“THEY SAY SHE KILLED HIM”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 20 March 1941, Page 10

“THEY SAY SHE KILLED HIM”

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

PEARL BELLAIRS.

(Author of "Velvet and Steel,” "Christabel,” etc.)

CHAPTER XV. It was two days later, a clear warm evening, a pale sunset sky tinting the sea with rose. In a mood in which her spirit had risen above the horrors of the day Valerie sat at the piano in the living room, softly playing a Chopin prelude. She had hardly intended to sit down at the piano at all, nor known what she would play. But her fingers on the yellowed keyboard had involuntarily drifted into the well-known prelude.

It occurred to her that possibly the Simmonds preferred to keep their piano for hymn-playing. But they were both out at the hospital, and could not be offended.

Valerie felt very happy, as though she had come out of darkness into the light. Since going into the hospital she had felt bewildered, trying to find in such suffering significance which was not utterly terrifying. It seemed as though her own desire to give herself was absurd in a world in which one way or another most people were ruthlessly taken. She had felt worse and worse; until this afternoon, coming home for a short sleep, everything about her had seemed the expression of everlasting pain and evil . . ; But she had wakened with her whole spirit feeling light and peaceful. “I must not try to understand,” she told herself. And she felt glad and strong and calm.

The lovely melody died away as her fingers dropped from the keys, and she gazed out of the window at the calm, rose tinted sea. She thought about Peter, peacefully, as if he were watching her sympathetically from some far place. She realised that this was the first time since his death that she had been able to think about him without pain and regret. The knowledge added a thrill of gratitude to her happiness —gratitude because she had been able to come so far towards expiation. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sound behind her. She turned to find Trench standing in the doorway. She had been expecting to see Mrs Simmonds, for'when Mrs. Simmonds came up from the hospital it would be Valerie's turn to go down. At the sight of Trench she turned hastily back to the piano . .

.“Isn’t it seven o’clock yet?” she asked, for something to say. “It’s twenty minutes to,” replied Trench. He moved over to the window, and 'stood looking out, a dark figure against the pale evening. "I should think you would be too tired to want to play,” he asked. “I came in at three and slept till six. It made me feel quite fresh.” After a moment his voice said as though from a long way off: “The piano sounded queer as I came into the house!”

Valerie sat staring at the blurred black and white of the keyboard. The casual conversation, and the dim rosetinted room had the unreal quality of a dream. Since their arrival three days before they had hardly spoken; there had been too much to do for either of them to broach any personal matters, however much they might have thought of them. She wondered what he was thinking; and then he turned from the window and came over towards the piano. His back was to the light, but she could see that his face looked very tired. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I may not get a chance again. These Simmonds are always aboutj aren't they?" “I suppose they are!” said Valerie. It had not occurred to her to think of them as being in the way. ■ Trench leaned on the top of the

piano, looking rather uncomfortable before he spoke. But finally he said: “I wanted to tell you that I realise how much I’ve misjudged you. I respect your motives, even if I still think your way of putting them into action is rather mistaken!" “Oh!” said Valerie. “I didn't know. I thought you were angry with me.” Her colour rose, and a wave of thankfulness passed through her. She was surprised. She had not known how much his good- opinion meant to her. “Yes, I know I said some very harsh things to you on the way here in the launch. But I was desperately anxious to stop you from coming. I thought that what I had said when you spoke to me on the Peiping had influenced you in volunteering for this job.” "Oh. no,” said Valerie. “I would have come in any case.” His keen gaze probed her somberely “And now you’re lying,” he said, “to save my feelings!” It seemed strange to think that he, of all people, should credit her with a good intention! Valerie turned her head away so that he should not see the tears in her eyes. “Of course I’m not,” she protested breathlessly. "You started out on this business—this—this pilgrimage of yours as a result of what I said to you after Peter died?” “Not entirely. But everything you said to me then was perfectly just,” “Good heavens, what right has one to judge?” But perhaps you’ll believe me when I say I thought I was talking to a totally different type of woman. But that—after all that merely convicts me of idiocy!” “Perhaps I was that sort of woman!" Valerie said. “If you hadn’t spoken I would never have known myself. I was terribly sorry about Peter, but I only thought I was lo blame in a trivial kind of way.” “So I am responsible then, for your adopting this fantastic life of self-sac-rifice?” “It may seem fantastic to you,” Valerie seemed to shrink into herself, humility in the way in which she bent her head.

‘'l'm sorry! Does that offend you? You know that to people who don’t share them these impulses are difficult

o understand. I have the greatest respect for your feelings.” He broke off to say in a tone of chagrin. “After everything I have said to you, that must sound rather incredible! I don’t expect you to like me or forget the past —but I want you to believe that I’m extremely sorry for it!” She looked up again immediately, the evening light, that kindest of all lights, kindling her glowing eyes and falling on a face that was alight with gratitude. “I don’t want you to apologise to me! What you said to me at first was true. The things you said on the ship were because you didn’t understand. It hurt me, I admit, but it doesn’t matter now, if you believe that I’m not so callous and worthless as you thought me at first. That means a tremendous lot to me!” “Does it?” said Trench unable to take his eyes off the exquisite oval of her face, all its beauty intensified by feeling, its radiance glowing against the background of shadows.

“Yes, because after Peter died it was so terrible; I felt I would never rid myself of regret. And you were like my own| conscience personified, blaming me. I couldn’t forget you, even when things got better. And they did —for as soon as I began to try to live differently 1 felt better. Oh, I know it’s difficult to understand! But it made me feel better, and at times — since I’ve been here —I’ve felt radiant- . ly happy. Now if you don’t blame me any more then it seems as though what I’ve tried to do is right, and not just a delusion!’’ For a moment or two Trench said nothing. But his thought was. ‘What am I accountable for?” For an instant he had that queer sharp sense of his surroundinngs which comes in moments of complete dismay. The silent house, the trees in the compound, the sea washing on the shore, and the the twilight beyond the wall the town like an octopus encircling them with tentacles of disease and death ! Valerie was silent. Trench felt automatically for his cigarettes, forgetting Mr. Simmonds’s veto. He lighted one before he spoke, which was to say because his real feelings were unexpressible: * "How long do you mean to go on living like this?” "I suppose I shall always, until I die.” "Don't you want to live any normal life at all?” “How do you mean?” "Won’t you want to marry, have children, behave as others do” “No, I don’t think I shall ever marry.” She spoke very seriously. “When I was working in London I thought I might one day marry a labouring man, I think it would be right to do that. Or I might marry someone with work to do like Mr. Simmonds. But I don’t think I shall.” Trench wanted to laugh, and yet—he did not. Like many spiritually uplifted persons she was blind to the distinction between the heroic and the absurd; but her naivete, so childish, so helpless and vulnerable, moved him even more than her idealism. A chill of dismay seemed to creep upon him out of the shadows of the darkening room. “If she dies of cholera,” he thought. “I shall be guilty!” He stared at her, tormented by uneasy thoughts. She rose from her seat at the piano, saying: “It’s getting dark; 1 had better light the lamp!" She went over to the table. “Have you some matches?” she asked. He handed them to her, and as he did so, realised where he was and that he was smoking one of those cigarettes . that Mr. Simmonds so abhorred. He put it out and dropped the end into his pocket. A shadowy figure, Valerie lighted the paraffin lamp on the table; it burned up brightly, flooding her face ■ with golden light, making a glistening , aureate frame of her hair. A smile trembled on her lips, her face wore a look of self-absorbed ecstacy radiant with happiness. “God help us both!” thought Trench. A step on the verandah and -the sound of the front door closing told them that Mrs. Simmonds had come in. It was time for Valerie to go out to the hospital. CHAPTER XVI. For a day or two Trench's mind was diverted to the problem of getting Valerie away from Sungehow. For the time being matters with regard to the cholera were at a standstill. He had seen the Military Governor in the hope of getting that stout ex-pirate to display posters all over the island, instructing the Chinese to boil their water, and eat nothing but cooked food. I The Military Governor, through an) interpreter, had explained how highly honoured he was by Trench’s gracious visit to the island; he understood, however, that the people were satisfied by what was being done for them. He himself had provided the wood for the cypress fires which were kept perpetually alight at the north, the south, the east, and the west gates of the town. In their Celestial simplicity the people knew of no other precaution against the evil airs which produced the disease; and he also in his humility had been willing to trust in (he ways of his ancestors. (To be continued.)