THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LIV, Issue 16503, 31 March 1917, Page 3 (Supplement)

THE GIRL WITH THE VIOLET EYES.

§§*#" : BY GUY THORNE, X Author of " When It Was Dark," "Th Wj Pith of » Hundred Deaths," etc.

(COPYRIGHT.) (; CHAPTER I. \, , fiTJPEET ROIXESTON. Most people whose'tastes inclined a little from the ordinary, who preferred the grotesque and bizarre in life, knew the Montague Galaxy of Permanent Portraits in Oxford Street. Second only m renown to the famous establishment of Madame Tussand, the M.G.0.P.P., despite its alarming title, was ' nothing more or less than an exhibition of waxworks. It differed from the older establishment in Baker Street in various regards. The principal feature was its comparative lack ot ordinary "portrait models"—kings, statesmen, "and other famous people—and its enormous Chamber of Terror?. Mr. Montague, the proprietor, out-did any previous records in this line. In his execution tableaux, not only weio the figures ghastly with shameful life, but, by an ingenious mechanism—en payment of an extra shilling saw the whole thing in operation. There was a realistic section devoted to the tortures of the Inquisition— in short, Montague's was as morbid a nightmare establishment as could be found anywhere in Europe. Nevertheless it prospered. If London did not visit it very largely, except on Bank Holidays, there was "a steady stream of visitors from every part of the country, and a? the upkeep was not expensive, Mr. Montague himself was reputed to do very well.

The proprietor whs a big blond Jew, who dressed like an ambassador, and wore a perpetual, ingratiating smile. His yellow moustache was curled every (lav, his hair was sleek with pomatum. hi" nails beautifully polished. the whole man redolent of essences .■ 1. 1 1 polite good humour. 'there were some people, but only those intimately connected with him in business, who had occasionally seen a very ugly and dangerous look in the man's bright hazel eyes, but such instances were l are.

I poii a morning in June Mr. Montague was seated in his private ._.m. .1 luxuriously furnished plan- upon the ground Hour ut the buildinc— the red curtained door on the right of the hall as v.ll enter, just, opposite the In,' electric or^an. In irunt of linn up. n h-.s writing-table was a large ca.-e 01 mlut manicure instruments, and a- he si raped and polished Mr. M<mtau'iio hummed a merry little tune. There was a knock at the door md ,1 pace boy entered. "Mr. Roileston says win he have a word with >ou. sir'."

"Celtaildy, James, my lad.' '.l.e .-real man answered— he was always jvilite to hj employes, a fad which did much to console them for the smallne.-s of their weekly wage. Tell Mr. Rolleston 1 will see hun at once."

Montague whipped the manicure instruments into a drawer, and a moment, or two afterwards the door opened and a tall, clean-shaved, young man entered. His hair was of a dark reddish brown and grew very thick. His nose was aquiliie. his lip- i 'ear i lit and firm, his eyes «ere a very daik and steadfast blue under a pair of straight black brows. Six feet high, with the frame and figure of an athlete, aged apparently about 25, the young man was one of those people who attract attention wherever they go. It was not only that he wii* strikingly handsome, and in a somewhat unusual way, but he possessed that, subtle thing known as "personality,'' though people were wont to remark upon an unusual gravity, almost amounting t.i sadness, which sat strangely on one so voting and so favoured by fortune in the matter ol his appear- , aiice.

"What can I do for you, Rolleston?' said Mr. Montague.

"I have come to make a request, sir." The proprietor looked tip ijincklv. •'Dear ire, dear me." tie said. "I'm n/raid it's a in'"!: inopportune lime. Business is not at all what it should be. My expense* on the other hand arc very great. I an perfectly pleased with your work as g.u'de to the chamber" —this was how tie Chamber of Terrors was always referred to in the exhibition. Indeed, I can compliment you on your work. lint in these hard times two guinea- a week is a considerable salary, and--" " I did in t (Line to ask for an increase of nalary, sir," the young man interinpU'd, and Mr. Montague became more effusive than ever. " Have a- cigarette," he. said, pushing his rase over the table, "and now what is it!" He smiled like a father at Rollerton. "T want, to ask you if 1 can have two days' leave. .Mr. [ have pressing private affairs to attend to. This i? the slack season, as. you say. and Perkins" —Perkins was the assistant in the chamber, "ho dusted the waxen criminals in the mornig, and did other minor jobs —''and Perkins can easily take my place. He knows nearly all the biographies by heart., and thoroughly understands the working of the gallows and guillotine." "Two days," the proprietor answered, "well, if you don't exceed them, and if it's absolutely necessary, you can take them. And what is more, Mr. Rolleston. in consideration of your faithful services here for the last eight months, I will not., no I will not duck a penny of your salary!" and with that Mr. Montague lay back in his chair, put his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and radiated benevolence. "I thani you very much indeed, sir," Rolleston answered, and was preparing to leave the room, when the other stopped him. " Urgent private affairs, I think you said?" A shadow not unmarked by the astute Jew came across the young fellow's face. His lips tightened. Extremely urgent, Mr. Montague." " As a man of the world, Mr. Rolleston, a person of some experience*, can I do I anything to assist you — in the way of advice 1 mean, of course'''' TTollcstou shook his head. "Thank you very much, sir," lie answered —and Mr. Montague had no idea of the tingling sp'isation at the toe of the young man's right boot"but . . ." Quite so, quite so," was the answer, "hut I hope you aro not going to get married, Mr. Rolleston. Marriage on two guineas a week would be fatal to your prospects. It puts temptation in the way of employees only too —not that 1 have not always found you the soul, the very soul of honesty, in your returns." A curiously bitter look came upon Rolieston's fac. as he shook his head. " I am not likely to (jet married, sir," he replied, in a tone which perfectly satisfied the other. "Then I wish you a good morning, and, —er— very pleasant holiday." With that the tall young fellow left the room, and Mr. Montague took out, his manicure case again. At ten o'clock that night, Rupert Rolleston left the gallery, and walked home t-i his lodgings in Pimlico. He unlocked the door with his latch-key and was proceeding to his bed-sittingroom, at the hack of the house on the ground floor, "lien a plump and buxom middle-aged '.man met him in the passage. " Homo into the parlour, Master Rupert," she said, "Is it all right, can you go?" Rupert followed her into a stuffy little room of the lodging-house which she kept. A table was laid for a modest supper of bread, cheese, and beer, and a "wizened, clean-shaven man, lookin" liko a combination of a jockey and light-weight pugilist, "'as seated in an arm-chair, smoking a cheap cigar. He jumped up as the young man entered with his wife. " All right, sir?" he asked eagerly. " Yes, Mr. Jersey, that Jew beast has given mo two days, and I shall catch the midnight mail from Paddington. I have got an hour at least before I need leave here. " Thank God for that, at any rate," said the woman, "and now, Master Rupert, sit down and have a bit of supper with us." "Thank you, Lucy," the young man answered, " I suppose I had hotter eat something," and no sank back into a chair with a weary, listless air. Mrs. Jersey put. her hand upon his shoulder. " Bo brave, Master Rupert," she said, though there were tears running dasa jw&tyrwA &&&%£m suitor

my parting love-*if it's as bud as tliev say. 0£ course, he doesn't know that you have been living so poor and rumble along of 'is old second housemaid. ' Unit just tell 'ira you met me casual, and that I sent my respectful duly. A kinder master I never wish to see, and I'll never believe for a moment as 'e was guilty." " Of course he wasn't, missuii," said the odd little man in the arm-eb.nr. "And now, sir, a hit of cold pork .md a glass of ale will do you all tho -good in the world."

At eleven o'clock, carrying a s mall handbag, Rupert Rolleston walked down the Vauxhall Bridge Road to Victoria,' where he caught an omnibus to Paddington— guides to chambers of terror, though they do not form a large part of the community, cannot afford the luxury of cabs. At Paddington, under the steef blue arc lights, the great night mail was waiting for its rush to the west of England. There were but few passengers at this hour, and the voting man found an unoccupied third-class carriage, lit, his pipe, and heaved a heavy sigh as the huge machine moved slowly out of the station. For an hour he sat pale and motionless in his corner/ His old and seasoned briar —one of the very few friends he had in this world— went out unheeded, and the shadows of pain came backwards and forwards over his face like the shadows of a field of wheat. CHAPTER IT. A MAS' VOWED. en years, almost to the day before Rupert Rolleston entered the train at Paddington, his father, William Rolleston, had been sentenced to ten years' penal servitude. Ho was the chief "of the great group of companies which fell with a smash that reverberated throughout the kingdom, when his son was fifteen, and a boy at Harrow. The financier was tried, and after a hearing extending for nearly three weeks, received his sentence. He was a widower. Rupert was his only son. After the personal bankruptcy which followed conviction, the boy was taken away from school. Me had no near relations. No one was particularly interes'ied in him, hut he obtained the post of office boy with some city friends of his father, gradually working his way up to the position of an ill-paid junior 'clerk. In the rush of modern life his history was quite forgotten in a year or two. His name, which he had never thought of changing, evoked no memories He' was just Rupert Rolleston, junior clerk in a bill-broking firm in Feiir-hui-t-h Street. For years the lad lived the life of an anchorite, and underwent every imaginable privation in order to save up money to enable him to journey to Princemoor convict prison three times a year to see his father. The lad's naturo was strong and self-contained. He endured everything. He had one really smart and prosperous looking suit of clothes, which ho never wore except upon those melancholy pilgrimages westwards. Love for his father was the devouring passion of his life. Nothing should ever let the convict suspect that his son was not happy and successful. Rupert had invented a whole fictitious life for himself, and year by year ho saw how his father came to depend upon this tissue of falsehoods for his only happiness. Over and

over again, the wretched man had told his visitor that he could endure anything now that his beloved son was prospering. A time arrived when the city became unendurable. Rupert broke away. He tried all sorts of occupations, with very little success. II was while he was acting as doorkeeper arid chucker-out of an East End boxing saloon that he had met Mr. Alf. Jersey, the Shoreditch lightweight. The meeting was the first strokeof luck the young man had known since boyhood, for it proved that the. little boxer had married an ex-housemaid of William Bollcston's establishment, who welcomed the son of her master like a mother.

For two years Rupert had lived with the Jerseys, at Pimlico, and during most of that time 25s a week had represented the maximum of his earnings. Mr. Montague's engagement, at two guineas made him feel a capitalist! Ho had just heard from the governor of Princemoor prison that his father was dying. On this hot summer night he was rushing westwards in the mail train on what would prove the last of all his visits to the great grey House of Shame upon the moor. He felt as if Hie ViOuld have no more to offer, He had sunk his personal ambitions and hopes so lung, in order to make his father as happy as he could, that lie saw the future was an empty blank. The pain in his heart was intense, the pity for the kindly, jovial father ho remembered in the pastthe father who had undergone ten years of martyrdom only to expire in a prison ward—sent the scalding tears into his eyes, In all England there was no more miserable person than this handsome, shabbilydressed young man, who sat in the corner of his carriage as si ill as one of his own waxwork figures.

The prison governor, a pleasant faced, elderly man, with a grey moustache, was very kind, "I am deeply sorry for yon, Mr. Rolleston," he said. " F</r ten years now you have visited your father with unfailing devotion, it is most sad that upon the very eve of hia liberation ho should be dying. Officially, 1 r.an tell you that ho has been what we call a 'model prisoner,' privately 1 believe that he has been a much wronged man. I was a shareholder in one of his companies, I was never one of those to hound him down. There was something behind it all which no one knows. That is my .honest opinion. And now, go to him. the doctor tells me he is still conscious, and is anxiously expecting you. The convict lay in a small room, opening out of one of the hospital wards— the magnificent ruin of a man. His face was terribly emaciated, his hair, which had been allowed to grow during his illness, was of a dead white, but a faint fire flickered in the brown eyes still, and irradiated the majesty of aspect which is death's last gift to heroio souls.

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