"The Lucky Speculator,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 21 December 1927, Page 7

"The Lucky Speculator,”

A POWERFUL LOVE STORY OF A MODERN GIRL.

BY MARY DEE WE TEMPEST, Author of: “Ilis Last Shot,” “'The Second Mrs Fairfax,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER X— Continued. She woke at seven refreshed in mind and body, but with grievances fullgrown, she lay for a time deliberately making out her charge-sheet against Brent. That she was marooned, faced with starvation, possibly death, was his fault entirely, it was wilful, wicked negligence on his part, or worse. “'Oh,” Gyp conceded,, trying to be just, “I know that horrible letter and that horrible hospital money make his case against me black enough; but lie’s never given me a dog’s chance to explain, or left me with the faintest hope that he’d believe me if 1 insisted on explaining. After all, criminals aren't hanged without being given a chance to plead ... so he thinks me worse than an ordinary criminal! Perhaps lie means to break me in to come to heel like a puppy is taught to do . . . just because 1 belong to him in law. If he only cared for me ... it would bo different . . . as it is, I've got to show him that I’m not to be broken in. 7 ’ “Getting up?” followed sharply upon the bang at her door. Instinctively she called back, “Yes!” sprang out, and began to scramble into her clothes. She dressed, but found, to her dismay, there was no water, no brush, no comb. But it was a heavenly morning, and the sight that met her eyes enthralling as she opened her door and came out into the golden sunlight. The sea, of deepest sapphire, lay all around them, clear and still as glass, reflecting one or two puffs of cottonwool that sailed across the tropical sky to suggest a delicious coolness. A few yards away a great tree covered with bougainvilloea blossoms, sounded a trumpet of passionate colour. Brent was again busy over the stove, frying bacon this time, with tea already made. “I’ve got brekker,” he remarked, as she approached. “So it’s up to you to cook our lunch. Slept alright?” Gyp thought: “ITe might have looked at me. He might have the grace to seem sorry for having dragged me into this.” “I’ve never gone in for cooking lessons,” she told him loftily, ignoring his question, “so I’m afraid I can’t be of much use to you.” He emptied the frying-pan of its spluttering contents before be spoke again. “Then how do you propose to feed yourself ? ’ ’ “The least you can do—” He took up the sentence, “ —is to grow or kill our food: I admit that. But I’m not doing the woman’s part. You cook and wash up, milk the cow, and keep the house tidy,” he added humorously. Gyp’s stubborn little chin went up. “What do you take me for —an impressed slave?” she cried storimily. “How dare you suggest such work to me? I’ve never done one of those things, and don’t mean to begin!” “'Then more shame to you.” “My part will be keeping the bonfire going, and a flag of. distress Hying from the Crest.” Brent’s eyes, drowsily yellow, let a smile through. “Then look out for those vultures; they’re pretty hefty birds. ’ ’ Gyp wriggled, knocking over her tankard of tea. “You needn’t think you can frighten me so easily,” she cried stoutly, a tiny icicle creeping about her spine. Her husband rose.

“Come along and take a lesson in milking,” he said, holding out a hand. She did not stir, but kept her face mutinously turned away.

“All right,” lie said imperturbably, ‘•'if you can do without milk in your tea, that is.” “Where can I take a bath?” she asked in a small, sullen voice. “There’s a shallow pool behind that clump of bushes,” pointing; “makes a delightful bathing-place. By the way, I shall fish, or do some building at the other side from six to eight. As for drinking-water, there’s a spring behind vOur bungalow. Listen —you can hear its babble.” He paused in the act of moving off. “Shall I stop and help you wash up?” She flashed an indignant glance at him. “I’m not going to wash dirty dishes,” she said distinctly. “Hot . . you prefer eating off soiled ones? Well, there’s no accounting for tastes. I prefer clean ones.” He stooped, took those he had used and went to the spring. Gyp watched him ferociously. “I won’t give in.” she told herself, steeling her heart against him. Mid-day came round, and Brent returned, to find the meal uncooked. Ho fire; no food. Gyp sat in her doorway idly plaiting rushes. She did not seem to hear his approach. Without lifting her eyes from her pastime, she listened to his deft, hunter’s movements as he made a fire and cooked his food, followed by a cup of coffee. She laughed in her heart while she waited his call. Hone came. Too proud to lift her head and see how far he’d got, or how much he was leaving for her, she went on industriously weaving her rushes. Presently she heard his receding footsteps. She looked up in blankest astonishment. The fire was out; the fish he had brought for her lay uncooked, except by the blackening process of the sun’s rays, flanked by her unwashed breakfast things, now inhabited by voracious flics. No coffee. Hothing! Tears of self-pity stung her eyes, but she resolutely blinked them back. She didn’t care. She’d jolly well show him

bow little she cared! She got up and began to wander aimlessly about. The island was lovely beyond description, but how could one enjoy it alone? With nobody to laugh with, nobody to squabble with, how could one be young all by oneself? Drifting up and down, she came to the funny, little, chicken-run, saw three eggs in a nest under an awning, and became acutely, voraciously aware that she could gobble up all three—cooked. Then went In take a poop at the cow, which let her fondle its gentle head and smell its fragrant breath. it cheered poor, disconsolate, hungry Gyp, the friendliness of that cow! Then Brent came back. He spoke no word to her, but again got busy, lighting a fire and providing himself with tea. From under her long lashes, and from a dignified distance, Gyp watched him make it and pour It out. There was milk in his cup. She drew nearer. “Arc you going to starve me to death?” He seemed nonplussed. “Your question should be: ‘Am I going to starve myself?’ There’s wood, matches; tea, sugar; a cow yonder who is willing to serve you with milk; a loaf 1 baked in the ashes yesterday; butter, jam. Yet you ask if I am going tu starve you!” Gyp began to tremble. “Because I’m your unfortunate wife, you try to humiliate me,” she said, in low, tense tones. “You wouldn’t dare to treat any other girl like that. I —l hate you. ... I wish I’d irevc)r seen you.” Brent leisurely emptied the teapot into his cup and drank its contents at a gulp. It was the last straw to poor, famished Gyp. 'She deliberately perverted the truth in a mad desire to hurt him as deeply as she could. “I wish —I had eloped with Lord Prestwick! ” she cried. Brent leapt to his feet, his face grev with anger. “Breathe that scoundrel’s name again and I’ll give you a hiding,” lie said brutally; turned on his lieel, and strode away. In the privacy of her hut, Gyp wept that bitter humiliation out of her proud heart; prayed that she might die and thus make him sorry; wished she might find some weapon with which to kill him. Then she reflected that she could not possibly bo left alone on the island ... to die of fright; finally she realised that she was dying—of hunger. Followed a serio-comedy. Gyp, lighting a surreptitious firo in the shadow of the hut; paying a stealthy visit to her friend, the cow; another to the chicken-house. Ten minutes’ agonizing wait . . . then Gyp, gulping down a good tea and enjoying it as only a ravenous thief can enjoy a surreptitious square meal! Then she further forswore herself and —washed up. But Brent, returning with a slain bunny for to-morrow’s dinner, was in no mood to be amused with her behaviour; even when he saw the remains of that surreptitious fire and missed three eggs! There was room for only one thought in his mind, and that rankled like the deuce. Gyp had admitted that damning letter to Prestwick, and even openly regretted that the elopement it begged for had failed to materialise. Past pardon, that. During the next few days, Gyp, smarting under his silent contempt, felt she could sink no lower; and made no secret of her capitulation. She pulled her weight now; milkeclj; cleaned, cooked —with increasing pride in her skill. Though she wouldn’t confess it for worlds, Gyp was growing to like this island life; to feel that it would be ideal if only her husband were her lover, too. They might have such fun there together; but everything was dust and ashes enjoyed alone! Twice she saw ships pass —a long way off. Came one long, lonely morning, when, her chores done, she was wandering disconsolately on the beach, when she noticed in the far distance a curiouslooking vessel —something like a whaler. She raced back on the wings of the wind, dragged a furze-bush to a prominence, lit it, and frantically waved her burning torch. They saw her! Dizzy with joy, yet vaguely conscious of the presence of fear, she watched the lowering a boat, saw a dozen dark figures—like dolls —drop into it, and pull fiercely for the shore. Then, as the boat grounded, and they came leaping through.the surf towards her she saw that they were almost naked, and savages armed to the teeth! (To be Continued).