“The PAINTED LILY”

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 80, Issue 247, 18 October 1937, Page 3

“The PAINTED LILY”

Romantic Serial Story - - by

Olive Wadsley

CHAPTER I. “Well, what about, it?” Dixon demanded violently. “That’s all I want to know, what about it? An’ time's get tin' pretty short.” He tried to raise himself, and the effort, weak as ft was, made his light-ning-blue eyes close with pain; a second later there were wide open again, and fixed with a sort of Cerce friendliness on Sands. Sands met that level blue stare with one as clear, as open; In that moment, despite the difference in age, in breeding. there was a fleeting resemblance between the two, both had rather hard mouths, both clean-cut faces, both eyes expressive of singular, almost arrogant straightness. Sands spoke first; he said, in a voice which could not help sounding lazy somehow: "I’ve got Io have time, Bully. This is a pretty startling proposition to take In one’s stride: until half an hour ago such an idea had never entered my head, I- ” “Until two days ago,” Bully Dixon broke in grimly,“l’d as good a chance as any man in Mexico of bein’ on my job twenty years hence, and now, so the doc says, it’s a matter o’ days—if that. You don’t suppose, do you Ron, I’d hev put this up to you—ever —if it hadn't have been for me gettin’ this packet? Guess 1 could have tended my own without any man's help it this hadn’t come along. But it has, and a man’s mind naturally turns to what’s nearest his heart, times like this. As you know, I’ve only Vai,

and, as I’ve told you, Vai gets all I've got, an’ that’s a cool million pounds, not dollars—l started life in New-c.astle-on-Tyne ! —’’ his voice paused, his eyes lost lheir keenness, grew weary suddenly. “I'd had it In rny mind to go back to England in a year or two,” he added hall* In a whisper, “so I had ” Ronald Sands shifted in his chair; he liked Dixon who, if he was a hard master, a hard drinker, and a hard gambler, was a hard sportsman too. Outside, the sunshine glittered, a giant bougainvillea Hamed gloriously -scarlet against the blazing blueness of the sky, the very air seemed to quiver i with youth, and vividness, and alive- ' ness—and here, in this shaded, bare ■ room, a man who had literally wrung | his fortune from the earth lay dying, ' at forty-three, just, when his fortune ; had come true, and in the height of ; his strength and labour. Idly, as one's thoughts will, Ronald's traiieu back to two days earlier—two ' uays earlier, at this time, Dixon Lad been up, drinking hard, swearing between drinks at bls Chinese and Mexl-; cans, a great big man with the shoulders of a prize-fighter, and the fair hair of a Viking—he had moved a little to one side, put up his binoculars to locate a horseman, and a horse near him had savaged lym, utterly, wholly unexpected, and before it could be mastered had hurt Dixon’s spine terribly. jl had all happened in a few minutes; Ronald had been checking up In the office, and when a boy had fetched him be had run as he'd not run since he had won the hundred yards at Eton. But he had come too late; he had believed when be had reached Dixon that lie was dead; now he was dying by inches, and his last request to Ronnie had been that he should marry Valerie, his only child, who was 1 eighteen, a tearing beauty, and, in every way, the exact antithesis of everything Ronald loved in a woman. He liked “Bully’s kid,” as Vai was called in every camp for miles, as he like the wild colts which were roped in, savage, beautiful, slender things, and just about as unmanageable as he conceived Vai to be: he had scarcely realised Vai as a definite person, part of everyday life: to her “Hullo, Vai”— that had been pretty nearly all. Bully began to speak again: “Ron, I can ’most see what’s goin l on in your mind, but you goiter take into account that this marriage, if it comes to marriage, won’t be no ordi- . nary cheek-by-Jowl business. Half a million, cold, ma boy, makes a of a lot of difference in most things, an’ p'raps most of all in marriage. For it gives freedom, freedom from worry, from fear, from a stack o’ things whicii crack up other people’s poorer lives in a brace o' shakes. You’ll be quit o’ all that the day you hitch up with my girl. Do you think I don't know you aren’t keen on her, and d’you think i expect you to be in five minutes—or may bo ever? An’ if you're not — well, there's a way out later on. All I’m askin’ you is to marry my girl, so's she’ll get a fair start in life. If you don’t, she won’t. You think o' eighteen, and eighteen like Vai, an’ a fortune like Vai's —what chance do you reckon she has of makin’ good? ’Bout as much as a butterfly has of keepin’ its wings unsinged in a furnace! But if you take ou this contract she ll be treated white, taken care of, she'll learn things, she’ll be livin’ as I've always meant rny girl to live—clean and straight an’ fair. ]f I’d struck oil couple o’ years earlier she'd a’ bin planted out in one of them good schools, but I’d never a cent till 1 got a million. She’s missed education, my girl, but a hawk’s got little on her for quickness; she’ll swoop on a thing an’ get the sense out of it quicker’n you could put a drink down. Ron, take it on—give me your word, take Vai to England, stick to her for a year or two, till she feels her feet, and then, if you’re both willin', break things up—she’ll have learnt by then. An’ think of half a million, think of quittin’ this blame everlasting sunshine of going backl ’Tisn’t as If Vai didn’t like you, neither —she’s crazy about you—an’ her and me talked all this out fair and square before J said a word to you. She’s willin’, as I tele you ” Ronald rose suddenly; he stood above Dixon, looking down at him. “Look here," he said. “I won’t be long, but I’ve got to think this thing out alone—l won’t go far, only up the hill a bit —if you feel worse let Jim i whistle." He called, “Jim," and at once a youth came in; Ronald told him where he was going, and went off at a long stride. “Fine built feller, ain’t he?" Jim commented, staring after him. “Must aJi o’ six-two, 1 reckon, boss; nice

looker too, It you like 'em beaky, sin t be? ... . Dresses a bit of a dude, l-Ae ahvay, Uwuglit. but maybe .list lie’s fierce on the clean shirts. In the first patch of shade Ronnl ® - it down, and linked his hands a o ins knees, and drew at tils pipe. True to his real Job, lie marshalled ,i:s facts now like a soldier. He was thirty-three, and lie was an indifferent rancher; he had no Income, and the place he loved best on ear ', ■Charters," lie had had to let in order that his mother and sister and Y 0 brother might have a pittance to ' "i’he War had smashed his income just as surely as it had smashed shoulder, with the only difference om. had been patched up, was nearly nei>er, and the other would never mend, so far as he could see. Also, he was not In love with any woman. "But I'm damn well selling myself tor money," he said aloud, bitter y, •umes to that." _ „ , On the other hand, what Bully had said was perfectly true; if this Riri were left with no one to look attei her she hadn’t much of a chance. “And, after all, supposing he took it on, and they didn't hit it, he would make life as decent as he could tor a couple of years or so, and then set a free —when she would have a little balance, at any rate, a bit of knowledge of the world, and life. A business contract —just that

would be a tenable Idea. Why shouldn't it be that? A fair deal between Vai and luinse.t —for it wasn't as if she didn't know. Dixon had said she did, and was vt - ling to marry him. His other statement that Vai "was crazy about him meant nothing. Ronald had heard her sav she was “crazy" about a puppy, a box of sweets, the pearls Bully nad sent to New York for; American kids were always being “crazy” about something, any way. ... His thoughts slid from Vat to Charters, and stayed there. With every breath he drew he loved Charters; it wasn't very big, it wasn’t specially renowned, but it was his, It had been his father's before him, and back to the sixteenth century a Ronald Sands had owned it, lived In It. died in i't he walked a few hundred yards and said. “Yes"—simply that one word to Bully, he could sail nex. week lor home —for Charters. He got upon his feet, his hands clasped behind ids head. if he didn't say "Yes,” it would he sears of this life, of slogging at a Job be didn't like, of being cut elf from all he did cara for. ... Why shouldn't two people get along all right if they played fair with one another, make the usual allowances even friends make for each other. Vai could ride all she wanteo, he d teach her to hunt—-he could afford when married to accept the mastership—that had never entered into h.s wildest dreams, even before the War but he could, with half a mill.on behind him, and the country’d Jump at having him. Vai ’ud like the life al Charters — and if she didn't, they’d get a town house, and she could run that his people weren't nobodles; there was the holder of the title, and Farring Sands was in the Cabinet, and there was hts old uncle, who had won countless honours in the Army. . . . He saw, Instead of the scaring sunlight, the eddies of golden dust, the too-sharp outlines of everything cut against almost blinding blueness of the sky, and English blue sky and a mellow old house, dim rose, and dim orange. Its walls half-cohered with ivy; instead of the hardbroken ground before him, the sunk garden of Charters, the sun-dial, which counted the sunny hours so faithfully, and no others.

Half a million! He could do up the old place al last, renew every blade of grass, If it came to that, every leaf, with half a million I A streak of white flashed past below, and Ronnie’s mind registered the fact that it was Vai riding home; his eyes followed her, h's horseman's judgment approved her . . . ripping seat she had. He could see her pretty plainly; she was dressed In white breeches, a white skirt, the tan of her arms and hands showed out against tho white, and the sheer gold of her hair shone like sunshine as she pulled off her hat. She ruffled up her short hair at the back with one hand, lit a cigarette, and then vanished. CHAPTER 11. And curiously, at that moment, he remembered Iris Warden, and his madness of adoration for her—he had been “crazy" about her, right enough; that expression had been true in his case. Any way, it was all over, had been for years; he hadn’t even an Idea where Iris was now—where Warden had been stationed: she had never written since the War. It took him back ten years, thinking of her—Lord I he had been a cub —and he had taken it hard. But he -couldn’t think hardly of Iris, in spite of everything. She had been his first love, his only love honestly; he had been taken to her house by Sumners, her cousin or something, a relative, any way, the day after he had been gazetted, and the world was seeming a very, very good place to live In. . . . funny little box of a home Iris had had then a tiny place off Curzon Street, with win-dow-boxes nearly as big as the windows, packed with geraniums, and rooms all shaded, and scented with that queer scent she always used. It had never dawned on him that she was married—that Warden was slive, nt least; ho had belie-td IStuDusly that Iris was a wid n w—she |j\d never troubled to undeceive him—he dad found out, by chance, been angry with her about It, and she had laughed up In his face, drawn his head down to hers, and said, her lips almost on nls: "Whatever difference does it make?" He hadn't broken away, he had meant to, tried to, and loved her tuo much to leave her. So he had loved her and felt a cad —but he had never broken with her. /To be continued.},-