TWO MEN AND MARY

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 May 1938, Page 12

TWO MEN AND MARY

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

HOLLOWAY HORN.

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

CHAPTER XIII. (Continued.) “She’s engaged to the son of a Sir Halliday Murdock—the banker. She met him in Monte Carlo.” “I once met Sir Halliday. If the son has his father’s brains he’s lucky.” “They fell hopelessly in love with each other.” “I rather hoped you would have written to me more frequently on your travels,” he said with a smile. “There was so little to say. You did not want a bit of a guide book.’ “No. That is true. I didn’t But I did want to know what you were doing, whom you were meeting, the people you were interested in.” “Your own letters were . . . almost impersonal.” “Yes. But my life is unexcitingone day so like another. You were in the romantic places of the world, Moscow, Monte Carlo . . . .” “And I’ve come back, in the end, to London.” . “Another romantic place,” he pointed out. “I want to come down one day and see this farm of yours.” “All you have to do is to name the day. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to show you over my estate,!’ he said, with a smile. “What about Saturday?” “You can get a train from Charing Cross at eleven-thirty. Or is that too early?” “No. I get out at Edenford?” “And there I will meet you.” When Laurette returned to the flat at a quarter to six McCarthy was gone. “Where is he?” she asked. “Gone. I’m going down to see his farm on Saturday. What do you think of him?” “I liked him. He’s not a man I should choose to marry myself.” “I’m glad. I rather wanted him,” Mary smiled. “Not that I’m likely to get him,” she went on. “And why not?” “Because he doesn’t want me.” “There are times,” said the American girl, “When you English make me tired.” “Go on, I’ll buy it,” said Mary. “Why did he come rushing up here today?” i “To see me. We had one or two business matters to discuss. Until quite recently he was my lawyer. “Lawyer nothing,” snapped Laurette. “The man’s in love with you as you are with him.” “I wish I thought so.’ “There’s no doubt that the fact that he’s lost his wife is making him into a strong silent man. Otherwise he would have talked before this.” “He was once in love with her.” “Years ago. She was an invalid for years, poor soul,” Laurette pointed out. “But it isn’t right that a man should be living alone on a farm like that. He’ll go all queer if he isn’t careful.” “I agree with you there. Still, it’s the life he likes.” “You would like it?” “Yes.” “Tucked away on a farm? Day after day with no one but the cows to talk to?” “He would be there. Wouldn’t you be happy with John there?” “He wouldn’t be there.” “That doesn’t answer the question,” Mary pointed out. “No. I don’t think I should, since you ask. But if John wanted that kind of life he would be a different man from what he is and I shouldn’t have met him in the first place or have fallen for him in the second.” “It’s a peaceful, effortless life.” “I suppose you’ll commune with nature in French and German? You are throwing away your education and your knowledge. It’s silly to ignore that side of it” “We should be within an hour or so of London. There are books and wireless.”

“And the flicks in the local theatre,” Laurette pointed out. “I wonder what he would think if he knew that we had been discussing him like this,” Mary said suddenly. “It isn’t fair. He’s always been my good friend and that is all he wants to be. I’ve spoilt things by falling in love with him.” “What are men for? What’s he working his heart out on that farm for-” Laurette demanded. “It’s his.life.” “Who has the farm when he croaks? Farmers always have children. Lots of children. It’s a natural law.” Mary smiled at her friend, but remained silent. “John and I plan to be married before my people go back home,” she said. “I’m open to take a bet with you that you’re married before us.” “How much?” said Mary. “Five pounds.” "It’s a bet!” said Mary. “And I’m no gambler.” Solemnly the American girl produced a tiny book from her bag and entered the details of the bet in it. “That’s twenty-five dollars for nix,” she said calmly as she closed her book with a snap. “John wants to take us both to dinner and a show tonight.” “I’m quite happy with a book.” “Book nothing. Go and put on your best frock. He’s calling for us at seven.” “But I hate playing gooseberry.” “You won’t. He’s bringing a boy friend.” During breakfast on the Saturday morning Laurette gave her hostess quite a lot of advice on the management of men, to all of which Mary listened with becoming gravity. “Good luck, anyway,” Laurette said as she kissed her friend. “We’ll be at the farm at seven o’clock.” Anthony McCarthy met her at Edenford station in a smart little car and drove slowly through the lovely Kentish lanes until he reached a newly-

made road which, but a short time before had been merely a farm track. “That’s the farm,” he said as they came to the top of a hill. He pulled up as he spoke. In the hollow beneath them, sheltered by the smooth Kent hills all round, nestled a red-roofed farm house in a group of trees. “It’s lovely!” she said. “You can’t see my bungalow,” he said. “It’s behind the farm in a small garden of its own.” “You don’t live at the farm; of course, I remember.” “No. The bailiff lives there. I kept him on when I came here. After all, I’ve been out of it so long that I’d forgotten most of the farming I ever knew.” “It’s a modern bungalow?” “Yes. I had it built. The farm is old-fashioned and it would have cost a great deal to modernise it.” “What kind of a man is the bailiff?.” “A good fellow. Better-class work-ing-man type.” He let in the clutch and the car slipped down the hill. The road skirted the farm house, which, like so many of those old picturesque places, was better from a distance. A little drlye led up to the secluded bungalow. “This isn’t the time to see it. You should come in the spring,” he said. “But, to such as it is, Mary, be welcome!” A verandah ran along the whole of the front of the building; there was a table and several deck chairs. “This verandah could be made a very attractive place,” she said. “Come inside.” He led the way to the big living room. It was a surprisingly large room with windows at the front and back. Several doors led from it. “I' had the place built to my own rough design,” he said. “It’s the sort of place you find out East.” She was looking round, standing just inside the room. “Who looks after you?” she asked. “A very excellent woman, the wife of one of the labourers. She comes in and get my breakfast and cleans up generally. I get my own lunch—usually bread and cheese and beer. And in the evening I very often run into the town and get a real meal at the pub there. It doesn’t take long.” “You’re on the ’phone, I know.” “Yes. And we have our own electric light, which is more than you have in Red Lion Square.” “Where are the eggs?” she asked. “I’m going to make an omelette.” “Oh, come!” he protested. “I meant to take you into the town.” “Nonsense. I’ve had all my meals for months past in hotels and restaurants. I love cooking.” “You’ll find it a bit difficult, I warn you. There’s no gas. We use oil.” “You can explain that to me.” “Well,” he smiled. “This is the kitchen. ,I’m not certain whether Mrs Bowler has gone.” He opened the door. “Yes,” he said, “she’s gone.” “It’s . . . clean,” Mary said. “Rather faint praise, surely?” he smiled. “It could be so much better. That small boiler’s for hot water*?’ “Yes. We have constant hot water,” he smiled. “But you could have had a range installed that would have given you quite as much hot water and done the cooking as well.” “That’s true. But with an oil stove you turn it out and it’s finished. Very often there’s nobody here for hours on end. The range would go out. “No. You can get one which you shut down; they become ordinary slowcombustion fires and keep alight as long as an ordinary boiler.” “I say, how technical we’re becoming.” “I’m very interested in homes and the running of them,” she said. “This is a side of your character I had not previously observed,” he said. “If you give me the name of the maker of that range I’ll have it installed.” “It’s no business of mine, of course,” she said, with sudden diffidence. “As a matter of fact, the cooking arrangements answer fairly well,” he said. “It isn’t that which is wrong with the place.” “Don’t misunderstand me I like it very much. It must be heavenly in spring and summer.”

“I like it. in the winter, too. You shut the doors and you shut out the world with its noise and struggle. When I think of those people in London—my fellow - lawyers—hectoring and squabbling over things which usually boil down to nothing, I am very satisfied with my lot.” “Anyway, I’m going to make an omelette. If you’ll light the stove.”

She watched him. In a matter of seconds the steady blue flame was giving off a heat which surprised her. After the meal they wandered round the farm together. She saw his horses, and his tractors, the palpitatingly modern arrangements for milking. . The farm had all been rebuilt and the whole place seemed to be modern and scientific and prosperous. “I want you to come up to that spinney on the hill,” he told her. “From that you can survey the whole domain. It’s full of blue-bells in the spring.” “Isn’t it sweet?” she said, when they reached the spinney. “Listen . . only the birds.”

He nodded. “My farm goes up to that belt of trees across there and on the other side down to the road you can see in the valley.” “It’s a big farm.” “And it's my own. I don’t possess very much more, but I do own this. It's been in my family for generations.” “Whatever made you bocome a lawyer?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Everybody said there was nothing in farm-

ing; I wanted to get to London . . . .” “Anyway, you’re back here again.” “It’s a bit lonely at times . .” Something in his tone stirred her. She looked at him suddenly to surprise a look in his blue eyes she had never seen before. “I’m lonely . . too,” she whispered. And the next moment she was in his arms, there in that enchanted wood on the top of an enchanted hill. “Mary!” he said. “I never dreamed “Nor did I. But I’ve loved you so long.” “You really could stand this life?” “I mean to,” she said. “When can we be married?” “Whenever you like.” “But the bungalow’s such a poor place.” “I love it. I shall bring all my furniture down from the flat.” “You mean to give that up?” “I mean to give everything up excepting you.” The minutes passed into hours. The dusk crept across the fields. “Look here,” he said, “you must be starving. Let’s go into the town and get a meal.” “No!” she said. “We’ll make some tea on the oil-stove. Besides, Laurette and her young man are coming for me at seven o’clock. I forgot to tell you.” “Then we’ll all go into the town.” Suddenly Mary smiled. “I owe Laurette five pounds,” she said. ' But she wouldn’t tell him, that evening, why. THE END.