THE WOMAN WHO DOUBTED

Otago Witness, Issue 3231, 16 February 1916, Page 65

THE WOMAN WHO DOUBTED

By ARTHUR. APPLIN. Author of "Miss Banrpton's Husband," "The Chorus Girl/' "The Prodigal Father," "The Immediate Jewel," etc.

TETS NOVELIST.

(POBLIBUKD BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

(Copyright.) CHAPTER XI. tHAT on earth are you doing with that thing?" Stanhope indicated the revolver in Brentwood's Brentwood was not pointing it at him. He held it firmly, the muzzle pointing down, one finger ~jvyf2 ' s till touching the trigger. Stanhope was not exactly frightened, but he was alarmed, for the expression in Brentwood's eyes clearly meant danger. The life he had led made him hold life cheaply—his own as well as other men's. "It's all right; it won't go off," Brentwood said grimly. "I always carry it with me —in case of accidents." There was a pause. "Well?" Stanhope said. He was puzzled and at a loss to know what had haj>pened. Close friends as they were, Dicky had always been something of a mystery to him, his past a sealed book. While he watched him, wondering what had happened to throw him .off his" mental balance, the thought suddenly flashed across his brain that perhaps he was the man who had ruined Felicite's life; he was the husband who had Betrayed and' deserted her! His face darkened as he took a step forward. " Look here, Brentwood, will you explain what you're doing here? I didn't ask you to come. I don't think Mts Darrant did, either. That flat belongs to her for the moment." Brentwood slowly nodded his head, the queer, bullet-shaped head, with a low, rather fine forehead. His shoulders hunched a little as he kept his eyes fixed on Stanhope's face. "So that's it, is it? Of course, you couldn't guess—don't know why I should have thought you did know." He raised his arm and dropped the revolver back into the pocket of his trousers. "While you were in Devonshire falling in love she took a holiday by the river." His head dropped a little. He commenced to finger the empty sleeve of his left arm. " I made a fool of myself for the second time in my life, and you've found me out, Stanhope." He gave a Bhort laugh which sounded somewhat like a snarl. " Well, I've found you out, too, so I suppose we're about quits. But I didn't know you were quite such * rotter. . . . Can't blame the woman either. Birds of a feather. . . ." Stanhope took e deep breath, a long breath of relief. Dicky was not the guilty man. " For a fellow who has knocked about the world a bit you're pretty quick at jumping at conclusions. I never set eyes

on Mrs Darrant until about forty-eight hours ago." " Then what the " " One moment, Brentwood. Before we go any further perhaps you'll tell me how long you've known her, _ what exactly your relationship to her is." Dicky Brentwod nodded. Pulling round a chair, he tumbled into it, then, with his one arm he fumbled in the breastpocket of his coat, took out a, cigarette, struck a match, and lit it. Stanhope watched him with a sort of fascination. It was wonderful how little his infirmity troubled him. He was not a man who ever showed his feelings; hence his present outbreak had been the more astonishing and unaccountable. Brentwood waited until he had taken two or three puffs at his cigarette. " Before I answer your question I'll apologise for thinking' that you, my v best friend, were some sort of a rotten outsider, and for brandishing a revolver like a fool. I've known Mrs Darrant for about three or four weeks. Seems longer. I suppose it always does when one loves. " You love her!" It was more an affirmation than a question. Stanhope was receiving some rude shocks. "Didn't you realise when you dined with me that I wasn't quite normal?" " Wasn't quite normal myself! Go on. ' "I don't know how, why, or when it happened. The moment I saw her, I suppose. She was looking for primroses in my bit of a wood; told her they didn t grow under pine trees. She didn't realise she was trespassing. We started talking. She had knocked about the world a bit, too—been knocked about. I saw that in a moment. In a week's time I was showing her round the house; in less than a fortnight I was theoretically refurnishing and rebuilding it for her. Jpne day I suop r ~e I said something, ana she guessed that I had—that I'd caught the disease. Showed me pretty plainly that I hadn t an earthly. But from what she had said I had a fair idea of what her past life had been. Some rotter had ruined it for her. Made me all the keener. The very day you turned up I'd spoken. She took it pretty badly. Can't remember exactly what passed between us, but I realised then for the first time that things were pretty bad with her; and after we parted that day I began to remember little things I'd noticed —that she always seemed hungry,- and looked half-starved, generally wore the same clothes, never grumbled or complained—in fact, had none of a proper woman's vices—that's about all. The evening you turned up I'd got her on the telephone; daresay you remember. My usual intuition warned me that something was wrong; that's why I left you after dinner. I tried to find her, and failed. Next day I discovered that she had left her lodgings. I've been hunting high and low for her ever since. I came here to ask your advice. You know the rest. Write me'down .an abject idiot."

Mark Stanhope walked over to him, took his hand and held it. He held it as he might have held a woman's, only a touch more firmly, perhaps. At rare moments there was something of the woman about Dicky Brentwood, in spite of his ruggedness and virility, and his queer aloofness. He was the type of man all women would have liked to mother; possibly that was why he avoided the sex. Neither of the men spoke for a little while. Then Stanhope told Dicky how he had found Esme Darrant. He made light of her attempted suicide, especially of the part he had played in saving her. . "I simply brought her back here, for I didn't know where else to take her. She told me her story; you've guessed it more or less correctly. Whether or not she's legally married it's impossible to say. The man obviously was a blackguard, and if he's living " Brentwood withdrew his hand, only then conscious that Stanhope was holding: it. "I'm going to find him." Stanhope laughed. "Thanks, that was my intention. But now I'll stand down. Wouldn't it be best first of all to find out where they were married and see" if it's a binding affair or not? I suppose your idea is " Dicky Brentwood nodded. " To make her my wife. We've got to think of the little chap. She told me about him. That was all she talked about at first. For his sake I'll find the man, make sure the little chap had a right to bear his name, then I'll settle with him. Meanwhile " He rose to his feet and looked at Stanhope interrogatively. " She's all right here. I'm staying at the club for the time being. We'll have to find her some sort of work, or she'll fret." Dicky turned his back. " You ought to have killed me just now for insulting you." " Perfectly natural, my dear fellow, even though you knew I was engaged to be married." Brentwood noticed a change in his voice. He gave him a quick glance out of his preternaturally sharp eyes. "How long before the happy day?" Stanhope rang the bell and told the housekeeper jbo bring him his letters. "My wedding may be put off now. There's something connected with Mrs Darrant that I haven't told you. My lips are sealed by a promise. Hers, too, You'll know all right one day." B'rentwood only nodded. "I Avaa rather rude to Mrs Darrant just now," he said when Stanhope began to open his letters. "I think I'd like to go and explain." Stanhope had recognised Verity's handwriting. He waited until he was alone before opening the envelope. A man does not alwaj's take seriously all that a woman says, especially whsn she is prompted by anger or jealousy or is under the stress of violent emotions. But the written word is different j there is a finality about it. And Verity Travers had written thnt unless he gave a full and satisfactory explanation both to herself and her father, all was over between them, and that he would never see her again. That was final Indeed. The letter was short end to the point._ It neither accused nor pleaded with him. Verity did not trunt him. That hurt

him, perhaps, more than anything else. Then the thought that he would lose her, had already lost her, struck him like a blow. It was a curious thing this love, that in a flash could make a god of a man, the next moment change him into a devil 5 that could raise him to the gates of paradise, or fling him down into the uttermost hell. He folded Verity's letter up carefully and put it in his pocket. The others he left lying on the tabk. He walked into the hall. From the dining room he could hear Dicky's and Esme Darrant's voices. Ke knew by their tone that all was well with them. Leaving & message with Mrs Easton, he hurried downstairs and, calling a taxi, drove to Drayton Gardens. Directly he opened the front door the butler met him with the conventional "Not at home." Obviously Travers had given orders that he was not to be admitted. He controlled his indignation. Nothing really mattered but Verity's happiness, and he knew that his love for her meant her happiness, just as hers meant life for him. He told tho butler to give her a message. " Miss Verity went out about twenty minutes ago, sir. We're not expecting her back until after luncheon." " Very well. I'll return about four o'clock," Stanhope replied. He intended seeing Verity herself. , He was going to allow no one in the world to keep them apart; but i£ she really meant what she had written—well, then, there seemed nothing to be done. He went back to his club, played with some luncheon, and tried to while away the afternoon with a game of bridge. At four o'clock he rang up Colonel Travers's house. Verity was still out. He waited until seven o'clock, then called again. He was almost certain to find her in for dinner. " Miss Travers has not yet returned, sir." Something in tho tone of the butler's voice gave him a start of fear He stood aside to admit Stanhope. " Colonel Travers would like to see you." Before he could be shown into the library the colonel rushed out to meet him. " Where's Verity? Don't tell me you don't know." Stanhope shook his head and eazed dumbly at Travers. " She went out this morning, saying that she was lunching with some friends. Her maid says she returned at three o'clock and went to her bedroom. We haven't seen her since, and her mother has just discovered " —he faltered—"that she has packed her dressing bag and gone." " Gone—where?" Colonel Travers merely shook his head. There were tears in the fierce, grey eyes. •'What do you mean—gone?" Stanhope repeated. " Her mother found a letter on the dressing table only a few minutes \go saying that it was no use our looking for her —that she had gone away forever—her heart was broken." With that Colonel Travers pulled himself together. He shook his fist in Stanhope's face. " You have done this, sir—you ! You've broken our little girl's heart. First Felicite, now Verity. God help me!" Turning round, he walked unsteadily into the study, and left Stanhope standing dumbfounded,- like a figure oi stone, m the hall.

CHAPTER XII. Colonel Travers seemed more angry than distressed. The tears he had dashed from his eyes did not return. He tramped up and down the study saying bitter things, now and then stopping to ask some "question of Stanhope, who had followed him, but "without listening to his reply. It took the latter some little time to realise what had happened; that Verity had run away. "She'll come back—of course she'll come back," he found himsejf saying, more t o relieve his own feelings than to console Travers. "Of course she'll come back, sir, for I shall find and bring her kick. But where are we to find her, and how are we to set about it?" Stanhope suggested that Verity had for the night at any rate probably gone to friends: had Colonel Travers rung up all the people he knew with whom his daughter w-as on terms of intimacy ? The colonel looked at him almost pitv ingby: "My daughter's honour is dearer to me even than her happiness, as dear to me as her life. Do you think I want to advertise the fact broadcast that we have lost her, that she has been forced to run away and hide, because of an unfortunate " he looked Stanhope up and down. "I don't suppose anyone has heard of our engagement yet." "The announcement will appear in all the principal London newspapers tomorrow, morning; it was in the "Pall Mall" to-night. I sent it up myself," the colonel stammered. "I was foolish enough to feel proud of the fact that you were to be my child's husband. I didn't know what a foolish, wrong-minded man you were, Stanhope. You have done this, and you alone. I hope you realise that." Stanhope was not in the habit of defending himself, so he said nothing. Besides, it was not the moment for recrimination. Even in his heart he did not blamo Verity for not trusting him, though her lack of faith hurt him deeply for, being a man, he argued it to be a lack of love. His only concern was to make euro that, wherever she had gone, she was safe. Ho waited until Colonel Travers grew calmer, then he asked him what steps he had already taken to trac<j her. "I've done nothing. You have tied my hands behind my back. Perhaps Verity has guessed your secret—or you have told ber? r ' Stanhope shook his head, and Travers gave a sigh of relief. "I understand that you gave orders that

I was not to see her again, not tp ba admitted if I called?" the former said. "That was only a temporary measure until you came to your senses. But we're wasting time talking, sir. Two nights ago you saved the life of a worthless woman it "My sister." Colonel Travers took no notice of the interruption. "Hadn't you bettor try and do something to save the life of the girl you profess to love?" Stanhope was beginning to find it difficult to keep his temper. "It's hardly fair to imply that I've endangered her life." The colonel almost flung him the letter which Verity had left behind her. "Does net that suggest that she finds life unbearable—thai she means to take her life?" Stanhope looked at the crumpled, pathetic little note again. "Probably you don't understand what a highly-strung thing a woman is," Travers continued. "Under stress of great emotions there is no knowing what mad thing she would not contemplate." Stanhope picked up his hat. For a moment his heart stopped beating. Such a thought had never entered his brain. Perhaps he had been blind, and unconsciously selfish. Yet surely Travers was: as much to blame as he himself, for he had made him promise to keep the existence of Verity's sister secret. But he did not remind him of this now. "Have you rung up the police?" "The police—what can the nolice do?" Travers almost shouted. "They would merely come here and ask impertinent questions, make foolish inquiries, and eventually print notices and photographs of my daughter for public circulation. The police would only hinder instead of helping us." On the Bench the police could do no wrong. It is strange when misfortune comes how quickly a man will change his opinion. "What time did Verity leave tha house?" Stanhope had hurried into the hall. "We don't know. I've told you her letter was found only a short time ago." At the foot of the staircaso Stanhope met Mrs Travers. Even in the half light he could see that she had aged in an hour. She was trembling with suppressed emotion, and held a little lace handkerchief to her eyes. "Do you think you will be able to help us?" she whispered, looking eagerly at Stanhope. "You have some clue, perhaps?" He took her hand and pressed it reassuringly and a great pity filled his heart, making him forget his own loss, and the tragedy whicli would enter his life if Verity never came back. "I'm going to look for your daughter now; I shall not rest until I've found her." "You will find her. Promise me that you'll find her." A warm tear splashed on to his hand. "She's all that is left to me now, Mr Stanhope, my one ewelamb." Stanhope glanced across at Colonel Travers; the colonel lowered his eyes. But he read Stanhope's thoughts, and he knew that, sooner or later, he would have to tell his wife about Felicite. "I'll do my best, Mrs Travers. I love her more than I can teli you. If I can get any information to-night you shall hear from me." Raising her hand to his lips he hurriedjiway, leaving husband and wife alone together. Alone together in the great and, for them, now empty house, Colonel Travers listened to the sound of Stanhope's retreating footsteps on the pavement. When they had quite died away the squar« sounded very silent; he shivered and walked slowly into the study, his head bowed. After a moment's hesitation his wife followed him, quietly, closing the door behind her. Colonel Travers was facing the window, staring gloomily out into the square; his soul was at war with itself. The still small voice of conscience, the conscience which he had kept, so carefully wrapt in the cotton wool of conventions, was speaking loudly. It was jeering at him. The foundations of his life had been laid on theories. Ho had brought up hi 9 two children just as he had brought himself up, believing that what had been good enough for his salvation would be good enough for theirs. In the same way, as in poor families, the small boy wears his father's discarded suit of clothes altered to fit mm, so the colonei in his family expected his children to make use of his old theories and beliefs.

"John, dear." He tinned sharply from the window. His wife was looking at him appealingly, but he read reproach in her eyes. "John, do you think she'll come back?" The colonel clicked his tongue irritably. "Of course she'll come back —of course. What possessed her I can't think. Heaven knows we never neglected her. She had every benefit a young girl could have. It's the spirit of the age, this infernal, restless spirit." Mrs Travers tried to check her tears, but they would flow. "John, I was wondering if we had really ever understood our children." The colonel stiffened ; his teeth gritted. "We have only one child." He felt as if the lie would choke him. His wife shook her head. "One grows • old so slowly, and one forgets so quickly, John —forgets what it was to be young, to dream and have ideals; to feel the blood warm in one's veins—the spirit of adventure, the natural desire of all young things to love and to be loved; to love and enjoy the good things of life." "It's our children who have forgotten ■ —what we taught them." Again silence fell. Suddenly the silence of the square was disturbed by the hooting of a taxi-cab horn. They listened as it approached. They heard it slowdown and stop. Instinctively both rushed to the window and looked'out; hoping, fearing. But it pulled up next door, and the woman who got out was not their child. Mrs Travers had put her arms around her husband's neck. "If only I had given you a son, John, it might has been different." The colonel winced. How often he had thought that, though for a different reason. How often he had longed for his wife to give him a son, that he might give his boy to the country; that the good old name might be carried on and handed down. "It would have made no difference to Verity and—Felicite." "I think young girls want a brother, in whom they can confide: it isn't easy for the young to go to the old with their troubles." "Nonsense," Colonel Travers snapped. "It's their duty." No more was said for a little while. Colonel Travers dropped heavily into one of the large leather armchairs by the fireside and. fumbling for his case, lit a cigarette. His wife remained standing by the -window, waiting. And from the walls of the long, dimly-lighted room, their mothers and fathers looked down on them, and theiT grandparents watched them with cold, critical eyes. They had lived and suffered, doubted arid feared, and then passed on into the Great Unknown, where perhaps understanding was vouchsafed them and they could smile at the little tragedies and little comedies which had meant so much on poor, muddle-minded old earth. Suddenly Travers started and shrank back in his chair; his wife was kneeling by his side. She put her arms around him. There are times when the sympathy of the dearest woman is more difficult for a man to bear than her anger, jealousy, or even her hatred. ."Won't you tell me why Verity ran away, John? What was the real cause of her unhappiness? Was it only a lover's quarrel?" Travers nodded: "There was another woman. I suppose she believed that Stanhope was playing her false." "Was he?" Travers moved uncomfortably in his chair. "No, no; he's straight enough. That's the worst of it! A quixotic fool." He rose from his chair, pushing his wife almost roughly aside. "I must do something, I can't stop here—thinking. I must go out and search." Meanwhile Mark Stanhope had taken a cab and visited the great railway termini in London. The porters and officials whom he saw were sympathetic, listened patiently to his description of Verity, but could give him no information or help. He even went so far as to invoke the aid of the detectives who are employed on every big railway station; but they were men without imagination, enveloped in red tape, and only interested in criminal hunting. They worried him with innumerable questions, many of which he found it impossible to answer. He began to see Colonel Travers' point of view. If once inquiries were set on foot and Scotland Yard became interested there was no knowing what they might ferret out. At Charing Crosa he got some sort of a clue from a rather obtuse but goodnatured porter. Early that morning a young lady, answering Stanhope's description, had inquired about the trains to Hover, and the sailing of the cross Channel boats; the man _ could not remember what she was wearing, though he thought she had on some. sort of a straw hat with a feather in it. He was certain she had not any luggage—"Or Only one of them little hand portmanteaux all women carry about with them." It was impossible to follow such a slight clue, and whenever Stanhope tackled anyone in authority he Tras always met with the same suggestion.—that he had better inform the police. He routed out the stationmaster at Charing Cross, and got him to telegraph a description of Verity to Hover, with a request that if she was seen there, or on one of the cross Channel steamers, a wire should immedfa-iely be sent to Drayton Gardens, and h*r ultimate destination should bo discovcrei". He could do no more, and for the moment he felt a sense of relief. Travers' suggestion that Verity intended taking her own life had given him the worst hour he had over experienced". - But if it was she who had inqup«od about the trains, then it was obvictai that she only meant running away. Stanhope assured himself that he would find her all right. No matter where she hid, love would direct him. But his wave of optimism did not last very long; he

went back to his club and rang up Dray ton Gardens on the telephone. (To be continued.)