“THE GLARE”

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18013, 25 November 1926, Page 14

“THE GLARE”

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By

CARLTON DAWE.

CHAPTER XVl.—(Continued.) He protested. Perhaps she 'was unnecessarily alarming herself. Phil was a sensible little girl: had her head screwed on, and all that. Perhaps she was already at home; couldn’t they find out? But he was conscious of the inefficacy of protest; was more than conscious of a sensation of imminent tragedy. lie accompanied her out to the car. “You wait here,” she said; “I'll be back presently.” She flung herself bade on the seat, with a stifled moan of despair. Good God. Phil with that man! But where, where? A thousand thoughts, all charged with infinite alarm, thundered thrugh her brain. She was aflame with anger, quivering with apprehension, as the car pulled up before Whinstone’s flat in King Street., St. James’s. Luckily she remembered the address, remembered it from the information he had given her when he invited her to tea., and a talk over a probable" theatrical future. The night porter was convinced that Mr Whin stone had not yet returned, but some odd pieces of silver slipped into his hand sent him on a voyage of discovery. No, Mr Whinstone had not returned.

In her despair she took Longworth the chauffeur, into her confidence. An amiable and discreet fellow was Longworth,, devoted to his master, and, she believed, not inimical to her. “I want to find Mr Dudley Whinstone,” she said; “I must find him, Longworth, you understand. lie is probably at some night club. Now, think.”

Longworth knew the night side of London as well as most drivers of motor vehicles; indeed he had driven a taxi for two years until he had happened on the job of his life. He also knew something of Mr Dudley Whinstone and his friends.

“We might try the Sixty, the Eighty, or the Ninety-Nine, madarae,” he answered promptly “I’m afraid they’re not very select: there’s just a chance.” She remembered now that she had heard Dudley casually refer to such places; indeed he once suggested that they should make up a party and visit the Ninety-Nine, or Eighty, she could not remember which, a suggestion upon which Prin had frowned in his most uncompromising manner.

At the Eighty was the nearest of the three they * called there first. She paid her fee and was admitted with scant formality. Her startling appearance, her handsome clothes, and the fact that she had driven up in a gorgeous car, proclaimed her a worthy recruit to such a select circle. But a quick inspection of the motley gathering convinced, her that neither Dudley nor her sister made one of the gathering.

The Ninety-Nine was not many hundred yards away. At the door of this abods of gaiety she hesitated, for it ws decidedly unprepossessing in ' its sombre gloom. One went down a narrow passage, knocked on a, door at the end, was investigated through a slit, and if the investigation met with the approval of the janitor, was duly admitted on the production of half a guinea. Evidently she met with approval; the door was silently and swiftly opened, and she ste.pped within the precincts. A greasv-looking alien with wicked black eyes took her money, gave her a formal receipt in a false name, and pointed to a narrow stairway suggestive of the approach to a cellar, from the direction of which came the muffled strains of jazz.

Descending, and timorously pushing open a door, she found herself in a long, low room, afiare with electricity and blinding with smoke, through which she dimly discovered several men and women scrambling back to their respective tables, the dance having ceased at the moment of her entry. All eyes were turned on her as with every outward sign of self-possession she walked down the room glancing from left to right. More than one man hailed her; glasses of wine were held up invitingly, but she passed on with unseeing- eyes. At the further end of the room were two alcoves, or recesses. The one on the left was occupied by two men and two women, strangers all; in the one on the right she found her. She was leaning on the table toying with a halfsmoked cigarette, looking at the man who sprawled across the other half of the table. A bottle of champagne stood between thei’h.

At first neither of them appeared to notice the advent of the stranger; then the man looked up and started guiltily. “Phil!” Like one awakened from adream Phil looked up, her eyes heavy and stupid. Then, reason dawning on her, she shivered as with fear and dropped her head on her arms. Whinstone tried to brazen it out. “Join us,” he said. “You dog!” “Rubbish,” he laughed. “You’re mighty squeamish all at once.” But her arms were round Phil, who was sobbing piteously, brokenly murmuring, “Take me home, Denise, take me home.” “Baby’s looked too long on the wine that is amber,” lie mocked. Never in all her life had Denise so wanted to be a man. She would have killed him. choked the life out of , him, torn him limb from limb. “You dog!” she said again. lie laughed, adding a word that made her ears tingle. Phil clung closer to her. “Too late, Denise.” lie spoke and eyed her with revolting familiarity. “The kid’s drunk. -Better leave her to me. The way of all flesh, m’dear. Why worry?"’ God, the agony of that journey through the leering throng! A woman came to her assistance, a painted woman old before her time. “Let me help you,” she said in a sympathetic voice, a kind, pitying light in her eyes. “Thank you, oh, thank you.” gasped Denise, who was almost on the verge of hysterics. Poor little Cinderella, her ball, and her Fairy Prince! In the morning she was pallid, feebly emaciated; had not the courage to lock her sister in the face. Shame was hers, a shame that wrapped her body, warped her soul. Denise made her stay in bed. To the colonel’s inquiry she mere- J Iv answered that the child was seedy, needed rest. “Works too hard,” said the old war- I rior as he deftly clipped the top off I an egg; "wants a change.' J

A change! Denise could have shrieked. That night in their room, the blind was pulled down, the Glare shut out. that horrible, hellish Glare! The prodigal in sack-cloth and ashes, tears of shame and remorse streaming down her cheeks, told the story of her de- | ceit. Denise understood; pitied, for gave. Nothing seemed to matter so long as this precious one was safe. | “Darling, was I really drunk?” she : asked, the appalling thought adding terror to her look. To be drunk ; this was the uttermost shame, the inconceivable thing. “He made me drink such a lot, and smoke cigarettes. You know I can never smoke more than one at a time?” “I know, I know.” 1 “lie wanted me to go back to his flat with him.” She shuddered. “Denise darling, I’m not a bad girl, I'm not a bad girl. I wouldn’t go, I couldn’t. He mocked me, sneered and jeered at everything that was good and clean; said dreadful things, things I never I thought I should hear. Then you came. I Oh, my God ! ” Denise held her close-locked in her • arms. “Forget it all,” she said. “Does father guess?” “Nothing.” “if he should know?” “He shall never know; no one will ever know. We must blot it all out.” “If we only could. He called me Cinderella; said you were all putting on me, keeping me out of everything. I was jealous, envious of you.” “You need not be envious of me.” “You see, I was very lonely and miserable. If you could go out to dinners j and dances. . . . Are you sure you understand, darling?” “I understand.” “Once before I went to dinner with him. You see, I’ve deceived you wickedly. He was so different then, so ; kind, considerate, amusing; was sorry I for me. After he had sent those flowf ers, and you were angry, I met him twice, in the street. I was ashamed of myself, and tried to cover my shame with defiance. Do you understand?” “Yes, yes.” And so it continued long into the night. But even when Phil lay sleeping peacefully, Denise turned and twisted, staring up into the darkness, her thoughts in a tumult. Apprehension was hers, a great, a calamitous foreboding. She saw fate as a spectre, grim, threatening implacable. Naturally things couldn’t continue in this indeterminable, aimless manner. Something was bound to happen; must happen. Prin, good, generous, unselfish, ; was only a man after all; and what ■ man can live on insubstantialities? She knew he wanted her as a man wants j a woman; something that is all his. Vain was the sophistry that would dissipate this indubitable fact; there was • no argument here worthy of a second J consideration. They were real people I living in a real world, and the reality of things precluded all hope of circumj vention. j And so Cinderella, her troubles over i for the time being, slept peacefully. But the Fairy Godmother, she who had smoothed the way to happy oblivion, found no peace, no repose for body or mind. CHAPTER xvir. If fear for her sister had not proved such an overwhelming obsession as” to rob her for the moment of all other thought, Denise might have hesitated before rejecting Marshalmead’s offer to accompany her on her quest. For, though she had no thought or apprehension of it at the time, she was leaving behind a dangerous and insidious rival, one who had fought her way up, who was still prepared to fight should the necessity arise. Unhappily there is no cessation of battle for the majority of us; for some always the clang of arms, always the striving. No happy valley of peace and contentment, no nepenthe for the sons and daughters of men. From the days of her earliest girlhood Esme Dundas had been a fighter; she had to be, ( or go .under. Dundas, by the way, wasn’t her real name, but that is of little consequence, she had borne it very proudly in the lorefront of battle, and had won it by right of conquest. From the days when, a child of sixteen, she had played a fairy in pantomime, to her pre sent proud position as a dramatic star of the first magnitude, life had been one long, continuous, uphill struggle. Nor was it her beauty only that had carried her so far; behind it, backing it up, supporting it, was considerable force of character if no outstanding talent. Envy naturally put that beauty first; yet when an actress has nothing but beauty she rare 1 achieves permanent distinction in her profession. A fool cannot go far in the great essentials of life who has no firmer basis t;o build on than a. pfetty face. That her pretty face made easier the road for Esme Dundas cannot be denied; that she had sense enough to recognise it. as a supreme asset re dounded greatly to her intelligence. A fool-woman would have dissipated such a fortune with incredible prodigality. Esme locked it up as a miser does his gold, withdrawing from time to time such fractions from her strong box as the occasion required. Ambition was still the star that beckoned her upward; had carried her through much drudger}'- and not a few disappointments. That it would carry her still higher she had never a doubt. Juliet and Rosalind smiled at her from the empyrean; one of these days she would mount to them, or they should ■ come down to her. People would I laugh, of course; but while they laugh 'ed she .soared. The gain was hers; had been ail the time. She could afford to be generous to fools even if she suffered them sadly. (To lie Continued.)