Heart of Gold.

Auckland Star, Volume LIX, Issue 213, 8 September 1928, Page 12 (Supplement)

Heart of Gold.

By C. M. MATHESON Author of "NUT IN THE HUSK," etc. etc.

CHAPTER I. Saven o'clock wan striking when the door at the side of Madame Sabina's h.it shop was pushed open and Doreen Mallory came out on the pavement. In lh» lighted windows the blinds were already drawn, for it was closing time, but the yellow light glowed on the girl and showed her, a slim young figure with the face of a flower. Shft stood there a moment, her hands thrust into the pockets of her coat, as though she debated which way she would turn. Then, noting that the passers-by glanced at her, she made her decision and walked swiftly away into the hurrying crowd. These people who thronged the pavements as she came into Oxfc rd Street were homeward bound, or hastening to (lie evening's pleasure. To-night she was in no mood either for going home, or in tho opposite direction to meet her Jover, Jim Lacy, at the Corner House. She had no wish to meet anyone she knew until she had got herself used to the matter that troubled her. To her it was an important matter. She had been six months at Sabina's, the Court milliners in Holies Street, working from eight in the morning till seven in the evening in that long, narrow, top-floor room, putting her heart into her work, but finding tedious every hour she spent thus confined. Now, she told herself, it was all over, she would never go there again, ifever pass through that closed door, down the dark passage to the steep stairs. And when she had first gone there Madame had said that, after a year in the workroom she could come into the showroom if she did well. "I wouldn't have minded it so much in the showroom," said Doreen to herself as she threaded her swift way along Oxford Street towards the Park. "And I was only late three times," she said to herself, waiting on the edge of the pavement to cross the road. "I never thought Madame would sack me now, right at the beginning of the season when it's so busy." She slipped between the traffic to an island, paused, watched her chance, and dived again into the road and so came to the Park.

Here the lamplight shone into the dark spaces under the trees and there was a scent of flowers from the long "beds near the railings. Dqreen walked slowly, sauntering, forgetting her troubles because there was a scent of flowers, because the sky still glowed h faintly above the trees, because it was < like the country here, after the rush d and throb of the London street. "Wouldn't mind if I could go back to t the country," she said in her heart, for c she had been born in the country and s had lived all tho years of her childhood j in a quaint old thatched cottage in the private park of a great house. Her father, head chauffeur to the Earl of Scotley, had, on the d'eath of the old f Earl, been sent to London by the young heir, who voted the country too slow and dull for him, and declared himself likely to be ruined by his father's death j duties, and so removed all the head servants to the town house in Cadogan J Square. Doreen was ten then, she was » eighteen now, and, after two years' apprentice to the millinery, had gone ( its improver to Madame Sabifia'a, and c had that very day been summarily dis- i missed for arriving late three mornings running. . „ ~ "Oh, well," said the girl presently, , with a confidence she did not feel. "I'll f get another job. The season's just beginning now —just the time to make a { change. I'll get something better than old Sabina's with her fifteen bob a week and one hour off for a meal." But she felt it would not be easy to go home and tell her father had . happened. Young Lord Scotley's sister, Lady Edith, had helped her to get that opening at Madame Sabina's, and it was not likely her ladyship would use her ' influence a second time. There were « always crowds of girls trying to get jobs in the West End shops. i It was dark under the trees, bnt not < too dark to see the dim forms of the ] couples sitting close together on the little chairs. With her head in the air l)oreen pretended to ignore them, but ■he began to wish Jim Lacy was with i her. He would be waiting for her even now at Lyons' Corner House, but she bad not wanted to see him or anyone. ' "Might just as well be with Jim as hero by myself, getting the miserables," elie said in her heart. A tall man, sauntering under the trees, looked into her face as he passed, tven in the dim light he could see this girl had youth and a pretty air. He turned on his heel and followed her, waiting liis opportunity to speak. She continued to walk, supremely indifferent. The man caine up with her and spoke. "Cood evening. Are you in a great hurry?" lie said. She returned no answer. He walked at ber aide. "Don't be shv," he said. "I am not at all shy, thank you," she replied. "No? I thought you were not or you wouldn't be here. Why walk by yourself in the dark? May I come with you?" "As you like, I'm going home." "(ioing home this way?" She walked on, neither hurrying nor delaying her pace. Ho kept with her and tried to get her to talk. Presently, us they came to more lighted thoroughfares, lie said as though in complaint: "Why all this hurry? Come for a walk with me round the l'ark." "No, thanks." 'Why not?" Jle slipped his arm through hers. "Come on. Come for a va Ik." .She stopped and fared hint. "[ don't go for walks with &trange men," t-hr said. "If 1 wanted a walk I've got a bov of my own." "1 wouldn't be a stranger to you long," ho answered. "Never mind uliout the other itoy. He isn't here now. Come for a walk. A walk can't do any harm." "I've told you I'm not going for any walk," she replied shortly. "Well, another night. Let me see you home. Another night we'll have a walk. Do you come this way every evening?" He xeleased her arm and she walked by him, her hands thrust into the pockets of her long coat. "I used to, not every evening, but quite often. I don't suppose I shall do it again for a bit." "Why not?" m '"Oh, that's telling. Anyway I shan't." "Can't you tell me?" I I T ell \ here," she said suddenly, feeling «he must tell someone of her worrtyj and thinking she need never see this man again, "I got the sack to-day

from Madame Sabina's in Holies Street. One day's notice —the old cat! and just because I was late once or twice. A girl might as well be a slave." "Madame Sabina's?" he said. "I've got a sister there." "You have? Who is it?" "She's in the showroom. Beatrice Murray." She was silent a moment. "Fancy Beatrice Murray being your sister I" she said then. "Well, why not?" She did not reply to this query, but his remark had surprised her. Beatrice Murray was a young woman from the ranks of Bociety, extraordinarily good looking, with a beautiful figure, who had paid Sabina a big premium in order to enter her showroom, and who had brought with her a very considerable number of desirable people to add to Madame's clientele. Doreen felt inclined to say that she would not have supposed Miss Murray's brother was the kind of young man who spoke to strange girls in the Park, but she wisely kept this opinion to herself and answered evasively. "Well, who'd have thought I should meet Miss Murray's brother in the Park like this!" she said. "Well, why not?" he repeated. They walked on together in silence as far as the Albert Memorial, when Doreen remembered she had gone some distance out of her way. "I must go home," she said abruptly. "Where's your home?" he asked. "In Cadogan Square." "Cadogan Square?" ho said, interested. "Yea. Over a garage." Again they walked in silence, retracing their steps. Each was busy with thought. Once Doreen glanced at her escort, surveying him with new interest. The tall, good looking young man, immaculately dressed, and the air of an idler, a lounger. Strange that she should have come across him, Beatrice Murray's brother within an hour of her dismissal. Suddenly he interrupted her thoughts with a query. "What are you going to do about Sabina's ?" "Do? What can I do? Nothing." "I could speak to my sister." "Could you? You would have to tell her you met me in the Park. What would she think of that? It wouldn't "Of course, I shouldn't tell her anything of the riort. She might be prejudiced. I should simply say I had beard about you at Scotley'd. I could pitch her a yarn all right." "And what do you think she would do?" "She might not do anything. On the other hand she might take the matter up and speak to Sabina." They had left the Park and were crossing the road to Sloane Street. Here in the stronger light of the tall lamps, the man looked critically at the girl, at her flower face. "I'll speak to my sister," he said, as though his survey satisfied him. "I will do everything I possibly can. You want to go back to Sabina's?" "I suppose so." Womanlike, she did not particularly want to go back to Sabina's now that she had a chance of so doing. "I suppose so," she said again, with a tremor in her voice.

"What's the matter If he said, very gently. "Oh, nothing. Yes, I want to go back. If I don't IH never get another West End job." "Very well, then " They came to the Bquare, and turned off at the entrance to the side street and the garage over which Doreen lived. "You take a holiday to-morrow and meet me to-morrow night. Hyde Park corner at seven o'clock," he said. "I'll have some news for you." Doreen nodded. "You haven't told me your name yet," he said. "You know mine. Murray— Conrad Murray." "Mine is Doreen Mallory." "To-morrow night, then, and don't worry." "I'll try not. Thank you and goodnight." She turned to the big doors. which shut in the yard of the garage. A*> she opened the small wicket at • the side a man's hand caught her arm roughly and held lier. "Who was that chap, Doreen?" "Oh, Jim, how you frightened me!" "Frightened you, did 1? Who was that chap, Doreeu?" Ho still held her arm; his close grip hurt. He pulled her into the yard. He seemed to tower above her slim form. "I mean to know who the fellow is," lie asserted. She resented his manner. "Then you must find out. I'm not going to tell you," she answered defiantly. "Yes, you are. You're my girl." "No, I'm not. I'm not your girl any more." Suddenly sho began to cry. Instantly his whole manner softened towards her. "Doreeu! Don't cry. You know I'd give my life to make you happy." Ho attempted to draw her close to him, infinitely gentle to her in her distress, but sho passionately resisted his embrace, forcing herself from hiin with her body tense, her small hands pressed against his chest. "No, Jim, I'm not going with you any more. You don't want a girl, you want a slave. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of it.." She broke away from him and drew back against the wall. Jim followed her and continued speaking in a reassuring voice. "There, th-ere, we'll forget all about it,' he said. "I suppose I frightened you, waiting for you like that, but 1 was properly put out seeing you \rfth that lellow. it isn't like you, Doreen. And you never came to meet me as you promised. But I'm 6orry I frightened you. I'll never be so hasty with vou again. You meet me to-morrow night, same place and time, and we'll make up for all this bother." , Doreen remembered that to-morrow ( night, she must meet Conrad Murray at Hyde Park Corner at seven o'clock. She said resolutely:— , "I'm not going to meet you, Jim." "Why not ?" She dried her tears. » "I've told you why not and I mean r .it." J "Are you going to meet that chap?" ' he demanded.

'Terhaps I am." "No, you are not. What would your mother say ?" "She won't know." "She will if I tell her." "Tell her! You tell her. .« . You tell her, that's all, and see what will come of it." She left him standing, angry and bewildered. CHAPTER 11. Seven o'clock at Hyde Park Comer Doreen sprang lightly down from the bus and made her way through the crowd on the pavement, towards the tall, well groomed figure of Conrad Murray, who, having seen her arrival, sauntered to meet her. "Good evening, Miss Mallory," he said as she smiled at him. "Where shall we go?" "Anywhere you like." He noticed the simplicity and stylishness of her clothes, the smart little black hat that gave depth and shadow to her eyes, and made her face seem more than ever delicate and fair. "Let's have a spot of dinner somewhere," he said, "and we'll go to a show if you like. .And, I say, it'll be all right about Sabina's. I'll tell you about it presently." "Oh, I am so glad," she breathed, with a swift gance at his face. He hailed a taxi, handed her in, gave the driver his instructions and got in at her side. "What have you been doing all day?" he inquired. "Oh, I went out as usual this morning, looked at all the shops in Knightsbridge and Sloane Street. Then I went down Oxford Street, gave Holies Street a complete miss, and looked at all the shops in Regent Street. I never had such a chance to see what other people had in their windows. Then I had lunch at Lyons, and made a lot of sketches of some things I remembered. They might be useful. Then I had a long bus ride, had tea, and met you and now Pm here." "And now you're here. You've had quite a day out, in fact. Told you're people about Sabina's?" "Not a word." "Did you think I'd pull it off for you?" "I thought you might. It was a good chance, anyway." The taxi pulled up at the doors of the ' Hilarity restaurant and they got out. "We can dance here or go to a theatre," he said. "Whichever you like." "Oh, let's dance. I shall be too late getting home if we do anything else." "Where does your mother think you are?" he asked, leading the way to the brilliantly lighted dining-room, and raising his voice that she might hear it above the music of the baud. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps she will think I'm with Jim." "Who's he?" "Jim, oh he's in an office in the city. He seems to think I'm engaged to him.' : "And are you?" "No, I'm not." "Don't you like him?" "He's all right in a way but he does bully me so. It is as I've said before, a girl might as well be a slave." The restaurant was filling up. Doreen slipped out of her coat and revealed the dainty black gown she was wearing, its tiny sleeves and low cut neck edged with quaint collar and cuffs of lace and georgette, and copied with clever fingers from one of Sabina's costly novelties. This child's absolute simplicity and daintiness in taste pleased the young man. He grew enthusiastic, and set himself to bring the soft colour to the small face. "About Sabina's," she said, as the waiter served hors d'euvres. "Oh, yes, about Sabina's. I saw my sister last night, said I'd been at Scotley's and that Lady Edith was awfully put out because Sabina had sacked a protege of hers. I let my sister think that I was out to please Lady Edith more than anyone else in the world, and I could see it quite bucked her up. She will have put it across Sabina to-day, and by the morning you'll get a letter ordering you to return to your work forthwith. And that's that."

"I'm ever so much obliged to you," said Doreen slowly, "but supposing I do not get a letter ?" , "You will. I bet you anything you like you wilL You meet me again tomorrow night, same place and time, and bring it with you." "If I get it I will." Presently they got up to dance. Doreen was a good dancer, loving the sway and rhythm. Young Murray had all the polish and style of his day. They made an ideal couple, the girl's sleek, fair head against her partner's shoulder, her slender form swaying against him. "You little darling!" lie cxclaimed to her as at last they paused. "You're an absolute find!" "I love dancing," she murmured. So the evening passed. Suddenly Doreen remembered the time, and, looking up at the clock set high amongst the gilded nymphs and enpids, she cried out sharply. "Oh, it is late! 1 must go!" "Must you?" "Yes, yes. I'd 110 idea it was so late. And tlie clock was there all the time!" "You were too busy to look at it," he said. "But it's not late—only eleven. The evening's just beginning." "But I have to be home at ten. My father " "Well, well," he said, seeing she was distressed. "A taxi will soon get s there. Had a good time, little girl?" "A lovely time," she answered fervently. "Then meet me again to-morrow night. Same time and place." Instantly she remembered Sabina's. "And bring that letter with me," she said. They were on the steps of the restaurant, waiting for the taxi, which the commissionaire had just summoned. "What letter?" lie asked. "Oh, surely you remember. The letter from Madame Sabina." "Oh, yes, to be sure." There were a number of people at the entrance to the restaurant and on the pavement as Murray and Doreen stood there in the full blaze of light. The taxi came into position at the steps; the commissionaire held open the door; Doreen stepped down quickly, and at that moment she saw, amongst the passers-by, the tall broad figure of Jim Lacy.

Her heart leaped. She knew he must have seen her leave the restaurant he had seen her escort, lie realised fully that she wa« lost to bim. As she passed him on her way to the cab she looked back into his face, her own countenance unchanged, giving no sign that she even so much as recognised him —then she was in the vehicle, Murray at her side, the door was banged, and they were off, gliding through the traffic. Despite her apparent calmness, tliait encounter had shaken her. Jim's face with that cruel, black look; the knowledge that he would probably tell ier father be had seen her and where and with whom; the knowledge that she was late, that her father would be waiting for her, that he would demand to know where she had been; that everything would have to be explained. ° She sat silently in the taxi, with her wEole every nerve urging the

car forward, quickly, quickly, that she might get home before her father's anger had risen. Once, twice Murray surveyed her. Then he paid: "What is it, little one?" At that eh* turned towards him and smiled. "Nothing'," she answered, lazily. "Just thinking." "Tired?" he asked. "Sleepy." And then she felt his arm slip round her and he lifted her, ever so little, so that she rested against him. She heard him murmuring some words in a quick, low voice, words of endearment. She moved restlessly, pushed his hand aside, and at that he caught her relentlessly against him, pressing her soft body close, forcing his face against her neck, seeking her mouth. She cried out and struggled. Her movement served only to increase hie passion. He kissed her mouth over and over, hard-pressed kisses that suffocated and hurt. Once, as she strained away from him, she saw his face in the light of a lamp, and her whole instinct recoiled from him. "Oh, let me go. Oh, do let me go," she moaned, struggling with all her strength against him. His kisses seemed to burn her mouth, her eyes, her throat. She hated him. His hands were cruel, hurting her. She thought the driver turned hie head once to look into the cab, and she tried to call out t- attract Ms attention, but again Murray's lips against hers choked back all sound. The cab swung into Cadogan Square and stopped near the entrance to the side street in which her home was. The driver's hand reached back, opened the door, and with a supreme effort the girl broke from her tormentor's hold, almost fell into the road, and ran, sobbing, dragging her coat about her shoulders indoors. "Where've you been, Doreen?" her father asked. She did not answer, but sank into a chair, her head on her arm and sobbed. Doreen, where've you been? It's nearly midnight and you always have to be home by ten. Have you been with Jim ?' Still no answer. Mrs. Mai lory put, her hand on the girl s shaking shoulders. Let her be, Tom," she said to her husband. "Let her go to bed and we'll ask her in the morning. Perhaps she's had a row with Jim." "She said last night she was tired of him, ' said Tom MaHory. "That's what it is then. They've quarrelled. There, there, my lamb, come up to bed with mother and we'll hear all about it in the morning." Doreen allowed herself to be led away. Still sobbing, but less hysterically, she undressed herself, refusing all help, fearful that those quick, wise eyes should see on her throat and shoulders the marks of those kisses, the bruises on her arms, and so lay exhausted in her bed. Mrs. MaHory brought a cup of hot milk, tucked in the bedclothes and waited, hoping for confidences, but none were forthcoming. "\ou'll tell us all about it in the morning," she said at last. "Now go to sleep. Don't you worry. It will ali come right." Would it come right? Would it? Doreen tossed and turned on her bed in the darkness of her small room. Slie burned with shame, with anger and dread. She thought of Jim. His face as she had seen it amongst the crowd on the pavement. The black look, the scowl. Dear Jim! For despite her treatment of him, her heart still called him dear. Jim, true, honest, faithful, tender to her, absolutely trustworthy and straight and good! It was a shame to throw him over for a man like Murray. ' And I wouldn't have thrown him over," said Doreen to herself in the dabedroom, "if he had not tried to boss me. A girl might as well be a slave." She thought to herself she would perhaps make it up with Jim. She felt happier. She set herself to forsret Conrad Murray, and presently fell asleep (To be continued daily.)

GARGLE