MARRIED OR SINGLE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXVI, Issue 20454, 6 November 1934, Page 14

MARRIED OR SINGLE

/ Author of \ r “Through Deep Waters,” “Against V the Wall,” y

/ By X

K. F. Brodrick

CHArTE'! xix. In a glow of firelight Sylvia sat next clay with her old school friend, Rose Hadley. Rose was an advanced young woman with a studio of her own in London, quite passable artistic talent and a certain amount .of common sense, which crept out occasionally through a pose of eccentricity. That afternoon the girl was reclining on -a cushion on the studio floor —one didn’t sit on chairs nowadays—and, as the light from the fire flickered on her pale face and dark, sleek head, she listened to Sylvia as she talked. The girls had been fast friends for several years, and, of late, Rose had guessed that something was “up” with Sylvia, but, as she was told nothing, she did not pry, imagining that sooner or later Sylvia would open her heart to her. That moment had come to-day, and Sylvia, with an unexpected burst of tears, shakily revealed her unhappy secret, and sketched her present difficulties. “So that’s that, my poor old dear,” came from Rose sympathetically, as she wriggled from her cushion, and, throwing her cigarette into the fireplace, she laid a hand gently on Sylvia’s knee. “Well, of course, I knew there was something. Your Stephen’s a peach, I must say, but I like the idea of the other man. Why in the world don't you take his advice, get a divorce, and marry him? My aunt, I’d jump at a man like that myself, I can tell you. T—” She stopped, words failing her “John's splendid, of course,” agreed Sylvia faintly, “but you don’t —know— Stephen. Oh, Rose,” she half sobbed, “there's a sort of perfect wonder about him which holds me to him still, in spite of his being so cruel.” “Humph,” said Rose, drawing away her hand. “I do know Stephen—dozens of Stephens, who dazzle and flatter and make fools of women, but they’re rotters, Sylvia, and aren't worth a bean. So put him out of your mind, for good and all, my dear, wash him completely off the slate, as completely as lie, apparently, lias, wiped you. Take my word for it, old thing, you'll never regret it.”

“I can't,” came from Sylvia, in a choking voice. “That’s that, then,” thrust in her hearer disapprovingly, and she shrugged her shoulders. “Well, then, let’s get to business. You want me to help you out with your precious American, do you? Well, I must think about it, Sylvia. One must do something, I suppose, to keep vour storv from vour respected father, but T can't say I feel as if I should cotton on to your little stranger exactly. You want me to come down to the Towers and bring him along—this scrubby little bounder man —and pre-

sent him as a friend of mine—that’s it, isn’t at?—a really choice little programme. But—suppose, my dear,” she went on mockingly, “he turns out a rotter —suppose he bolts with the spoons or something, or tries to elope with you one fine night—wbat credit shall I get? Steady on, you know, Sylvia, my dear. I’ve got to think of myself a little—now, haven’t I? Beastly selfish, of course, and that—but —don't you see—” The girl lolled back once more on her cushions, and looked playfully towards her friend. She knew, in spite of her talk, that she was going to do as Sylvia asked—slie would indeed have done quite a lot for her —but she must tease her a little first, all the same. CHAPTER XX. The next day Sylvia was back at the Towers, and was soon sought out by Sir George, who came abruptly into her room as she sat reading by the window to ask why Harry had left so unexpectedly. “The lad went away in a towering rage, but would give no reasons,” ae informed her with a show of great annoyance, as he sat down opposite her, “and I feel convinced, Sylvia, that it is something—his behaviour, I mean—to do with you. What on earth have you been saying to him now?” he asked fiercely. The book slid from his listener’s knee, and her eyes were angry. “Harry had been making rather a fool of himself,” she admitted hotly. “And the other night we had rather a row. I’m sorry, but it couldn’t be helped. He’s—got—to understand.” • “Understand—what?” Her father's eyes, like little pin pricks, were fixed on her face, and Sylvia felt herself beginning to tremble. It was horrible, this feeling of fright her father was now able to give her, and she turned away, helplessly. “To—understand that—that I can't marry him,” she faltered. Sir George's hand came sharply down on his knee*-

“But, my dear girl, you've got to,” he exclaimed furiously, and something in his voice compelled her to look towards him once more, and to note the uncontrollable anger in his strange piercing eyes. “This is not a personal matter altogether, mind you,” he went on. “You’ve got to think of future generations. If I had a son it would be different. You'd be free to choose any husband you’d a mind to, but I've set my heart on this, Sylvia, and nothing—nothing on earth is going to make me alter, and when I feel as I do now about a thing it has, you understand, to be carried through.” Sylvia, in a miserable flutter, sprang to her feet.

“My dear daddy,” she exclaimed, trying to look away from his all-compelling gaze, “this early Victorian attitude is rather out of place, isn’t it? In this modern world a. girl—must choose for herself, and it would be—horrible if she didn’t. She—must ” She tried to go on, but felt that her arguments were useless, and that it was like hammering on a door that would not open to her Sir George had followed her to the window, where she stood looking out drearily towards the garden, and his hand came now on to her shoulder, hurting her. His pale, steely eyes, full still of a horrible anger, were once more mercilessly searching her face, which now flushed suddenly, revealing the presence of some unhappy secret. “No girl with a good conscience would look as you look now,” he cried piercingly. “What is it, Sylvia—this something about you I don’t understand?” His hard voice cut her like a knife, and went on. “What about this infernal Hadfield?” he asked with intense exasperation. .“By Heaven. I feel convinced that there is some underhand business going on that keeps you fi »n Harry, and he’s connected with it. and I am determined, I tell you, to get to the bottom of it. even if I have to go to Hadfield himself, and drag the truth out of him.” The baronet stopped, whilst his hand still held heavily on to her shoulder, and never for a moment did he allow his ' eyes to leave her face.

“Daddy!” Sylvia's infuriated cry rang through the room. “How—dare you ’bring Mr. Hadfield into it?” she went on, trying her hardest to speak bravely, though her heart was sick with terror at his glance, which seemed, at that moment, almost like that, of a man .not wholly sane. “And —besides—he d just laugh at you. It's so—so ridicu\pus, too—a mail—almost old enough to be-=-to be my father. How could he —stand in the way of Harry?” she went on in a quavering voice. “And all this —because Harry is not to my taste. As far as I can remember he never has—been to my taste. I always disliked him, in a way, ever since I saw him torture a butterfly we saw one day in the garden when we* were children. I may havetried,” she rambled on rather wildly, “just to be amiable to him because — because he was a sort of relation, but dd you think I don’t —don’t know all those disgusting tales about him—about the way lie's got mixed up with women, for instance, and about his —drinking— and oh! —all the rest” she finished desperately. Sir George, taking his hands from her shoulder, moved them impatiently. . “You little silly,” he chipped in with an irritated laugh. “Harry may not be an angel. He’s a man of the world, avid a rare good chap for all that. But «r o t his pride, and by Heaven, if lie s gone off this time in a huff, I. for one, don't blame him. But the point is, my dear, stupid child,” he continued, wheeling round towards her again, “that he s got to be brought back, and the word to bring him lias to be written by you, and written now, Sylvia.” As he spoke, Sir George’s eyes were fixed once more upon his daughter’s frightened face. “That word is going to be written,” he repeated in a low, determined voice, “and at my direction.” Folding lii*» arms, he stood rigid, staring at her with eyes which seemed to burn into her very soul. The girl, terrified to death now at the way her father was looking at her, shrank back. “If —if you think I’m—going to—to cat my words to Harry, I’m afraid—afraid —you’ve made a mistake, daddy,” she choked. “I’d—l’d rather die—” “There, are—worse things, than — dying—Sylvia,” came in her father’s icy voice. As lie epoke his hands dropped to his sides, and he stole nearer to her, coming so close, at last that his body touched licr. She felt his breath on her cheek, and hi* steely pale eyes, riveted on her, made her blood run cold. All the power slowly left her limbs. She fell forward limply, but his fingers closing over her like little snakes, went out to support her, whilst his eyes—those dreadful eyes, cruel, merciless—never once left her face. For a moment she was conscious of nothing but the eyes. She saw nothing in the room, nothing of her father even, save just those. She tried to speak, but the words which tried to come were almost inarticulate. “I can’t,” she wished to say, but all the time she knew the words meant nothing at all, and her father, bending forward and still looking at her, led her on towards the writing table, where she sat down obediently. Leaning over her, lie handed across a pen. She took it in her hand, whilst a troubled sob came from somewhere, and she realised that she herself was sobbing, and that all the time she heard her father's voice dictating. The rest came almost like a dream. She began writing endearing words to Harry, begging him *to come back. She hated what she wrote, but she could not stop. That was the awful part of it. She could—not —stop. As the final word was dictated, how* ever, a servant came to the door. Someone below wished to see Sir George on business. Her father turned away. “You yourself will go down to the village at once, Sylvia, and wi\l post that letter,” came in an awful and cora- “ Yes, ° daddy.” “You —promise,” came from him again, and the voice that reached her seemed still, as if heard in a dream. “Y'es, daddy,” she repeated. The door shut behind her father, and she fell forward fainting. CHAPTER ’XXI. At last she came to herself, and trembling’ like a leaf, she was able to stagger to her feet. She was terrified at the ordeal she had been through. Her father’s strange and merciless power over her, his cruel eyes, h*r own utter lack of will in his presence, were facts too horrible to contemplate. She felt she must get into the open air—get out of this room at once—try to forget all that had happened, or she would go mad. Drawing a hand over her forehead, which ached terribly, she crossed the room and picked up a hat which was lying on a chair by the window; then she walked back to the writing table, as if an unseen hand had driven her there, to take up the letter she had just written. It was a letter to Harry to ask him to come back, and she had to post it. Moving to the door she -let herself out of the room and went shakily down the stairs. Her father was nowhere to be seen, and she learnt, on inquiry, that he had gone off to one of the farms. She breathed more freely and stepped on to the drive.

There the wind whipped her face, strengthening her limbs and at the same time clearing her brain. The letter still lav in her hand.

Slie held it up now and studied it, wondering at the firm handwriting on it —her own—and she thouerht her hand had been trefcibling. But never mind that. Slie was steady enough now. Her mind was more alert, and she was able at last to think for herself.

All at once she began to run, but instead of keeping to the drive, which would have taken her on to the highway, she turned aside and thrust her way in among the trees to the left. For some time she stumbled on over rough bits of ground, with her breath coming in frightened little pants, and she glanced more than once nervously over her shoulder. Not a creature, however, was in sight, and her courage gradually revived. On leaving her room she had picked up a handbag,' because she wanted to get from it a stamp for Harry’s letter, and now she feverishly searched its contents. A cigarette ease came out first, and then matches. That was what she wanted.

She bent down and struck a match now. The wind blew it out, and, with a smothered exclamation of disgust, sho drew further back under the shelter of the trees and tried to strike another. That time it burnt bravely, and she held the welcome little flame out towards Harry’s letter. The paper crackled in friendly fashion as it caught it. With a satisfied gasp Sylvia lit another match. Again a flame burst up. The letter was now ashes. Then she quickly turned and fled from the spot as if sr»m*» evil spirit pursued her. The party assembled at the Towers, and Montague Fleming, arriving with Rose Hadley, had been introduced to the baronet and accepted as an old friend of hers. One afternoon Iladfield came up to call, and as be was making his way to the house he met Sylvia, who was alone, attending to her roses. Dropping her gardening basket, she Hastened forward to give him a welcome, and, the blood rushing to her cheeks, told him she was glad he had come at last. This was the first time they had met since they had parted in his garden on the night she hail received Fleming’s letter. John took her hand now, and his greeting was rather a cold one. “Well, Sylvia?” he said, and stopped. She looked at him, all confusion. “Are you augiy with me?” she whispered. “You have ‘ganged your ain gait,’ ” he said solemnly, “and who am I to interfere ?” “You may have thought it ungrateful —wrong of me?” she thrust in. “Unutterably foolish, perhaps,” came from John in level tones, “but evidently it is to be none of my business,” he finished slowly. “Oh, John!” she faltered, and looked down with a worried little frown. lie came a little nearer. “Well, lias he come?” he asked her bluntly. “Yes.” “And all is going smoothly?” “Yes, yes, I think so.” “He hasn’t revealed yet what he really wanted to come for?” “Why—no ” (To be continued daily.)