The Road that Led Home

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 122, 13 August 1927, Page 16

The Road that Led Home

JDis

Elizabeth York Miller

Author of ’ The Hove oj the Secret. " Conscience" A Cinderella oj May fair.'' 6rc . &c

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS CHAPTERS VIII. to X.—Mrs. Clayton enjoys her new status, but keeps her husband at arm’s length. One Sunday morning Raymond meets Connover and Mrs. Gerald Methune, and these two invite themselves to lunch with the Claytons Informed by her husband of the two guests Nora becomes excited, dresses with care in order to impress them, but finds that both Connover and Mrs. Methune are quite weight enough for her. Later she takes Connover to her boudoir, and is once more overcome by the old glamour. She tries to hold her own, but Connover takes the wind out of her sails by telling her that, in the long ago, the curate, James Prester, interfered between them, and took a message to him, Connover, that Nora never wanted to see him again. To Nora’s incredulity he replies, “Ask him.” A little later the Vicar of Riffmoor is taken ill and dies. The Claytons go to the funeral, and Nora stays on at the Vicarage to help her sister to straighten things out. Alison intends to carve out her own future. Nora visits James Prester in. his little cottage. Jim comes to the door. He invites her in and she challenges him with the statement made to her by Connover. He is silenL CHAPTER XVI. Naturally Clayton was surprised. I—I haven’t seen him for—it must be seven ox eight years, now. About the time I met Conny. We had the bad taste to quarrel. He wanted me to take his money—only a bit of money’, it was—his share of our inheritance. But I'd already gone through mine and I couldn’t see myself robbing little Jim. A good boy, Raymond, and If he cares for Bessie it won’t make any difference to him about the unfortunate circumstances of her birth.” “I don’t know if he does care for Bessie,” Clayton said reluctantly. “He was head over heels in love with Nora at one time.” Mrs. Methune’s eyes narrowed. She was seeking, struggling to catch an elusive idea. As far as she knew, Connover had only met her brother once—at the time of their secret marriage—but any reference to James Prester was calculated to bring down a storm of abuse from Connover. There were complications here—wheels within wheels, all whirring away in a fashion calculated to give Eggs are failing. Every economical housekeeper should commence to prewve with SHAHLAND’S EGG PREHHL which is absolutely reliable.

one a headache if not a heartache. And in the midst of*all this whirring —puzzled and bewildered by it —was Raymond Clayton. When he went away he was still puzzled, for Cora Methune did not know how to help him. She had her own perplexities. Meanwhile, what of Nora? How many are there who know. The Dragon Fly Tearooms? Enough at least to ensure good patronage; but recommendations are not passed on lightly. Down a side turning and into a narrow backwater which shuts off the roar of Piccadilly one came upon a modest shopfront devoted to the display of cretonne curtains and homemade pastry. Upstairs there are pewlike screens of oak forming semi-de-tached shelters each holding a table far two. Absolutely respectable, but undeniably discreet. If one chanced unexpectedly upon a friend or an acquaintance at the Dragon Fly, one would forget it. Nora Clayton was getting into questionable ways, without quite realising her danger. Yet she must have some idea that she was doing an unconventional thing, for when she got out of her car at the side turning instead of telling the chauffeur to wait on the rank —as she had always done before —she dismissed him, saying that she would not need him any more that afternoon. Then, with twinkling eyes she disappeared into the passage. It was a cobbled thoroughfare and the little shops which lined it were humbly insignificant. Drivers of taxicabs and motor-lorries patronised the unattractive eating-house across from The Dragon Fly, and purchased their light literature and cigarettes from the place next door. Next was an old clothes’ shop, flaunting third or fourth hand draggled finery, and then a mysterious apothecary’s which did a slinking trade wholly unconnected with the dusty wares set forth in its window. Not a pretty neighbourhood, certainly. But The Dragon Fly, itself, was a charmingly cosy place, and once inside Nora felt more at ease. As she expected, Connover was waiting for her, holding one u* the

little tables for two against allcomers, and impatiently craning his neck around the oak screen to get a view of the door. “Oh, there you are!” “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get away.” Flurriedly she explained that her husband had detained hex, making Raymond rather a figure of jealous wrath. “I’m simply terrified of him,” she went on. “He —he suspects us, Conny.” Connover laughed with derision, and

his eyes dwelt upon Nora with more speculation than they had ever previously shown. What a little fool she was! Just the sort of little fool that loses its head and plunges not only herself but other people into trouble. "Steady on,” he advised. “Just what, precisely, does Raymond suspect” Nora conveyed the information that Raymond merely suspected her of keeping such a rendezvous as this. "But good lor’, when was it a crime to take a pretty woman—an old

friend, at that—out to tea!” Connover exclaimed. “Perhaps he thinks I ought to entertain you in my own home,”-Nora replied. “And should I entertain you in my own home? Jove, I shouldn’t mind. We’d be quite as cosy and not so public as here.” Nora flushed prettily and devoted hexself to pouring the tea which had just been set down by a waitress in a cretonne overall which matched the

window curtains. It was a dainty tea —eggshell china, wafery bread-and-butter, cakes that could be devoured politely in one mouthful —a meal not calculated to interfere in the least with conversation. “I don’t call this very public,” Nora said dubiously. Apparently by accident their hands met and Connover squeezed her fingers gently. “I should like to show you my rooms,” he said. “My collection of old sporting prints is said to be unique. But perhaps you wouldn’t be A

interested. Or—would you?” “Conny, I ” “You’re a little coward, Nora. ’Fess —aren’t you afraid of that big husband of yours?” “Afraid of Raymond. Certainly not.”

“Well, then—of Mrs. Grundy. Just because your father was a parson you needn’t have a suburban mind, my dear. Cora Methune drops in on me whenever she feels like it.” "I believe you’re in love with Mrs. Methune,” Nora said, with a pout. “Every man’s been in love with Cora at some time or other. Even Raymond.”

Nora lifted startled eyes. It was easy enough to read her simple mind. She was suddenly jealous—overwhelmingly so—but of whom? Connover discovered that he was jealous, too. In his way he was in love with Nora, but from the beginning she had been unattainable. There was a possibility that but for James Prester’s in-

terference he might even have gone to the length of committing a bigamous marriage in order to possess her, knowing quite well that Cora would have protected him by silence. He had married Cora Methune abroad, and thexe was little likelihood that anyone in England would ever discover the fact unless they published it. Unfortunately, however, her brother knew, and while James Prester would say nothing so long as there was no necessity—he had proved that he would not remain silent under provocation. It was Prester who had saved such an accomplished and hard-headed young man-of-the-world as Connover from making a criminal of himself. However, Connover, was not grateful to James Prester. He took Nora’s hand again and moved closer to her on the cushioned divan, murmuring his passionate regrets, singing a song of love that lacked dignity as well as the sanction of the law. Consciously, indeed, he was an outlaw, but a cowardly one. The more insistently his shoulder pressed against hers, the more she found herself thinking of her husband,' and Wondering what she would do or say if by any chance Raymond appeared at this moment. She was made uneasy by the nearness of her old lover, and found herself wishing to get away from him. “Conny, we—you and I—it’s wrong. I must never meet you here again,” she murmured. “No, darling—not here,” he agreed.

On the other side of the tall, oak screen someone moved with a suggestion of violence; there was the sound of a table being pushed forwards —an angry, grating sound—and the young woman in the window-cur-tain overall sped forward with her little account pad. “Five-and-sixpence, miss. Thank you, miss.” Connover and Nora Clayton suspended their conversation, but their hands were still clasped, their shoulders still all but touching. Out of the adjoining shelter there strolled a girl, slowly pulling on her gloves—a pallid-faced girl in neatfitting black, with a scarlet hat drawn low over her brows. Nora gasped and drew away from her companion with marked abruptness. Even Connover, emergencytrained though he was, gave an exclamation under his breath. The pallid-faced girl threw them a coolly indifferent glance in which there was no trace of recognition, and passed on. It was apparent that she

meant them to know she was cutting them dead. Nora flushed to the roots of her hair. “Oh—Conny! That Adams girl! And she hates me. We must do something at once. She’ll tell Raymond, and heaven knows what she’ll say. I must go. I must get away from here.” “Don’t lose your head,” Connover said furiously. “It would be Jike you to stir up a deuce of a fuss —and all over nothing!” Nora turned upop him, her eyes filled with angry tears. "Nothing!” she exclaimed with deep bitterness. “It won’t sound that way to Raymond.”

(To be Continued.)