TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 9 May 1938, Page 10

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

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

SYNOPSIS. On Sir Hector’s sudden death, his son, RONALD GILROY, becomes Mary's chief. He is a young man of twenty-five and is in love with Mary. But Mary hates him. She resents his amorous attentions and says so. But when he persists, she resigns her job and goes to Freudenstadt, in Germany, on a holiday. Having taken a room at the Pavilion Hotel, she goes for a stroll in the pine woods of the Black Forest. Presently she comes upon a new military road, where she encounters a company of soldiers. Suddenly she recognises one of them. It is KURT EIDENMULLER, whom she had met when he was a student at Cambridge. She had met him once only, at a dance on the eve of his return to Germany. He had sent her, she remembers, a bunch of red roses. He waves to her as the company passes her.

When she returns to her hotel she is surprised to find a similar bunch of red roses with Eidenmuller’s card, asking if he could meet Jier in the evening. He meets her accordingly and takes her' out to a dance. For the first time Mary is aware of his intense admiration for her. They exchange experiences and argue over politics in Gerrnan. Later he accompanies her back to . the hotel, promising to take her to a swimrriing pool the next day.

(Now Read On). CHAPTER V.—Continued. She smiled at him: “What a quaint child you are,” she said. “I’m older than you.’ “In years. But years don’t matter. At least not to a man.” He drive back to Freudenstadt slowly and talked very -little. Once or twice she glanced at him. “It is bad luck that I must leave you.” “We may meet again. I hope we do.” “We shall,” he said. She held out her hand at the parting outside her hotel. “I shall write,” he said. % She nodded: “And so will I. You’ve been charming to me.” “I have tried to be,” he said simply. “Auf Wiedersehen.” “Auf Wiedersehen.’ When Mary Rossiter came down the stairs of the hotel that evening she was consciously lonely. Freudenstadt is a delightful place in the day-time, but its “night-life” is a little limited. Apart from Spielsaal it is about as lively as an English county town of the same size. There was the band in the Square, he Cinema and the rather dull assortment of people staying the hotel. In the lounge she found Mrs Westerton, • whom she had met the previous day. “My dear,” the old lady said. “You look lovely.” “I’ve been to some marvellous lake—really don’t know its name —right up n the mountains.” “With the German officer?” “Yes. Kurt Eidenmuller.” “Do sit down —take mercy on a lonely old woman.” “Of course I will. Would you mind if I shared your table tonight?” “I was wondering how I could suggest it. Lonely old women in hotels are notoriously such bores.” “Nonsense . . as far as you are concerned, anyway.” “What do you think of the Lieutenant?” “He’s rather a dear, as a matter of fact. Just a big boy. A little too serious.”

“He’s in love with you, of course? Forgive an old woman’s curiosity.” “I fancy that he is. At least that he thought so. He’s been moved away to Munich. He leaves tonight.” “Or it might have been a romance?” Mary shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t think so. He was only a boy. Shall we go in?” “You will have some wine, my child? Just a half bottle? I only drink water.” “I’d rather have lemonade, please.” “Are you staying long?” the old lady asked. “I may go on almost at once. I rather though of going to Switzerland." “You’ve nothing definite?” “No. I lost my job in London suddenly and came over here on the spur of the moment. I shall have to go back fairly soon to get another one.” “What were you? Forgive my curiosity once more, but when you are old all you have left is curiosity.” “I was the secretary of the head of a big firm. It was my first job. I’d come down from Cambridge a short time before. You see, I speak Spanish, French and German.” “And you lost the job?” Mary nodded: “Yes. My boss died. The new boss was a much younger one • —his son —and things were a little difficult.” “And your family?” “I have none. I’m quite alone. My father died a few months ago. He was a doctor.” “I wonder . .” the old lady said. “Look here,” she went on suddenly. “I’m quite a wealthy old woman. I need a companion. Would you care to take on the job even if it were only for a month or so?” f “Well . . ” Mary temporised.

“I know it sounds pretty terrible, but I'm quite cheerful and I don’t need a nurse. When I say a companion I mean it. And I’m quite reasonable. Whenever you want a day or an evenoff you have it. I would pay you thirty pounds a month and all your expenses. We might even take a car and wander about.”

“It isn’t a thing one can decide on the spur of the moment,” Mary said.

“If course not. But it does seem to fit in. I’m lonely. You’re out of a job. without ties. Why not try it for a month or so? If it doesn’t work—if you can’t stand me or if I can’t stand you—l’ll give you a first class ticket to London from whatever place we’re in, whenever you ask for it.”

“The ticket I’ve got is good for —sixty days, I think it is.” “Anyway, think it over. I’m a very pleasant, understanding old body, really, thought I say it as shouldn’t.”

“It seems to me to be a most extraordinarily generous offer.”

“I don’t know. I’ve far more money than I need. My dear husband doubled his fortune in the war years.” “I’ll certainly think it over.”

“You' see, my child. I don’t come down until lunch and I usually trot off to bed by nine or half-past. But I do like to have someone with me in the afternoon. I thoroughly enjoyed our little trip to Fribourg, for example, and I like someone with me at meal times. Someone I can talk to, someone who can talk. I know I can get ordinary companions two a penny, but I’d rather be without them.”

“I’ll try it for a few weeks,” Mary said with a smile.

“No. Think it over and tell me in the morning. I should very much like to take you to Innsbruck and to Buda.” “But have you no relations?” “Yes,” the old lady said. “A nephew and his wife. I dislike both of them intensely. A lot of my money must go to the nephew when I croak. He’s waiting for it. It’s his main occupation.”

“He doesn’t sound very pleasant.” “We write to each other at Christmas. What, are you doing this even-

ing?” “I’ve no plans.” “You’ve been in a car all the afternoon, or I’d suggest a moonlight run through the pine woods. That garage will send me a car at a moment’s notice. There’s a good German film at the cinema—a U.F.A. picture. I saw it last night. Why don’t you run along and see it?”

“Will you come again?” “No, thanks. But I’ve a splendid book I’m reading. Thank goodness that so far I can read hour after hour without the slightest discomfort.” “I don’t see what you want a ‘companion’ at all for. Surely her main duty is to read?”

“The main duty of my companion is to be a companion. To talk, to have ideas. To argue. To keep me in touch, as far as it is possible, with youth. Now run along. I’ll ask Rothberg to reserve your seat at the cinema. Sometimes it is crowded. When you get there ask for the seat Herr Rothberg reserved. And I’ll see you at lunch time tomorrow!” The film was a German version :of Joan the Maid. It was perfectly done, but one could not avoid the fact that it was German. Joan herself was intensely Teutonic. This film and the news reel constituted the entertainment, but the news reel was even more German than the big film. The seats, moreover, were very uncomfortable, and at the end of the show Mary missed the playing of the national anthem. The audience filed out in silence.

The night that awaited her outside was magical, even for the Black Forest. A velvet sky was studded with diamond stars; the air, particularly after the atmosphere of the cinema, was positively exhilarating.

Slowly she walked up the path leading to the hotel. The more she thought over Mrs Westerman’s sugestion the more attractive it appeared, although, viewed- in cold blood, it was not a particularly dignified job for a graduate of St Hilda’s to take. But did dignity matter? And she could always get out of it. To go back to London, to get another job—possibly, indeed probably, at a less salary than she had received in the old one — was far less attractive than spending the rest of the summer, say, with Mrs Westerton.

Innsbruck, she had mentioned. And Buda. And she really was an amusing old lady. If it petered out, there were always jobs going in London. There was just that question of personal dignity. "Confound dignity!” she said, suddenly, aloud. She had made up her mind and at lunch the following day told Mrs Westerton that if she hadn’t thought better of her offer she would take it. “Thank you,” Mrs Westerton said simply. “Then you start from today. I suspect that we’re both the least bit tired of Freudenstadt?” “I don’t know. It’s very beautiful." “Shall we stay over the week-end and then make our way by easy stages to Innsbruck? You really should see Innsbruck.” “I’d love it.”

That evening, Mary Rossiter wrote to Anthony McCarthy and told him of the change in her plans. It was a carefully written letter; she wished to be quite certain that he, at least, did not question the dignity of what she had done. Having written it, she realised that it would be difficult for him to reply, so she asked him to write to her “Poste Restante,” Innsbruck.

She decided to keep on her flat and asked him to pay the rest for her and to arrange with the caretaker’s wife to look in occasionally and see that things were in order. So long as she had a place of her own, she felt that she still had roots in England. Mrs Westerton improved, on acquaintance. She had a fund of anecdote and the gift of telling a good story well. She had met many famous people—had been a young woman in the nineties. She had met Whistler, had talked with Whistler. There was a portrait in pastel of her by him in a Chicago art gallery. In spite of the years, she remained strangely youthful in her outlook and her tolerance was exceptional. Nurembourg, Ratisbon and smaller towns which Mary had never heard, formed the background of the most wonderful holiday she had ever had, and during those weeks Mary imbibed much of the wise old lady’s philosophy. Some of her views were rather surprising. “Men?” she said one day at lunch, in response to something Mary had said. “I like men. I always did like men. They’re simple and in some ways very pig-headed, but taking them all in all I like them. Even the clever ones, though they can be a little trying.” This made Mary smile. “I prefer the clever ones,” she said. “That is because you can hold your own with them,” the old lady pointed out.

“I’m perfectly certain that you could.”

"There’s a great deal to be said for a pleasantly stupid one, my dear. He's less exhausting and far more dependable. Particularly if you’re thinking of marrying him. I knew many of the cleverest men in London in the nineties —and it was a clever time—but I didn't marry one of them.” At Innesbruck a letter from Anthony McCarthy awaited Mary.

“Your orders have been carried out to the best of my pool- ability. The caretaker's wife is keeping everything aired," he wrote. "She asserts that you can walk into the flat at a moment's notice.

“I think you’ve acted very wisely, if I may say so. After all, one gets a very narrow view in a city office. I know I do. More than ever, I wish I were back on the land. Sometimes as I look at the fusty documents around me, I feel inclined to get up and just walk out. One of these days I shall. I’m not going to spend the rest of my days in an office and I'm delighted to find that you have escaped.

“Do send me a post card occasionally or. if you have ten minutes to spare a letter.” She read the letter with an odd feeling. (To be Continued).