OUTPOST IN CHINA

Wairarapa Times-Age, 26 June 1940, Page 10

OUTPOST IN CHINA

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

Author of “Africa Flight” and Part Author of “Death at Broadcasting House.”

CHAPTER VIII. (Continued.) “Has Dale been discussing me with you, Sheila?” he demanded. “Of course not!” “Well—you’re infernally considerate of his interests all of a sudden!” “I'm much more concerned about our own, Gerald.” “I can look after them, thanks!” “That’s just the joint. I don’t believe you can. It’s rotten to mess up our lives for your vanity!” Gerald took a step forward. The breath whistled between his teeth, and his nostrils dilated. There was something ridiculous in the primitive quality of his anger. For a moment Sheila believed he would strike her. “I think that’s about enough, Sheila,” he said at last.

But the girl knew in that instant that she had won. And she pressed home her advantage remorselessly: "I don’t agreed. When you asked me to marry you, you said that you loved me. If you love me at all, you’ll do what I ask you and chuck this job.” She dropped her voice and held out her hands to him. “Please, Gerryjust because I ask you—for my sake!” His eyes wavered away from hers. “And once we’re back in Shanghai, you'll sneer at me for having been weak enough to throw it up, and even weaker in giving way to you! I’m beginning to know you rather well, my dear.” \

“That’s a rotten thing to say to me!' flared Sheila.

“And it’s a rotten thing to ask me to do! It's not fair to ask me to go.” "Then,” said Sheila deliberately, “it’s not fair to ask me to stay.” “Very well then—go!”

They stood glaring at each other, alotgether incapable of seeing the humour of the situation: of two civilised people gesticulating wildly against a backcloth of savagery and the unknown. Then Sheila wearily picked up the half-empty bottle of nail-var-nish, and began again on her hands. “It’s too easy,” she said, “to throw the responsibility of any decision on me. How can I leave you to stay here and get into a mess all alone?” “Oh, don’t worry about that,’ ’sneerer Gerald. “You’ll be such a help in this sort of mood.”

“Very well. I’ll never ask you to do anything for me again. You shall preserve your precious vanity. But don’t blame me if things go wrong.”

\ “They won’t go wrong," said Gerald violently.

To that the girl made no reply. He went to' her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Sheila. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. But you don’t understand. how a man feels about his job of work.” Sheila jumped up and moved away from him.

“Please, Gerald. That sort of hemannery, doesn’t prove anything, you know, and it leaves me cold.”

At that he winced as if she had had struck him.

“I suppose,” he muttered, “I had better be getting down to the office ”

“Is it worth while at late as this?” asked Sheila coldly. “Can’t you leave me alone?” “I was only wondering,” she went on, “just what I was going to do with myself all day.”

“Dale's still here,” said Gerald. “Better make the most of his brilliant society while you’ve still got it.” He picked up his hat and whip and went to the' french window. There for a moment he waited, hoping for some sign from the girl that after all she would make up the quarrel. After all it was all so silly . . . He shrugged irritably, went out on to the verandah and down the steps to where his pony was waiting, switching his tail at the pestering flies. CHAPTER IX. Just about the moment when Gerald Havelock mounted his pony to ride down into Tan Fu, another mounted personage rode along the little town’s muddy, twisted and roughly cobbled streets. But this was a very different figure from the trim, almost dandified Gerald. This was a Chinaman. But he looked more like one of the riders of Genghiz or of Tamerlane, than a Celestial. His. face, darkly burned and cruelly scarred on one side, was twisted in a sneer that was half contempt for the scared coolies who watched him; half fear of the reputation of Leslie Dale. He wore boots of untanned leather tucked in khaki breeches obtained heaven knew where, an exiguous and dirty shirt crossed by bandoliers bulging with cartridges, and a Mannlicher rifle across his shoulders. A pseudocossack fur hat completed his costume. A small crowd gathered at his pony’s heels to follow his progress to the Harwood and Greer office, where ho dismounted with an engaging swagger; but fell back, jabbering and pointing uneasily, when the bandit—for bandit of course he was. from "General” Wu’s lair in the hills —whipped a long knife out of his belt, and strode into the office . . .

Four minutes later he emerged, but without the knife, swung himself on tc • his pony's back, kicked it brutally in its thin ribs, and clattered away and out of the town, leaving behind him what for once a newspaper could have referred to, without appreciable inaccuracy. as “sensation.” It was perhaps well that he was out of sight before Gerald Havelock arrived at his office. Gerald, fresh from his row with Sheila, was in no amiable mood, and had he met the Bandit, it is more than likely that sensation might have been followed by alarming incident. As it was. Gerald was merely rendered rather curious by the unexpect-' ed cluster of Chinese outside his office. He went in quickly. His clerks were working in a most unusual and also-

tute silence. He flung open the door of the private office, and gasped. “What the devil —?” he demanded.

His comprador was sitting motionless in Gerald’s chair. His skin was unhealthily green from sheer funk. His eyes were bulging unpleasantly, partly perhaps owing to the foul taste of the greasy rag which had been stuffed into his mouth and tied behind his head. On Leslie Dale’s blotter lay a grimy sheet of paper, covered with Chinese characters, pinned to the blotter with a long glittering dagger. CHAPTER X. For some minutes after her husband had left her Sheila Havelock sat, continued the polishing of her pretty nails, and reflected.

Sheila had many of the more tiresome affectations of the modern young woman but she also possessed the supreme among the modern young woman's virtues: she was honest with herself. And she knew, with a queer feeling of excitement and apprehension, that for the first time she was facing a crisis and a turning-point in her life. She could honestly say that she had—within her limitations —done her best to cope with Tan Fu, for Gerald’s sake. It was Gerald who had failed, as the Americans say, to “make the grade.” And just as Gerald had gradually revealed himself as a weakling and an incompetent, so Leslie Dale had forced himself into a limelight entirely undesired, as the most efficient of guides, philosophers and friends.

With him at hand to cover up mistakes, to take over responsibilities. Tan Fu had been bad enough. Without him . . .

Sheila put down the nail-polisher abruptly, and felt physically cold. The idea of the future scared her, which was humiliating enough. But it wasn’t only that she was scared of the loss of Dale’s strength and capabilities. She just couldn’t bear the idea of losing him: of not being able to see him any more.

For the first time she thought of him altogether personally. She made a picture in her mind of his lean tanned face; of the thinning grizzled hair at his temples; of his keen rather hard eyes, which missed so little, of his big firm hands, of the unconscious grace with which he sat his pony; of a dozen little things. And she valued them so! Strength for once owing to a strange cruel environment, had proved more powerful than the appeal of weakness. And he was going away! What was she going to do? He was going away within a couple of hours, and she was wasting the last opportunity she might ever have of seeing him alone . . And, as if to point the irony of her situation, she heard the distant hoot of the ship's siren from the river below: the river-steamer that would so soon be carrying Leslie Dale out of her life for good . . . She could hardly believe it ,when the door of his room opened, and he stood there smiling at her. “Gerald gone?” he asked abruptly.

She nodded. He turned back into the room, and returned carrying a couple of suit-cases and a brief-case, which he dumped easily into the nearest chair.

“I suppose,” he said, “that in that case I may come out of the corner!"

“I wish you wouldn’t quarrel with Gerald.” Leslie Dale shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, I shan’t have another opportunity—sorry, Sheila. I shall talk like a cad, if you look so horribly sympathetic. I think I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind. ' Sheila moved away impatiently. “Good heavens.” she said, “you don’t think I want to talk about Gerald, do you?”

“I wish.” murmured Leslie whimsically, “that you wouldn’t quarrel with Gerald.”

“You mean that I shall have plenty of other opportunities? You needn't rub it in, you know.” Leslie took a pipe out of his pocket and began to polish it against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “If you're so sorrowful you're not going to be amusing company. Are you really sorry to go?” Leslie's lips tightened. "I am,” he said.

“But why? I know that you made Tan Fu a station, and that you've run it jolly well. But it is a hole, isn’t it?" “Even Tan Fu has its points, when you've lived in it as long as I have, and been happy in it.” “But you’re going back to people and civilisation!” Sheila had strayed restlessly back to the window, and was looking out to the river—that winding ribbon which bound Tan Fu so tenuously to civilisation at its latter end. “You'll forget all about this place in a month —and I shan't blame you. Why. you’re due for home leave, if you care to lake it. aren't you?'' Leslie grinned unc’asily at her. "And just what good is that to me?" he asked. "How many people in England care whether I'm alive or dead? I've 'no family. I've not had a letter from home for over a year. I shall be far more of a stranger in Piccadilly than 1 ever could be here!”

"You could —get married." said Sheila. She spoke levelly, but without looking round, so that she did not see Leslie Dale wince.

"Some woman with a tennis eye. and a suburban accent?” he asked bitterly.

“There are other kinds. Leslie.” "Not for the likes of me. What on earth have I to offer a woman? This sort of place isn't much to bring a wife to. And in England I should be just a fish cut of water. I've lost any social tricks I ever had." "That's something at any rate.” said Sheila lightly. "But you might find just the girl to come out to China with you —the right sort." (To be Continued).