"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 6 December 1940, Page 10

"JILL DOESN'T COUNT"

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

Phyllis Hambledon.

(Author of “Youth Takes the Helm.”)

CHAPTER VI. (Continued >. “Dr. Vereker in love wiili another woman,” Miss Croft repeatea. “I don’t believe it! I won’t believe it!” “With his own sister-in-law,” drawled Mrs. Grahame. “Which makes it so much worse, don’t you think? Im surprised that it’s news to you. All Charnford knows about it. Why, come to that, I’ve seen him coming out of Viva Ferrand’s house myself. After all he was practically engaged to her, before he went to prison, they say, and she’s not the sort of person whom a man forgets very easily, is she? But I am sorry for his wife. She’s such a harmless little thing, I always think. “You needn’t be sorry for her,” cried Miss Croft bouncing to her feet. “She loves her husband, and he loves her! I’ve stayed there. I know. This is a wicked, horrible story and if half Charnford is telling, then it’s you who started it. I always said you were a cat, Sylvia Grahame, and so you are! I might have known if you asked me to tea, it was because you wanted to tell me something horrible. Well, I’m going now, and I’ll never come again.” “I don’t see why you should fly into such a rage about it all.” said Sylvia Grahame. “What does Oliver Vereker, c.oesn’t concern you surely.” “He’s a friend of mine, they’re both friends of mine,” said Miss Croft. “I suppose by that, you mean you’re half in love with him,” said Sylvia Grahame. Little Miss Croft said no more, but left the house, slamming the door behid her. She was literally trembling with rage. In love with Oliver? Well, perhaps she was. If so, my love for him does him no harm, thought little Miss Croft. And I’m old enough to be his mother. It’s like Sylvia Grahame to think horrible, hateful things. She bad a mind like a whited sepulchre, full of all corruption. I love Oliver. I love them both. But now what to do she wondered as she hurried along the High Street. Not lor one minute did she believe the story true. Jill and Olivei’ can contradict it in a minute, she thought. Yes and they’d better! This was serious. She too knew that a doctor must be above suspicion. I hope he has somebody up for libel, thought Miss Croft fiercely, all the fighting blood of her ancestors stirring in her veins. Somebody has got to pay for this! “They say that Oliver—Oliver is in love with Viva?” said Jill, ten minutes later.

"Yes,” gasped out Miss Croft. “It’s that Sylvia Grahame. Of course she and her husband are furious, because Oliver came back again. She says Oliver sees your sister three or four times a week. I told her it was a lie. I’ll tell everybody! Why, I’ve seen you and him together. I know you’re both m love with each other! But you must tell Oliver, Jill. You’ll probably have to get to the bottom of this matter. Don’t look so white, child! What do you care as long as you know it isn’t true.” ' “Of course is isn’t true” said Jill “Thank you for telling me. Miss Croft. I’ll tell Oliver —not today though, I think. He’s got a perfectly rotten cold. J don’t want to upset him more than is necessary.” “Well, he ought to know some time,” said Miss Croft. “This is the sort of thing that wants pulling up by the roots.” Miss Croft made a violent motion with her hands, as if se were indeed disposing of some noxious weed. Jill nearly laughed. She edged her visitor obtrusively towards the door. When she was alone her face changed, however. Of course, it isn’t true, she had said. Of course it is true ’was what her heart told her. No smoke without fire was a silly saying, but in this case there was probably sense in it. She remembered Oliver’s face when he had brought Viva to the house. She remembersd how much happier he had been since.

And she remembered other things. Little things that at the time had escaped her notice: the time his round had taken him in the afternoon, how once he had shown a surprising knowledge of Viva’s days and had explained ■t rather confusedly by say that he had seen the information in one of the papers. Even the way he had kissed Jill, had been, site saw now, less the embrace of a lover than of somebody asking for forgiveness. And Viva had been so lovely, and he had loved her so terribly much.

If I ever get the chance of it, I’ll pay you out, Viva had said. Yes, and she was probably doing it. She had not come back to the house in Charnford High Street again. She had not needed to. Oh, but it isn’t true, Jill told herself violently. It can’t be. I’m as bad as the rest, thinking such dreadful thoughts about him! Miss Croft has more faith in him than I have, and I’m nis wife. Oliver married me. He wouldn t do that to me. he wouldn't! Just then the surgery bell rang shrilly across the silence. The sound ’irritated her. She was sick to death of surgery bells. They broke into your privacy in such an aggressive, thoughtless fashion. Petulantly she went to c.nswer the summons. A woman stood here, a very poor anxious woman, a young baby in her arms. Jill recognised her. It was Mrs. Murphy of Wynward’s Yard, and this was the child who had been born a month ago. “Oh, Mrs. Vereker, mum,’’ she said anxiously, "is the doctor in’” “No,” said Jill. “Can I take a message?”

“I sent for him this dinner-lime and he promised to come first thing on his jound this afternoon. It’s Tommy, the second of them, Mum! He’s that Hushed, his throats awful. He’s been getting worse ever since I sent the first time. Would you ask the doctor to call as soon as he comes back, mum’ I’m that anxious!” 111 tell him, ' said Jill. “I promise!”

Queer of Oliver to have forgotten an urgent message like that, she thought. Of course he’d been very overworked and seedy all day. Funny, too, how upset Mrs. Murphy had been. She had seven children and no money, and yet she could spare one of them, less well than a mother of a prosperous family-. Jill wondered if there were anywhere she could communicate with Oliver. Sometimes she rang him up at house where he was calling, and so saved valuable time for him and the patient. Today Her face changed. It became hard and white. She took up the telephone. She gave the number of Lilac Cottage. I’m a fool, she told herself, a hysterical, suspicious fool. I’ll be sorry for this in.a moment. “Hullo?” said Viva’s voice, crisp on the telephone as any 8.8. C. announcer. “Oh, is that you, Viva?” said Jill. “Will you give Oliver a message for me please?” “How did you know he was here?” said Viva irrepressibly. “Do you think Oliver comes to see you without me knowing?” said Jill. “Will you tell him to call and see Mrs. Murphy’s bol in Wynward’s Yard as soon as possible? Yes, Murphy, Wynyard’s Yard. That’s all.' Except a nappy New Year to you, Viva.” Then she rang off before Viva could answer. This is the end, she thought, the very end. CHAPTER VII. That afternoon, Oliver Vereker, forgetting entirely the message from Wynyard’s Yard, hurried through his visits as much as possible. It was halfpast four when the cai - drew up at Lilac Cottage. It was misty, and the lights of the lounge loomed palely through the prevailing gloom. As he opened the gate, Oliver found himself coughing. A sudden pain in his chest startled him. Jove, he thought, his cold was worse than he had imagined. The maid accustomed-to-the-best-people admitted him. It struck Oliver that her smile was not so discreetly welcoming as usual. The fact was, Helena had been with Viva in Paris. She had seen the luxuries of the Ritz, nad watched with satisfaction Gerald Greer spending money like water. What’s the good of her cluttering up her chances with a doctor, she was thinking contemptuously, even if he’s good-looking like this one. She showed Oliver into the lounge, and left him there.

It was warm here. A great log fire burnt in the grate. There was central heating. The room was filled with flowers, and their scent was a trifle overpowering. Oliver did not notice that at first, however. He was glad to be out of the cold and the damp, conscious of an increasing malaise, conscious too, that he had an ordeal in front of him. He had to tell Viva that m fairness to Jill, he did not, mean to see any more of her. It would be goodbye to all this from hence-forward, to this pleasant room, to Viva herself. Upstairs Viva£ thoughts had been running on much the same lines at Helena’s Love was business. Gerald Greer was now back in England. He had been annoyed before, when Oliver had broken in on them. She knewjf she annoyeeffhim again, any possibility of a future contract would simply go up in smoke. So she mustn’t annoy him. Oliver wasn’t worth it, even for the sake of paying back Jill. It would be goodbye then, and she was sorry. She still, as she put it, had a very distinct tendresse for him. Bui one can’t get to the top without sacrifice. And she was going to get to the top. Gerald said so, everybody said so, come to that. Still, since this was a farewell scene, dress for the part. The little Chinese pyjamas she often wore were too sprightly, too cheerful. Something clinging was indicated for this goodbye-for-ever episode. Viva chuckled a little, and finally decided on black velvet. You never went wrong in black velvet. Yes, and the pearl Gerald had given her at her Ihroat and ears. She looked in the mirror, and knew that no man could part from her without being hurt. This is the last picture of me, Oliver will nave, she thought. And I guess it won’t be easily forgettable. She meant to play this part to the best of her ability. Miss Viva Ferrand has never shown more histrionic genius than she has done in the final act of the melodrama of From the Prison Gates, she said to herself. She liked the idea. It was amusing.

As it happened the scene was not to go without a hitch; it began, however, according to schedule. Oliver rose, as se came into the room. As she had foreseen, his eyes did indeed note the picture of her beauty. She smiled sweetly, but a little seriously. “How nice of you to come and see me again so soon, Oliver.” “Did you have a good time in Paris?” said Oliver. “Wonderful," said Viva. “I was glad io get away from an English Christmas. All this holly-cum-waits-cum-turkey-and-plum pudding bores me still. It’s pre-Victorian, Dickensian. I'm a modern, if ever there was one!” Oliver laughed politely. As he jaughed, he coughed. A similar spasm to that which had assailed him outside Lilac Cottage overcame him aga'in. Again that sudden pain in his chest frightened him. He couldn’t afford to be ill. Too much depended upon him But Viva, who had been standing close to him, now sprang away. She looked at him accusingly. “You’ve got a cold, Oliver.” "I’m afraid I have,” gasped Oliver. “Mostly cough. It will be better in a minute.” “I hope to goodness you don’t give it to me,” said Viva. "You never think of anybody but yourself, do you, Viva?” said Oliver. (To be Continued).