The Other Romilly

Star (Christchurch), Issue 12245, 18 February 1918, Page 8

The Other Romilly

CHAPTER I. With a somewJiat prolonged grinding of the brakes and an unnecessary amount of fuss in the way of letting off steam, the afternoon train from London came to a standstill in the station at Detton Magna. An elderly porter, putting on his coat as he came, issued with the dogged air of one bound by custom to perform a hopeless mission, from the small, red-brick lamp, room. The stationaster occupying a position of vantage in front of the shed which enclosed the booking office, looked up and down the lifeless row of closed and streaming windows, with an expectancy dulled by daily disappointment, for the passengers who seldom alighted. On this occasion no records were broken. A solitary young man stepped out on to the wet and flinty platform, handed over the half of a third-class return ticket from London, passed through the two open doors and commenced to climb the long ascent which led into the town.

He wore no overcoat, and for protection against the inclement weather he was able only to turn up the collar of his well-worn blue serge coat. The damp of a ceaselessly wet day seemed to have laid its cheerless pall upon the whole exceedingly ugly landscape. The hedges, blackened with smuts irom the colliery on the other side of the slope, were dripping also with raindrops. The road, flinty and light grey in colour, was greasy with repellent-looking mud, there were puddles even the asphaltcovered pathway which he. trod. On either side of him stretched the .shrunken, unpastoral-lookiug fields of an industrial neighbourhood. The townvillage which stretched up the hillside before him, presented scarcely n single redeeming feature. The small, grey stone houses, hard and unadorned, were interrupted at intervals by rows of brand-new, red-brick cottages. In the background were the tall ehimnevs of several factories: on the left, a colliery shaft raised its smoke-blackened finger to the lowering clouds. - After his first, glance around at these familiar and unlovely objects, Philip Romilly walked with his head a .little thrown back, his eyes lifted a.s though with intent to the melancholy and watery skies. Me was a young man well above medium height, slim, almost inclined to bp angular, yet with a pood carriage notwithstanding a stoop which seemed more the result of an habitual depression than occasioned by any physical weakness. His features were large, his month querulous, a. little discontented, his eyes filled with the light of a silent and rebellions bitterness which seemed, somehow, to have found a. more or less permanent abode in his face. He was ungloved, and ho, carried under his arm a small parcel, which appeared to contain a book, carefully done up in brown paper. As ho reached the outskirts of the village hj? slackened his pace. Standing a little way hack from, the road, fiom which they were separated by an ugly, gravelled playground, were the familiar school buildings, with the usual inscription carved in stone above tho door. He laid his hand upon the. wooden gate and paused. From insideho could catch the drone of children’s 1 voices. He glanced at his watch- It was barely twenty minutes past four. For a. moment lie hesitated. Then ho strolled on, and, turning in at the gate of an adjoining cottage, tho nearest to the schools of a, little unlovely row, ho tided tho latch, found it yield to his touch, and stopped inside. Ho closed the door behind him and turned, with a little weary sigh of content, towards a large easy chair drawn up in front of the fire. For a single moment- ho seemed about to throw himself into its depths—his iong fingers, indeed, a little blue with the cold, seemed already on their way towards the genial warmth of the flames. Then he stopped short. He stood perfectly still in an attitude of arrested motion, his eyes, wonderingly at first, and then with strange, unanalysable expression, seeming to embark upon a lengthened, a scrupulous, an almost horrified estimate ot his 'surroundings.

By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM.

What does it mean, Beatrice?”

To the ordinary observer there, would have been nothing remarkable in the appearance of the, little room, save- its entirely unexpected air of luxury and refinement. There, was a small Chippendale bidcbo-i.yga'nst the wall, a. round, gate-legged tabic on which stood a blue china bowl filled with pink roses, a couple of luxurious easy chairs, some old prints upon the wall. On the sideboard was a basket, as yet unpacked, filled with hothouse fruit, and on a low settee by the side of one of the easy chairs were a little pile of reviews, several volumes of poetry, and a couple ot library books- in the centre of the mantelpiece was a photograph, tho photograph of a. man a little older, perhaps, than this newly andvod visitor, with rounder face, dressed in country tweeds, a flower in hia buttonhole, the picture of a, prosperous man, yob with a curious, almost disturbing likeness to the pale, over-nervous, looseframed youth whose eye had been attracted by its presence', and who' was gazing. at it, spellbound. “Douglas 1” he muttered. “Douglas!”

He flung his hat upon the table, and for a moment his hand rested unon

Author of "The Hillman,” “A Man and His Kingdom,” “ The Mysterious Mr. Sabin," &c., &c. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

his forehead. He was confronted with a mystery_ which baffled him, a mystery whose sinister possibilities were slowly framing themselves in his mind. While he stood there he was suddenly conscious ot the sound of the opening gate, brisk footsteps up the tiled way, the sott swirl of a woman’s skirt. ' The latch was raised, the door opened and closed. The newcomer stood upon the threshold, gazing at him. “Philip!” she exclaimed. “ Whv, Philip!”

There was a curious change in the girls tone, from annost glad welcome to a note of abrupt fear in that last pronouncement of his name. She stood looking at him, the victim, apparently, of so many emotions that there was nothing definite to be drawn from her tone or expression. She was a, young woman of medium height and slim, delicate figure, attractive, with large, discontented mouth, full, clear eyes and a. wealth of dark brown hair. She was very simply dressed, and yet in a manner which scarcely suggested Ihe school-teacher. To tiie man who confronted her, his left hand gripping the niantelpiece, his eyes filled with n flaming jealousy, there was something entirely new in the hang of her well-cut skirt, the soft colouring of her lownccked blouse, the greater animation of her piquant face with its somewhat dazzling complexion. His hand flashed out towards her as he asked his question.

She showed signs of recovering herself. With a. little, sh rug of the shouldersshe turned towards the door which led into an inner room.

“Let me get you some tea, Philip,” sho begged. “ You look so cold and wet.”

“Stay here, please,” he insisted. She paused reluctantly. There was a curious lack of anything peremptory in his manner, yet somehow, although she would have given the world to have passed away lor a few moments into the shelter of the little kitchen beyond, she wa? impelled to do .as he bade her.

" Don’t be silly, Philip,” she said petulantly. “ Yon know you want some tea. and so do I. Sit down, please, and make yourself comfortable. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?” “ Perhaps it would have, been better,” he agreed quietly. “However,' since 1 am here, answer my question.” She drew a little breath. After all, although she was lacking in any real strength of character, she was filled with a certain compensatory doggedness. His challenge was there to be faced. There was no way out of it. She would have lied willingly enough, but for the sheer futility of falsehood. She commenced the task of bracing herself for the struggle. “You had better,” she said, “frame your question a little, more exactly. I will then try to answer it.” He was stung hy her altered demeanour, embarrassed by an avalanche of words. A hundred questions were burning upon his lips. It was by a. great effort of self-control that he' remained coherent.

“The last time I visited you,” he began, “ was three months ago. Your cottage then was furnished as one would expect it to he furnished. You had a deal dresser, a deal table, one rather hard oasy-chair. and a very old wicker one. You had, if 1 remember rightly, a strip of linoleum upon the floor, and a single rug. Y T our flowers wore from the hedges, and your fruit from the one apple tree in the garden behind. Your cloljies—am I mistaken a hour your clothes or are you dressed more, expensively?” “ I am dressed more expensively," she admitted.

"You and I both know the value of these things,” he went on, with a little sweep of the hand. '“'We know the value of them because we were once accustomed,, to them, because we have both since experienced the passionate craving for them or the things they represent. Chippendale furniture, a Turney carpet, loses in January, hothouse fruit, Bartolozzi prints, do not, march with an income ot fifty pounds a year,”

“They do not,” she assented equally. “ All the things which you see here arid which you have mentioned, are presents,”

His forefinger shot out with a sudden vigour towards the photograph. “ From him?” “From Douglas,” she admitted, “ from your cousin.”

Ho took the photograph into Ins hand, looked at it for a moment and dashed it into the grate. The glass of the frame was shivered into a, hundred pieces. The girl only shrugged her shoulders. She was holding herself in reserve. As for him, his eyes were hot, there was a dry choking in his throat. He had passed through many weary and depressed days, struggling always against the grinding monotony of life and Ids surroundings. Now for the first time he felt that there was something worse.

• “What does it mean?” he asked once more. ‘

She seemed almost to dilate as she answered him. Her feet were firmly planted upon the ground. There was a new look in her face, a look of fleoiawu, iva« nune gr logs &

coward, but she felt no fear. She even leaned a little towards him and looked him in the face.

“ It means.” she pronounced slowly, "exactly what it seems to mean.” The words conveyed horrible things to him,-but he was speechless. He could only wait.

"You and I, Philip,” she continued, "have been—well, I suppose we should call if engaged—for three years. During those three years 1 have earned, by disgusting and wearisome labour, just enough to keep me alive in a. world which has had nothing to offer me but ugliness, and discomfort, and misery. You, as you admitted last time we met, have done no better. You have, lived in a garret and gone often hungry to bed. For three years this has been going on. , All that time I have waited for you to bring something human, reasonable, something warm into my life, and you have failed. I have passed, in those three years, from twenty-three to twenty-six. In three more 1 shall be in my thirtieth year—that js to say, the best time of my life will have passed. You see. I have been thinking, and I have had enough.” "He stood quite dumb. The girl's newly-revealed personality seemed to fill the room. He felt crowded out. She was, at that stage, absolutely mistress of the situation. She passed him carelessly by. flung herself into the easychair and crossed her legs. As though he were looking at some other person in another world, he realised that she was wearing shoes of shgpely cut, and silk stockings. "Our engagement.” she. went on, " 'was at first the dearest thing in life to me. It could have been the most wonderful thing in life. I am only an ordinary person with an ordinary charbut I hare the capacity to lore unselfishly, and 1 am at heart as faithful and as good as. any other women, but there is mv birthright. I have had ill ree years of sordid and utterly miserable life, teaching squalid, dirty, unlovable children things they had much better not know. I hare lived here, here in Detton Magna, amongst the smuts and the mists, while the flowers seem withered and even the meadows are stony, where the people are hard and coarse as their ugly houses, where virtue, is ugly, and vice is ugly, and living is ugly,' and death is fearsome. And now yon see what I have chosen—not in a moment’s folly, mind, because I am not foolish; not. in a moment’s passion, either, because until now the only real feeling I have had in life was for you. But I have chosen, and I hold to my choice.” "They won’t let ytui stay here,” he muttered.

“They needn't,” she answered calmly. “There are. other ways in which 1 can at least earn as much as (lie miserable pittance doled out to 'me here. I have avoided even considering (hem before. Shall 1 tell you why? Because I didn't want to face the temptation they might bring with them. I always knew what would happen if escape became hopeless. It’s the ugliness I can’t stand—the ugliness of cheap food, cheap clothes, uncomfortable furniture, coarse voices, coarse friends, if J would have them. How do you suppose I have lived here these last three years, a. teacher in the national schools? Look up and down this long, dreary street, at the names above the shops, at the villas in which the tradespeople live, and ask yourself where my Iriends were to come from? The clergyman, perhaps? He is over seventy, a. widower, and he never comes near the place. Why, I’d have been, content to have been patronised if there had been anyone here to do it. who wore the right sort of clothes, and said the right sort of thing in the right tone. But the others—well, that’s done with. ”

He remained curiously dumb. His eyes were fixed upon the fragments of tlio photograph in the grate. In a. corner of the room ah old-fashioned clock ticked wheczily. A lump of coal fell out on the hearth, which she replaced mechanically with her foot. His silence seemed to irritate and perplex her. She looked away from him, drew ' e f r c ¥''‘ Iltfc Je closer (o the tiro, and i her head resting upon her StoH ‘ OM h ‘ d

j f, H 1 ' 3 "' lati this "'Quid come, one J’, s, V p nton. “Why don’t vou peak and get jf, over? Are Voa '•aiting to clothe your phrases? you a (raid of the naked words? i’ m not. uet me hear them. Don’t be more melodramatic than you can help ■ because, as you know, I am cursed , \ I, r;ens ° of humour, but don’t stand i-here saying nothing. 1 ’ He raised his eyes and looked at her in silence, an alternative which she found it hard to endure. Then, after a moment's shivering recoil into her chair, she sprang to her feet. Psten,” she cried, passionately, I don't care what yon think. I tell you that if you were really a man, if you had a man’s heart in your body, you d have sinned yourself before now—robbed someone, murdered them, torn the things that . make life from the fate that refuses to give them. What is it they pay yon,” she went on, contemptuously, “at that miserable art school ot yours? Sixty pounds a year! How much do you get to eat and drink out ol that? What sort of clothes have you to wear? Are you content? let even you, have been bettor off than 1. Ton have always your chance. Your play may be accepted or your stories published. 1 haven’t even had that forlorn hope. But even you, Philip, may wait too long. There are too many laws nowadays for life to be lived naturally. H 1 were a man—a man like von I’d break them.” “Perhaps,” lie said, as he turned away. “I may do that.” Philip! ’ sheshrieked. “ You’re not going like this? You haven’t said anything.” ’ He closed the door with' firm fingers Her knees trembled, she was conscious of an unexpected weakness. She abanflonec] ’her first iiitoition of fplloiriag

him, and stood before the window, holding tightly t 0 the sash. He had reached, the gate now and paused Tor a moment, looking up the long, windy street. Then he crossed to the other side of the road, stepped over a stile, and disappeared, walking without haste, with firm footsteps, along a cindered path which bordered the slug-gish-looking canal. He had come anu gone, and she knew what fear was. CHAPTER 11. The railway station at Detton Magna presented, if possible, an even more dreary appearance than earlier in the day as tne time drew near that night for the departure of the last train northwards. Its long strip of flinty platform was utterly deserted. Around the three flickering gas lamps the drizzling rain fell continuously. The weary porter came yawning out of his lamp-room into the booking office, where the stationingster sat alone, his chair turned away from the open wicket-window to the smouldering embers of the smoky fire. " No passengers to-night, seemingly,” the latter remarked to his subordinate. " Not a sign of one,” was the reply. " That, young chap who came down from London on a one-day return excursion hasn’t .come back, either. That’ll do his ticket in.” The outside door was suddenly opened and closed. The sound of footsteps approaching the ticket-window was heard. A Tong, white hand was thrust through the. aperture, a voice, was heard from the invisible onntside. "Third to Detton Junction, please.’ - The. stationmaster took the ticket from a little rack, received the exact, sura he demanded, swept it into the till, and resumed his place before the fire. The porter, with the lamp in Iris hand, lounged out info the hookinghall. The prospective passenger, however, wap nowhere in sight. He looked back into the office. ‘‘Was that Jim Spender going up to see his barmaid again P” lie asked his superior. The yawned drowsily. "Didn’t notice.” he- answered. "What an old woman you’re getting. George! Mant to know everybody's business, don’t you?” ? The porter withdrew, a little huffed. When, a few minutes later, the train drew in he even avoided ostentatiously a journey to the far end of the platform to open the door for the solitary passenger who was standing there, He passed up the. train and slammed the door without even glancing at the window. Then he stood and watched the red lights disappear, "Was, it Jiin?”_ the stationmaster asked him, on their way out. Hidn t notice, ’ his subordinate, replied, a little nirtlv. '* Maybe it. was and maybe it wasn't. Good night!” Philip Pom illy sat hack in the corner of his empty third-class carriage, peering out of. the window, in which ho

could see only the reflection, of the feeble gas-lamp. There was no doubt about it, however—they wore moving. The first stage of his journey had commenced. The blessed sense of motion, after so long waiting, at first soothed and then exhilarated him. In a few moment he- became restless. He let down the rain-blurred window and leaned out. _ The cool dampness of the night was immensely refreshing, the ram softened his hot cheeks. He sat there peering away into the shadows, struggling for the sight of definite ol>jects a, tree, a house,'the outline of a field—anything to keep the other thoughts away, the thoughts that came sometimes like the aftermath of n gusly, unrealisable nightmare. Then be felt chilly, drew up the window, th i- r - U 'i ', lands into llis Pockets, from ■"hicb he drew out. a handsome cigarette case struck a match and smoked "“j 1 . rmd appreciation of the quality ot the tobacco, examined the crest on the case as he put it away, and finally patted with surreptitious eagerness the Hat morocco letter case in his inside pocket,.

At the Junction he made his wav into the refreshment room and ordered a long whisky and soda-, which he drank in a couple of gulps. Then he hastened to the hooking office and took a. firstclass ticket to Liverpool, and a few minutes later secured a, seat in the loim, north-hound express which came gliding up to the. side of the platform. He spent some time in the lavatory arranging his hair, straightenmg his tie alter which he made his J nt '° Ilp elaborate dining car and .und a comfortable corner seat., Tim luxury of his surroundings shntlied his jagged nerves The car was comfortfl J h'le"v rnipd Vii 1P light - u l w " llis table na.s softly shaded. The steward and o] fllfced - " P ° n h i ftl ' V:ls Mv ift-fnoted and obsequious, and seemed entirely elothn?' ? ' half-soaked vapiielv Hp 1 0 [, dprh ' r ! nhampngiie a little v'Jms wifi!"' thp - Tnnp tlirough his nn i a eiirions pot one v. He ate nm- r l r31 I lk ,, noiv :md *li p n mechanically, non and then with the keenest app P . he Afterwards he smoked a cmar diank coffee, and sipped a liqueur with he appreciation of a connoisseur. A re I low-passenger passed him an even paper, which he glanced thrmS ,tll 1 apparent, mterost. Before he leached his .journey's Pn d 1 1P hnr j ord _ ed and drunk another liqueur. He t pped the steward handsomely, It was the first well-cooked meal which he had eaten_ for many months. Amved at Liverpool, he entered a enh and drove to the Adelphi Hotel. He made his way at once to the office His clothes were dry now, and the rest and warmth had given him mor c eonndoiico.

■‘\ou have a. room, engaged for me, I think, he said “Mr Douglas BomUO* -* rsont somci lujzpiojc 011/ ’ (ho man merely glanced at him and handed lum a ticket.

‘‘ Nimihcr sixty-seven, sir, on the second floor, he announced. A porter conducted him upstairs into a largo, well-furnished bedroom. There was a lire blazing in the grate; a. dress-ing-case, a steamer trunk and a hatbox sot out at the, foot of the bedstead. he heavier luggage, labelled for (he hold, sir, the. man told him, “is downstairs, and will go direct to the steamer to-morrow morning. That, was according to your instructions, I. believe.

‘‘Quite rigid,” Philip assented. " hat time does the boat sail?” "Three o clock, sir.” Philip frowned. This „-a.s his firs), disappointment Ho had fancied hinv sell on board early in the day. The prospect of a long morning's 'inaction !,coined already to terrify him. "Nut till the afternoon?” he muttered .

Matter of_ tide, sir,” the man explained. " \ou can go on board any time after eleven o'clock m the morning, though. Very .much obliged to yon. sir.”

The porter withdrew, entirely satisfied with his tip. Philip -Hominy kicked the door after him carefully. Thou 110 drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, and, after several attempts, opened both the steamer trunk- and the dressing-case. Ho surveyed their carefully packed contents with a certain grim and. fantastic amusement, handled the silver brushes, shook out a purpla brocaded dressing-gown, laid out a, siiit of clothes tor the morrow, even selected a shirt and put tiro, finks in it. Finally ho wandered into the adjoining bathroom, took .1 hot hath, packed away at the bottom of (he steamer trunk the clothes which he had been wearing, went to bed—and slept. (To bo Continued.)