JOAN of the GREAT HEART

Waikato Times, Volume 107, Issue 17985, 2 April 1930, Page 12

JOAN of the GREAT HEART

CHAPTER XIV.— (Continued.) Joan drew Sack half a step, resting her band on the mantle shelf and let ling her head droop hack on to her arm, thought she still faced him- “ It is quite true," she replied, 11 I am going to marry Anthony Lesterlees.” He stood very erect, his hands clenched. "You are not going to do any such Hung," he retorted. “ You are going lo marry me. Hush, you must let me speak. I am home again, Joan, and I have won my goal. I am what the world calls a ‘made man.’ I sent a picture to one of the exhibitions in Home and the Italians went mad over it, If only you had been there, how we should” have laugihed and revelled and enjoyed It! Caesar himself could not have gloried more in his triumph. I gloried in mine, but I thought of you all the time. I did not write—you know what a rotter I am about taking up a peri—tout I worked for you. I dreamed with you. I shall not toe conlent till I take you hack with me to Rome and Florence —above all, Florence."

lie tried to take her hands, to gather up the threads of their comradeship as they had left It—to dismiss, as a thing unthinkable, the fact of her engagement. But Joan would not allow’ It. though tier heart seemed to be bursting with pain. *• I can never go to Italy with you now, Michael," she said. “I don’t Blink you understand. I have not

been marching forward as you towards your goal, I have not -been crowmed as you with victor’s laurels. I have not been out in the sunshine, but in the dark valley of care, difficulty and sorrow. It was there I found a friend —a splendid sort of friend, who gave ungrudgingly. A friend who has honoured me with his love. Michael, you used to be a sport. You used to bn proud of playing the game. You arc going to help me now 7 to be loyal In Anthony Lesterlees." She saw’ the cloud sweep across the handsome face of this first lover of hers. He was handsomer than ever during those months, the Italian sunshine had burned his face to a glowing bronze colour, his eyes were brighter, and he was more a man, since he had become a victor. But he looked dawn as she made her appeal, impatiently stirring one of The logs with his foot. “ You ask what is impossible, Joan," lie replied, “ I love you and the way is clear now r . I can paint and I can sell my pictures for what I like to ask. My picture for the Academy will add to my fame. The British publio is slower at adopting a new favourite than the Italians, but it is more faithful. I have been inundated with newspaper reports. I shall be able to take a house more central than at Hampstead. I can afford luxuries. The old loan days are over. I only want you to make the dream picture complete.” Selfish,' selfish, selfish! She had never recognised this vice in him so plainly as she did to-day. It was his gratification he sought as he had done when he asked -her to leave her father. Ah, .yes, he had asked her to do that. If she had yielded she would never have forgiven herself. She would never forgive herself if she yielded now. She must be loyal, cost what it might. “ I cannot break my engagement," she s-aid, “ I can only offer you friendship. You must not talk of love to me Michael. I am going- to belong to another man. If you will only allow it to be possible for us still to be friends I should be glad. For the sake of auld lang syne, Michael, I want your friendship.”

“ Not at the price,” retorted Grefton fiercely. I am no humbug, Joan, and I will not take the crumbs from another’s table. I must have all. I mean to have all. You cannot deny you love me. I make that claim.” She half feared he meant to kiss her and he frowned as he saw the dread in her eyes. “ No,” he said, “I won’t snatch or steal What is mine by right. You can trust me, Joan, and I am going to trust you. You must see it as I see it in the end. I shall be staying at the Martins’ for some weeks. Old Martin is paying a big price for a picture and I can give the time. 1 don’t want to go on with my Academy picture at present. This is the -meltingpot of destiny. I shall show you your heart—and your lover." “ I don’t want you to stay," she cried piteously, “I shall do my best to avoid you. I will not allow you to try and steal my allegiance. Oh, you will see for yourself what sort of a man Anthony is. He is true, true, and his love is true."

“ I d-on’t doubt it,” replied Grefton. “What I do doubt is whether you give him true love in return. Your arguments don’t stand inspection, Joan. You arc cheating this Lesterlees just as much as you are cheating me. He loves you, and you are taking him and his wealth—all he can give—and returning nothing.” She was white enough now—angry as he.

“ You have no right to speak so,” she said, “it is no business of yours. Anth-ony knows . . . knows all that I can offer him, and at least I can be true to ray premise . . . and loyal to his love. If you were half as true, half as loyal, you would go away and spare me the pain of seeing you . . .

meeting you.” He was listening intently to what sho said, and she little guessed that j he had found the weak place in her i armour. So—Lesterlees had -been con- ! tent to win a bride who had no love ! to give. But did he know that love : was already bestowed on someone ! else ? He was more than ever rsolved to remain here, hut if he did so he must hide his purpose. There was much of the actor in this man, too. He could dissemble in a way Lesterlees could never have succeeded in doing, and the note of drama had gone from his voice as he replied : “ You've got to forgive me, right j now, Joan Great Heart,” he pleaded, ' “you are quite right and I am! ashamed. We must make a compact, j you and I. I can’t Jet you go out of j my life altogether. I want to stay to ! see your Lesterlees, to make sure of , your happiness, and then—why! I shall accept my role of cavalier servente, one whose loyalty will be tried, no doubt, but who knows the way to j victory. Excelsior! You remember! ■how we used to babble about that in the dear old times, Joan? and I shall start my climbing to-day. I’m going to be your comrade, your friend, and I won’t ask for more than you can j give me. You won't refuse me that

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claim, Joan? You’ll let me stay and play my part?” , She knew it was unwise to yield, but what could she say? He pleaded so well and his words were specious enough. It was natural he wanted to know her future husband. He wanted to “ stand by ” thinking of her happiness. Very wistfully she' looked back into' those sparkling eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but Michael, you are a man and I am only a girl. You will help, won’t you? You won’t tempt mo from my purpose? I shall marry Anthony.” And, though he only vowed to hlrro self the more fervently that she would do nothing of the kind, he smiled his promise. “We will be comrades still,” he said, “but—l can’t stand more of this to-clay, Joan. Here eorne all the crowd —1 can’t face it. I’ll slip away instanter il’ you don’t mind, and go back to sympathise with old Martin, who has gout. Make any excuse you like —and we shall meet to-morrow, lady true." He caught both her hands, pressed them hard, and hurried off, leaving Joan the difficult task of explaining why the hero of the tea-party was missing. She was unprepared with her excuses, exhausted after the sharp mental strain, and only longing to go right away from the appalling chatter, chaff and nonsense talk going on around her.

Aline must have told her friends of Joan’s early intimacy with Michael Grefton, and over and over again she was called on to give an account of life at Hampstead and answer naive inquiries about Bohemia and the stories in circulation about wild scenes and orgies.

Joan had never felt more like “biting” in her life. She sat as far away as she could in a corner, her pallor accentuated by her black dress. Not at all the central figure for a jolly tobogganing party; and most of the youthful guests re-cognised the fact soon enough and, turning their backs on her, set to the work of eating cake alter cake, sandwich after sandwich, whilst discussing the likelihood of another frost and the wisdom of arranging low walls of hardened snow down the toboggganing track as

“obstacles” to ensure the thrills of perfetcly awful jolts. Joan, glad to be ignored, was contemplating flight to her room, when Aline came and seated herself by her.

“I saw Mr. Grefton as he came up 'the hill,” she said. “1 had gone off to the village to post a tetter. He dodged Hie others. Poor fellow, he looked very like ‘blighted hopes,’ and I could not help being sorry for him. One is generally sorry for the old love, isn’t one ? Although the new may be a very much better fellow.” Joan blushed hotly. She would have liked to say Michael was by no means a discarded lover. . . . had, in fact, been refused definitely when, last year, he had asked her to marry him. But somehow the words would not -come. She could never face Aline Sandall's keen eyes and say—with any semblance of truth—that Michael was not her lover.