TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 16 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.)

CHAPTER VIII. She enjoyed it immensely without taking the big German officer seriously. Towards the end of the evening his compliments were perhaps a little exaggerated, but they were young, the floor and the orchestra perfect and in an hour or so he would once again be swept out of her life. At half-past twelve Wilmot said he was going: “I’m an old man,” he said. “And it is already too late for me. But don’t you come, Miss Rossiter, if you would care to stay on for an hour.” “Thank you, but I’ll come too,” she said. “I am at your service,” the Lieutenant said. “Thanks all the same but I’m,tired. I enjoyed it immensely, though.” He clicked his heels together and bowed a little stiffly: “I thank you sir,” he said to Wilmot, “for your kindness. Auf wiedersehen!” “Nice lad,” said Wilmot, when they were outside. “He dances divinely,” was Mary’s comment. Eidenmuller was waiting for her when she entered the vestibule at twelve-thirty the next morning, and for the second time she saw him in uniform. “I’ve been thinking of you all the night,” he said. “That was very silly of you.” “But I couldn’t help it. Have you any preference where you would lunch?” “No. I have been in Berlin a few hours only.” “Then we will go to a little restaurant in the Tiergarten. It is pleasant there and one can talk. There is no orchestra there.” “Just as you wish.” He was strikingly handsome in uniform. It made him seem even bigger than he did in mufti. He obtained a table on the balcony, overlooking the park. “Strange that we should have met as we have done,” he said, suddenly as he held a light for her cigarette when the meal was over. “In what way? It seemed quite an ordinary meeting to me.” “Cambridge, Freudenstadt . . . and now Berlin. I have not been here for months. I come for a day or so only and in the last place I should expect it I meet you . . .” “It was rather an odd coincidence.”

“It- was more than that,” he said quickly. “From the first moment I saw you in that ancient hall in Cambridge I have loved you and none other. Of all women you are the one for me.”

“I don’t agree,” she said. “Even if I loved you . . .” “I believe that you do,’ he said quietly.

“I don’t. It is better to put it blunt- ; ly. I like you. I’m glad I met you • again. But even if I loved you a mar- ! riage between us would exceedingly unwise.” "And why, Mary?” he asked. “We belong to different civilisations, to different races.” “So! But your race is largely German. The Saxons . . look at your : place names. Many of them purely German. Sitting here you would pass for a German girl. And I flatter myself that in London I am not conspicuously a German. You speak my language better than I do.” “But lam English. I love England.” “Surely. In a way I do, too.” “Not in the same way. You love Germany. You would, if necessity arose, die for Germany. And if I married you, you would expect me to become German?” “Not more than you are already. It would call for very little adjustment.” She shook her head: “The similarities you speak of are superficial; the differences I see are profound. You’ve read Nietzsche?” He nodded in surprise. “I spoke of Nietzsche because a phrase of his comes back to me: ’Man was made for war and woman for the relaxation of the warrior.’ ” “He was mad,” he protested. “He died in a madhouse.” “But how many of your countrymen believe in the truth of the phrase I quoted?” He shrugged his shoulders: “I have only an hour or so with you, little one,” he said. “Then I go out from your life again. Back to my duties in Munich. Why argue about an alleged philosopher who is a back number anyway. Most Anglo-German marriages have been successful. I love you as I have never loved and never shall love again.” “It wouldn’t do, my friend. I do not love you.” “There is another man?” She hesitated, a moment: “Not exactly,” she said. “Marriage is not the sole outlet for the modern, educated woman!” “Will you come to Munich? Will you stay with my mother? She would love you.” “I’m not going to Munich this journey at all,’ she said. “Do you stay long here? I might manage to get u p for a week-end.” “No. Only a short time. I’m going to Russia.”

“I’m beginning to think I don’t know very much about you,” he said in amazement.

“You don’t. You hardly know me at all.” “But I love you.” “Perhaps, because you don’t know me,” she smiled. “And I want to marry you, Mary.” “Apart from anything else . .” she said again. “Go on,” he interrupted her with a smile. “I don’t know what’s coming but I’ll try and stand up to it.” “Apart from anything else, you’re far too good-looking ever to make a satisfactory husband. Particularly in uniform.” “I never quite know when you are joking,” he complained. “I don’t joke very often. What time does your train leave?” “At ten o’clock. And when shall we meet again?” She shrugged her shoulders: “We seem to have a habit of running across each other in unexpected places.” “If you will dance with me tonight at the Femina, I will fly back to Munich at dawn.” “It isn’t worth it,” she said. “It sounds a frightfully romantic thing to do, bu| I’m not a romantic person. I’m very matter-of-fact. I was up very late last night and I go to bed early tonight. So should you.” “You don’t want to see me again?” There was genuine surprise in his voice as if the possibility had shocked him. “Why ever not? You’re quite amusing.” “You laugh. Always you laugh at me,” he complained. “No, I don’t. I am quite willing to be your friend.” “Friend?” he echoed, and for a while they walked in silence. “No. I cannot be your friend,” said. “I love you. Love and friendship are poles apart.”

“It is a great pity if they are,” she said. “Here we are, back at my hotel.” He went to the door with her. “Good-bye!” he said. “I love you.” And, gravely, they shook hands. . $ She watched him go down the broad steps to the sunlit pavement before she turned back into the softly-lit vestibule of the hotel. It had been an amusing interlude. Eidenmuller was exceptionally handsome and, in some ways, she liked him tremendously. But she was under no illusions. She was no more in love with him than she was with any of the other handsome men she had met. Idly, she looked at the letter rack. There was a letter in number one hundred and fifty-two —her number. It was from McCarthy.

A friendly, business letter telling her of what he had done in connection with the house on Mossford Common, and hoping she was having a pleasant time and assuring her of his services. It was signed, “Yours faithfully, Anthony McCarthy.” She smiled as she read it. If Anthony McCarthy had asked her to marry him what would she have said? She wondered, but deep down she knew. But he hadn’t. He was her friend. Was Eidenmuller right? Were love and friendship mutually exclusive? She went out after dinner to one of th big cinemas in Berlin. She saw a German film called "1916.” which introduced certain war scenes, the sheer realism of which made one shiver. They were too serious, these Germans, she decided. One felt the need of a film that had no purpose other than to make one laugh. There was too little laughter both in and out of the cinema. She got back to her hotel just before eleven o’clock and went at once to her room. It was a mass of red roses —evidently Kurt Eidenmuller’s last gesture before he left for Munich. CHAPTER IX. A day or so later she left Berlin for Warsaw, where she spent the weekend. A depressing city, she thought, and on the Monday morning, armed with certain letters of introduction Ferdinand Wilmot had given to her, she entered the train that was destined, after a long and queerly comfortable journey, to takei her to Moscow. Here she found herself in a world that was, in many respects, new, but although she spent three weeks the impression it left on her was vague. Everywhere one sensed experiment. In literature, in art, in education, in architecture, in morals. Much of it was exhilarating, much abortive. She witnessed a great military review and wandered in the parks. There was an intentness, a sense of strain that worried her. Everyone was so desperately anxious that she should admire all that she saw. And to one with an educated, critical mind, unqualified admiration is not always easy. Things seemed to have been pulled up by the roots and replanted. Here and there a lusty, hopeful growth was evident; here and there the fruit seemed a long way off. But it was a people who had forgotten or had never known how to ; laugh and one day the secret of the Englishman’s superiority dawned on ; her. He can laugh at himself. (To be Continued).