FAY OF THE RING

Waikato Times, Volume 114, Issue 18987, 3 July 1933, Page 4

FAY OF THE RING

By A. A. THOMSON.

(An Enthralling Story of Ciroua Life.)

CHAPTER ' XX. — (Continued.) I braced myself. “Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood . . . . But not too stiff, Ben.” On the wings of darkness I heard Wat Wandle’s voice, I -swear I heard it . . . The istone coping, fitfully lit by that leaped and died and leaped again, loomed ahead. It looked narrow as a knlfe-hlade. “Ben, it isn’t-dangerous, is it?" “Good Lord, no I I only want you to shut your eyes because of the smoke. Keep them shut as tightly as you can. It’s a queer thing, hut I can’t help thinking of poor Wat Wandle.” “Dear Wat." “He -always used to say; * ’Tis not so -deep as a well nor -so wide as a church door, hut ’tis enough, ’twill •serve.’ He was always .saying queer things, you know, out of an -old book ho knew by heart. You have your eyes shut, haven’t you?" “Yes, Ben.” “Then: Jog on, jog on, the footpath way And merrily bent the stile-a, Your merry heart goes all the way, Your sad one tires in a mile-a. . . You didn’t know I could sing, Pay, did you? Oughtn’t Itogo in the bill as a -singer? Here we are. Open your eyes. We’re out of the smoke now.” And that was how the dazed crowd below -saw a' queer, fantastical fellow In red tights, like a pantomime demon outlined against a flaring sky, -carry his white bundle across the bridge of death. So did one man fulfil his destiny, with the especial aid of Shakespeare and the tlght-rope. A liberal education is never wasted. . • •" I leaned, panting, against the sloping roof, with my feet firmly planted In the gutter, and an odd -line from Aunt Hannah’s Pilgrim’s Progress kept pinging itself in my head over and over- again—a line as triumphant as any in the paper-backed hook; So he passed over and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side. When once the roof of the main building was reached, the rest of my task was easy. Fay had relapsed into half-consciousness again, and I was able to lower her on to the balcony in front of the second storey window. There I waited until the town fire brigade, arriving with a clatter of axes and a gleam of brass helmets, laid the ladder against the balcony railing. A bearded man in a helmet popped like a Jack-in-the-Box over the edge of the balcony. “I’ll carry her down," I said -curtly. The crowd was jostling thickly at the foot of the ladder as I reached the ground, but Madame. Caterina Marni swept them all aside like chaff. “Beni Beni Ye Impldent little divil! .... Give her to me I" And, laughing and crying, The Strongest Woman In Europe took Fay In her arms. They hustled me off to an outhouse and gave me brandy which burnt my throat, and thumped me on the back and called me names which seemed to me ridiculous. If there is only one thing in the world that a man can do, he does it because he must. Why call him names? I wandered blankly out on to the lawn again. The firemen were still at work with their hoses, playing on the ruins of the west wing. Mechanically, I'-slipped in among the line that was still handling buckets and took my turn with the rest From under the wreckage of the west wing staircase they dragged out the charred and blackened body that had once been Derek Notley. Our little bird would wonder about him no more. Whatever he had dane in life, Fay’s husband died, as they say, like a gallant gentleman. A queer thing that, to die like a gentleman. While he lived, all the world had admired him—so pleasant, so -charming, so debonair —not knowing how vilely he had treated Fay. In his death, the world admired him even more, for he died very, very bravely. I am, as I always was, a bad hater, and I cannot bring myself to question that instinct in men which will forgive almost any evil in a man's life, il’ he faces death without fear. For I, who have so littlo of my own, will always worship courage, hoping that it may he given me when my day comes.

CHAPTER XXI

IVlo3sano From a Madman. The letter was delivered to me at the cottage in the morning. He must have posted it at Alder’s End post cilice shortly before he set Alder Lodge on fire. When I came in, Mrs Goodey greeted me in hushed accents, as though I had returned from the dead. “00, Master Ben!” sho explained. “Just look at you!” “I’ve come to get some clothes, Mrs Goodey. You see " "00, Master Ben, I’ve heard all about you last night an' all the wunnerful brave tilings you did, and all about poor Mr Derek. That’s a terrible sad thing about him. Used to come hero when ho was a little ole boy. 'Your walnuts taste better Ilian ours, Mother Goodey,’ he used to say. I couldn’t believe he’s dead, only that’s in the papers. Such a boy he always was and brave as a lion. Nobody could have died braver, they say.” “Yes, Mrs Goodey, he was a bravo man.” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her print apron. “And (lie young lady. . We’ve heard all about. . . .” “You needn't be concerned about Iter. She's in good hands—as good as your own. Her Aunt Killy’s looking after her and won't let anyone else go near her. That’s lltc best thing that could have happened lo her. Aunt Killy was a mother to her when she was a child and no one could possibly lake heller rare of her.” Mrs Goodey conlinued lo wipe her eyes; “That’s a dreadful thing, half the big house burnt down and Mr Derek dead and everything in the. morning papers with his picture in his cricketing tilings. A dreadful tiling Unit is. That don’t seem real, that don’t seem true. Fancy me looking at that photograph in !he paper, with him smiling right like lie always did, and knowing all the time lie's dead. Thai don't seem right lo be cooking a hit of dinner and all that,

(Author of k, -The Lilac Maid," “ Dorinda, Darlingl" E4o„ Eto, Eta.)

with him lying. .. . You couldn’t take a hit of anything, could you, Master Ben?" “No, thank you. I couldn’t possibly eat -anything.” “Well, happen you will, a hit- later. No good starving yourself whatever comes along. That wouldn’t do no good to nobody. That’s t-he Lord’s will and we must bow to It, but that’s not to say we mustn’t eat. Oh, and before I forget, there’s -a letter. Postman brought It for you this morning.,” I took the letter from her and held it In my hand while she went bustling ■away into the kitchen. Then I eat down in my wheel-back chair and slowly tore open the envelope. Mother Goodey’s words rang in my ears like a queer refrain. “That don’t seem real, that -don't seem true ” The letter was written on dirty scraps of dog-eared paper, and the handwriting was so shaky that it lapsed in places into an incoherent scrawl. Parts of it I could only read with great difficulty. Dully I heard the ticking of Mother. Goodey’s old wall clock as I read. “That don’t seem real, tick-tick, that don’t seem true, tick-tick. . . ." So I read the homicidal maniac’s letter. “Dear Ben, — “I told you I was going to do it and I’m going to do it to-night. I’ve waited far too l-ong already. I should have done it a long while ago but maybe there’s no harm In a man biding his time. I’m writing this to you, Ben, because In a way it was more your fault than anybody -else’s that It had to be. There was a time when you might have married her and no harm done, but you were too big a fool to take your chance when you had it. Why she -cared for you God knows, hut you couldn’t expect her to come and propose tojyou, could you? Little as I think of you, Ben, I wouldn’t have minded her marrying you if it had made her happy, hut you don’t understand anything about loving, and you never did. You wouldn’t understand the way I’ve watched Little Fay ever since she was a baby. There wasn’t one of my birds that hadn’t -more affection in it than what you ever hhd. Gold blooded as a fish you always was. “Everybody laughed at the drunken old Bird Man when he said he was going to do something. They reckoned he couldn’t do anything hut train canaries and -swill brandy. Well I know that without anyone telling me. You all kept on talking about loving her but you never did anything to stop her being hurt. You left that for Graff, the'dirty drunken old sot. Well he’s going to do it never fear. “That pompous old windbag Marjoram was -over t-he moon because his daughter married money and a big house. The rest of you weren’t any better. It flattered your vanity. Fools, fools. You watched him breaking her heart day by day. Or, perhaps you were so blind you never saw it at all. I don’t say he wasn't fond of her at first, but only because he couldn’t get what he wanted without marrying her. That sort of man Is only fond of himself. He’d trample -on anything to get what he wants, and then throw It away.- I’ll lay he was tired of her before the honeymoon was over. I'm saying you ought to know, but -maybe you.don’t know anything about it. You don’t care. You haven’t been watching like I have. Since I walked out on that old blatherskite Marjoram I’ve had plenty of time for watching, watching like a cat at a mouse-hole. You can’t expect her to tell you her heart's broken. She would not say a word, and never will. Made her bed and got to lie on it, and she’s brave, so brave you wouldn’t get near understanding. But I know someone who saw her crying, a footman from the big house. He told me in -the pub. You were too nambypamby to go in pubs. That’s why you never knew about that. She never knew anybody saw her crying, but he saw her, being an observant chap. “Well, I’m going to put a stop to all that. By the time you get this letter I’ll have stopped it. I said it -once, and I said it twice, if anybody hurts Little Fay I’ll kill him. Do you think he hasn’t hurt her enough? ■How long do you think she is going to stand his insults and neglect and flaunting with other women? And now he’s gone too far and I won’t have it. This getting her off to London and bringing his fancy woman right into the very house, her house, is the last straw, and I’m not going to stand it any longer. Ho never had anybody stand up to him before, but now he’s going to find cut something he never knew before. He’s got me to reckon with and it will be his last reckoning. “You can’t do anything to stop me, because by the time you get this letter I’ll have done what I’m going to do. And nobody can do anything to me either because, well, nobody can do anything to me anyway. I’ll see to that all right. So this is the last | you will hear from me, and If they call it murder let them. What he has done is worse than murder. I said I’d do it, and do it I will. You can’t say he didn’t deserve it the way lie treated her. Good-bye, Ben, it’s a pity you’re such a fool. This is the last you’ll hear from GRAFF.” (To he continued.)