30 YEARS’ AGONY

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 501, 2 November 1928, Page 5

30 YEARS’ AGONY

ITCHING PILES COMPLETELY CURED Mr A H-, Auckland, writes:—”l had suffered over 30 years from itching p.les SU J Sori fried many remedies. At Seatm q e°nt y and was" t^Uy^Tln^ ceipt of mn ? p ®Tr, Box 952, Wellington. Zana obtainable from Stocks of Za^ nre s Karangahape Bridg. Drug Store*. che mist. Queen safe ;;s -

“Those are my lowest terms, Heming; you can take ’em or leave ’em, please yourself.” The loudness of the voice and the bluster of the tone, combined with Martin’s unflattering description of the doctor, had prepared Cicely for somebody so essentially different from the man she actually saw, that the surprise of him brought her to an involuntary halt within three or four paces of the threshold. Her brain had conceived the image of a tall, broad-shouldered, looselimbed figure, with a lowering, hangdog countenance and savage jaw, a man with an evil face and deep-set eyes, a burly ruffian, seedy and out at elbows, threatening, sinister, and maleficent. What she saw was a round, corpulent little man, with twinkling eyes, smooth, fat cheeks, and a soft, indeterminate chin, a face that Reamed with cherubic guilelessness. Instead of being shabby, his dapper appearance suggested his havftig just stepped out of a band-box; his* clothes were dazzlingly fresh and new, and of the latest fashionable cut, his linen immaculate, his well-gromed air approaching an almost impossible finickiness of perfection. He seemed to radiate cleanliness, health, and joviality; and the idea of evil in connection with such a man would have struck you as absurd. A boon companion of sprightly humour, a friend for a merry mood—then here was the man you -wanted. What he may have been doing a second before the door opened can only be a matter for conjecture, but what Cicely surprised him in the act of doing was bending over her father fanning him briskly with a newspaper. “My dear Heming,” he was saying genially, “my dear Heming, if you faint again I shall be seriously annoyed with you. My lowest terms, take ’em or leave ’em, please yourself, are a complete rest from work and worry for a week or a sudden demise within the same period, and it is for you to choose.” _ He twirled nimbly about at the sound of footsteps and bowed with courtier-like deference to Cicely. “Ah,” he said, “Miss Heming, if I mistake not; most opportune; permit me to introduce myself—Dr. Reginald Carstairs. Your father has been shockingly misbehaving, worried, run down, over-wrought, nerves out. of order. Won't let me pack liim off to bed, yet nothing else for it.if we are

to stave off a complete collapse. Bed or a sumptuous funeral, I tell him. are my lowest terms. Seems to want the sumptuous funeral. Pray use your influence and insist on bed.”

He said all this in a curiously gentle voice and with a wealth of vivid gesture, humping his shoulders, cocking his head sidewise, spreading his hands wide, slapping his open palm with the newspaper. Then he. spied Roger, and cried: "My dear Braid, chut! chut! what am I thinking of . . . Temple, of course . . . my dear Temple, we meet under far pleasanter circumstances than we parted, do we not? ... a friend of Heming’s . . . two friends part in Dartmoor prison and meet under a mutual friend’s hospitable roof . . . most striking. We have no secrets from Miss Heming . . . both gaolbirds . . . chut! chut! Let me be serious. My dear young lady. It’s really important to get your father to bed; please persuade him to go.” Roger nodded to Carstairs. Cicely regaining her self-possession, swept swiftly across the room to her father’s side, bent over his chair and kissed his forehead. “Father, you are not very ill?” she said; then she took his hand in hers and fixed her troubled, anxious gaze on Carstairs. “Been doing too much. I suppose— I’m getting over it,” murmured Heming weakly. Cicely continued to gaze at Carstairs; she was trying to arrive at some definite opinion concerning him. The words she had overheard were

evidently to be understood in a jocular sense; the doctor’s phrase, “My lowest terms; take ’em or leave ’em,” was only a playful metaphor; difficult patients will often accept physicians’ advice given in the guise of a jest when they would otherwise obstinately reject it.

She knew her father was a difficult patient, and that an order to take complete rest must be the most unpalatable of all pj'escriptions to a real live man with a brain teeming with ideas and schemes and projects. “Father, would you like him to go, shall we send for your own doctor?” Her keen scrutiny had calmed her fears of Carstairs as a man, but left her doubtful of his efficiency as a doctor; he nqis as unlike the conventional medical type as he was unlike the criminal type. "Carstairs go? No,” said Heming, rousing himself. “I don’t want anybody else. Why should I? Very fortunate he wg,s here. Very grateful to him.” “Most happy to eliminate myself, I assure you, Miss Heming, if it’ll make you happier; indeed, I advise you to send for your own doctor. You know my story, of course; quarrel with rascally partner; couldn’t get. my share of the fees; took them without asking; criminal prosecution; three years at Dartmoor; forbidden to practise in consequence; that's the gist of it. Not the only person in this room who’s had to suffer for another’s sins. We try to bear up, though, Temple, eh?

No good crying ov,er spilt milk.’* These remarks made Cicely acutely uncomfortable. They set her wondering whether any Dartmoor prisoner ever admitted the justice of his incarceration. It hurt her to think of Roger in the same category as parstairs; yet if one were unjustly condemned, why not the other? Then came the unbidden query: “What if both were justly condemned?” She put it away from her and turned to her father. “Then wtyl you go to bed, dear?” she said tenderly. “Yes, presently; this fuss is very trying; don’t worry me, Cicely.” His irritable tone reassured her; he was obviously on the mend. “Oh, he’s better, decidedly better, Miss Heming; you’ve done him a world of good. We were talking about you. Ke has confided in me the situation in regard to yourself and Mr. Temple. It has worried him a great deal. I have relieved him of that. Let me relieve you. It will help him. J shall be glad to make both your minds easy.” “I have no doubt of Mr. Temple’s innocence,” said Cicely in freezing tones. She resented, with jealous pride, that Roger’s reputation should be at the mercy of this man’s evidence. Carstairs bowed and smiled at her. “Mum as a mummy if you say the word, my dear young lady; the last person to wish to interfere. I’ll look in again in the morning, Heming; much better send for your own man.” He bowed once more, offered his hand to Roger and moved briskly to the door. His motions were so dapper and quick, the way he whisked his coattails was so like the perky waggling of a plump little sparrow’s tail feathers; he was altogether so jolly and absurd and good-humoured that Cicely could not resist an inclination to smile. “No, don’t go; I want you,” Heming called after him. “Certainly,” he said, and came tripping back with his funny, bird-like springy little steps, that were almost hops, the embodiment of cheerful good-temper. “Anything to oblige,” he said, and that’s what you felt about him—he would do anything to oblige, and j

never so happy as when serving others.

Heming pointed to a glass with brandy in it; Cicely gave it Jhim and he drained it at a gulp; then he rose without any very painful effort. “Oh. better, much better; but I feel you’re right, Carstairs; I must lie up fpr a day or two.” “Fit as a flea by then if you only will,” the little man chuckled. “Cicely, dear,” said Heming; “I have been worried about you and Roger. We’ll finish with all that now. Ask Dr. Carstairs anything you like, and he’ll answer you. He’s here for that purpose at my special request.” “Oh, father,” she said; “how wonderful of you!” Roger turned away with a choking sensation; it was all right, of course. Heming and Carstairs had come to some arrangement; but it made his gorge rise that Cicely should be fooled with a new set of lies. She, however, was radiant. “You know that, Roger . . . that Mr. Temple did not commit the crime for which he suffered?” “I do, Miss Heming.” “And you do know who did commit the crime?” “Alas, yes, I know. I supplied the poison.” “Then who did?” “I will tell you if you wish, but the man’s dead. One has scruples about revealing a dead man’s delinquencies; a stupid feeling, but there it is. Still, if you insist. ...” “Oh,, no, no,” said Cicely, “not if the man’s dead.” “You had better tell her,” said Heming; “let’s have the whole of this horrible nightmare business thrust once for all out of our memories and forgotten. If you don’t tell her she’ll be continually tormenting herself by guessing.” “Raymond Compton, Miss Heming, was the man 'who killed Mary Barstow.” “Raymond Compton!” She thrilled as she echoed the name. “Thank you,” she added, “thank you. Dr. Carstairs. Thank you, father.” Then she went up to Roger and whispered: “Let/is be married soon, dear.”

Before he could reply she was at the door. “Father.” she said, “you will follow* I>r. Carstairs’s advice and go to bed?”

“Yes,” he answered; and then she was gone. Heming dropped feebly into hi* chair, Carstairs dabbed his forehead and sleek, plump cheeks with his handkerchief, and Roger strode to the window and flung itiwide open with a crash. “God!” he said, “I can’t brearthe in here.” He remained there, leaning over the sill, drinking in deep draughts of the cold fresh air; then he slammed down the sash, drew the blinds, pulled the curtains, and said abruptly: “Now tell me everything.” “Oh, you know* well enough—blackmail,” said Heming, with the bitterness of hopeless misery. “And you are going to put up with it ... in your position, Conway?” “Pardon me,” interrupted Carstairs, in a fussy, plaintive twitter, “I object to the term blackmail: I have used no threats, I have asked for no money; I’ve merely explained my unfortunate financial situation to my friend Heming, who has very kindly consented to come to my assistance. A purely unconditional offer oil his part, a purely unconditional acceptance on mine.” “Oh, yes.” said Heming, “we’ve made the thing look as decent as we can. I’ve made him no definite promise: he’s made me no actual menace. We’ve preserved a ghastly mockery of friendship, just as we kept up appearances before Cicely.” “A lump sum down?” tTo be continued)