LOVE IN FETTERS

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 78, 8 May 1914, Page 11

LOVE IN FETTERS

By RICHARD MARSH Author of "A Master of Deception," "Twin Sisters," etc,

CHAPTER VII. ALICE HUDSON

That was the most singular meal of •which Ronald Denton had ever partaken. The strangeness was not in the meal itself; the food, the wines, the service—these things were excellent. The entire dejeuner, simple though it was, would have struck an epicure as the creation of an artist. The point, was that everything was extraordinary about that luncheon except the meal itself. Four more euriously assorted people never sat down together under more curious conditions.

The young man knew that his hostess could have hanged him, but about her he knew nothing at all; who she was,,, how she came to be in this fine place, the apparently wealthy mistress of a great establishment; above all, what possible reason she could have to endure his .presence under her roof for a single instant; that she could not only permit him to take a seat at her own table; almost, it seemed, as an honoured guest, and introduce him as if lie were a decent creature to this lovely girl, who, he was convinced, was as highbred as she was innocent, . that surpassed his understanding altogether. The Comte de Girodet —he could understand how a woman who could permit himself to share her company should suffer Bebe —she continually called him Bebe—but this girl, how she came to be in such a galley was beyond his comprehension. When the meal was over a suggestion from his hostess made his amazement greater. '' Don't you think, Alice, since Mr Dennett is new to Ernan, if you have nothing very pressing to occupy your time, that you could give him some idea of what sort of place it is?" Before he had recovered from his surprise he found himself passing through an open French window with the girl at his side. What he was to say to her, or even how he was to bear himself, he had not a notion. Had this been one of the light-hearted young ladies of the world in which he had been used to move, about whose capacity to take 2are of themselves at every point there could not be the faintest doubt, he would have been more at ease; but there was something about this girl which affected him as nothing had ever done before —he was so hideously conscious of his unworthiness to be her companion. How she could have shrunk away and fled if she had had but an inkling of the truth! He was such a dastard that he could permit her to suffer him on false pretences. They walked some little distance without a word being said by either. She had chattered at the table, but now that they were alone together she was apparently as constrained as he. If ■he were as sensitive as she seemed, she

wa3 perfectly well aware how ill at ease he was, and the consciousness affected her. As it seemed that she would not speak, he had to open the ball. He could think of nothing except to ask a question. "Have you been here long?" "Pour months, three weeks, five days." < The,precision of the answer took him abaqk; he glanced at her to see if she were smiling; she ,seemed grave enough. * i That is quite a time. Is Madame de Constal a relative of yours?" ' "No, none whatever." Again the answer was so precise that he wondered if it was meant for a hint that; conversation was not required. all at once she put a question. "Is Madame de Constal a relative of yours?" '' I never saw her in my life until last night.'' "Indeed?" She glanced at him; then walked on in silence. He wondered if she was considering the oddity of his words and manner. Then all at once she said, "I also never saw her till I met her in her own house."

She stopped again. He was suddenly conscious of a very curious suspicion. Was it possible that she was acquainted with the circumstances under which he was there? Was she about to hint that her position was the same? It seemed incredible; yet such incredible things had happened. He waited with what almost amounted to trepidation for her to go on.

Renaldi brought me here." She paused, as if for him to speak; but he was silent. '' Mine is rather a strange story, Mr Dennett. Sometimes when I look about me and think, I have to pinch myself to make sure that I am not dreaming." . "There are some strange stories in the world." "Very few so strange as mine." She spoke with such an air of finality, which goes with extreme youth, that, almost before he knew it, he had blurted out a question, to apologise for it the moment it was asked. "How old arc you? I beg your pardon. of course, I ought not to have asked, but —I don't know what it was that made me." "I don't mind your asking in the least, and I don't mind telling you. I ain eighteen next week. How old are you?" The tit for tat was spoken with such an air of unconscious innocence that it startled him.' "I'm afraid I'm twenty-six." "You don't look it; I shouldn't have thought you were more than twentyone. "

Her eyes were attentively considering his face. That was not the first time that had been said to him; he had been told by feminine persons of all ages that lie only looked a boy; he felt very

unlike a boy just then. Life was all behind him, literally. c "I feel as if I were two hundred and sixty." "That's very old; fancy if one were two hundred and sixty! I feel ages more than eighteen, but I don't think I feel quite as old as you feel.'' '' Pray God you never may." "How earnestly you say it. One would think that you had the most dreadful reasons for feeling old. It's different with me; I really have got reasons."

"And you take it for granted that I haven't? That's funny." "My father was drowned at sea; my mother never was strong. Soon after they brought the news to her she died; I was left in the world with nothing but the clothes I stood up in. We were at a. boarding-house. We lived on an allowance which my father made my mother, lie was a captain in the merchant service. His money was due monthly—each month my mother had her cheque. For more than three months no cheque had come. My mother got into debt, the boarding-house bjll was left unpaid. When, instead of the cheque, news came of his death, they turned us out. My mother found a room in the Rue des CEufs—a dreadful room in a dreadful street. Not much more than a week after we got there she jv.as dead. We had had 110 money with which to buy fooct; I am sure that was not good for her. I had not ,a penny. My mother had not paid the rent of the room; she had induced them to let her have it on credit. In the same house there was a Madame Renaldi. She ame and talked to me; at first I did not lilcfe her, she asked such funny questions. Then all at once she changed; she told me how sorry she was for me. She said that she would takfe me to a friend of hers, who would give me a comfortable home, and make me happy until I had decided what to do." The speaker paused as if to consider. When she spoke again it was in lowered tones. "At first I did not want to go with her. I was afraid. But there was nothing else for me to do, except—well, there was nothing else. So I said I would go with her, and I went; and she brought me here, and I've been here ever since. Don't you think mine is a very strange story?"

" How did Madame de Coiista] receive you when you came?" "That was almost tlie strangest part. She did not ask a single question. She said that Madame BenjUdi had .told her all; she said that I was to feel that I was at home, and she's been most wonderful to me ever since." "Asking nothing in return, hinting at nothing?" "What could she ask in return—what could she hint at, knowing how I was placed? She's been to me like the fairy godmother in a story, and this,has been a fairy place. She lias giveirme the most, beautiful clothes, even jewels, and everything I could desire." '' Everything?'' "Yes, I think everything. Why do you say 'everything' like that?" "One's desires are apt to range over bo wide a field." "That's true." The girl sighed, as if unknowingly. "Sometimes one does want such funny, such silly things; because it is silly to Want things one knows one cannot get. I don't know why I've told you my story. I've never breathed a word about it to anyone

else, and some of the people who have been here have been frightfully curious, both the men and the women." "Visitors do come.to the house? "

Her eyes opened wider. '' Come to the house —visitors? Why, J have.told Madeline that she might us well keep an hotel. Sometimes every corner of the place is full of them for days together. " "What sort of people are they who come?" "All sorts. You're one sort." This with a roguish glance. ' l l sincerely trust that 'no' one else comes to place who is in the least like me." When after an interval of silence she spoke again, her words surprised him almost more "than anything which had gone before. "I think that's one reason why I told you my story; you are so different from anyone else wiio has been here. You mustn't laugh at me, but do you know, although you do look such a boy, there's a look in your eyes which made me feel that I had to tell you that you are not the only person in the world who has known what it is to be unhappy. As I sat at lunch, I'm afraid I watched 3 r ou more than I ought to have done, and' something kept coming into your eyes—you will have to laugh at me, because I am so silly —which sometimes, as I saw it, made me feel as if I should like to cry. So now you know what a very lumbering excuse I must beg you to accept for having told you my very silly little story." After she had ceasdd there was an interval of silence; then, with averted face, he asked: "Has Madame de Constal been saying anything to you about me?" "Not a word; I did not know you were in the house until I met you on the stairs, and then again at lunch." After a pause: "Has she been a friend in need to you, as she was to me?" "My acquaintance with her is so recent that that, I am afraid, is a question which I cannot answer." The bitterness of his tone seemed to convey a hint to her. They had arrived at the end of a terrace from which they looked out over a wide expanse of country. She stopped to call his attention to it.

"Isn't it pretty from lierc? They call this the 'point of view.' I don't know how many miles you can see, but M. Perret said it would take you all day in a motor-car-just to make a sort of line round it. I don't know how many kilometres au hour he does in his ear, but it's something tremendous." "Who is M. Perret?" M. Perret?" She repeated the name with an air of introspection. "Oh, he's M, Perret.'' "A friend of the house?" "He's a friend of Madeline's. You mustn't ask me about M. Perret; you see I don't like him." There was a parapet of plaster at the end of the terrace. He seated himself on it; she was stroking the top with her hand. He noticed what a delicate hand it "was, so white, so slender; not the hand of a strong woman. "The fact is, M. Perret is to me like the fly in the ointment. You know, he 's one of the things which make me sometimes wish that I could leave Ernan." A smile parted her lips. "And —Madame Lamotte is another." "And who is Madame Lamotte? Another friend of the house?" "Madame Lamotte—well, I call her —: —. You won't give me away?" (To be continued to-mprrow.)