Through The Silent Night.

Taranaki Daily News, 17 October 1931, Page 17 (Supplement)

Through The Silent Night.

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CHAPTER IV.— (Continued.) "01 I am sorry. I—l didn’t realise I was so rude. Indeed I was thinking at something quite different." Then she drew herself up with a little dignified air of hurt surprise. A swift change transformed the tragic face, as the ■other's strained attitude relaxed. A deprecating smile crept to the corners of her mouth, and she said with a strange touch of relief in her voice: "Oh, dear! What an unpleasant person you must think me. It is you who must forgive me. It was very stupid of me." Doris gave a little laugh. “We must forgive each other, then. It will be much nicer to talk. I am going to Victoria; you are, too, of course.” “Yesl Do you live in London? I am going home.” Doris shook her head, and then, suddenly leaning forward, with a mischievous expression in her face, she added: “1 am running away from home. Do' you think you will care to talk to me now I have said that?” The other girl's eyes widened with surprise. “Oh, this is most interesting,” she cried. “You don’t look like a runaway at all. Do tell me all aboqt it.” 'Her face was no longer sombre. The eagerness belonging to. youth had chased away the tragedy from eyes and lips. Voice and bearing held the unmistakable graciousness of breeding as she added: “Won't you first tell me your' name? Mine is Marcia Leighton." .“Now, that is really nice of you. Mine is Dolores Smith, not nearly such a pretty one as yours.” . Then, still leaning forward with her chin on her hand, Doris spoke of her life atelier, home, of her mother, and then of the Impossibility of the old order of things now there was no mother to love, no longer any tie to hold her, and no affection or respect for the man her mother had married. Also she told of her sudden resolve to fend for herself in the future. “You see, 1 am not absolutely, destitute. I have £lOO a year of my ■own, only r know no one, and have nbwhere. to go. I wonder If you could tell, me, of some place where I could stay for a few days until I could make up my mind what 1 must do.! I could have given, our clergyman as a.reference at the place where mother, and I Lived, before we came to Brighton, only, he is dead,,and my step-father was so rude when the new vlcaf* came to see mother that he never ventured again, and thenmother died, and—l left, you see.” With trembling lips Doris bent her head to hide the tears which always welled up at the thought of the only one who had ever really cared for her, but the excitement of the past hours took Its toll, and, breaking nown, sne eouned convulsively for a few .moments, her head burled boyishly on her arm in the window corner. . Marcia Leighton sat quite still, her hands clapped tightly on her knee, then said with a' world of gentleness In her voice; i ' "Please don’t cry. You are tired, but really there is no use in. crying. I have found that out long ago. One has to do things for oneself. I have to do things for mother, too. ■ ■ I yaink she and I ought to change places, for I am ever so much older than she, really. Yes,” she went on with a faint smile, when Doris lifted her face, a little gleam of amusement struggling to shine through the tears. “Yes! mother is really very young; she leaves all the business of life to me. You see, she Is not very strong, and has been petted all her life. Father u'sed to spoil her when he was alive, and I suppose I have continued the process. We are really hard up, mother and I, but mother tries to forget ft, and wants to live as we used to do, only I have to prevent It. Mother’s one passion in life is doing the right thing at the-right -time. I' believe if she were dying she would want to send “p.p.c. cards” to all-her friends. Only really she is the simplest hearted, most unconventional dear In the world.” . Suddenly a light Illumined her face? She had been studying her companion critically, and the verdict was emphatically in her favour. “Why shouldn’t you come 'and stay with us at the flat? Why didn’t I think of that until this moment 1 We had a lady staying as paying guest only a few weeks ago; she left because she got married. You could have, her room. Do say yes. Sparkling eyes and eager face testified to the reality of her welcome. Doris sat up with an Incredulous joy chasing the tears from her eyes. “Oh, but how dear of you to suggest that How gladly I will accept If you will' let me pay what the other lady did. Yes! Yes! I insist on that. I told you what I’ve got of my own. And if you only knew how glad I should be to come to you, you would not refuse.” u s Marcia langhed gently. Well! she said, “you may pay if you insist. X told you we were hard up, so you are a God-send. It Is a bargain, then." . ... The two girls clasped hands with genuine pleasure. Marcia sank back again with a little sigh. “The world is a queer place to live in sometimes!” she remarked as she laid the backs of her hands against her closed eyes. “It'is so seldom things happen just when one wants them to, and then either it is too late and one doesn’t care, or one has hoped until all the milk of human kindness Is squeezed out of one, and there is nothing but -a feeling -of disappointment left, and often regret, too." She sat up suddenly. Not that I regret anything—anything, but the world is often very hard for girls. Miss Smith.” "I would rather you called me Doris; It was mother’s name for me, said Doris quietly, adding slowly, "Yes, just think what I should have done if I had been all alone now. I am not like you. I never had much fun, only my bicycle, and I -seem to have lived in the tick of a clock when 1 was at home. That was why I used to rush out and ride away from everything. At home it was always silence end the tick of & clock, unless my step-father happened to be there, and then It was—well, not heaven, but I always remember mother as my only chum, and it was dreadful when she wasn’t there to listen to me any moie. Helgho! It is no good fretting, as you told me just now.” “No !” said Marcia in a little harsh voice. “Only I think I understand what you mean by your ticking clock. A clock ticking away the moments of one’s life.” She shuddered. She saw herself bending over a lifeless •body, and the silver chimes of the grandfather clock striking eleven again seemed quivering through the silence of the room. She jumped up and leaned out of the window, as if the air of the carriage stifled her. “Victoria at last,” she cried. Suddenly Doris remembered ths bicycle she had seen carefully placed In the guard’s van at Shoreham, and with a little gasp of dismay thought foer Queried ®haage of carriage at

William Guidott)

Oh! dear, my bicycle. I am afraid | I have left it behind," but on learnj Ing the facts Marcia decided that it I would have been safely forwarded, : as Doris had seen to the labelling at Foresham. “The guard will tell you,” she : added, as the train steamed into Vioi toria. 1 “Oh, yes, that dear old man,” cried i ’Doris gaily. “How lucky he should have put us in together. Just think • how I would feel now to be arriving • here all alone I There he is " ■ and climbing’ out of the carriage, ! Doris shyly hailed him. j “You’ll likely And the bicycle In i the rear of the train, miss,” he told ! her. I “Can I leave it at the cloak-room? i I have a friend with me, and would ' rather call for It later.” ! "Yes, oh yes, miss. Here, Joe,” to | a passing porter, “just go with -this j lady. "That’s all right, miss; very j glad you had a nice journey. Good ■ morning, miss. Let me know if you ■ And any difficulty; but I’m sure it ■ will be all right, as ‘ you saw it i labelled." | His twinkling eyes followed her ■ lithe figure approvingly. He had a pretty daughter of his own, and felt a fatherly regard for women travelling alone, as many a lonely girl had proved, and he eeldom forgot a face. The two girls stepped along In the crisp morning air, enjoying the relief of stretching cramped limbs. The bicycle was safely disposed of, an ! Doris carried her dressing case in her hand. At first a few trivialities wera exchanged, then gradually silence fell upon the pair. Marcia’s eyes and mouth resumed some of their former ■tragedy. Doris was too content with the moment to notice at first, but when the busy main streets were left behind, ■and the quieter by-ways reached, she glanced at her companion with a little uncomfortable qualm stirring her . heart. “Are you very tired, Doris?" Marcia asked. “Perhaps we bught to have taken a taxi.’ '. j “No, indeed," Doris replied, still l searching Marcia’s face for any indication of what she 'feared. “But you are so quiet now I —l wondered whether —well, whether you still wanted me to come with you." “Doris, how silly of you," and Marcia stood still. A momentary embarrassment appeared to check her speech, then she broke into soft laughter. "I was thinking so hard that I forgot to be polite, but we are so close to the house, and I have been summoning all my courage to ask you if you would object if I just told mother you were a friend of mine, instead of explaining about your .running away and our meeting in the train. It will be quite all right as soon as mother knows you. She will be as sympathetic* as anyone could wish, only if I told her she would want to know whether you belong to this or that branch of the Smiths, or whether you spelt your name with a “Y” or terminated it with an “E,” and will probably be very grown up for an hour or two, and when mother grows up she Is not nearly such a darling; but don’t mind what I say if you would rather I did tell her at once.” Doris laughed heartily, with mingled relief and amusement. “I would much rather you didn’t tell her, for I have a lot more to tell you, and to ask your advice about. We are friends, and I want to stay somewhere in London and you are dear enough to let me stay with you.” “That is settled, then,’ said Marcia briskly moving on again. “I’m ever so much relieved, as I hate explaining, anything If only one can take things for granted. Here we are; I expect mother is only just up, and we. may catch her at breakfast. She always likes London well aired beiore sue puts her nose out of doors." CHAPTER V.

"Mother, this is my friend, Dolores Smith. I want, you to be very, nice .to her, as 1 have asked her to staj with us. She is alone in London, you see, and it would not do for her to go to an hotel.” “My dear child, of course not,’ and Mrs Leighton greeted Doris warmly. “I was just going to have some . breakfast. Take your friend to her •room. Ido hope It’s fit to be seen, and then come and have some coffee. I won’t begin until you join me. I can look at the paper while I am waiting. Thank you, Mary." She held out her hand to the maid as she* spoke. Marcia’s heart gave a bound of terror. The paper—she had forgotten that —not for worlds 1 Blindly Marcia, stepped forward and caught her mother’s fingers in her own. “No —! Don’t read the paper now, dear.” Then .with an hysterical effort, “I’m—'l’m so hungry, do you mind if we come In with you now. Doris—you want your breakfast.” There was no mistaking the pleading horror of her eyes, something out of all proportion to the simple words. A sudden sweplng aside of the mask, a glimpse of tragedy. Doris saw again the face of the train, the hunted look in the eyes, the parched lips. All the loyalty in her heart leaped out to answer and to help. “Marcia, you are a dear; I do want some coffee dreadfully. The smell.of It is just perfect.” “There, mother dear; do let us waive ceremony and come straight in,” and drawing Mrs Leighton’s hand within her arm 'she caught the. paper from the maid as she passed, and led the way to the tiny morning-room, where a tempting little breakfast was laid. !iTo bo contlnufid.)