THE NOVELIST.

Otago Witness, Issue 3619, 24 July 1923, Page 52

THE NOVELIST.

[PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.} The MaiTshe Never Married.

By

CORALIE STANTON and HEATH HOSKEN,

Authors of Men Who Came Back, ’ “Sword “ and Plough,” “The Beaten Track,” etc., etc. [Copyright.] CHAPTER XL The week-end at Moat House passed pleasantly. The weather was delightful, and there yvas a little, well-assorted crowd oi people—interesting, that is to say, to Tony, at any rate. Diana Liiampneys was a connoisseur in ehoosnm her week-end guests. .She never by an? chance made a mistake. No one ever clashed On this particular occasion all !u S „ seemed uncommonly like Dolly, and all the men, curiously enough, mii.tit have been Tony’s own particular friends—men of his age and taste and set. It was altogether charming. Tony felt thoroughly at home. That was'just the result that Diana had meant to achieve. , j ]' as l 'eally a wonderful hostess. She lad the faculty of not only choosing the right people, but of leaving people alone. And Tony began to like Mr Champueys, who had cast his legal manner and become quite human. The future Master of the Rolls played a fast game of tennis, and altogether made a merry host. But he did not see quite *as much of Dolly as he would have wished. Dollv was very much in demand, and a tete-a-tete looked like being impossible. On Sunday morning most of the house party attended matins at Holtinge Church. Tony sat next to Doily and joined with her in singing unto the Lord and heartily rejoicing in the strength of their salvation. 6 I „ D £ rin f a - rat *?, er prosy doctrinal sermon by Mr Amice, Tony could riot help tliinking of that other service at which he and Dolly would have been present a month ago had things turned out differently. Perhaps Dolly, too, was thinking of the same thing. ° After church Tony and Dollv walked back to Moat House together. They started off ahead of the others and walked quickly. H was Dolly’s suggestion, and it gave iony unqualified satisfaction. I want to avoid speaking to Mr Stanu sh ® sa ‘ d ‘, “I saw him in the church with Lady Stanford. I thought he was abroad. Oh, I do so wish I co?ld get over my repugnance to that man ! He quite spons my life down here. And the w . or 1 f! ; is that mother seems so fond ot him. The whole world seems banded together to throw the wretched man at my head.” This is where Tony decidedly sat up and took notice. “I must confess,” he remarked with admirably simulated unconcern, 1 that I, too, have no great predelection for that young gentleman.” He s positively loathesome!” cried Dolly. “An abhorrent creature. I hate the sight of him.” She broke off with a nervous little apology for her outburst. Im sorry,” she said. “I ought not to sav such things about our neighbours. But somehow there is something aboutyou, Mr Raw-son, that ” Again she stopped, confused. * " You don t mean to say,” exclaimed Tony, that the fellow is really offensive to you—that he presses attentions on you —you know what I mean?” He, too, felt a little awkward. Oh, don t let s talk about the creature,” laughed Dolly, to cover a sudden confusion. “I ought not to have said anything. Mother says I am always letting my tongue run away with me.” “By jove,” declared Tony very grimly, “I’ll soon put a stop to his game.” “Oh, no—no; you mustn’t do anything! Please, Mr Rawson !” “You’ve only got to say the word, young lady, and I’ll—l’ll break his neck.” And he really looked as if the expression were not mere metaphor. Dolly gave him a swift upward look, and a flush of crimson came for an instant into her cheeks. Their eyes met. Then she quickly looked away as she said half to herself, “Oh, I love to hear you talk like that. You look so jolly strong, and as if you really would do it, don't you know—just as if ” Then she stopped, confused, and commenced to talk rather at random, and inconsequently on other things. But Tony was having none of it. “Miss Champneys,” he asked with a forced callousness that was really impressive, “have you ever had any suspicions that this fellow”—he had got into the way of calling Brian Stanford "this fellow”-—“that this fellow knows anything about this disappearance of Jack?” “Mr Rawson,” exclaimed Dolly, “what on earth do you mean?” It was most obvious that nothing was further from her thoughts than the suggestion contained in Tony’s question. Then Tony told her what he did mean. He did not tell her everything—that is to say, he did not tell her that Paul Velvet persisted in his original theory that Jack had been murdered. He merely told her of the story of old Tom Jagg and his subsequent interview with Stanford, his manner, the impression he had left upon him, Tony, Mr Velvet’s investigations into the past—the quarrel existing between Vicars and Stanford—anud he referred to the recent dramatic withdrawal from political life of the Under-Secretary of State for War. Dolly was stupendously impressed. “I wish I could tell you everything, Mr Rawson,” she said; “but somehow I feel I ought not to. It doesn’t seem quite fair.”

“And why not, pray?” exclaimed Tony, indignant. “Oh, I don’t know ; hut somehow I feel that it isn’t quite right. You see, you are really quite a stranger.” “-Don’t he absurd, Dolly,” interrupted Tony; and she did not appear to resent —- indeed, she did not appear even to notice —his use of her Christian name. Then she told Tony all about Mr Brian Stanford, told him of his persistent attentions and of her growing and unalterable repugnance to him. She told him all about the meeting outside Copping Farm on the very eve of what was to have been her wedding, an hour or so after she had met Tony for the first time. She spoke freely to him, joist as she might have talked to her own brother. She seemed completely at ease with him. They might have known each other for years. As for Tony, he literally boiled with rage—jealous rage and indignation. Henceforth the Right Honourable Brian Stanford had a formidable enemy to deal with. Yes, it was jealous rage*. Tomadmitted it. Right or wrong, Jack or no Jack, he knew that he was head over heels in love with Dolly Champneys. That night after dinner they played bridge till clcse on midnight, and when at last Tony found himself alone in his bedroom a sudden resolve came to him to go out and take a brisk walk in the moonlight. It was a gorgeous night, with a full moon bathing the world in a hath of liquid light. The air was full of sweet scents. The rambler roses outside his window-—fragrant Zephirine Drouhin and the silvery Conrad Meyers looking like clusters of midnight dew and pearls—filled his room with fragrance. From the garden below came intoxicating odours of the night stocks and carnations. The night called to him with insistent voice. He must get out and bathe in the moonlight. A nightingale was singing in the shrubbery. He met no one on his way downstairs save a servant who was shutting up. He told her he was going for a short walk, and asked how he could gain access to the house. “We never lock any doors here, sir, 1 she said. “You can get in anywhere at any time. There’s never no burglars been known in Holtinge.” Outside the mood seized him to pay a visit to the excavations on the other side of Holtinge. An excellent opportunity to test the ghost stories and the rumours of subterranean workings and noises! A real adventure after his own heart. He glanced back at the picturesque old Moat House, and wondered which of the several lighted window's was Dolly's, and, wishing that Dolly was out here in the moonlight with him, se set off for the famed Roman Villa of Holtinge. He was in his evening clothes, and hatlesp. The warm-scented night air was refreshing. He gave himself up to the ecstacy of the moment. It was good to be alive. Who wanted to go to bed on such a fragrant night? He found himself getting quite romantic. Wrapped in his pleasant thoughts, he did not see a tall, lean man silently detach himself from the deep, purple shadows of the ilex hedge that ran for thirty or forty yards to the right of the entrance gate of Moat House, and as silently follow' in his wake, walking catlike and cautiously on the grass for silence, and, when necessity caused him to tread on hard road, tripping skilfully on tip-toe. Not that the tall man would have made much noice, since he wore rubber-soled shoes. Tony reached the excavations in less than half an hour. As he stood on the top of the hill he could see the silvery Channel below him. The great flash of Grisnez light played battledore and shuttlecock with Dungeness. He picked out Dover light, and the red eye of the Varne Lightship midway between Folkestone and Boulogne. France seemed very near. What is now known as Holtinge Lees or Holtinge Down, about half a mile beyond the church, vand rising steeply over it a matter of some two hundred feet, ha.d undoubtedly been a place of habitation for many thousands of years. Now it was just a sheep clipped down with ari extensive view over Romney Marsh and the English Channel. Learned archaeologists claimed that it was an imnortant settlement, of prehistoric man long before Britain was an island, that it was a neolithic bvidgehead of what was then the ancient Rhine. Indeed. they went further and declared that Holtinge was the British end of the isthmus which now lies beneath the Straits of Dover, and in remote ages connected this country with Gaul. Men lived, moved, and had their being here on Holtinge Down long before the Deluge. Be this as it may, there was very visible and tangible proof that Holtinge was an important stronghold and port when Julius Csesar and his cohorts came and paid a visit-to the Trinobantes. At that time it was a la,rge collection of rude huts inhabited by fur-clad Belgic Gauls with blue wood-stained flesh decorated with weird designs incised into their skin, wearing long hair, shaven, beards, and enormous moustaches—tall, ingenuous, honest men and terrific fighters. Tonv had read Herodianus and Strabo, and his ima,gina-fion took possession of him. He pictured the scene of that day so long ago—the six hundred and ninetyeighth of the foundation of the Citv of Rome, more than half a eenturv before Christ was born in Bethlehem of Judea. The ghosts of Vnlusenus and Coinius of Arras, walked with him. The place was peopled with shapes and memories. He saw the hundred galleys of Omsar. the legions of horse and foot, the British chariots, and Holtinge Down bristling with blue-painted warriors swarming down to the strand to defend their land from the invader. Portus Holtiensis, the Romans afterwards called it, and built their great military station there on the site of the kraal of neolithic man. An important port and fortress it remained for hundreds of years after victorious Cfesar returned to Rome

and offered to Venus a breastplate made of British pearls as a trophy of his conquest Tony was essentially modern. His attitude cf mind was more toward the future than the past. But to-night, in this romantic spot, so full of historic reminiscence, he .understood for the first time what the- great attraction of research meant to poor old Jack Vicars. Witli Jack it had been an obsession. It was his very life. Tony felt the call and nearly understood. Then musings of geologists and antiquaries and visions of the mighty past suddenly vanished and gave way to a very different speculation. lie was standing with his back lo a corrugated-iron toolshed, one of several unsightly utilitarian structures, standing about, giving the place the appearance of a derelict camp of army hutments, reminiscent to Tony of so much he wanted to forget. it had been so intensely silent that one could almost hear himself think. Then there was a tremendous noise—a crash, as of heavy metal tailing upon heavy metal. Metaphorically Tonv jumped out of his skin. “Good Lord!” he gasped. The sound came from inside the tin hut against which he was leaning, and conjuring up visions of the cohorts of Rome locked in a life and death struggle with the blue cannibals of his native land. Hollowed a profound silence-—a silence that could literally be felt. “Well, I’m hanged,” said Tony to himself and to the night, which had suddenly become awesome. “What in the name of thunder ’’ Then he distinctly heard footsteps in the corrugated-iron hut and the sound of a door banging. He moved a few paces forward quickly and swung round. “Hullo,” he said, and was surprised how loud his voice sounded. It was as if he were shouting. “Hullo! Who’s there?’’ Suddenly a tall man appeared around the corner of the building, a tall man wrapped in a long light overcoat with a soft felt hat crammed well on to his head. The moonlight shone full upon Lis face, and he recognised the last person on earth he expected to see at one in the morning on Holtinge Down. It was Brian Stanford. “Hullo,” he said again, ‘What are you doing here at this time of day? S'on gave me a bit of a jar. I thought I was alone.’' “So did I,” said Stanford, and it was obvious that he was labouring under considerable excitement. “W’ho are you?” “I,” replied Tony, “am Rawson. We have had the doubtful pleasure of meeting on a previous occasion. Do you mind putting that dangerous-looking weapon in your pocket ?” Tony had just observed that Stanford held an automatic pistol—a large army-sized Colt—on his hand, which was undisguisedly shaking. “I’m sorry,” muttered Stanford apologetically, and lost no time in doing as Tony had suggested. “You see, I—l didn't recognise you at first. Please forgive me. I—l he shrugged his spare shoulders in that foreign way of his, “I really hardly know how to explain.” “Then don’t try,” said Tony. “What’s the matter with you. Do you expect to be attacked by brigands or were you contemplating suicide? By the way, what was that thundering noise you made in the hut?” “I accidentally dropped a big crowbar on to some sheets of tin,” said Stanford meekly. “I’m sorry. I alarmed you.’ Tony did not comment on the extraordinary circumstance of Mr Stanford dropping crowbars on sheets of tin, but he thought a great deal. What was really so extraordinary was the man’s manner. Try, as he obviously was doing, to appear calm and unconcerned, he was palpably thoroughly shaken in nerve. Bluntly put, the man was literally trembling with fright. He reminded Tony of men he had seen in the war, as they had come out of the mouth of heli itself. As one in those awful days had been merciful and humane with a captured Boche, gibbering in blue funk, so his feeling of dislike of this man Stanford gave place to other feelings. lie was sorry for him. He would like to help him. “My dear fellow,” he said. “What in the name of all that’s wonderful has come over you?” “Nothing, Rawson, nothing,” said Stanford. “I am only a bit nervy. I thought I was alone. I—you see I didn’t know it was you, you understand. Come, shall we get away from this place? It must be frightfully late.” “But what are you doing here?” “I? Oh, I -was restless and couldn’t sleep. I just came up here for a breath of air. I often come up on the Downs for a breather, you know. I’m rather fond of the view from here. I like to see the French lights blinking over the Channel.” Which was very natural. Tony himself shared the- same idiosyncracv, but he could not help wondering what connection a large Colt automatic and a crowbar, and a wild expression had with the blinking Channel lights. “Quite so,” he said, in a sufficiently friendly tone. “I thoroughly understand. Myself I strolled up here for much the same purpose. Bed did not tempt me on this midsummer night. But come, Stanford, pull yourself together, man. You are behaving very foolishly. What is there to be alarmed at?” “Rawson, have von seen anyone?” suddenly asked the white-faced and trembling Stanford. “Have you seen a man—a tall, thin man? He walks like a cat —silent. Have you seen him?” “Haven’t seen a soul since I left Moat House,” said Tony, “and never expected to. Come, my dear fellow, you had better get borne. You’ve got the jim-jams, that’s what’s the matter with you. Look here, hand over that nasty-looking firearm of yours. I don’t think you are in a fit condition to be in charge of such utterly abnormally. It was beginning to dawn upon Tony that Brian Stanford was either drunk or

off his head. The man was behaving utecrly abnormally. But Staniora ignored the pleasant rail lory and went on in an awed monotone : "I swear l saw two men, you were one, now i see \ou. I recognise you as one of the men. You had no hat or coat, and your white shirt front shone up bright in the incon. But tnere was allot tier ' "Don't be ridiculous. “But there was—a very tali man. I saw him distinctly. At first I thought \ ou w ere together. I heard only one set of tootsteps. He made no sound, Kawson. You swear you never saw him?” "Of course I swear, exclaimed lony, losing patience. “I suppose, he laughed, "lie wasn't dressed up like a Praetorian Guard of the Republic?” The effect of this remark w r as electric. Stanford suddenly gripped Tony s arms as in a vice. “Mv God!” he gasped. “Why do you say that? Have you seen it, too? Have you seen the Thing.' “No,” answered Tony quickly, realising now at last that he was dealing with a madman. ”;’ertaiidy not. Stuff and nonsense. Come along. 1 in going to see you home. You uren t* m a fit State to be wandering about the ruins of ancient Portus rioit.ensis alone. ’ “But why did you say that?” Stanford’s manner was that of a terrified child. .. “Just came into my head. Nothing extraordinary, I should say, in seeing the ghosts ot Roman soldiers at this place. Might see a blue painted Briton or a hairv Caveman. Come, Stanford, come enough of this.” And he took the trembling 0 Stanford by the arm and firmly and forcibly led him away, down the white chalk path, down the steep hill towards the gate that gave on to the road. “It’s uncommonly good of you, Ba vsou,” Stanford murmured. “I am afraid I am behaving very foolishly.” “You are,” laconically remarked Tony. “You are behaving like* a complete ass.” “I know. Please lorgive me. 1 have been very ill —I’ve had a rotten breakdown.” “I should use the present tense, if you asked me,’ said Tony. "But have a cigarette? Oh, I forgot. You only smoke vour own particular brand. I’ll have one if you’ll be so kind as to offer me one. ' Stanford produced a little gold cigarette case with trembling hand. He appeared humbly grateful. The two men lit cigarettes. Stanford s shaking fingers could barely hold the lighted match. He was altogether a pitiable object. It was incredible that this abject figure of fear was the symeal, flamboyant figure of a month ago the cool, confident young parliamentarian at the bizarre appearance and dress. Ine future Prime Minister! What on earth had happened? Tony asked himself a thousand questions. Was it possible that little domelieaded Velvet was right after all ? V\ as this the visible result of remorse, of terror? Was Stanford, the brilliant hope of his party, really a murderer, returning, as murderers are commonly reputed to do, to the scene of their fell crime? They reached the high road and strode off smartly down the hill towards the church gleaming white in the liquid radiance of the full moon. Stanford rapidly regained control ot himself. He persisted in apologising, in pleading the rotten state of his nerves, m reiterating interminably his habit of nocturnal wanderings, and his particular fond_ ness for moonlight views front the top of Holtinge Down It was leally, so lony could not help thinking, a case of qui s’excfeae s’accuse. Stanford laboured the * Then 1 \ grew more like his old, artificial self, a.V his shattered voice took on its slow a;m V iberate Front Bench manner He draw>J out an epigram occasionally 'and quoted Chaucer. Their talk fell from poignant personalities to ephemeral generalities. Stanford was himself a train. ° Like a drunken man recovering from his carouse he talked nineteen to the dozen with the idea of preventing any reference to his lapse from probitv. Heavens, how the fellow talked . M ords poured from hint in a ceaseless cataract. Tonv strode along, hands in the pockets of his dinner jacket, silent, bored, but closely observant. Mr Brian Stanford enmething of a problem. Incidentally Tony was bound to admit that he was an unusually well-informed and erudite personality with the power of .usincf words. He had in a moment, as it were, been transmogrified from a cringing coward, cowering before imagined phantoms, to young Disraeli—dazzling, wittv, cvnical man of the world complete master o'f himself, dominating liis listener, forcing him, willy-nilly, to give grudging homage to his genius, or call it what you will. , T —. Their roads parted at the Three Kings, now- wrapped in darkness and the silence of the night. Stanford’s way led him to the right, and a mile or less to Holtinge Park. ° Tonv had to bear straight on the London road to Moat House. Thev stopped at the turning. Holtinge Church clock chimed a single one. “Rawson,” said Stanford, with an air of a °reat statesman graciously condescending to confer a favour on a deserving aspirant, “Rawson, I hope I can rely upon you saying nothing about our meeting to-night—l mean about my very foolish behaviour. If you will oblige me in this respect I shall be pleased to forgive you for your infamous behavious to me on the last occasion on which we met. Forgive my reminding you, but you have never had* the grace to apologise to me for that matter. However, we will let that pass. I am willing to make allowances for the unusual conditions at the time and your very natural state of anxiety and excitement.” The audacity of the man was phenomenal. It took Tony’s breath away. The indignant retort that was on his lips died aw-ay in sheer amazement. This decadent, neurotic, emotional coxcomb had the impertinence to patronise

him. This appalling bounder, who was plaguing the life out of Dolly Champneys, making her very existence irf HoJtinge intolerable ! This alien mountebank ! —this monumental mass of conceit! —this dandyfied cad! —this gibbering coward, terriiied of moonbeams and shadows! this utter worm ! Oh, Tony could have exhausted the vocabulary of all the epithets! Instead, being more or less a conventional Englishman, he said nothing. The insolence of the fellow rendered him dumb. Actions, not words, applied to Stanford just now. Nothing Tony would have enjoyed more than to give the absurd poppiiijay a thoroughly good thrashing. “So, you’ll oblige me, won t you, Rawson,” the ineffable Stanford went on, “by saying nothing about this meeting tonight—particularly, if I may say so, particularly not to Miss Champneys. I see you are staying with them. I saw y r ou in church this morning.” This was- too much for Ton}’. He found his voice at last. “I am certainly not going to oblige you in that respect, or to give you any 7 promise at all, about this, or any other matter,” he said in a tone of voice that would have frozen anyone less thickskinned than Mr Brian Stanford. “And, since you have mentioned her name, and since I happen to be in her confidence, and since she is engaged to my frend, Vicars, I most strongly advise you, Mr Stanford, not to cause Miss Champneys any further annoyance.” “What the devil do you mean?” “If you don’t know, ’ said Tony, ”1 am not at all disposed to enlighten you. I warn vou, though, that I shall make a personal matter of it. I shall see that Miss Champneys is not subjected any longer to vour obnoxious attentions.” “You threaten me?” “As you will.” Tony shrugged nis shoulders. “I see no good purpose to be served in prolonging this profitless conversation. Good-night!” And he turned and swung off in the direction of Moat House. For several moments Brian Stanford stood at the corner irresolute. His face was white as paper in the moonlight. His eyes glared furiously, venomously, after the retreating form. It was like him to raise a clenched fist and shake it. He was nothing if not melodramatic. He was theatrical even when alone. Halfway between Holtinge village and the Champneys’ house, Tony thought he heard footsteps padding along behind him. He loked back and saw a tall, thin man following him, or, if not following him, obviously travelling in the same direction and choosing the grassy side of the road in preference to the dusty road. Tony stopped. So did the man, and as suddenly vanished. Tony retraced his steps. He was in no mood just then to he alarmed at anybody or anything. If there were any devilry afoot he would get to the bottom of it. But he could find no trace of the man. Yet he could have sworn he had heard the muffled, padding footsteps, sounding more like those of an animal than a man; sworn, too, that he had seen a tall, spare, figure. Odd, thought Tony, a few minutes later, as he quickly undressed and got between the cool linen sheets; odd that, that fellow Stanford talked about a tall man who made no noise when he walked. Very odd! The place was alive with odd things. He really must not let this get on his nerves. He would be seeing ghosts soon ! As it was, he was deliciously tired, and soon fell asleep to dream of Dolly—Dolly, the unattainable. (To be Continued.)