darling—darling, what is it? What has happened to unnerve you like this?” he whispered, bending down to kiss her hair as she sobbed helplessly now on his breast. “You must tell me. You must let me help you again. My dear, my darling, there is nothing on earth I wouldn’t do to get you out of this infernal mess. Something fresh has happened, then, has it?” he went on. “Oh,, tell me, my dear, tell me so that I can help you,” lie implored. His gentle voice went on, trying to soothe her.

At length Sylvia, turning her tearstained face towards him, began to gain courage as she saw his kind, brave eyes looking tenderly down at her. Stopping crying, she pulled herself together. “Oh, John,” she whispered brokenly,

“I’ve been frightened out of my wits and I don’t know—what to do. I don’t I don’t my dear.”

“Perhaps I shall, though,” said John fearlessly, and, with his arms still about her, he hade her tell him the trouble. Leading her on, he sought a seat under the trees, and there, with John’s firm hands on her trembling ones, Sylvia poured out the story, of the way her father had mesmerised her to write to Harry, and how that, try as she could, she had not been able tc fight his uncanny power.

John’s <^ r es were filled with dark anger as she reached the end of the story. “This is ghastly!” he cried, between clenched teeth. “Your father must be a perfect fiend in disguise, Sylvia,” he stormed. “It’s altogether too awful, and no delicate little thing like you could go on standing it. No, my dear, you must get away. If you won’t come to me, you must go somewhere else. But I must think a little about it —must plan it all out for you.” “How kind you are to me!” she whispered, rising now to her feet. “But I daren’t sit talking here any longer I simply daren’t. The place seems full of horrors now and prying eyes—oh, everywhere —everywhere,” she finished with a little shiver.

Her head drooped sorrowfully, and John, getting up too, took her impulsively once more in his arms. “If you would only let me hold you there for ever, little one,” he whispered. “How safe you would be, Sylvia, how safe, my dear!” With a quick impulse she put up her face and kissed him, then moved back a little, and for a moment they stood there silent, with John’s hand still clinging to her. “I love you so,” he murmured sadly. All at once there came suddenly towards them Sir George, wrapped in close conversation with Montague Fleming. “Ah! you two together ” came from Sir George in a cold, mocking voice as he saw them, and. stopping, he glared at Hadfield and Sylvia as they fell apart to greet him. CHAPTER XXII. There might have occurred then and there a very unpleasant scene (for Sir George’s eyes were full of intense anger as ho neared Hadfield and Sylvia) if behind them had not come the hurried footsteps of Rose. The girl was carrying a tennis racquet and with her was a young man called Miles, who was also staying at the “Towers.” “Sylvia,” cried Rose, panting with swift running, “will you come and make up a set.” She paused as she saw before her a stranger—John Hadfield —and Sylvia, turning, introduced him to her. As the two smilingly greeted each other, Rose surveyed John quickly. She noted the pleasant face of this man with his straight grey eyes, firm mouth »and chin with the little cleft telling of a strong character. She noted the tall broad figure, and the touch of grey at the temples, which did not seem to make him middle-aged, but just intensely interesting: So this was John Hadfield, of whom she had heard so much. She gave an exasperated little sigh. Well, it was only a Sylvia who could possibly turn down a man like that, she deliberated. As for herself, she could be deeply in love with him in a few hours if he would only give her the chance. John was an excellent tennis player, and Sylvia, now with a smile, suggested 4hafc they should send some one for his tennis flannels, and that he should make a fourth in the game. John readily agreed and they moved off to tea, while the messenger went his way. Tea was brought on to the terrace and they settled themselves in groups, talking gaily. It was a glorious afternoon. The sun shone hotly on the lawns and flower beds, and sweet unforgettable scents wafted their fragrance toward the party, as they sat over tea. Merry voice* and laughter* were to be heard on every hand, ancl it would have been hard for a stranger to believe that fears lay in the hearts of a. few of that little crowd. Rose had seated herself beside John, who was playing up to her in fine style, quite ready to bandy jokes with Sylvia’s friend. Mr. Fleming was telling funny American stories in a way he could do very well, and Sylvia and young Miles listened and laughed, while Sir George, with a fine courtesy which sometimes characterised him. was paying attention to the older guests, who had drifted out on to the terrace from the house as tea was brought out.

Soon the tennis players went off to their game, and the party at the tea table broke up. Sir George and the rest of bis guests went into the house —all except Fleming, who, lighting a cigarette, strolled lazily down to the tennis court to watch the game. No one looking at the man as he went leisurely on his way, would have guessed how busy just then was his brain with a plan which was shaping to his entire satisfaction.

The game at last was over; John said good-bye and left, and Rose and young Miles wandered off to another part of the garden. Sylvia, tired with the game, collapsed into a deck chair, and Fleming took up a sea„ beside her, chatting amiably about tennis and games of all sorts, and the Englishmen’s love of them. The talk drifted then on to the English countryside, to English houses, and finally came to the old house whose shadows lay behind them.

“Is it true,” asked Fleming suddenly, “that you have a real live ghost here, Miss Wharton? Gee! that’s thrilling, isn’t it?” he added with a grin. Sylvia turned, and she was frowning. “Who told you that?” she inquired sharply. “Well, news like that floats around, doesn’t it?’* went on American, nothing Abashed. “And, owoourse, we Americans are primed up with the idea that these old houses over here are stiff with them. We have them put in our movie pictures often at times, when representing English mansions, and if I could go back to America and say I’d really seen one! Gosh! That would be something to talk about, wouldn’t it,

“But I’m afraid you won’t sec one here,” came in a cold voice from Sylvia. The American handed over a cigarette case, and, as Sylvia shook her head, he took a cigarette himself, and went on smoking.

“But there is one; come now. Miss Wharton?”

Sylvia looked angry. ‘Tin afraid yqn’ve been listening to silly gossip down in the village, Mr. Fleming, and I believe it pleases some of the folks there to talk the most atrocious nonsense about us. Country people are like that, you know, and if you want to get real information about England, I should advise you not to go to them.” “Gee, but they’ve seen it,” blurted out her companion.

He leant forward, and Sylvia looked at the small, sleek-haired man with positive dislike. Amusing as he chose to be sometftnes, there were minutes like the present when she absolutely detested him. She would be very glad when his visit was at an end. “That’s all a pack of nonsense,” came her sharp reply. “But may I ask what you did hear exactly, and who your informant was? It —it is rather amusing, you know, hearing occasionally about one’s affairs, which other people know so very much better than one does oneself.” Montague Fleming grinned, but he believed this stuck-up little girl knew a great deal more about the ghost than she chose to tell him. She would soon have to come off her high horse with him, however, that was certain. He chuckled inwardly. “L’ll tell you right now,” he went on. “It was the landlord at the George—” “Indeed,” chipped in Sylvia mockingly. “Anything for a good story over a good drink, I suppose, Mr. Fleming. Well?” “He says that she—the ghost—that is —is a lady, and that she walks pretty often. Two of the kitchen maids have seen her, and once a man who helps the gardeners —” He paused idiotically. “Most reliable information, I’m sure,” came from the listener sarcastically. “And what is this ghost like?” Fleming looked back at her, and a certain anger which was kindling in his breast at her aloofness was well hidden. “She knows all about it, of course, but is trying to kid me,” he told himself indignantly. “She’s a real beautiful woman with wild gestures, all in white, and with a sob horrible enough to tear one s heart out. There, those, Miss Wharton, are the landlord’s very words. But that,’ he went on impressively, leaning forward a little eagerly, “wasn’t all he told

111 “Reallv, and—are you writing a book about this, may I ask, for the delight of America?” “Gee, I wish I could, for some of the story’s thrilling, isn’t it?” he went on rapidlv, looking at her hard to see how she would take his next remark. “About —the opal, I mean- ” As he spoke he noted that Sylvias face paled. “The opal,” she repeated rather faintly. “Yes. the opal. Now, the story about that —” , „ “We never talk of it here, Mr. Fleming,” said Sylvia in a positively freezing voice this time, and she half rose from her chair as if to leave him. The American, however, laying a hand suddenly on her arm, stayed her. “But I’m going to talk about the opal, my dear,” he thrust in familiarly. “And you’d better , listen to me right The blood slowly mounted to Sylvia’s face. This was the first time sinefe his arrival that she had been made to remember that Montague Fleming was no ordinary guest. “Go on then.” she burst out impatiently. “What do you want to “It’s a very lovely thing, isn’t it, Miss Wharton?” he continued now in a perfectly amiable voice. “And I’d like you just to tell me the correct story about it, that’s all.” Sylvia still looked a little perturbed. Like all the Whartons, she hated the opal, and was even rather afraid of it, thought how much she and Sir George believed the superstitions which had grown up around it, their friends weVe never able to learn, for the simple reason that the stone was never talked about. It was seen, lying on its velvet bed in the case in the hall, a cruelly beautiful thing, and if much- curiosity was felt about it, it was never satisfied. “There isn’t much to tell.” said Sylvia now in a low, almost frightened voice. “Many years ago, an Indian gave the stone to one of my ancestors. He posed as—as a friend, but it was found out, afterwards, that this man had reason to hate this ancestor from the very bottom of his heart, so that to give him anything as—as beautiful as the opal seemed strange. And, after a time—when —when something rather dreadful happened to my family, it—it was said that the stone held a curse—and 4 the curse was specially directed towards the Wharton women. Of course, we —we none of us believe it, Mr. Fleming, but there it just is. That is the story, but it isn’t worth remembering, is it ?” “It’s real uncanny, though—sure,” was her hearer’s comment, then he added. “But gee! it’s beautiful, Miss Wharton.” “The opal, you mean? You’ve been looking at it?” she asked. The American rose and suddenly bent over her. “Yes,” he breathed in her ear, “I’ve been looking at it, my dear.” Without another word he turned and left her. (To be continued daily.)