“WILD GRAPES”

Waikato Times, Volume 121, Issue 20262, 3 August 1937, Page 10

“WILD GRAPES”

By THEODORA WILSON-WILSON.

SERIAL STORY.

CHAPTER XXV. —Continued. Robert helped her to the back of the car, and Paula followed, and they sat silent for most of the way to Westminster. Then Robert turned and asked for directions, and the car wound round to a back street which was already condemned, and acquired by a speculative builder for. the erection of “luxury, flats” which some could afford to rent. “It's here,” said Madeline reprecating—“the top floor." “That's all right,” said Robert. He locked the car, and knocked as directed. The door was opened by a friendly woman, who smiled an astonished %N “Well, now, you’ve got back, Mrs Tate! Polly’s been calling for you for hours!” And Dolly herself, a child of five, came racing down the dark stairs. “Mummy! Mummy! You shouldn’t have left me!” and she leaped into her arms. Robert and Paula waited, conscious of a most obnoxious atmosphere which seemed to flow from the house. “This lady and gentleman, Dolly,” said her mother, “want to see where “Oh, and Mrs Taylor washed the floor, Mummy, and she’s lent me a clean overall.” Then she dropped her voice. “And four crumpets and best margarine for our suppers 1 And she’s lending me a toasting fork —and a penny for the gas!” “If you wish to come ” said Madeline. “And kindly excuse the refuse pails, madam,” struck in Mrs Taylor. “They like to get them out of their roooms befre night, and the cart comes early in the morning.” “Oh, that’s all right,” said Paula cheerfully. Robert and Paula had vaguely known, but never realised, that to be down at the bottom of the British Empire might mean a room per family and dust pails on the stairs. Their own remnant of income would be a small fortune here. They reached the . top room and looked' round- —by the light of incandescent gas, with the mantel broken. “But, Mrs Tate, why don’t you go back to the North, to the wonderful dale you were telling me about?” “I left my husband, and no one would try to understand. Besides, I don’t want to say a -word against Gordon. He loved me once, he was kind to me once—sometimes I curse him in my heart. I cursed him when I last saw him. But afterwards —I was sorry. It was the drink. And Fm all right here. Mrs Taylor is kind to me, and if I can just manage the rent. I shan’t do better. Dolly’s clothes bother me. for I want her to go to school, hut she can’t like this l” and she raised the overall. Paula listened and looked towards Robert. She was sick at the thought of all her own clothes which she had wasted, which would have turned this lovely child into a fairytale princess. “I fyou will allo-w me to send you a box full of clothes, for the child, and for you,” said Paula, “I shall be thankful. I am in mourning now, and have so many things that I simply don’t know what to do with.” "And look here,” said Robert, “I’d like you to know that it is no use coming to my mother. Since my father died most of the money is lost, the house and garden are to be sold, and most of what is there. My mother will only just be able to manage on what she has. But all the same— I’ll see Mrs Taylor when I go and I’ll pay your rent, for three months in advance, so that you need have no 'worry about that.” And to the twins’ consternation, Mrs Tate sank down and broke into a convulsive passion of tears. And Dolly, passionately angry, stamped her foot at them. “How dare you two make my Mummy cry,” she shouted. “Go away 1” And as they hesitated, Mrs Tate staggered up and went with them to the door. “I can’t get what Is called ‘relief’,” she said, “because they w r ould be after my husband for maintenance: and- —I don’t want to get him into more trouble.” But when the brother and sistei got downstairs, Robert made his arrangement with Mrs Taylor, including a. generous suppl yof milk and hell in cleaning. “I’m sure, sir, you’re a godsend,” said Mrs Taylor. “I have to live myself, and the rent has been uncertain and they don’t eat enough. Mrs Tate is clever with her needle, but she can’l stir round at cleaning jobs as she usee to do.” And as the car drove off, Paul? clutched at Robert’s arm. “Bob, I’m glad we went,” she said "It has been downright good for us We have been doing the seif-pityim touch—but, my dear boy, you wen strong with Mrs Taylor!” “I suppose,” he answered, “tha the worst of being hard up is that one . can’t help the lame dogs. I’ve not - got used to the feeling yet. But any- f how, I’ve two cars to.selll" On reaching The Grange, they found their mother waiting about for them nervously. “Where on earth have you been, children?” she asked pettishly. “We’ve had an adventure, mother,” said Robert. “We met a poor crock of a woman in the drive—” “Go on, don’t break any tiling to me gently 1” she exclaimed. “You mean that you met a woman calling herself Mrs Gordon Tate?” “Yes,” said Paula. “But do sit down. Mum, darling.” “We thought we had better drive her home,” went on Robert, “partly because she looked ill and suffering, and partly because we wanted to And out whether the story was true.” “Had she brought a message from —her husband?” “Oh, no, it’s ail rather sad. She ran away from him about four years ago, and took the child.” “Child ” “A perfectly lovely child, Mum,” said Paula, “about five years old.” “And this woman—common?” “No, certainly not common," said Robert. “She must have been very beautiful once. I gathered that her husband bad given her two pounds during this separation time. She manages—somehow; but it’s perfectly awful." “But what made her come here?" I “Desperation. 1 fancy. She read in paper that Lady llammond was the

A Charming Story with Delightful Appeal.

daughter of her husband’s father. She thought, naturally, that we were rich, and—all that!” “And what do you want me to do?" she asked, bewildered. “Nothing, nothing whatever, Mum,” said Paula. “Robert and I have taken on Mrs Gordon Tate. You mustn't bother. We’ll make it all right somehow.” It seemed necessary to carry off the awkward position lightly, for they , both realised that their mother was enduring a very severe blow to her , pride. She had thought she was all In all to her brother, yet he had been married for seven years without letting her know. “There’s been a ring for you, Robert,” said Lady Hammond, breaking away from the subject. “Mr Maitland wants to know what he has done to be so neglected. He hopes you'll finish this evening with them.” “Oh, well, I might,” said Robert, uneasily. “1 suppose,” she added, “that you are following Paula’s ridiculous lead, and throwing over JOlive. It’s a pity. She will have a very handsome fortune, and that old wound must soon kill her father, then she’ll have everything.” If Lady Hammond had searched all literature to -create a sentence, she could not 'have done worse. CHAPTER XXVI. A Bargain. Olive Maitland had, as her father well knew, been suffering acutely over the death of Sir John Hammond. She felt she had been a favourite with him, and he had always made her feel like one of the family. On that birthday party, which Olive had hated, Sir John had made a special opportunity of speaking to her. “My dear, you look very charming this evening,” he had said. “I feel as proud of you as though you were my daughter.” Had he known that these would be his last "words to her? Yet since hsi death, Robert had pointedly avoided her, and refused any sharing of his sorrow. She had attended the funeral, and seated herself in the background and had driven herself home without speaking to one of the family. To-night Olive was out, toiling at a Girls’ Club, and knowing the intimacy there had been between his father and Mr Maitland, he felt at liberty to talk freely. “And your own personal plans?” asked Mr Maitland. “Vague, sir. Aunt Claudia wants me to train as a singer; she thinks it may be worth while.” “Well, you’ll give pleasure, and you may make a fortune, and then again, you mayn’t!” and he smiled. “That’s what I calculate,” and Robert laid down a cigarette. “A great singer needs Inspiration—they say that heroes need the heroine, but, of course, that may be fairy tale.” “A hero must prove himself first,” said Robert quickly. “And while he is engaged on this very laudable proving quest, he, as a side issue, breaks a woman’s life. I thought better of you, Robert.” “I’m sorry, sir,” said Robert obstinately. “The war is getting its own back on me at last,” said Mr Maitland. “I can’t push it off much longer, and then -Olive will be alone—with her jewels, her fortune. Ah, there is the child!” Olive burst into the room, with her usual question: “All right, Father dearest?” The Bargain. Olive was startled on seeing Robert seated by her father, and more startled when he sprang up and put an arm round her. “Olive, I’ve been horrible, horrible!” he pleaded. “You have,” she admitted, drawing back. “But you’ll excuse —forgive— understand!” “I don’t know.” Then she looked into his tired strained face, and she relented. “I suppose—you couldn’t I help it.” “I ought to have helped it. I ought to have known.” “Now, my dear people,” said Mr Maitland, “recollect that I am an invalid, and that I can’t escape.” "We don’t want you to escape, father,” said Olive, going over- to him “If there is to be a bargain between Robert and me, you ought to be witness.” “Yes,” and he put out a hand to Robert. “We won’t talk just now of an engagement, but suppose, when Robert is quite grown up—oh, I’ve not forgotten the twenty-first birthday, and this old world has not been bombed into eternity, then, well, to be continued in our next. Ring the bell, Olive, for tea I” (To Be Continued).