CHINA MAIL CHRISTMAS SUPPLEMENT, 1930.
"HOCK OR SHERRY?”.
(Continued from Page 25.)
and corner: the deep mullioned windows, with their broad window-seats and the open fireplaces. And the octagon bedroom-how he loved that! You're sleeping there now, aren't you, Miss Spencer? Perhaps that's why he comes there so often."
Aunt Agatha shivered. A glowing coal fell in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks flying up the chimney. The Author's pipe was out again. He laid it down, and went on:
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"He could see the house he loved-snug octagon room he had presumably flung the and grey among the trees-from his bed-other out of the window, and himself after. room window; and his hunger for it became "How he had done it I don't know. more acute than ever. He still wandered Turnbull was a big heavy man, and Joey a levingly about the place; but his dream was little wisp of a thing. But he must have shattered. He could never live there now, had the superhuman strength of a maniac even when it was in his powr to do so. And for a moment.
"That's all." he he was blocking the view from his little house. This hurt him terribly. He couldn't
A few seconds of tense silence. A pat- bear the thought that he, who loved so dear- ly the place he had helped to build, should ter of rain had started, and to the over- be living in this vile erection of glaring strung nerves of the company it seemed brick, right in the path of Little Chantreys. that they could hear the slow footsteps of It was as though every time he looked at little Joey, and see his shadowy insignificant his beloved, it looked back, as if with pain, figure coming up a ladder outside, carrying and murmured "You! I'd never have a hodful of bricks, thought this of you! I thought you loved me!"
Aunt Agatha suddenly broke out in an "Joey used to dream of what he would do if the house were really his. Suppose
indignant quaver: "George, I absolutely "But at last someone took the house. refuse to sleep in that room again. You someone left him money! He'd buy it; then
And to- it would be his for ever and ever. And He was a florid, middle aged bachelor, loud, must find me somewhere else.
Hemorrow I shall leave by the first train." wouldn't he make a lovely garden! And over-dressed, and of sporting tastes.
Mr. Spencer reflected sadly that he had he'd have the gate painted white, and a grey entertained a good deal-noiay parties from talking parrot with a red tuil. And then"- London, who used to keep it up into the probably lost a legacy.
"But what a queer thing to hate a man the Author paused dramatically-"then the small hours. Silly tunes were brayed out extraordinary thing happened. Joey's elder and there was a good deal of rather coarse- because you wanted his house and to hate And he went to him so much that you had to murder him," brother, who had gone to Australia years sounding laughter.
Reggie commented. before, died. Joey was his only living rela-race-meetings-a-lot."- tion, and he left all his money to him, for The Author shot a glance at Mr. he'd made good, had this elder brother. to Stanton. That gentleman did not looking fruitlessly at his pipe. the tune of £30,000.
"Joey could hardly believe it at first. It seemed incredible. But when he at last realised that it was true, and that he was a rich man, it came to him with a jerk that The now he could materialise his dream. house that he loved with all his soul could be his."
"And I suppose he came and lived here," said Delia Carey, "and was happy ever after? I don't believe that; it's too good to be true. You've made up the bit about the brother leaving him à fortune, Mr. Ferris."
"You're quite right, or rather, partly right. It was too good to be true. He never lived at Little Chantreys. You see, he dared not tell his wife. He knew she'd want a big staring house that everyone could see. Often it was on the tip of his tongue to burst out about the house; the house that he'd helped to build, and that he wanted with all. his soul. But he choked it back. I told you he hadn't got much spirit, didn't I? And in a queer sort of way he was ashamed of this love of his. So his wife arranged it all and they had that dreadful red house built, down the valley. By the way, you live there now, don't you?" said the Author pleasant- ly, turning to Stanton,
That usually cheerful gentleman scowl ed and grunted out: "Yes, I do. And I find It a very nice place."
For the second time that evening Mr. Spencer wished he hadn't asked this "writer- fellow" to spend Christmas with him. But the poor devil looked as if he had needed a few square meals. Now he must go telling stories and upsetting Aunt Agatha, and in- sulting his guests! Confound the man!
"Do go on!" pleaded Molly. The Author continued:
happy. In fact, he looked thoroughly un- comfortable and annoyed. There was a faint giggle from Molly. "Shut up, you idiot!"
said Reggio. The Author shifted his posi- tion a little, and went on with the story:
The Author still gazed at the fire, suck.
"Hatred is a powerful emotion," he re- marked, "and once it gets hold of a man' it fills his whole being to the exclusion of everything else, Joey's hatred was ao in- tense that he's handed it down as a sort of blood legacy. His descendants still hate murderously the occupants of this house. I try to fight it down, of course."
"You! What do you mean?" "Oh, didn't I tell you? Little Joey
Ferris was my father!"
There was a very awkward pause. Then Mrs. Spencer said: "I'm sure it's time we were all in bed. Molly, you ought to have gone long ago. Come along, everybody."
·
• *
The Author stood in his room, chuck- ling mischievously, Keys were turning in locks, all down the corridor. He could imagine the present owner of Little Chantreys spending a sleepless night clutch- ing a poker, in anticipation of a homicidal attack from the son of little Joey. It was quite a good story, though. Rather clever of him to produce such an effect, when he had invented the whole thing on the spur of the moment. Credit was due to Aunt Agatha, however. She had given his "It was an awful blow to Joey. It al- imagination a start. He had not had an idea most, broke him up, now that he couldn't in his head before that. go to his little house any more. He pined, He sat down, and took writing-pad and and seemed to lose interest in life. Little fountain-pen, and began to write feverishly. Chantreys was his only interest in life, you He finished at last, and folding his papers see; and now every time he looked at it he into a long envelope, scribbled a note to go imagined it was saying half-reproachfully, with them to his friend, the editor of a half-appealingly, "Why did you let this hap certain magazine: pen? Can't you stop them using me for this sort of thing.'
"And Joe grew to hate-Turnbull, 1 think his name was. To hate with a blind bitter fury, this man who had only taken the house because it was handy for San- "The new house partially blocked the down Park, who cared nothing for its view from Little Chantreys. It was utterly beauty, for its personality. And, queerly And here enough, his pulses began to quicken with ugly a monstrosity, in fact. Joey had to live with his harridan wife and this morbid hatred for Turnbull, which For weeks he his puling children. The furniture that obsessed his whole being. woman bought! You know the sort of brooded, fanning the flames of his hatred, thing-you see it in every seaside lodging- till it was like a great furnace within him house on a vaster and more hideous scale-implacable, all-devouring. She even bought a grand piano, though no one in the family could play, and decorated must die, and by his hand." it with little crochet mats and plush-framed photographs...
"Joey suffered. "He was a shy little man-shy and intensely sensitive; and he had to live the truly terrible life of an un- educated man suddenly become rich. And, to add to his troubles, there was that vulgar, grasping, bullying wife of his.
"And then at last ho decided Turnbull
"Dear Jack,
"I think you'll like this story. If you want it send in the guineas by return, like a good chap; then I shall be able to tip the butler. Youra ever,
"Jimmy Ferris.". "'Ock or sherry, sir?" said a bland voice at dinner two evenings later.
Jimmy Ferris looked the butler fear- lessly in the eyes.
"Hock," he answered brightly.
COMBE, COMBE!
"Now is the season of indoor clothes," says Lady Moira Combe. Don't people she "It was on a September morning that knows wear indoor clothes except at this they found them--two bodies lying in the season? garden. Both necks were broken, and Turn- bull's head was horribly crushed where it had struck a rock.
TAKING WAYS.
"Joey had gone up to, the house one The amall boy has to wait for his Christ- evening, and had persuaded Turnbull to mas pudding until the old man is served; he show him over. When they got into the takes after his father.