THE SILENCE OF DAVID BUCKLAND.

Otago Witness, Issue 3754, 23 February 1926, Page 85

THE SILENCE OF DAVID BUCKLAND.

Michakl Tilmaiii).

By

(Copibight.—Fob thb Witness.) Netta Lindsay neared the Simpson Stores with a stupid little flutter at her heart. Was it still there this morning? That was the question causing her agitation, and even while she told herself, with a wistful sigh, that the fate of the fur necklet was never likely to veer in her direction, she, nevertheless, oould not contemplate its disappearance without a throb of anxiety. This necklet had drawn her strangely the first morning of the sale. It had rivetted her attention to the absolute exclusion of everything else in the window. Nestling shvly in a gorgeous array of furs, it stood out singularly, pre-eminently as hers. It matched ,her muff for one thing—but that was only a pmall part of its attraction. The size, the shape of it the nestling, comfortable look of it possessed that individuality which can never be matched, as it can never be adequate! , described. We have all experienced this odd fancy at some time or other. Netta was going to hurry past the window, ajmost afraid to trust herself, but one swift side glance sent an odd little thrill of joy through her, and at the same time stopped her hurrying feet. Drawn,almost despite herself she edged to the fateful window, and gased with longing, covetous eyes. It was labelled £l2, and marked down to £7, and a bold poster had been thrust into the window this morning to announce the last three days of sale. It touched her with childish dismay. Had the sale but occurred a few weeks later she might have just managed it. “Oh, why,” she muttered, “do sales always come at the wrong time?” And how many of us formulate the same thought at least once every year! For it seems a settled trick of “Sales” to tempt us at that particular time when we cannot gratify the desires they create. However, at last, reluctantly, Netta tore herself away, and bent her steps officewards, and ere long her mind was fully occupied with other thoughts. It was Saturday morning—aways a busy time in mail order departments.' For not only has a normal day’s mail to be attended to in half a day, but systemloving heads of departments endeavour to dispose once and for all of such queries as have been left over during the week. J. MILLER SEVEN The long, rectangular general offices buzzed with industry. Typewriters clacked uproariously ; checkers scuttled backwards and forwards, worried, perplexed overheated. Over in one corner, where the highly polished tiling cabinets stretched row upon row, stacks of correspondence were continually being disposed of by a perspiring messenger boy, and as inexorably fed by another even warmer boy from the letter-opening rooms. The indexing girls worked with the feverishness of despair, for there had been some heavy advertising, and the mail was unusually copious this morning. Through all this din and hurry and bustle of nervous excitement the junior partner, David Buckland, strolled restlessly back and forth the long length of the room. A strange air of abstraction was upon him as he walked up and down, with bent head, and eyes turned floorwards. ' Once, as he passed by Netta’s desk, she called his attention to a point in one of the letters she was dealing with He seemed to realise the gist of her remark only after an effort, and then, ignoring the proffered sheet, asked her to read the passage in doubt. Nett% complied, and he dictated a few words to be added to the invoice she was typing. As he strolled away. Netta could not help wondering at the change in Davio Bucklafld of late. At one time he had been so light-hearted and jolly and energetic. His attitude to her had been so different, too. Indeed, so marked had been his geniality that it called for considerable comment from other members of the staff. So much so that on one occasion even Miss Brush, the sour, taciturn senior, had surpassed herself by uttering a humorous suggestion to the effect that it looked as if she (Netta) was about to assume a different position in the firm! Then, suddenly his whole manner had changed. He had become preoccupied, thoughtful, serious. He no longer approached her desk of a morning with a cheerful joke. But never had the change been so noticeable as on this particular morning. And Netta noticed, with some concern, that, after tile incident just referred to, he turned in his ceaseless walk before he got to her desk. It was only a trivial thing, but combined with other trivialities, it produced an odd feeling that he was deliberately avoiding her! And some unanswerable instinct from l within promptly stamped the suspicion into certainty. The circumstance was vaguely disquieting, and for some time Netta had all she could do to keep her attention on her work. But presently a boy came with another alarmingly tig bundle of letter orders calling for invoices, and collected those she had completed. Sternly exorcising other disturbing influences from her mind, she settled down in grim earnest to the formidable task in hand. For maybe an hour the forms rattled through her typewriter, and she came to a two-page letter with an edge of white, crisp, untnistakeahle paper peeping out from between the leaves. Quickly she turned back the top sheet and stared at what it revealed. What had happened was clear as a flash, even though it was the first time such a thing had occurred in the whole of her experience with the firm. One of tiie openers had sent this letter

through to the departments without taking out the remittance. Netta looked up. The junior partner’s back was towards her; Miss Brush was giving another girl some instructions. Not a soul was looking. Almost without thinking what she was doing Netta quietly slipped the letter with the £5 note inside under her pad, and went on with her work. Just then Miss Brush came to her desk, and after uttering a brief comment on the volume of work yet to be done, stood watching her silently for such a long time that a horrible fear overcame Netta. Had she seen? The thought sent the blood rushing madly to her face, and in a panic, as she thought her burning cheeks must surely cry her act aloud, she lowered her head and covered her face with her hands. But realising the stupidity of her actions at once she lowered them immediately and stole a quick look upwards. Miss Brush was watching her fixedly, and in cold terror Netta now felt the blood recede from her face, leaving her white as chalk. A mist gathered before her eyes so that she could scarcely see the keyboard, and after fumbling awkwardly for a few moments in a wild desire to recover herself she was interrupted by Miss Brush. “ You had better go and get a cup of tea, Netta,” she said quietly. “ I have seen this coming on for some time.” “ No, no; I shall be all right in a moment,” said the poor girl, sensing disaster. Then, as Miss Brush caught her gently by the arm, her fear reached a climax. “Oh, leave me—leave me!” she implored, looking up desperately. Her voice was raised louder than she knew. In utter dismay she heard a sudden, strange silence settle on the busy room; felt every eye upon her. Shame, fear, and confusion rendered her helpless and unresisting as, inexorably, she felt herself being drawn to her feet and led away. The whole incident could not have occupied more than two minutes, but looking back upon it afterwards Netta thought of it in terms of weeks. Once outside the room she begged and entreated in so unrestrained a fashion to be allowed to go on with her work that she realised at length that she hade fair to create suspicion by this alone. And Miss Brush was adamant. Netta was commanded to go home and rest, and not to think again of work until Monday morning. At last she had, perforce, to leave the premises. She wandered aimlessly along until she came to a tea-shop, and as aimlessly went in and called for a cup of tea. ; “Anything wrong with the tea?” said a voice. With a start Netta realised that she had been sitting here half an hour, and her tea was cold and untasted. Mumbling some reply she sipped it hastily, and as soon as the waitress’s back was turned slipped out. The fresh air revived her faculties, and in place of dumb, boneless, despair, a lively fear took possession of her, spurring her imagination. “Had they found it "et? Were the police already looking for her?” The utter extravagance of the latter thought was lost upon her just then. There were some public gardens across the road. She entered them, and selecting a quiet corner, sat down, with desperate determination to think over her position clearly and with calm And presently, in those peaceful surroundings, she could scarcely believe the episode was not some wild hallucination. incredi blv swift, and yet with such consummate ease, had calamity overtaken her. that it was almost farcical—were it not that all the elements of tragedy lay readv for ignition. Useless now to lament the first sillv impulse that had started the' alarming chain. As useless to condemn the stupidity of it as to modify it with •*>/’ -v tion that second thought —ould have prevailed for the best. For. of ro’-i'v* rho promntincr bchinc? tb* weqlr net w— nf>r*>l v a subconscious reflection of her desire for that necklet. To think that it should lead to this ! But from just such weak moment does many a powerful drama spring. Gradually a clear plan resolved in Netta’s brain. Supposing the letter had been discovered, she must know. Supposing it had not—-and how her heart leaned at the thought—she must have it in her possession, then she could “discover” the oversight on Monday morning. It was now nearly one o’clock. By halfpast everybodv would ho gone. pv. cept the cleaners. She could easily slip in on some slight nretext and. should the fatal letter be there, recover it, and leave without exciting commpnt. Tt was five minutes past, tho half hour when she entered the building. She stopped in the corridor to pass a careless word With one of the cleaners, then, with wildlv beating heart, mounted the stair. A hastv glance assured her that her surmise had been correct. The long general office room was silent and deserted. Netta could not divest her movements of a certain furtiveness ns she stole nuicklv to her desk and lifted the pad. Tt was there! She could have cried aloud in the joy of the discovery. Swiftly she withdrew the banknote, folded it, and slipped it in her purse, then tucked it with the letter into her bag. The relief was almost too much for her overstrained nerves. She must gain composure before venturing out! Standing there, one hand resting on the desk, a slight sound sent her startled eyes flashing along the room, and for a dreadful imj.mt her heart stood still. For there, in a shadowy corner, sitting behind a high desk, sat David Buckland. He was gazing

straight at her, cold, impassive, and silent. Netta wanted to scream—to laugh—anything to break that terrible tension, bu' not a muscle of that cold face moved. At length sue could hear it no longer, and turning, flew headlong from the room, and did not stop running untH she gained the street If only he had spoken—accused her, done anything but maintained that unnatural silence, she could have borne it better. It would have given her a chance to explain too. But now it was beyond that. During the week-end Netta settled into a deep, silent misery, and on the Monday morning she entered the office with such an air of resigned hopelessness that Miss Brush wanted to send her home again. But this time Netta’s was the prevailing strength. There was that in her polite refusal which did not encourage persistence With a resigned shrug Miss Brush let the matter drop. Later, when Netta handed her the £5 note and letter, she took it without comment, and the work of the morning proceeded. Curiously enough, David Buckland was more like his own self than lie had been for weeks. Netta remarked it with dim surprise and calculated reserve. When he came to her desk and said Miss Brush thought she ought to have a good rest she did not reply at once, neither did she risk meeting his eyes. * At length, in a cold, formal, little voice, she said: “I am leaving this week, Mr Buckland.” . “ Leaving? I was not aware .that you had given notice.” “ I am giving it now,” she returned curtly. For a moment he hesitated, then evidently thinking better of whatever he was going to say, he moved off. Netta, unnaturally suspicious and hardened, smiled wryly. At least he should not have that satisfaction. Despite her strongest efforts to the contrary, she could not help wondering what lay behind liis strange behaviour. For, with the passing days, not only did he fail to refer, either directly or indirectly, to the dire incident of Saturday, but, except for one tiling, he might even have been completely oblivious of it. There was a peculiar sadness in his manner towards her which increased as the days wore on, an air of wistful regret. Netta resented it. For its source was obvious. At one time he had thought highly of her, to say the least. And in one fateful moment she had revealed herself to him as weak, paltry, an easy prey to temptation. It pained him, the more because his one-time regard for her precluded harshness. That was it, Netta concluded. In other words, he was sorry for her being the weak thing she was! Her indignation and resentment grew because of her own helplessness, and the cruel injustice of his attitude, which made not the slightest provision for the possibility of excuse. But with the hot resentment came also a poignant sense of loss. Outwardly, when the girls had made half joking suggestions based oil his behaviour towards her, she had been wont to make very light of them. But who knows the thoughts that lie in the deeps of a girl’s heart? Sometimes, so dormant are .hey, that even the owner thereof is but dimly aware of them, especially if they be inspired by that superior to all conscious mental processes—intuition, to wit. Netta wondered, sadly, at vvliat might have been, and invariably her sadness increased with the answer. There were times in that dragging week when she thought that David Buckland’s was a sorrow equalling her own. Particularly towards the end, as, or so she thought, he sought her desk on the slightest pretext. The melancholy of his eyes was almost haunting in its gentleness, but any slight tendency to hope was destroyed by a peculiar, vague strain of utter inevitability in his manner. “ Why,” Netta thought tearfully on Friday night, “ does he not give me a chance to explain? Why are men so dense ? ” For to her it was obvious now that he cared, and yet, care he never so much, for one seemingly gross defect in her character, he was going ruthlessly to thrust her from his life. And now, on the eve of the end, Netta’s rilling sorrow was for him! For the mistake he was making. For ljis blindness. For being a man! With all the strength and the weakness, the brightness and the ignorance, the spiritual clarity and the dark stupidity which go to the making of a good man. So much of the mother is in every girl or woman, woman. In the silence of the sleepless night the poignant appeal of him wrung her heart to tears. No conscious thought impelled her. The vague rulings of instinct held sway. So it Was to he. Next morning, as 1 o’clock and the end of the week’s work approached, Netta prepared for the end. Then, for one brilliant instant, hope flashed high. David Buckland sent a message that he would like to see her in his private office. But hope was repressed as Netta told herself it was only to say good-bye —perhaps to add a trite commonplace on the evils of temptation! And his first words corroborated the thought.

He was standing when she entered, and he closed the door behind her, then walked across to the window, and stood with his back to the light. “ 1 wanted to say good-bye before you left,” he said awkwardly as she waited. Then, as she made no response, he added, *'Oue cannot blame you, I suppose.” Was it too late even now? For One instant Netta was tempted to launch a quick explanation, but some sure instinct quelled the impulse, and tied her to silence. And as she waited she was puzzled anew to find an explanation for the deep, pathetic sympathy which willed for him within her. It was unaccountable. “ I shall s ever forget last Saturday,” he went on presently in a low, subdued voice, “ for it was the end of my fondest hope in life.” Netta bit her lip, and steadied herself with an effort. “ Up to that time,” he went on, “ there was still a lingering doubt, but it was dispelled that morning. On top of it, you suddenly suspected something of the kind, didn’t you ? ” “Go on! ” said Netta in a dry, choked voice. He smiled sadly. “ Then you waited until the others had gone, and you came back to make certain. I knew it was you—as surely if* I could see you.” Netta swayed uncertainly on her feet, then, thrusting forward eagerly, she echoed in a low, intense voice: “As surely as if you could see me! ” He nodded, seemed to hesitate, then resumed. “If you had not been so unquestionably shocked at the discovery I might even now have plucked up courage to ask you to marry me. But you can scarcely be expecte to look with favour on a uan whose eyesight is drawing nearer J jO his eyes with every passing day.” There was a second’s silence, then TTetta’s overwrought heart could stand it no longer. “You poor dear! ” she cried, with deep emotion, and took a step forward. “ Wait! ” he commanded, suddenly stern. No pity, Netta. But listen. I may be doing right and I may be doing wrong by telling you this. In the latter case, God help me. . . On Sunday I had another examination by a specialist, and it seems there is a remote chance—one in a thousand, perhaps. In six months’ time they will operate. . . Netta, dare I ask you to share the chance with me ” Her answer was immediate and unmistakeable, and for a long time they stood in silence, her head nestling to his shoulder. “ But, Netta,” he said at length gaily, “ haven’t I kept my secret well ? ” “ Too w*ll! ” she replied with a depth of meaning to which he had not the clue.