TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 11 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. Having taken a room at the Pavilion Hotel, she goes for a stroll in the pine woods of the Black Forest, where, to her surprise, she encounters LIEUTENANT KURT EIDENMULLER. whom she had known while at Cambridge. He is in love with her and takes her to dances and other places of amusement. Marie likes him immensely, but only as a friend. After only a few hours of their meeting, Kurt Eidenmuller has to part, having received an order from his regiment to gq to Munich immediately. In the hotel where Mary is staying she makes the acquaintance of a very wealthy old Englishwoman of seventyeight. MRS. WESTERTON likes Mary and takes her as a companion at thirty pounds a month. Mrs Westerton, so she tells Mary, has no relatives except her nephew and his wife, who live in England. She hates them both.

For some days they tour in Germany, and, on Mary’s suggestion, go to Davos. On arrival at Davos, Mary goes to the Gunther Institute to see Evelyn, McCarthy’s wife. The nurse tells her Evelyn died three days ago and that McCarthy who had come for the funeral, is staying,at the Phoenix Hotel. ” Mary 'is shocked at the news, and when she goes back to her hotel tells Mrs Westerton all about the misfortune of her friend and solicitor. McCarthy. Mrs Westerton asks Mary to ring up at once as she wants to meet him to do some business. Mary does so, but she is told McCarthy is out. Leaving a message to call as soon at he returns, Mary goes for a walk. (Now Read On). CHAPTER V—Continued, He nodded: “Supposing she were seriously ill, what would you do?” “That’s what I’ve wondered. ' She lias no relations excepting a nephew whom she seems to dislike.’-’

"In several little things she wants us to act for her. If you are worried let me know. It’s very strange that she has no regular solicitor of her own. She seems to manage her own affairs quite well, though.’

“If all goes well we shall be in London in September. She goes there every year to adjust her money matters. Apparently the bank manager manages it all for her during the rest of the year.” He nodded: “I had rather a long talk with her. I’m very glad I ran into you at Davos. I don’t think I’ve been at such a loose end in my life. Poor Evelyn’s death has left me . . stranded. So long as she was here one had an objective—one had to make money. Now money has ceased to have any real importance. That farm of mine . . it’s a lovely life even if there’s not a great deal to it.”

“I’ve rather given up the thing I set out to do . . the business career,” she said, a little wistfully. “Sometimes I feel a coward. One rebuff . . and I clutched at the first way out.” “You're still absurdly young,” he said, “And you still have your languages.”

Mrs Westerton decided that she did not want any dinner, that all she did want was a pot of black coffee, her bed and her book.

“It isn’t good for you,” Mary protested. “My dear, by the time you are my age, you really do know what you want. I’m going to have a really restful evening.” “But Mr McCarthy? You asked him to dine here.”

“Surely you can hold the fort in my absence? The poor man is very down. Try and cheer him up. I like him very much.”

“I know its not the slightest use arguing with you,” Mary complained. “Not the slightest,” the old lady admitted. “Once my mind is made up. Joking apart, I'm not feeling up to the mark.”

“I know. And I’m worried about you.”

Mrs Westertorj. smiled: “It’s so long since I had anyone who was worried about me. Now run along. Put on a pretty frock and let me see how you look before you go down. And remember, don’t be lugubrious with the poor man. Cheer him up. No use blinking at the fact that while death is always sad, it’s very often a happy relief.”

“I think he misses her terribly.” “She’s been here for years, remember. It isn’t as if they were an ordin ary married couple.” Hence it fell out that Mary Rossite; and McCarthy dined alone that even ign in that pleasant Davos hotel. Mar; did her best to cheer him but was ver? doubtful whether she had succeeded He seemed quieter than usual and rath er shut in on himself.

He went quite, early: “Good-bye!” he said. “I’m a dull dog this evening. But let.me know when you come to London, won’t you?” “Of course,” she smiled.

He left Mary in a consciously dissatisfied mood. She felt that she had failed. She had wanted to help him, to cheer him.

Slowly she went up the stairs to Mrs Wester + <m’q room. The reading-lamp was still on. bu+ +he hook hart fallen fn the floor Fhe swbebed off the light

and in the darkness a voice asked:

“That you, Mary?” “Yes. I though you were asleep.” “So I was, nearly.” The old lady stretched out her hand and switched on the light. “You might get me a spot of brandy, Mary,” she said. “Aren’t you well?” “H’s nothing. My heart’s jumping rather. There’s brandy in the travelling case.” | Mary sat on the bed as the old ladj sipped the brandy and water. “I rather think I shall go back to England earlier than I had anticipated, my dear,” Mrs Westerton said. “I should like a few weeks in the cottage at Mossford.” “Just as you wish. It seems a pity to have that cottage and never use it. Let’s go.” “We will. That’s better,” she went on as she replaced the glass. “Turn the light out and trot along. Goodnight.” Mary adjusted the old lady's pillows and left her for the night. Alone in the darkness of her own room, she was awake far longer than she usually was. She was thinking, and her thoughts were of Anthony Mc-

Carthy. But a girl’s thoughts in the still small hours are her own. Mrs Westerton’s cottage proved to be a pleasant little modern house on the edg of a Hertfordshire common. It was “run” by an old servant of hers and Mrs Skeggs was primly waiting at the front door for them. “You look very tired, Mum,” she said as her mistress alighted. “I am, Sarah. I’m going to bed.” And to bed she went. Mrs Skeggs brought in Mary’s tea. “I’m glad she’s come home,” she said. “She’s been away ten months.” “What do you think of her?” Mary asked. “Her health, I mean?” “She looks real ill, Miss.” “So I thought. She won’t see a doctor.”

“Dr Anton will be here, Miss, as soon as he knows she’s back. They're old friends.”

“Then I think you should let him know she’s back. We had a very difficult journey. She was very ill in Paris. Her heart seems to be giving out.” “She spoke very ’ighly of you, Miss, in her letters.” “I’m very fond of her.” “She’s never took to anybody like she has to you since ’er husband died. Five yeai-s ago. It knocked her all endways.” “I suppose we should let her nephew know she’s back?” “Don’t you, Miss, without her telling you to, if you will excuse me. She wouldn’t thank you.” “But he’s her only relation.” “I know. She’s a very strong-mind-ed old lady, Miss, and she’s not partial to Mr John, nor to Mrs John. “I gathered that.” Mrs Westerton seemed better the following morning and at lunch Mary mentioned a matter which she thought should be discussed. ' “Now that you're home again, I suppose you won’t want me fussing round you and longer?” she suggested.

“What’s that? Don’t be absurd,” the old lady said in alarm. “But will you?” “Of course I shall. Look here, my dear. I want you to stay. I know it’s selfish, but it won’t be for long.” “Whatever do you mean?” / “Just that. I’ve come home.” “You musn’t talk nonsense,” Mary said firmly. The old lady smiled. “You know that I don’t.” At tea time, not altogether to Mary’s surprise, Dr Anton called. “I heard you were back,” he said as he came. “You naughty old woman! You should have let me know you were coming.” “This is my friend. Miss Rossiter,” Mrs Westerton said. “Dr Anton, Miss Rossiter.”

Mary admired the clever way in which the doctor elicited the facts of her recent indisposition from Mrs Westerton, and when he went she walked through the garden with him to his car.

“I’m glad you called,” she said. “I've been rather nervous about her.” “She’s difficult where her own health is concerned. She is apt to resent illness. It’s curious attitude.” “Twice on the way home from Davos I thought she was going to collapse.” He nodded. That night—or rather the following morning—Mary was awakened by a harp cry. She hurried to Mrs Weserton’s room to find that the light .vas on. The old lady’s eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily. Mary got brandy and forced it between her lips and then, having called Mrs Skeggs. ’phoned for the doctor. Mrs Westerton died very soon after he came. “Heart.” he said. “I suspected it this afternoon. It was rather bad two years ago. when I last examined her.” “Poor dear," said Mary. “She was kind.” He nodded. Mrs Skeggs was sniffing audibly. “You go back to bed now." the doctold Mary. “I will see that everything necessary is done.” ’nhonod to McCarthy nt now o'clock. j

“I'll come down,” he said. “It may not be until the afternoon, but I'll be there.” Mrs Skeegs came in as she replaced the receiver. “I suppose we must let Mr John know, Miss?” “Of course. I'll ring him up.” “Can I speak to Mr Westerton?" Mary asked when she had the number. "Who's speaking?" a woman’s voice replied. "Miss Rossiter.” “Who?” “But where are you speaking from?” “Mossford. Mrs Westerton and I got back yesterday from Switzerland. Can I speak to Mr Westerton, please?” “He’s not in. I'm Mrs Westerton.” “Mrs Westerton, you must be prepared for a shock. Your aunt died early this morning.” “My husband and I will come over at once. You understand, of course—and you will please give Mrs Skeggs to understand —that nothing is to be touched until we arrive?” “Quite.” siad Mary and without further formality hung up the receiver. The nephew's wife gave promise of being as unpleasant as Mary had been led to expect. She and her husband reached the cottage at lunch time. He was a little fellow with dark, beady suspicious eyes, and his wife a thin, acidulated-looking woman with very linht blue eyes. At a glance Mary Roscifoy disliked them both. (To be Continued).