HANDMAID TO FAME

Wairarapa Times-Age, 15 February 1939, Page 10

HANDMAID TO FAME

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT

COPYRIGHT.

BY

BERTA RUCK.

CHAPTER VII.

Continued. From being unstirred. Terry became exasperated. “You talked to Walter and Sylvia, before you said a word to me.” “Well my dear child. You can’t pretend that you didn’t see what was coming?” argued Clive. “Come, Terry, my dear. Last night at the Tattoo, when you took hold, of my arm with your little hand.” “Because of the thunder,” said Terry indignantly. “That first crash of thunder took me by surprise. I told you I grab hold of the nearest thing. —The railing, or a Boy Scout, or you.” “Thank you,” said Clive dryly. "Anyhow I was the first support, and very glad to be it. All I ask, dear, is to go on being it. Now, what about it?” More of the usual remarks. —“Clive, I’m so sorry.—No, Clive.—Even if I did want to get married I think I should • want to care, in that way, for the man —” “What is the matter with me?” “Nothing.—l think you’re a grand person.—Yes, I know you did.” This is in reply to Clive’s traditional promise to do absolutely everything in his to make her a happy, little woman. “I know you’d be wonderful to your wife. Only I don’t happen to want to be it.” “I can’t think why,” said Clive. This did not sound fatuous, or conceited, as it might have done if written down. It simply sounded boyish, bewildered. It made Terry feel apologetic, even quite fond of this man. “Look here. You haven’t got accustomed to this idea, yet, Terry. But you will. I’m going to ask you again and again.” “It won’t be any good.” “Nonsense. You’ll see. I won't say any more about it now —but look here” (more traditional questions) —“What is it you don’t like about me? What’s wrong with me? —Is it because I m rather —well, some people might think me a great deal older than you are? Do you look upon me as an old man?” “Good heavens, Clive, no. You’re most” could she say “well-preserved?” (“A horrid word; sounding like bottled gooseberries,” thought Terry). “Young for your age.” “Yes, plenty of men get married at my age.” Terry felt she was being driven into a corner. She said, simply: “Clive, be an angel and take me home now. I was late last night. I really do feel all in-” “Yes, poor little girl; overworked. It’s that ghastly film studio. No fresh air. Being at the beck and call of all those ridiculous people.” “Fancy—oh, fancy, being at Clive’s beck and call!” Terry thought. But Clive, undaunted, went on—and on. About how bad it was for any girl to keep the hours and to do the work she (Terry) did. Terry realised that a week in a filmstudio exhausted a girl a hundred per cent, less than one evening of sparring with an unwanted man. “Well, we must do this again,” Clive said, as they left that idyllic setting to what was anything but an idyll for Terry. “Bruce and the Spider are ■ going to have nothing on you and me. ‘lf at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.’ ” Good-night! So long!” Terry returned to her rooms astounded to find the little eighteeen-years-old maid at the door looked no more than eighteen, and the flowers in her room were unfaded. “Now, the sensible thing will be to forget this. Take a glass of milk, sleep this off, and be fresh for work in the morning.” Strange, strange, how sensible, efficient Terry Grey, Terry who had been the pearl of private secretaries to an M.P., Terry who after one humiliating episode with a super-efficient professor, had worked miracles for* a filmstar, had coped with a breach-of-prom-ise-action-seeking harpy, and had been a film’s incarnate memory —Terry’s reaction was no longer to do the sensible thing. “What,” she thought, “is the use of ringing up the Temple at this hour of night? Simmonds would think his master's present secretary was completely mad.” Still, she could not help it. As she was, without taking off her hat, with her handbag and gloves in her left hand, she reached for the telephone, and dialled the number. “Hullo? Valentine Lavery speaking.” That was the answer. But was it Valentine Lavery? Could it be? Almost it sounded as though he had been drinking; or as though another person had answered for him. “Mr Lavery, this is Miss Grey,” Terry called. "I want to know if it will be all right if I come tomorrow.” ’ “Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow," called back that strange, frightening voice. Adding, “Tomorrow I may be myself with yesterdays —forget how it goes on? No, you needn’t come. I’ll send you my cheque, Miss Grey—” “Cheque? What on earth is he talking about?” Terry thought. “What on earth ?” The man at the other end of the ’phone seemed to pull himself together for a moment. He spoke again in the voice to which she was accustomed. "Will it be all right, Miss Grey, if I make it out for a month? I won’t bother you any more. I don't think — you see—that I shall be able to keep on a secetary. Not much point. I don't know what they’ll do at the studio. They’re scrapping the picture—- “ Scrapping ‘Venus Rises'?" “Scrapping it, me, everything. I say. I must thank you—everything you've done.” The voice trailed off. “Goodnight. Goodnight, everybody—goodnight— you’ll—•”

Silence. "What’s the meaning ?” Terry asked herself this on the stairs, at the front door; she was out, telling herself, “There’s something wrong there. Why isn’t Simmons with his master? I shall have to go and see— Another ten minutes and she was in the Stand. She dashed down the narrow passage that led into the quiet Square, silent but for the rustling of trees. Quickly she bolted into the doorway of that now familiar house. She dashed upstairs. She had her key. She let herself in, she ran along the corridor. The sitting-room door was ajar. She pushed in open and went quickly in. Then she drew back with a little gasp. “Oh—!” CHAPTER VIII. The day that had been sb' anxious for his hand-maid had meant something considerably worse, for Valentine Lavery. The previous evening he had spent with Jack, his brother. And some of Jack’s friends at a party. , Nothing very desperate, but the kind of party he, Vai, had not attended since he had been up at Oxford. He had no time for them. Unfortunately his brother Jack had all too much time for them. Vai went simply because he wanted to forget. He wanted to forget Flower. That scene on the set had not happened out of a blue sky. For- weeks and disillusioning weeks now Vai Lavery had realised that the girl about whom he was so crazy, was not crazy about him. There was only one person of whom Flower Armitage was definitely, genuinely, uncritically fond; herself. His sister Madge had ,told Vai this months and infatuated months ago. Madge, indeed, always referred to her sister-in-law elect as The Monogamist. This, because a monogamist is someone who loves one woman only and for life. His mother, too, had been extremely plaintive on the subject, had wept that Flower was nothing but a pretty face, not good enough for her boy. Guy, too, it had got round to his elder brother’s ears that Guy had said, apropos Flower —that it was only because she knew on which side of the family the bread was buttered, that she had taken old Vai, instead of making dive for himself, Guy. Vai had preferred to think that the young cub hadn’t said it. But everybody had said things about Flower, told him that, for a certainty, Flower would let him down. Vai had refused to listen.

Worse than what people said was the whisper of his own uneasy conviction, presently, that they were right. Lovely Flower was a complete egotist, out for what she could get. She was jealous not only of any other girl in pictures who was making a success, she was even jealous of Lavery himself in this same picture. She grudged him every close-up, she accused him in tiny ways of stealing her scenes.

There is a limit to what the most infatuated lover will stand. Flower had reached it when she sent Sydney to him with an ultimatum that was a threat. Could anyone blame Vai for rapping out like a pistol shot that “No.”

After which, the party. And to bed with cold daylight filling the streets to an obligato of milk-can clatter. Old Simmonds had let him sleep on, and he had woke to the morning paper’s announcement that the whole place had burnt down to the ground. That first moment he did not care.

As well as the papers there had been a registered packet, sent round by hand, to be signed for. His ring, of course. It would be. Actually this was not the first time that she had sent him back his ring. He unpacked and looked at it. A beautiful square-cut platinum set sapphire. It brought back a thought of the eyes which it had been chosen to m:Xch. There was not a word with it. That, too, was like the other time.

Vai thought “Dash it, I’ll go round and see her. After all. It’s been a bit of a shock for her, too. This studio fire business. Not too good all this retaking. He had seen that the film itself had been destroyed. We're both in this.” “Simmonds,” he called presently. “Give me a sandwich, mix me some thing, and tell Miss Grey to ring up the ” “Miss Grey’s not here, sir. She rang up this morning—her rooms will find her. Shall I ring up for her to come round?” “No,” said Vai. “That’s all right. There’s nothing to be done until tomorrow. It’s all the most frightful mess-up." He felt shaken. His hands shook as he shaved. He cut himself. A dab of cotton-wool on the lower half of his cheek did not add to the dignity of his appearance. It was, indeed, a sunken, boiled looking, haggard, pallid caricature of the handsome film star who presented himself early that afternoon at Miss Flower Armitage’s rooms —a hotel suite. Flower looked ethereal, exquisite in the blue gossamer floating-sleeved wrap she had worn in “The Love Planet.” But her lovely face as it met the eyes of her lover was harder than any diamond. "Vai! Why have you come? He looked at her. He just looked at her. “Well, it’s no use going on like this,” said Flower. “I've know -for a very long time that we weren’t getting on too well. You’re so selfish, you know, Vai. Selfish, that’s what you are.” . (To be Continued.}