"The Lucky Speculator,”

Wairarapa Daily Times, 31 December 1927, Page 7

"The Lucky Speculator,”

A POWERFUL LOVE STORY OF A MODERN GIRL.

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

CHAPTER Xlll.—Continued. As lie entered the big. Hrelit room, a slight iigure sprang up from the depths of a chair by the hearth, and stood poised like a statue of passionate joy. ‘•Oli, Stephen,'’ cried a clear, lilting voice, a voice that had haunted his dreams, “I was getting so afraid —” and stopped dead. With an incredible rush of happiness, Brent knew what she had feared—an accident to himself. But as he switched on the light, Gyp made one of her instantaneous changes; the magic grace of her attitude of tender solicitude stiffened into one of indifference, of anger; and her chin went up with its air of proud defiance. Then, with a quickening of his pulses, he saw that her hands cl itched that deed-of-gift. “What do you take me for?” she demanded tempestuously.- “a wife to be ‘bought off’ —as she was ‘bought in’ —with a princely present? How dare you insult me so! Have you forgotten your jeer that you hadn’t ‘bought a wife’? Well then, let me tell, you that I’m not to be bought, anyway. I will never accept a thing from you beyond the bare necessaries of life—” “Gyp—”. “Never, never, never!” screamed the girl, tearing that precious document across and across and flinging it into the lire. “Now you know the manner of woman I am!” Like a whirlwind she swung round and flew to the door. But Brent, his face alight, was there before her, barring the way. “Let me pass! ” “Wife o' mine,” he began, but could say no more. At that appeal, the girl paused uncertainly, and following an old, childish habit, brushed the back of her hand across her eyes as if something obscured their vision; then, in the palpitating silence, some wonderful, new knowledge stirred . . . and woke in her heart. 'She lifted her shining eyes to look at this strange husband of hers, as if listening hard to catch again that note of passion in his voice. As she gazed, some vital spark seemed to set his long-suppressed love ablaze in those tawny eyes, staring so hungrily into hers. •She.drew nearer, jstill with her gaze upon him. - “Stephie,”-she whispered at last, “is it true?” For answer he opened his arms and took her to his breast. As she lifted her pure lips to his in an ecstasy of sweet surrender, they entered into the .paradise to which poor Tressler had shown the way. When the first great rapture was over, they drifted to the couch by the fire. Arrived there, the girl, Gyp-like, wanted to know a thousand things. When ho first knew he cared was one of those.

“My darling, I’ve always wanted you more than anything on earth,” he told her, “though I'm not sure I’d have called it ‘love’ when you counted me out on your iingers,” laughing, “but even then I'd rather have had your tolerance than any other woman’s devotion.' Our marriage was my greatest speculation, Gyp, my girl, for I staked honour and happiness on my chance of winning vo'ur love —while every sixpence I possessed weighed less than nothing in the issue.” Here Gyp, busily smoothing out a crease in his tie, put in her spoil: “And all the time I fancied you'd just ‘bought me in,’ as if I were some pretty object put up for auction —taking chances that I might prove worth .the price,” 'she said, wondcringly. “That’s why I called you my Speculator. ’ ’ ““My’?” queried Brent. Gyj- 'kad the grace to llush. “Oh, I always knew we belonged,” she admitted. Then Brent let out his first big laugh, “Oh, you girl!” he chuckled, kissing the little hand over his mouth to silence him. Then he took up the thread of his story: “While I’m on the subject, dearest, I feel bound to confess I threw up the 'sponge after that Prestwick affair —for I went blind with rage. But though I'd lost all hope of winning your love, I went all out to save your happiness, so I may as well own up to the rest. Since I felt sure there’d be precious little chance for a certain little tree to grow straight among so many crooked neighbours, I planned that Island stunt; in the great hope that in losing ourselves for a time in the heart of Nature, my Gyp might liud her soul. . For all response, Gyp’s soft lips touched his check. “Bid I succeed, my darling?” “I dunno. All the soul I ever had poured itself out in love for you,” she whispered in his ear. Suddenly, she gave way to a peal of laughter. “You delicious old humbug, I know more than you give me credit for. It was your own island! Just before we came away I found an ancient letter of yours in the pocket of a coat hanging behind my hut door.” / Brent laughed, too. “Trust a woman to find out her man’s secrets,” he said. Gyp, intent on balancing herself on an arm of the couch, treated this remark with the contempt it deserved. But all the time he talked, she had been amusing herself with patting the grizzled hair about his cars, pulling his tie straight, and witli the tips of her fingers tracing the faint lines on his cheek and brow. “D ’you mind my pawing you like this?” she asked irrelevantly, “you haveij!t the least idea of how I’ve ached to touch your face!” “Well, it’s your face now—to do

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what you like with,” grinned Brent. She nodded complete approval to this dictum, and went cooing on: “I’ve always loved the lines about your mouth, Stephie; they made a ‘No!’ sound like a lion’s roar, a ‘I love you mos’ awf’iy, Gvp,’ like a whisper from a real man’s heart; further —as your Mr Brunford might s;iy—l know that irradiating smile of yours dwells among them. Also, I rather like the spiders’ webs around your eyes; born of worry about me, Stephie darling: “Will she ever love me? Will she not? ’’ “Those straight ones along your forehead are the ‘lonely furrows’ you ploughed when I deserted you —for fear of giving myself away—oh, yes, that was why I scooted! I don’t mind them, for there’ll be no ‘them’ in a day or two, now that I’m back in residence for good.” Suddenly Brent took those caressing fingers into his great paw. “Wife o’ mine,” he said tenderly, “I want you to put up a little prayer to-night for the soul of Percy Tressler.” He felt the girl's lissom body tauten in his arms. “Never!” she said vehemently, “I have too great reason to loathe that creature. ’ ’ “Darling, wc owe our happiness to him,” Brent said; and in a few simple words lie described poor Tressler’s end; and how- ho had finally promised him Gyp’s blessing with his own. Before the brief story was over, Gyp was quietly weeping on his shoulder. “All right,” she said between her sobs, “I’ll pray my heart out for him.” She lifted tear-bright eyes to his and added with a. glimmering smile, “I always was a little beast, you know. ’ ’ Presently she dried her eyes and went on with her inventory: “What I really want to decide is, what brought that ugly ditch between your eyes; frown, sir, and let me measure its depth. ’ ’ As Brent, light-hearted as a boy, obeyed, she vowed it reached his brain. “I don’t like that line, Stephie,” screwing up her eyes and looking at it sideways, “it looks like temper. What brought it into existence, anyway?” Still basking in the sunshine of her happy nonsense, he answered, gaily: “I think it came first when you counted my beastly virtues —ten of ■’em! My hands ached to give you a whipping- then, my girl.” She snuggled closer. “It would have done me all the good in the world,” she whispered to his buttonhole. lie laughed heartily. “I believe you’re right,” he said, “but as it was, I lived in the hope that you would deign to set your little foot on the nape of my neck! What blunderers men are in their dealings with women!” For quite a long time, he fell divinely silent,,., then Gyp spoke again: “Stephie, dear, I look upon that sticky-up line as some sort of reproach to me; I want to smooth it away. Tell me something unpardonable that I did or said, so that I can repent in dust and ashes?” “Well,” Brent hesitated, conscious that he was venturing on delicate ground, “you remember our honeymoon journey? There was something you said then that might have caused it.” She flickered a glance at him, and saw that her game was going to end in deadly earnestness. “You mean —what I said about ‘keeping it a pretend marriage’?” The muscles of Brent’s mouth moved as if forming the word, “Yes,” but no sound followed. She flamed. “You felt it as much as that?” “Gould a husband help feeling it ‘as mgeh as that’?” For a long minute Gyp studied her brief for the defence, her head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. Presently a smile stirred her dimples, to instantly disappear; then a perplexed frown puckered her pretty brows. “You said just now ‘when we were, on our honeymoon journey’; what did you mean?” He gave an expressive shrug, for he knew from experience that Gyp was twisting the facts about to fit her case. No answer forthcoming, Gyp spoke again: ■‘•‘You must have been dreaming, dear! How could we have gone on a honeymoon? ’ ’ As Brent looked up in amazement, she slithered round, and, taking his face between her hands, gazed into his eyes with all her ardent young soul in her own. “Why, iStcpliie darling,” she whispered, “We’ve only been married an hour! ”