"PAINTED BUTTERFLIES,"

Wairarapa Daily Times, 14 March 1932, Page 7

"PAINTED BUTTERFLIES,"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

BY MRS PATRICK MacGILL. Author of "Dancers in the Dark,” "The. Ukelele Girl,” "The Flame of Life,” etc.

COPYRIGHT.

CHAPTER XIII. —Continued. 1 '

They could arrest her, question her, charge her with whatever they liked in the public courts, but they could not make her open her mouth if she chose to remain silent, Jennifer told herself, wrtchedly.

Strangely enough, only that morning the mail from Australia had brought two letters', one for her mother, breaking the news of her son’s marriage to a schoolteacher in Sydney, “she’s only in the pupil-teacher stage, just 17, but girls marry younger in this country, and that she’s the sweetest thing in

all tlic world you can sec from the enclosed snapshot, taken on our wedding day.” Her own letter had been couched in very different terms, After admitting his marriage, her 10-year-old brother’s letter continued, "I tried jiiv level best, Sis, honestly, I did, but believe me, OibbloyOi's are every bit as particular about references in Australia as they arc in England. 1 did iiot tell you that my boss refused to give me a reference, did 11 He told me to be very thankful tint 1 had been able to replace his money, and thereby save myself from prison. Well, Sis, somehow, I feel you ought to know, as you were so good about helping me and keeping the whole thing from mother. One day, going through my trunk, I found three sheets of the firm’s notepaper that I must have taken home at some time. To cut a long story short, Sis, I typed myself a reference, and signed it with Mr Forbes’s name, and it got me a job the same month. I chanced whether my boss would write to England to take up the reference, but lie’s a queer soft of man who goes in for physiognomy and judges people for himself. I’ve made up mv mind to go dead straight in future' Sis, so you need have no fear. If ever I get the sack it will never again be for dishonesty. I’ve got Daisy to think of now,” the letter had concluded. With all her heart, Jennifer hoped that her brother was sincere, but thoughts of the forged reference and the 17-year-oid wife had haunted Jennifer all day. Her brother’s wife was another member of the vicious circle drawn around Jennifer by his weak yielding to temptation, another reason for the non-be-traval of her secret. But, abo\ c and beyond all, placing a seal upon her lips and girdling her loins with the strength of the mighty, was the thought of the mother for whose sake she was willing to light every legal power in the country rather than speak. “I can see it in your eyes. 0,1 were the last person to see my uncle alive. ’ ’

Aclela Creighton was merely guessing; she had no shadow of proof to support her statement. The 1.0. U. was genuine, certainly, but then, might i tnot have been sent through the poet to her uncle, who was not found until late in the afternoon, when the doctors agreed that he must have been dead for several hours.

She had discovered the secret drawer in her unde’s desk by the merest accident. It had come to her with several other pieces of furniture that had keen his property, and, liking the desk, she had had it placed in her bedroom for her own use. The secret drawer had revealed itself as the result of a heavy antique vase on a wall bracket immediately above it falling and crashing on its top. Adda Creighton’s first thought hau been to take her find to the police; then to her solicitor; then came to her aid, as she sat with the 1.0. U. before her on the desk, the fox-like cunning of the creature filled with guile, poisoned with spleen, with one object only in life, the furthering of her own desire, the fulfilment of her own wishes, no matter who suffered in the process. To take the incriminating document to the police would certainly cause them to question Jenifer very closely, and possibly re-open the matter of her uncle’s death. On the other hand, so that he could stand by her side, Frank would be quite mad enough to marry the wretched girl if she concocted some cock-and-bull story as to why she had accepted so large a sum from a strange man.

Adda Creighton shrugged mental shoulders at the thought of having her dead uncle’s possible relations with this dressmaker’s girl revealed to tae public; in her set, the only world she knew, or eared to know, it was regarded as only natural for a wealthy man like James Head to have his amusements.

But, than either 'of these, Adda Creighton had a better plan for the use of the power than chance had given her over the white-faced, liaggard-eyed girl sitting so quietly before her. 4i l suppose Madame Liise would not mind if I telephoned the police from here?” she bluffed, rising as she spoke. “I don’t care what you do,” was Jennifer’s dull, hopeless reply. Jennifer’s silence; her non-resist-ance; the awful expression of her still features; made Adda Creighton slightly uneasy. She glanced furtively at the pitiful young face, and then, suddenly deciding, threw her dart. “I haven’t shown this paper to a soul, or tokl anybody about it,” she said, striving to speak non-committal-ly, but yet unable to keep a shade of anxiety out of her tone. “Why was that, Miss Creighton? Not out of any consideration for nre, surely?” was Jennifer’s scornfully straight answer. “No,” was Adela Creighton’s equally candid admission. ‘‘l came to see if in return for my silence, you would give up Frank Yardley?” Without givino- Jennifer time to answer, Adda Creighton hurried on, half hysterically, gabbling and eating her words so that

it was difficult to follow her. “Before you walked into my room to show ‘Fainted Butterflies’ Frank 1 ardley was my constant companion, and the attachment between us was almost an understood thing. Oh, yes, it was!” silencing Jennifer, who seemed about to speak, with a fierce gesture affrming her own words.

The fiercely jealous eyes noticed the engagement ring of rubies and diamonds that shone and sparkled on Jennifer’s left hand; the first and only ring that she had ever possessed, and it had taken three months’ allowance, added to the sale of Frank's motorbike, to buy it. "That should be on my linger,” came in Adcla Creighton’s desperately unhappy voice.

"Why, if Frank Yardiey prefers me?” asked Jennifer, without heat, but her calmness was of the same fibre as that of a murderer, who, having given up hope of a reprieve, faces the gallows with what self-control he can muster.

Instead of answering a question that was in reality unanswerable, Adda Creighton snapped out her ultimatum. " Well, what are you going to do? Shall I ring up the police or will you do as I ask?” she said, bluntly.

Afterwards, Jennifer regretted the use of the ugly word which was to cost her her job, though not the respect and love of her employer. "You are not much better than a blackmailer, Miss Creighton, except that, as a rule, the blackmailer’s proof of another’s guilt is genuine—and yours is not,” Jennifer finished, in the voice of one disgusted beyond the point of mere anger.

"Be careful,” warned the other girl, blushing a violent red, as the significance of Jennifer’s words sank into- her brain.

"May one inquire what will happen if Frank declines to be handed over like a parcel of groceries? It is quite possible that he may prefer to choose, rather than be chosen by, his future wife,” observed Jennifer, becoming increasingly conscious of a dull rage that was slowly consuming her usual commonsense, blunting even the faculty of fear, and making her long to deal with this aristocrat who had the whole world, except her man, at her feet, making her long to deal with her as she might have done had civilisation not erected artificial barriers which every normal woman girded against, but was nevertheless powerless to overcome. Jennifer’s words stung but this time admitted an answer. "You have a tremendous opinion of yourself if you imagine that you have greater power over men than I,” said Adcla Creighton. Her arrogant conceit gained the mastery of other emotions as she slowly scanned the dainty, beautiful little figure that, somehow, in spite of her own advantages in the matter of social status and wealth, made her feel cheap and inferior, as if she, and not Jennifer Lome were the daughter of a laundress, competing for the favours of the same man with all the impudent assurance of the proverbial beggar placed by circumstances on horseback.

A painful, unquiet silence, pregnant with unspoken thought, was broken crisply by Adela Creighton, who, during the few moments of silence, had regained a measure of self-control. “When are you next seeing Frank?” she demanded, the hostility of her voice carefully veiled for the time being. ‘•Next week. Lady Yardley lias invited me to Ovcrsley for the week-end. I am going down on Saturday afternoon, and Frank is coming back from Norway with his father the same evening,” replied Jennifer, and the very monotony of her voice would have revealed the depth of her pain to anybody who understood and loved her. “From now to Saturday week b nine days. It would be better for you to get out of the country altogether. I can let you have any money that you want up to —’’ Adela Creighton’s natural reluctance to part with any of her money asserted itself, even in so vital a matter, “say, two hundred pounds,” she finished, watching Jennifer narrowly.

Jennifer winced, and wondered if the sum named by this woman of seemingly infinite cruelty had any malicious significance. Two hundred pounds. That sum had purchased her brother’s freedom from a felon’s cell; her mother’s ignorance of her son’s crime; now this beautiful, vile-natured woman was trying to buy her lover from her for the same sum!

Very quietly Jennifer raised her hand —the rubies in Frank’s ring wnkcd in the soft glow of the shaded lights-—and pointed to the door.

“Do you mind leaving me at once, Miss Creighton?” she said in a voice .as quiet as her gesture; but a psychologist would have divined the iron control underlying both voice and gesture. ”1 do not want two hundred pounds or two hundred pence of your money for giving up Frank Yaidlcy, slm said, in a strangled whisper that was a mere travesty of speech. “As for leaving the country, that is for me, and not you, to decide.” (To be Continued - ).