“THEY SAY SHE KILLED HIM”

Wairarapa Times-Age, 29 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 XXII. ; (Continued). Whether to see her again or not he did not know. His impulse was to go away without a word. But he knew that without absolute certainty he couldn't have peace in the future. Nor had he any of the vanity which would make him want to appear in the wrong himself in the matter. At about three in the afternoon he went out into the noisy streets with their queer mixture of the modern West and the imaginative Orient. With heavy heart he got into a ricksha, and went in search of a certain nursing home. A modern building with a very smart facade, striped blinds, and window boxes. He could imagine that it cost Sir George a lot to keep her there. “Miss Lane has visitors just now,” a nurse told him. “Shall I send your name up?” He sent his name up and stood waiting on a blue and white expanse of rubber floor, ignoring the chromium and leather chairs. A message was returned to ask him to go up. He went up, and found himself on a wide stone balcony overlooking a garden. On the balcony were about ten people at an afternoon tea-table. And Valerie, half reclining in a long chair. She rose and came to meet him . . She coloured when she saw him, and that disguised her pallor; she was thin still, and weak looking—but she was beautiful again. She was more exquisite than he had ever imagined. ‘How do you do?” said Trench, quietly. If she had been going to say anything else it died on her lips at this formal-’ ity. “Have you just arrived? I didn’t expect you!” She seemed confused. "I came this morning.” They were surrounded by people the very sight of whom in his present state of mind, withered his kindness for humanity. There were four men and about six women. “Let me introduce—” began Valerie. They were all talking and hardly looking at him. “Please don’t,” said Trench. "I’m only here for a moment.” “A cup of tea, then?” “No, thanks.”

Slightly at a loss, she moved towards her chair again, and somebody engaged her in conversation.

As she stood there talking, the beautifully cut turquoise blue neglige she was - wearing was falling filmily round her ankles, her loveliness was more than he had been prepared to withstand. He looked at the men, excessively “pukka,” British in the Orient . . . the women, he was certain, inveterate readers of the illustrated weeklies, hoping to appear in the illustrations. Nobody spoke to him or looked at him. because he had not yet been introduced, and so he stood there an onlooker, seeing it as a situation. So he had hastened all the way from Sungchow for this! Valerie was as far from him as she had ever been, long ago when he had first met her, in Peter's cottage. The unattainable ideal, waking him only to rage and chagrin! She managed to turn from the person she was taking to, to speak to him: “How were they in Sungchow?" “Almost as unhealthy as ever. And how are you now?” "Oh, there's nothing the matter with me at all!” “A Hindu doctor and a Chinese assistant came to Cungchow to take my place,” he said. “And so I was able to get away.” “Oh, I see!” An awkward pause. “Won't you really have some tea?" "No, thanks, really.” What a conversation, he thought. Had poor Peter never hanged himself? Had they never quarrelled, had he never loved her in Sungchow in such frightful and yet wonderful circumstances? Had she never lain dead before his eyes, and come to life again under his hands, by what seemed a miracle—?

And now she belonged to Forresetier, and to these people, that woman in the maddeningly exaggerated hat who was trying to attract her attention then “Excuse me.” And Valerie turned to talk to her. Trench waited until the conversation was finished. He moved a little away, standing against the wall. He was reminded, with a queer sense of the dreadfulness of fate, of that time when he had stood against the wall in Peter’s cottage. After a minute or two, Valerie returned to him. “I must go,” he said, before she could speak. “Oh. are you going?” “Yes, I only came to say good-bye." She looked at him. She was pale now, and he could see the marks of illness ... ' “Oh, I see.” “I’m going on to Amoy tonight. We had a queer time in Sungchow, didn't we?” Something impelled him to mention it. “Yet, it was —queer, wasn’t it?” She laid a slight emphasis on the word, her head bent, not looking at him. "I hope you get on, and get over the cholera thoroughly. Good-bye!” He held out his hand, hers automatically took it. A handshake, and he turned away from those extraordinarily beautiful, questioning eyes. He walked away. There was some way to go along the wide balcony to the door by which he had come. As he walked he heard his name called, and looked round. She was running, all her filmly turquoise fluttering, her face anxious . . . Running after him in front of those people. He stopped, feeling giddy, with his heart thumping because of the strain

that leave-taking had been. She came, putting her hand on his arm, quite regardless of everyone lookinng rather curiously along the balcony at them. "I don’t care,” she said, her breast heaving wildly. "I don't care if I do let you know! I stayed here because I was waiting for you to come. My father wanted me to go to England, but I pretended I couldn’t fact the journey. I wouldn't go until you had come. I was going to let you go without telling you, but I don’t care if you do know — if this —if this is to be the end of it all!” He stood staring at her. The tears began to rain down her cheeks and she turned her face away so that the others at the end of the balcony shouldn’t see. “I suppose I’m being quite mad!” she exclaimed. “I never ran after a man like this. But is this all—all there was in it?” “Come in here!” He drew her discreetly through the doorway out of sight of the party, which was now pretending not to be interested. They were in an empty , hall, and he took her hands and held them tightly, overcome with triumphant thankfulness. “I was going away because I heard you were engaged to Forrestier?” “Was that all?” Relief flooded her face with colour, and her eyes were brilliant through their tears. “Wasn’t it enough?” “But you didn’t believe that? Why they’re always saying that!” “Are they?” He felt an utter, but exquisitely happy fool. “As soon as I was better, I felt that I ad paid what I owed, I knew it was true when you said I couldn’t make two wrongs make a right. How could I make Peter happy by making you unhappy? Can I make you happy—?” Trench answered that so forcefully that she left the hall half laughing, half crying, leaning limply on his arm. “If you’re going, too, will you let me go to Amoy, and go on with the mission, when I'm well?” she asked. “Let you?” It seemed too good to be true, to Trench. Not only had he escaped the just punishment of his own intolerance but he was also going to escape from women in exaggerated hats! But Valerie only replied: "My life is yours! You said so!’’ —THE END-