Through The Silent Night

Manawatu Times, Volume LV, Issue 6838, 20 April 1932, Page 9

Through The Silent Night

(BY WILLAM GUIDOTT.)

Instalment 17.

' CHAPTER XIV.— (Continued.) Something in the tone made Doris turn her head and look her full in the face. “If? But—well, really dear, though 1 don’t feel in the least guilty about it, you really wouldn't know quite—think ourself under the circumstances, would you? It wasn’t my fault he rang me up.” Marcia hesitated. This was a complete surprise to her, if it were true. Were these two beginning to care for caoh other? It seemed - impossible, and yet Doris’ little air of confusion was not assumed, the cleverest actress in the world could never have done it like that. Then this might account for many things. She temporised, her mind not quite at ease yet. “I don’t quite understand, dear,” she answered, “and it certainly was no business of mine whether he rang you up or not. What oiroumstances are you talking about? Has anything happened?” Doris was silent for quite a long time, thinking deeply. Her thoughts had gone to Cyril. There was something in Marcia’s voice she didn’t understand. She seemed anxious and peevish. Was she beginning to doubt her, or was she jealous? Cyril was so true, she thought of him instinctively, comparing him with all other people she knew. He was so firm, so dependable, at this moment she was glad of him, She turned rather proudly to Marcta at last. “My dear Marcia, I suppose you mean you are thinking me a fast, sort of girl, even running after Mr Kynaston, or something. I really don’t quite know what.” Her voice became suddenly softer, and she stretched out her hand. “Don’t be silly, dear. I’m not that kind. Surely you can see that. I can’t help it if he —” she broke off. Marcia started. “Cares for you, you mean? Do you mean that? Oh, I am so glad.” Her tone was of genuine gladness. The relief at the back of her mind was unspeakable,. This was all it was, then, and there had been no need for'her to torment and frighten herself with all these doubts and questions. Doris was falling in love with Cyril Kynaston, or he with her, or each with the other, it didn’t matter to her which. Even the conversations with Jim which she had noticed meant nothing now. She, Marcia, had been jealous, stupidly, vulgarly jealous, she told herself. “I didn’t say he cared,” Doris began. Impulsively Maroia put her arms round her. “But you do, darling, and so does he, I think. It’s no good denying it. I shan’t believe a word, so [hero. Tell me all about it. Was It love at first sight, you know. Oh, it’s too exciting.” Doris laughed. “You’re taking too much for granted. Just because a man rings me up at 9.30 p.m. to know how I am, I don’t have to marry him, do I?" Marcia began to speak but Doris stopped her. “Oh, well darling, I'll admit I think he’s rather nice, anything for peace and quiet, but It’s very unfair to corner me like this, and there’s nothing in 14 really.” “Oh, no, I know,” answered Marcia, teasingly. “Now we know why he followed us that day from Victoria Station to speak about your stepfather.”

Doris started as If she had been shot. Mareia’s arm fell from her shoulders. She got up off the bed and stood stock still. “What’s the matter?” Marcia exclaimed in amazement. “Have I said something dreadful. Oh, I hope not —1 didn’t mean to, really I didn’t. What a blundering idiot I am.” "No, no,” Doris answered. “It’s all right, you were quite right—quite. I mean It’s quite true he stopped me to spoak about my stepfather. Why shouldn’t he, there was no harm in that, surely. Something made me jump, that’s all.” Marcia saw that she had quite missed the point of her rather silly little joke. But she said nothing, only watohed Doris as she walked slcrwly aoroas the room and looked out of the window between the blinds.

The mention of her stepfather in the midst of tjSls talk about. CyrM had fallen like a bctrnb in the happy garden of hot- thoughts. Brought suddenly down from what looked, to her tired senses, like a glimpse of heaven to this wretched world, where a relontlws and unjust Pate had suspended a sword above her head, Doris had nearly cried alodd. She opened the window wide ana breathed deep. “It's stifling la here, I was longing for some air." ‘‘l expeot you miss tins sea air now that you have left Brighton," Marcia sympathised. "Were you living the Kemp Town end or at Hove?" ‘‘We were up Dyke Road w.y, on the hill. It -was rather fresh, up there."

“that must have boon delightful,” Maroia replied, purposely keeping the conversation to banalities to give her friend time to cairn herself. It certainty was rather close in the little room. "Do you know you n&i&r told me where you lived. I know Brighton very well. We often have spent months there In the wittier. Whereabouts was your house?” DOris didn't turn. “I—we lived at Hill Crescent, No. 3." A silence fell aoross the room. To Marcia it seemed as though everything had suddenly stopped dead. Like one in a dream of horror &h«i heard the voice which seemed to be a long way off continue, "Do you know It?"

"Know what?" Marcia put her hand to her heart. Its beating frightened her. She steadied herself against the wall nearest the window where Doris was still leaning, out and waited till the room had stopped going round. Slic forced herself to stand upright, grasping her temples with her fingers, pressing them to force her brain to work again. White to the Ups, she stood there, dimly realising that this awful thing had happened to her, but clearly understanding that more important than her own feelings, more impoi'tant than anything else at the moment, was the fact that Doris must not know. She must not turn round from the window and see her until she had control of herself and her shaking hands. But she had asked her something. Marcia struggled to remember what the right answer was. “Where did you say? Hill Crescent? Oh, yes," her voice was growing firmer; she made anothap effort. "I ihink I know it."

Her reflection in the glass horrified her. She looked ghastly'; every vestige of colour had left her face. What would Doris think, she wondered, still standing with one hand against the wall for support. Clutching on to the 'bed rail, she took a few steps and sank into a chair, and reaching up her hand, switched oil the bright lights, leaving only the little shaded reading lamp by the bedside. She felt stunned by the blow which had fallen so unexpectedly. This girl, her friend, was the daughter of John Stuart, thg. money-lender. The man she had killed. What ought she to do?, what could she do? Her brain went round and round. What would Doris say 4 f she knew? What did people usually say if you killed tho-ir father? Marcia nearly laughed aloud. She clenched her hand to stop the outpouring of hysterical mirth which she felt was imminent. Her father —but no, the man had been her step-father. Doris had said so, and she hated him. That made a difference, if she knew. But she did not know, and she would never know,.not if Marcia could help it, she thought. After all, it only meant acting one more part carefully, day by day, hour by hour, until she was safe ' -in it. Doris should not know.

CHAPTER XV. There was a long silence. Marcia lay with closed eyes, half-consciously, only waiting for Doris to turn round from the window, when she would have to go on talking as naturally as she could, glad of every minute of delay. At last Doris drew in her head. “What a lovely night! I don’t think I ever saw so many stars. Marcia, you really ought to look at them. Why, you’re almost in darkness! Why did you switoh off the light?" “It hurt my eyes.” “Oh, did it? I expect you’re tired, and it’s certainly more restful like this." “No, I am not tired—at least, not sleepy,” Marcia answered. “Are you?” “No, I’m not very, either. I feel rather restless and unsettled, there’s such a lot to think about.” "Meaning Cyril?” asked Marcia. Doris laughed. “No, I don’t mean him—at least, yes, partly. I can’t help thinking of him a little, can I? It’s too bad of you to have made me tell you about him. After all, it’s mostly supposition. Supposing he really doesn’t care?”

“Oh, think he does,” Marcia assured her, laughing. “He’s a very bold young man; remember how he followed you from Victoria." Doris was silent; she was fighting a battle with herself. All instincts of truth and loyalty bade her to tell her friend who she was, and of what she was living in almost momentary fear. She debated feverishly what Marcia would say, and how she would take it. Would she be cold and disgusted, and order her out of the flat, or would she believe in her and understand? At the same time, she must know sooner or later, and if she were to run away without any explanation to this girl, who had so readily given her hospitality and friendship, it would look very black against her. To all outside Impressions Doris looked cool and calm, as she lay back in her chair, and Marcia thought so as she watched her between her long lashes. Suddenly she broke the silence. “What have you done with your brushes and things?” she asked in amazement. “Are you packing up or something?” Doris gasped. The question was awkward, and there was no getting out of it. She didn’t answer for a moment.

But Marcia, quickly sensitive, as she always was. apologised. “Oh, I’m so sorry. What on earth has It t.o do with ran what you have done with them? 1 expect they’ro being cleaned or something, really I’m losing all the few' manners 1 ever possessed." There was silence again in the little room. From far away over the terraces and squares a clock chimed softly. Marcia jumped up.

“Good heavens 1 It’s one o’clock, and I’m sure you’re awfully tired, and want to be alone, and here I am boring you. I'm off!” Doris stretched out her hand and caught her skirt. “No, don’t go,” sho said, almost roughly. “At least, not yet. You’ll probably want to quickly enough, when ” Maroia looked down at her in amazement.

“I have something I must tell you,” said Doris. The other drew back. “Oh, no. not to-night, i—you’re tired, and—l shouldn’t talk any more if I were you," she ended weakly. “Yes, to-night." Doris answered firmly. “If I wait till to-morrow I shall put it off and off, and then it may be too late." “Too late?” Marcia’s curiosity was ? roused. What else could there be o tell? “You sound very mysterious.”

Doris amlied wryly. “No, there’s nothing mysterious at all to toll. I don't think you know who I am. I am the step-daughter of that man who was murdered at Brighton." Marcia caught her breath, and Inwardly cursed her own stupidity for not being prepared. Of course, Doris did not realise that Maroia had known Who she was direotly she mentioned where she lived. Marcia remembered saying she had not read the papers, so Doris would think she knew nothing of the case. “Which man?" she murmured at last. “The one your old nurse wrote about. John Smith, the money-lender. I didn’t know he had the other name Of Stuart, or what his business was, but I ran away the night he was killed.” She stopped. “You ran away,” Maroia repeated vaguely. She felt she must say something.

“Yes. Now you know why I am paoking. I ought never to have come here. Oh, why don’t you say it? 1 know what you must be thinking about me. Anyone would think that They'd have to, they couldn’t help it. She went on passionately. “They';* 3 looking for me, you know. The police —l’m what is known as ‘wanted.’ How does that strike you? Sounds bad. doesn’t it? I haven’t, done anything, but they don’t know that, why. should they—who cares?” (To be continued.) 1