TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 24 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 XL—Continued. With her breakfast, the maid brought in a letter from McCarthy. She experienced a queer thrill when she recognised his writing and did not for a minute or so open the letter. It was written from the bungalow on the farm in Kent. “My dear Mary (he had written), “We could hardly be in more dissimilar places. I am writing at a window over-looking the rolling English fields and there is not a house in view. You are in Monte Carlo. Once, some years ago, I was there, but my memory of it is blurred. Would you rather live there or in Russia? Or in England—either in the real England or in your flat in Red Lion . Square? After all, that’s the test of a place. Could you live there? “So far I’ve steadily lost money here, but I’m convinced that with greater experience we shall do rather better. “Still, I love the life and I’ve never felt better physically. Spiritually, one becomes a little depressed at times There is a charm in solitude, but solitude can so easily sink into loneliness and there’s a world of difference. “You will not forget that you promised to come down here and ‘make me an omelette when you return.’ At the moment you can choose from several hundreds of eggs. “I’ve just bought another tractor; the other had qualified for its old age pension. “Let me know when you’re returning. “And in any case don’t quite forget, Your friend, Anthony McCarthy.” Her letter was still on the table by the bed . . unsealed. She added a postscript to it to the effect that she was probably coming to London next week. CHAPTER XII Her truly American parents raised no opposition to Laurette’s wish to return to London with Mary Rossiter. “You got your cheque book?’ Poppa said. “And you know where the American Express office is in London. You’ll be okay.” Momma was inclined to be tearful but she quite understood. “We’ll be seeing you,’ she said. “I’ve had almost enough of trotting about Europe.” The two girls had meant to break their journey in Paris, but decided to go on by the night boat. Mary was quite willing to be home again, and Laurette was desperately anxious to be near Murdock. He had no idea they were returning: “No. I’ll just ring him up,” Laurette said. “And see if he recognises my voice. He should, don’t you think?” Mary smiled: “You silly child!” she said. “But wouldn’t your boy-friend?” “Anthony McCarthy? As a matter of fact he does . . usually. Not that I’ve had occasion to telephone to him very often.’ “I can’t understand the elaborate air of casualness you put on about that young man,” Laurette complained. “You’re as fond of him as I am of John.”

“I’m certainly fond of him.” “I’ll say you are! He wants gingering up, if you ask me.” “I can imagine no process that would irritate him more,” Mary smiled. Indeed, during that journey home Mary smiled regularly at intervals of a minute or so. The American girl’s fresh outlook —her naive natural desire for Murdock’s company, her quaint turn of phrase, her unshakeable assumption that Mary was hopelessly in love with her “boy-friend,” made the journey across the dark plains of Northern France a record in apparent quickness. They walked on the upper deck in the moonlight, slept in the train to Victoria, and had breakfast in the excellent buffet at that station. “Doesn’t it thrill you to be home, to be back in your own London?” demanded Laurette. “I love the smell of London,” Mary replied. “Well . . of all ridiculous reasons for liking a place! You English are funny.” “I don’t know what it is, but it’s like the smell or no other city on earth. Come on. We’ll get a taxi to my flat. I’ve warned you it’s just a working girl’s flat. There’s no maid; we shall have to fend for ourselves.” ■ “Gee! I’m going to love it. I’ve never been on my own in my life. You mean we’ll have to do the cooking?”

“Unless we go out for meals. The caretaker’s wife does the rough work.” “It’s going to be swell.” “If you find it too stuffy and shut in, we’ll clear out.”

“It’s going to be swell,” the American girl repeated firmly.

The caretaker and his wife were taken completely by surprise, but true to their contract, the flat was in excellent order.

“ ’Op round the corner, Bill,” she ordered her husband, “and get some fl’ars. Roses. Now, Miss, I’ll soon have you to rights.”

The windows were flung open, the stuffiness inseparable from rooms long unoccupied dissipated, the fire lit in the sitting room — “A poor little place, but mine own,” said Mary, when at last she and Laurette were alone. “It’s yours You can lock it up and leave it and come back when you darn well want to?” “Sure —er, yes,” said Mary. “I want one like it. I’m going to talk to Poppa about it just as soon as I see him.” “It can be very lonely, my dear,” Mary said. She had been going through a mass of what the American girl called “mail.” Mostly it consisted of circulars and catalogues, but there were a few letters. And three of them bore German stamps. “What’s wrong?” Laurette asked. “Nothing. Just letters from a German friend.” “That officer you told me about?” Mary nodded. She opened the letter with the earliest postmark, and glanced through it. “He’s coming to London,” she said as she glanced at the second letter. ' “He’s apparently in London,” she went on as she read the third. “This isn’t the boy friend. As I’ve told you.” “Nonsense. What’s this guy’s name? Eidenmuller?” “Kurt Eidenmuller. Apparently he’s been in London for several days. I wonder if he’s been here?” She turned to the telephone and spoke to the caretaker’s office. “Have there been any messages for me, Mrs Roylance?” she asked. “Telephone or caller.” “I’m sorry, Miss, I forgot. A for- . eign gentleman called here. I didn’t know your address, so I couldn’t give it to him.” “Did he give you his name?” “Well —he did. He left a card, but where it is I can’t think. I’ll have a look for it, Miss. Eiderduck it was, or something.” “That’s all right, Mrs Roylance, don’t you worry. It doesn’t matter.” “Yes. He’s been here,” she went on as she replaced the receiver and turned to her friend. “We seem fated either not to meet or tg meet for an hour or so. But I wonder what he’s doing in London?” “Search me!” said Laurette. “I’m going to ’phone to John’s office.”' “You have his number?” “Sure: Always have a boy friend’s number. It’s the first move in the game.” Mary listened to half the conversation which followed. “Put me through to Mr John Murdock,” Laurette said. “Hallo, John,” she said a moment later. “You darling,’ she went on. “Fancy your recognising my voice.” She turned triumphantly to where Mary was watching. “In the Strand? At one o’clock? Sure I’ll be there; I’m as hungry as a hunter, anyway.” “Well, that’s that!” she said as she turned away from the ’phone. “I’m meeting him for lunch. Outside the Gaiety Theatre. I didn’t catch where he wanted to eat, but he said it was very English.” “I know it. In the Strand,” said Mary. “You’d better get a move on and make yourself look smart.” “Leave it to me, girlie. I shall be with him in . . eighty-two minutes. Look here, you don’t mind my clearing off like this?”

“Would it make much difference if I did?” “You’re swell.” Laurette said and kissed the English girl. “But what are you going to do?” “I’ve got to get the flat habitable first. Get food in and so on. I’m a housewife when I’m here. Like to bring him back here for tea? Here's a key anyway.” “He may have to go back to the office.”

“Men must work and women must weep,’ ” Mary smiled as she quoted. Mary, indeed, was happier than she had been for weeks. The things about her were her own; she could do with them as she willed. Such as they were they expressed her personality, were what she liked. And they were balm after a long series of impersonal rooms in hotels. Three and four o'clock came with no sign of Laurette. The flat was shipshape to her satisfaction and she was wondering what she would do when she heard the bell of the outer door of the flat. Curious . . Laurette had a key. She was still wearing an overall — actually an attractive garment in “smocked” mauve linen —when she opened the door to find . . Kurt Eidenmuller. “I felt you’d be in today,” he said. “Did you? Come inside.’ “Yes,” he went on grimly. “I return to Germany tonight.” He was dressed in a dark-grey flannel suit which had obviosly been made by a London tailor —and a good London tailor —and a soft felt hat. “But what are you doing in London?” she asked.

“I’m on a mission—as they call it — at the Embassy here.” “I’ll make some tea,” she said. “Not for me, Mary. I never drink it.” “Coffee, then?" “Don’t worry. It's you I want. Have you come back for good?” “For the time being. But do sit down. I’ll take of this ridiculous overall.” “It’s very charming,” he said gravely. “We only got back this morning.” “We?” he asked sharply. “Yes. Laurette Costairs, an American girl I met in Avignon, is with me.” “She is here . . yes?” “No. But I’m expecting her in any minute.” “That is rather my business, Kurt, she said quietly. “I am sorry.” “But do let me make some coffee . .” “Please. I will watch you. Never again will you do anything for me. It will be a memory.” Gravely he watched her as she moved about the little kitchen. “If I’d known you were coming I’d have made you some scones.” “Scones?” “A Scots’ word . . a kind of cake . “So? I shall always remember you like this ...” Instinctively Mary smoothed the overall. “I must look a positive sight,” she said. “A good sight,” he replied, still’with the same gravity of manner. “You would have made a good wife. It is a pity.” “Mary,” he burst out. “I want you to marry me. I love you . . and I'm leaving London at nine o’clock tonight. Always I’m with you for an hour or so and then . . we go.” “It is odd,” she admitted. “But will you marry me? My mother would like you to stay with her until we are married.” “I’m sorry, Kurt," she said. “But it is quite out of the question. It would mean that I should become a German.” “Ja!” he said. “Quite apart from the fact that I don’t love you.” “But you will,” he urged. “I will make you love me.” She shook her head. “It is better to be frank. I love someone else.” He jerked up almost as if she had struck him. She, too, was silent, a little overcome by the admission which she had never made before, even to herself.

“So,” he said, in a queer guttural j tone. “I did so want to be your friend,” 1 she said. He sipped the coffee she had made. . “It is good,” he said. “You will dine with me this evening?” “It is better not, Kurt, really.” “For the last time. I do not think our paths will cross again. And I go at nine o’clock.” “If would really like me to.” “Will you meet me early this evening? Say at half-six?” “Six-thirty? Yes. Come here for me.” “I will go now. I have to say farewell to someone at the Embassy. Perhaps you will see me off? For old time’s sake, as you say?” “If you wish. You are not flying back?” “No It is a pity, but I have certain official records with me and it is forbidden.” “Anyway, you’ll be here at half-past-six?” He clicked his heels together in a grave salute and turned to the door. The interview left Mary very thoughtful. Her casual reference to the man she loved almost frightened her. But there, alone in her little flat with the subdued hum of the great city outside, she knew that she did love Anthony McCarthy, him and none other. Supposing he looked upon her as she looked on Kurt Eidenmuller—just as a friend. She had no reason for thinking otherwise. Never by word or deed had he suggested any deeper interest in her. This love business was a nuisance. There were people who loved once . . . and for them that was the end. Once Anthony had loved the poor girl who had died in Davos. But that was years ago. In any case she could do nothing. A man like Kurt Eidenmuller could ask the girl he was in love with and get the matter settled. But a girl was different. She made an impatient gesture. This 1 was maudlin nonsense; what she needed was a job, something to use up her < energy and prevent her dwelling on things. Anthony McCarthy was in all probability very happy in the life he had chosen for himself; she, too, must so organise her life. Probably, she decided, it was all due to watching Laurette fall in love so completely. The thing was catching, she decided, with a smile. Just then she heard the sound of Laurette’s key in the outer door of the flat. “Mary!” she called. “Hallo. Come along in.” Murdock was with her. “I say, this is absolutely sporting of you,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for you I don’t suppose Laurette would have been here at all.” (To be Continued.)