"CHRISTABEL"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 27 June 1939, Page 10

"CHRISTABEL"

Published by Special Arrangement.

Copyright

By

PEARL BELLAIRS.

(Author of “Velvet and Steel,” ‘/The Prisoner’s Sister,” etc.)

CHAPTER VI. (Continued). ■ When they drove away in the car the movement of the traffic, the people going freely about in the sti eets, the rain coming down out of the open sky—it all dazed Christabel in a physical way. It was her mother being there that helped her to keep conscious control. It was painfully moving to Christabel to see a familiar face, particularly one which had been the centre of all her childish instincts. But Mrs Haye failed to hide her furtive shame in the situation. For Christabel to hope for any real help from her mother was no more use than trying to lean on a straw. Mrs Haye was cut off from her always by her blind anxiety about the opinion of Mr Haye. “You look terribly ill, dear. You must rest and try to eat well after — You must try to get better. I hope you’ll find it comfortable at Richmond.”

Mrs Haye couldn't mention the prison directly. x She did her best, but Christabel was glad to be left alone in the private hotel. She was used to being alone; but now she could open and shut the door, lie on a silk covered bed, sit at a dressing-table in front of a mirror. But she was sunk in a more profound despair than she had felt since her first twelve months in prison. This was the world. She was free again. But she was alone in it; utterly alone. And how, with her record, whether she concealed it or not, could she ever again hope to be anything but alone? She was physically upset. The sort of food one never got in prison, which she had longed for so painfully at times, made her feel ill when it was put before her and she couldn’t eat it. But after two days of lying on her bed feeling ill and stupefied, she went out and walked about and began to taste the real sweetness of freedom. Automatically, wanting to conceal any signs of the prison, she began to think about her appearance. She unpacked the make-up she had not used for two and a half years, and put a little lipstick on her lips to make herself look like other women. She was nervous about her workworn hands, and wore gloves as much as possible. She began to notice that passers-by seemed to stare at her, and was more afraid than ever that she looked strange. But it was impossible for her to go about for long without coming to know the real reason. What she began to see in the mirrow was reflected in the face of every man who looked at her. She was better looking, or more interesting looking than she haa been before she went to prison. Men had never looked at her like that before. % One day when her mother came over to see her, Mr Haye drove out himself to pick up Mrs Haye, so that the chauffeur should not know where she had been. Christabel happened to be in the doorway of the hotel, and he walked past her without recognising her. When he did realise that it was she, he said in embarrassment: “By jove—how stupid! I didn’t know you!” And he stared, because even his disapproving eye could see that she was beautiful. It was as though everything that was average had been refined out of her, as though everything she had suffered haa been consumed and transmuted into beauty by some inner fire. It was as though one could see the inner fire glowing through the prison pallor of her face. Mr Haye could not have described the radiance; but he saw it, and it made him uneasy. She did, not look the weak and contemptible creature he wanted to think her. CHAPTER VII. After a fortnight at Richmond, feeling more cut off from her fellows than she had ever felt before, Christabel took the note of introduction given her by the prison chaplain to an employment agency in Notting Hill Gate. As she walked along Church Street, knowing no one, herself unknown, and passed the flat where she and Keith had lived when they were first married, she spid to herself: “I am really a ghost, that’s all. Just a ghost!!” She climbed a flight of stairs to the small office belonging to the agency. There was nothing about her imprisonment in the note from the chaplain, and she had been told that the agencj' knew nothing of it. If anyone inquired into her references, the enquiry would be dealt with by the chaplain in a private capacity. She had reverted to her maiden name, and the letter re ferred to her as Miss Christabel Collet. The spectacled, white haired woman in charge of the office looked at the chaplain's note without comment, and began to look through her books. "There are so many fully qualified girls looking for jobs.” she said, "that we don't have much opening for the untrained ones.” She put her finger on an entry. “Here’s an elderly lady in Sussex, living alone, wants a nurse companion —need not be fully trained. Twentyfive shilling a week and all found.” She looked further. "Here’s a nurse wanted for a boy of ten. They offer twenty-five shillings also.” ■ “I would rather look after the child than the old lady,” said Christabel. She braced herself to meet any questions the woman might ask her about herself. But tne woman merely wrote an address on a card, saying: "Well, you can go and see them. There’s the address, they live in Put--1 ney.” She paused and added: “Or there’s another situation here; I don’t know whether it would du for you. It only came in tliis morning. It's at a

clinic where they give mental treatment, down in the East End, and they want a nurse; need not be fully trained.” “How much it is?” asked Christabel. It sounded rather better than the others. She could imagine the curiosity she might have to satisfy if she worked in a private house. “Well, that’s t'he drawback. It’s only a part time job, really. Twenty-seven-and-six a week; but you see, you’d have to keep yourself.” “Oh!”

Christabel decided against it. It would be too depressing to have to live on twenty-seven-and-sixpence a week, alone in the East End. “It would be interesting work, I know,” said the woman, studying her entry in the book. “A friend of mine had the job for a while so I know about it. It’s financed by Mr Cavanagh, the millionaire manufacturer. He interests himself in that kind of thing, you know. The hours are from two to five and from seven to nine every afternoon and evening, except Saturdays and Sundays. A number of doctors and mental specialists go down during the week end give treatment; out-patients only, of course. It’s under the direction of Mr Grant Hewitson.” Christabel stared. “Whom did you say?” “Mr Grant Hewitson.” It could not be the same man! But her own reaction to the name startled Christabel. She felt suddenly weak in the knees. ' “Grant Hewitson!” she could only echo the name faintly. “Yes, the psychologist, you know,” the woman looked superior, but patient. “I knew a Grant Hewitson who was a barrister.” “So was this Mr Hewitson.” Incredulous, Christabel felt that the woman must be one of those people who will say anything in order to seem to know everything. But the woman put an end to her doubt by saying: “He’s a K.C. or something—but I understood my friend to say that he’s given up the law for his present work.” “Oh!”

There was a panic confusion of two impulses in Christabel’s mind. r If he were the same Hewitson who had prosecuted her then she must avoid the job at all costs. She could not possibly take it. He' might recognise her as Mrs Milsom, and that would be horrible . . . But at the same time, in a world in which she had no one, there was a fascination which drew her towards him, simply because he was the only person alive who aroused in her the feelings of a human- being—even though they were feelings of contempt and hate. Beside him she felt herself pure and noble, even though she had spent two-and-a-half years in prison as a result of his ambition. Sometimes in the prison she had had fancies of meeting him and making him realise it . . . She bent her head to hide her suddenly burning face. “Twenty-seven shillings a week isn’t much, of course,”, she said, gaining time to think. “No, the other jobs are better, unless you have something else to do in the mornings.’’ “Yes, but a private family—l don’t know that I wanted a job with a private family very much.” Perhaps if it were Hewitson -he might not recognise her after all. People didn’t Her stepfather had not. In court she had worn a hat. Everyone said how much she had changed “Well, that’s all I have at present that would be suitable.” The woman shut her book with a final air. Christabel drew a breath and spoke on impulse: “Then I’ll apply for the job at the clinic!" “Just as you like.” The woman wrote out a card with the address on the clinic on it. "It’s in Bering Street. The best station to go to is East Ham and then take a bus. That was how my friend used to go. Let us know if you get the job.” "Thank you, 1 will.” Christabel went down the stairs holding the card, her nerves tense, her heart beating hard. She walked slowly in the direction of Notting Hill Gate tube station. She could still draw back. Ring the agency and say she could not take the job, but would try for one of the others. But the idea of meeting Hewitson had brought her to life. It was a ghost who had gone up the stairs, a woman bitterly alive who came down them. She had appeared in court as Mary Christabel Milsom, so that the name Christabel Collet would not bring her to Hewitson’s mind. Why should he recognise her if her stepfather had not? The idea frightened yet fascinated her. She knew it was profoundly unwise from every point of view. She should try to get away from the past. With Hewitson about she would be back in the midst of it, dwelling on feelings which were much better forgotten. It was a mad, vain fancy——that she could ever tell him about herself so as to make him understand! Supposing he recognised her at once, she risked the humiliation of being turned out of the job, of being treated as a hysterical, vengeful criminal for having sought him out . . But what had she that was real to risk. Nothing in life, no interest in it but this morbidly stormy one. A cold bitterness suddenly chilled her into decision. After all it would be itdcresting to meet him, if nothing else. One could be detached, and re-

gard it simply as an interesting situation! She walked towards Notting Hill Gate, calculating which would be the best way to get to East Ham, and Bering Street; walked onward, on her way towards this interesting situation with a white face and a cold smile on her lips. (To be Continued.)