TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 28 April 1938, Page 12

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

(Author of “George,” “That Man at Claverton Mansions,” etc.)

(Synopsis). MARY ROSSITER, eighteen, exceptionally pretty, having completed her education at Wybrow Abbey, goes to Cambridge. Excepting her father, JOHN ROSSITER, a doctor with a big practice in South London, she has no other relatives. Gambler as he is, John Rossiter is often hard up. He, however, conceals the fact from Mary and manages to pay her expenses. The three years Mary spends at St Hilda’s are happy though uneventful. She works hard and obtains an excellent degree and proficiency in French, German and Spanish. On her return to London, SIR HECTOR GILROY, the head of a big firm of South American merchants, employs her as his personal secretary. Sir Hector is an ugly old man, with, however, a pleasant smile. From the first he likes Mary. One day, on the invitation of Sir Hector, Mary goes to his place at Mossford, where LADY GILROY is giving a party. There she meets RONALD GILROY, Sir Hector’s son, who has recently returned from South America. Ronald Gilroy is an attractive young man of twenty-five and seems much too anxious for Mary’s company. Mary dances with him once or twice during the evening, but she does not like him. CHAPTER I (Continued.) “Thought you said, you couldn’t dance,” he protested. “I said not particularly well.” “I’ve met very few English girls who dance better.” “And there’s another thing about you I like, if I may say so.” “You may,” she said. “Your frock. So few English women have any idea of dress.” “Has Miss Gomez?” she asked wickedly, for the Brazilian girl’s dress, although obviously expensive, seemed altogether too elaborate for the occasion. He smiled: “Miaou!” he said. “Yes, I was catty,” she admitted. “And I'm not usually. Still, you annoyed me by criticising English women.” “The women in Rio are just about the best dressed in the world, You get the Paris fashions there sooner than do in London.” “I’m afraid my frock happens to be at least six months old. I bought it from a very ordinary little shop in Cambridge.” “Anyway, I like it. By the way, I shall be seeing rather a lot of you in the office, I hope.” “Yes.” She returned to town on the Monday morning in Sir Hector’s car, having had, as she told her hostess, a delightful week-end.. “You must come again,” Lady Gilroy said. “Later on, when I’ve persuaded Hector to retire, or partly to retire, you must be his liaison officer.” CHAPTER 11. Everyone in the office, Mary discovered, knew that she had spent the week-end at Mossford Manor and some of them were openly envious of her. Even Mr Daily, the London manager, a great person in his own estimation treated her with a rather more affable condescension than he had previously shown. Sir Hector left the office earlier than he Usually did, leaving Mary to deal with several intricate and important matters. She was pleased with the way things were going; and was satisfied that she had found a very comfortable niche in the commercial world. Not even the cold appearance of the house near Wandsworth Common was allowed to depress her. The grass in the front garden looked more grey than green after the lawn at Mossford, the flowers were faded, but she had a general feeling that the world was not such a bad place after all. The house itself, when she had let herself into the dark hall, was silent, but then, it always was silent. “Mrs Balding,” she called at the door leading into the kitchen. “She’s upstairs, Miss Mary,” the maid told her. “The doctor’s ill.” “Ill?” Mary asked in surprise. “Yes, miss. Dr Forsythe’s been three times today and he’s there now with another doctor.” “That was his car outside?” “Yes, miss.” She turned to the stairs and saw Mrs Balding coming down followed by her father’s partner and the second doctor. “I've bad news for you, Mary,” Dr Forsythe said. “Father? The maid just told me. I’d no idea.” “He’s very ill,” the doctor said gravely. “It’s his heart. This is Dr Fellows, who kindly came down from town at my request.” Dr Fellows was a kind little man and spoke with professional calm. “I think the worst is over,” he said. “A long rest—Dr Forsythe agrees with me —will be necessary.” “I can see him?” Mary asked. “Yes. But he musn’t talk much. I’m sending in a nurse,” Dr Forsythe told her. Quietly she went up the stairs but hesitated at her father’s door. Mem-

ories of her childhood came back to her as she stood there. She was conscious of a sudden fear.

The curtains were drawn, but she could see him in the dim light.

“Hallo, daddy,” she said, using the term she had not used since she was a child.

“Mary!” “I wouldn’t have gone away for the week-end if I'd known,” she said. “Was it all right?’ “Oh yes,” she assured him.

“I’m glad you’re through Cambridge and all that,” he said. “There won’t be much else, I’m afraid.’ “What do you mean, Daddy?” “Money. I should have left you independent.”

“Don’t worry. I shall always be able to earn my living. But you must not talk of leaving me. You’re not really ill.” “I’m afraid I am, Mary,” he said. “Anyway, you’re to be quiet and rest.”

Bending down she kissed his forehead and saw that he had smiled at her.

The nurse arrived early in the evening. She was a large, intensely professional person, but underneath her harsh exterior Mary found a sympathy that was unprofessional. “I saw Dr Forsythe,” she told Mary. “He’s very perturbed about your father.”

“But is he really ill . . dangerously ill, I mean? He seemed in his usual health when I left him on Saturday morning—only the day before yesterday.”

“He is, I’m afraid. Dr Fellows is about the best man in London for the heart, but it is foolish to ignore the fact that your father is seriously ill.” “Shall I stay away from the office?” “I shouldn’t —unless you want to. You’re on the ’phone there?” “Yes. But I feel I should be with him.”

“You can do nothing. What he must have is complete rest from all excitement and worry. He’s not even to see his letters. Dr Forsythe was very firm on that point.’ “Does father know that?” “Yes.”

“I’ll see what he’s like in the morning. I don’t want to stay away from the office unless I have to, of course.” He passed a restful night and the nurse insisted that there was no need for Mary to remain at home. She got back as early as she could —Sir Hector was very sympathetic—to find that the improvement in his condition had been maintained.

The following morning, however, the nurse awakened her just after six. She had already ’phoned for Dr Forsythe. “A relapse,” the nurse explained, and hurried away as the sound .of the doctor’s car reached them from the street.

Dr Rossiter was in a coma and only intermittently conscious; Mary waited in the draughty passage. The doctor came out to her: “Come in, will you?” he said. “I’m afraid he’s going, “I’ve given him an injection, but his heart does not respond. There’s nothing else I can do, I’m afraid.” Once her father open his eyes as she stood by his side, but she was uncertain whether he recognised her. A shiver passed through his lean frame; there was a glance between the doctor and the nurse and the latter led the weeping, girl from the room. No word had been spoken, but her father, she knew, was dead. He was buried in an enormous cemetery—acres and acres of it—at the far side of the Common and Mary returned to the house on Wandsworth Common with a feeling that she was utterly alone in the world. Mrs Balding did all in her power to comfort her, but the sense of desolation, of loneliness, remained. At Dr Forsythe’s suggestion, she wrote to her father’s solicitor and, the day after the funeral, Mrs Balding an nounced that a gentleman named Anthony McCarthy had called. Mary glanced at the card the housekeeper held out to her. “Messrs. Swannith, Swannith and Jevons, 136 Lincoln’s Inn.” “Show him in,” she said. He proved to be a man of thirty, dressed in a tweed suit and looking nc in 'the least as one would have expected a solicitor to do. He was over six ffeet tall, with curly dark-brown hair, and frank blue eyes. His was a face one instinctively trusted. In appearance he was more like a farmer than a solicitor. “Miss Rossiter?" he asked. “Yes.” “I’m a junior partner in the firm which managed your father’s business, Miss Rossiter. My partners —who knew him better than I did —asked me to convey their sympathies.” “Thank you. Won’t you sit down?” He took the chair she indicated: “I don't know if you would prefer me to put off discussing ..er . . business until a later date. Miss Rossiter, but there are one or two matters which appear to us to be urgent. Your father apparently died intestate?” “I never heard of a will,” she said. “Several time we have urged him tc make one but I understand he had no relations but yourself?" “None,” she said. “Then the absence of a will is not of

great importance,” he went on. “Will you tell me, frankly, Mr McCarthy, what you’ve come to tell me?" she asked suddenly. “If that is your wish. Your father’s affairs were . . involved.” “I was afraid so. I knew he was a gambler.” The solicitor nodded: “His speculations on the Stock Exchange have not been fortunate. Apart from the value of the practice, I’m afraid he is insc vent.” “I hope that you will be able to clear things up for me?” “You wish us to?” “Please. Dr Forsythe—my father's partner—has kindly undertaken to arrange for the sale of the practice.” “I'd better see him, perhaps?” he said as he rose to go: “If there’s anything I can do for you. Miss Rossiter, please don’t hesitate to ask me.” “Thank you.” He nodded sympathetically: “I mean it," he said, earnestly. "Please don’t hesitate to ask me if you need advice in any way.” “I won’t,” she said. Gravely, he shook hands with her. There was something in his frank blue eyes which softened her desolate feeling of loneliness. Here was a man one could trust, as surely as in Ronald Gilroy was a man on whom one would be unwise to rely. (To be Continued).