MARRIED OR SINGLE

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 238, 8 October 1934, Page 15

MARRIED OR SINGLE

CHAPTER XXVIII. Old nurse Lad a wise liead on her shoulders, and directly she was dismissed from Sylvia's bedroom, elie lie w across to the girl's sitting room, and there and then rang up Hadiield. Things were happening she didn't like, she blurted over the wires. Would he come down to the gates in his car, and wait there a little while? If she could, she would bring Miss Sylvia to him. Replacing tnc receiver, she stole back towards Sylvia's bedroom, and there, with .a white and frightened face, stood outside, listening. At length sho heard Sir George's angry voice, followed by his daughter's cry of horror, and, without more ado, the old woman opened the door and rushed into the room again. It was to iind Sylvia in a dead faint on the iloor, and Sir George bending over her. Hastily he rose to his feet. "Oh, sir, what have you done to her?" wailed the old woman, dropping on to her knees by the side of her beloved Miss Sylvia, and looking searchingly at the deathly white face. "Up to your old tricks of listening at doors, nurse, I see," said the baronet with a slight sneer, "Miss Sylvia fainted. 1 forgot she was ill." With a white face, lie looked down at his daughter as he spoke. "Well now you are here, you'd better see what you can do," he added rather uneasily. AValking to the washing-stand, he poured out a glass of water. "She will soon come round, I expect," he muttered repentantly. "I fear—l lost my temper." "Oh, the precious lamb," sobbed his hearer, putting the water to Sylvia's lips, then, as a faint flicker of the eyelids reassured her, she breathed more freely. "Ah, that's better, my pretty," she murmured. Sir George, with a show of relief, moved towards the door. "Don't get hysterical, the two of you, over nothing at all," was his sharp remark as he went out. "Nothing at all—nothing at all—why the next time he'll kill her, too." moaned the old woman to herself, as she went 011 trying to revive Sylvia. Her work was soon rewarded and the girl opened her eyes.

CHAPTER XXIX. The next morning Sylvia lay back in bod with her eyes turned contentedly towards an open window, through which came soothing sounds from the river, as it splashed and tumbled through John Hadfield's garden. Sunlight rested on th© curtains and pretty chintz-covered furniture of the room, and a sweet scent of roses came refreshingly from below. She felt she could never forget John's kindness and thought for her the night before. Ho had been at the gate waiting, but had asked no questions-, only assisted her gently into the car, which he had driven quickly homeward; then, putting her in the charge of his eister, he bad wished her a quiet and sympathetic good-night. A knock at the door now, and a maid entered with a letter and her breakfast. Sylvia rccognised tho writing on the letter as her father's, and her facc paled. What did he want with her now? she asked herself in miserable surprise, and how had he discovered she was there ? Trembling, she opened the letter, and read:

"Dear Sylvia,—And so you have gone to Hadfield," wrote Sir George. "Am I to infer, then, that he is the man yon love ? I have for long suspected it. Well, what docs it matter now. Marry him, or anyone else. I have done with it all. "This letter is in the nature of a goodbye. I am going to South America again, hoping that in its wild forests and rushing, satisfying rivers I may find peace. I may return one day or I may not. Who is there to care? Let the 'Towers' or remain there. I leave you to settle that. I am writing to my solicitor, and you will be well provided for. "All I have ever loved have failed me —your mother, Harry, you. I can bear no more, and I suppose you would think it slightly amusing if I asked you to pity me. If, in a sentimental and forgiving outburst, however, you want to bid me good-bye, it will be no good, for I shall have left homo before this letter is sent to you.—Your father, George Wharton." Sylvia let the letter fall, and felt it almost surprising that her eyes, had tears in them. And yet she could not stop their flow, for it suddenly eeemcd to her pathetic that this man, cruel, stern and merciless, could ever have wanted love, yet now she believed he had, but that something in his mad jealous nature had always killed it. "Poor father!" she found herself murmuring, and it, only added to the sadness to know that she felt overpowering relief that he had gone away. Now there remained little reason why she should not let the world know a little of her history. Oh, the relief of it —the relief! Slipping from bed, she resolved at once to get up. The sun was shining so deliciously, the scent of the roses was so sweet, and down in the garden she felt sure John was waiting for her. Her thoughts were almost tender towards Mm as she began to dress. His patience, his love, had been bo wonderful. Her toilet completed, she went quickly from the room and into the garden, feeling that now she was really well again. She could not pose any more as an invalid, and John Hadfield, coming her way, felt instinctively that something wonderful had happened to her, but he did not know then that she was feeling like a caged bird who is suddenly liberated. At last she could breathe, she was eaying to herself, and move freely, and fear nothing. "Well, my dear." Hadfield caught her hands, and bade her good morning. "Good morning, John." Her eyes sought his, and there was—or did he dream it? —something new in them. His heart leapt with a newborn joy. He felt sure he would win her yet. "Do you know," he said suddenly, "that I saw Harry Vauglian's wedding in the paper this morning?"

She began to smile. "Your father won't like it." "No, John." "Katlicr a blow —eh? But any way wo ought to be glad, for it clears the way for you, doesn't it'!" lie thrust in gravely. "Yes." She gave a quick little sigh. "And now, little girl, you are going 'Lo do as I ask, aren't you, and going down to stay with my sister Bertha for a little?" went on Hadlield swiftly. Her eyes lighted up with pleasure. "I should love it." "it would be better for you not to stay here, I think," said John thoughtfully. "You can hardly do that without there being some questions asked by Sir George, and 011 my side, I fear, some plain speaking. So I want you to go down there with Bertha to-day, and I also want you to say," he put in gently, "that I may come down to see you, Sylvia dear, and that you will be glad to see me." "Why—of coursc." "Very—very glad—glad in the sort of way I want you to be glad, I mean?" he asked licr anxiously. She moved back a little, and her face paled. "You musn't ask too much of me yet," she murmured. Coming nearer, he looked imploringly into her eyes. "Sylvia," he struck in passionately, "this—farce must end some time, you know. Here am I, full of love for you, and yet you won't be reasonable, though I feel sure —so dead sure," he went on emphatically, "that in time 1 could make you love me. Look here, my dear, you go down to Morton with Bertha, whilst f beard the dragon in his den. Well— perhaps, I shouldn't quite put it like that, but what I mean is, to give me permission to tell Sir George the whole blessed story and also what I want to do —then I shall come again to you, and shall make you learn to love me—for, Sylvia, what's the good of living in a dream 1"

He caught hold of her again, and she made no attempt this time to drawaway. "Well," she whispered, "I will —think about it." "Darling!" Impulsively he drew her right into his arms. "I said I would —think about it," she thrust in, giving him a playful little push. "All right, you cold-hcartcd little tyrant," he murmured a trifle drearily, yet not really daunted. "But anyway, I feel I have something now to go on." "But, John," said tlio girl suddenly, "you can't go to daddy, for he has started for America." and she drew from her pocket Sir George's letter and handed it to him. "An extraordinary man," said Hadfield, solemnly gazing down at the letter after he had read it, "yet one can't help feeling sorry for him." "I know," murmured Sylvia, with tears not far oIT. "But John, there is so much —so very much I can't understand about tilings. That awful night you know —whon I fell, I. saw her —and what is she? Oh, if one could only be told!" she cried vehemently. John put out a hand, and held one of hers again, very gently. "Sylvia dear," he said, "I've been asked by your old nurse to tell you something. It is something wo both thought you should know, for what you saw was* 110 ghost, of course, dear. Itit was —your mother."

CHAPTER XXX. "My mother!" Sylvia gave a frightened gasp, and stopped back. "Yes, dear." Hadfield bent sympathetically over her. "But, John," she cried pitifully, "I thought —she —she —was —" "I know. That she died several years ago is common belief, but her sad life," lie went on gently, "is really over now, and wo can only be glad for her, Sylvia. And now I am going to tell you everything as nurse told it to me," he continued. "I promised the poor old woman I would, as she herself feels it so terribly." Ho led her to a scat. Sylvia's face was now as white as death, but, bearing up bravely, she pressed him to go on. "Before I begin," struck in John gravely, "there's something I want you to toll me, for it might explain what now. doesn't seem quite clear. Had you, in some way —decided to open the glass ease where the opal was? I think, perhaps, that is likely—that Fleming may have put some awful pressure on you to get it for him, and that ho came for that purpose. Was —that so, or is this just a foolish fancy of mine?" "It —is—true!" burst from Sylvia. "Ah—well, I think that in some way —she —your mother —found out about it. In her poor distraught mind there must have lurked a hideous fear of the stone's evil power, and she must have dccided to—to save you. It —it was — rather —fine —" Covering her face in her hands, Sylvia began to cry softly. "Dear," he whispered feelingly, placing his arm round her, "we can only be glad that—God, in His mercy, has at last taken her, and you mustn't be too sad about her story, Sylvia, but try to think of her as the young, joyous girl she was once. Old nurse has told you, I expcct, about that." "Oh, yes, but, John, tell nio all you know about her," the girl implored. "I must hear, and I won't break down again if—if I can help it. But, oh—my poor mother —" In spite of a. brave resolve, Sylvia's lips were quivering again. "Many years ago she was a beautiful, happy woman, nurse told me," continued Hadfield, "full of a great charm. There were many people who loved her, and one—a young doctor —tried probably to overstep the bounds of discretion. He adored your mother, followed lier wherever she went. They were both musical, and would play and sing together, and Sir George began to watch them with a savage jealousy. "Your mother was all along absolutely innocent. To that your old nurse will swear, but Sir George wouldn't be-

lieve, and he resolved to make her pay for what lie insisted was her unfaithfulness. "One day there was a party of young people up at the Towers, and a boy there, for a pure lark, bet your mother she dare not touch the opal. She, utterly fearless then, and not believing the story of the curse one little bit, took the bet on, and she opened the case and touched the stone before them all. "111 that Sir George appears to have seen a chance of revenge. Ho began to tell licr more about the opal than she had ever known, worked licr up into a state of fright about it, and actually declared she had only to wait, and she would see that the stone held a curse still. "The idea of the stone's evil power at last got hopelessly 011 her mind. When she passed the case, she would run past it in terror. "The doctor himself grew suspicious that all was not as it should be. Your mother was, lie saw, unmistakably unhappy and nervous. One night he came, found her alone and crying, and, drawing her into his arms, he implored her to come away with him. "Drawing herself from his embrace, she told him to go, but it was not before Sir George came into the room and heard somo of the man's impassioned words. "Most husbands, in the circumstances, would have dealt with the man, but he did not do that. He preferred lo wreak his vengeance on her, and lie went on frightening her still more, and once or twice he tried to hypnotise her, when she became a mere tool in his hands. ITe made her think herself utterly wicked, and soon she was completely in his

power." "Oh, tlje horror of it," moaned Sylvia, as remembrance of her father's awful power over herself returned to >ier. "Sylvia dearest, wouldn't it be better if I told you the rest another time?" John asked gently. "No, go 011, go on," came in agitated impatience. "I must know it —all." "Her reason at last gave way, and soon she was so ill that she had to be taken from homo, and put under restraint," continued Hadfield. "Sir George dismissed the servants, sent vou away with nurse, anil himself went abroad. When he returned two years later, he let it be supposed that his wife was dead. "On occasions, though she was n.ucr well again, she was calmer, and once or twice, Sir George would bring her back to the* 'Towers,' which ho had opened with a staff' of new servants who h.ul never known your mother. In a lonely wing of the house —supposed, I understand, to be uninhabited—she wouTd stay with an attendant." /'And to think—to think," murmured Sylvia, miserably, "that —I — never knew." "She was not there, I understand very much. She would grow so ill again, she had to go back to the asylum, but 011 occasions, I am told, Sir George had the most terrible moments of remorse, and perhaps hoped her own home would help to bring back her reason. Nurse feels certain now that it was so, though she too, until the other day, thought your mother was—dead. "On the night your mother followed you," "went on John slowly, "and took the stone, she rushed madly into the garden with it, towards the rivfr. Her attendant, from a, window, saw her hurrying across the lawn in the moonlight, and sho called Sir George, and together they went after her. But before they could reaeh her, Lady Wharton was in the water. Sir George went in after her, and she was rescued, but the stone, was gone. She must have flung it into the river. "They brought her to the house, but sho was so ill that she had to be taken away the next morning. Rumours, however, got about, and something nurse heard made her go to "the 'Towers' next morning, and there she found your mother in a wing of the house thought to be empty. She wouldn't leave her, and insisted on going back with her to the asylum, and she was with her when she died. Nurse says that for a brief moment before your mother passed away her reason returned. '1 saved her, nanny, didn't I?' she murmured, then died in nurse's arms. After that nurse came hack, and when she had called 011 inc, visited you at once with the idea of getting vou here." Hadfield stopped. The telling of the story had cost him an effort, but he did not ask his listener to restrain her tears. Drawing her to him, he let her sob out her sorrow 011 his shoulder. (To be continued daily.)