JOAN of the GREAT HEART

Waikato Times, Volume 107, Issue 17997, 16 April 1930, Page 12

JOAN of the GREAT HEART

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By May Wynne, (All lights reserved.)

CHAPTER XXII.— (Continued.)) “Eat your crumpets wliiist they are hot," ordered Mrs Ferlie, the untidiest of little matrons, with a clever nose and happiest smile, “and we will tell you our news when you have finished. It was Fate, not chance, which brought you along on this night of nights. No, I shall not tell you till you have had your third cup. Then you may come upstairs into the studio and see if you can guess.” How she chattered, and how good she was in avoiding any questions she feared would hurt. Of course, they, had heard of the broken engagement, and regretted it. But Marion had her own plan for Joan s future, and had told her husband that this coming of their- little friend was sheerly Providential. “We'haven't too much time,’ she concluded when the meal was over. “Brian, lamb, cease pulling at that empty pipe, and take the tea things into the pantry. You can wash up there, but don’t on your life go into the kitchen because pandemonium reigns. Come, Joan." And Joan came, already guessing, with something of regret, that one of those Bohemian parties was being planned for this particular evening. Even amongst their comrades of the brush the Ferlies were renowned for the originality of those parties which could not be called suppers, dinners, soirees, or any such stereotyped name, but were functions where laughter and enjoyment ran riot. The long studio was draped for the occasion with many coloured curtains, trestle tables ran nearly the length of it, and the decorations were dainty as a spring-time reverie. Joan stood in admiration, and then made her inquiry. , , IIT “Who is it for?” she asked. l see you have the laurel wreath all ready. Do explain.” And —already she was guessing Marion clapped her hands with the glee of a child. “Who could it be for?” she asked, “but Michael the. famous? Dear old Mike Grefton . . • who has brought, fame to Hampstead and is being feted here to-night amongst all the old Clan. We shall have the loveliest evening, and —-’’ she broke off hurriedly. “There’s the bell,” she added, “that must be Michael ulmself! CHAPTER XXIII. “Michael!” Joan echoed the name in dismay. Oh it could not be true that, without warning, she was to meet the man who had wrought such mischiei in her life. , . .. Marion, however, was already hallway down the stairs, and wholly unconscious of the distress she had awakened in her friend’s heart. Michael returning in triumph to be crowned with laurels! Michael to be the life and soul of one of those merry revels in which her father had so delighted. Joan could have cried aloud in her misery, but she soon rallied. The Ferlies must not know anything of the torture she must go through. If ever she had acted in her life, she must act now . . . must prove her metal . . must hide her pain. But, oh, the suspense before she knew how Michael himself would welcome her, before she read in his eyes whether he loved her or no. In her confusion Joan could not have told what message she wanted those laughing eyes to convey. She stood, lingering on the threshold of the gala chamber till she heard Brian Ferlie’s voice inviting his friend to come up. . . “Marion has another surprise for you there,” she heard him say, and squared her shoulders, ready to play her part. , . . , Yes it was Michael who had reached the top of the landing. A spic and span Michael, savouring of the West Enel rather than Hampstead, and handsomer than ever with the sleek content of prosperity. But the smile faded from his lips at sight of Joan. He was startled, embarrassed—and not overjoyed. Joan, who knew his every expression felt the stab of som - thing more than disappointment and less than grief. It was obvious that he was not welcoming the girl he loved, but trying to hide a sense of guilt and shame as he saw before him the girl he knew he had failed. It was Joan who saved the moment from being one of awkwardness. She held out her hand with the gay smiU with which she had been wont to welcome him home. “Of all the luckl” she cried, entering gallantly into the spirit of masquerade, “the idea of wandering to Hampstead by, chance and And 1 am going to join the giddy throng to welK the conquerer. Well Mike, el any rate no one shall be befoie me in offering you my ‘salute.’ Hail, conquering hero 1 and may you be at the “f.rSfedrrSy-el.eveclthaU.e found it possible to slip back into the old relationship. “Your Majesty's humblest slave gives gratitude," he replied, Placing her hand on his forehead. Come and let’s look round at the banquetting board. It’s not many years ago Joan of the Great Heart, when you and I went prowling thus so that we could exchange dishes and place the crystallised cherries dear to your heart in front of your place, whilst I favoured those abominable olives as you called them.” It was easier still to laugh at that. They would go back . . . not through the months but the years and make this a night of revelry. Only there was alway the vacant chair Once, Michael alluded to something which included Hardale and his apology was as quick and sincere as her tears. • “Don’t, Joan!" he urged in an un- : dertonc, "don’t for the love of Mike." lie used the expression casually, then flushed under his tan. It was another moment of opportunity, refusal, embarrassment. Did he think she did not know he was doing his uttermost to steer the talk clear of sentiment. They were comrades, jolly boy and girl still, but not the lovers of Hampton Court. So- that was irrevocable. As they went down together from the studio Joan knew convincingly that Michael no longer loved, or, if the soft sweet sentiment he had called by that name, still lurked within some secret chamber, expediency had sealed its tomb. Joan’s own heart ached. The air was full of farewells, of memories sweet and sad. She would have liked to hide away in Marion's wide window scat from which she had view ol her old home and yield Lo the luxury of

(To be continued.)

tears, telling herself quite falsely „ . . it was for her father she shed them. But she had no chance to enjoy her grieving, she must play-act all the time and laugh when she wanted to cry.

The guests were due at nine and came at eight, having heard Michael had arrived. No one, least of all the hostess, minded the inconvenience of such premature arrivals. They had to take things as they found them, and with difficulty Tom Webbing and his cronies were dissuaded from raiding the kitchen and helping the cook prepare the salad. “You had to have it cold,” said Mrs Ferlie, “for it must have been tepid if we had had to carry it all upstairs. So we call it supper. Come along, no ceremony.”

“ Of course there is ceremony, what do you call this?” asked Webbing, as he tried to lit a tinsel crown on Michael's head and blew violent music from a mouth-organ. “ This is a triumph. We who are about to eat salute thee, Caesar.”

So the festival began—ending uproariously. Michael was gayest of the gay, scattering invitations broadcast to his new home in Surrey, giving anecdotes of his adventures in Italy and London. Refusing resolutely to be “ drawn ” about his picture—or his future home.

“Luckiest of dogs,” sighed Webbing, “ whilst we toil and moil you will be rolling in your Rolls-Royce. There’s only one crumpled rose leaf, Mike. You'll get fat, hideously fat, and then where will fame be ?”

So they laughed and jested, grew serious, then laughed, again, whilst Joan after a brave effort slipped into the background, unnoticed. She was thinking of her father —a host in himself —so her friends decided and thought it half a pity she should have been there. But then she and Michael had always been such comrades, might be more still to each other by and by. The names were linked together by nods and whispers. Webbing alluded to the possibility in veiled language when he toasted Michael and the better half who would “ make much ” of a good thing. But Joan neither blushed nor smiled, the allusion passed her by. And yet she watched him, her old- comrade, and thought of days that were no more; watched and wondered what life had in store for the the man who would not permit any clouds to cross the sunshine of his happiness.