“THE WAY OUT”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 500, 1 November 1928, Page 5

“THE WAY OUT”

Or “HEMING’S PROBLEM.”

-*■ By

H. Maxwell.

„ CHAPTER IX. —(Continued) When the train steamed in to Wilchester Station the first person Cicely saw on the platform was Roger. He w aved his hand to her, and she responded, smiling. He was at the cardoor before she could open it. “Cicely, dearest.” Throughout the journey she had rehearsing how she should meet kim, and had decided on the coldest co *d greetings, something so freez--IQgly distant that he would instantly comprehend the horror and aversion which she held him; yet when she Jiu meet him she gave him both her ands and laughed happily as he j

helped her down from the carriage; such help being entirely superfluous, for she was as light and active as a chamois. ‘‘Roger, dearest,” she said, and then an officious porter came bustling up to them, and the discovery and disposal of her luggage claimed their joiut attention for the next minute or two. “Then you still believe in me, Cicely?” “No.” She started as she replied to him. Then she continued firmly:

“I can never believe in you. I ought to hate you. I hate myself for not hating you.”

They paced side by side through the booking-oflice to the station yard. “Good,” he said. “Get in,” and she entered the car. “Closed or open?” he asked her, and without waiting for a reply ordered the man to close the car. Presently they were off. “I’m going to dry those tears at once,” he said, “and then we’ll have the ear open." She shrank away from him as far as the wide roomy seat would permit. “Oh, I am not going to kiss you . . .

yet,” he said. “Roger, I have heard what you’ve done; grandfather has told me.” “Quite right of him. Nasty, black business, isn’t it?” “Oh, I loathe myself,” she said, and tried to recall all her fine feelings of repugnancy, and because she couldn’t she really loathed herself. “It’s vile to love so vile a thing as you,” she gasped in stark misery, which produced the retort: “I decline to believe that anything you love can be positively vile.” “I love you. Roger.” “Then I’m not vile, or you don’t love me.” His mocking cheerfulness roused in her something approaching the sense of abhorrence she was striving to recover. “I am strong enough not to marry you, if I’m not strong enough not to love you. I detest and abhor what you've done.” “That’s better than detesting me, Cicely.”

“Not for me; it is an added horror for me.” “Well,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you I was wrongly accused.” “No,” she answered, “an inveterate liar learns with time the futility of certain lies.” She was improving and getting nearer to the contempt and indignation she desired to experience. She raised her veil with a quick, defiant gesture. And for joy and delight in seeing her like that he could not immediately enlighten her. “And anything a ticket-of-leave man says is discredited in advance?” This hurt her; it seemed utterly unfair.

“You know I’ve never thought that. Your being a ticket-of-leave man was nothing to me before I heard what grandfather told me.” “Yes, I remember, j-ou believed me on my bare word. A risky thing to accept the bare word of an inveterate liar, Miss Heming.” “If you can see no difference . . “Can an inveterate liar be expected to see subtle differences?” “I ought not to have called you that perhaps . . “Oh, why not” he said, “you know nothing to the contrary; you were not able to put my veracity to the test at Dartmoor.” And now he perceived he had angered her. “Did you know the man Carstairs was no longer in prison when you sent us to Dartmoor. “I did not send you to Dartmoor.”

“You consented to our going as the best way of satisfying mother’s doubts.” “I still think it was the best way.” “But did you know?” At last she had got hold of something tangible against him, something within her own knowledge by which to test him. If he had let them go to Dartmoor, well knowing their journey would be fruitless, then his perfidity was proven. A man who betrayed his country’s trust for a bribe was capable of a-nything. He might have killed Mary Barstow, he might have been justly condemned. His innocence or guilt of that crime suddenly seemed to her to hang on whether he knew or did not know that Carstairs had ceased to be an inmate of Dartmoor prison. Up to that moment her absolute

faith in his innocence had not wavered. Now it was shattered. There was no need any longer to stimulate her abhorrence. It rushed upon her, she felt faint and ill with the tenseness of her aversion for him. Roger was paying dear for, his joy and delight in seeing her angry and scornful. But he would not lie to her. He extricated himself by telling her of Raymond Compton’s murder and the finding of the letter which exonerated him from the hateful suspicion of treachery. She listened fascinated. Here was no question of playing on

her credulity. The fact spoke for itself. His innocence of this most odious of crimes was demonstrated. It not only restored her love and trust in him, but her own maidenly pride and self-respect. She was washed clean of the sense of soilure and taint. She had not loved unworthily; she had not loved a vile thing. She forgot the man Carstairs and all that he stood for. Her hands went out to him and his arms clasped her to his breast.

She was too happy to sit still. They were a good mile from the house when she suggested they should stop the car and finish the journey on foot. She wanted to prolong the bliss of the moment, to be alone with him, to walk in the gathering dusk and revel in the glorious new feelings which had transformed her into a being whom she could hardly recognise as the old self of last night, and this morning. He gave an eager assent, both for his own sake and for the extra tim it gave Heming. Would Carstairs be with him? Would Heming have been able to get rid of him? What would happen if Cicely met the man? Was he bent on blackmail?

Roger had plenty of food for poignant solicitude as he and Cicely fared along the road together. She walked briskly and very close to him, but she walked in silence; for the first few minutes she was in a rapture of

exaltation and thankfulness too deep for talk. “Why didn’t you tell me at once, Roger” “Why do we do foolish things and refrain from doing wise ones, dear It seemed to her a ery opposite reply. "Wasn't father wild with deligh when he knew?” "He was very pleased, but there was no wildness in his delight. X left him trying to do five hundred things at once. He is literally overwhelmed with work.” “Isn’t he splendid?” she said. “Father is too big to believe ill of anybody. He has behaved best F you of all of us, better than mother or me. I hope I shall never forget that.” “Yes,” he said, “he has been very good.” “Did you know Carstairs was not at Dartmoor, Roger?” “Yes, I knew.” “Why didn’t you tell us?” “Would your mother have believed me? Wasn’t it better to let her go and see for herself?” “I suppose- it was if you say so.” “And anyway it doesn’t matter now, dear.” “Nothing matters now, Roger.” How easily he had got over the Carstairs difficulty, which only a quarter of an hour ago had seemed certain to wreck his happiness! But how to prepare her for the possible presence of Carstairs?

Should he tell her that he had met the man on the road and that he might be waiting for him? How could he account to her for Carstairs being with her father? If she met Carstairs would he take a devilish pleasure in proclaiming her father’s guilt? Everything depended on what bad passed between him and Heming. Had Heming bowed to the threats of the blackmailer or had he defied them? In either event the outcome looked utterly disastrous, and Roger was further hampered in his choice of evils by his steadfast resolve never again to hazard the loss of Cicely’s love by lack of candour.

They had passed the lodge gates and were within a hundred yards of the house before he had come to any decision, and then he suddenly determined to tell her. “Talking about Carstairs, beloved, I fancy I saw him to-day, an extraordinary coincidence; and if it is so I shall not be surprised to find him waiting for me.” “Roger,” she exclaimed, “how amazing after mother and I had gone all the way to Dartmoor to see him.” “He is probably in need of money.” “Then you must give him some,” she said; “he helped you by telling you the truth about poor Mary Barstow.” “I am afraid he’s a shocking scoundrel, Cicely.” (To be continued.)