SEVEN O’CLOCK!

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18092, 28 February 1927, Page 10

SEVEN O’CLOCK!

A SUBURBAN VIGNETTE, (By Helen Sevrez).

Ten minutes to seven. In ten minutes Penelope Desmond would know whether Life had lost its savour—or gained a new allure. With the last stroke of the hour she would be lifted to the heights or cast down into the depths.

She and Hugh, her canny Scots husband, the soul of quiet devotion, had. been so happy. Such loving toil, such cheerful thrift, had gone to the gradual making of their modest home. Below stairs, Penelope could hear the little maid busy about the gas stove. Her movements seemed to echo the conspiratorial beat of her mistress's fluttering heart. Familiar with “the master’s” tastes as was Penelope herself, the ally in the kitchen was preparing the fatted calf. Cissie was well aware that the household machinery must be coaxed to special efficiency tonight. She would do her part to brighten the master’s homecoming. Penelope, twisting her wedding ring about her slim finger, fought down the temptation to speak a last admonishing word to Cissie. Best leave the girl alone. Nothing was to be gained by reducing her to the same state of nervous apprehension her mistress was enduring. Instead, she went out to the hall and glanced at the clock once more. Six minutes to seven. At any moment she might hear Hugh’s key in the latch. And the misery of waiting for the hour to strike would be intensified. Because Hugh was as >-et in ignorance of tho fear that menaced her. Since eleven o'clock that morning, when that fateful rat-a-tat-tat had sounded on the door, and she had admitted an alien presence, Penelope had suffered, the suspense alone. Alone save for Cissie s awed whispers, that had served further to shatter her failing nerve.

A footfall sounded on the stone steps. The door opened; and Penelope rushed to meet her husband. Two minutes to seven. She fussed about him in a manner so strangely unlike her that Hugh cast her a sidelong look, half whimsical, wholly alert. She clung to him weakh'. “Anything wrong, old lady?” he asked gently, patting her arm and leading her forward into the cheerfully lighted hall. Seven! The first stroke chimed; a rarel>' beautiful note that seemed to mock Penelope’s tremors. Silvery clear, mellow as a cathedral bell, the prolonged echo o£ the seventh note died away at last

“Hugh!” The name was a sigh, had to have it!) Only ten guineas sn ond-hand! And such a lovely chime!