"FREEDOM FOR TWO"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 11 May 1940, Page 10

"FREEDOM FOR TWO"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

MARGARET WATSON.

CHAPTER XII. iContinued). He could not forget her now. He could not get her out of his head, the tilt of her chin in anger, the glitter of her eyes which was at once so beautiful and so sad, the bitter quietness of her voice saying, “I may not be here when you get back.”

Well, he had risked it. and it had happened; and serve him right for the blind, reasonless, over-confident fool he was. But that she should have to know such unhappiness! He could not bear to stand there any longer, with their coolly disdainful pitying eyes upon him. He must go and try to find her, or at least must hope that she would come back to find him. He dared not leave the hotel. It was the one place where she could be sure of meeting him. if she did choose to come.

"You’ll find me another room, as near to that one as possible, and move my baggage into it.” He was plunging away when the manager stepped him by holding cut a small silver disc, with a scrap of ribbon attached.

“I believe this must belong to Mrs Hirst. It was found upon the rug after she had left.”

Martin felt the deepest pang of all as he took in his hand the medal Erica had won at Dangano. It was such a tiny, such a fragile thing to bring her before him so vividly as he saw her then. It was a sr-rap out of his own life, too, perhaps the only concrete thing which had ever come out of their love. Was that why she had left it behind? Was she deliberately cutting him out of her memories of the past, as well as out of her plans for the future?

Perhaps if he waited there would be an explanation. At any rate, he would stay in Stockholm for a time, in the hope that she would come to him. Though if he made her as unhappy as he was ready to' believe he had, she would never come back.

He stayed. People asked him questions, which was horrible, others asked each other questions, and avoided the necessity for questioning him, which was much worse. And Stockholm was unbearably lonely. Looking back, he could see, or imagine. immense faults in his own behaviour towards her. He had thought that, and he had stopped learning her. That was the sad part of it; for now. his opportunity was gone. The flesh wound which had lost him so much blood in that running fight across the harbour healed swiftly, and Jameson in London was clamouring to have him back; but he could not, he dared not, leave Stockholm.

Supposing she had no money, and was left alone in the town? There was no end of horrors he supposed for her. No end, moreover to the hurt in his own heart. That she, who had loved him. or had said she loved him, should leave him, after nine months of married life, for the sake of —well, what? Scablue eyes and a mop of blonde hair like a lion's mane, and a flattering tongue? Or something as much worthier her own loveliness than anything Martin had offered, chivalry, and a real consideration for her moods, and perhaps even a better sort of love than he had given her at his best? What was the secret of this queer love? What did it demand of him that he hadn't given? Martin wandered miserably along the gardens of Norrmalm, and played her favourite pieces softly to himself in the- hotel, and still did not at all understand. The one thing of which Me was sure was that she had not left him out cf pique for that one wretched little quarrel; because she was no mere capable cf such pettiness than he was of deliberately hurting her. No, it was the long accumulation of estrangement gathered through every hour of their life together which had sprung into her lips in that terrified, terrifying valedictory: “I may not be here when you come back.” He had come back; she was not there.

To think about that moment was like experiencing it again. Every sort of unexpected, unavoidable pain in it. What was it mat he had continually done, or continually failed to do, to turn Erica's heart away from him? At the end of the first lonely week he was walking through a narrow street in Sodermalm, where modest and crowded houses jostled each other along cobbled paths. He was not paying much attention to the street or the people in it, but walking with his eyes upon the ground, and his mind still intent upon Erica. He did not know upon which island Jon lived, but he supposed he could find cut. Should he go and claim Erica? No. There came the anger again, burning through his many hurts. No. She had not confided in him. She had simply-gone oil in tne company ol her Jen, with the opportunism of 4 an old hand at the game. For al! the consciousness he had of failure, he had done his best. She had not even done that. He could almost hate her, so much did he love her. so bitterly resent that she should love him only second best. . No. It was for her to approach him; until she did, the afl'air was over.

He raised his head as he entered a busier street; and saw Erica coming towards him.

The eyes of Erica met her husband's. The colour drained from her face in a second; and though she came bravely on towards him. and though her eyes did not leave his for a moment, but lingered with a look almost beseeching yet she kept her pale face so expressionless that Ik- could only guess at the feelings she hid behind it.

He guessed at fear, and shame, both pitiful in her bold and candid eyes. In Martin himself anger came uppermost and became uncontrollable. He believed she would have avoided the meeting if she could, and since she could not turn and run without making herself and him conspicuous, she was going to carry it off by sheer bravado. Well, if that was the only feeling ne could inspire in her, she need not trouble; he would not inconvenience her.

They drew together, each of them scarcely breathing. He saw her hand flutter up as if to ward him off, or perhaps to touch his sleeve in entreaty if he did make a scene. He saw. too, the stifled movement of her throat as she struggled to control the lump in it. The silence was like a wall between them. He passed her without a sign. The first sign should come from her. Then, and fatally, he looked back. She was looking over her shoulder after him. the black handbag clutched against her heart. He could not leave her without a single word, like that. He turned back to her. She saw him coming, and her glance went desperately up and down the street as if seeking some way of escape. She walked onward a few steps, casually, and waited. She was not, then, actually going to run away from him. “Erica,” he said, in a low voice. “Yes.”

There was something desperately unreal about it all. He could almost have believed that she was afraid, not of him. but for him. The one word of recognition, though so soft as to be hardly audible, was as cold and steady as the voice in which he had spoken her name. Her face, too, was like ice when she raised it to him. She was resolved on her course, and he had no part in it. That was clear. “I am still at the same hotel, if you should have anything to say to me. I shall stay there for some time.” Erica put her hand up to her lips, as if she wished to speak to him, and could not control her tongue. But after all, there was really nothing to say. If he chose to risk his life by saying in Stockholm, by walking in the public streets where he might be recognised at any moment, she could not prevent him. She supposed he was anxious that she should be safe, and should know where to find him in case of danger; but it was madness to linger in the town at all, and worse than madness to suppose for a moment that he could deceive her again. Perhaps he really wanted her back; perhaps he thought death worth risking if she would share the risk with him again. Risk always, risk for ever! The breath of life to him. Perhaps, then, she ought to tell him that it was useless, that she was never coming back, so that he might go away in peace and save himself. She looked up at him, and saw him as beautiful as ever, rather drawn of face after his narrow escape, but alert and cool, even, she thought, indignant at her desertion. She had failed him again,' of course, she should have stayed calmly in the hotel, have faced the world with the cool effrontery which was his. She should have found it exciting, even exhilarating, to be the wife of a wanted murderer and jewel-thief.

How little he had understood her. How incapable she was of living up to his. queer, irregular standards! Yes, she must certainly, and briefly, make it clear that she was her own master now, and that all was over between them. Then he would go away with one of his sea captains from the quays, and be oft to some'alien land where he could squander his thousands and thousands of kronen, and forget all about the dead policeman. If she gave him any hope, he would wait, and be captured. Dear as he was, and much as she loved and pitied and feared for him, her face must not soften nor her voice tremble at this moment.

She said: “I shall not have anything to say. You had better go away at once. I am not coming.” She said it steadily, though she felt the hot longing for tears burning tier eyes, and the dead whiteness of his face hurt her with a sTiarp physical pain.

“Very well. But if you should want money, I shall leave some in the bank for you.”

He turned, and walked away. What was the use of staying, or of saying anything more? She would never come back to him. She was satisfied with her bargain. Her resolution was almost admirable, and he would not stoop to shake it. He had done what he could for her, and the next move—if ever there should be another contact between them—was hers. He walked away from her without a glance, though with every step he longed to turn back and carry her away with him.

Erica stood looking after him. He might leave her all the money he had, all his thousands and thousands of kronen, but she would not touch a penny of it. How was she to know in defence of which part of it the policeman had died? Nevertheless, she went on to her modest lodgings in the street through which he had just passed, with tears in her eyes. (To be Continued).