Held in Bondage

New Zealand Times, Volume LI, Issue 11932, 12 September 1924, Page 3

Held in Bondage

By

DOROTHEA. CORBOULD.

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(COPYRIGHT I

CHAPTER XIII.

‘Tm sorry Pve got bad news for you, Mass Phyllis. Mr and Mrs Everard Erlingham left this momin’ by an early train for London.” Morgan placed the breakfast tray on the table and began to empty it of its contents and. arrange them thereon, with the usual clatter of plates which marked any mental disturbance caused during her brief visits to regions below stairs. “Oh Morgan—gone! and without seeing me? Are you quite, quite sure?” Phyllis had grown pale as death —her lips quivered l — ’Twas Parsons told me hisself —of course I asked him if he knowed where they was stayin’ in town —but he said as he heard ’em tell Mrs Erlinigham they must gio early, as they was leavin’ London again this afternoon — foin’ to Brighton he thought they was. asked him if he’d try if he could get their address, because Mrs Everard Erlingham hadi said she would find a place for my niece out in Canada, an’ would give me her address, an’ she had’nt done it—he said he’d do his best to find out where they was stayin’ an’ let me know. It’s my belief, Miss Phyllis, as it was all lies what the mistress said ajbout their knowin’ yon was here, an’ approvin’ of her beepin’ you shut away from everyone. I don’t believe a word of it!” “Nor I. She has never told them about me at all—and now they have gone, and I shall never he able to get away from here! They are friends of my stepmother’s too —and' if so, they wouldn’t help me—no, I’m not going to cry, Morgan. I will try and not cry any more. I’m going to think out a plan of escape for myself—and you are going to help me. You are the only friend I have in the world l —except Mr Mitchell —and I can’t get at him—but I will I” Phyllis saw nothing more of her step-mother. She remained l all the morning by herself in her gloomy prison with the dloor safely bolted, Morgan having to attend! to the housekeeping and prepare lunch for Mrs Erlingham and 1 ner remaining guest. And it was not until they were safely off and she had seen the last of the oar as it disappeared round a bend in the drive that Morgan made her appearance in the north wing, bringing her own and Phyllis’s dinner. “The Lord he thanked, they’re gone at lastl” she exclaimed. “The mistress was as cross as two sticks, and that Mr Lessington wan’t none too civil—though he did give me a sovereign an’ said as I was to take great care of you, Miss Phyllis—like his impudence—but I took his sovereign an’ weUl spend it in cakes an’ things. I’ve got Lizzie here to clean up—my! but them servants has left the place in a mess I It’ll take me days to get straight again. She won’t sleep, but she’ll come in the daytime, an’ she’s deaf os a post an’ stupid as an owl, but she can scrub and wash—and take the hard work off my hands. To-mor-row you shall spend all day out, o’ doors if it’s fine and warm. I’ll give you your lumoh and you can eat it in the mornin’ room. I’ll leave the windows open. Nobody won’t see you there, an’ you can bide there as long as you like.” “Oh, Morgan! you dear!” Phyllis flung her arms round the woman’s neck and kissed her. “Do you know I used to be 60 terrified of being left with you when my stepmother went away—even more than I was of her — and now I’m glad, she has gone and left me with you!” “There, go along, Miss Phyllis, with your oaressm’ ways. You know I don’t hold with kissin’ an’ the like.” “Oh, you dear old story-teller! you know you love to have me say nice things to you. Morgan, do you think I might wear my new serge coat and skirt every day? I do feel so much neater and happier in it.” It was new life to Phyllis Erlingham to breathe once more the fresh sweet air of the moorland, and look upon the blue sky and the distant mountains round whose lofty summits the sunshine made a golden halo. The next few days after Mrs Erlingham’s departure were warm and sunny —arid, armed with her work and a book, the emancipated prisoner took her way each morning to the Monks’ Walk, and read and worked, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. Certainly she felt far happier now than she did a month ago, for although Morgan was scarcely the companion she would have ffibsen to cheer her loneliness, there was no longer fear and enmity between them—and Phyllis felt wonderfully safe under the woman’s care, knowing that Morgan was indeed her friend. . A week of her freedom had passed away, and the day which was to change the whole course of her life, dawned fair and bright as day could be. After a hurried breakfast, for Morgan was up to her eyes in work, and consequently fidgetty and cross, Phyllis put on her hat and coat, and went as usual to the Monks’ Walk, where she walked up and down till she was tired, and then betook herself to the arbour. Morgan had found her a comfortable folding deck chair, and supplied her with cushions and a rug, for the morning air was chilly at times. Wrapping it round her I’hyllis had comfortably settled herself, when she became aware of a sort of scrambling and scratching at the back of the arbour, as though someoue or something were trying to find a way through. Phyllis started and turned pale—and then, at last, with a shrill succession of barks, a small body oame scrambling through an opening, and (lung itself upon ner in a paroxysm of joy. It was Biiikio! “Oh, my darling little Binkiel How you startled mo 1 Where on earth did you come from? How glad lam tosee yon I” Of course. Binlcie could not answer the question, but he reciprocated the delight of the meeting, and whined tor joy as he tried to lick (ho girl’s taco and hands. Suddenly from somewhere quite near by there sounded a whistle, and a peremptory call of “Binkiel Come here, sir I Where are you?” The next instant footsteps came towards the arbour, the overhanging 1

shrubs “were pushed aside, and a tall figure stood in the entrance, gazing in amazement at t-he occupant. Phyllis knew him at once —it was Sir Christopher Deering! “Miss—Miss Erlingham!” Deering stammered, gazing at the lovoly ap parition with all his heart in his eyes—he had found her a* last! “Yes—l am Phyllis Erlingham—how did you know me?” she asked, amazed in her turn. “Prom your photograph. My name is Deering, Christopher Deering, and 1 have been staying at More Abbey.” “Yes, I know. I have seen you. once or twice, and Morgan, my attendant, told me who you were.” “I walked over here this morning to have another look at the old place,” Deering went on, his eyes fixed upon the embodiment of his dreams, the original of the miniature he carried near his heart. Truly the plieto had not jied— except that this lovely face was sad and Wan, with the fragility of a flower that had been kept away from the air and light, and the eyes had a pathetic wistfulness which was akin to fear “I am staying over at Merton Grange with the Collisons—you know them perhaps.” _ • “I believe they were friends o£ my father and -mother, ’ ’ was the reply, “but I have been away so much. i do not remember them.” “My host and hostess had a wire to say that Lady Anne’s mother was passing through York to-day, and to ask them to meet her, so they and their daughter set off early this morning—they invited me to go with them, but X thought I should only be in the way, so I said I’d go off for the day on mv own aeoount. I am jolly glad I did, for now I have met you —and I can set everybody’s mind at rest. You have found my dog I see, or rather he has found you.” “Yes—you see Binkie used to belong to me,” wnp the reply. Sir Christopher told himself that Phyllis’s voice matched her face, for it “was ever soft, gentle and low, that most excellent thing in woman.” “I was told that he was dead, and it grieved me very mudh because X was so fond of him and he of me—weren’t you, Binkie P” Binkie murmured an assent and snuggled down more comfortably in his former mistrese’s arms, while one sharp little eye was fixed upon the beloved friend who had rescued him from dcath—from cruelty and starvation.—“then one dav he made his way to the north wing and found me. It was lovely to see him again and looking so well. You must have been veay kind to him,” her lovely eyes filling with grateful tears. “I heard all about his coming here, and your taking pity on him.” “Well, you see, I’m fond of dogs—and Binkie was just the sort X wanted ■ —he’s a dear little chap—and we’re great pals, aren’t we old man?” Binkie’s stump of a tale oscillated violently. “I am euro ho knew you were somewhere about here,” Sir Christopher went on. “I may ait down, mayn’t I!” drawing the bench nearer to Phyllis’s chair. “Oh yes, of course! I ought to have asked you but there was nowhere but the bench, and since I’ve had this chair, I haven’t dusted it." “That’s all right I was saying that Binkie must bavo knovyn he was on the track to find you for he was always tearing and sniffing about-. He said you were in the north wing that day we all went there—but r X was there—in the secret room at the hack of the cupboard,” Phyllis said—and ho saw the shudder which accompanied the woeds. ‘Then suddenly her face paled, her eyes grew wide with fear. “You—you won’t tell my stepmother I told you?” she gasped. “You are her friend, are you not?” “No—-certainly not. I am yonr’B —and you can trust me, Miss Erlingbam, for I am sure you need a friend. Now I am going to ask you to let me be that friend, and tell mo everything. Then we can put our heads together and decide what is best to be done. I may tell you that Mrs Brlingham has givon it out that you are dead—that you drowned! yourself in the Seine on the day ' she sent someone to meet you at Paris on your way to England. But Mr Mitchell, her lawyer, discovered that the drowned girl, whoso-body he identified as yours, was a poor, peasant girl—and so he is seeking everywhere for you. “The Everard Eriinghani6 and X were doing the same, only I have hod the good fortune, thanks partiv to Binkie, to find you. I thought I heard him near the arbour, or I should not perhaps have come so far. By the bye,'do you often come hereP” “Yes. I am not allowed to leave the grounds, so this ia my usual recreation ground.” “Well, I asked because, when Mrs Erlingham told me one day about the view from here and! suggested 1 should oomo in and see jt, I found this on the ground,” taking the little diary from his breast pocket and handing it to her. “Oh! my diary! I .was afraid I had dropped it somewhere about here,” Phyllis’s cheeks had flushed a bright pink—if he had read the foolish things she had written 1 “I need not tel] you that the contents have been sacred to me and everyone,” Deering added as though he divined her. thoughts, “no one has seen them—neither have I mentioned having found it.” “Thank you very much!”. Phyllis’s voice was full of relief and gratitude, “it was so careless of me to drop it, because I knew I shouldn’t he able to come here while the Abbey was full of guests—and it would have been So dreadful if one of therr. had found it and taken it to my stepmother. You sec,” with a wistful little smile. “[ had no one 10 tell my troubles to—so I had to write them down, and this little diarv seemed to bo a i-0.-t of friend. But please tell me again about my having diowned myself—how dreadful of Mrs Erlingham te hare said'that! —blit it explains a paragraph I saw in the paper once, about thO' beautiful Mrs Erlingham having invited a house-party to Mors Abbey —saying that it was the first time the Abbey had been open to guests since the death of the late Mr Erlingham and the tragedy attending

that of his only daughter. I have the words by heart—for they seemed so extraordinary—but now I see how it was.

(Ia be continued.)