DESTROYING ANGEL

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 837, 4 December 1929, Page 5

DESTROYING ANGEL

BY

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

(Copyright by Public Ledger.)

CHAPTER XXXV

for something like half an hour he w3 a busy with the task of nailing a turkey-red tablecloth to a pole, and ttie pole in turn (with the assistance 0 t a ladder to the peak of the gabled barn. Dat "hen this was accomplished. and he stood aside and eontelnplated the drooping, shapeless tlak. realising that w ithout a wind it was quite meaningless, the thought ,-ame to him that the very elements seemed leagued together in a conspiracy to keep them prisoners, and began ’o nurse a superstitious notion that, if anything were ever to he done toward winning their freedom. it- would be only through his own endeavour, uuassisted.

Thereafter for a considerable time be loitered up and down the doorvard, With all his interest focussed upon the tidal strait, measuring its sreatest and its narrowest breadth with his eye, making shrewd guesses

at the strength and the occasions of the tides.

It the calm held on and the sky remained unobscured by cloud, by 11 there would be dear moonlight and, if he guessed aright, the beginning of a period of slack water. Sunset interrupted his calculations —sunset and his wife. Sounds of aomeone moving quietly round the kitchen, s. soft clash of dishes, the rattling ol the grate, drew him back to the do i r. She showed him a face of calm restraint ind implacable resolve, if scored and Hushed with weeping. And her habit matched it; she had overcome her passion; her eyes were glorious with peace. "Hugh”—her voice had found a new sweet level of gentleness and strength —"I was wondering where you were.” "Can 1 do anything?” "No, thank you. 1 just wanted to toll you how sorry I am.” "For what, in Heaven’s name?”

She smiled. “For neglecting you so long. I really didn’t tlynk of it until the sunlight began to redden. Tve let you go without your lunch.” "It didn't matter —”

"I don’t agree, and so must woman

Man must be fed, i. I'm famished."

"Well,” he admitted with a short laugh, “so am I.”

She paused, regarding him with her whimsical, Indulgent smile. “You strange creature!” sho said softly. “ATe you angry with me—impatient—lor this too facile descent from heroics to the commonplace? But, Hugh”— she touched his arm with a geutle and persuasive hand —“it must bo commonplace. We're just mortals, after all, you know, no matter how Imperishable our egos make us feel, and the air. of the heights is too fine aud rare for mortals to breathe long at a time. Life Is, after all, an everyday affair. We've just got to blunder through it from day to day—mostly on the low levels. Bo patient with me, dear.” But, alarmed by his expression, her *ords stumbled and ran out. Sho stepped back a pace, a little flushed and tremulous. "Hugh! No, Hugh, no!’*Tion't he afraid of me,” he said, turning away. “E don’t mean to bother. Only, at times—” “I know, dear, but it must nol-be.” She had recovered; there was cool decision in her accents. She began to move briskly round the kitchen, setting the table, preparing the meal. He made no attempt to reason with her, but sat quietly waiting. His role was patience, tolerance, strength restrained in waiting. . . . “Shall you make a fire again tonight?” she asked, when they had concluded the meal.

"In three places,” he said. “We’ll not stay another day for want of letting people know we’re here.”

She looked down, shyly. Coquetry with her was instinctive, irrepressible. Her vague, provoking smile edged her lips: Aou—you want to be rid of me again, so soon, Hugh?” He bent over the table with a set; face, silent until his undeviating gaze caught and held her eyes. "Mary,” he said slowly. “I want you. I mean to have you. Only by Sot ting away from this place will that be possible You must come to me of your own will.”

bhe made the faintest negative motion of her head, her eyes fixed to *ha in fascination. • \ou will,” lfe insisted, in the same level tone. "if you love me, as you say. you must . Mo —that’s nonsense I won't listen to! RenunciaJiou is a magnificent and noble thing, but it must have a sane excuse. . . . ■ou said a while ago, this was a ■ommouplace wifrld, life an everyday affair.

it is. The only thing that lifts it but of the dead, intolerable rut is “hs wonderful thing man has iuented and named Love. Wit liout it, we are as Nature made us—brute Things crawling aud squabbling in blind squalour. But love lifts us a little ibove that; love is supernatural, the onl y thing i u a |] creation that rises superior to nature. There's no such “| n S as a life accursed; no such ln S as a life that blights; there are thalign and vicious forces operatin'! outs ide the realm of natural lc es; love alone is supreme, sub-

' irovcMtTo vm, Wn r laWS ’ 1 raean to how lifMo mean to show you in wnJ e ? POnslble you have been have ovoi-f t” tbe mlsf °rtunes that I sh-ill -h taken men who loved you; blameworthy faP “°nd to me I ” haVe d ° ne that ’ >°H wvili come

lesslv™- £ r fraid ’" she whispered breathh/~ 1 n '., afraid 1 shall.” gil l ni V* 1 tben ,’ my dearest from mo ’ *? leas ? don't ever shrink f r IQVe ’ but antil your at rest no % aW ? y wilh ’ your mind control l ' «h»ii 4ot mine ’ wl thin my much ’ aU , r ver cause y°n even so distress.” lnstant ’ a annoyance or build my C fi a e T d - When S ° ready -?•■ ' Vhen you are said Shan 1 be i°hs,” she sfiTfl. CHAPTER XXXVI. I h* Ut J° r l0 ?, g after Whitaker had loft window**? llngered motionless by a moved io I a / e lollowi “S b im as he S? t d £ ro: her face uow wistwith 1 tPrn by distress, now bright Tended be . r —love and fear, joy L le giet, at times crushing apprennfu 10 | US ° £ evil darkened her musings torment 6 of°n d ? aVe cried out witb the’ aUm.i O £ her f ars; and a Saiu intlmbeainv p^ sses ? ed be r of exquisite heart y- a n n rn , lins aud ennobling her ntait. all but persuading her. lamn if a f th ’ sishi "Z- sbe lighted the i hond , , wedt about her tasks, with enori d f d bead ’ wou< lering and frightir d, ii( £e ,^ 1U ’ ly westioning her own iuscrutaWe heart. Was it for this only !T a f sbe ba d fought herself all through that day; that sho should actaiu an outward semblance of calm so complete as to deceive even herself, so “ to he rent away and banished completely by the mere tones of his mastering voice? Was she to know no rest? Was it to be her fate to live out her days in J earning, eating her heart alone, feeding with sighs the passing winds? Or was she too weary to hold by licr vows? Was she to yield and, winning happiness, in that same instance encompass its destruction? When it was quite dark Whitaker brought a lantern to the door and called her, and they wont forth together.

As he had promised, he had built up three towering pyres, widely apart. AVhen all three were in full roaring flame their illumination was hot and glowing over all the upland. It seemed impossible that the world should uni now hecomo cognizant of their dis tress. At some distance to the north of the greatest fire—that- nearest the farmhouse—they sat as on tho previous night, looking out over tho black and unresponsive waters, communing together in undertones. In that hour they learned much of one another. Much that had seemed strange and questionable assumed iu the understanding of each the complexion of the noiynal aud right. Whitaker spoke at length and iu much detail of his wilful missing years without seeking to excuse the wrongminded reasoning which had won him his own consent to live under the mask of death. A listener in his turn, he heard the history of tho little girl of the Commercial House breaking her heart against the hardness of life in what at first seemed utterly futile endeavour to live by her own efforts, asking nothing more of the man who had given her his name. To make herself worthy of that name, so that, living or dead, he might have no cause to be ashamed of her or to regret the burden he had assumed; this was the explanation of her fierce striving, her undaunted renewal of the struggle in the face of each successive defeat, her renunciation of the competence his forethought had provided for her. So also—since she would take nothing from her husband—pride withheld her from asking anything of her fatuity or her friends. Site cut herself off utterly from them all, fought hor light alone. Jle learned of the lean years of drifting from one theatrical organisation to another, forced to leave them one by one by conditions impossible and intolerable, until Ember found her playing ingenue parts in a mean provincial stock company; of the coming of Max, his interest in her, the indefatigable pains he had expended coaching her to bring out the latent ability his own genius divined: of the initial performance of “Joan Thursday” before a meagre aud indifferent audience, her instant triumph aud subsequent conquest of the country in half a dozen widely dissimilar roles; finally of her decision to leave the stage when she married, for reasons comprehensible, demanding neither exposition nor defence. “it doesn’t matter any longer,” she commented, concluding: “I loved and I hated it. It was deadly aud it was glorious. But it no longer matters It is finished; Sara Law is no more.” “You mean never to go back to the stage ?” “Never.” . .

“*\nd yet—” he mused- craftily. “Never!” She fell blindly into his trap. "1 promised myself long ago that if ever I became a wife—” "But you are no wife,” he countered. “Hugh!” “You are Airs. Whitaker —yes; hut “Dear, you are eruel to me! “1 think it is you who would he cruel to yourself, dear heart.” She found no ready answer: was quiet for a space: then stirred, shivering. Behind them the fires were living’ by contrast a touch of chill seemed to pervade in the motionless al “I think,” she announced, “we’d better go in.’* -- . , She rose without assistance, moved away toward the house, paused aud l<? “Hugh” she said gently, with a quaver in her voice that wounded his conceit in himself; for he was sure ft spelled laughter at his expense and well merited— "Hugh, you big sulky boy' Get up this instant and come baik to the house with me. You know I m amid Aren’t you ashamed of your3C“i' suppose so,” he grumpled, rising,

“I presume it’s childish to want the moon—aud sulk when you find you can’t have it.” “Or a star?”

He made no reply; but his very silence was eloquent. She attempted a shrug of indifference to his disapproval, but didn’t convince even herself; and when he paused before entering the house for one final look into the north, she waited on the steps above him. “Nothing, Hugh?” she asked in a softened voice. “Nothing,” he affirmed dully. “It’s strauge,” she sighed.

“Lights enough oil beyond the lighthouse yonder,” he complained; “red lights and green, bound east and west. But. you'd think this place was invisible, from the way we’re ignored. However . . .” They- entered the kitchen.

“Well —however?” she prompted, studying his lowering face by lamplight.

“Something’ll have to be done; If they won't help us, we'll have to help ourselves.”

“Hugh!” There was alarm in her tone. He looked up quickly. “’Hugh, what are you thinking of?” “Oh—nothing. But I’ve got to think of something.” She came nearer, intuitively alarmed

and pleading. “Hugh, you wouldn’t leave mo here alone?” “What nonsense!” “Promise me y-ou won’t.” “Don’t be afraid,” he said evasively. “I’ll be here—as always—when yea wake up.” Slie drew a deep breath, stepped back without removing her gaze from his face, then with a gesture of helplessness took up her lamp. “Good-night, Hugh.” “Good-night,” he replied, casting about for his own lamp. But when he turned back, she was still hesitating in the doorway. He lifted inquiring brows. “Hugh . . .” “Yes?” "I trust you. Be faithful, deal-.” “Thank you,” he returned, not without flavour of bitterness. “I’ll try to be. Good night.” She disappeared: the light of her lamp faded, flickering in the draught of the hall, stenciled the wall with its evanescent caricature of the balustrade, and was no longer visible. “Hugh!” her voice rang from the upper floor. He started violently out of deep abstraction, and replied inquiringly. “You won’t forget to lock the door?” He swore violently beneath his breath; controlled his temper and responded pleasantly: “Certainty not.” Then he shut the outside door w-ith a convincing bang. “If this be marriage .. . !” He smiled his twisted smile, laughed a little quietly, and became again his normal, good-natured self, if a little unusually- preoccupied.

Leaving the kitchen light turned low, he went to his own room and as on the previous night, threw himself upon the bed without undressing, but this time with no thought of sleep. Indeed, he had no expectation of closing his eyes in slumber before the next night, at the earliest; he had no intention other than to attempt to swim to the nearest land. He did not try to depreciate its perils; the tides that swept through that funnel-shaped channel were unquestionably heavy; heavier than even so strong a swimmer as he should be called upon to engage; the chances of being swept out to sea were appallingly heavy. The slightest error in judgment, the least miscalculation of the turn of the tide, and he was as good as lost. On the other hand, with a little good luck, by leaving the house shortly after moonrise, he should be able to catch the tide just as it was uearing high water. Allowing it to swing him north-west until it fulled, he ought to

I be a third of the ■way across by the i time it slackened, and two-thirds oi : the distance before it turned seaward ; again. And the distance was only three miles or so. And the situation - on the island had grown unendurable Whitaker doubted his strength to stand the torment and the provocation 1 of another day. Allow an hour and a half for the swim—say, two; another hour in ’ which to find a boat; and another to row or sail back; four hours. He should be back upon the island long ; before dawn, even if delayed. Surely no harm could come to her in that time; surely' he ought to be able to reckon on her sleeping through his absence —worn down by the stress of j the day’s emotions as she must ter- : tainly be. True, he had given her to understand he would not leave her; but she need not know until his return:—arrd then his success would have earned him forgiveness. An hour dragged out its weary

length, and the half of another while he reasoned with himself drugging his conscience and his judgment alike with trust in his lucky star. In all that time he heard no sound from the room above him; and for his part he lay quite unstirring, his whole body relaxed, resting against the trial of strength to come. Insensibly the windows of his room, that looked eastward, filled with the pale spectral promise of the waning moon. He rose, with infinite precaution against making any noise, and looked out. The night was no less placid than the day had been. The ruins of his three beacons shone like red winking eyes in the black face of night. Beyond them the sky was like a dome of crystal, silvery green And as he looked, an edge of silver shone on the distant rim of the waters; and then the moon, misshapen, j wizened and darkling, heaved slugj gishly up from the deeps. To be Continued Tomorrow.