“RENTS ARE LOW IN EDEN”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 2 March 1940, Page 10

“RENTS ARE LOW IN EDEN”

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT, COPYRIGHT.

By

PETER BENEDICT.

CHAPTER XV. (Continued). “It was little enough,” agreed Mrs Garland, stepping back out of the stream of hurrying people which flowed ceaslessly along the pavement round them, "but it meant a good deal.”

“And still does.” “And this is how you show it, is it? You had the nerve to admit that you wanted to ‘impede Mr Probert as much as you could.’ That’s how much you meant it. To impede him! Him, the only one that’s helped our young folks out of the slums, as you and your like are so fond of calling them.” “Adam Probert is a business man,” said Catherine, “and builds for profit. You’re mad to think of anything else.” “Mad, am I? What do you know about him? , How do you know he builds for profit? Do you think he makes a profit out of my. Nancy's fiv.e shillings a week?” “Five?” cried Catherine, and her hand fell helplessly from the older woman’s sleeve. “Five shillings, and not a penny more. And every house in that estate is priced the same, no more and no less. You never took the trouble to find out. You took it for granted that he was an ordinary jerry-building speculator, and that it didn’t mean a thing to him who took his rotten houses, once* they were up. Well, I've been there, too, and I’ve seen for myself, yes, and asked questions where I wanted to know anything. They're good houses, and cheap. That’s what he’s done; and now you know what you’ve done to him.” Catherine stood with her hands clenched, and her breath racing between her lips. She said desperately: “It isn’t true. He came to see me at the beginning; if it had been true he would have told me then.” But there was no need for anyone in the world to answer that protest, for she herself had already refuted it scornfully in her own heart. She knew so little of him; and yet she knew enough to be sure that he never had defended himself to her, and never would, as long as they both lived. And she admired him for it, passionately, with a pride which was shame for herself. She longed to ask more, but no words would come. Nor was Mrs Garland the person to tell her what she needed to: know; nor in spite of her vision and enthusiasm, to understand fully what she had already told- her.

“If you don’t believe me,” said Mrs Garland simply, “go back to Court Brandon and ask for yourself.” “It’s too late,” said Catherine hopelessly. “It isn’t too late if you really want to undo what you’ve done.” “But why should I?” cried Catherine in wild despair. “Why should I? It’s been all I’ve lived for, and more than you’ll ever know. It cost me all I have to carry it to this, and I won’t undo' it now, not for you or for anyone. Why should I?” Mrs Garland shrugged her thin shoulders. “That’s for you to decide,” she said, and turned on her heel, uninterrupted now, and walked away, leaving Catherine standing with her back against a shop window, like a Galatea miraculously remade into stone.' It was all too dim to be real. It had not happened. Mrs Garland was not in London; indeed, upon reflection, Mrs Garland could not possibly be in London. Catherine’s head ached. It was as if fate had taken it into its head to answer in one blow all the reasonless doubts which had been tormenting her, not only through these two nightmare days of litigation, but every day and every night since that ill-omened visit to Howard's Pleasance. What had kindled them she could not tell even now, unless the truth was that she had always suspected the presence in Adam of the individualist and the fantastic, who could not and would not, find any interest in the building of crazy houses for profit. What was she to do now? Her mind groped feverishly for an answer, and remembered only Mrs Garland's voice saying: “If you don't believe me, go back to Court Brandon and ask for yourself."

She would go back; she would go back now, this very night, without saying a word to any of her friends; and she would see for herself, and ask for herself; and if ail the praise which Mrs Garland had lavished upon Adam Probert was not more than the truth—but there her heart faltered; for as yet she dared not look beyond the moment of discovery. For the time being it was enough to have resolved to do what she had neglected to do at the beginning, when that possessive rage so strangely cold and listless now had closed her mind to all logic; to have all the facts secured before she made any further decision. She had not enough money in her purse <o pay the fare to Stanchesler. so she went back quickly to the hotel,

and changed her coat for a heavier one and filled her handbag, with the instincts of practicality which sprang readily to the surface even now. She was stealing out of the hotel again when in the lounge she ran almost into Lyddon Strang’s arms. “Why, Catherine,” he exclaimed, “I've been looking for you everywhere. Where or. earth have you been?" She felt no annoyance at his appearance; she feared no halt in her plans; fate was on her side now, if never before. “Only for a walk. It was a lovely night, and I was tired of being indoors.” “But you're not going, out again?’ Not alone?’’ “Do you mind very much? I just

ran into Mrs Farrar, and promised to go back and spend the evening with her.” The fiction was thin, but he > could not openly doubt it. He held ' her by the hands for a long moment, ■ as if he felt some reluctance to release her even for one evening; and suddenly it seemed to her that she had misinterpreted his affection for her, that it was not nearly so complacent as she had supposed it to be, but only far more patient. He had gained nothing but her formal. promise to marry him, and she had thought him content; but the look in his eyes now was far removed from that self-satisfaction. He was only biding his time; it was the last citadel he wanted, the only sanctuary which was finally and for ever out of his reach. She felt some pity for him in that moment. She pressed .the hands she held. “I’m sorry!. But Just for this one evening—” ' , ‘‘lf you’re happy ,” he said, and j smiled. It did not occur to either of them how inappropriate the adjective j was. “Good bye, Lyddon!” said Catherine; and she raised her lips suddenly, and kissed his swiftly and briefly, and was gone. It was the first time that she had ever kissed him of her own free will. She found time to telephone him from the station; only ten minutes had passed since they had stood talking together, but to her they already seemed ten years. “Lyddon,” she said, when his voice answered her; and she heard clearly the sharply 'indrawn breath with which he recognised the voice. “Yes, it’s Catherine! Yes, I know I told you that; it was a lie. Oh, don’t trouble about me, my dear; I’m not worth it, to you or to anyone. No, it’s no use asking me what or why—not yet; but I shan’t come back tonight, and you mustn’t worry. You’ll see me tomor- 1 row.” In this- emergency he asked no questions, none but the one sole question which mattered most to him in the world. “Catherine are you all right?” ■ “Yes, my very dear, I’m all right. Thank you for caring so much.” To this voice so much gentler than he had ever heard it, he answered, with the simplicity she had never sensed in him before.” “Catherine 1 love you more than anything on earth.” “I know that now.” Strange that she should be able to

say that, and stranger that it should be true. They were nearer to each other at this moment with one sense to keep each in the other’s remembrance, than ever they had been when his arms had been around her. She said: “Goodbye, Lyddon!” There seemed nothing else to say; and nothing else to do in the world between them, except to ring off and hurry to her train. She knew beyond all shadow of doubt, as she hung up the receiver, that there would be no more such moments. In the train she had a carriage -to herself until the second before the train started; and then a smartly dressed young woman loaded with magazines and chocolates, and seen off by no fewer than three young men, leaped nimbly in beside her, and spread her belongings over both seats, and hung from the window in an orgy of waves and farewells until her escorts were out of sight. Catherine hated the idea of conversation, but it was inevitable; for not all the magazines in the world could have kept the girl amused through an hourlong journey. Presently she opened a desultory discussion on the current London shows, and when they had palled, passed to the news of the day. Catherine sat pale and still, listening imperfectly, her mind in a turmoil as she patiently answered ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ to her companion’s untiring queries. She thought only, with a monotonous insistence: “Well, that’s over. What now?” And it was as if she had only just learned to doubt hei’ own omniscience, and for once was willing to let her future drift on whatever current caught it. “Have you seen todays papers?” asked the girl in the opposite corner, rust-

ling pages furiously. “There's a photograph of that woman who's suing somebody over a hedge, or something. All the papers have described her as being very beautiful.” She looked up, and laughed. “But then, they always do, don’t they? But this girl really does look rather nice, don t you think?” She leaned forward, and spread the paper between them; Catherine saw a photograph of herself, taken as she left court the previous day. It was not. fortunately, a very good picture of her face, but it had the majestic walk to perfection. “She’s not unlike you," said the interested girl, after deep consideration. “It’s the build," said Catherine, and thanked fortunate that she had on different clothes.

“Hm, I daresay you’re right. What do you think of that affair?" "I don’t know what to think yet," said Catherine, with passionate truthfulness. “What's your impression?” The girl lit a cigarette, and regarded the photograph over the first curling smoke of it with impartial eyes. After a long silence she uttered, with the finality of an oracle: “I think she wears clothes better than anyone I've ever seen. Look at that hat!” It was the last, and the irrevocable, verdict upon the curious case of Court v Probert. There could be no further pronouncement ‘after that. It seemed to Catherine singularly appropriate; and the girl said not another word of that subject until the

train drew' into Stanchester at seven minutes to ten. [ (To be Continued.)