SERIAL STORY. “WILD GRAPES”

Waikato Times, Volume 121, Issue 20260, 31 July 1937, Page 24 (Supplement)

SERIAL STORY. “WILD GRAPES”

By THEODORA WILSON-WILSON.

A Charming Story with Delightful Appeal.

CHAPTER XXII (Continued). And later, as Robert and Paula I talked on and on o-ver this overturn in the common life, they agreed that they must try to do the generous thing by their mother, in memory of their father. ‘‘Bob, he made the great mistake, and we must accept it. All the same, it’s pretty desperate for Lloyd. He’s behaving frightfully well.” ‘‘l know,” said her brother. ! ‘‘Bob, I guess what you are thinking. I ought to give Lloyd the , chance to slide off I” “H you ask me ” ‘‘l am asking you, only ” and she gave a rueful smile, “it won’t make any real difference. I’ve pretty well made up my mind. Lloyd mustn’t be involved with poor mother—and the unmentionable uncle.” “No, I don’t think it would be fair.” ( “And we can’t tell him everything — well, that’s overl” "Little girl,” said Robert, affectionately, “it’s all sickening, but you mustn’t make the mistake that father made.” "And I'll make it quite clear to Lloyd that it is I who have jilted him,” she said with a queer little laugh. "And now for the hurly-burly on my own scrap of money, that bank deposit into j which Daddy saved so proudly,” and i then suddenly Paula broke down in a passion of tears. "Dear old thing,” said Robert, "Aunt Claudie has been hinting ” “I’m being thoroughly cheap and silly,” said Paula, “and we are not going to sponge on Aunt Claudia. She has only just enough for that dear little home of hers, and her one maid and gardener-chauffeur. She is rheumatic and needs the comfort of middle-age.” “Agreed, agreed!” and Robert nodded. "Don’t tirade I” “Lloyd coifes to-night,” said Paula. *‘.l will put him out of his misery.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

Decisions. Paula was playing on the piano that evening, to pass away the time, until she realised that she was doing a very foolish thing. How often she had soothed her father in his weariness by playing to him, yet now, all her music seemed to hurt more Intolerably. She closed the piano, and almost im- 1 mediately I.loyd came In upon her. The nervous and anxious expression in his whole aspect nerved Paula to make the effort upon - which she had decided. Yet it was but fair to Lloyd to admit that the man was going through a hell of his own. (He was tom between his worldly ambition and his love, if so It could be called, for Paula. j For months now, he had accepted life with Paula as his companion In the success that was surely coming. 'He had been wonderfully preserved from the exasperations of defeat, and .he had, in faot, looked upon Paula as his Mascot. To Jilt a girl because her father’s fortune had not materialised, was becoming more and more Impossible to him. The though of hurting her was almost as dreadful as the thought of what people might say. Therefore, he felt sure that he had decided to stand in with Paula, and make good without the miserable money. Perhaps ft wan fortunate for him that his calculations had been made without knowing in very truth the woman he had chosen for his wife. Paula now went up to him, and placed a hand on >his shoulder, and looked into his eyes. Then she kissed him. "It was good of you to come, Lloyd,” she said resolutely, "for that last kiss.” "Paula, dearest, what do you • mean?” he exclaimed, flushing. It ! was uncanny. The girl had seen deep down into his centre. "This has all been a time of big . experience,” she said, as she drew him to the sofa. "I heave learnt hard . things and wonderful things.” "In which I am to share?” “Not altogether.” "But why ” "We aro not really close enough together to share misfortune. We had counted on success.” "You are trying to say that—that von don’t love me?” he asked sharply. "Perhaps that is it—l am not quite clear.” "But Paula, dearest ” "Wait, you have been splendid, and this is all my fault,” she interrupted. "You must try to forgive me, and not think hard things. Had I been rich —lmportant—l might have been all you have Vanted me to be, and we should have been very happy. Bui now. I must refuse to draw anyone down with me I” She was trying to make it very easy for him, and he looked at her steadily. "I mean it all, Lloyd; I* have thought and thought over tho whole position, as you have ” "I was coming here to night to ofTer you everything I can offer,’’ he took her hand, but she drew it away gently. "I want to be ns frank as I can. It Is not only because my father has died without leaving me an unexpected fortune. But there is my mother. She belongs to Robert and me—we have our duty towards her, but you have pone.” "But If I can help you “ "It is Impossible. Indeed, Lloyd, you know 1 am right. You know that > must do the true and fair thing. You must be free. I must be free, and I still wish you everything 1 have always wished you. We have been , very happy comrades, but ” "But?” And then Paula said the last dividing word. "We have never been lovers. We have always hoped that love—great passionate love —would grow between us. Lloyd, I am right, and don’t let us say one hurting word. We have been very happy, only now—this Is the end.” He could not but be aware of Paula’s consummate generosity, and perhaps he never wanted the girl so ! much as now. Why not throw up everything and 1 play the man? "No, no, this is not the end,” he ex- I claimed. "This is all too hurried—you are not yourself.” He rose and walked away from her, and she waited. You really want me to go—to break the engagement?" ho said turn“l want you to be utterly free." she insisted. "But If I make a position worthy of you—mayn't I como again and offer

■CHAPTER XXIV.

you what I would like to have offered from the beginning?” "It’s no use, Lloyd,” she answered. She was drawing off her ring, but he stopped her fiercely. “Give it away to your latest charity,” he cried. “Very well.” She had risen and was holding on to the end of the sofa. “You will believe, Lloyd, that this Is the hardest thing I have ever done?” “Paula, can’t you—l mean—let us pull through together 1” The words seemed forced from him. “We are both excited, sore, hurt; but in the end you will know that I am right.” For answer he gathered her to him and kissed her as he had never kissed her before. Then she stood listening until the sound of his car faded away. “Paula, old thing 1” “Bob!” and she seized his arm for support, “I’ve done it, and he has gone. It has hurt us both, badly.” “I know,” said Robert,. He was thinking of himself and Olive Maitland, who had now passed far beyond hlg reach.

Furtner complications. "Like to see the evening paper, Mrs Tate?” said a friendly voice. "Thank you!” said Madeline Tate, and she smiled at the kindly woman from whom she rented this miserable cupboard of a room. “And let me see the piotures. Mummy,” and a child of five tossed down a grimy Teddy Bear, and ran to her mother’s side. "There is the outside page, darling,” said her mother. Madeline lifted the paper indifferently. What did news matter to her? But suddenly she was attracted to a paragraph concerning the funeral of a noted nerve specialist. "Sir John Hammond was deeply respected by all who knew him, and especially by those under his professional care. Sympathy will go out to his wife. Lady Hammond, daughter of the late Percy Tate, the well-known etcher.” Madeline Tate read no further. LRdy Hammond was her sister-in-law, her child’s aunt. Why had Gordon never' told her of this connection? She laughed. Why did you laugh, Mummy?” asked the child. "Because I have found out In the paper how to buy you everything you want, my precious!” and she laughed again. Madeline Tate was the daughter of a widow who eked out a living by running a teashop for hikers, cyclists and motorists, in a Westmorland dale, off the popular track. It was about seven years since the handsome artist, Gordon Tate, had called for refreshment on a sketching tour. Instantly recognising the artistic possibilities of the young waitress, ha had engaged the one visitor’s room, and given himself to the enjoyment of Mrs Mason’s hospitality. A passion for Madeline grew upon him, and as, flattered by his gentlemanly attentions, she acted as his model, the girl found herself "head-over-ears” in love. She was beautiful, had a soft ‘voice, was reasonably educated and full of a keenness for life, and an admiration for Gordon that was alluring A Registry Office marriage ensued. Some years ago, Gordon Tate had given way to drink most deplorably, and hurt his sister Marie profoundly. Ho had disgraced her and her husband openly on the occasion of the christening of Robert and. Paula, to which he had been invited, but the shock had sobered him for some time, and no idea of his weakness penetrated to Mrs Mason and her daughter. Yet by the time Dolly, the child, was a couple of years old, Madeline had to realise that her idolised husband was for tho time a hopeless drunkard. In a panic of sheer terror, she had fled from him, taking the child with her, and Gordon had taken no steps to bring her back. He was on his own again, with no encumbrances, and as he lost iob after jO'b as an illustrator, owing to hopeless unpunctuality and carelessness, his finances went down, until he struck on the plan of making Marie’s lite a burden to her. She continually bought him off, and in her folly refused to explain what was happening to a husband who would have been all kindness and sympathy, even though straightforward and upright. Rut Madeline knew little of all this, and it was only vaguely that she realised that Gordon had a siste-. Gordon’s father had been an etcher of repute, but unfortunately etching was of less and less commercial value, and he had died a poor man. Rut this newspaper paragraph set thoughts flowing through Madeline’s depressed brain. By needlework, odd jobs in reslaurants and shops, she had managed to stumble along. But there was a physical weakness growing upon her, which made her long for rest and comfort. Besides, Dolly must go to school, and she could not provide the clothes flt for her daughHnd her mother lived, she might possibly have returned to the dales, but she now shrank utterly from returning to the old neighbourhood as a penniless beggar. Perhaps if the old Vicar, Dawson Smith, had boon alive, she might, in her misery have applied to him. Rut ho was dead also, and newcomers occupied the Vicarage. But now a sudden ray of hope dawned upon her. She had discovered that she had a sister-in-law a titled lady —a Knight’s widow. Surely Lady Hammond, if she knew of her distress, would be kind and help her over this ghastly piece of rough road? Certainly there were complications on I lie road for Lady Hammond, for she had no kind of idea that her brother Gordon had ever been married. Gordon could be very selective in his confidence. (To Be Continued).