The Error of Her Ways

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20920, 27 September 1939, Page 10

The Error of Her Ways

(By FRANK BARRETT)

CHAPTER IV. Tcte-a-tete “We drove with Dad to the station, and walked home through the woods,” said Sylvia at breakfast. “ 'We' being you and the Honourable Angus, I suppose?” remarked Mrs Harrowgate. “Happily,” said the Honourable Angus referred to —a large fair Scotsman —the most decent fellow of the lot, as Tom thought.

“Pretty hard on the Dad to have to go to business on such a day as this.”

“His business is pleasure,” said Mrs Harrowgate. “Your father is a bom gambler, and is never happy out of the ‘House.’ ”

“His sport is baiting bulls,” said Major Gorman, in a slow and sententious tone.

“He certainly prefers that to shooting at partridges—” “Which he never hits.” “And hitting keepers and dogs—” “Which he never shoots at.” “Well, what’s your game to-day?” asked Mrs Harrowgate, throwing down her serviette. “Birds, naturally,” said the Major. “And you, girls?” “Oh, I'm going to try my luck with Teddy’s motor’ (Harrowgate’s forename was Edward), “and there’s three more of us in the tonneau,” replied Miss Cicely De Vere (of the Gaiety). “Well, there’s a pile of magazines in the library,” said Mrs Harrowgate. “Tear out ail the insurance coupons, and take them with you, for Teddy’s sake. And if you have a smash up, let it be a good one, for nothing makes him more mad than repairs. 1 ' “Aren’t you in the collision?” ‘No, I’m one of the guns.” “You!” “Yes. Me viola!” With these words Mrs Harrowgate rose, stepped from the table, ana, pulling a riboon which confined her morning wrap, that garment fell off, displaying herself costumed in Noriolk jacket, knickerbockers and gaiters—as smart a ligure of a danseuse as ever stood in tne first row of the Alhambra.

“Had it built by my old costumier,” she pursued turning round to be adadmired. “What do you think of it? Pretty chic.” “Pretty thick,” grunted the major. Indeed her proportions recalled to Tom’s memory her husband's description of her ample charms. “i think I shall cry off,” said the Honourable Angus, when the applause subsided. “Oh, no you don’t,” said Mrs Harrowgate with quiet emphasis. “You have had your spooning with the kiddy before breakfast. I'm the little B. and S. after. You’re mine for the rest of the day.” “Man proposes, Mrs Harrowgate disposes,” said the big fair man, witn a sigh of resignation and a languishing glance at Sylvia. “And what’s to become of poor me?” asked Sylvia. “Better break your heart than your neck,” said the major. ' “But am I to be left alone?” “Not if you will accept my company,” said Tom, “and Mrs Harrowgate permits.” “Heartily,” replied that lady—- “ Cheer up, Angus.” Tom and Sylvia watched the departure of the rowdy crowd from the terrace fronting the beautiful old house. Mrs Harrowgate insisted on the experimentalists in the motor starting first—“just to give us a chance;” and amidst a volley of chaff they dashed off all screaming a reiterated question, lost in the distance before it could be answered. “Can’t for the life of me make out what they were asking,” said the Honourable Angus. “I gathered,” said the sententious Major, that Miss de Vere wished to know what she must do when she wanted to stop the beastly thing.” “Needn’t trouble about that. There’s a pond just opposite the park gates, that will stop the works for them,” remarked Mrs Harrowgate. Then the guns started to overtake the motor, and see the fun, led by Mrs Harrowgate and the Honourable Hangdog Malcom, as she dubbed the dejected Scotchman. “Be good,” she cried to Tom and Sylvia, with a flourish of her cap, as she strutted off with all the effrontery of her audacious costume. A Vulgar Lot With his arms resting on the marble balustrade, brown with age, Tom watched the retreating party with a smile for a minute or so in silence, and then turned to his companion. He found her regarding him with a wistful expression—sadness rather than mirth in the droop of her pretty, parted lips, and in the depth of her dark eyes. “You must think us an awfully vulgar lot,” she said. “A man who has been away from England seven years must find himself on his return scarcely up-to-date in his way of looking at many things.” “We’re not respectable, look at us how you may.”

“You certainly are not dull.” “That doesn’t redeem us greatly. I know you're disgusted with me,” she said, turning away, and throwing herself in a lounge chair. “I read disappointment in your face the moment we met yesterday.” “I am not disappointed now,” he replied, gently, as ne seated himself in the chair facing her. “Why?”

“Because I see now something that I failed to find yesterday—something of the little Sylvia I have kept in my memory very fondly since we parted seven years ago.” “I was an awful little sketch then.”

“A sketch of the now finished picture?”

“The picture isn’t finished—it needs a few more touches—” “To improve it?”

“Or ruin it altogether.” she said, looking straight before her, in a low tone, which was almost tragic. She changed her attitude in an instant, as if to throw off some oppressive reflection, and turning her eyes to his with a smile, said: “Now you are thinking what a little prig I am.” “Nothing of the kind. Prigs never speak from their hearts, as you spoke from yours.”

“Then pray don’t betray me, or I shall never hear the last of it.” "Is it wrong to be serious sometimes?” “Far worse than that—it’s ridiculous.” Resolved to escape that peril, she continued, with her habitual lightness: “You have trotted all over Europe, haven’t you?” “I know the principal cities fairly well.”

Enthralling Serial Story

“Tell me all about them. I’m dying to go to Paris.”

■ "‘Coming through that city last week I saw something which I thought might interest you.”

“What was that?” with her hands knitted behind her shapely little head, and her eyes following the fluttering of a singing lark in the sky above. "This.” He took a morocco case from his pocket, and laid it in her lap.

She sat up quickly, and opened the case. A very beautiful little watch lay within—the encrusted back glittering in the sunlight. “Oh.” “You used to let me give you chocolate.”

“You never came without them; and, greedy little pig, I couldn’t I quite make up my mind which I loved more—you or the chocolates. Now, what am I to do? If I were a little younger, or you a good deal older, I might thank you in the old way,” she said, with a twinkling blush in her face, as she offered him her hand. “Let me take what you cannot give,” he replied, lifting her hand to his lips. CHAPTER V. More Tete-a-tete They sat for an hour on the terrace, cnatting pleasantly; then Sylvia saiu suddenly: “Oh, I haven’t said good morning to my gee. You win come with me: I snail t keep you a minute —l must run in and put this away'—lifting tne morocco case she had ueen caressing on her lap, and kissing it as sne ran away, witn a smile.

'lom smiled also, lying back in his chair witn a sign or satisfaction. His iaitn in Sylvia’s innate goodness was restored. He nad not cnensned an illusion all tnese years. Sylvia returned, wearing a hat whicn seemed to add to tne coquutisn piquancy or her lace; and mey went lounu to me staoies, wnere tne beautiful tnorougnhrea wnmneyea a welcome to her mistress. Sylvia laiKea to tne beast m baoy language, giving it sugar, ana pressing nor ciieex to its sieek head.

"■she must nave cost a good bit,” said Tom, as tney left the "Gad gave two hundred guineas for her—or uiree hundred—i uon t Know which.” "r remember when his amibtion was to uuy you a donkey.” “And now his amoition is to give me a great big dot. Dear old uad, he is aiways tne same. we tell mm that we snould like sometning, and he buys it lor us. Sometimes we are asnamed to tell him wnat we want, knowing that it is ridiculous waste; then we ask him for money, and he gives it without asking now we intend to spend it. Oh, he is the most unselnsh man in the world, I think, and it makes me wonder how he can nave such a mean daughter.” “Mean!”

“Yes, I am mean. It is true he loves to give, and true that he likes to make money; that may be an excuse for Sibyl (Mrs Harrowgate), but it’s none for me, for I know we take more than he can afford to give. I have seen him when he has thought himself alone, sitting with his hands folded, and looking so tired —so tired.” Tears sprang in the girl’s eyes, and her voice failed. And then she proceeded after a little gulp, and creasing her brows, as if resolved on confessing herself to the friend who esteemed her too highly, "I have made a resolution to waste his money no more, and be very good. And then,” with another gulp, “I’ve forgotten all about it the very next day, and done something more extravagant than before.” “Probably because Dad came down to breakfast particularly cheerful the next morning,” said Tom, smiling. “Do you make fun of everything, like all the rest?” she asked resentfully. “Is there nothing serious in all the world?”

“Too much,” said he, adding seriously, after a moment’s pause, “God forbid that I make light of anything that should be reverenced. Forgive me if my words seemed unsympathetic. Don’t be discouraged, dear little friend. Surely if some great occasion calls for heroic measures you’ll, not be found infirm of purpose.”

“Why, that is what I have said to myself and tried to believe. Do you really think I could be steadfast?” she asked, stopping, and laying her hand upon his arm. Before he answered he seemed to be reading her very soul, through her eyes. Then he said, with quiet conviction, “I would stake my life upon it.” “It’s awfully bad form to talk about myself like this,” she said, when they were moving.

“I can’t think of any pleasanter subject of conversation.” “You see, there's not a soul here that I can talk to seriously, as I find I can to you.” Tom mentally scored this down as one against the Scotchman. But he made no comment. “You are not going away directly, are you?” “I hope not.” “You have made me feel a good deal happier, I should like you and Angus to be great friends.” “Why?” “Because you could talk to him as you do to me.” Tom found it difficult to keep a grave face as he figured himself talking in this paternal spirit towards the man who was a good inch taller than himself, and possibly four or five years older.

“Because I do not think he is very happy.” “Ought to be,” growled Tom, something uncommonly like jealousy beginning to rankle in his breast. “I think it’s some family quarrel that troubles him,” said Sylvia, after acknowledging Tom’s compliment with a bend of her pretty head. “Of course he can’t talk to me about that.”

“Why not?” Tom asked bluntly. “Oh, he says it’s too horrid to talk about; and I couldn’t understand it if he did.”

A grunt answered the first part of the sentence, and to the second he replied, “Well, if I had any trouble, I should pour it into a sympathetic ear, and be glad if it happened to be such a pretty one. Pardon me—may I ask if you are engaged to the Honourable Angus?”

“Not formally. You see, we are just waiting until he shall be independent of his father.” That means, thought Tom, that you are to wait until the poor old dad has found a dot large enough to satisfy the canny Scot. “Mr Malcom is dependent upon his father?” “Yes; so that when we are married it will have to be quite quietly, in order that the old nobleman shall know nothing about it.”

(To be continued)